‘I cannot tell you the details, Mary, much as I would like to. I’m so sorry – I should not even have mentioned the conversation.’
‘Oh, heavens above,’ groaned Mary. ‘How disappointing. How very disappointing. Of course, I understand – ’
‘Worse than that, my dear – although I’m not allowed to tell you the whys and wherefores, I must ask for your help. It is’, she concluded firmly, ‘in the national interest.’
As a result of this conversation, the following day found Charlotte and Mary in a well-kept Mayfair street, both clad in cheap black coats purchased from a second-hand shop. Mary wore a battered felt hat, Charlotte had a plaid shawl over her head. They went into Grosvenor Square not very happily, for a ferocious east wind bearing sleet blew in their faces. Mary was unhappy for another reason. ‘I do not know what John would think of this,’ she worried.
‘John is often engaged in detective work, with Sherlock,’ said Charlotte from under her shawl.
‘What a man may do, and what a woman, a wife, may do are very different,’ said Mary Watson. ‘And this house we approach is … a house of ill fame.’ They had left Grosvenor Square and entered a nearby street.
‘Well, never mind. To the pure all things are pure – and we do what we do for England,’ declared Charlotte, leading the way between two houses and into a mews. A little way along the muddy lane she found a back door and knocked at it with the handle of her battered umbrella. A hard-faced woman in a black dress opened the door. ‘What is it?’ she asked in no encouraging tone.
‘It’s myself and my sister,’ Charlotte began rapidly, in a voice nearing a whine. ‘We’re looking for work and someone recommended us to come here. Both our husbands were dockers, killed when the gangplank of the SS Bella Dunmore came off the wharf.’
‘I can’t do anything about that,’ said the woman, about to shut the door.
‘Two young men, fathers between them of four children, crushed to death. You’ll have seen it in the papers, no doubt. Now, lady, we need work and need it badly to feed our children.’
The woman, who had shown impatience at the beginning of this recital, had now begun to look closely through the dim light at the two women in front of her. She seemed to change her mind about something, for she now said in a grudging tone, ‘Come in and let’s take a look at you, then.’
Charlotte said, ‘Thank you, ma’am, you won’t be sorry,’ and, grasping Mary’s hand, she entered the back door of the house, half pulling her friend behind her.
They went into a passageway, floored with lino. A door at the end obviously gave on to the rest of the house. The black-clad woman led them down some narrow stairs at the end of the passageway and took them through a door at the foot of the stairs into a large kitchen where pots and pans stood in disorder on a long, deal table. In one corner of the table was a flat-iron and a shirt waiting to be ironed. Many items of men’s clothing – shirts, many ruffled, cotton drawers, socks and the like – hung overhead, dripping from an airer. Through an open scullery door a girl with tangled hair could be seen mangling more clothes.
‘Liza! Liza! What are you playing at? I’m late,’ cried a bare-chested young man, with blond curls, from a chair by the fire. He wore smart black trousers and socks. He had the face of an angel.
‘Shut up, Lukie,’ said Liza. She turned to confront Mary and Charlotte. She was about forty, had a heavily veined face and hair dyed a hard, heavy black.
‘I suppose you can see we’re in a pickle,’ she told them. ‘The servants have all been discharged. You have to understand this is an unusual household – ’
‘Liza!’ the young man cried in anguish. ‘I’m due at Euston to catch a bloody train – will you get my shirt ready?’
Charlotte said smoothly, ‘We were recommended to come here by my cousin, Mrs Wills of the Ten Bells, Whitechapel. You know her. I believe she’s recommended some young men to come here in the past, seeking employment. She told us what kind of house this is. We are respectable, hard-working women, but we don’t make judgements and we keep our mouths shut. We have children to feed.’
‘Whatever you are, get on with it and iron my shirt,’ interrupted the young man.
‘Quite right,’ said Liza. ‘Morals are for those who can afford them. You’d want to live out on account of the children, I suppose. That’s not very convenient.’
‘We’d do what you want,’ Charlotte assured her.
‘What about her?’ Liza asked, gesturing at Mary who stood, head hanging, near the stairs. ‘She don’t look as if she’s got much to say for herself.’
