Mrs Hudson and the Spirits’ Curse

by Mrs Hudson

  From behind me Rupert Spencer coughed politely.

  ‘Is that all you had on which to draw your conclusions, Mrs H? I can’t help thinking it’s all a bit tenuous …’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Spencer, there were other ways in which Moran betrayed himself too. For instance, in an elaborate attempt to sustain the illusion of an evil curse, Moran told us a second dagger had been cursed and dispatched to him. Well really, sir! Why would they think to perform the curse twice? I could see how a second dagger, sinisterly delivered, added to the drama of Moran’s tale. But wouldn’t one deadly curse generally be considered sufficient? To curse the same person twice is to use two eggs when the recipe only calls for one.

  ‘Moran also mentioned that the second dagger had arrived on the ship Matilda Briggs. At about the time he told us this, a certain Mr Norman called on the ship’s owner and told him an alarming tale of supernatural malevolence on a recent passage from the Indies. Here I recognised another attempt to introduce themes of the exotic and supernatural where none existed. Nathaniel Moran … Mr Norman … Mr N Moran …’ She smiled at me. ‘It doesn’t take someone with Flotsam’s flair for word games to see a connection. And sure enough, when I prevailed on the ship’s owner, Mr Winterton, to accompany me to Portman Street, he was able to observe Moran from a distance and confirm that Norman and Moran were indeed the same person. You see, it was easy for Moran to bribe the Lascar crew to support his tale; much harder for him to refrain from over-cleverness in his fictions.

  ‘But here again I seemed to run out of steam. I felt convinced in my heart of hearts that Moran’s greed had been behind the deaths of a dozen or more people. Horrible, painful deaths. Yet guilt would be hard to prove. The incident was closed and would surely stay closed. What possible motive could he have for bringing it all to our attention again?

  ‘If I had been quicker to answer that question, I may have been able to save Carruthers from an agonising death. My only consolation is that Carruthers, Neale and Moran were all equally responsible for the experiment in Sumatra, and all to a certain measure deserved their fates. The first clue was when Dr Watson told us of Carruthers’s great terror. I began to feel it might be inspired by something more tangible than a remote Sumatran curse. What could it be that Carruthers and Neale both feared so greatly?’

  Dr Watson stabbed the air with his pipe. ‘That devil Moran!’

  The housekeeper nodded sagely.

  ‘Precisely. They knew they had betrayed Moran and they knew he was a man to take violent revenge. Of course, with Carruthers’s death everything became clear. The absurdly melodramatic method in which it was brought about made it obvious to me that the perpetrator was trying to make us look abroad for our assassin. And which individual was already trying to direct our attentions abroad? Mr N Moran. Once a murder had taken place, it became clear that his tale had all along been intended to distract us from the truth. Moran arrived in these shores with the explicit intention of murdering his former colleagues. It was the problem of how to kill both men without incurring overwhelming suspicion that led him to create his fictional story. If he could make the world believe a hideous curse was being worked out by native assassins he became a pitied victim – and if he subsequently chose to disappear from sight completely no-one would think it anything other than a very sensible precaution. All his fictions – and his request for your aid – were smokescreens to conceal his own murderous intentions.’

  ‘Duped!’ murmured Watson and frowned furiously to himself.

  ‘Go on, Mrs Hudson,’ prompted Mr Holmes. ‘I’m confident you’ve grasped all the salient points.’

  ‘One problem, sir, was to prove that Moran’s motive for following his friends to London really was pure hatred. But I understand his manservant Penge has now confirmed this. As a result of a telegram I suggested to Inspector Gregory, Penge was arrested in Truro this morning. He throws all the blame for the murders onto Moran. He claims it was hatred roused by his companions’ behaviour in Sumatra that was driving him. They had taken a solemn vow, remember, to stand shoulder to shoulder until their fortunes were made. Yet Neale and Carruthers lost their nerve and abandoned Moran to almost certain death in Sumatra. Moran was not a man to forgive that. So he travelled to London to take his revenge.

