The Strange Adventures of Charlotte Holmes

by Hilary Bailey

  ‘Through the door I had been watching the sacrifice of the goat. They then spitted the beast and put it over the fire while an old woman chanted. In the dark, de-Christianised church, where torches were now lit, the scene had an impressive, frightening look, but I have been present at many rituals all over the world and have witnessed worse, far worse; this was restrained compared with others I have seen.

  ‘John Land, as I will go on calling him, was meanwhile sitting at the table in the same position, his chin in his hand. He regarded me wryly. I told him, “Parents are made of strong stuff when marrying their children in the direction of money and titles. Very little puts them off when it comes to dragging a bride to the altar to make a useful connection. So I put the legend of your not having died in the hunting accident together with the rapid evaporation of the Holsteins after a conversation with your father – and came up with my hypothesis. What is more likely to discourage the parents of a daughter about to marry the heir to the Kravonian throne than the information that the prospective bridegroom is not the heir to the throne at all? Your father, I thought, let slip, or deliberately revealed, the fact that you were alive. Perhaps he said he knew you to be John Land, that you had escaped to join the revolutionary movement, that he had put it out that you were dead to cover up this fact?

  ‘Prince Oscar looked at me unhappily. He saw his future and did not want it. He preferred a hard and dangerous life to the one awaiting him, I think. I went on ruthlessly, “When I found the arms cache in the cellar I knew it must be yours. You, of course, would know many of the secret ins and outs of the palace, or where to find the plans in the library, if you did not.” I paused again. Land, again, had nothing to say. “You will want to know how I connected John Land with the late Prince Oscar. All my other conclusions were on the whole logical, but that revelation came by chance. One might say you hastened your own discovery. After you blew up the Town Hall I helped to recover from the ruins the dog of the landlord at the inn. He then offered me the hospitality of the inn to wash myself. The landlady was quite embittered about your actions: in addition to destroying the Town Hall, you had nearly killed her pet. She had kept your secret until then. Now she told me her suspicions. ‘To think Prince Oscar would descend to blowing up a little dog,’ was how she put it. For she knew you were John Land. Some months earlier one of your men in his cups at the inn had described you, right down to your missing earlobe. The landlady had been the assistant nurse to your old nanny, Nanny Macgregor, so she remembered an episode in your youth when you jumped from an apple tree, leaving part of your ear behind. I still hear Mrs Macgregor’s gentle, Scottish tones in your voice,” I added, perhaps irrelevantly. I also said, “One’s mysteries and secrets so often come out in these accidental ways. Few secrets can be kept for ever, Prince Oscar.”

  ‘There was a long silence now. I allowed it to continue. He silently filled both our mugs again. “Don’t think I’m unsympathetic,” I told him. “I am a republican myself. But your secret is almost out. How long do you expect the landlady of the inn at Norvius to keep her suspicions to herself? There will be more rumour and uncertainty. Your father will become more melancholic, Ristorin more violent and repressive. Nothing effective will be done; the country will grow weaker; Kravonia’s enemies will triumph.”

  ‘“You are suggesting I reclaim the throne?” he said. But it was hardly a question.

  ‘“I think you have no choice,” said I.

  ‘“I don’t want to be king,” he protested. “I hate the idea of kingship.”

  ‘“I understand that,” I said. “But the Tsar could attack at any moment. This part of the country is under your law, waiting the moment when you and your men take over the rest of it. But what if you fail? What if the Tsar succeeds before you can make your attempt? I see danger everywhere – your men may fall into the hands of Ristorin. The whole country may fall to the Tsar. Whatever happens, bloodshed, slavery and starvation are the likely outcome. You can continue to choose the revolutionary path, and face the risks, or go back to Norvius, claim the throne and begin your regime immediately. King Weland would be only too glad of your guidance, I’m sure. Get rid of Ristorin and the Council of Ten, announce elections, build hospitals and schools and relieve these people, among others, of their many burdens.” I indicated the poverty-stricken worshippers, the armed men. I added spitefully, “I don’t imagine you have told them, or your adherents, that you are Prince Oscar. If you put it to them democratically that you have the power to turn Kravonia into a democracy and asked them to vote on what you’re to do, what do you think they’d vote? For continuing poverty and war? For a revolution in which many might be killed? For the possibility of becoming slaves to the Tsar? I don’t think so. They would tell you to do what you can and must do. Go back to Norvius and claim the throne.”

