The Strange Adventures of Charlotte Holmes

by Hilary Bailey

  ‘Just as you feared, Miss Holmes. They followed us from London,’ said Lestrade, producing his pistol and pointing it towards the oncoming men. ‘Halt! Or I fire!’

  ‘Give us the boy, in the name of the Queen,’ cried one of the men.

  ‘Let us pass, also in the name of the Queen,’ replied Lestrade stoutly.

  In response, both men put up the barrels of the shot-guns and levelled them at the group.

  Thwaite now pushed his daughter behind him. ‘Mr Murray, Mr Robertson,’ Lestrade ordered. ‘Let us pass.’

  Charlotte said, ‘You may have been right to believe that only the dead body of Henry Liversedge would prevent his father from taking action against the Duke. But the Queen would never have sanctioned murder by two of her servants. You have been misguided. And how will you account for so many deaths on this hillside – one of them an Inspector from Scotland Yard? Let us go with the boy. Your only hope is that if he’s restored to his father, Mr Liversedge well make no more trouble. Use your sense, men. Loyalty to the Crown based on murder is no loyalty.’ And with that, she pulled Henry to his feet and set off downhill.

  The two men, avoiding the eyes of the party going down, stood aside. Thwaite, with Mary’s hand in his, was grim, and ready for a fight if provoked. Lestrade was behind, covering the party with his pistol.

  Still a little nervous, for Lestrade had not cared to risk an armed confrontation by attempting to disarm the men, they descended the hill.

  ‘I don’t …’ Henry Liversedge mumbled.

  ‘We’re taking you back to the bakery to get cleaned and fed,’ Mary declared firmly. ‘Then we’ll tell your father you’re safe.’

  ‘He’ll beat me,’ declared Henry.

  ‘Then I’ll beat him,’ said Thwaite. ‘And if he lays a finger on you he’ll be preaching in an empty church to the end of his days.’

  Madame Mercury’s house was closed down by the police that week. There was never a lawsuit against her, or her distinguished clients. The Reverend Michael Liversedge brought no case against the Duke, but a year later he received preferment and was transferred from his poor bleak parish to a more hospitable and wealthier one in Surrey. Some months earlier his son Henry had left for a sheep farm in Australia run by a relative of the Thwaites, on the understanding that if he did well for himself and their feelings for each other had not changed, in two years’ time Mary Thwaite would go out to join him.

  The unfortunate Duke of Clarence died the same month, weeks before his wedding. His fiancée, Princess Mary of Teck, later married his younger brother, George. George succeeded his father, who reigned for only eight years, with Queen Mary as his consort.

  Charlotte Holmes returned from Yorkshire to find her cook Mrs Digby had returned. She collectd her maid Betsey from Whitechapel in a cab. Her experiences as a maid-of-all-work had given her more sympathy with the life of domestic service. Harmony reigned in Chelsea, for a while.

  6

  The New Monster

  A photograph taken by a servant of the Bowes Lyon family – the Earls of Strathmore, whose family seat is at Glamis Castle in Scotland – has always stood in a silver frame on the piano in the parlour of John and Mary Watson’s house – and always will, as far as the pair are concerned. It is propped up there, along with more humble family photographs, and shows a large group of people, some fifteen in all, men, women and children, outside the grim but imposing portals of a castle. It is summer. The men wear mainly light suits and some have panama hats. The ladies are in summer dresses. At the centre of the picture are the hosts, flanked on one side by the handsome figure of Prince Rudolph of Kravonia and on the other by Charlotte Holmes in a white dress, holding a straw hat on her head with one hand – the wind can be strong in Scotland, even in summer. The other guests are strung out on either side of this central group. At their feet is a small group of five children. Prince Rudolph’s hand rests lightly on the head of one, a small fair-haired boy, though he has to bend slightly to do so, for the boy is very young.

  The invitation to spend a month at Glamis came to Charlotte in June at the time when John and Mary were planning their summer trip to Switzerland. As Sherlock would be in Heidelberg on a course of study involving body tissues, the Watsons could be sure of many pleasant visits to and fro.

