by Mrs Hudson
‘Indeed I am, Mrs Hudson. I have had cause to conduct a detailed study into rates of decay of various foodstuffs under a variety of conditions. The results have proved invaluable on several occasions.’
‘Well on this occasion the results have proved something of a mess, Mr Holmes.’ Mrs Hudson began to produce an array of vegetables from the box, all of them showing very clear signs of decomposition. An uncomfortable smell began to circulate around the room.
Mr Holmes picked up the remains of a parsnip, now mostly pulp and squashed almost flat.
‘Fascinating!’ he declared, looking at it closely. ‘From the shape to which this has been reduced one could make accurate assumptions about the shapes of the foodstuffs stored close to it, as well as accurate estimates of their sizes and relative densities. Although I would have to concede, Mrs Hudson, that these items are uniformly unenticing. I may perhaps have failed to apply my knowledge in these matters to the practicalities of the domestic arts. Is there anything to be done?’
‘Look at it like this, sir.’ Mrs Hudson was now engaged in rooting out and discarding an extravagant selection of unrelated comestibles. ‘When we have discarded the inedible, what remains, however unlikely, will have to be dinner.’
Mr Holmes paused as though struck by an important thought.
‘Do you know, Mrs Hudson, I believe you may have something there.’
*
No-one ever said Mrs Hudson wasn’t the woman to rise to an occasion and by eight o’clock there was a distinctly homely feel to our new quarters. Dr Watson and Mr Holmes, the latter suddenly wrapped in thought, were settled among their packing cases making a healthy supper of bread, cheese, a braised bird we had sent out for and a bottle of burgundy. A much greater air of order prevailed in the kitchen where, the day’s undertakings completed, Mrs Hudson and I were sitting quietly by the fire, watching the restful excitement of the small blue flames licking through a shovelful of fresh coal. Mrs Hudson was drinking a glass of the old Madeira that Mr Rumbelow had thought to send.
‘You know, Flottie, those two gentlemen are innocents. They need a pair like us who are versed in the ways of the world to see that they come to no harm. And we’ll see some excitement in the process, make no mistake. As I always used to say to Hudson . . .’
But she was interrupted by a flurry of sharp raps on the street door, an urgent, imperious knock that burst through our contented calm like a locomotive through fog. At a signal from Mrs Hudson, I hurried to answer. Fumbling with the bolts I became aware of the insidious cold outside, stealing under the door with a frosty menace. And as I swung the door open, I was confronted by a sight more heart-stoppingly chilling than any freezing night. In front of me towered a figure dressed in black, swathed in a cape so dark its edges seemed of the same substance as the night. He wore on his head not a hat, but a soft dark hood that set most of his face in shadow. But not enough to hide from me the cold silver scar that ran from beneath one ear to just beneath his eye. And where his eye should have been, no eye at all, just a deep, monstrous shadow.
Before I could compose myself enough to scream, something was thrust into my hand and the spectre had stepped backwards into the waiting night.
By the thin light from the windows, I could make out what I held in my hand: an envelope addressed in scarlet and a slim silver dagger.
The Curse of the Spirits
†
It is my firm belief that Mrs Hudson more than any woman of her generation possessed a special talent for reconciling good domestic practice with outlandish and bizarre events. If any example of this were needed, I could cite none better than her response that evening on my return, silent and half frozen with fear, to the fire-lit kitchen. Moving me deftly to the hearth, she asked no questions but busied herself locating a suitable salver on which to convey to Mr Holmes the strange items still held in my grasp.
‘Come now, Flotsam, child,’ she warned. ‘That’s the first caller at our new lodgings so we should be making sure that note is properly presented. Which isn’t to say,’ she continued, pausing to lay a second tray with whisky and soda water, ‘that judging by the look of you he may not have been quite the usual sort of caller. But that’s the sort of visitor we have to expect now, Flottie, and very accustomed to it we shall become. Now I imagine Mr Holmes will want to ask you a question or two about these here objects, so there’s no point us going in until you’ve had a chance to rearrange your wits. And I imagine Dr Watson will be glad of a drink or two, so there’s no point us going in until you’ve fetched down a pair of them heavy tumblers. And then, if you’re to be in the gentlemen’s company for any length of time, I think we could lay our hands on an apron that presents them with rather fewer clues as to what you had for your supper.
