by Barry Cryer
With love to
Terry, Tony, Jayne, Evan, Dave, Jack, Matt, Ruby, Tom, Archie, Suzannah, Hope, Martha and Connie
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Preface
Mrs Hudson’s biography
I. The very worst tenant in London 1881–90
II. Mrs Hudson’s hiatus 1891–94
III. The landlady returns 1894–1903
IV. Life after Holmes 1904–11
V. The east wind comes 1912–14
Index
Copyright
Acknowledgements
To everyone at Biteback Publishing and the Robson Press for helping us find the keys to the kitchen door at 221b.
To Kirsten Wright at Amanda Howard Associates and Sarah Chanin at Roger Hancock Ltd for their invaluable support.
To Lee Jackson’s brilliant social history of Victorian London (www.victorianlondon.org) – an obsession generously shared.
To Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss for raising the bar.
To everyone at the Save Undershaw Campaign (www.saveundershaw.com) for their monumental efforts to preserve Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s home for the nation.
To Conan Doyle himself, without whom this book would not have been possible.
To Oliver Philpott, without whom this book would have been a very different experience.
Preface
One frosty winter morning last year, somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox & Co. at Charing Cross, we found a battered biscuit tin with the word ‘Hudson’ painted upon the lid.
Inside, lay the single greatest Holmes-related discovery for nearly a hundred years: the diaries of Sherlock Holmes’s landlady, Mrs Hudson. We believe it emphatically completes the Sherlockian jigsaw that is the fragmented canon.
We are now able to pass this gold on to you, dear reader, in the form of these carefully selected entries. Not since Sir Arthur Conan Doyle laid down his pen has there been the same sense of expectation in the publishing world.
Conan Doyle left us only a handful of references and a lot to be desired on the subject of Mrs Hudson. This is an error we are now happy to correct. Everything you’ve ever needed to know about this remarkable woman can be found between these two covers. And we can also answer the long-running and tantalising mystery of Mrs Hudson’s first name: it’s Sarah.
For further insights into this incredible discovery, we now leave you in the capable hands of this book’s researcher, Oliver Philpott. His footnotes and annotated images represent a veritable treasure trove of hitherto unseen Victorian social history, as witnessed by our worthy landlady. So, handle with care…
Barry Cryer and Bob Cryer
San Marino, 2012
Mrs Hudson’s biography
by Oliver Philpott
1840 Born Sarah Richardson in Bermondsey. She is believed to have come from a tanning family, originally from Yorkshire, although early research cannot establish the exact location. Permit me to speculate on it being Haworth, not only home of the Brontës but also to twelve different species of bat.
1853 Mrs Hudson begins her working life as a factory runner in East London.
1860 Aged twenty, she marries the man who would go on to become Victorian London’s foremost match entrepreneur. Her betrothal to Arthur Hudson takes place on 13 May at St Vincent’s, Langley Road, Clerkenwell, where the pulpit is believed to be the only surviving example of a baroque balustrade.
1862 Early research indicates that Mr Hudson died in a gas explosion, possibly on the 3rd or 4th of April. Only one of his boots was recovered from the scene, apparently with the laces missing. He left Mrs Hudson with sufficient funds to purchase a pair of small rooms in Bow.
1870 Mrs Hudson trades up to a house in Clerkenwell before taking possession of 221b Baker Street, a modest terraced house not far from Gower Street, at the time London’s finest example of a French cobble.
1881 The First Boer War begins. By the end of the Second Boer War, the death toll was (approx.) 53,000. Edison invents an early form of steel pressure cooker, killing two assistants in the process. Also, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson move in to 221b.
NOTE
Whilst reading these diaries, one may notice the odd brief footnote. These have been crafted by yours truly, Oliver Philpott, for your greater understanding of the period. These are my humble attempts to lead you gently by the hand through the narrow streets of Victorian London; streets that are by turns treacherous and confusing to even the most diligent researcher (modesty forbids!). I hope you enjoy this journey as much as I enjoyed mapping it for you. Tally-ho!
O. P.
Crawley, 2012
Found on top of the diaries:
Claridge’s
Brook Street
Mayfair
London, W.
2 November 1914
My dear Watson,
I fear the East wind has finally come but not from Flanders as expected – somewhere much closer to home. I have just returned from a rare visit to Baker Street and now write to you with the gravest of news.
I felt it meet to drop in on our former lodgings whilst I was visiting London from Sussex and I trust you have done the same these last few years. Martha accompanied me and Billy was there to welcome us, you’ll be pleased to know. However, rather than his usual cheery greeting, he was in the poorest of spirits. I therefore write these next few lines with a heavy heart.
It pains me to inform you of the death of our worthy landlady.
She died at one minute past eleven on 31 July having fulfilled her duties. There was no mystery surrounding her passing.
I had only missed her by a day but will continue to miss the one and only Mrs H.