  Charlotte’s own summer plans, up to the arrival of the invitation, had been variable. She confided to Mary at one point that she thought she might go to see friends in Kravonia, but that Sherlock disapproved. Mary, enquiring as to why he might dislike his sister’s innocent plan, got no reply. When, later, she revealed over supper at Battersea that she had been invited to Glamis, Mary, perhaps tactlessly, said, ‘That will be so nice – and so much better than risking Sherlock’s displeasure if you go to Kravonia.’ John Watson looked puzzled and Charlotte answered wryly, ‘Scarcely. For the invitation comes at the instigation of Prince Rudolph, who will be there himself – and that, I feel, will not please Sherlock any better.’ John Watson put his hand to his chin, looked grave and said merely, ‘Hm.’

  Mary was about to ask further questions when John intervened, saying, ‘Well, Charlotte, since I know you hate to be idle, perhaps once you are at Glamis you could set yourself the task of finding the Glamis monster. Many hundreds of years of investigation have failed to solve the mystery, but that need not deter you …’

  ‘I’ve heard of this monster,’ interrupted Mary excitedly. ‘Is it not kept in a hidden room in the castle at Glamis?’

  ‘So it’s said,’ replied John, ‘the secret of the entrance to the room in which the monster is kept is known only to the oldest male of the family. It is communicated by him to his heir on his death-bed.’

  ‘I think I would prefer not to find it,’ Mary declared.

  ‘If one did it would upset one’s host,’ Charlotte said. ‘So perhaps it would be bad manners to look. In any case I’m going to Glamis to enjoy myself, not search for the Monster of Glamis.’

  Charlotte kept her word – in a way. In another way she did not, which was perhaps only to be expected.

  She arrived in Scotland, had a happy reunion with Prince Rudolph and spent many pleasant weeks with him and the other guests at Glamis. It was during a visit to the little cottage on the estate occupied by Mrs Moira Macgregor, who had, of course, brought up Prince Rudolph and Prince Oscar of Kravonia and had such a great influence on them as children, that a conversation, begun in innocence, unfortunately ended in Charlotte’s upsetting her host. And, indirectly, resulted in her making considerable changes to her own life.

  Mrs Macgregor’s house stood in a row of similar cottages, all occupied by estate staff, past and present. In front was a little garden, neatly planted, at the back a longer plot where Mrs Macgregor grew her vegetables.

  Charlotte and Rudolph were sitting in the parlour. On the carpet one of Nanny Macgregor’s little charges played quietly with a beautifully carved wooden train and its carriages. Mrs Macgregor, short, plump and appearing younger than her sixty years, sat placidly knitting a little sock. Though officially retired from her duties with the Bowes Lyon family, Mrs Macgregor was always employed with visitors’ children during the summer. Rudolph said, ‘I believe you regret retiring from active service, Moira,’ – he always used her Christian name, saying, in his Continental way, he could not stand hearing grown men and women addressing their old nannies as ‘Nanny’ as if they themselves were still children instead of mothers, suffragettes, judges, fathers, ministers of the Crown. He went on, ‘I believe in your heart of hearts you would like a new family to rear.’

  ‘Hmph,’ she said. ‘That’s not for me, Rudolph. I’m worn out and on the scrap heap. I believe I was never the same again after bringing up two Kravonian scamps whom I think you may recall. As for your brother, Oscar – I’ve never been so shocked in my life. What dreadful conduct – rushing off like that into the depths of the forest and terrorising his country at the head of a gang of thugs and hooligans. A Crown Prince turned anarchist – what a thing!
’

  ‘Perhaps he heard too many stories of Bonnie Prince Charlie in his childhood,’ Prince Rudolph said slyly.

  ‘It’s all come out for the best,’ Charlotte put in. ‘Kravonia was sinking into decay, but now Oscar has returned matters go much better. Stability and confidence are returning. There are schools, hospitals, a Parliament and a modernised economic system is assisting trade. I hear that my little pupils Ulrica and Cunegonde are well settled at the Ladies’ College.’

  ‘Cunegonde is captain of lacrosse this year,’ supplied Mrs Macgregor. ‘But,’ she said to Rudolph, ‘I hear there’s increasing concern about Oscar and Princess Ursula – that there are as yet no children.’ There was a silence. Mrs Macgregor added, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Rudolph. But it’s common knowledge there’s concern. Facts must be faced.’

