by Barry Cryer
She then turned to me and said that my husband wanted to speak with me. Well, I can tell you that sent a shiver down my spine. And then, in the same deep baritone voice, Mme Charpentier says:
‘This is your husband speaking.’
‘Is that you, Arthur?’ I said.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘It doesn’t sound much like you.’
‘I have a bit of a cold, my dear.’
I was trying to concentrate but Hannah was making this funny snorting sound and kicking my foot under the table.
‘Don’t worry my dear, all is well where I am,’ said Mme Charpentier (in a slightly higher voice this time).
‘Your cold’s cleared up,’ says Hannah and I had to bite my lip.
‘Never mind all that. It’s just wonderful to speak to you, my dear.’
Hannah beamed at Mme Charpentier.
‘Address your dear wife by her name, Arthur!’ she says.
‘Do you mean my pet name for you, my dear?’
‘No,’ Hannah and I both chimed in.
And then Mme Charpentier started rocking in her chair and moaning.
‘I’m losing him, I’m losing him,’ she wailed.
‘You never found him,’ said Hannah.
‘What was that you said about some silver?’ Mme Charpentier said to the Glossops, in a French accent, for some reason.
Well, that was enough for us, as Hannah was bent double with laughter. I had to escort her out of the room. As we left, I noticed she had put something in the bowl by the door marked ‘donations’. I asked her if she thought I should contribute too. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said ‘I put a button in for you as well.’
What an evening. We laughed all the way home doing funny deep voices.
I think that might be the last time I see Mme Charpentier,21 but then, as a medium, she probably knows that already.
CALLING CARDS
Mrs Hudson kept many of the calling cards that passed onto her famous brass salver. Here are just a few that have survived:
Sir Henry Baskerville
Dr J. Mortimer
Sgr Ingnatius Paloma
Mons. Vertus Pugilum
Miss I. Adler
Parson Nicholas
Lady Carrington
J. V. Wilson
Miss V. Hunter
Count Von Kramm
Prof. Summerlee
Lord Cantlemere
Prof. A. M. Toirry
Dr A. C. Smith
Lady Sigerson
This picture is particularly interesting as Mrs Hudson herself has written on the back, ‘I’ve no idea who this is.’ Well, that is akin to a red rag put in front of a bull for yours truly. So, plunging into uniform research, I discovered that our be-helmeted candidate was in fact none other than an armed policeman, a member of the special branch who specialised in combating violent crime. His helmet badge denoted membership of ‘The Crusaders’, as they were known. His belt is interesting. It is, in fact, not the standard issue belt of The Crusaders! Their emblem features a rampant St George sitting atop a Turks head but no sign of that here. In what can only be described as a bout of individualism on the part of our young constable, he is seen sporting a segmented pewter rope twist, typical of the Finchley cadets of the day. We must admire him for that. I confess, I’ve not been able to detect the source of the belt. The watch chain is self-explanatory and we need not dwell on it here. The window sill is interesting, revealing a briefcase, but the relevance is lost here, my friends. As his boots are rather nondescript, I am unable to muse upon them. All in all, a fairly interesting, if not productive picture, well worthy of inclusion even if only on the grounds of obscurity. His name is unknown, but a colleague here thinks he looks Scottish!
21 The account of Mme Charpentier’s séance led me to research the shadowy, bizarre world of Victorian mediums (or should that be media?). One account I stumbled on in my diligent research on your behalf (self-praise is no recommendation, I hear you cry!) led me to the story of Lord Crumbrooke. He was not a bona fide member of the nobility as the title was self-bestowed. The dubious ‘Lord’ became celebrated for his séances, which were on a much more pretentious scale than Mme Charpentier’s. He claimed to be able to put people in touch with not only their own deceased family members but figures of international fame and notoriety. He would make the modest claim that the assembled company, sitting with hands joined in the murky ambience of his sitting room in Tulse Hill, would be able to speak to such personalities as Napoleon, Marie Antoinette, King George III and many more. His evocation of Marie Antoinette was not entirely convincing as, at his séances, she appeared to have a north London accent. Even when finally discredited, people would still flock to see his stage show, leading him to ‘come out’ (in modern parlance) and tour the music halls as a genuine impersonator. He was tragically shot whilst presenting his depiction of Abraham Lincoln. The name of his assassin was Oswald Lee, which, I am sure you will realise, has an uncanny resonance with the tragic events of Dallas in 1963.
1887
1 March
I visited Mr Yarrow the butcher today and asked after D. L. Mr Yarrow said he hasn’t seen him for a month but Mrs Turner came in and mentioned seeing D. L. with a red-headed lady. It seems Molly Rifkind and he have renewed their acquaintance and D. L. has gone to help her run a post office in Somerset. I hope they will be very happy together. It is rather strange that he should agree to take on postal deliveries when he used to complain about all the walking he did for Mr Yarrow, but there you are. If I remember rightly, it was always Molly’s skill to get a man to change his mind. I just hope the country air suits him. I’m sure it shall.
20 July
Last evening, I gave Mr H. and the doctor a treat, one I haven’t cooked for a long while: my famous boiled tripe.