I fear that this news will come at a cost which will give you pain, my dear Watson. I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to her but I hope that by some chance you have visited and that this news is tempered by that thought.
Billy told me that there was quite a celebration for her sixty-fourth year and that her stately tread was felt that day as surely as it was the day that we moved in. Little did we know, as we were coming to our country’s aid, what revels we were missing. A small service of remembrance has been arranged by Finsbury boxing club in accordance with her wishes. I fear study will prevent me from travelling and I leave our contribution to the attendance of tenants past to you, my dear friend, should the need arise.
Before I left, the most remarkable thing happened as I gave my respects to the mute. Billy, amidst sobs and mumblings, thrust a package into my hands with instructions for it to be passed on to you for safe keeping. Closer inspection revealed the bounty to be a stack of notebooks. It seems our Mrs H. was something of a chronicler, like yourself. By cunning questions and ejaculations of wonder you could always elevate my simple art, which is but systematised common sense, into a prodigy. In your case, I’ve always maintained that a confederate who foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but one to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise, and to whom the future is always a closed book, is indeed an ideal helpmate. However, it seems little astonished our landlady, and the tomes certainly confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of her abilities as a gossip.
Mycroft has charge of my London affairs and he can point you to their presence in pigeonhole H., done up with a blue ribbon and inscribed ‘Hudson’. A copy of the Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen, also awaits Lestrade, as requested.
And for yourself, an occasional weekend visit would be most welcome.
Pray give my greetings to the current Mrs Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow,
Very sincere
ly yours,
Sherlock Holmes
P.S. Come at once if convenient – if inconvenient come all the same.
I
The very worst tenant in London 1881–90
1881
1 January
Well, here I am writing a diary.
5 January
Martha1 has informed me that the purpose of writing a diary is that there is not really a purpose at all. She says that I should come back after a year and find that my thoughts will make sense.
Well, what with all the comings and goings at 221b, I wonder whether any of the following will ever make sense?
This morning, the bell rang. Mr Rawlings (known in the Music Halls as the Great Mysto) was in his room practising another one of his ‘tricks’. I had to take him the famous ‘bucket of sand’ that he needs to make an elephant disappear. You have to see it to believe it. And many do.
6 January
A very cold wind. Chestnut Charlie2 told me that he found his stall halfway up Great Portland Street before he caught up with it. By the time the children had snaffled their share, Charlie said he’d lost half of his stock. Poor man. So I invited him in from the cold. As I write, he’s still thawing out by the fire.
7 January
What an odd thing it is to write a diary. Martha keeps a diary and she tells me her auntie does the same. Well, if it’s good enough for Mrs Hemple,3 it’s good enough for me! Had to let Mr Rawlings in again as the Great Mysto keeps losing his key. He might be able to magic an elephant from thin air, but ask him where his key is and he’s quite lost.
8 January
Now, about my resolutions this year. I have one and that is to keep a diary.
1 February
Mr Rawlings on the first floor has informed me that he is to sail for America on Tuesday morning. I asked him if he was taking the elephant with him and he laughed. He’s given me two tickets for his farewell performance on Saturday at The Tivoli. What a treat, I do enjoy a night at the music hall.
11 February
New tenants in the first floor rooms. Beds turned down.
A doctor no less! I didn’t catch the other gentleman’s name. His signature is quite ragged. I think his name is Shylock.
13 February
Seems his name is Sherlock. Not that it matters; it’ll be Mr Holmes from now on.
14 February
The doctor seems a most trustworthy gentleman, but his acquaintance, this Mr Holmes, must be the very worst tenant in London. I wouldn’t put up with his behaviour, but his payments are so princely. There’s his stinking chemistry bench and the jack-knife holes in the mantelpiece, but the worst of it happened this morning.
I was busy kneading a loaf when I heard the most almighty banging from upstairs. Now, the clouds had gathered and a storm was brewing but it seemed a little early for thunder. Then it started again and I realised it must be coming from the first floor. So, up I went and knocked on the door. Another volley of banging. I went in and found the whole room fogged up with smoke. My new tenant, Mr Holmes, was sat there in his armchair firing a gun. I think I must have been too shocked to be angry. Then I looked at my poor wall. There, in perfectly straight lines, were the letters ‘V. R’. I looked at Mr Holmes for an explanation. Instead, he carried on looking at the letters and fired a final full stop after the ‘R’. Now I’m as much a patriot as the next landlady, but how is this sort of behaviour going to pay the rent?
Well, he assures me that he is going to be practising his detection on my premises. Seems to me he spends more time practising his violin,4 so I’ll just have to take his word for it that he has an occupation. I wouldn’t mind about the violin only it jangles my nerves! And to think, Dr Watson says he plays most delightfully.
