Mrs Hudson and the Spirits’ Curse

by Mrs Hudson

  ‘I wondered, sir, if you would have an opinion on this?’

  I saw her pass him a marble ashtray which he took with his good arm and eyed intently.

  ‘Tobacco ash, Mrs Hudson? I have written a monograph on just this subject.’ He looked again, suddenly oblivious of the horses blowing noisily outside. ‘Cigarette ash,’ he said at last. ‘And an expensive brand at that. Note the very fine texture of the ash. Egyptian, perhaps?’

  Mrs Hudson let out a long slow breath. ‘Egyptian, sir? I thought as much,’ she said softly.

  Holmes shot her a meaningful glance. ‘You think this is helpful, Mrs Hudson?’

  Mrs Hudson turned slightly and her eyes met mine.

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ she nodded. ‘I rather think it might be conclusive.’

  The Errant Sentry

  †

  The November evening had begun to draw in around us long before we left Cavendish Street, and it was the far side of dusk before Dr Watson and I arrived at Moran’s dwelling place. The drama of the afternoon had left us both drained and taciturn, and our journey took place in a heavy silence. Portman Street is a busy thoroughfare off Oxford Street and the milling crowds of London filled the streets. Street vendors manoeuvred their carts through the mud, heading south then westward where the business of the day was only beginning; and streams of shop girls and waistcoated salesmen made their way in the other direction, north and homeward towards streets where the gas burned less brightly. On dismounting from our cab, we were greeted with a salute by a uniformed policeman with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Evening, sir. Evening, miss. Inspector Gregory sent ahead to say to expect you. That there door is Mr Moran’s, sir. I’ll show you straight up.’

  ‘Thank you, constable, but I can find my own way. Is there anything to report?’

  The twinkle in the man’s eye grew markedly brighter.

  ‘Well, you’ve missed all the fun, sir. We had a bit of a to-do here just a few minutes ago. Funniest thing I’ve seen all year. You see over there, sir?’ He indicated towards where a man in a drab coat and shapeless hat lurked in a doorway. ‘That there is O’Donnell. He used to work this beat before I did but he’s been moved up to better things now. That’s why he’s in plain clothes, you see. The only difference between the two of us that I can see, mind, is that he’s supposed to stand still and watch this door while I’m supposed to patrol up and down and watch it. But that’s promotion for you. Anyway, about ten minutes ago a group of proper gay girls come heading down the street. Proper painted daisies they were, if you’ll pardon the expression.’ He looked a little shamefacedly in my direction.

  ‘They must have been on the gin before their night’s work because they were making a right noise, singing and shouting and all sorts. I was just going to move them on when they come up to where O’Donnell is. I can’t say what they saw in him but suddenly they’re all around him, patting his cheeks and such, saucy as you like. I could see he didn’t know what to do and he was looking at me for help, and I was just thinking that perhaps for his extra pay it was up to him to get himself out of that sort of squeak, when suddenly they all come to blows.’

  The memory clearly still filled him with laughter.

  ‘A proper cat fight it was, with O’Donnell at the centre trying to get out and two girls scratching and tearing at each other while the others screamed ‘em on. Well, it stopped the traffic, I tell you. Took me fully five minutes to get it all broken up and the crowds moved on. And when it was all done, I turned to O’Donnell and says to him, “That’s right, lad. You just stand there quiet like and keep out of view, just like the sergeant told you.” You should have seen his face, sir!’

  But Dr Watson was clearly not amused.

  ‘I’m afraid the humour of the situation escapes me, constable. Quite apart from the behaviour of these, er, ladies,’ he stumbled, casting an embarrassed glance at me, ‘the incident clearly diverted attention from the watch you were meant to be keeping.’

  The policeman straightened his face into a mask of professional formality. ‘Yes, sir. I mean, it was no more than a minute, sir. I shall go up now and check all’s well.’

  ‘There’s no need for that now, constable. I shall go myself. Please keep close to hand and admit no-one until Inspector Gregory and Mr Sherlock Holmes arrive in a few hours’ time.’

  Dr Watson was still muttering angrily to himself as we climbed the stairs. ‘I don’t like it, Flottie,’ he kept mumbling. ‘It all smells very fishy to me.’

