by Mrs Hudson
I looked at the letter and its now familiar scarlet ink. It seemed exactly as I had remembered it.
‘What about there at the bottom of the page, Flottie?’
Peering more closely I made out a small circular discolouration near the edge of the writing paper.
‘It looks like a grease stain, ma’am.’
‘Just what I thought, Flottie. But what kind of grease? There are thousands of possibilities and I’m sure Mr Holmes could list a host of ones I’ve never thought of. But you don’t spend over 50 years working in kitchens without learning a thing or two about grease. Come, Flottie, let’s try a little experiment. Fetch me one of those cheap tallow candles that we found under the stove, a drop of the frying oil and half a pound of best butter from the pantry.’
Despite her frown, there was a confidence in her manner that gave me a little thrill of anticipation and I hurried to fetch the objects she requested with a little hop of excitement. When they were assembled in front of her, Mrs Hudson leaned intently over the sheet of paper that lay like bright in the arc of lamplight. First of all she lit the candle, a very cheap yellow object made from a dubious combination of unattributable carcasses, all boiled down together. It’s pungent smell made me wrinkle my nose as it infiltrated the shadows of the polished kitchen.
‘Now look,’ she whispered and tilted the candle gently until a small drop splashed on to the piece of paper an inch away from the original mark.
‘Now while that dries in, let’s try this,’ and with a steady hand Mrs Hudson lowered the lip of the oil jug, allowing a second drop to fall onto the paper beneath.
‘Now, Flottie, take a look at them and let’s see what we’ve got.’
I lowered my head very close to the paper. The candle fat had left a dark mark of a yellow-grey colour. The oil had soaked in deeper, leaving a stain in a slightly darker shade of grey.
‘I don’t think it’s either of those,’ I said at last. ‘The original mark is much lighter than these two, almost colourless really. These look a lot dirtier. I’m sure if the mark had been made by either of these we would have noticed it straight away, even by lamplight.’
‘All right. Let’s try one more then.’ And Mrs Hudson, still frowning slightly, took a sliver of butter on the end of a knife and held it over the candle flame. When the edges of the butter began to liquefy she moved the knife to the notepaper and tilted it until a small drip of butter had landed next to the other three stains.
I waited till it had dried into the paper before I spoke, but when I did there was already awe in my voice.
‘It’s the same! See how it’s left the same mark! They’re both slightly darker at the centre and almost invisible at the edge. It was a butter stain on Mr Moran’s note!’
I paused for a moment, then continued, my voice suddenly less excited.
‘But what does that tell us?’
‘Look at the two butter stains again, Flottie. There is a slight difference, isn’t there?’
It was true. I had been concentrating only on the colour of the original stain so I had noticed without comment the small brown mark left at its centre. Now I studied that mark even more closely until Mrs Hudson, to my enormous surprise, produced a magnifying glass from the front of her apron.
‘Well, Mr Holmes leaves them all over the place, child. I’m sure he won’t begrudge us the use of one for a few hours. Now use this to look and tell me what you think.’
Now my view was transformed and I could see the brown spot I had been peering at was not a stain but a tiny rough-edged object pressed into the paper’s surface. It looked very familiar.
‘It’s a crumb,’ I ventured, slightly disappointed that my first attempt at scientific observation had ended on such an unremarkable note.
‘A very small toast crumb was what I thought,’ confirmed Mrs Hudson, nodding approvingly. ‘Now, Flottie, how could such a stain have come there?’
‘I suppose it just dropped on, ma’am. If a small piece of toast fell onto the paper and was shaken off very quickly it may have left just such a trace behind. If the writer was working by lamplight or candlelight he wouldn’t particularly notice it. And if a crumb stuck to the grease, it was probably pressed down into the paper when he folded the sheet and sealed it.’
‘Flottie, you will go every bit as far as I ever imagined.’ Mrs Hudson put her arm around my shoulders and rewarded me with a squeeze of approval. ‘Now let us imagine the scene as conjured up by Mr Holmes, the scene Mr Moran would have us see.