‘As for this,’ she pondered, unfolding my fingers from the narrow-bladed knife and holding it up to the light, ‘we’d better handle this with a bit of care. In my experience, the sorts of people who send you uninvited knives are generally up to no good and could do with a bit of watching.’
Such was the calming effect of Mrs Hudson’s manner that in just a very few minutes, when she once more ushered me before Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, her presence at my side allowed me to repeat my tale with a semblance of calm that belied my inner trembling.
Mr Holmes listened to what I had to say with the utmost concentration, his restless eyes suddenly fixed on a single point, behind them an impassioned light flaring from time to time like a kindling flame. He remained silent until I finished and then Dr Watson spoke first.
‘What a remarkable business! Chap sounds like a lunatic to me. Shouldn’t be on the streets at all, I daresay.’
‘On the contrary, Watson, from Flottie’s admirable account it is clear that the actions of tonight’s messenger are very far from insane. Think what he has accomplished tonight. He has timed his arrival at that hour of the evening when a housekeeper is most likely to be about her post-prandial chores and the chance is highest that an impressionable young girl will respond to his knock. He has succeeded in using his singular appearance to such effect that he has been able to disappear unmarked into the night. And he has succeeded, I perceive, in delivering his employer’s letter to its intended recipient on the very evening of that person taking up a new address. The last of these, although at first glance the greater achievement, is perhaps the least remarkable, for I think I can say without vanity that there are not a few in this great city of ours who could tell you at any time the correct residence of Sherlock Holmes.’
That said, Mr Holmes took a paper-knife from a nearby crate inscribed Crimes of Passion and focused his attention on the carefully sealed missive that had been thrust so dramatically into our midst. Before turning to the letter itself, he examined in minute detail its wax seal with the assistance of a magnifying glass that he plucked from the folds of his smoking jacket.
‘As I suspected,’ he remarked. ‘Cheap wax of the sort used by countless people a thousand times a day. But the seal-stamp itself is a different matter. Crude work – of native execution, I’ll warrant – showing what appears to be some kind of exotic marsupial.’
He held the letter out towards Dr Watson. As Mrs Hudson passed it to where the doctor was seated, I saw her pass an intent eye across the seal in question.
‘Bless my soul,’ declared Watson, passing the letter back. ‘A strange beast indeed, eh, Mrs Hudson?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She paused, her eyebrow twitching almost imperceptibly. ‘Though not unlike a large rat, perhaps, sir?’
‘Precisely!’ declared Mr Holmes, after peering swiftly at the letter for a second time. ‘I can see you will have to be on your mettle, Watson. Mrs Hudson clearly has a sharp eye in these matters!’
Rather hurriedly he slipped the letter open and tilted it towards the lamp. For a short moment, every occupant of the room seemed suspended in a state of breathless concentration and time hung motionless at the edge of the lamplight. Then Mr Holmes gave a short exclamation and thru
st the document at Dr Watson.
‘If you would be so good, Watson. I’m sure it will benefit from your admirably uncomplicated delivery.’
The letter comprised one piece of paper, folded twice, unevenly, as if in a great hurry. It carried no address but that day’s date, scratched in the same scarlet ink across the top of the sheet. Below, scrawled in an unsteady hand at an angle acute to the horizontal, was a message speaking as much of panic as simple fear.
Sir I find myself in mortal peril and daily fear for my life I beg to be allowed to wait on you tomorrow at the hour of eight o’clock in the evening, I shall presume to call at that hour in the hope that you receive favourably this most urgent request of -
Nathaniel Moran
The room seemed even quieter as his words were absorbed by the cushioning silence of our concentration. Somewhere inside me a tiny thrill of excitement passed through my spine to my feet, making my toes tingle.
‘Mystifying,’ murmured Watson.
