The Strange Adventures of Charlotte Holmes

by Hilary Bailey

  ‘Remarkable. But where’, John asked chillingly, ‘does Albert Wilkinson come into this?’

  ‘I suggested that the price of my silence was that Albert should be allowed to join the prison escape,’ Charlotte announced baldly. ‘I had been responsible in part for the false accusation. In spite of the good offices of his barrister, Sir Patrick Hall, he had been convicted. He was faced with spending the better part of his life in jail. And I knew that had I not arrogantly taken a hand in trying to detect the Ripper none of this would have occurred. I was the principal reason why a young man was rotting in jail. So I told the Floods I would keep quiet about everything else on condition Albert was allowed to escape with Rory Flood. They disliked the idea very much, saying there was only room for one other person in the coffin and that the existence of a second fugitive doubled the risk of capture. I replied that it would be very difficult for them if I went to the police and said I had seen Nancy alive, and where would Rory’s escape be then? After a long debate they agreed to allow Albert Wilkinson to join the party of mourners taking Nancy’s coffin containing both Nancy and, in the lower compartment, her brother Rory, to Ireland. There was a huge public attendance for this, you will recall. Who would have looked for an escaped convict on such an occasion? As part of the deal I threw in the good offices of my two Irish friends, Mr Shaw and Mr Wilde, for both men are thoroughly convinced that Rory Flood’s conviction was unfair and are still campaigning for his release.’

  Mary recollected the dandyish figure of Wilde disappearing into Charlotte’s laboratory with her workman. ‘Rory Flood was the man creating your dark room,’ she said. And thought, he was here with us, in this house. Another suspicion flashed into her head. ‘And Albert Wilkinson?’ she said.

  ‘The waiter at the breakfast party,’ replied Charlotte. ‘No one looks at a waiter.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’ asked John.

  Mary said, ‘You said there might be things you would prefer not to know. Have another pipe, my dear.’

  And John Watson, his mind turning over the peculiar, and illegal, events concerning the death of the Cockney Nightingale, asked no further questions, smoked his pipe in the quiet of the late June evening and resolved never to mention any of this again, to Charlotte, to Sherlock and particularly not to his wife. He was uneasy about Charlotte’s influence on Mary, and decided, there and then, to spend more time at home with her in future.

  5

  A Missing Boy and a Royal Connection

  Some years earlier Charlotte had been awarded the Order of St Stanislaus (First Class), a Kravonian order of great distinction. This impressive honour – a gold eagle in relief on the enamelled regal arms of Kravonia – was about the size of a coffee saucer and Charlotte often wore it with pride, frequently, her friend Mary considered, with unsuitable clothes on unsuitable occasions. But British recognition for Charlotte’s achievement was less apparent, in fact, non-existent. She had received no recognition, official or unofficial, for her part in bringing constitutional monarchy to Kravonia, though she had been given to understand, very privately indeed, that Mr Gladstone was grateful. The eighty-year-old Prime Minister had long been anxious about the state of Britain’s ally Kravonia. Revolutionary activity had mounted – and revolutionaries have an awkward habit of coming to Britain, exiled, to continue their activities. Meanwhile, increasingly repressive measures only had the effect of weakening Kravonia. The balance of power in Europe, in short, was beginning to look as if it might be disturbed, and no British Prime Minister could contemplate that without flinching.

  Mary, told one day by Dr Watson that Charlotte had just received an invitation to luncheon at Buckingham Palace, was naturally very impressed by the news. ‘I expect’, she said to her husband, ‘that the Queen wishes to thank Charlotte for all the progress that is being made in Kravonia these days.’ And John agreed that this might very well be the case.

  When she arrived at Charlotte’s house she expected to be greeted by a pleased, perhaps complacent Charlotte. This was not the case. Charlotte, who opened the door herself, had her hair tied up in a scarf, a duster in one hand and a very doleful countenance. There were two causes for her miserable expression. One she could not explain to her friend. There was, for various reasons, some unpleasantness between herself and Queen Victoria; this unpleasantness had not been resolved and, she feared, might be brought up, uncomfortably for her, over luncheon by the redoubtable monarch. The other reason for her grief and pain was obvious only seconds after she opened her front door, when the kitchen door at the end of the passgeway was suddenly flung open revealing Charlotte’s maid Betsey holding a coal scuttle. Angrily, she began to address an unseen person in the kitchen. ‘This is a friendly house as was explained to you when you come here. I can’t do everything – and it ain’t part of your duties to go running your hands down banisters and along mantelpieces looking for dust nor telling me my duties nor having me running after you in the kitchen all the while. You do your job. I’ll do mine. That way we’ll get along.’