I cut the tripe up into pieces the size of two inches square and put them into a saucepan containing skim milk, or milk and water if you prefer (I always like to ask the milk boy to deliver my milk and water in separate cans! – makes him chuckle). There should be enough milk to swim the tripe. Then I add some peeled onions, pepper and salt, and a sprig of thyme, and boil gently for at least an hour. When the tripe is done, I get Mr H. and Dr W. to eat it with mustard and well-boiled potatoes. They seemed most impressed, given the groans of delight that came from their room last night. I notice they have yet to rise today but I believe that’s because they have been busy working on a case all day. There was certainly plentiful activity on the staircase – all that pacing was probably on account of the fact we had the Prime Minister22 himself visiting yesterday.
I offered him some tripe but he said no. I wouldn’t vote for him even if I could.
4 September
Lestrade and Gregson at it all morning. Gregson was pointing his stubby little sausage fingers at Moaner and I could tell he didn’t like it one bit. I’ve had enough of sitting in the middle of it all. I told them they were behaving like a bunch of little boys, when, would you believe it, a real bunch of little boys came scampering through my kitchen and up the stairs. It was Wiggins and his urchins23 (scraping my wallpaper again) and this time, there seemed to be twice as many of them. I’ve spoken to Mr H. on more than one occasion about this and you’d think he’d have done something. Well, finally, and with a little grace, he did. Once the noise had stopped and my patience had returned, I was able to get back to Fingers and Moaner. Well I would have if they hadn’t left whilst I was upstairs. I give up some days. Feels more like Buffalo Bill’s rodeo in here than a lodgings.
5 September
Dr Watson came in this evening in high spirits. Mr Holmes, however, well, I shouldn’t say this, but I am afraid for his health. When the doctor was away he walked and he walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound of his footsteps. Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering, and every time the bell rang he came to the stair head. I hope he’s not going to be ill. I tried to say something to him about fetching him some
medicine, but he turned on me with such a look. So I decided to have a word with the doctor about things but I may have got it wrong. He gave me cause not to worry, explaining that Mr Holmes has some small matter upon his mind which makes him restless. I told him that I’m used to finding cigars in the coal scuttle but I then mentioned the morocco case I found on the mantle with the syringe in it. I could tell Dr Watson didn’t approve of my curiosity, but he suggested that Mr H.’s mind needs such things. Still, it can’t be good for him. As the doctor himself said, ‘Surely the game is not worth the candle?’
The moon is especially bright tonight and I think we may have a frost in the morning. Time to turn in.
2 December
Well, it’s been never a dull moment lately, I can tell you. I was in the kitchen trying to mind my own business when I heard sounds from upstairs. When I say sounds – there was a row going on. I couldn’t believe it, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson were at it hammer and tongs. I didn’t hear all of it I confess, but when I went to the top of the stairs (doing a bit of light dusting, of course) I did catch some of it. Although I couldn’t hear everything the doctor said (he must have been by the window) I wrote most of it down. A little sketch, you could say. And here it is:
‘You are my Boswell now, I suppose,’ said Mr Holmes, as cross as anything.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Holmes,’ said the doctor and then said something about reporting things that happened.
‘Why did you have to take my notes and read them?’ said Mr H. ‘Curiosity killed the cat, dear doctor and it hasn’t done my constitution any good.’
Dr Watson replied, but I couldn’t hear properly.
Mr H. continued, ‘Report the facts, yes, but your purple prose would’ve made Oscar Wilde blush.’
They started moving about and I remembered I had something on the boil. I missed what happened next but, from the hall, I heard the door slam. It was all I could do to bob back in the kitchen when Dr Watson came clumping down the stairs and out of the front door. I admit it is none of my business, but it is interesting. As Mr Holmes said ‘Curiosity killed the cat’, and the funny thing was, as Dr Watson left, he nearly shut the door on Mr Disraeli’s tail.
Ah! Now we are talking (or rather, looking!). These ladies are the formidable Molloy Sisters, well-known athletes and free-style wrestlers, who toured the country in a show entitled Amazons Ahoy!, which featured acrobatics, posing and, of course, wrestling.24 Each night,25 the sisters would invite two members of the audience, male or female (or both), to come onto the stage to wrestle with them. Molly (on the left), known as ‘The Sioux Slayer’, used to dress in Red Indian26 garb and wield a tomahawk.27 Dorothy (on the right, holding the book), appeared as ‘Battling Boudicca’ in a toga and leggings, though not brandishing the umbrella, I fancy. One particular story, related by the esteemed popular entertainment historian Edgar Lofthouse, concerned the fact that, in order to drum up business in the town in which they were appearing, they would announce on the Friday night that the sisters would eat a member of the audience alive on stage. There was always some willing volunteer, infused with alcoholic refreshment and with his pay packet on his person, who would offer himself up for sacrifice. The band would play suitably dramatic music as the sisters laid him on an operating table and proceeded to brandish scalpels, knives and even, on one occasion, a hacksaw. If his nerve had not evaporated by this stage, they would then remove his jacket and roll up his sleeves. One sister would then advance on him with a scalpel/knife/hacksaw held aloft. If the gentleman was still resolved, the other sister would then brush her teeth. Pause. And if there were still signs of compliance, sprinkle pepper and salt on his arm. This usually did the trick, although on occasions she (often Molly) would have to sink her teeth into his arm to yield the required surrender. What halcyon days of entertainment!28