I said to the doctor, about his bull terrier James and the situation with our cat, Mr Disraeli, that he might have to put the dog down, menace that he is. He said to me ‘I’m a doctor, not a vet!’ I couldn’t argue with him there and, before I knew it, he’d helped me carry the ash bucket to the back door. He won’t get round me that way! Well, maybe a little.
Will any good come of this tenancy? Well, as I sit here at the kitchen table, with Martha knitting at my elbow, I am happy to say that as long as they pay their rent on time, I couldn’t give a fig.
4 March
He’s back again. Mr Holmes’s visitor. That’s the third time this week and today he had to sit in my kitchen because they had someone else up there. Never gives his name but Mr Holmes agrees to see him all the same. Funny little mouse he is. Barely said a word, just sat there rubbing his hands. I offered him a cup of tea but no sooner had the kettle boiled, the bell rang, and he scurried upstairs.
5 March
His name is Lestrade5 and he’s a well-known detective. At least that’s what he told me. I asked him if he was here to arrest Mr Holmes and he laughed. Much activity upstairs. The dog’s gone though. Mr Disraeli will be pleased.
6 March
What did I say? No visitors without my say so. First it’s that policeman from down the road and now it’s half a dozen street arabs treating my place like it was their own. They were ringing my bell more than once, when I’ve only just had it polished. Any more of this and they’ll be chased off, the lot of them.
And lamb’s up a penny.
7 March
Street organ came again today. Can’t join in due to my calves but try and hold Martha back. Sat for a good hour watching events. Even the census man joined in, halfway between asking my occupation and my age. I told him I’m as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth. And he said, ‘Well which is it?’ The larrikin.
8 March
It’s been twenty years since I heard the name of Madame Charpentier.6 We had another Inspector visiting Mr Holmes this morning – the third this week – called Gregs7 or something I think he was, and I heard him clearly mentioning her name. Even though she was a solid gold troublemaker back when I lived in Clerkenwell, to have your son bundled away and your daughter leered at, well, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. It reminds me of the old days when my Arthur8 was still with us. Bless you dear man, wherever you may be.
12 April
Dear Arthur,
I can’t believe it’s been twenty years, my little Prince. Well, where does the time go? Just today, I was hanging out some washing in the back when I heard a bird chirruping away and I thought it was you. It sounded like the whistle you used to do when you came home. I thought I was back in Clerkenwell. I half expected to hear your dear footsteps skipping in the hall. ‘We toasted you, my Queen!’ you used to say. And I’d say ‘And how many more did you toast?’
19 April
Here’s a strange thing that happened. Martha found a little kitten in the back yard this morning and we have decided to take him in. The poor mite is still a little unsure of the kitchen but when I fed him some smoked mackerel he cheered up. In fact, so much so, that when Mr Disraeli9 attempted to take some for himself, the little one gave him a punch on his nose. Then, would you believe it, Mrs Turner came in with such a sad expression and told us that the real Mr Disraeli, Lord Beaconsfield,10 had died. The house has been in a hush since. I have decided to call the kitten O’Connell11 as a tribute to the late Earl.
1 Martha Reynolds was the maid at 221b. There were two Reynolds families in Marylebone at that time; one was well known for its religious non-conformity, whereas the other, as far as I can tell, wasn’t.
2 Chestnut Charlie was just one of many street vendors plying their trade at this time. Others included Oyster Willy and the Cockle Sisters.
3 Your worthy researcher can find no evidence of a Hemple family in Marylebone at the time, whether related to the Reynolds family or not. However, ‘to hemple’ was perhaps a colloquial expression that conflated the words ‘hem’ and ‘trample’ to produce a neologism that is yet to be determined. Rest assured, yours truly is on the case!
4 A Stradivarius (not an Amati!), which is a type of Cremona violin, worth five h
undred guineas. He purchased it in Tottenham Court Road for fifty-five shillings. In today’s money, that would be £165, enough to pay Mr Wayne Rooney to play football for sixteen minutes!
5 According to Dr Watson’s case notes, Inspector Lestrade’s first name began with a G. As his surname suggests French heritage, may I suggest ‘Gaston’?
6 I think you’ll find it was twenty-one years.
7 Inspector Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard. No mysterious first initial here, thank goodness!
8 The aforementioned (late) Mr Hudson. He of the missing boot.
9 The cat, as you will recall from the bull terrier episode.
10 Benjamin Disraeli was the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Ireland from 27 February 1868 until 1 December 1868 and 20 February 1874 until 21 April 1880 (as you know!). His great rival William Ewart Gladstone was so overcome during the eulogy to the Commons that he got diarrhoea.
11 This is a reference to a famous exchange in the Commons that Disraeli had with the Irish MP Daniel O’Connell. O’Connell called Disraeli a fanatical slave and Disraeli called O’Connell a cave dweller (nothing changes!). I think Mrs Hudson is making a satirical joke here.
