It was Scraggs the grocer’s boy, taking pity on my impoverished circumstances and the collapse of my spirits, who made the introduction that was to change my life. It was to lead me into so many adventures that my life came to be as thick with excitement as the street that night was thick with fog.
Looking back to that fateful evening, it is hard to believe I could ever have run so fast. Nowadays my frame creaks a little as I shuffle between the piles of papers in my study, and if I venture out to lecture at the Institute I must allow one of my students to escort me home, in case, on the way across the park, I should require an arm to lean upon.
But that night I ran like the wind – or, at any rate, like the stinking breath that passed for wind in those foul, dark, harsh backstreets. Clad in rags, with no long skirts to hamper me, I ran until the blood that pounded in my ears began to fill my mouth, until my hollow chest could breathe no more and my legs gave way beneath me. And when I could run no further, I crawled to the darkest doorway I could find and collapsed there, holding my breath and listening for my pursuers.
I expected footsteps. Young Smale’s boots, Mr Fogarty’s heels, the laughing clatter of the footmen, confident of dragging home their prey. But nothing came. Somewhere beyond the alleyway there was a busy thoroughfare; carriages and hawkers and the reassuring bustle of a London street. Nothing sinister. Yet I felt no elation. For that minute, for that moment, I was free, but for how long? They say the caged bird forgets the sky; I knew only that I was freezing, penniless and alone.
At the orphan school I had been warned to be a good girl or suffer the consequences. But the months that followed had quickly taught me that virtue came at a price, a price paid in misery and hunger. Which is why, when Scraggs first saw me, I had ventured out of my doorway refuge and was in the process of stealing a cabbage from his ramshackle barrow. In the rags I wore I had nowhere to conceal an object the size of a cabbage, even a cabbage as small and blackened as the sorry item I had set my sights on. My only hope of success lay in flight and in the prayer that I might lose my pursuer in the crowds and the darkness of London’s tangled streets.
But exhaustion had slowed my reactions. The cabbage was fumbled, my attempt at escape short-lived and the impact of Scraggs’s diving leap dramatic and final. It took my breath away, thumping me into the gutter so hard that only the street’s daily delivery of filth and rotten vegetables came between my ribs and instant fracture. And if the physical impact was dramatic, the impact on my spirits was greater. I lay with my face pressed into the rotten-smelling mud, the pain echoing through me, and found myself utterly crushed. Crushed not just by Scraggs’s frame, but by the relentless harshness of the world around me and by the absence of any hope that anything would ever be any different from how it had become. Instead of struggling in Scraggs’s grip, I laid down my head and began to cry. Every bruise and knock, all the cold and hunger, seemed suddenly to dissolve into tears. I cried so hard that even after Scraggs had returned his cabbage to the barrow, I still made no attempt to escape from the place he’d pitched me. Gingerly, as if reluctant to touch anything so filth-encrusted, Scraggs rolled me over with the toe of his boot and took a suspicious look at what there was to see.
‘Crikey,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s no surprise you ain’t up to thievin’. You’re in a worse state than a Chinaman’s chihuahua, an’ no mistake.’
There followed a brief pause while he continued to look me up and down as if embarrassed as to what to do next. Ignoring him, I lay with my cheek on the rotten end of a rotten turnip and wept for all my life wasn’t worth.
‘Crikey,’ said Scraggs again.
I can’t recall how long we continued in this manner but I remember Scraggs levering me upright and resting me, now curled into a ball of defensive misery, against the black brickwork of the alley where my attempted larceny had taken place.
‘Now, less of that,’ he urged. ‘What’s to be so scared of? I ain’t goin’ to eat yer. Too skinny, you see.’ He laughed, but I was beyond comfort.
‘There’s a man,’ I told him between sobs. ‘Looking for me. I can’t run anymore.’
‘A man?’ Scraggs looked around. We were alone in the darkness.
‘From one of the big houses. A servant. He locked me up. He’s going to … He wants to …’
I broke off for want of words to tell my woe. Scraggs just looked bewildered.
‘Tell you what,’ he suggested suddenly. ‘I think you should meet Mrs Hudson.’