‘It’s night. Mr Moran has returned to his humble lodging. He’s out of breath because he has gone through the streets quickly, afraid of what he’ll find there. The dagger is burning a hole in the coat pocket where he thrust it after showing it to his friends, two gentlemen so perturbed by what he tells them that they leave their dwellings that very night and go into hiding with what belongings they can carry. Moran has been tasked with finding help and on his return he grabs a sheet of cheap note paper and the first pot of ink he can find. He scribbles a rough note, running sentences together in his fear and haste, oblivious of his sprawling hand. The note is dispatched that very moment in the hands of his faithful servant, who is ordered not to rest until he has tracked down the famous Sherlock Holmes . . .
‘Well, Flottie, how does that look to us now? Can we imagine the panic-stricken Mr Moran scribbling feverishly at his desk with one hand while with the other he helps himself to a cheerful afternoon tea? Flottie, does a man fearing for his life eat generously-buttered toast? I have to say I find the idea highly unlikely.’
I stared at her with my mouth rudely open, for every word she said seemed to resound with good sense. I had so believed in the desperation that lay behind Mr Moran’s note that it was impossible to reconcile the image I had formed in my mind – an image that Mrs Hudson had described in uncanny detail – with the image of Moran settled comfortably in a leather chair, feeding himself toast as he penned his letter.
‘But, Mrs Hudson, if Mr Moran was only pretending to be afraid when he wrote his note . . .’
‘Exactly, child. We will do well to treat everything he tells us with a large pinch of Cheshire salt.’
And with half a wink and a joyous nudge from the point of her elbow she ambled back to the pantry for another glass of sherry.
*
However, if Mrs Hudson’s revelations had convinced me that Moran’s tale was not entirely to be trusted, events the following morning left me floundering in renewed uncertainty. Shortly after breakfast the bell rang and both Mrs Hudson and I were called to the study where we found Mr Holmes and Dr Watson examining an item that had arrived in that morning’s post.
‘Ah, Mrs Hudson!’ exclaimed Mr Holmes in great good humour. ‘We have received a communication that has some relevance to events here the other night. Since you and young Flottie were both involved from the outset, I thought you may be interested in seeing how the case develops. The workings of great minds will always inspire, even if they cannot always be understood – a piece of wisdom that I’m sure Dr Watson will readily endorse. Eh, Watson?’
‘What was that, Holmes?’ asked Watson, peering up from the letter he had been examining with the most desperate determination.
‘Nothing at all, dear fellow,’ said Holmes, smiling affectionately before turning again to Mrs Hudson and me.
‘Watson tells me that you are already aware of the salient points of Moran’s tale and you will not be surprised to learn that my task for today is to verify as many details as possible of that queer narrative. Mrs Hudson, as a woman of excellent good sense you will understand that I can have no truck with the suggestion that these individuals met their deaths by supernatural means. A perfectly natural explanation will exist, and when we have discovered it we will be in a far better position to take measures guaranteeing the safety of Moran and his associates. I do not doubt that great villainy is at work here, but villainy in a human form, perpetrated by someone who will prove as eager to avoid contac
t with Dr Watson’s heavy stick as any other villain.
‘The task of interviewing Neale and Carruthers I have assigned to Dr Watson here, while I myself shall concentrate on some of the other details in Moran’s account. But before we set out, let us share with you another development,’ and at that Mr Holmes took the new letter from Watson’s grasp and offered it to Mrs Hudson with a flourish.
It was short and succinct.
46 Old Jewry
Nov 19th
Re: Evil Spirits
Sir,
Our client Mr James Winterton of Winterton Shipping, London, owner of the Matilda Briggs and other vessels, has made some inquiry from us concerning evil spirits. The aforementioned vessel being recently returned from Borneo and Sumatra, Mr Winterton has received a visit from one Mr Norman, passenger on said vessel’s latest voyage. Mr Norman has alleged said vessel is possessed with an unnatural presence that, he claims, repeatedly harassed him, on one occasion pitching a small leather Bible into the sea. He exhorted our client to take measures before the vessel makes its next voyage. Mr Winterton, having interviewed the captain, a Spaniard, and the crew, mainly Lascars, has discovered that they support this tale. As our firm specialises almost entirely upon the assessment of nautical equipment the matter hardly comes within our purview, and we have therefore decided to enquire of you if there is any specialist in this field that might be recommended to our client.