  From inside the kitchen came an equally angry response. Betsey shouted over her shoulder, ‘Mrs Digby manages easy enough. This is a household consisting of a single lady – so where’s the difficulty?’ She would have gone on in this vein but Charlotte turned round and cried, ‘This is unbearable! Day and night you quarrel! Now, here’s my guest, Mrs Watson, being afflicted with your tantrums – oh, do come in, Mary.’

  Mary stepped inside.

  ‘Don’t blame me, Miss Charlotte. It’s her,’ announced Betsey. ‘And if that’s not acknowledged, in spite of all your kindness to me, I’ll go. I’ll go – I swear it.’

  ‘I shall speak to Mrs Gregory before the end of the day,’ Charlotte declared with dignity. She raised her voice. ‘Mrs Gregory – the kitchen – after lunch.’ A shout was returned. ‘In the meanwhile,’ bawled Charlotte, ‘lunch at a quarter to one sharp. Is that understood?’

  Behind Betsey now appeared a tall, lean woman with an apron over her black dress and a black hat on her head. Severely she said, ‘I feel obliged to say I’m not accustomed to shouted orders, madam. A face-to-face encounter between mistress and cook serves better, I usually find.’

  ‘I will remember what you say,’ said Charlotte. ‘Come on, Mary, let me give you a glass of sherry before lunch.’

  Mary and Charlotte went into Charlotte’s pretty parlour where they sat down. Charlotte pulled the cloth from her head and dropped the duster.

  ‘Where is Mrs Digby?’ enquired Mary.

  ‘She was called suddenly to her daughter’s confinement. This was earlier than expected. Her replacement, Mrs Gregory, came from a reputable domestic agency, with excellent references. She is a very religious woman, but demanding. She doesn’t get along at all well with Betsey – or the charwoman, for that matter. In fact, the charwoman’s left. I believe there have been some words with the milkman, also. I’d discharge her, but as she’s always in the right it seems unfair. Meanwhile Mrs Digby is delayed. The daughter’s confinement was difficult. She’s still needed to help the household.’

  ‘How does Mrs Gregory cook?’ enquired Mary.

  ‘Very well,’ said Charlotte. ‘But better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled oxen and hatred thereto, as the Bible wisely remarks.’

  ‘So true,’ sighed Mary.

  ‘I lunch at Buckingham Palace tomorrow,’ Charlotte said. ‘I suppose you’ve heard? At least I’ll be able to leave the house to its own devices.’

  Mary said, ‘You seem less than excited about luncheon with Her Majesty. Surely it’s a great compliment.’

  ‘I’d be happier if I knew why she had invited me,’ Charlotte said grimly.

  Mary gazed at Charlotte without comprehension. ‘You almost sound as if you mistrust the Queen’s motives,’ she said incredulously.

  ‘So would you, if you knew her as I do,’ Charlotte said.

  Mary was about to utter some words of reproof when the parlour door was flung open, a
nd there was Betsey in her coat. ‘Carrots!’ she said. ‘Carrots! Can you believe it? I’m supposed to cut up carrots into flowers. What does she think I am? A sculptor? A florist? What a waste of good food, not to mention my time. That’s that. I’m going – don’t try to stop me. Send for me, if you like, when that woman’s left the house. Duncannon’s Buildings, Beer Row, Whitechapel will find me as usual.’ She added, ‘I’ll send my youngest brother for my box – you’ll easily know him, he’s the filthiest ragamuffin in Whitechapel, which is saying something. Not that Ma don’t try, but he resists all efforts.’ And with that, she was gone.

  ‘Oh, my Lord,’ said Charlotte, clutching her head.