‘She ain’t. She’s the quiet sort. But it’s work, not chatter you need, I should think.’ At this Charlotte cast a deprecating look at the kitchen.
‘All right. I’m desperate. I’ll take you on. You,’ she said to Mary, ‘start here. Iron his bloody shirt and shut him up, then get clearing up. Get the kitchen range hotted up and put a couple of fowl in to roast. You’, she said to Charlotte, ‘can get the grates cleared and fires laid upstairs for a start. As you go, strip the beds and pile the linen by the doors.’
Charlotte went to Mary and took the hat from her head. She looked into a fearful face and reassured her. ‘Never mind, Mary dear. Just do your work and all will be well. If you begin to falter, think of little Charlie and Flora needing bread.’ Then she was gone.
Mary Watson took off her coat, hung it on a peg with some others. She put the flat-iron on the grid at the top of the stove to reheat and began to clear the table. The question came to mind – was this, could it be, truly patriotism? She moved like an automaton.
Then another thought came. How could Charlotte have persuaded her, in the name of England, to take up a position as a domestic servant in a Mayfair male brothel?
It was a hard day’s work at George Street, more difficult physically for Charlotte who had no idea where to begin when greasy pots and coal scuttles were involved, but psychologically harder for Mary, whose soul revolted at the nature of the premises where she was working. It must have been a combination of revulsion and fatigue which led the normally tolerant and even-tempered Mary Watson to turn violently on her friend at the end of the day, when they reached Battersea. On the pavement outside her home, in full sight and hearing of eavesdroppers in neighbouring houses or anyone who might happen to come along – and for once completely regardless of this fact – Mary cried, ‘Charlotte! I shall never return to that vile place and you cannot make me. You cannot make me believe a patriotic Englishwoman could ever be called upon by anyone to set foot in such a place – or to deceive her own husband about it, either.’
‘You did not see anything all day but a very disorderly kitchen – which you very capably put to rights.’
‘But I knew!’ cried Mary in a passion. ‘All the time I knew the purpose of the house. And the first person I saw when we walked into that kitchen was one of those – one of those – creatures! A creature I call him, for there can be nothing human about such a person. And frankly, Charlotte, you shock me. You shock me utterly. That you, the child of respectable middle-class parents, educated at Oxford, sister of the brilliant and eminent Sherlock Holmes, could ever consider for a moment entering low employment in such a place as that horrifies and amazes me. And how my country could be served by such an act – how in the world – I cannot conceive. I will not return to that place.’
‘Well, yes, Mary,’ said Charlotte, placatingly. ‘Perhaps I owe you an apology.’
‘Perhaps!’ exclaimed Mary indignantly. ‘Perhaps! Let me tell you, Charlotte, you most certainly do!’
‘Very well then,’ Charlotte said hastily, ‘I do owe you an apology. And I do sincerely apologise. And I know also it was most unfair to involve you in this when you do not know, and I cannot tell you what it is all about. It was unjust. So I apologise. But for the rest – I have the entrée now, at George Street, so you need not return. To be honest I had qualms about going alone to that place, but now I see how things are and I have secured
the position as maid-of-all-work, all is well. I’ll say your imaginary little ones developed chickenpox overnight and you’re obliged to stay and nurse them. And now,’ she concluded, beginning to shiver, ‘it’s snowing and the coachman and his horse are getting colder, so I’ll bid you farewell.’
Charlotte then climbed back into the cab and set off for Chelsea, leaving a doubtful Mary outside her house. As she went in she grumbled to herself. ‘It isn’t right. It isn’t safe – and she doesn’t make an even half-competent maid-of-all-work.’
Over the next two days though, Charlotte was forced rapidly to learn some kind of domestic skill, and to discover, as she did, that making fires burn, saucepans clean and potatoes mash was a good deal less simple than might have been thought by those who had never tried to do these things. Consequently, as the days wore on, her impersonation of a down-at-heel, overworked servant became less of an impersonation and more a reality. She found it impossible to remove the coal dust from her hands, her feet always hurt, her hair felt greasy. She would leave her house before dawn and not return until at least ten o’clock at night. There she would find an elaborate meal – a salmon poached in cream and lemon, a cold chicken in galantine and a salad, a crème brûlée – laid out for her by Mrs Gregory, who had plainly, in her absence, gone on cooking, like a wound-up clockwork cook. But she had done nothing else. The house was cold. No fires had been laid, no dust removed, no laundry had been assembled and despatched. Each night Charlotte’s bed lay tumbled in the same state as when she had wearily clambered from it in the morning. Too tired to do anything about this, Charlotte despaired and resolved to increase Betsey’s wages when – if – she returned.