We are, Sir, Faithfully yours,
LAUNCESTON, PHELPS AND FINCH
When she had finished reading, Mrs Hudson looked up thoughtfully.
‘I should say, sir, that this is an extremely interesting document.’
‘And so Dr Watson found it too, Mrs H. I admit it has a certain sensational interest, though I personally do not place a great deal of store by it. I’m sure we shall find that this is the result of suggestible individuals and a superstitious crew, made aware before their departure of fanciful rumours circulating about their cargo, then cooped together for long periods at sea. It is, I feel, of more interest to the psychologist than the criminologist. We can dismiss it as no more than an intriguing diversion from our primary business.’
If I had expected Mrs Hudson to bridle against such casual dismissal of her opinion, I had again miscalculated. When on the gentlemen’s departure we returned to the kitchen her expression was almost jocular as she began to change into her outdoor clothes.
‘Bless us, that Mr Holmes is quite a one. How he got this far without us, Flottie, is something I’ll never know.’
‘But, Mrs Hudson, ma’am, doesn’t that letter suggest that there is something in Mr Moran’s tale after all?’
‘Of course, Flottie. I’m convinced there is something in his tale. Our investigations last night were decidedly useful but we mustn’t confuse ourselves. If you feel you’re losing touch with what’s what, there’s another telegram you’d better have a look at. It’s in the dresser drawer, at the back, under the tongue-press.’
By now Mrs Hudson was ready to go out but she waited until I had found the telegram.
‘It’s from Lord Ponsonby at the Colonial Office. I was once able to help his lordship solve a little problem concerning his daughter’s second coachman. I sent him a note yesterday morning and he was good enough to investigate and reply the same afternoon.’
The telegram seemed to leave no room for doubt.
CAN CONFIRM TWENTY THREE UNEXPLAINED DEATHS PORT MARY OFF SUMATRA MARCH APRIL STOP TWO EUROPEAN ONE CHINESE OTHERS NATIVE STOP ALL MALE STOP INVESTIGATION BY DUTCH AGENT JUNE STOP DEATHS MOST HORRIBLE STOP CAUSE UNKNOWN STOP AGENT BAFFLED STOP COMPLETE MYSTERY STOP FOND REGARDS
PONSONBY
‘You see, Flottie, we do have a mystery on our hands after all,’ commented Mrs Hudson, raising an eyebrow in a parting wave before slipping out for her afternoon off.
It was later that afternoon that I discovered the problem posed by Mr Moran was not the only one for me to consider. I passed the afternoon working on the gentlemen’s rooms, reflecting happily that in doing so I was in a small way assisting one of the eminent men of our times. Time passed quickly and though it was no later than four o’clock it was already growing dark when I made my way back to the kitchen. As soon as I entered I knew there was something wrong. There was something foreign there, something chill that did not belong. The lamp had not been lit and there was a presence in the air that made my whole being cold.
‘Who’s there?’ My voice trembled.
‘Hello, Flotsam,’ came a voice I remembered from the days I was trying to forget. ‘I was passing so I thought I should drop in.’
‘Mr Fogarty,’ I whispered, almost to myself.
‘Indeed,’ he replied, moving out of the shadows so I could see his face and its fixed, mocking smile. ‘I can’t stay, Flotsam, but I’d like to ask you to come round and visit me soon. You see,’ and he passed the tip of his finger very slowly down the line of his jaw, ‘I believe I have found your brother.’
The Lost Child
†
Although at that time I had neither a name nor a family to call my own, I knew it had not always been so. I have a memory, misty like the moon through fog, of a time before the orphanage. I remember a woman holding me close to her, so tight that at night I can still dream of that tightness. There was warmth and softness and my nose pressed into sweet-smelling hair. And a memory of a different woman, faceless and formless like a figure in a dream, who lowered her forgotten face close to mine and whispered ‘take care of your brother.’ And my third memory, much sharper in focus, like a dream interrupted by waking, of the doors of the orphanage closing behind me and a tiny parcel of white blankets being forced out of my arms, and corridors ringing with loud, loud sobs that were my own.