  ‘I should have thought it simple enough to discharge your cook and find another,’ observed Mary. ‘That is, if you wish to retain Betsey’s services, which, I must say, I myself might not. Or,’ she went on, ‘simply discharge Mrs Gregory and seek asylum at Sherlock’s until Mrs Digby is able to return.’

  Charlotte, however, seemed unable to act on these sensible suggestions. ‘I’m still hard at work,’ she said, ‘on the subject of criminal lunacy. The theory that cranial measurements are a guide to a man’s disposition appears wrong. Similarly the theory that madness is inherited. So where are we? Another question – is there a difference in kind between criminal lunacy and the ordinary kind? It’s a most baffling field of work. At present I’m attempting some clinical experiments on the brains of lunatics from Colney Hatch asylum, but so far with little success. Because my own laboratory is not quite adequate to this work, I have begged time in the Imperial College laboratories. All this disturbance is most upsetting.’

  ‘A little time spared from your scientific work,’ Mary said, ‘and you would solve the less complicated problem of your domestic life. But are you telling me that even now you have the brains of lunatics in your laboratory at the end of the garden?’

  ‘They’ve been transferred to Imperial College.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Mary. ‘Whatever will you put in there next – the Monster of Glamis? If I’d thought those brains were still down there lying in bottles I could scarcely have eaten my lunch.’

  ‘If there is any lunch,’ Charlotte commented gloomily.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Mary said, getting to her feet. ‘With your permission I will go to the kitchen and deal with Mrs Gregory.’ She had, in a flurry of skirt and petticoat, got to the door, when Mrs Gregory appeared, with a trolley on wheels. ‘In the absence of the girl,’ she remarked sourly, ‘I have taken the liberty of improvising. I shall deliver each course to the dining-room door on this trolley. I would ask you to wheel it in to the table yourself. I hope that will be suitable.’

  ‘We have little choice,’ said Charlotte sourly.

  ‘Then please follow me to the dining-room when you are ready.’

  The friends followed the trolley to the dining-room. The soup was delicious and served with warmed bread. The next course, dourly delivered by Mrs Gregory, was plaice, with a delicious lemon sauce. The cutlets which followed were equally tasty.

  ‘She is a good cook,’ sighed Mary. ‘You won’t do much better at Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘I gather there’s Queen of Puddings to follow,’ Charlotte told her. ‘Until you’ve tasted Mrs Gregory’s Queen of Puddings you’ve never eaten it properly. The meringue … That woman’s hand with meringue is unique.’

  ‘There’s not much point to her, though, if she can’t work with the other servants,’ said Mary.

  ‘I must have Betsey back,’ Charlotte mourned. ‘She’s the only person who can clean my laboratory properly. The charwoman refused to go in there after the business of the brains in bottles of formaldehyde. Betsey has nerves of steel.’

  ‘I can understand anyone’s reluctance to dust bottles of lunatics’ brains,’ said Mary Watson. ‘But, more importantly, what will you wear to the Palace?’

  This matter was extensively discussed over the delicious coffee brought to the drawing-room by Mrs Gregory. As Mary took her leave in the early afternoon she sighed, ‘What an honour. What an honour, Charlotte. Let me, I beg you, come tomorrow to hear all about it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Charlotte agreed.

  Next day, as darkness was falling over the cold raw afternoon, threatening snow, Charlotte arrived at the Watsons’ cosy home in Battersea, dressed in a fur coat and hat. She almost ran into the hall when admitted by the Watsons’ maid and found her friend knitting calmly by a roaring fire. Charlotte sat down quickly on the hearth rug, holding her hands out to the flames.

  ‘I’m sorry to have cut you off with my telegram,’ she said, ‘but when I got back to Chelsea Mrs Gregory was there in charge of nothing. As you know, the charwoman and Betsey have both gone and the man of all work gave notice this morning. I returned to a house where Mrs Gregory was making petits fours for tea with an expression of complete complacency – but the grates are uncleaned, beds unmade, no coal had been brought for the fires. Tea was coming but all the rest was domestic desolation. Imagine – back from Buckingham Palace to that! This is why I sent you a telegram saying I would join you here. Forgive me – But I need a refuge from my comfortless home.’

