The Strange Adventures of Charlotte Holmes

by Hilary Bailey

  ‘How can she rest with her son missing?’

  ‘Well, in a nutshell,’ Lestrade said, ‘Scotland Yard is no longer searching for Alexander.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the astonished Mary.

  ‘Government instructions,’ Lestrade said. ‘The matter is political. The search will be conducted by undercover agents under the personal control of the Foreign Secretary, who will report directly to the Prime Minister.’

  ‘But Charlotte is not sure a Kravonian faction is involved – and your manner indicates you do not wholly believe in this theory.’

  ‘I do not,’ he said. ‘I don’t think there’s nearly enough evidence to assume such a faction is responsible. And even if the villains are politicals it’s better to use experts to find the boy – and we at Scotland Yard are experts. Candidly, Mrs Watson, I detest these blundering political police who go round London implausibly disguised, trying to introduce themselves secretly into groups of Irishmen, foreign revolutionaries and the like. What has that to do with finding a missing child?’

  ‘My goodness, Inspector,’ Mary said despairingly. ‘How can I tell her this, when she is so ill?’

  Lestrade shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Are you sure it wouldn’t be wiser to leave her in ignorance?’

  ‘She would only fret more,’ Mary told him. ‘And have you found Sherlock?’

  Lestrade shook his head. Mary sighed.

  ‘I’ll come up and see her,’ Lestrade decided.

  ‘Be quick then,’ said Mary. ‘I’m sure my husband would disapprove of disturbing the patient.’

  As they reached the landing the dining-room door opened and two men, one of them Mycroft Holmes, came out. They heard Mycroft say, ‘Very well, Standish. I will contact Constantina von Helle and see what she knows of the Countess Seraphine’s recent conversations with Zuckermann.’

  Lestrade shook his head despondently. ‘Dear oh dear,’ he muttered under his breath.

  When they entered Charlotte’s room she opened her eyes. Mary went to the bedside table, poured some medicine into a glass and propped Charlotte up to drink it. Charlotte asked, ‘News?’ weakly and apparently without much hope. Lestrade shook his head. There was a pause, during which Mary gently lowered her back on to the pillow. ‘Tell me, Lestrade,’ Charlotte said weakly, as Mary bathed her flushed face.

  Reluctantly, Lestrade said, ‘They believe Alexander’s kidnap to be political.’

  Charlotte uttered a groan.

  ‘Scotland Yard is not to be involved. The Secret Service has been put in charge. But, my dear, rest assured that unofficially I shall do all I can to find your son. I shall employ my spare time on that work, and there are others who will help me.’

  ‘Thank you, Jules. I know I have upset you. I am so grateful …’

  Lestrade kissed her brow. ‘You have made your choices. I cannot deny I had hoped – how can I tell you of my ridiculous hopes? But now,’ he said resolutely, ‘to work. We must get started.’

  ‘Find Sherlock,’ she whispered. ‘And find John Lee.’

  ‘As you say. Meanwhile, when you are a little better, it would be useful if you could persuade Prince Rudolph to exert some influence over the Foreign Office to persuade them to re-employ Scotland Yard in the effort to find your son.’

  Mary looked at him despairingly. ‘This is too much for her.’

  ‘Nothing’s too much – Alexander. My poor little boy,’ was all Charlotte murmured.

  Outside the bedroom door Lestrade wiped a tear from his eye and vowed to Mary, ‘I will not rest until that boy is found.’

  ‘Pray he is still alive,’ said Mary, in a low voice. Then, more firmly, she said, ‘Inspector, I am going to see that woman, Polly Fowles. Please give me her address. I wish to ask her about John Lee.’

  ‘Mrs Watson!’ expostulated the Inspector.

  ‘I want to do it,’ said Mary.

  ‘I understand. But – I do not wish to be indelicate – in your condition, Mrs Watson, is it wise?’

  ‘I must,’ said Mary.

  ‘Your husband, for example, could go in your stead.’

  ‘A woman speaks more freely to another woman. Particularly a woman who may think she is in a vulnerable position in regard to the authorities, who are, after all, men.’

  So Lestrade sighed and gave her Polly Fowles’ address in Kilburn.

  In the little front parlour of a small, very clean house in Kilburn, one of a long row of similar small houses, Mrs Watson sat with Polly Fowles and her mother, drinking tea.

