by Paul Magrs
And the other thing about being best of friends during the course of a very long life is that things change. People change, times change. Things go wrong. Sometimes things go right. Sometimes you can drift apart forever. Sometimes you’re left all on your lonesome again.
But today’s not a day for thinking like that. Today we’re listening to good music and finishing our sweet sherry and thinking that maybe it’s time to head down to the harbour for a quiet fish supper in Cod Almighty.
We chink our glasses together in a toast.
‘To old friends and narrow escapes!’
And also: ‘To best friends and further adventures!’
I pull a rueful face. ‘And maybe a bit of peace and quiet, too? At least, until the next spooky mystery comes along?’
Mrs Hudson at the Christmas Hotel
From the Journal of Dr John Watson.
November, 1925.
This morning I received a rather large envelope postmarked Sussex. Of course I knew at once that it came from my old friend and, sure enough, amongst various yellowing papers and envelopes there was a jar of his finest home-engineered honey, wrapped in a protective bundle of muslin. Holmes’ bees’ honey is a rare treat and a welcome addition to our breakfast table, though my beloved does object to the occasional dead Hymenopteran found suspended in the sticky stuff. Digging deeper in the brown paper parcel proved there to be a further bundle and this was a padded box, such as might contain an item of jewellery. Indeed, inside the box there were two splendid multi-hued crystals. They looked rather like a pair of eyes. I passed them to my beloved wife across the table and she gasped. ‘Whatever is he doing, entrusting such things to the Royal Mail?’
I couldn’t answer her satisfactorily without first absorbing the import of his note, which was folded neatly underneath these packages. I do enjoy my former colleague-in-adventure’s sporadic missives, touching as they often do, upon events in our shared past of which even I am not fully cognisant. It seems that adventures and investigations were going on continuously all around us, and I wasn’t aware of even half of them. His letter of this morning – in rather shakier handwriting than ever, I am afraid – consisted of the following:
‘Watson – please find enclosed the latest production of my recalcitrant livestock. Cajole them as I might, they are very slow and perfectionist and what is contained in this jar represents almost a full year of squeezing and cudgeling of their small selves. I trust you will find it delicious. I also enclose the Eyes of Miimon, which belong to the people of Finland. They were smuggled here in the early 1890s by extraordinary means and the manner of their theft is still, I am afraid, a closed book. However, they have recently come to light again and were sent to me by the nieces of one Maude Sturgeon, a deceased spinster from the North Yorkshire coastal town of Whitby. They are a superstitious folk in that part of the islands, and will believe any silly piece of nonsense when it comes to matters of black magic and necromancy and so on. The nieces of this elderly, formidable lady – known as the local wise woman, apparently – believe that their ninety four year old aunt was whisked away before her time at the behest of dark forces. (Before her time, I ask you! At the age of ninety four…!) As you know, I will have no truck with such things as magic and dreadful sentimental drivel about daemons and so on, especially at my time of life.
Nevertheless we must respect the beliefs of others – at least, in terms of how those beliefs might lead their owners to behave. Maude Sturgeon, I am informed, fully believed that these jewels are capable of exerting an influence of great evil. They had been in her possession ever since they were smuggled into this country, in 1895 – some thirty years ago. Her nieces found them amongst her precious belongings after her demise and they have decided to be rid of them. And so – in their great good wisdom - they have sent them to me. I was appalled to find that Maude Sturgeon never presented the jewels to the authorities three decades ago as she was plainly instructed to, but as you know, I have no faith in the doings of womankind. Especially not the kind of women who instruct their surviving relatives to sprinkle their ashes illegally and unhygenically around a national monument such as the ruined Abbey at Whitby.
Anyhow, I am too old and decrepit to run about the place with supposedly-magical crystals. Would you, Watson, please see that they are disposed of correctly? My initial thought was that you should present them to my brother Mycroft, for official restoration to the Finns, who would no doubt be delighted. But then I thought… why not give the things to Professor Challenger, that old charlatan? If they are indeed magical stones – and I know you will guffaw at my entertaining the very idea, old friend – well, at the very least Professor Challenger might squeeze a little entertainment and amusement out of them. As might his new housekeeper, Mrs Hudson. She might even recognise the Eyes of Miimon, and be reminded of an escapade of her own from 1895.