  ‘Poor Charlotte,’ sympathised Mary. ‘Never mind. Take off your coat and hat. You’ll soon be warm. Would you like a cup of tea? How was your luncheon with the Queen?’

  ‘Not at all what I expected,’ Charlotte told her. ‘Perhaps it was better than I’d feared. But it was very strange.’

  As she put her hat and coat on the sofa, she gazed wistfully about her at the cosy little room with its comfortable old chintz sofa and cosy chairs. In one corner stood a piano with Mary’s music on it. By the door was an old desk at which Dr Watson would sometimes write letters concerned with his practice; there were cheerful red curtains at the windows.

  ‘Your look suggests you think it better to live in a humble happy home on a modest income than be a guest of princes at their palaces,’ Mary said, smiling. ‘But do tell me about your visit to the Queen.’

  ‘It’s in confidence, Mary. Where is John?’

  ‘Visiting patients,’ Mary said.

  ‘Well – you must not tell him what I am about to reveal to you, though I know secrecy is hard between man and wife.’

  ‘Not as hard as you think,’ said Mary. ‘I expect I can keep your secret.’ She paused. ‘How strange your luncheon with the Queen should have become a matter of secrecy and discomfort.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Charlotte said gloomily. ‘I had anticipated some possible difficulties. To put it briefly, the Queen disapproves of my involvement in the affairs of Kravonia.’

  ‘I suppose royalty dislikes the interference of commoners,’ remarked Mary.

  ‘That is certainly part of it,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘But I will give you my account from the beginning. I was entertained at a private lunch, in a small dining-room attached to the Queen’s own apartments in the Palace.’

  ‘Good heavens. A private lunch!’

  ‘This was a pretty room,’ Charlotte continued, ‘overlooking the gardens. The paintings were very fine, the china and silver of course excellent – ’

  ‘And the guests?’ interrupted Mary, excitedly. ‘Who was present?’

  ‘Her Majesty, the Princess Royal, Cholmondeley, and a Foreign Office gentleman – we ate a very heavy meal, beginning with a thick Scottish soup and going on to turbot and venison. Wines, of course, in abundance. The service was excellent – by two invisible footmen. The Queen was gracious. We talked – well, we talked of nothing at all, really. The condition of the gardens at Sandringham, journeys to and from Edinburgh, the weather. Princess Alice spoke of dogs. They asked me about scientific detection, but in spite of their good manners I sensed they did not wish to hear much – partly, I suppose, in case some disagreeable topic might have arisen, like a corpse or a bloodstain. It was all very respectable,’ Charlotte said in melancholy tones, ‘rather like having a meal with several bishops. Her Majesty is, of course, not a young w
oman. One would hardly have expected Dan Leno to have been present. Even so, my mind was not easy during the luncheon. The room was delightful, the company – well, distinguished is an understatement, Her Majesty very gracious, and to my relief the Kravonian issue, which I had dreaded, was not raised, but …’

  ‘You began to wonder why you were there,’ Mary said acutely.

  ‘Quite. “I trust the King and Crown Prince were in good health when you left them,” said the Queen, and that was that.’ Charlotte added, ‘I discovered the reason for the invitation when the meal ended. That was when I had curtseyed and made my farewells in the dining-room. Her Majesty took me to the door of the room, I left with Lord Cholmondeley and we were going down a long carpeted corridor when a sportingly dressed gentleman emerged from another room, cut me off and took me into a billiard room, where the Prince of Wales was playing a few shots over the table. I dropped into a curtsey, he raised me up by my hands, smiled into my face and offered me a brandy.’

  She raised her eyebrows at Mary, who now sat open-mouthed in her chair, completely amazed. All she could say was, ‘Did you accept?’

  ‘A lady, if she is to call herself a lady, does not drink spirits in the afternoon, if at all,’ said Charlotte primly, continuing, ‘All they say of the Prince of Wales is true – he’s a most agreeable man. He said to me, “Miss Holmes – Her Majesty has entertained you to mark her absolute confidence in you, but the matter she wished to discuss is a delicate one. She has asked me to speak to you on this important matter. I think you may be able to help. It is in the national interest.”’

  ‘Gracious,’ breathed Mary Watson. ‘The national interest. Do go on.’