  ‘Ah,’ Rudolph replied, ‘I know that voice of old: “Facts must be faced, Rudolph.” But there’s still time, Moira.’

  ‘You’re dodging the issue, Rudolph,’ she continued implacably. ‘As you say, it’s always been a bad habit of yours.’

  ‘I know it. I know it,’ he told her. ‘Believe me, no one prays harder than I do for a son for Oscar and the Princess, not even the Archbishop of Norvius.’

  Satisfied that her former charge was taking what she had said seriously enough, Mrs Macgregor ceased to press him. A delicious smell was filling the room and she now remarked comfortably, ‘All families have their troubles,’ and stood up.

  ‘Royal houses’ troubles are different,’ Rudolph said. ‘And often more difficult.’

  ‘Nothing is more difficult for families than finding food and shelter for their children,’ Mrs Macgregor remarked severely, ‘and royal houses rarely have that problem to contend with. Come, Alexander,’ she said to the little boy. ‘I need your help in the kitchen, with the scones. You’ll be wanting your tea, won’t you? Well, you must work for it.’ And the elderly woman and the little boy went into the kitchen, which lay through a door off the parlour.

  ‘How well I remember that voice,’ called out Rudolph. ‘That voice saying, “You’ll want your tea, won’t you?” regularly every afternoon at four o’clock.’

  Her voice came back, to the sounds of scones being taken from an oven, and of tea being made. ‘No doubt you required the reassurance of that routine as you grew up. There are easier places to be a child than Castle Norvius.’

  ‘I agree,’ murmured Charlotte. She rose, and went to the kitchen to help. The little boy, instructed by Mrs Macgregor, was gingerly putting one plate after another on to a tray. Charlotte picked up the teapot and a mat on which to set it.

  ‘A child’s life can be difficult if it grows up too close to the throne,’ remarked Mrs Macgregor, as she placed scones on a plate. And Charlotte carried the teapot to the table in the parlour and put it down on its mat, so as not to spoil the polish. Then the voice from the kitchen said, apparently to itself, ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘What is it?’ cried Rudolph, jumping up.

  ‘Nothing,’ responded Mrs Macgregor, carrying in the tea-tray. To the little boy she said, ‘That’s right, Alexander. Carry in the jam carefully. We don’t want it all over the floor, do we?’

  Rudolph took the tray from her and put it on the table.

  ‘Now, Alexander. Sit on that little stool over there and you’ll soon have your tea,’ she said. As she poured out she said soberly to Rudolph, ‘You know I have come to certain conclusions about your situation. Do not tell me – I will not ask. You are a man now. You were brought up close to the throne and I was there, a witness. Monarchs have less time for their children than others, their duties are great and they have vast responsibilities to others. The attendants who serve the children are often indifferent or self-serving and damage can be done. In the royal game the child is the pawn. You understand this well, Rudolph, better than I do. I am an old Scotswoman of little education – ’

  Charlotte interrupted, ‘That does not seem to have interfered with your commonsense or knowledge of the world.’

  Mrs Macgregor smiled. ‘Thank you. Well – perhaps that is why I feel I must speak.’ She lowered her voice so that Alexander, preoccupied with his scone, would not hear. ‘Any children you have, Rudolph, may – will – be in the situation you were in yourself as a child. They will have great position, the prospect of considerable power and wealth and yet, when it comes to growing up strong and uncorrupted individuals, their chances may be lower than the average – ’

  ‘Moira!’ cried Rudolph. ‘Forgive me, but I cannot bear these gloomy statements. If the Scots have fault it is this righteous melancholia – ’

  But here Charlotte again interrupted, saying gently, ‘Rudolph, I believe Mrs Macgregor has something to tell us we must know.’

  ‘I have,’ said Mrs Macgregor, ‘and I cannot say it here because of the child. But before you leave Glamis I must speak to you privately.’

  It was next day, which was overcast and raining, that Charlotte devised a game for the younger guests. She embarked on the scheme of putting towels, pillowcases and sheets out of every one of some two hundred rooms at Glamis Castle. They ran laughing through rooms and corridors, until from every window hung a piece of domestic linen.