  And if Dr Watson was out of sorts, it was soon evident that our host was in no better humour. The expression on Mr Moran’s face when he opened the door to us betrayed a mixture of annoyance and mistrust.

  ‘Ah, Moran,’ opened Watson. ‘Mr Holmes has asked me to look in to see that everything’s all right. I trust you have had no unexpected callers in the last few minutes?’

  ‘Callers?’ He seemed on edge. ‘Absolutely not. None but yourself.’

  He made no sign of inviting us in.

  ‘You will understand, sir, that it is Mr Holmes’s express wish that I sit with you for a few hours on occasions when he feels you may be at particular risk.’

  ‘Dr Watson, this is a most inconvenient time for me. I have some business matters to attend to tonight. Your presence would not be an assistance.’

  The door was still open no more than a foot. Dr Watson’s temper was beginning to fray.

  ‘Damn it, sir, this is a poor welcome. Flotsam here is accompanying me should I need to send word to Mr Holmes. We have had a difficult day already and I do not intend to pass the rest of it parleying on your doorstep like a dashed tradesman!’ Watson paused to give Moran a look of frank dislike. ‘You may wish to know, sir, that Neale is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ The news seemed to hit him as unexpectedly as a blackjack in an alley. He stepped back and allowed the door to swing open. ‘You must forgive me for my poor hospitality, Dr Watson. My servant is away for a few days. I am alone here. Please, come in and tell me what has happened.’

  He showed us into a dark living room lit by two green-shaded lamps and a leaping fire. On each side of the fire were green armchairs and between them a matching sofa. On a table to one side stood a decanter and glasses.

  ‘Please, take a seat, I beg you. Doctor, let me pour you a drink. Is Scotch all right?’ He ushered us most insistently into the armchairs but Dr Watson was not to be mollified.

  ‘I note your anxiety is such that you are content to allow your servant to leave you quite by yourself.’

  ‘Penge has been more than a servant to me, Dr Watson. I can hardly deny him a visit to his family when a bereavement dictates it.’

  Dr Watson looked a little abashed at this but I could see that his distaste for Moran, engendered by Neale’s tale, was not to be easily mastered.

  ‘And you are quite alone now, Moran?’ He looked around suspiciously. ‘You have seen or heard nothing unusual in the last few minutes?’

  ‘Nothing but a slight disturbance in the street. And I am quite alone, Doctor. A state I hoped would continue for a while longer.’

  ‘What’s beyond that door?’ Watson indicated a second door that led from the living room to the rest of the flat.

  ‘A dining room, bedrooms. Perhaps you would care to inspect them?’

  Watson gave a short harumph and looked away, but Moran began to question us about the death of Neale, questions that for the most part Dr Watson parried with an air of puzzled stupidity that conveyed only the most grudging and minimal information. Moran seemed a little stunned by what he learned, as though he were struggling to make sense of it. Within a few minutes, confronted by Dr Watson’s unwillingness to expand, the conversation petered out into a dissatisfied silence, broken only by the occasional crumbling of the coals on the fire.

  Moran seemed to find it hard to settle.

  ‘Really, Dr Watson. Your presence here strikes me as a little absurd. I am aware that there is already a policeman outside my door. I
must ask you how long you intend to remain. You will understand that I have some business affairs to attend to.’

  Dr Watson looked around pointedly. ‘I cannot see how Flottie and I are currently in the way.’

  ‘I must prepare some papers.’

  ‘Feel free, sir.’ He gave a wave of his hand at the table in front of him. ‘I bought myself an evening newspaper on my way here, so I shan’t need any entertaining.’

  ‘Very well,’ returned Moran stiffly. ‘Please excuse me for a moment.’ He stole from the room and returned a minute or two later with a newspaper of his own. In uncomfortable silence the three of us settled down to wait for Mr Holmes. Without the consolation of reading matter, I stared into the fire and tried to make sense of what I had seen and heard that day.