I lost my brother when I was too young to remember him. All I recall is an arrangement of blankets and, as he left my arms, a desolation inside me so cold that I thought it would never melt. To survive, I learned to keep the secret of his existence safely inside me. It could not be mentioned at the orphanage. To do so was willfulness and ingratitude. It could not be mentioned when I was sent to work in the kitchens of the hospital where to speak at all was expressly forbidden. It was not to be told to the series of brief, disapproving employers who found temporary use for the labour of a girl too small to reach the bolts to run away. The first person I told was the first to ask, the butler who ruled the big house where I had hoped for salvation and found only bondage worse than any that had gone before.
Mr Fogarty was a butler in name but he ruled that house with a grip colder than iron. I had never met anyone whose power seemed less questioned or more absolute. His empire was founded on fear yet he was able to win a small girl’s trust with the same casual carelessness he used to light an Egyptian cigarette. He had first seen me scrubbing doorsteps, and at once recognised an easy prey. Softly he drew from me my fears and hopes and discovered in my tears the story of my lost brother. He made me understand with reassuring half-sentences that he would make enquiries on my behalf if I proved to be a good girl; that, if I deserved it, it should be possible for a man such as himself to identify my brother’s whereabouts.
‘They said he was dead, sir,’ I told him.
‘They say that to keep you quiet, Flotsam. I have no doubt I can find him.’
There were many cruelties inflicted upon me in that house but there was none to rival that.
The months I stayed there seemed to last as long as the rest of my life in total. I found myself at the very bottom of a hierarchy based on misery. From the carefully planned punishments of Mrs Flegg the cook to the gloating pain inflicted by Smale the boot boy, it seemed there was nothing that could not validly be inflicted upon me. I was only sustained by the thought that when Mr Fogarty heard of the cruelty I should be spared. But when Mr Fogarty called me to him again, the escape he offered was not the one of which I’d dreamed. The proposal he put to me was starkly clear even to my innocent understanding, and it seemed as though the harshness tow
ards me from every quarter intensified in the days leading up to it, until the present seemed every bit as wretched and degrading as the future he proposed. And above it all, impossible for me to ignore, was the thought that by working for Mr Fogarty as he suggested I could earn a way back to the brother I had given away.
In the end it was the cook who saved me, the individual in the house who had perhaps done most to make my life unbearable. By then I was being kept by Fogarty in a cellar room and it was there, when Mrs Flegg brought me a bowl of her thinnest gruel, that her drunken spite blew away all my clouds of indecision.
‘Eat this,’ she screeched, twisting my ear until my head was forced to the ground next to the bowl she had brought me. ‘Eat this and be grateful for it. And don’t give me any of your meek manners and proper ways, young lady! They won’t last long with what Fogarty has in store for you. He’ll throw you to his wolves an’ no mistake. And all for a brat that died in the gutter long ago! You think he’s alive? Ha! You think Fogarty would do that for you? You think he has helped any of us? Look around at what’s he’s done for us – and then think how much worse it’s going to be for you!’
That night, thanks to my sharp knee and to a strength of spirit I scarcely knew I possessed, I made my escape. The few objects I called possessions were left behind. I had no coat and no proper clothes but none of that mattered. My brother was dead.
Yet that was not the end of everything after all. I was saved by my pursuit of a rotten cabbage and, in the two years that followed, Mrs Hudson and Scraggs and Swordsmith and even Mrs Siskin the Methodist had managed between them to warm the parts of me that seemed to have frozen in the chill of Fogarty’s cellars. Suddenly among friends, even the pain of that missing white bundle lost its pre-eminence in my thoughts. So many children died, it seemed, that surely the cook had spoken the truth. In my own way I mourned him and tried to pass on. But now Fogarty’s words, in a kitchen rendered suddenly grey and lifeless, touched me in places I thought had ceased to feel. Could it be true? Even while fear and disgust flooded my thoughts, a small candle of hope was lighting up lost corners within me.