  Yet from the lawn below the castle, there were two windows which, from the outside of the house, were seen to have no pillowcase or towel hanging from them!

  The party on the lawn gazed up at the two mysterious windows.

  ‘Did we miss one?’ enquired Rudolph.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said another man. ‘My God!’

  ‘So now we know,’ Charlotte said in an undertone to Rudolph, ‘there are two rooms in the castle with concealed entrances. In one, I suspect, is the legendary Monster of Glamis, the secret of whose existence is only known ever to the head of the family in each generation. But who is in the second secret room? I’m much afraid Moira Macgregor is right – that the other prisoner is the unfortunate Duke of Clarence, declared to be dead by the Royal Family.’

  ‘Poor man,’ said Rudolph, no stranger to the wallings-up, executions and imprisonings which punctuate the lives of royalty. ‘Poor man. “Uneasy lies the head that bears a crown.” Uneasier still the head of he who should have worn it, but, for reasons of state, is not allowed to.’

  ‘And what are we to do about it?’ asked Charlotte. She knew the answer already. Rudolph gave it.

  ‘Nothing – there is nothing we can do,’ he said. ‘Alas that this is so. All we can do, dear Charlotte, is remember the lesson. And that is all Moira Macgregor intended us to do.’

  Charlotte looked at him in astonishment. For once in her life, she had been out-thought and out-guessed – and by a retired nanny in a little cottage in the Highlands.

  7

  Mary Watson Takes a Hand

  Charlotte, standing by her apple tree on a hot afternoon in August, picked an apple and threw it to Mary Watson, who was sitting barefoot on the grass in a black dress, fanning herself with a large black hat. Her black shoes and stockings lay beside her on the lawn. Mary caught the apple and bit into it.

  It had been six weeks since they had last met. During that time Charlotte had been at Glamis, while Mary had enjoyed a month with her John at Lake Lucerne. However, for the past fortnight Dr Watson had been incommunicado in a remote part of Wales on a case with Sherlock Holmes, and during that time his fierce aunt had died. Mary, unable to inform her husband of this sad fact, had been forced to attend the funeral at Deal alone. Having returned to Victoria station, again alone, she had felt so discouraged at the idea of reentering her lonely house that she had on impulse taken an omnibus to Chelsea, much hoping her friend Charlotte would have returned from Scotland. To her relief she found Charlotte in the garden. Mrs Digby was in the kitchen, making early preparation for a dinner that evening. Betsey was invisible, though audible, for she was in Charlotte’s laboratory, singing as she developed some photographs.

  ‘I think she might be a better photographic assistant than maid,�
� Charlotte observed as Betsey carolled out a popular song about being a bird in a gilded cage.

  ‘She would not need to be a very good photographic assistant to manage that,’ Mary observed tartly.

  Then Charlotte threw her the apple and said, ‘It must have been a painful day for you.’

  ‘John’s aunt was not a woman one could love wholeheartedly,’ Mary said. ‘I’m afraid I’m more upset about John’s disappearing just before she died, leaving me to go alone to the funeral. Any grief I might have felt at first for John’s aunt was, I must confess, reduced when I discovered in Deal that she had left all her worldly goods to John, except for one item, which was left to me.’

  ‘And that was?’ prompted Charlotte.

  ‘Her parrot.’

  Charlotte roared with laughter. ‘You didn’t bring it back with you on the train?’

  ‘It’s coming shortly,’ Mary said without pleasure.

  ‘Does it swear?’ called Betsey from the darkroom.

  ‘No. It says the Lord’s Prayer over and over again,’ Mary said gloomily. ‘And the Collect, and the Twenty-third Psalm – that’s its repertoire. It’s tantamount to blasphemy, I think. Well, tell me about Scotland. And what are you doing now?’

  ‘Scotland,’ Charlotte said vaguely. ‘It was delightful – then I was unable to resist the temptation to do some investigation in the mildest possible way. My hostess became a little frosty as a result. I left, feeling less than welcome. Sherlock got to hear of all this and is also a little cross with me. Let us say no more of Scotland.’

  ‘Are you still adhering to your vow to abandon detection?’