Sherlock Holmes Housekeeper Novels & Stories

“Oh no! It's nothing like that, ma’am.” She just looked unconvinced. “Sure. Let’s start the introduction, shall we?” She straightened and dusted nonexistent dirt from her ironed uniform. “I'm Mrs. Banks, the housekeeper of this grand house, and I'm now your…” She paused. “Shall we say caretaker?”

she encourages. Adjacent to the kitchen is the mudroom, which has a back door leading to the garden, and a laundry room, where I meet Lacy, the housekeeper. She’s an older woman with crinkly eyes and a warm smile that instantly warms me to her. "Pleased to meet you, Zahra," she says, her voice as comforting as a warm blanket. Her presence adds a homely touch to the otherwise intimidatingly beautiful house.

Every single one of them greeted me the same way. “My lady.” “My lady.” “My lady.” It felt weird. Very fucking weird. A tall woman approached us near the staircase. She looked to be in her fifties maybe, dressed in a sharp black uniform with her silver hair pulled into a tight bun. “The new mistress,” she said calmly, studying me. I straightened automatically. “Yes…?” She nodded once. “I am Mrs. Whitmore, the housekeeper.” Oh. Okay. She didn’t smile but she didn’t look mean either. Just very… organized.

They ran to me, and we hugged each other. “Alpha Zane,” the housekeeper said. “I’m only keeping order.” “Sarah is not a maid here or a servant of any kind.”

It wasn't from the De Jagers, though, but the woman who'd introduced herself as Cecilia, the housekeeper. "Mr Hawthorne, you shouldn't have come. You know how upsetting it is for the madam to see you. The last time you were here, the doctor had to sedate her," she said, running a hand through her salt and pepper hair, the frown in her tired dark eyes as gloomy as the starched black and white uniform she wore.

Not even a single percent. Just when she thought she was done with her work and going to go wash her hands, "Baby, your meal." Madam Martha, the eldest housekeeper, also known as her godmother, strolled inside her quarter with a trolley of her food. As soon as she inhaled the air and the aromatic scent of hyacinth, and noticed two bags kept before the closet, her face fell. "What is this?" She let the handle of the trolley go and stood to her full height.

AMBER HART POV The silence in the room was suffocating. Kalix didn't blink. He just stood there by his desk, looking at me like I was a bug he wanted to crush under his expensive shoes. My hands started shaking, so I locked them behind my back. "I’m Amber, sir. The new housekeeper. Mrs. Gable recommended me to Martha." Kalix looked at the broken lamp on the floor, then back at me. A harsh, humorless laugh escaped his lips. "The new housekeeper. And you’ve been here for what, ten minutes? You already managed to destroy property."

The housekeeper was a bit surprised but didn't pay attention to it. All the objects inside were precious gems and expensive crystals that Gemma loved, but nothing was left intact. The housekeeper also found a bit of dried red liquid on the floor. She immediately understood that the liquid was blood. Perhaps Gemma couldn't bear such a big shock and went insane, destroying everything without noticing the broken crystals cutting her feet. "Madam... it's time to take your medicine." The housekeeper called softly, working for the Thompson family and experiencing many big and small events, but she had never been so worried that her hands would tremble when holding the medicine bowl.

They were quite few for cleaning and taking care of the big house. "This is Mrs. Nora," Reynolds pointed at the woman who looked to be in her late fifties. "She's the head housekeeper and chef," he added. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you ma'am" the woman replied, her voice tender, like that of a mom. "You too, Mrs. Nora," Amy said and shook the woman's outstretched hand gently. Reynolds went on to introduce the remaining few.

She was impatient to find out if the occupants could provide any clues that would help her connect the dots in her case. Within some seconds, Kamala walked through the tall wooden doors of the mansion, her footsteps echoing softly on the polished floor. The air smelled of lavender, and the beauty of the space was immediately shown as it had high ceilings, and its walls were decorated with Victorian paintings. A woman approached her, dressed in a neat black dress with a white apron tied around her waist. Her hair was pinned back into a bun, and a look at her one could tell that she was a housekeeper. “Good morning,” the housekeeper said with a calm and polite voice. “Can I help you with somet