He said it with such certainty I felt sure I should know what he was talking about. But who or what Mrs Hudson might be I had no idea. It says something of the state to which I was reduced that when Scraggs commanded ‘Wait here’, all thought of further flight was gone. He would return and something would happen to me and I didn’t care what. All that mattered was that other people would decide it and I wouldn’t any longer have to try to lift myself out of the cold, reeking mud.
Scraggs reappeared some few minutes later and by a wave of his thumb signalled for me to follow. He led me down a sequence of alleys and snickleways until we emerged into a broad street where gas lamps inflated the fog with their yellow breath and hansom cabs cut slippery pathways through the mud. Even at that late hour the streets were noisy with hawkers’ cries, and the newsboys were calling the latest developments of a mysterious Brixton murder. But such mysteries meant nothing to me then, and Baker Street was simply a street like any other. Around me the house fronts were higher than the fog, and it was to one of these that I was led.
Still following Scraggs, I descended obediently into a dark area below the level of the street where the gaslight falling obliquely onto a white apron suggested a bulky figure awaiting me.
This was Mrs Hudson and never had I met a more striking woman. She was large in dimensions, broad across her shoulders and straight down her sides in a way that spoke of immense strength. Yet there seemed to be no spare flesh on her, and her arms, sticking bare out of her apron and folded across a formidable bosom, were large and roundly muscled. Her face was also round, with a chin just resisting the temptation to double, yet her eyes and nose, set beneath a constantly furrowed brow, were rather more hawkish than otherwise, combining to produce an effect of shrewd interrogation. It was just such a look that she turned on me when I had been ushered unprotesting into the cavernous interior of a darkly warm kitchen.
‘Well, child,’ she boomed as she prodded me towards the glowing stove and began to wipe at my face with a damp cloth. ‘Scraggs here, who is a good lad and generally truthful, tells me you are in a poor state. Out with your story and we’ll see what’s to be done.’
It may have been the note of authority, or perhaps a vein of kindness in her voice that I detected under the surface granite, but I found myself doing exactly what she asked, telling her the full story of my years in the orphanage, of my positions since that time and of all the misfortunes that had befallen me. She said little, save for the occasional question darted at me from under her dark frown.
‘So this fellow knew you were an orphan, did he?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I told him, ma’am. He was so kind, you see. I thought him the kindest person I’d ever met. I caught his eye when I was doing the steps at my first house, ma’am.’
‘And where was that, girl?’
‘At the Fitzgeralds’ house in Berkeley Street, ma’am.’
‘The Fitzgeralds’, eh? That young wife knows nothing of what goes on below stairs. They should never have sent you there. Go on!’
So I continued, stumbling often, especially when I came to my last days in service, and to the brutalities I had suffered there.
‘You see, when I went with him as he suggested, ma’am, he was suddenly different. There was no more kindness once I got to the new house. When the cook and the boot-boy beat me, when the footmen were always grabbing at me, pulling at my skirts, he laughed and let them have their way. I was kept indoors, ma’am, and the area door was kept locked.’
‘And let me guess …’ Mrs Hudson had risen and had begun to fold a pile of laundry, but her attention to my story never wavered. ‘It was after a few weeks of this treatment that he put to you his proposition? Suggested a way of escaping your tormentors?’
‘Yes, ma’am. But I wouldn’t say yes, ma’am. I hated him by then. I hated them all, and I told him so. Told him he was loathsome and disgusting, and called him a slug. Said I’d rather die first. That was when he locked me up.’
The very faintest trace of a smile seemed to play across Mrs Hudson’s lips.
‘Good for you, girl. And your escape …?’
I hesitated. It was still almost impossible to believe.
‘He came to me when I was sleeping, ma’am. Unlocked the cellar door and ordered me out of bed. Told me we were alone. They’d taken away my uniform, ma’am. These rags were all I had, and I was so cold. It would have been easy to go with him. But I wasn’t having that. And so I kicked him, ma’am.’
Mrs Hudson’s eyebrow rose slightly.
‘Kicked him, girl?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Well, it was my knee mostly, so not really a kick. I got him in the … in that part where a gentleman is most easily hurt, ma’am.’
Another smile, rather broader this time.
‘I’m extremely pleased to hear it, girl. And you were able to make your escape?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
I told her then of my flight through the pantry, of the area door miraculously unlocked, then of my panicked plunge into the darkest, most confusing alleyways. When at last my tale came to an end, Mrs Hudson said nothing for a short while, continuing to fold laundry with her face set in thought.