  In the description of Melmoth it was hard not to see the scheming figure of Fogarty, with his Egyptian cigarettes and his passion for exerting power over others. If that were so, I could see why he might need to kill Mr Neale to protect his identity. But why was Mrs Hudson now afraid for Mr Moran? What connection was there between the two? Certainly the news of Neale’s death had not appeared to frighten Moran. He had been genuinely surprised – perplexed even – but at no point did he seem in the least bit concerned for his own safety. Could that be an act? I looked at where he sat, apparently engrossed in his reading. He was clearly angry and impatient at our intrusion but it was hard to believe that any suspicion of danger lurked beneath his stiff exterior. If anything there was the faintest sense of triumph about him, a suggestion in his eyes that on the whole events were suiting him very well indeed.

  Perhaps Mrs Hudson was wrong? Perhaps Moran wasn’t in danger from Fogarty after all? In which case we shouldn’t be sitting by the fire, allowing the pursuit of Fogarty to languish. We should be after him, trying to prove he had been at Neale’s house that day, trying with every means at our disposal to bring him to book for his crimes. As I looked into the flames, a plan began to occur to me. It should surely not be beyond me to discover if Fogarty had an alibi for the day’s dramatic events. If I could unearth something, just one telling fact about his whereabouts that day, it might make all the difference. I thought of the fair-haired boy. Was he really to die in squalor? One fact might be enough to save him.

  I looked again at the scene around me. Dr Watson and Mr Moran were still engaged in silent contemplation of their mutual dislike. Outside Gregory’s men were watching, and Mr Holmes was coming later. I could make little difference where I was, but out there …

  My decision made, I gave a small cough and then leaned forward towards Dr Watson.

  ‘I think, sir, I’d better be going. I’m feeling a little faint and some air might help.’

  Dr Watson was all apologies. ‘Of course, Flotsam. Not much fun for you here. I should have realised that …’

  Mr Moran got to his feet when I stood up to leave and I gave him a formal curtsey. ‘I’ll show myself to the door, if I may, please, sir.’ And with that I slipped out to the stairs and was gone.

  Back in the street, I paused to look around. The crowds were only slightly thinner though it was darker now and the cold was flagrant in its attentions. On the far side of the street, the patrolling constable touched his hat to me. Somewhere, in one of the doorways, his rival would be scribbling my reappearance in a note book. I looked around again, impatiently, and then heard the low whistle I had been hoping for. Scraggs had stepped out of the shadow of an arch and was beckoning furiously.

  ‘In here, Flot,’ he whispered as I approached. ‘Mrs H told me to keep out of sight. Which isn’t easy with the street full of people watching the same doorway. We might as well get together and agree shifts.’ He paused and looked me up and down. ‘You look like a real lady in them clothes, Flot. I hardly recognise you sometimes nowadays. Are you off back to Baker Street?’

  I shook my head. ‘Listen, Scraggs, did you know that Mr Neale’s dead?’

  He nodded quickly. ‘Yeah. Heard about it just now from the bobby over there. Who did it?’

  ‘There’s no telling for sure but I think I may be able to find out something that will help. Everything seems quiet here so I thought I’d chance it.’

  Scraggs was looking doubtful. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. ‘That hoo-hah down here earlier. It was all a bit too neat. It made me think something might be up after all.’

  ‘Did anyone get into Moran’s?’

  He shook his head helplessly. ‘I don’t think so, but for a moment or two the crowd got in the way and I couldn’t see the door.’

  ‘Well there’s no-one up there now. Look, I’m sure Mrs Hudson will be along here tonight. If you see her, tell her I’ll be back soon.’

  Scraggs pulled a face. ‘I don’t like the sound of that, Flot. You’ll be off getting yourself into trouble and we’ve got enough of that as it is.’ He looked around impatiently as if suddenly aware his hands were tied. ‘I promised Mrs H I’d keep a lookout, and that’s what I’d better do. But you know I’d be coming with you else, don’t you, Flot?’

  ‘Yes, I know you would,’ and for a moment our eyes met quite seriously.

  ‘Just look after yourself, then,’ he grunted and before I could reply his eyes had turned back to Moran’s doorway, and he let me slip away into the crowds without goodbye.

