by Mrs Hudson
‘I received the report from old Ponsonby last night,’ he began. ‘It lays out the agent’s findings about this Sumatra affair very clearly. Ponsonby’s people at the Colonial Office say the agent is very sound. Trouble is, those islands are technically the Dutch East Indies and by the time anyone thought to tell Singapore about it, the trail was already cold. All they could do was ask the Dutch to investigate. However, the report gives what details there are of the deaths. The thing is, I don’t know what to make of them.’
‘We were wondering about poisons, sir?’
‘Very sensibly. The obvious cause would be some sort of violent poison. I flirted with the idea of blowpipes and poisoned darts but rather disappointingly the report seems to rule them out. No puncture marks, you see. So I looked for something administered through food or drink that has, first effect, pain in the eyes so acute that the victim might be driven to self-mutilation, and, second effect, death. Trouble is, I can’t come up with anything like that either. I’ve been through the poison lists – up all night I was – and it’s remarkable how many poisons have been catalogued. Some people seem to spend their whole lives doing nothing else. But they haven’t come up with anything to fit the bill, I’m afraid. I’m terribly sorry to let you down, Mrs H.’
He paused sadly for a moment then brightened. ‘Of course, it doesn’t have to be plant-based. It could be some creature they trapped. You never know with animals. I was reading the other day that eating polar bears is terribly bad for you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Mrs Hudson nodded solemnly as if this latter piece of information was of the greatest interest to her. ‘On a different note, sir, we have a knife that Flotsam would like to test for poison. Do you think you would be able to assist us?’
He turned to me with his brown-eyed smile.
‘Of course, I’d be delighted to assist. Do you know much chemistry, Miss Flotsam?’
‘Very little, sir,’ I mumbled from under my muffler. His friendly gaze made it difficult to be shy and even harder for me to serve Mrs Hudson with the outraged glare I had been intending.
‘It is an area Flottie intends to study, sir.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it. It’s always a pleasure to meet a fellow scientist, Miss Flotsam. If I am ever able to assist you in your studies . . .’
And at that point Mrs Hudson turned the conversation to the Spencer family, where it remained until the parting of our ways.
It was not until Mr Spencer was preparing to get back into the carriage after handing us down with a polite farewell that Mrs Hudson paused as if a thought had struck her.
‘What is it, Mrs Hudson? Can I help?’
‘It’s just a thought that has struck me, sir. Only a small thing. But an obvious question, now I come to think about it. Tell me, sir, how often does a doctor generally pronounce his patient dead?’
‘Once is usually considered sufficient, Mrs Hudson.’
‘My thought exactly, sir. After all, we can only die once, can’t we?’
Mr Spencer had time to throw a conspiratorial look of puzzlement in my direction before his carriage rumbled into motion and we were left to continue our journey rather less comfortably amid the jostling of a London omnibus.
Mrs Trent, when we eventually reached her, proved to be a small and shrinking woman whose frame seemed crumpled by the careless pressing of the years. She had worked with Mrs Hudson briefly when both were girls, but when Mrs Trent married a sailor their lives took different courses. It was less than a year previously that they had met again by chance. Mrs Trent was by then a widow who had lost her husband and one of her sons to the sea. Certainly, seeing the two women beside each other, it was hard to believe they had ever been the same age or shared the same station in life. Mrs Trent was weak where Mrs Hudson was strong, was cowed where Mrs Hudson commanded. She lived humbly in a basement room near the docks where the one proper chair was hastily vacated for Mrs Hudson and a stool and a biscuit provided for me.
‘So good of you to visit, my dear Mrs Hudson,’ she warbled as if simultaneously pleased and disconcerted. ‘Such a long way to come on a winter’s day.’
‘It’s good to see you well, Betty,’ replied Mrs Hudson with brisk informality, and there followed some minutes of conversation on the subject of Mrs Trent’s ailments past and present. As they talked, I looked at the damp-stained walls and wondered at the strangeness of a life that seemed to contain so many opposites. Only hours after Smale had held me helpless in an alleyway I was being handed from a private carriage by a gentleman with white gloves and brown eyes. I looked at Mrs Hudson and found myself smiling deep inside.