‘Transparent!’ declared Holmes. ‘You have some small notion of my methods, Watson. I beg you to apply my principles and tell me what we can glean from this most irregular epistle.’
‘Why, Holmes, I can glean nothing from it except that the writer is clearly afraid for his life. How else can one explain the frantic style, the lack of care for presentation or punctuation, the oversight of including no address to which you might direct a reply?’
‘My good Watson!’ retorted Holmes with a chuckle. ‘Your openness is such that you find it difficult to penetrate beyond the first face the world presents to you. While Mrs Hudson helps you to a well-deserved drink, let me suggest a few conclusions that I feel can be safely drawn from this missive.
‘When our correspondent calls in person, I strongly suspect that we shall find him still some years short of what is described as middle age. In the last ten days he has returned to London from a prolonged period in the tropics and is still affected by an illness he contracted there. He has recently fallen on hard times but hopes that this state shall be a temporary one. And, if I am not very much mistaken, he is also something of an amateur naturalist and has made a careful collection of native fauna while he has been overseas.’
‘Really, Holmes!’ Watson expostulated. ‘You cannot seriously expect us to believe that even a mind such as yours can deduce all that from just a few lines of prose. Why, it’s an impossibility!’ And in his perturbation he pushed his newly empty glass towards the drinks tray with a gesture more instinctive than conscious. Even Mrs Hudson’s eyebrow twitched slightly as she replenished his glass in silence.
‘On the contrary, Watson. Nothing I’ve said requires anything more than the most basic observation. Firstly as to his age: his handwriting shows signs of haste and powerful emotion. It is not impossible that you are correct in surmising it is fear that has made his hand unsteady. Yet beneath the surface emotion it remains a strong hand. See the vigour of the downstrokes and deep impression his signature has left on the paper. There is none of the uncertainty here that so often betrays the septuagenarian, none of the small weaknesses that suggest a man past his prime. So a man of middle years, perhaps? And yet surely the composition of the letter, the scant regard for the niceties of correspondence, suggest a failure in the writer to master his immediate emotions. One would not expect to find such surrender to his prevailing mood in a man of mature years. So a young man then? Yet a sojourn in the tropics of some years’ duration, of which more presently, dictates that he can no longer be termed a youth. And so, Watson, I am forced to conclude that our correspondent’s age is somewhere in between. In short, I fully expect him to be a man of thirty.’
‘But, Holmes,’ rejoined Watson, throwing an inclusive smile at Mrs Hudson as if certain that his friend had over-reached himself, ‘how can you deduce that he has so recently returned from the tropics, and after a stay there of some years?’
‘Surely, my dear Watson, the reasons begin to suggest themselves? His seal with its grotesque foreign rodent is a clear indication of a time spent in warmer climes. Its rough finish and poor delineation speak of the native workman. You may also have observed the small palm tree under which the creature rests. The man who has chosen to adopt this as his seal clearly feels an attachment to the motif that argues a period of accustomed usage, almost certainly during a foreign sojourn of some years’ duration.
‘And yet we know him still to be a relatively young man, so his return must have been comparatively recent, particularly if, as I suspect, his health still bears the imprint of his travels. For where you see only fear, Watson, I also detect a hand undermined by fever. A vigorous hand rendered strangely unsteady, an unexplained brevity as if the effort of writing was a great one . . . Given what we know already of our friend, a tropical fever, not quite shaken off, is the most likely explanation. Meanwhile, the absence of any return address, far from being the oversight you imagine, suggests to me a man uncertain of his whereabouts from day to day. Clearly he has yet to find permanent lodgings. Yet ten days is ample for a man of average resource to establish himself in the metropolis, so I deduce our correspondent’s arrival fell within that period.’
‘But what of the rest, Holmes? The depleted funds and the interest in native species?’
Mr Holmes leaned back in his armchair and began to light the pipe he had been most carefully filling, his face affecting a look of the most pained surprise.