An escapade which the also-enclosed packet of letters and postcards rather chaotically details. They are all addressed to you, my dear Watson, though somehow they have ended up amongst my many jumbled papers and effects.
Do you remember these rather strange communications which we received from Mrs Hudson during her holiday in the early summer of 1895? We both thought – as we read each one during our breakfasts at 221B – that our absent housekeeper was losing her mind.
Well, perhaps not. There is certainly something very odd about these twin jewels from Finland. Do you not find they give off a rather odd vibration? Don’t they make you feel that there might actually be something in the superstitions of the wild North-Easterners?
With great affection,
Holmes.
June 17th, 1895
Whitby; The Royal Crescent, The West Cliff
Dear Doctor Watson,
Now I hope you two sillies are seeing to yourselves properly. I put some nice jam on the kitchen counter, did you see? For breakfast. Damson. Home-made. I won’t be away for more than a week. My sister Nellie could never put up with me for longer than that. Today we have had a trip out to Scarborough, where folk go to take the waters. I much prefer the quieter seafront here in Whitby, though. Far more civilised than all that hullaballoo further down the coast. Here, life is much more sedate and genteel. As you yourself told me, Doctor, my nerves need soothing, rather than exciting further. Frazzled and malcontent, I think were the words you used to describe my recent moods. How your epithets rang in my ears when you left me on the station platform on Monday morning.
Anyhow, relax I must, the good Doctor tells me. To that end Nellie and I have been enjoying rather lazy days strolling about the intricate streets of this town, on both sides of the harbour. During yesterday’s rather gusty afternoon we even took a bracing walk up the 199 steps to the old, broken down Abbey. I am sure you approve of a little light exertion, though I must admit my legs were trembling this morning. Not that either of you wish to hear of my sundry complaints, of course. As far as the pair of you are concerned, all I ever do is run and up and down staircases.
This evening we attend a special musical evening at one of the grander hotels on the West Cliff. Nellie has promised an evening of wonderment and enchantment. Nellie often exaggerates, though I must say, Whitby thus far is everything she has been promising me. Do you know this neck of the woods, Doctor?
I do hope all is peaceful at home. The two of you are, I imagine, embroiled in one of your dreadful investigations, I am sure. Ruffians of all kinds will be tracking muck up and down my stair carpets. I would not dream of asking a man of your elevation to run around with the ewbank, Doctor Watson, but you would lighten my load considerably if you could manage it.
Now, please give Himself my warmest good wishes, and do save some for yourself.
Oh – the picture on the reverse shows the ruined Abbey and St Mary’s Church, at the summit of the winding upward slope of 199 steps which Nellie and I doughtily tackled yesterday. You will be amused to note that, from this elevation, the stairs describe a reversed question mark upon the face of
the steep, grassy cliff. Mysteries everywhere, you see.
Yours,
Mrs Hudson
Dear Doctor Watson,
As you know I practice moderation in all things and I hardly ever touch a drop of alcohol, and so I don’t know quite what came over me last night at the Christmas Hotel. There was, I think, a feverish and hysterical atmosphere about the place, and a sense that things were running ever so slightly amok.
Nellie and I arrived for dinner at the grand, imposing edifice of the one hundred year old hotel and I admit to marvelling at its palatial splendour. It was painted pink and its windows were lit up charmingly with golden light. Inside, however, it was clear that all the guests were awash with the party spirit. There was dancing and hectic activity in every direction one cared to look. We found a foyer trimmed with every kind of gaudy Christmas decoration and barely room between flushed and over-dressed guests to manoeuvre ourselves. As you know, my sister is lame and rather short, and so we had something of a trial, scuffling past the vast Scots fir and making for the ballroom at the far end of the first floor.