22 Lord Salisbury, I presume.
23 Mrs Hudson is referring to The Baker Street Irregulars, a gang of impoverished urban children that often helped Sherlock Holmes with his cases in return for a small fee. One can only applaud their enterprise and hope that our own ‘youth’ of today would take note of this. Only the other day, I had my double-locked town and country bike stolen from outside the library. Apparently, nobody saw it happen and this was at two o’clock in the afternoon. I asked behind the desk but all I got from the staff was a form to fill in and barely anything resembling sympathy. I ask you, what is the world coming to!
24 There was a third sister, Wendy, but little is known about her history. All we do know is that she preferred not to perform due to her fear of lime.
25 As recounted in Edgar Lofthouse’s seminal History of the Halls, pp. 145–7 (Corduroy Press, 1987).
26 Pardon me! Native American or First Nation!
27 Made of balsawood, if you’d credit it.
28 The sisters never married.
1888
6 January
Mr dearest Arthur. I greet you and the new year with good news and a coincidence. I have put my rents up again. 6d29 now means that I can give in to Martha’s request for help on the upper floors. No sooner had this happened, than D. L. visited today with something of a surprise request. It seems his nephew, Billy, is in need of some favour, having only just been rescued from the workhouse infirmary. Then, this ten-year-old boy stuck his head out from inside D. L.’s coat and introduced himself as Billy. He is ever so young but ever so eager to please. D. L. told him I liked the Music Hall and, quick as a flash, the young lad started singing a Sydney Fisher song. You know the one about the horse race and the monkey? Well, my heart melted and I hired him immediately. I think it must be because he reminds me of you, my dear. So full of life and good cheer. Martha is already very taken with him. I wanted to introduce Billy to our tenants on the first floor but was politely reminded by the great detective not to disturb him on his birthday.30 There were no cards this morning, which I thought was rather sad. So, instead, I got Billy to take a card up from me and, do you know what? He was let in. I think even Mr H. took something of a shine to the lad and he invited him and D. L. to tour the rooms. Unfortunately, Mr H. was cooking up some experiments in his room and there was so much smoke coming from one bottle we had to leave. What will the poor lad think? D. L. said the last time he smelt such a thing he was taking a pipe with a carpet seller from Portland Place.
7 January
I had the strangest dream last night that Billy was a puppy and we were walking on Exmoor. Somehow I knew where I was going but Billy did not and I had to keep pulling his lead to the top of a hill. A little further on and a man in a hat appeared and began pointing frantically at a town below. ‘I am from Porlock,’ he said, ‘and you won’t recognise me until it’s too late!’ Well, he took his hat off and I’ll be blowed if it wasn’t you, Arthur. I was awoken by Mr Disraeli clawing at the curtains on the landing and the sound of Billy running to get the first postal delivery. I told Hannah about my dream at tea and she asked me what was in my nightcap. Mr H. and the doctor have gone to Sussex.
24 February
Mr H. returned from the doctor’s wedding late this evening a little sullen. I asked if he would like some supper but he declined. Poor soul, he does seem a little lost. Mrs B. joked that he may struggle to pay the rent now the doctor has gone. I don’t think so.
19 March
I decided that today was the day to see what all the fuss is about. Yes, Billy and I went on the underground railway for the very first time. After visiting Billy’s mother we went from Bishop’s Road to Farringdon Street.31 Only four miles, but I can now say it was the longest four miles I ever remember. Very hot, with sulphur, coal dust and horrid fumes from an oil lamp. What a stink! I put my handkerchief over my face, when, would you believe it, the gentleman opposite takes out his pipe and begins puffing away.
By the time we reached Farringdon, I was practically out of breath and near burnt by the heat. Billy was delighted. They say the underground is coming to Baker Street very soon. What is the world coming to? Imagin
e the noise under your feet. You should have seen Mrs Turner’s face when I told her. White as a sheet.
20 March
I was in terrible pain today on account of yesterday’s day out. I could hardly breathe in without needing to sit down. The thought of facing those seventeen steps to the first floor is not very appealing. Mr H. has been very quiet of late but today he has been pacing the floor nonstop since this morning’s post. I fear I may be needed more. God bless Mrs Turner, who has agreed to help look after things on the upper levels from tomorrow.
The good doctor paid us a visit this evening. How delightful to see him looking so fit and healthy, if a little vague. I was going to ask him about my cough but he seemed distracted. Marriage is the making of most men and I’m sure it will be for Dr Watson. Although, I think you were the making of me, Arthur.
The doctor’s visit usually means that something is about to happen. Sure enough, a large gentleman describing himself as Count Von Kramm came sweeping through the hallway, past Billy and Martha and up the stairs. He was all furry collars, silver buttons and waxed hair. Very vulgar. When he left, Mr Holmes looked very pleased indeed. I took this as an opportunity to enquire after the rent but was assured by Dr Watson that it would not be a problem. I think my cough is going.