After several days at George Street, she had made many discoveries. To begin with, Liza, the woman who had employed her, was not in complete charge of the premises. The real owner and manager of the establishment was someone referred to, with awe, as Madame Mercury, a person Charlotte never saw. Each morning at six thirty, by which time the last visitor, or client, had normally left the imposing house by the front door, Charlotte would enter through the back. Her first task of the day would be to revive the fire in the kitchen range, assisted by the scullery hand, a bewildered girl who slept in the kitchen and talked of nothing but her Sunday visits home to her family in Hackney. Then Charlotte would attempt to cook a robust, working man’s breakfast for the young men of the establishment, who would arrive, rubbing their eyes, yawning, smoking and talking. Some seven or eight – there were twelve male prostitutes in all – would sit unceremoniously round the kitchen table in dressing-gowns or the finery of the night before. The latter group often wore some kind of fancy dress – ruffled shirts and breeches, specially tailored Arab robes, Indian costumes with baggy silk trousers and turbans, even, Charlotte noted, refined versions of a stable or ploughboy’s costume, consisting of corduroy trousers, a red-spotted handkerchief and heavy boots. In spite of the effect of these variegated costumes, making one feel, Charlotte thought, as if backstage at a pantomime, there was nothing exotic or theatrical about the wearers. Off duty they swore, ate, smoked, argued, drank strong tea and swapped racing tips exactly as any other group of young men might. Except, of course, for the scurrilous tales of last night’s activities, for though the clients of the brothel were supposed to remain anonymous inevitably, over breakfast in the kitchen, names were named and disgraceful tales were told.
Charlotte had been sternly instructed by Liza that if she saw any gentleman, in any room or coming up or down the elegant, red-carpeted staircase, she must flatten herself against a wall or into an embrasure, attempt not to be seen, and close her own eyes in order to reassure him he was not recognised. This rarely happened. Charlotte left the house before the majority of the clients came in at ten in the evening after having dinner, going to the theatre or the club, or diverting themselves in some other way, and did not arrive in the morning until the clients had left the premises. Nevertheless there were some odd encounters.
One ofternoon, dusting down the black and gold enamelling of the staircase, she had seen a man coming up from the landing below. Concealing herself in a nearby bathroom and peering through the crack of the door she had whispered to herself, ‘Good heavens! Major-General Henry Fitzwaters, hero of the Battle of Omdurman, advancing upstairs in search of a boy – at tea-time!’
On another occasion, hiding beside a statue in the hall, she had been passed by a well-known Shakespearian actor, now playing Hamlet, whiling away an hour between the matinée and the evening performance. As the lads – there was no one above twenty-five, most were much younger – had their breakfast, she was surprised to hear among the names mentioned that of her own godfather, of a minister of the government, of a bishop and a duke. She wondered what was the reason for unusual sexual tastes among so many of the mighty.
The young men of George Street were reckless and corrupted. They got what they were paid and spent it and knew that as they got older and their looks went they would soon be back on the streets they came from. One boy, Dermot, coughed incessantly, was afraid he was tubercular and would die – yet his only concern was to conceal his condition from the dreaded Madame Mercury and fear that one of the others would betray his condition to her.
Charlotte suppressed much about George Street from her friend, but she did on one occasion tell Mary, ‘I begin to feel sorry for these young men, loveless, corrupt, reckless, careless of themselves and each other as they are. Since they were children they have worked on farms, for shillings and sixpences. From twelve or thirteen they have been in barrack rooms, the stokeholds of ships. Half of them began life in the streets or in orphanages. The stories they tell of past and present are horrifying. They are hardly to be blamed for what they are.’