  ‘He looked at me sadly. “It seems I cannot escape my birth.”

  ‘I said, cruelly, I suppose, “Many people would be glad to have your choice.” I then glanced at the fire in the church, the roasting goat, and added, “I won’t stay to dinner, thank you. Would you be able to escort me from Ersting? It’s getting dark and the coachman is nervous.”

  ‘And that,’ concluded Charlotte, ‘is how we left Ersting – in the coach driven by an irregular of the Kravonian People’s League, with horsemen carrying torches fore and aft. Inside the coach were the coachman, Prince Oscar (lately John Land) and myself. We rushed through the great forests under moonlight. It was most romantic. Prince Oscar dismounted once we reached the more civilised areas of Kravonia; he and his horsemen disappeared back into the forests. That evening I spoke confidentially to King Weland. Next day I left. And here,’ she said, ‘I am.’

  It was two o’clock. There was a silence after Charlotte had finished her story. John Watson said, ‘Well done, Charlotte. Well done.’

  Mycroft considered, then said, ‘If Kravonia becomes a monarchy run on democratic principles much of that will be due to you, my dear.’

  ‘And I suppose that horrible Countess Seraphine will stand for Parliament,’ Mary said.

  ‘I’m sure of that,’ said Charlotte.

  3

  An Adventure in Whitechapel

  November brought bright sunshine glittering down over the snowy city of Norvius as the population turned out into the streets for the official return of Crown Prince Oscar. With the band playing, he rode on a white horse at the head of the gun carriages and marching Kravonian army, behind which marched his own sheepskin-clad, rifle-bearing Kravonian irregulars. He moved through cheering crowds to the palace, where his father would descend the steps to give him a formal welcome and usher in a new and better future for Kravonia and her people.

  But as a hansom cab clopped slowly over the Thames and on through the gloom of London streets, the mind of the author of these triumphs was far from that morning’s events in Kravonia. Both she and her friend Mary, who were the cab’s passengers, looked unhappy. Charlotte pressed her friend’s hand. ‘Thank you so much for coming with us. It is very distressing to visit Sherlock as he now is. Your support is a great comfort. John, of course, has been invaluable.’

  ‘John is certain he will soon be fully recovered,’ Mary assured her. ‘But what a mercy he was there, when Sherlock attacked Inspector Lestrade.’

  ‘It was lucky, too, that by that stage Sherlock was so distraught his normally superb marksmanship failed,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Otherwise,’ Mary remarked dourly, ‘we should have had the corpse of a Scotland Yard detective on our hands.’

  ‘I should not have confided my doubt about Sherlock’s conclusions in the Baskerville Hall case to Lestrade,’ Charlotte said. ‘I fear those casual remarks made some months ago precipitated the crisis. It was very unfortunate that on a visit to Baker Street he brought the matter up.’

  ‘You could hardly have anticipated that your brother would bring out a pistol, fire it at the Inspector, then knock him out and lay waste the sitting-room,’ Mary pointed out. ‘So
sad – the microscope presented to him by Princess Marie of Bourbon after the successful conclusion of the case of the rose diamonds, hurled at the mirror – both ruined; the desk swept clear of all papers; a decanter hurled at the wall; a chair broken. What destruction. Alas, there is no spectacle sadder than that of a noble mind o’erthrown. Of course,’ she added truthfully, ‘it has to be said that there’s a good deal of sense in your alternative solution to the Baskerville case.’