‘And how old are you now, girl?’
‘Twelve, ma’am.’
‘And what’s your name?’
‘Flotsam, ma’am.’
‘Flotsam, child?’
‘That’s the name they gave me at the orphanage, ma’am. Mostly they call me Flottie.’
‘Well, Flottie, there’s no denying it’s a sorry tale. A very sorry tale indeed. The man Fogarty you’ve talked about, the butler whose particular ways caused you to flee, is already known to me.’ She exchanged a meaningful glance with Scraggs. ‘Let us just say that our paths have crossed. That happens in service. Not everyone you meet below stairs is always as honest as they should be. Indeed sometimes it seems there is no cruelty, no corruption, no exploitation of the innocent in this whole teeming city in which Mr Fogarty would not be prepared to lend a hand. He does it for the pleasure of it, you see, not out of want, for he is a rich man nowadays and has no need to play the butler.’
She paused again and her eyes moved to the glow of the fire.
‘Mr Fogarty is everything I despise, Flotsam, so your tale pleases me greatly. I like to hear of someone standing up to him. But Fogarty is not one to tolerate defiance, nor to forgive anyone for such a well-aimed kick. So if our paths are to cross his again, young lady, we had better be ready for him.’
‘We, ma’am?’ I was struggling to keep up.
‘Of course, Flotsam. Where else would you go? You’ve no references, no skills, not even any proper clothes. And there will not be many employers who consider kneeing a butler below the belt buckle an acceptable proof of character. So all in all I think you’d be much better staying here. I have need of a scullery maid and a helper. You have need of a good position and a warm bath. I think we shall get on very well, young Flottie. As soon as Scraggs gets back about his business we shall get you out of what you’re wearing and into something that bears a closer resemblance to clothing.’
And that is how I found myself as scullery maid to Mrs Hudson, a housekeeper whose fierceness and fairness were legendary in every servants’ hall I ever entered. Under her watchful demeanour I learnt to scrub and polish and wax and shine. I learned to sweep, and curtsy like a real maid, and to answer ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, ma’am’ when spoken to upstairs, instead of blushing and stammering and trembling at the edges.
My education didn’t stop there. When I could show that I had mastered my basic duties, Mrs Hudson immediately demanded that I learned the duties of others. Much to my terror, I was apprenticed to Mrs Siskin, the cook, a silent woman and a Methodist, with the instruction to observe the rudiments of her skills. For Mrs Hudson made it very plain that she thought a girl such as myself, with no family and no education, should at the very least be able to tell a blancmange from a jelly.
With similar force of character, Mrs Hudson decided that I must learn to read. A series of tearful encounters in the butler’s pantry ensued wherein Swordsmith, the kindly, ineffectual butler, endeavoured to demonstrate the difference between vowels and verbs. After three or four weeks it was debatable whether Swordsmith or myself was the more disheartened, but Mrs Hudson insisted and her will carried all before it.
‘Reading and writing, young Flottie, means you’ll never end up in the gutter. It’s all right for Scraggs and his type to go without. They’re boys and this world favours boys. There will always be something out there for Scraggs. But for girls, livings aren’t so easy to come by. Anything in the way of learning that comes our way is something that needs to be grabbed with both hands. And with our teeth too if we can reach it.’
So Swordsmith and I were required to persevere and, to the equal surprise of us both, after some months of desperation I suddenly found the strange marks on the page forming themselves into decipherable groups. Soon I had outgrown the exhausted Swordsmith and by the time I was fourteen there wasn’t a book in the street I wouldn’t have been confident of reading aloud. The Odyssey was almost learned by heart and even Mrs Beaton held no mysteries.
It was at about this time, when I had just begun to believe that I was truly safe from the predatory streets outside, that everything changed. The master of the house died by his own hand when confronted with news of a decisive typhoon off Formosa. That meant the break-up of our whole establishment, amidst many tears and bravely gulped farewells. Mrs Siskin moved to a household in Brighton, a town she had been told had a great need of Methodists. Swordsmith, after some vacillation, entered the service of the young Lord Tregavin who shortly afterwards set off on foot for Mongolia. And Mrs Hudson continued to supervise the closing up of the house as though no fear for the future had ever entered her mind.