  Sticking to the well-lit streets, I made my way east, moving as quickly as I could through the milling pedestrians. Although it was dark, the fog was not yet down and for a fleeting hour London would look like a city at play, crowds swaying past the theatres and music halls, tying into little knots around street performers, or spinning off the main current into the alleyways, where infinite possibility hung like a dark promise. By nine, the November fogs would take hold and turn even the most riotous celebrants into little more than muffled travellers struggling from lamp to lamp. But for now it was easy to pick my way and I made good time to the big square in Bloomsbury where Mr Spencer lived. The lights were blazing a welcome in every window of his house, but today I ignored the front door and carried on, in search of the next right turn. It led down a narrow passage to the back of the building. There I found the servants’ door and rapped on it with all the force I could muster.

  The door was opened by a housemaid in bonnet and apron who looked at my smart black dress and coat with some uncertainty. From behind her I could feel the warmth of the house stretching out to me.

  ‘I need to speak to Mr Reynolds, please,’ I told her firmly and at that moment the butler himself appeared at her shoulder. Although divested of both jacket and tie, he still looked more aristocratic than the average earl.

  ‘My word!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s Mrs Hudson’s young friend. What brings you round here at this hour, miss?’

  ‘I need to find Miss Peters,’ I explained. ‘It’s important, but I don’t even know where she lives. I thought you might be able to help me.’

  If this struck as an explanation that raised more questions than it answered, it was one that Reynolds seemed happy to accept.

  ‘Of course, miss. Come right in and get yourself warm.’ He led me through the kitchen, where a footman in his shirtsleeves greeted me with a startled bow, to a cosy back room busy with prints of racehorses. ‘You see, miss, Miss Peters is the Earl’s ward so she is here a great deal of the time. But she actually resides with her aunt, Mrs Gresham, near St James’s. I believe however, being a high-spirited young lady, she is very rarely at home of an evening.’

  He turned back to the door. ‘James,’ he called, ‘could I trouble you for a moment?’

  The footman appeared hastily and honoured me with another little nod.

  ‘James, do you happen to know where Miss Peters will be this evening?’

  ‘She’s at the Fitzroys’ this evening, Mr Reynolds. But she won’t be there early if I know her at all. You might catch her at her aunt’s for the next hour or so.’

  ‘Very good, James. Do you know if Carrington was expecting
to take out the Earl’s carriage tonight?’

  ‘I think there was some talk that Mr Spencer might be going out, but he’s decided to study. With the Earl staying at his club, I should think Carrington is probably unharnessing the horses as we speak, Mr Reynolds.’

  ‘Thank you. Could you catch him before he does and tell him he is to call for Miss Peters at her aunt’s with a message from Miss Flotsam? The ladies will give him further instructions after that.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Reynolds.’ Accompanying a respectful nod in my direction with the slightest suspicion of a wink, James departed on his errand.

  Mr Reynolds, having taken control, carried on as though such things were the merest commonplace.

  ‘You will probably wish to call for Miss Peters yourself, miss, but I think it would be appropriate to send in a note on your arrival. Have you given any thought to what such a note might say?’

  I had done nothing of the sort, but my rather unplanned scheme was going far better than I had expected and I felt wonderfully, vibrantly alert.

  ‘Might I just tell her that if it were at all convenient I would very much like to speak to her?’

  Reynolds appeared to weigh my words carefully.

  ‘If I might make a suggestion, miss, having known Miss Peters for many years I feel a rather more forceful message might achieve better results. Far be it for me to compose on your behalf, but I suspect something along the lines of “High drama – come at once” would serve your purpose rather better.’

  And so I composed my note, employing – in the spirit of Reynolds’s suggestion – a very large number of exclamation marks. Reynolds settled himself comfortably into his chair and watched me write.

  ‘Another one of Mrs Hudson’s escapades, I daresay, miss. Ah, what an excellent woman she is! Although it’s some years ago now, none of us have forgotten what a great help she was to the Earl when we had that problem with the pastry cook and the Dowager’s will. Oh, yes, the Earl was quite a wild one in those days, though of course you’d never guess it now. Quite the Tartar nowadays. Mr Rupert is hoping the Earl will fund a proper laboratory for his work, but it’s been made quite clear to him that any youthful high jinx and the money will all go elsewhere. So now the young gentleman hardly dares go out for fear of getting into some sort of scrape.’