  Charlotte sighed. ‘Sir Charles Baskerville of course died of a heart attack in the yew alley at Baskerville Hall, while waiting for a lady – that is undisputed. So is the fact that there was no other crime to detect. There was no real case for accusing Stapleton of murder. He was very ill advised to keep a large, ill-trained dog which chased people about – even over cliffs – but that was his only crime. Many people own big, ill-trained dogs with the habit of escaping from home. That does not put them in the condemned cell. The rest – the dog’s glowing eyes, uncanny behaviour, and so on – was, I’m afraid, the product of my brother’s imagination. He had spent some time living on the open moor. His system was already depleted. Fortunately Mr Stapleton ran into the bog and only pretended to die. Otherwise, I fear, on the basis of my brother’s deductions, he would be in a bad way now. As I understand it, he is now at home, toasting muffins, being, I believe, no more guilty of murder than I am. Small wonder,’ Charlotte added tactfully, ‘that Sherlock convinced John he was right, for when had that brilliant mind ever erred before? But, to be frank, and to use common parlance, my brother had the horrors. He has, of course, a very delicately organised nervous system.’

  ‘It was the cocktails of opium and morphine which did the damage,’ said Mary Watson, not for nothing a doctor’s wife.

  ‘I’m more than sorry that I was in Kravonia when Sherlock broke down and you had to manage things for me. Please, let me buy you a good tea at Fortnum and Mason by way of belated amends. We have had a long journey to Balham. Nothing cheers one up on a gloomy winter afternoon more than a good tea.’

  Mary responded by rapping on the window of the hansom cab and redirecting the driver to Piccadilly. They rode through dark and rain to the famous restaurant. Both minds were dwelling on the tall, silent figure of Sherlock Holmes as they had just seen him in his plaid dressing-gown, sitting in an armchair looking out over the rain-drenched lawns of the private sanatorium in Balham.

  They took seats at a table and gave their order for tea, toasted crumpets and buns, éclairs and Fuller’s celebrated walnut cake.

  ‘Poor Sherlock. He said almost nothing while we were there,’ mourned Mary.

  ‘Well,’ said Charlotte philosophically, ‘we know from past experience that this melancholic phase does not last long. Sherlock will soon be out of The Priory, and the detective will be back to his cases again.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Mary Wilson agreed unenthusiastically. The two women gazed at each other over the teapot, which had just been placed on the table by the waitress. Charlotte’s gaze was sympathetic. Mary had a spark in her eye.

  Charlotte coughed. ‘Men have so many vices,’ she claimed. ‘Gambling, insobriety, a taste for the ladies of the chorus.’

  ‘Quite right, Charlotte,’ Mary bravely said. ‘Any woman ought to be grateful that her husband’s only vice is detection. But, tell me – after the Kravonian triumph – ’

  ‘Sh!’ warned Charlotte, looking at the prosperous takers of tea at the other tables. ‘The real tale of events in Kravonia is known only to the Prime Minister, Foreign Office and, of course, the Queen.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mary. ‘I’ll say no more. But how are you occupying your time now the excitement has ended?’

  ‘In my laboratory, chiefly,’ Charlotte told her. ‘I don’t know if John has mentioned to you that some three years ago a Mr Galton made the extraordinary discovery that every human being has different fingerprints from every other. But so far this discovery has not been used in forensic science. I am attempting, among other things, to find the best way of isolating fingerprints and preserving them in some way. If one could do that, many crimes might be solved by comparison of fingerprints found on, say, a blunt instrument used in a murder, and the fingerprints of a suspect.’

  ‘It would depend’, Mary said, sipping her tea, ‘if courts would accept that rather odd form of evidence as admissible.’

  Charlotte bit into a buttery crumpet and said, ‘Delicious. You’re right, of course.’

  ‘At least that merciless man they called Jack the Ripper has ceased his horrible activities,’ Mary said.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Charlotte said, cutting into the snowy frosting, studded with half-walnuts, which constituted the surface of the walnut cake. ‘Four women killed and mangled between the early morning of 31st August and the early morning of 30th September. A slice of cake?’ she asked.