  ‘The challenge at this point was to gather enough evidence to hang Moran for the murder of Carruthers while preventing the murder of Neale. Flottie and I were able to intervene to prolong Neale’s wretched and guilt-wracked existence for a time. I thought we had succeeded in our task, but I reckoned without the entry of another character into our drama, a criminal mind far greater, far subtler, far more sophisticated than Moran’s …

  ‘Sir, it was my misfortune to know no small amount about Maurice Fogarty before I joined your service. I shall be happy to tell you all I know of his past when Inspector Gregory arrives, though I fear no crime that has occurred this week will be successfully laid at his door. For now suffice it to say that, although corrupt to the core and motivated by a desire to control and manipulate others, he is nothing if not daring. Indeed there are areas in which he could be considered brilliant. Flottie was known to him in the past but he showed no interest in continuing their acquaintance until shortly after Moran called on us. Then he attempted to convince her that her brother was in his power, although his investigation had already shown the boy was dead. Flottie had the intuition to see through this fiction and the great good sense to find out what he wanted. It became clear that Fogarty was interested in Moran’s affairs and in Mr Holmes’s assessment of them.’

  Dr Watson looked puzzled. ‘Eh? I’m afraid I don’t see the connection, Mrs H.’

  ‘Nor did I, sir. But suddenly the pieces began to fall together. Carruthers and Neale’s choice of hotels suggested they had come into funds. How? Did they make their fortune in Sumatra or had they found a way to get rich on their return? If the latter, you could be sure it was not by legitimate means. Through an old acquaintance I was able to lay my hands on certain papers that put things into sharper focus – plans for distillation equipment and a conciliatory letter from Carruthers to Moran alluding to the success of his ventures and mentioning a mysterious sponsor who was well pleased with the outcome of his investment. I know Fogarty to have a hand in every sort of illegality. The link between Fogarty and Moran began to become clearer.’

  ‘Of course!’ muttered Watson. ‘Cheap gin!’ His eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. ‘I suppose you could say it was evil spirits at work here after all, eh, Mrs H?’

  ‘As you say, sir. The papers from Moran’s flat confirmed that in Sumatra the three associates had been involved in unlicensed distilling, which is not an evil only confined to foreign shores. All the papers are in the dresser drawer, sir, behind the jelly moulds, should you wish to examine them.’

  ‘I’m sure that can wait, Mrs Hudson,’ allowed Mr Holmes with a regal nod.

  ‘I begin to understand!’ Dr Watson exclaimed. ‘This Melmoth-Fogarty chap struck a deal with Carruthers and Neale and used their knowledge and connections to circumvent the Excise.’ His voice dropped. ‘But why should Fogarty be concerned about Moran? Why not just ignore him and carry on as he was?’

  ‘Because, Doctor, Neale and Carruthers left Fogarty in no doubt that their cosy situation was likely to be severely disrupted by Moran’s arrival. This didn’t suit Fogarty at all. Carruthers’s respectable connections were of value to him. He didn’t want Neale or Carruthers panicked into any indiscretion. He warned off Moran but Moran was intent on his own agenda of revenge. In the normal course of things, Fogarty wouldn’t have hesitated to eliminate an annoyance like Moran, but before he could do that he discovered that Moran had called here to consult Mr Holmes.’

  ‘That spiked his guns, eh, Mrs H!’ chortled Watson.

  ‘It certainly made him hesitate, sir. He couldn’t be sure what had passed here. Had Moran, in a fit of revenge, explained everything to Mr Holmes? How much did Moran know and how much had he passed on?
Fogarty wanted to know. So he approached Flotsam in the hope of finding out if his own name had been in any way implicated. When he had found out how things stood here, he would be better able to plan his next move.

  ‘The situation changed drastically when Moran murdered Carruthers. It left Neale in a fatally compromised position. Moran was already intent on his murder and suddenly, without Carruthers and his connections, Neale was of no value to Fogarty either. If I had understood how peripheral Neale was to Fogarty’s schemes, I would have realised the danger. But I assumed that Neale, as an ally of Fogarty’s, was only at risk from Moran. While Moran was being watched, I thought Neale was safe. By the time I learned otherwise, it was too late.