‘Really, Watson, surely the rest is most readily apparent? The cheap wax and cheaper writing paper both argue that he is not currently able to afford the luxury of a reputable hotel. He should hardly be using these materials if the writing room at Claridge’s was at his disposal. I suspect he is staying in one of those nameless, semi-respectable East-End boarding houses while seeking daily for lodgings that will suit his reduced circumstances. The services of a servant – for I feel your apparition must be characterised as such, young Flottie – indicates that his fortunes have not always been at their current ebb. And I have yet to meet a man reduced to unaccustomed poverty who does not yet harbour hopes that another minute will see all his fortunes restored.’
‘And a naturalist, Holmes?’
‘The ink, Watson! The ink! No-one outside those publications commonly known as the Penny Dreadfuls ever uses scarlet ink. The only exception of which I am aware is the habit of collectors in some remote parts of the Empire to use red ink for the labelling of exhibits in their cabinets. They generally find that it holds its colour much better than black ink of local manufacture, which fades disastrously when exposed for long periods to the fierce sunlight. And our writer’s choice of seal, revealing as it does the preoccupations of the naturalist rather than the anthropologist, would appear to place the matter beyond doubt.’
‘Why, I believe that is the finest thing I have ever heard!’ exclaimed Dr Watson, draining his glass with a gulp. ‘What do you say, Mrs H? I’ll wager you’ve never heard the like of that in all your born days!’
However true that was of Mrs Hudson, I confess that I for one was spellbound by the image Mr Holmes had revealed with such elegant strokes. As he basked in a satisfied atmosphere of admiration and tobacco smoke, I simply didn’t have words to express the wonderment that filled me, wiping away the memory of my earlier fear. Everything seemed to make sense. Perhaps there was nothing that couldn’t be explained.
And that, I found, was something with which Mrs Hudson could concur, though for reasons that were very far from my own. It wasn’t until we had regained the warm fastness of our kitchen that I understood Mrs Hudson did not necessarily share the views expounded so brilliantly by the great detective. As I readied myself for bed I noticed that she could not settle, preferring to refold the laundry rather than take a second glass of Mr Rumbelow’s excellent port.
‘Tell me, Flottie,’ she asked at last, laying the final bedsheet down so folded that it would have served as a study for budding geometricians, ‘what are your feelings about Mr Holmes’s explanation of that letter of ours?’<
br />
‘Oh, Mrs Hudson, ma’am! It was the most surprising thing I’ve ever heard! I thought that stranger appearing at the door was a shock but it was nothing to the way Mr Holmes showed us how all the facts fitted together. Before he began, there were no imaginings I wasn’t imagining. But now I know it was just an ordinary gentleman that sent that letter, I know it was silly to be frightened. I feel I almost know the gentleman myself!’
Mrs Hudson looked even sterner than usual.
‘And do you not think, Flotsam, that there could be other explanations for all those things Mr Holmes pointed out?’
‘Ma’am?’
‘You see, there was nothing Mr Holmes said that I could actually say was wrong, but it just didn’t feel right either. In here,’ gesturing somewhere in the region of her bosom. ‘It’s not to say that Mr Holmes isn’t very clever and scientific, but I couldn’t help seeing it another way.
‘I mean, Flottie, what sort of gentleman sends his man around at that hour, at just the time when his startling appearance will appear most sinister? Why couldn’t he have used the penny post like anyone else? His letter would have arrived in a nice orderly way tomorrow morning, in plenty of time for Mr Holmes to have prepared himself for a visit that evening. And then there’s that dramatic scribbling in an ink that no decent soul would dream of employing. I don’t know what they write in out in the Indies, but it’s hard to credit that in this country he couldn’t have found a more honest colour for his purpose. However poor his accommodation, I don’t believe there was no pot of black ink to be had if he needed it. Don’t you think, Flottie,’ she continued softly, ‘that his reason for writing could have been quite different from the one he claims? If he had deliberately set out to disconcert us all as much as possible and create around himself an aura of mystery, he could have found no surer way to go about it. It occurs to me, young Flottie, that Mr Moran may prove a slightly trickier character than he would have us believe.’