‘And tell me, Betty, how’s that son of yours?’
‘Arthur’s still away at sea, Mrs Hudson. I pray for him every night and god willing he’ll be back in March. Since Jeb was lost, I fear for Arthur most terribly.’
‘Oh yes, poor Jeb. How long ago was that, Betty? I forget the circumstances exactly.’
‘It will be a year ago in February. As to the circumstances, I wish I could forget them.’ She turned to me. ‘I’ve said it many a time, Jeb was a wild lad but he didn’t deserve what happened to him. He’d been at sea since he was a boy and he’d picked up some hard ways by all accounts. When he came home he used to shock me with all his drinking and his fighting and the like. I used to think it would be the gin that would be the death of him. In a way I wish it had been.’
She dabbed at her worn-out eyes with a threadbare handkerchief. She was no longer directing her story at me.
‘The letter from his captain arrived last spring. There’d been some trouble ashore and Jeb had been locked in the hold for a few hours while things quietened down. The captain wrote that he must have picked up something nasty ashore, because when they let him out he had gone quite mad, raving and screaming, seeing invisible creatures swarming over the deck. Think of it! My poor Jeb! The captain was on a regular run out in the Indies and decided to carry on to Java. But it was of no help to Jeb. They were caught by a sudden squall with Jeb blundering about on deck. The pitch of the ship took him overboard when the crew were busy with the sheets and he was never seen again, God rest him.’
Mrs Hudson was leaning forward eagerly as if she had suddenly remembered something.
‘And all this from the captain’s letter, Betty?’
‘Indeed, Mrs Hudson. He was a good man to write to a poor widow like me. I heard later that he was dead before I got the letter, struck down by a fever in the Straits.’
‘And the name of the ship, Betty? I’m sure you mentioned it to me once. Can you still remember it?’
‘Of course I can. The ship where my Jeb met his end? I could no sooner forget it than forget Jeb himself.’
‘Yes, Betty?’ Mrs Hudson was struggling to suppress her eagerness. ‘What was the name of the ship?’
‘Poor Jeb. It was an unlucky name for him. I hate to think of him screaming and raving like that. The name, Mrs Hudson? Oh, yes. The name of the ship was Matilda Briggs.’
The Fell Sergeant
†
The long journey homewards was a silent one. The sunshine had given way to a sky pregnant with winter and the chill seemed to creep out of the ground into the opaque afternoon. It seemed that Mrs Trent’s tale had given Mrs Hudson something to ponder and for the first time since our move to Baker Street she seemed a trifle perplexed. She sat and watched through the window as our omnibus shook off the docks and shuffled westwards. Her brow was knitted in the most fixed of frowns and very slowly she stroked one finger backwards and forwards along her lower lip. It was not until we were walking back up Baker Street in the evening gloom that she let out a low, rumbling chuckle.
‘Well, Flottie, events can make fools of us all and at least you know now why I was anxious to visit Mrs Trent. What do you feel we’ve learned from her story?’
That was the question I had been puzzling over myself but I was no nearer an answer as we reached our front door than I had been when we waved goodbye
to Mrs Trent in the shadows of the warehouses.
‘It seems a strange coincidence, ma’am. It was only yesterday that we heard reports the ship was haunted with evil spirits, and now it pops up again. Perhaps Mr Holmes was wrong to dismiss that letter so out-of-hand.’
‘A very sensible answer, Flotsam. I am convinced that Mr Holmes made a very grave error in disregarding the letter about the Matilda Briggs. And you are right that it is a strange coincidence.’
By now we had reached the corridor and she popped her head into the study as we passed.
‘Excellent! Dr Watson’s not yet returned and Mr Holmes is fast asleep in his armchair. That means we have a little time to get the place sorted for the evening before the doctor arrives.’
‘Do you think, then, that Mrs Trent’s story is important?’
‘Oh, yes. I think we’ve learned something of great significance. In fact, now that I’ve had time to pull together a few threads, I think I’m beginning to understand a lot more about what was going on in Sumatra.’