  ‘Neale’s murder was a typical example of Fogarty’s daring. Neale had now become a danger to him – a weak man who knew too much. Fogarty’s course was clear. His interception of the messenger and the way he turned that circumstance to his advantage – these things are typical of the man. I should have anticipated such an attack but instead I allowed Neale to break cover and return to his own quarters for one last time. I fear I did him a poor service.’

  Mr Holmes shook his head pensively. ‘Don’t torment yourself, Mrs Hudson. It takes a rigorously trained intellect to see the full picture on every occasion.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. You are very comforting.’ Mrs Hudson turned to the rest of us. ‘There is very little more to tell. Immediately after his attack on Neale, Fogarty paid a visit to Moran to settle the score. In order to ensure a welcome, I imagine Fogarty had written to Moran and offered to cut him into the profits of his operation in some way. Certainly Moran seemed eager to talk to him on that last evening, until Dr Watson’s arrival interrupted them. But Moran had defied Fogarty’s warnings, killed off a valuable business venture and, worst of all, he knew more about Fogarty’s dealings than Fogarty was comfortable with. Fogarty had already planned a diversion in the street to allow him to visit Moran unnoticed but he never planned to talk business. I feel sure that Fogarty knew all along that he would kill Moran that very night.’

  ‘The man is an ogre!’ exploded Mr Rumbelow, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘Am I to understand that he has been responsible for two murders, the imprisonment of a child and countless other outrages, and yet absolutely nothing can be done about it?’

  ‘I fear it is as Mrs Hudson says, sir,’ returned Mr Holmes. ‘What you have heard tonight can leave none of you in any doubt as to the true sequence of events, yet what evidence is there? Some cigarette ends, an identification by a nervous maid … A man such as Fogarty will have taken steps to ensure he can account for his movements at all times.’

  ‘But we can hound him out of town, Holmes!’ Watson was looking fiery. ‘My word, if I have to go to Fotheringay myself, we can make sure he is smoked out of that nest of his!’

  ‘No need for that, sir,’ replied Mrs Hudson calmly. ‘With Sherlock Holmes and the police both taking an interest in his affairs, I suspect Mr Fogarty is likely to disappear of his own accord. It is usually his way. But I fear, sir, he will be back.’ She gazed at her port, apparently lost in thought. ‘Oh, yes, he will be back.’ And I knew she was thinking of that time in the future and promising herself she would still be here, waiting for him.

  ‘And what of Flottie’s abduction?’ chirped Miss Peters. ‘Isn’t anyone concerned about that?’

  ‘It was someone called Smale,’ I told her. ‘Someone who used to bully me. But he’s gone now. Into the river. I’ve nothing to fear from him again.’

  ‘Bravely said!’ declared Watson. ‘On my honour, Flottie, I swear we shall never let you come to any harm.’ A declaration that I blush to say was warmly drunk to on all sides.

  And so the evening passed and conversation became more general. Mrs Hudson promised Mr Spencer that the Irascible Earl would be appeased by her message but refused to be drawn, regardless of the mellowing port, on any of the details of Derby Day in 1863. Disappointed, Miss Peters took to yawning again.

  ‘I think it is time you carried me off, Rupert,’ she announced happily. ‘Of course it’s now so late that in the eyes of Society I’m already completely compromised. So I think carrying me off is the very least you can do.’

  For once Mr Spencer made no attempt to protest but went himself into the street to hail a cab.

  ‘I cannot help but notice,’ commented Mr Rumbelow sadly when he returned a minute later, ‘that everyone here gets a cab the moment they want one. That never happens to me.’ He poured himself another glass of the old tawny in recompense. ‘Quite so,’ he concluded.

  The departure of Miss Peters and Mr Spencer reminded Dr Watson that the night was gone and the dawn already well set. With an impressive show of determination, he supported the drooping Holmes from his chair and to his bed. A few moments later he returned and put his head round the door for a last word.

  ‘Mrs Hudson, it’s been a great pleasure. Dashed fine!’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mrs Hudson simply.

  And then there was only Scraggs and Mr Rumbelow left. For a while the four of us sat in silence looking at the fire, but eventually the glasses were drained and Mrs Hudson rose to her feet.