  ‘Well, I don’t deny I was a silly girl,’ Polly said frankly. She was small and very pretty with a great deal of fluffy blonde hair piled on top of her head. Her mother was an older, plumper version of the daughter. They had welcomed Mary, exclaimed when she told them of the kidnapped Alexander Osteire, and offered any help they could give in the way of information in the matter of Lord Thursby’s death if it would help to achieve the recovery of the boy. ‘I’m no detective,’ Mary had confessed. ‘I am here to try and help my poor friend Charlotte, the boy’s mother, who is prostrated by grief.’

  ‘And what about his father?’ demanded Mrs Fowles.

  ‘His father believes relatives of his are involved in the kidnap,’ Mary told her, ‘but my friend does not.’

  ‘His must be a funny family,’ commented Mrs Fowles. ‘But I’ll back a mother’s instinct any time. So tell Mrs Watson all about it, Polly. She’ll have to spare you nothing, Mrs Watson,’ the mother said in an aside. ‘I hope you won’t be shocked by her conduct. She’s been a silly, stupid girl, but let’s hope she’s learned her lesson. It’s being on the stage ruined her – there are too many temptations.’

  So – ‘I don’t deny I was a silly girl,’ Polly Fowles had begun. ‘Especially as I’d just been promoted from the D’Oyly Carte chorus and was getting small parts. Nothing stood in my way to playing all the Gilbert and Sullivan parts, the big ones, and then I went and spoiled everything. It began one day, with a huge bunch of flowers delivered to my dressing-room after a performance at the Savoy Theatre. And with the flowers, there was Lord Thursby’s card. And next day more flowers, and the next day more, and I was tired of being a good girl and seeing all the others go out with important men, titled sometimes, and get big presents from them, such as jewellery and fur coats.’

  ‘Dear, dear, dear,’ interrupted Mrs Fowles. ‘I warned you, Polly. Didn’t I warn you?’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ said Polly. ‘But there it was. I allowed him in the dressing-room. Mortimer was a good-looking man, immaculately dressed and very polite – to begin with, anyway. He took me out to dinners, and to Ascot races, and all sorts of good places. He had plenty of money and he bought me a lovely little enamel watch and, to cut a long story short, I fell for it. I forgot everything Ma had told me, fancied myself in love and decided I was the heroine of a silly novel, yielding to a love that could not end in marriage because he had a position and a wife, but – well, you know all that silly nonsense. There it is – he got round me good and proper. I was a mug. I moved into his house in Manchester Square. And there I had to stay, for then the company sacked me for flagrant immorality. They don’t like company members to be obvious sinners and I’d actually gone and moved in with Mortimer, committing the biggest sin of all, getting caught. So I was trapped with no money coming in and nowhere to go. I didn’t dare come back here. I hadn’t even told Ma I’d been sacked. Then, needless to say, Mortimer turned nasty. I don’t know why. I think he became bored quickly with anything, me included. He’d spent a lot of time out East and it’s true what they say, white men go rotten out there in the tropics. Or maybe he’d have gone rotten anyway, wherever he’d been. But one thing was for certain, he had some dirty tricks up his sleeve, wherever he’d come across them. I won’t go into details, Mrs Watson, but suffice it to say that some violence against my person was involved.’

  ‘How shocking,’ Mary said.

  ‘Worse than you can imagine, I think.’

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sp; ‘Dear, dear, dear,’ said Mrs Fowles. ‘You never told me that. How dreadful. You might have been stupid, but you didn’t deserve that. What a villain.’

  ‘Well, he’s dead now, for his pains,’ Polly announced without emotion. ‘Anyway, after all that my eyes were well and truly opened. He had two friends – and – and they were almost as bad as he was, up to anything at all, gambling, women, drinking, and on many mornings I’d find them all in the study, lying in chairs or on the couch, half unconscious with opium.’

  ‘Oh!’ cried Mrs Fowles. ‘You never told me that, either, Polly.’

  ‘Didn’t want to upset you, Ma,’ Polly said phlegmatically. ‘The opium was a habit he picked up out East,’ she said. ‘He tried to get me to join in, but I told him I wouldn’t. Well, I did once, but it was terrible. I choked on the smoke.’