  Mary took it. ‘More tea, Charlotte?’ she then enquired.

  ‘If you please.’

  ‘All their throats cut,’ Mary mused. ‘And awful mutilations taking place after their deaths.’

  ‘I hope this man has ceased his deadly work,’ Charlotte said. ‘But I do not feel at all sure of it. With these killers, appetite grows and conscience diminishes. Unless he is dead or has gone elsewhere I do not think he has finished. My maid Betsey is an East Ender. Her sister has been staying with her upstairs in Chelsea since this began – nothing would do for their parents but to keep both of them out of Whitechapel. Betsey’s sister talks of leaving, but I’ve said I don’t think the situation is at all safe. The river of blood may still be flowing.’

  Mary, eating her cake, remarked, ‘Could you not use your new scientific technique on articles taken from the scenes of the crime?’ Then she burst out laughing. ‘Charlotte!’ she appealed. ‘Do you hear me! Speaking of fingerprints and discussing lurid murders over tea? I’m growing like the rest of you.’

  Charlotte said, ‘Oh, no – I urge you not to. Detection is almost as much of a drug as what has brought down poor Sherlock. Do not begin, I implore you, then you will not become addicted to it.’

  ‘Though I believe I might have some talent in that direction,’ mused Mary.

  ‘I’m sure you are right. I may have to appeal to you one day,’ Charlotte told her. ‘But would John like to be married to a detective?’

  ‘All wives are detectives,’ Mary assured her. ‘It is a necessary qualification.’

  ‘But presumably one that has to be concealed.’

  Mary smiled. ‘Still, I hope you will not involve yourself in Whitechapel, even if you think the murders have not come to an end. Those poor women,’ she shuddered. ‘All, admittedly, of the lowest kind, but to be done to death in such a horrible way …’

  ‘And all within half a mile of each other, up against fences, in alleys in that area of poverty and slums,’ brooded Charlotte. ‘But rest assured, Mary. I have no desire to look into the matter.’

  The two women parted in the darkness and drizzle, Mary to Dr Watson in Battersea, Charlotte to her laboratory in Chelsea.

  On her return, Charlotte found to her surprise a constable sitting comfortably in the kitchen with the cook, her maid Betsey, and Betsey’s sister Lou. The policeman seemed quite reluctant to deliver the message he had brought, but had to hand over a small package which he said was from Inspector Lestrade. There was a note from the Inspector concerning the contents of the package, saying also that he hoped to call on her later.

  In her laboratory, which was fully fitted out with benches, cupboards, drawers, zinc sinks and bunsen burners, Charlotte carefully tipped from the small cardboard box some items sent to her by Jules Lestrade. They were a small piece of muslin which had been used as a handkerchief, a small brown comb and a paper case, presumably the case for the comb. There were two cheap rings, one brass, the other silver, three pennies and two farthings. There was part of an envelope and a piece of paper, containing two small, pink pills. Charlotte gazed at these items, ten in all, laid out on her wooden workbench. A
n expression of sadness crossed her face. Then she pulled her microscope forward and got to work.

  She was peering through the microscope when a short, thickset man with a black moustache appeared in the doorway of the laboratory. He wore a black overcoat and a black bowler hat which he removed; with the hat tucked under his arm, he stole across the laboratory floor. His expression was keenly interested. Charlotte, even though her abundant hair was tied up in a pink gingham cloth and she wore a baggy overall of the same material, still made a charming spectacle.

  Feeling the arms of Jules Lestrade stealing round her waist and his moustache pressed against her neck, Charlotte gave a scream. ‘Jules!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Just one kiss,’ appealed the bold police Inspector, who had for a long time cherished the warmest feelings for Charlotte.

  ‘Certainly not,’ Charlotte said. ‘Jules, you’ll turn my head completely.’