‘Golly!’ I exclaimed.
‘Young ladies do not say “golly”, Flotsam.’
‘You mean you know how all those people died, ma’am?’
‘Yes, I think that is becoming very clear, although there are one or two details which it would be prudent to check. The important thing to understand, Flottie, is that those unhappy deaths are the least of the mysteries that face us. We have much deeper questions to consider. However, I think there are two lessons we have learned today. First of all, we shouldn’t rush to dismiss coincidence. And then we should remember that getting the right answer isn’t always as important as asking the right question.’
And with that she shrugged off her coat and bent to revive the kitchen fire while I endeavoured to look alert and knowing.
‘No, there are much more worrying mysteries that face us, Flottie. Such as why does Mr Moran use cheap writing paper? Why is Fogarty suddenly taking an interest in Mr Holmes’s maid? And why,’ she added slowly, ‘why on earth don’t we know more about Penge?’
*
It wasn’t until much later in the evening that Dr Watson arrived home after a tramp across the moors that had proved as damp as it was dispiriting.
‘I like a good walk as much as the next man,’ he declared as Mrs Hudson helped him out of his dripping coat, ‘but to walk ten miles through a bog only to be sent about my business like a common tramp . . . Well, it’s enough to make a fellow’s blood boil!’
And as if to prove the point the doctor began to steam gently in the warm corridor.
‘I take it, Watson, that Mr Moran senior wasn’t inclined to talk about his son’s doings?’ asked Holmes with a smile of amusement.
‘He most certainly was not, Holmes! The blighter almost set his dogs on me. He met me in the hills before I had even reached his house. Asked me what I wanted there and when I said I knew his son you’d have thought I’d said I was planning to steal his silver. The fellow wouldn’t listen to a word after that. Said his son had made his choices and could rot in hell. Nothing for it but to hike back the way I came and wait for the last train soaked to the skin. Dashed poor form if you ask me!’
‘Come, Watson. Let us make amends for your wasted trip. While you change into some dry clothes, Mrs Hudson will serve you some supper and I myself shall mix you a drink. No, no, sir, I know how you like it. Plenty of water. I am quite the connoisseur.’
He beamed proudly and continued before Watson could speak.
‘Let us gather in the study in thirty minutes time. I have promised Mrs Hudson and Flottie here that they may hear your tale from the horse’s mouth, for they are developing a taste for sensation and if you were ever to do as you vow and commit one of our adventures to paper, they would be your most loyal readers.’
Dr Watson directed a nod in our direction.
‘Jolly good! It will be a pleasure, Mrs Hudson. I daresay that in your line of work you observe a great deal of human nature.’
‘Come, Watson, no time for idle pleasantries or you shall have to cut short your ablutions. We expect you in thirty minutes.’
And he turned regally into the study bequeathing a lingering scent of tobacco and brown ale to the troublesome process of separating Dr Watson from his watery boots.
An observer would have found an unlikely scene laid before him had he been shown the Baker Street study thirty minutes later. On each side of the fire, in their familiar armchairs, sat Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, but just behind them, owlish in the half-light, loomed Mrs Hudson. Having discreetly examined the port on offer, she had resisted all Dr Watson’s offers of refreshment and now waited by the drinks tray blending so perfectly into the background that our observer may not have been immediately aware of her presence. Even less obtrusive and even further away, perched at the insistence of Dr Watson on a velvet footstool, I sat so deep in the shadows that I might have been hidden from observation altogether.
Dr Watson, looking warmer and rosier, was peering dubiously into his glass when Holmes interrupted his meditations.
‘So, Watson, we are gathered to learn what your examination of Neale and Carruthers revealed. I have no doubts that you have acquitted yourself admirably. First, for those less familiar with the principles of scientific thought, it may be helpful if you summarise the situation as you saw it when you set out.’