  ‘Never do that again,’ Mary said. ‘I speak with authority. I am married to a doctor.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Fowles interestedly. ‘Let me ask you a question …’ A conversation on women’s complaints ensued. Mary wondered how to introduce the subject of John Lee and what use the information Polly had given her so far might have, for it all seemed very far from the kidnapping of Alexander. Then, accidentally, she found out what she needed, for Mrs Fowles, interrupting an account she was giving of the afflictions of her cousin during an awkward confinement, her tenth, broke off to say excitedly, ‘Ah, I have it. You are the wife of the famous Dr Watson. His friend, Mr Holmes, was here several days ago. What a thrilling time we’re having here. Mr Holmes didn’t mention the kidnap of the little boy, though.’

  ‘Mr Holmes was here?’ said Mary. ‘What did he ask? What did you tell him?’

  ‘He wanted to know about Lord Thursby’s friends and business interests. He seemed most interested in one of his business partners, a Chinaman, John Lee,’ answered Polly.

  ‘John Lee – at last,’ Mary muttered to herself. ‘What were you able to tell him?’

  ‘I only told him he’d been in and out of the house a good deal until one day, about a month ago, he arrived during dinner. Mortimer got up in a rage when the butler announced John Lee’s name. He left the table and rushed into the hall. I heard him shouting, though I couldn’t hear what he said. After that I think they must have gone into the study together, and I didn’t hear any more.’

  ‘And what did Mr Holmes say when you told him this?’ asked Mary.

  ‘Nothing – but for a long time after I told him he just sat thinking and brooding. He’s got very keen eyes, hasn’t he? Then he just said, “I see.” We spoke for a little longer, then he said goodbye and left.’

  ‘How did you know that Mr Lee was a business partner of Lord Thursby’s?’

  ‘Because late that night Mortimer came to bed drunk and as he was getting out of his trousers he said in a rage, “That’ll teach me never to do business with a Chink again.”’ Polly looked a little shame-faced, then added. ‘Honestly, I didn’t like to tell Mr Holmes that, with trousers being involved and myself present. So I kept quiet about it.’

  ‘Do you know where this man could be found?’ asked Mary.

  Polly thought. ‘I asked the butler, Mr Richmond, about it in the morning, because of the shouting in the hall. He told me he’d been told not to let Mr Lee in the house again. I’d already told Mr Richmond I was planning to leave and there might be ructions when I was found to be gone – just a friendly warning, as you might put it. Mr Richmond wasn’t stuffy with me, because he knew I wasn’t exactly out of the top drawer myself. We were quite friendly. He said his brother-in-law, who’s a market gardener in Kent, had seen John Lee going up the steps of the house to the front door once, while he’d been on his way round to the back to visit Mrs Richmond. Mrs Richmond’s brother knew Lee because he supplied a restaurant Lee had an interest in with vegetables from his market garden. He recognised Lee because he’d seen him often in the kitchen of the restaurant when he delivered the vegetables. Richmond said, though, you can’t tell one Chinaman from another, they all look the same as everybody knows.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Mary, ‘it might help to know the name of the restaurant and where it is.’

  ‘I think Richmond said it was in Soho. I don’t know any more than that. But I can’t see how this Lee is involved with taking the little boy. You are telling me the truth about the kidnap, aren’t you?’

  ‘Heavens, yes,’ said Mary. ‘I can hardly bear to think of my poor friend lying there helpless in a fever knowing the boy is still missing. I’m so grateful you have spoken to me frankly, Miss Fowles, and to you, Mrs Fowles, for permitting me to come. I shall take all this information to Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard, and see if he can make any sense of it.’

  As Mary was leaving, Mrs Fowles asked, ‘And when do your own troubles begin?’ looking frankly at the gently swelling bulge in Mary’s print dress.

  ‘At Christmas,’ she said, blushing.

  From Kilburn, Mary went straight to Scotland Yard where, finding Lestrade out, she left a message. Then, rather tired, she returned to Chelsea. The house was now empty, except for Charlotte and the servants. Cigar smoke still drifted through the hall and Betsey was in the dining-room, clearing up ashtrays and glasses. Mrs Macgregor had opened the door to Mary and commented, ‘Mrs Watson, you look exhausted. Have you had lunch yet?’