The young men of Madame Mercury’s establishment scarcely looked at Charlotte, and when they did it was only to complain about delays, or the nature of the food she cooked. But, shocked as she was by what she overheard, she discovered little she needed to know. It was as if, in spite of all the freedom of speech, there was a form of self-censorship being exerted by the young male prostitutes, as if there were a policeman in the room. And so nothing was said of the fate of the unfortunate Henry Liversedge, aged fifteen, of whether he was alive or dead, and, if dead, of how he had died. And that was what Charlotte had come to George Street to find out.
One day there was a new face at the table. ‘Hoy, Jack,’ said Dermot, the tubercular, ‘what’s this? Can’t sleep? Bad conscience?’
Jack, a twenty-year-old of amazing beauty, dark, with very blue eyes, clad in what seemed to be a woman’s ruffled peignoir, took the question seriously. In a grave tone he demanded, ‘My conscience is fine. How about the rest of you, though? Do all here sleep well when they go to rest?’
‘What’s this, Jack?’ one of the young men said edgily. ‘Had a disagreeable night of it? Has something happened to upset you?’
‘Only the villain I suppose could have killed young Henry, here bold as brass, drunk on champagne and asking for me.’
There was a silence, broken only by Dermot’s coughing. Another lad with long, dark curls and tired rouge on his cheeks and lips said, ‘You’d better watch what you say, my boy. You’ll end up in the river if you talk like that.’ Another, who was in Indian dress, his turban hanging on the back of his chair, agreed. The young man with the rouged face said, ‘Whatever you have to say, don’t tell us. We don’t want to hear it. We don’t want to be mixed up in it.’
‘When he comes asking for you, then,’ Jack responded roughly, ‘you’ll smile and beckon to him, show him your bum and let him ram it and curse you under his breath as he does so, and keep smiling. You’ll do that, will you? You won’t worry?’
At the table a fair young man crossed himself. ‘I hope God helps you, boy,’ said Jack. ‘But I fear he won’t – not here. We should have done what Dave and Albert and Giovanni did – left, disappeared, while the going was good.’ There was another silence. Dermot said, ‘So he’s got off scot
free.’
‘Got off and he’s back, just as usual,’ said Jack.
‘Who says Henry’s dead?’ asked the rouged boy.
‘Give me a couple of sausages and an egg, my dear,’ Jack said to Charlotte. ‘Then a bit of bread or a lump of cake, because soon as I’ve ate, I’m packing my traps, such as they are, and I’m going back where I came from.’
‘Where’s that then?’ asked Dermot.
‘That would be telling,’ Jack said. ‘The others were right – disappear. That’s what I’m doing to do. Go where no one will find me.’
Charlotte, meanwhile, had handed him his plate of breakfast. ‘You’ll pack up some vittles for a lad who’s got to tramp home in this weather, won’t you, missis?’ he said. She nodded. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he told the others, ‘But if I was you I’d clear out too.’
He wolfed down his food and went out, leaving a despondent silence behind him.
‘He’s lucky to have somewhere to go,’ said one young man. ‘My own family wouldn’t take me back for five hundred pounds.’
‘Oh, rot him,’ said the rouged boy defiantly. ‘Let him run home to Mother. What does it matter anyway? We don’t care, do we, boys? Let’s have another cup of tea, then go out for a drink and see what’s to be seen.’
This put everyone in a better mood. Before they had their tea Liza came in and started shouting at Charlotte. If they were to be ready by afternoon and not be found dusting banisters by the gentlemen visitors (her eyes were everywhere, Charlotte concluded) then she, Charlotte, would have to start moving rapidly. There were fires to clean out and light, rooms to clear, sheets to change, bathrooms to clean. Charlotte wanted to remain in the kitchen until Jack returned to collect the food for his journey, in order to ask him what he knew, but was forced to leave the kitchen and start work.
She began at the top of the house in Jack’s sumptuous bedroom, with its red wallpaper, brass bedstead and ruby coverlet. On the floor was an expensive Turkey carpet. There was a carved washstand, a jug and basin of porcelain. Brocade curtains hung beside the long windows which looked out over the street.
The Strange Adventures of Charlotte Holmes Page 17