It was a night in November, and I was sewing by the kitchen fire for almost the last time, when Mr Rumbelow, the family solicitor, appeared at the kitchen door and asked if he might speak a word with Mrs Hudson.
‘Yes, sir, of course, sir,’ I spluttered, leaping to my feet. ‘Mrs Hudson has just stepped out, but will be back any moment now. Shall I ask her to come up, sir?’
But Mr Rumbelow, it appeared, although hesitant in his manner, had no intention of retreating from the kitchen. His eye was resting on a decanter of dark liquid that Mrs Hudson had placed on the shelf of the dresser only a few hours before.
‘Perhaps, child, if I may …’ He indicated an empty chair by the fire. ‘Never one to stand on ceremony, you see … Perhaps wait here … Wouldn’t want to miss out … The Mulgrave old tawny! Remarkable! So, yes, perhaps a seat by the fire …’
‘I’m sure, sir, that if you would care for a glass …?’
I moved to bring him the decanter, but he seemed suddenly overcome by great shyness.
‘No, of course, I mustn’t … Most certainly not. Not without … Well, perhaps just a small glass …’
And with that he settled himself beside the fire and watched with something almost like rapture as I placed the port on a salver, along with one of the glasses that Mrs Hudson had laid out in advance. And yet, for all his eagerness, he did not rush to drink. Indeed he cradled his glass in his palm for so long that I began to think his interest lay purely in its colour and aroma. And when he finally raised his arm, his sip was so small that it seemed barely to moisten his lip. Nevertheless he let out a sigh of such pleasure – a sort of blissful, peaceful joy – that I could be in no doubt as to his satisfaction.
‘Yes, indeed. A remarkable wine,’ he concluded, addressing this verdict more to the fire than to me. ‘A very fine wine indeed. Did you know, Flotsam,’ he went on, raising his voice and turning towards me, ‘that there are barely a dozen bottles of this in London? It is impossible to obtain at any price.’
‘Is that so, sir?’ I was not, perhaps, experienced enough in these matters to understand the awe in his voice. ‘Then how does there come to be a bottle here?’
Mr Rumbelow looked surprised. ‘Why, Sir Reginald Birdlip has a virtual monopoly on the remaining supply, and he sends Mrs Hudson a bottle every year. Has she never told you?’
‘No, sir.’ Mrs Hudson had told me many things, but very few of them related to her previous employment. Of her views on wax polish and grease stains and shoddy fishmongers I knew a great deal. Of her past, nothing. ‘Sir Reginald Who, sir?’
‘Sir Reginald Birdlip, of the Gloucestershire Birdlips. Mrs Hudson was in service with his uncle at the time of the Italian loans affair. Saved Sir Reginald from certain ruin, she did. Of course she was still only a parlour maid then, and I was a very callow young fellow myself. But when she came to me with her observations there was no doubting her sharpness. Had she not understood the significance of the dust accumulating beneath the stair-rods, the fraud might never have come to light. Sir Reginald pretty much owes her everything.’
‘I see, sir,’ I replied, although in truth I saw very little. ‘I don’t think Mrs Hudson has ever mentioned it.’
‘Of course after that she couldn’t remain with the Birdlips,’ the good solicitor continued. ‘Too awkward. She simply knew too much. I was lucky enough to be able to point her towards a rather better position, where she rapidly rose through the ranks. And then of course young Bertie Codlington disappeared from Codlington Hall, and only Mrs Hudson was able to offer any explanation. Had she not realised the importance of the half-eaten omelette and the train ticket for Bodmin, we would never have discovered the bungalow near Scarborough, and Bertie would most certainly have committed bigamy with the under-cook.’
Mr Rumbelow shook his head admiringly as he recalled it.
‘And so things went on, Flotsam. Of course you’ll have heard most of the stories already. And it’s been my great privilege, down the years, to have assisted her from time to time. Indeed it was I who found this post for her, when she told me she wanted a little peace and quiet. That was just after the affair at Baltham Hall, you see. Lord Bilborough never knew who rescued the pearls, but Rothebury knew, and so did Rochester and Lord Arlington, and they all wanted her to come to them. But she’s never one for the limelight, you know. She likes to keep to the shadows.’