‘Certainly, Holmes. I hope you will feel that I have repaid your confidence.’ Turning in the direction of Mrs Hudson and myself, he went on. ‘The most important task of these last few days has been to test the details of Moran’s story. Such an outlandish tale must clearly be subjected to scrutiny, though as Holmes here pointed out, the process of verifying an account of such distant events must necessarily be a lengthy one. I was happy to leave the technical aspects to the expert and confine myself to interviewing the witnesses.’
Here Holmes gave a slight nod of acknowledgement.
‘Indeed, Watson. An admirable exposition of our approach.’
Watson glowed a little more rosily and drained his glass with a determined gulp.
‘I interviewed Neale first. He has taken rooms at Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair in a bid to evade any pursuer who may have obtained his address in Cavendish Street. I have to say, he proved a strange cove. I expected that he would be eager to receive any emissary of yours but throughout he seemed quite disturbed, as though his mind wasn’t really on the answers he gave me.
‘My first impression of him was one of weakness. The man is of impressive physique but there was something about his carriage that suggested a man accustomed to following the lead of others. He held himself badly, for a start, and never quite met my eye.’
‘Really, Watson!’ interrupted Holmes. ‘We are gathered here to discover the facts of the case!’ He turned to Mrs Hudson. ‘You must forgive Dr Watson. I’m afraid his army training has left him with an innate distrust of anyone who lacks the military bearing.’
‘Merely painting a picture, Holmes,’ mumbled Watson, mostly to himself. ‘Anyway, in response to my questions he confirmed pretty much every detail Moran had told us. The hideous mysterious deaths, his terror of remaining in Sumatra, his precipitate escape. He even confirmed Moran’s fever, though he glossed over the business of leaving his friend behind in Sumatra. The fellow must realise he comes out of that looking pretty shabby.’
‘And what of his subsequent activities?’
‘He says he and Carruthers hope to raise the capital for another venture closer to home.’
‘What else, Watson?’
‘That was about it, Holmes.’
‘That’s all? Really, Watson, I hadn’t expected you to ask every question that I should have posed but I did expect a little more than that! What of the man’s history, those little clues that tell us what sort of man he really is?’
‘He seemed a dashed plain blighter to me, Holmes.’
At that Mr Holmes’s face warmed into an affectionate smile.
‘Exotic enough to h
ave attracted a tropical curse, my friend. However, we must be content with that for now. Do you have any observations to make, Mrs Hudson?’
Mrs Hudson considered for a moment, her face still impassive. I waited, hoping desperately that she would demonstrate to Mr Holmes some breathtaking piece of deduction. She considered carefully.
‘Brown’s Hotel is reputed to be a very fine establishment, sir.’
‘Is that so, Mrs Hudson? I shall make a note of your recommendation. Now what of Carruthers, Watson?’
‘I found him at the old St James’s Hotel in Knightsbridge, Holmes. A mean-looking man, all moustache and eyebrows. I could imagine him leaving a friend in peril to make good his own escape. I daresay he would find someone like Neale easy to influence, too. Anyway, he seemed absolutely solid on the Sumatra story. Said it was the worst time of his life.’
‘Any new details, Watson?’
‘Sorry, Holmes.’ Watson looked gloomily at his empty glass.
‘Not to worry, my friend. You have succeeded in confirming Moran’s story, which was our primary objective. If we wish to know more, we can visit Mr Carruthers again. And Mrs Hudson and Flottie have learnt that not all the work we do is as sensational as they might expect.’ He stirred in his seat. ‘Now, after my exertions today I feel I would benefit from an early night. If you and Mrs Hudson will excuse me …?’
‘May I ask Dr Watson a question, sir?’ Mrs Hudson’s face was still motionless but at the very top of her nose her brow was ever so slightly wrinkled.
‘Of course, Mrs Hudson.’
‘Well, sir, I don’t pretend to be very scientific, Dr Watson, but from the human point of view, as it were, I should be very interested in learning how the two gentlemen struck you. I mean, sir, what was the overall impression you formed?’
‘I can give a very simple answer to that question, Mrs Hudson, for it was particularly striking in both cases. I have never in my life met two men more terrified. If I were to abandon the language of precise observation, I’d say each was quite simply scared out of his wits.’