  But Mary had said that first she would visit Charlotte in the sickroom. ‘Is she any better?’ she had asked.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Macgregor. ‘But who could rest with all the disturbance in the house? Not fifteen minutes ago there were three carriages in the street, taking gentlemen off in all directions. And I believe Prince Rudolph said something which disturbed the Countess Osteire – Miss Charlotte – when he came to say goodbye. He meant no harm, but I’m afraid she wept when he had gone.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mary, and went upstairs to Charlotte’s room. To her consternation Charlotte was out of bed, sitting by her dressing-table, brushing her hair with a weary arm.

  ‘Charlotte – you shouldn’t be up,’ said Mary. Then she caught sight of Charlotte’s dress, lying on the bed. ‘You can’t be planning to go out!’

  ‘I must. I must find my poor boy,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Go back to bed at once,’ ordered Mary. ‘You are no use to us if you collapse. I’ll ring the bell for Betsey. She may have developed your photographs of the footprint at the bottom of the ladder by now. If you must do something, just lie down and think, and study the scientific evidence. Meanwhile I will tell you what I found out from Polly Fowles, Lord Thursby’s mistress, whom I have just visited. The information is quite promising and I have communicated it to Jules Lestrade.’

  Charlotte, at the dressing-table, summoned a smile and said, ‘Mary – you astonish me.’

  ‘I would do anything for you and that poor boy,’ Mary said resolutely. ‘Now – back to bed with you.’

  When Betsey came in she asked, ‘Have you developed the photographs yet?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Betsey said. ‘I’m ever so sorry but with the house in turmoil Mrs Digby needed me.’

  ‘This is hopeless,’ Mary said. ‘And it’s unlikely to improve. I shall shortly send a message to my servant Martha Jane that she’s needed here and must come immediately. Now – develop the photographs.’

  Once Charlotte was back in bed Mary told her what Polly Fowles had said. Charlotte breathed deeply. ‘John Lee is the key to this,’ she said. Her eyes closed. ‘We must find the restaurant.’

  ‘My message for Inspector Lestrade asked him to find out the address from the butler at the home of the late Lord Thursby,’ said Mary. ‘Now, try to sleep.’ And Charlotte, worn out, appeared to do so.

  Mary had some lunch while Mrs Macgregor stayed with Charlotte. She was dozing on the parlour sofa when Lestrade came rushing in. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Watson,’ he said contritely. ‘I came over to tell you the butler’s wife supplied the name of the restaurant. It’s the Green Dragon in Gerrard Street. We have it und
er observation at the moment. As soon as we spot John Lee we’ll follow him and see what he’s up to.’

  ‘Why don’t you arrest him?’ Mary said.

  ‘Miss Charlotte, though ill, seemed to think Lee could lead us to the boy. I must speak to her about this. But in the meanwhile I thought it of paramount importance to do nothing to alarm Lee. The child’s life must be our first concern. The beauty of the situation is that, although forbidden to go near the matter of little Alexander’s kidnapping, we have, thanks to you, Mrs Watson, information which connects Lee with the murdered man, Lord Thursby. That little business is urgent police business – now I can use the full resources of the Yard to see what Lee is up to.’

  ‘Where is Sherlock Holmes?’ asked Mary.

  Lestrade looked anxious and said, ‘That’s the worry. Where is he? Missing for two days, with no word. These appearances and disappearances are, of course, part of his method. But I confess, Mrs Watson, I feel a little alarmed. This case is getting deep, very deep, and what concerns me most is that it is no longer a case of finding the murderer of a dead and largely unloved man, but of finding a little boy who we dearly hope is still alive.’

  ‘Pray God,’ Mary said. ‘Inspector, there are now two members of the Holmes family missing, Sherlock and his nephew. Do you think that is only coincidence?’

  Lestrade considered, then said slowly, ‘Well, all the money, if you’ll excuse my putting it this way, has been so far on the theory that the boy’s kidnap has been connected with his father and the peculiar doings of the Kravonian Royal Family and its various hangers-on, plotters and conspirators. But if you look at it another way …’ He frowned, then said, ‘I’m not sure, Mrs Watson, that you haven’t put a different light on the affair. Same pieces of jigsaw, but a different picture when you make up the puzzle, so to speak.’

  ‘I only said what was obvious,’ Mary told him.

  ‘Ah, madam, but spotting the obvious when a hundred theories abound is often the hardest thing to do. And how is Miss Charlotte? Or perhaps,’ Lestrade said rather gloomily, ‘I should now call her the Countess Osteire?’