‘Indeed I do, sir, indeed I do.’ The voice startled us both, coming as it did from the actual shadows by the back door. Mrs Hudson had let herself in so quietly that neither of us had been aware of her presence. ‘And if you please, sir, you won’t go filling Flotsam’s head with all those stories. Flotsam is a bright girl but she has a lot of learning ahead of her, and she’ll learn all the quicker if she’s not distracted by nonsense of that sort.’
‘Er, quite so, Mrs Hudson.’ Mr Rumbelow coughed apologetically. ‘Yet you cannot deny that over the years your position in some of our great houses has made you privy to some remarkable goings-on. She is too modest, Flotsam,’ he concluded. ‘Always a good deal too modest.’
‘I see you have made a start on the Mulgrave, sir.’ Mrs Hudson’s voice was stern but I knew her well enough by then to detect the warmth in it. ‘Is it to your satisfaction?’
‘Why, madam …’ Mr Rumbelow seemed genuinely lost for words. ‘It is … it is everything you told me and more. When you told me you planned to open a bottle . . . Why, such felicity, Mrs Hudson, such perfect felicity!’
‘Yes, sir, I thought you would enjoy it. And of course as my time here comes to an end, it is I who should be thanking you. I asked you to find me a quiet place free from scandal and skulduggery, and this position has been exactly that. Working here has been a pleasure, hasn’t it, Flotsam?’
I bobbed my agreement, and Mr Rumbelow allowed himself another sip of the port. Thus fortified, he took a deep breath.
‘Which brings me, of course, to my reason for seeking this interview. For it was not, you understand, solely with the intention of relieving you of your old tawny. Mrs Hudson, it has come to my attention that you have yet to find yourself a new position and your tenure here will end all too soon. Now, I am aware that a woman of your talents, for there is never a household run in quite the way that yours is run . . . As I say, a woman of your talents cannot be short of offers of, er, employment, from any number of quarters. But if I could offer any assistance …’
‘Go on, sir,’ encouraged Mrs Hudson, ‘your advice is always welcome, although I have a small sum put away and a mind to wait for the post that suits me.’
‘Quite. Just as you say, Mrs Hudson. Quite so. But in the last few days I have received a most earnest missive from Lord Arlington renewing his previous offers. I need hardly tell you …’
‘His Lordship’s good opinion is most gratifying, sir, but that house of his at Egremont … A most unappealing edifice, and inconvenient in every way. No wonder the soup there is never properly warm.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Mr Rumbelow allowed his forehead to pucker a little. ‘I did indicate to his lordship that I thought your agreement unlikely … But if Egremont does not appeal, how about Woolstanton? Or Rothebury Manor? I know you would be welcomed with great enthusiasm at either establishment. Or failing those, I believe a discreet approach to Lady Carmichael …’
But Mrs Hudson’s face remained impassive as a series of great names were listed to her and, when Mr Rumbelow tailed off, the housekeeper reached into her apron and produced a neat square of paper.
‘The truth is, sir, that while the positions you mention are all very well, there is a particular post that I have in mind. I believe this address is familiar to you?’
She handed the paper to Mr Rumbelow with great dignity, but it was very clear from the solicitor’s reaction that the address she had given him was not one he had anticipated. His eyebrow twitched, then twitched again, and when he raised his eyes there was something approaching alarm in them.
‘Why, yes, Mrs Hudson. I handled this lease myself only a few days ago. The new tenants are two gentlemen, medical men of a sort, who have just taken these rooms in Baker Street. And it is true that they do indeed wish to engage a housekeeper. But I must tell you at once, Mrs Hudson, and in the most emphatic terms, that the position would be very different from those you are used to. It is but a pair of gentlemen in rooms who require someone to keep their little establishment in order. The gentlemen will mostly dine out, but there would be no cook to prepare what they may require in terms of breakfast or luncheon. I fear that side of things would all devolve to the housekeeper and whatever help she may have.’
He shook his head again and almost shuddered, as if appalled at the idea being put to him.
‘Now, I need hardly tell you, Mrs Hudson, that such a post would be very far beneath those to which you are accustomed. Oh dear, yes, very far indeed. And to be honest with you, the gentlemen concerned are very far from being your usual gentlemen. They have certain requirements of their domestic surroundings that are very far from orthodox. Yes indeed. Very, very far. One of the gentlemen mentioned that the housekeeper he was seeking must have no aversion to blood.’
I detected one of Mrs Hudson’s eyebrows rise very slightly above the horizontal, but she said nothing.