Nellie had already explained that the owner of the Christmas Hotel went in for these festive excesses all the year round. This was how she and her customers liked it. I found it all a bit much for a warm night in June. I did think it possibly irreligious, too.
Things are different in the North, as we both well know, Doctor, and though, had I been alone I should have turned on my heel and quitted the Christmas Hotel at once, I felt I ought to linger a little for poor Nellie’s sake. I don’t believe she gets out much on her own, being as disfigured and generally malformed as she is.
Having said that, I was astonished that Nellie didn’t seem perturbed by the abandonment and revelry all about us. It was a kind of cross between a rough Parisian dance hall and scenes from Bedlam. In fact, as she led the way into the ballroom, I realised that she seemed quite eager to take part in the dancing and the various hi-jinks in evidence.
Here there was a band, all the members of which were attired in green and scarlet outfits befitting of some species of pixie or elf. The music they were playing seemed unearthly and vulgar to my affronted ears.
Nellie must have noticed the expression on my face, for she turned to me, laughing. How strange, I thought, to see her so unselfconscious. Laughing, like this, in public. She must indeed feel at home here in this insalubrious place. Under the glittering lights of the ballroom her makeup seemed horribly garish and there were points of light dancing nastily in her single eye.
‘The mistress wants to meet you,’ she told me.
I was duly introduced to the proprietress of this extraordinary establishment. It was a vast, blousy female form that came shunting towards us, her bloated body surmounting a kind of mechanised bath chair. Her revolting gown revealed a surplus of powdered bosom and broken veins crisscrossed her face like contour lines on the Ordnance Survey Map for this part of North Yorkshire.
She cackled at me, ‘I am Mrs Claus,’ and the force of her breath was vile. She reeked like a pudding hot with flaming sauce and I took against her at once. ‘I feel honoured to meet poor Nellie’s infamous sister.’
‘Infamous?’ snapped I. As you know, Doctor, I do try not to be short with folk. But the fatuous remarks of others sometimes make it impossible for me not to snap at them.
‘Oh, certainly. We all know who you work for, dear, and we’re all very impressed. We keep up to date with his exploits through the scribblings of the good Doctor Watson. We aren’t so remote from the metropolis that we aren’t bang up to the minute on unspeakable crimes in the south.’
What a coarse way of referring to your various literary productions, Doctor Watson! Suddenly, I felt exposed before this heinous female in this parochial pleasure parlour. I felt as if our entire lives had been laid bare. In that moment I knew that no matter that her hotel was geared to continuous celebration of the birth of our Saviour, there was an unholy stink of corruption about it and also about the occupant of that steam-driven bath chair.
Such was the extent of our discourse last evening, for Nellie swiftly dragged me away to sample the Christmas punch, which was being dispensed from a crystal bowl by another pair of waiters decked out as elves. We drank, and then we danced. Gentlemen gallantly offered themselves. We whirled about under lights to music I had never heard before. We made several return visits to the bottomless tureen of that delicious brew. We slaked our thirsts after our exertions and I marvelled again at Nellie’s fleet-footedness on the floor. Never had I seen her less ungainly, with her clubfoot banging the sprung floor in perfect time. I think we both imbibed a little more of the heavenly beverage than we ought to have done.
Luckily, Nellie’s compact cottage isn’t far from the Christmas Hotel. We tottered easily down a few back allies when it was time to drag ourselves away.
It had been a far more enjoyable evening that I had expected and really, Doctor, I am only telling you about it now in order to prove that I am taking seriously your exhortations that I should relax during my northern sojourn and do my level best to let down my hair.
This morning we are in disarray. My head and that of my sister are both pounding with the echoes of queer music. Nellie has made several large pots of tea to help us stir ourselves. Uppermost in my mind is the needling impression left upon me by that grotesque hostess, Mrs Claus. During our unexpectedly energetic dancing, I caught her watching us once or twice, through the crowd. She even had the nerve to waggle her fat fingers at me.
Also – and I haven’t breathed a word of this to Nellie, of course – I happened to glimpse a poster advertising the very thing that you and Himself have asked me to watch out for.
