Out of Memory:

Found Missing

by Copper Beech

Holmes and I woke that first morning in our home to light. Light reflected off snow. Snow so fair it almost hurt to look at it.

We dressed and went downstairs for a closer inspection. From the open door, the whiteness fairly rushed to our eyes.

Holmes closed the door to the cold and we both knew we would not be leaving the cottage today. We went into the kitchen to see what possibilities Mrs. Hudson had for breakfast. But no possibilities presented themselves, nor did Mrs. Hudson.

I looked at Holmes and a nod of his head indicated that I should go and check on Mrs. Hudson. The dear woman could be ill. I knocked on the door to Mrs. Hudson's room. No response. I called her name. No response. I leaned against the door to listen for sounds of movement. There were none. I opened the door to her room, went in timidly and looked about. The bed was made. The curtains were drawn. But there was no Mrs. Hudson to be found.

I went to tell Holmes, but by this time, he was checking all the other rooms. In the end, we came to the conclusion that Mrs. Hudson was gone.

Where and when she had gone, we did not know. We had only assumed she'd gone to bed early. We did not see her.

My first thought was to look for tracks in the snow. But I knew there were none. What so struck me about our first look at the fallen snow was its pristine nature. She had not left this morning.

"Well, Holmes," I said finally, "what do you make of this?"

"I make nothing of it yet, Russell," he replied. I do not have sufficient data to form a hypothesis. "But," he added "it would be useful to go over what we do know."

What we knew was that:

1. Mrs. Hudson is fastidious about making beds in the morning, so it was likely that she had not slept in hers the night before.
2. No tracks could be found around the house, so she left either before the snow began to fall or soon after.
3. There was no note to be found and Mrs. Hudson is faithful about leaving us a note when she knows she will be gone.

What could be speculated was:

1. 1. She left in a hurry and had no time to write a note.
2. What caused her to leave made all thoughts of a note leave her mind.
3. She left expecting to return before we arrived, and so left no note.

Why did she leave? That was pure conjecture.

"Where do you think she could be, Holmes?" I asked, now starting to worry just a little.

Holmes thought for a moment. "I do not know, but I intend to find out."

The logical thing to do was to get on the telephone. But so few of our neighbors are on the telephone, that it didn't seem productive. Besides, would she not call if she were with one of them? Still, call we did, and with little result, save for the assurance that a look-out would be kept by one and all.

The thought of a search in deep snow was a daunting one, but we dressed in our warmest clothing and set out. The snow was up to our knees and it made the going slow and tiring. But we were in search of clues. We looked for the usual snapped twigs and bent branches of trees, but found none. We looked for footprints, even though there was little hope of finding any. We looked for any and all indications that Mrs. Hudson passed this way, but she left no markers like young Jessica Simpson and we were at a loss.

We made it as far as the farm and went inside to rest and get warm. Before the fire, we sat an contemplated our next move. And in the course of that contemplation, we talked of our relationship with Mrs. Hudson. Holmes spoke first.

"She is not like my mother," Holmes said. "And yet she shares some traits with her." Holmes did not often speak of his mother, but when he did, it was not without kindness. "Mrs. Hudson is," he continued, "dependable." Hardly words of endearment. "And devoted." Getting warmer. "And dear." Now it was out.

"She has been with me for the better part of my life. I hardly remember a time without her. And I do not look forward to that time again."

That time would not be coming soon, I hoped, for Mrs. Hudson had become an integral part of my life, too. Holmes stopped speaking and let me ponder his words and then give voice to my own.

"I do not want to imagine that time, either, Holmes. She has been dear to me, also. She took me into her heart as a child and still gives me a sense of home."

"I hope that I do, too," said Holmes.

"That you do, husband," I said taking his hand up in mine.

We sat silent for at time and watched the fire die down. It was a signal for us to be on our way again, and into the cold we went.

We made our way to Monk's Tun and stopped to see if anyone had seen Mrs. Hudson. Indeed they had, for she was there. Over in a quiet corner she sat, no worse for whatever wear we thought she might have. Our eyes met and she answered the unasked question.

"I came to visit Tillie," she began. "I expected to be back before you two arrived. But the storm was brewing and I was not certain I could make it home safely. Tillie offered me a place to stay until it blew over. I knew if I waited long enough, you would find me."

"And so we have," I said with the smallest trace of a smile. "And so we have."