  ‘And thank you all,’ she told us softly. ‘Now we should all get to our beds for an hour or so. Because as Hudson always used to say, there’s no knowing what will happen tomorrow.’

  So while Mr Rumbelow looked for his coat, I walked Scraggs to the door.

  ‘I was keeping watch tonight, Flot. I’d seen that bit of slime watching you before this. I was trying to keep an eye on him. Thought you’d be all right if I was watching. But I was too far off to stop him.’

  ‘Thank you, Scraggs. For looking out for me.’

  ‘Is it all right, Flot? Me looking out for you?’

  I thought about it.

  ‘Perhaps I should be looking out for myself.’

  He looked at me.

  ‘Yes, I think you’ll be good at that,’ he said slowly. ‘Goodnight, Flot.’ And he turned to the street and stepped out into the new day.

  I watched him out of sight and turned to find Mr Rumbelow approaching from the stairs.

  ‘Ah, Flotsam!’ he bumbled. ‘Just off, I am.’ He paused on the doorstep. ‘You should stick close to Mrs Hudson, young lady. She’s a very fine woman. A very fine woman indeed. Indeed. But that is not to say she isn’t by nature independent. Oh, yes. Fiercely independent.’ He sighed sadly to himself. ‘I must remember to replace the bottle we drank tonight. I have some very fine Madeira that might fit the bill.’

  So he made his departure muttering of vaults and vintages, and I bolted the door and made my way up to the kitchen. I’d forgotten that my bed was taken up by the boy whose name we didn’t know, and was only reminded when I found Mrs Hudson making up a bed for me by the fire. She looked up when I came in and we smiled. We didn’t say anything. There wasn’t any need.

  *

  The next days passed calmly and the flood of events slowed to a trickle. Inspector Gregory called to tell us Fogarty had disappeared without trace; a message from Mr Spencer confirmed that the Earl had become quite mellow on receipt of Mrs Hudson’s message; Scraggs reported that Mr Fotheringay had taken on as butler a Slav called Volshin; Miss Peters promised to teach me to dance; a number of dusty bottles arrived for Mrs Hudson; Mr Holmes kept weakly and reluctantly to his room; and eventually, one evening, Dr Watson knocked on the kitchen door.

  He looked embarrassed.

  ‘I wondered, Mrs Hudson, if I could, er, have the honour of a quick word.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Come in and make yourself comfortable. Flotsam and I have just finished baking.’

  He took a seat by the range but continued to look slightly ill at ease. He had a thick pile of papers in one hand, the edges of which he thumbed nervously.

  ‘Mrs Hudson, you may have heard me mention that I have long considered putting down on paper the details of some of the mysteries it has been my good fortune to observe.’


  ‘Indeed, sir. Mr Holmes has alluded to it more than once.’

  ‘I’ve tried it before, dash it, but I always seem to lose heart. A combination of my diffidence with the pen and Holmes’s modesty when discussing his cases has always made the thing dashed tricky.’ His unease was evident. ‘Anyway, I thought this time I’d do it and be damned, if you’ll pardon my language. I’ve put down all my recollections of recent events and all I can say is I hope I’ve done you justice!’

  Mrs Hudson allowed one eye to flicker upwards for a moment, then came forward, wiping her floury arms on her apron, and seated herself opposite him.

  ‘I see, Dr Watson. An interesting idea. If I may be permitted to see …’

  ‘Of course, Mrs H. Hoped you’d take a look. Any suggestions most welcome.’

  She read quietly for a minute or two while Dr Watson fidgeted in front of the fire.

  ‘You mention Flotsam here, I see.’

  ‘Indeed, Mrs Hudson. Flottie played a vital part in proceedings.’

  ‘And you begin your story with an account of how you and Mr Holmes came to quit your previous lodgings in search of our present, roomier accommodation.’

  ‘Absolutely, Mrs H. That decision led directly to meeting you and Flotsam. A most happy event.’

  She read on further and for a while there was silence in the firelit kitchen. Having moved fully fifteen or sixteen pages from the top to the bottom of the pile, Mrs Hudson moved the papers to one side and sat in thought for a moment.