In the ladies’ lavatory there was a garish notice for An Extravaganza of Exorcism to be held at the Christmas Hotel. It’s on every Tuesday night, apparently.
Dear Doctor Watson,
It was evening before Nellie and I ventured out again and, in nostalgic vein, Nellie wanted to reminisce about our distant shared childhood in the Borders. I have no interest in looking back at a time when I was small, helpless and at the mercy of neglectful parents, and I can’t see why she would care to dwell on such times when folk would call out names and throw rocks at her in the street. But my sister seems depressed and sunk into herself. Her flesh appears to hang off her distorted skeleton and her spirit is out of sorts, and so I indulged her for a portion of the evening, roving stiffly over old times. I also made half a dozen discreet enquiries about her health and state of mind, but about both my sister has not been forthcoming, poor mite.
Gabbling about a childhood expunged of all distressing details she led me through the harbour and there we found a crowd gathered around a certain whaling vessel at the jetty. There was a flurry of excitement and kerfuffle going on as the ship docked and naturally we paused to see what was occurring. Nellie pointed to the cause of all the over-stimulation and it turned out to be a dark, dripping, unidentifiable carcass that was being roped into a harness on the deck of the ship. The sailors had brought something horrid out of the freezing sea. Some multi-limbed monstrosity that sent shivers through each of the observers, none of whom had seen anything like it.
We wandered to the swing bridge over the harbour and, even from there, we could see the nasty thing as it was hauled aloft and we were standing downwind of its evil, brackish stench. I stared straight into its monstrous and sightless eyes.
And how do I explain this without sounding like a raging loon? Ach, Doctor Watson. You will think that no more than two days away from Baker Street has turned me into a silly woman. For I looked into the eyes of that beast. Eyes as large as side plates they were, and I felt I could see whole galaxies expand in their swirling depths. I saw stars blooming and worlds colliding and time telescoping into nothingness. I felt the whole of the future and past were laid out before me as I stood there on the bridge in the middle of that town, with the turbid North Sea all chilly around me. I experienced a small thrill of excitement, I have to
say.
All of that I saw in the queer cephalopod’s eyes.
Anyhow, then we had a very pleasant fish supper. Much, much better than the rubbish we get in London. I hope you and Himself are having a pleasant week, Doctor, and that there have been no untoward investigations thrust upon the two of you. You know how I fret. Tomorrow is Tuesday, as you know, and I shall be attending the Extravaganza of Exorcisms, just to see what it is like. I will report forthwith.
Dear Doctor Watson,
Oh by jingo.
Why on Earth did you ask me to go there? Why not leave a poor woman alone to potter about at the seaside and enjoy old ladyish things? Why make me undertake a mission of this nature?
I wish I had never gone.
Nellie is upstairs in her bed. It’s past one in the morning. She’s whimpering in her sleep, I can hear it through the floorboards. I’m just praying that she won’t be permanently damaged by what she has been through tonight.
I’ll tell you what it was. It was cruel, is what it was. It was shameful cruelty on the part of that woman and I blame myself. More than you and Himself, I blame myself, for letting my poor sister come along to the Christmas Hotel with me this evening.
But how was I to know?
I mean, with things of this sort, you expect them to be a den of charlatans, don’t you? There’s nothing in it, is there? All that table-rapping. Spirit world mumbo-jumbo. Why, I recall several occasions when you yourself and Himself have been called out on cases complicated by the carryings-on of fakers of psychic phenomena. I had assumed that much the same would be going on at the jamboree held at the Christmas Hotel and, indeed, when we first went in, it did seem like a fairly innocuous affair: a kind of bazaar for the feeble-minded. There were gypsies everywhere, reading palms in tents and at tables; there were Arabs and Jews and Chinese flogging their exotic wares; there were foreign folk consulting crystals and scrying mirrors and all types of occult artefacts. The very air was singing with the mystical mumblings of the fey folk crowded into the hotel’s public rooms.