‘That is not to say,’ the lawyer continued hastily, ‘that there is anything in the least bit ghoulish about the gentlemen in question. They come with the most impeccable references. One indeed has recently covered himself in glory in Afghanistan. But given their unique requirements, I feel certain they will struggle to fill the position, even though they are willing to agree the most attractive terms with the individual they consider suitable. Quite enormously attractive, in fact. But, Mrs Hudson,’ he continued, lowering his voice, ‘you must see that such a position could not be for you.’
‘Blood, you say, sir?’
‘Er, blood, Mrs Hudson. But in vials. Always in vials, I am absolutely assured.’
‘And what else, sir?’
‘There was, I believe, some mention of bones. And indeed various organs, but always, I am told, safely stored in jars. And of certain artefacts from foreign parts that may be considered a little morbid by our modern society. One of the gentlemen mentioned that there would also be visitors of all descriptions arriving at irregular hours; not to mention various experiments of a chemical nature. Some playing of the violin may also take place, I believe. And the gentlemen stressed that they wished to appoint someone with a rational mind and a keen understanding. A self-defeating aspiration, I fear,’ concluded the lawyer, shaking his head, ‘for anyone possessed of either would surely see that this was a position to avoid at any cost.’
Mrs Hudson’s eyebrow trembled for the briefest of moments. Then she rose to her feet and began to refold the laundry in a way suggestive of deep thought.
‘You interest me strangely, sir,’ she said at last. ‘It is not, as you say, the sort of position I would usually contemplate. But I am sure the gentlemen would also be requiring a maid like young Flotsam here?’
Mr Rumbelow looked momentarily disconcerted but then nodded slowly.
‘Well, indeed, Mrs Hudson. I am sure they must. And if you are really serious … Well, I’m sure Flottie here would be admirably suited to the gentlemen’s needs.’
‘And no doubt on similarly generous terms?’
‘Well, Mrs Hudson, if you really are determined to pursue this strange fancy … As I say, if you are so determined, then, yes, I’m sure the gentleman would wish to recognise Flotsam’s unique worth.’
Mrs Hudson folded the last piece of linen with a flourish.
‘Very well, Mr Rumbelow. You may inform Mr Sherlock Holmes that he has my permission to call.’
What took place when the gentleman did call, and just what passed between them, was something to which I was never a party. But on returning home on the evening of the following day, I was passed on the steps by a gentleman ascending. He paused for a moment to look at me and I was greatly struck by his restless, inquisitive demeanour. His features were not unusually defined, though many since have described them so. But the movement of his eyes as they passed over me in exacting scrutiny gave a great impression of restlessness, as if exposed to the winds of many different moods.
‘You must be Florence,’ he concluded, his examination complete.
‘Flotsam, if you please, sir.’
‘Precisely!’ he exclaimed, beginning once again to ascend the steps with an animal swiftness. ‘We shall all do very nicely!’ were the last words I heard before he vanished into the fog.
And in that way began a whole new existence. The next morning we said goodbye to our familiar basement and were instead marvelling at the piles of strange boxes and mysterious cases that had been sent on to Baker Street. I confess that as I wandered among them like an Israelite among the Pyramids I was subject to a growing curiosity about the strange gentlemen who possessed such exotic personal effects. Next to a large upright packing case the size of a wardrobe lay a small red chest marked Poisons. Beside it was an even smaller box marked Hair: Northern and another, Hair: Asiatic. Next to the fireplace was an old trunk, inscribed Various: Strangulation, Asphyxiation, Mesmerism, which, when moved, revealed the most thrilling of all – a flat case no thicker than a Bible bearing the legend Blood: Human.
Mrs Hudson did little to put an end to my ferocious curiosity as she unpacked the various domestic implements that had been sent on by Mr Rumbelow’s office according to a lengthy list she had composed the night before.
‘Bless you, Flottie, I have scarcely met Mr Holmes and I know very little of the man. Our conversation was confined to my telling him a little bit about myself and what he could expect from me. He strikes me as the kind of man who may benefit from a mite of frankness. Dr Watson, of course, I have yet to meet.’
‘And Mr Holmes is a medical man too, is he not?’
‘I can’t say that he is, Flottie. In fact I understand his interests lie in quite a different direction.’
‘Yes, ma’am, it’s just that Mr Rumbelow said they were both medical men. And from what I can tell, many of Mr Holmes’s books are medical books. And he has cases of instruments like I’ve seen through the windows of the hospital. And many of his cases have markings saying From the College of Surgeons, and such like. And the boy from Mr Rumbelow’s office who came to check on the deliveries told me that he had heard for certain that Dr Watson and Mr Holmes had met in a hospital.’
Mrs Hudson paused in her unpacking and lowered herself gently onto a box marked Garments: Old Crones and Naval Officers.
‘Flotsam,’ she said, drawing me towards her, ‘you’re a bright girl and I’m delighted to say so. There are too many people who will tell you that it is not your place to speculate on things that don’t concern you, but I’ll have none of that. Where would we be if no-one had ever had the sense to speculate a little? And how are we to know what concerns us if we don’t do a little investigation first? The older I get, the more I realise that there’s very little that passes in this whole heaving city and beyond that doesn’t concern us all in one way or another. For if good, decent people don’t keep their wits about them, then it is the likes of Fogarty who will benefit.
‘So let me give you some advice, young Flottie. At your age I was like you, seeing everything, hearing everything, always looking for the facts beneath things so I could put them together in a way that made sense. Well, Flottie, I’ve come to understand that in this world facts are very largely used to keep the likes of us in our places. Now I’ve got nothing against that. I like my place plenty well enough and I’m not looking to move into anyone else’s. But I’ve grown to know that if you start letting facts cloud your judgement you’ll spend most of your life being wrong for all the right reasons. No, Flottie, take my advice and learn to heed that little voice inside you that tells you what’s right even when all the facts get in the way.’
She stirred from the packing case.
‘Now that’s enough lecturing, and don’t you get the idea that I think it’s honest behaviour to go peeking into packing cases that belong to others. If I just went by facts, I’d have clipped your ear and turned you out by now. But right now I need you to unpack the linen. The gentlemen will be here tomorrow night and they’ll be expecting the place to be straighter than a sergeant major’s trousers.’
But the gentlemen arrived much sooner than we expected. I was making up the beds and looking forward to the bit of bread and cheese that we had brought for supper when I heard Mrs Hudson exclaim, ‘My goodness, Mr Holmes, what a shock you gave me! We weren’t expecting you till this hour tomorrow.’
A voice I recognised from the previous evening replied, ‘Apologies, Mrs Hudson. I fear that Watson and I make a science out of the unexpected. So anxious are we to get down to some serious study in the peace of our own rooms that nothing would deter us from altering our plans and proceeding here at once. Let me introduce the excellent Dr Watson. And where is the inestimable, er, Flottie?’
At that I was called in to perform a curtsy that did Mrs Hudson proud. Despite the proliferation of boxes, Mrs Hudson had created a semblance of order in the principle room, soon known to us all as the study, where the two gentleman were now standing; where, over the years, they were to interview so many visitors and pass so many distinguished hours. It was not a large room but had a good window, curtained now with soft dark drapes, and below it a solid dining table. In the centre of the room, the armchairs faced a welcoming fireplace; behind them a door opened onto a narrow corridor, at the end of which lay the stairs down to the street door and our kitchen; while the gentlemen’s bedrooms were gained through a door in the fourth wall. The decoration of the main room was so contrived that by day it was airy and practical but by night the walls seemed closer, the ceiling lower and the space between them dark and comfortable like a cave on a stormy night. In the lamplight, Mr Holmes seemed slightly softer, less lean and angular than before. Dr Watson was a kindly looking man, though not perhaps in the best of health. He mumbled some warm words and then expressed his intention to lie down for a few moments before supper.
‘Supper, sir?’ Mrs Hudson’s eyebrow turned upwards and twitched dangerously. ‘Surely you gentlemen will be dining out tonight? There’s not a mouthful of food in the house, I’m afraid, sir.’
‘Fear not, Mrs Hudson,’ Mr Holmes chuckled jovially, ‘anticipating just such an eventuality, I took the precaution on the very day we secured the rooms of ordering some foodstuffs to be delivered immediately. And that, if I am not very much mistaken, is the very box, there in the corner beneath Watson’s collection of surprising Oriental art works. It will be the labour of an instant for me to transport it to the kitchen and I’m sure we can then prevail upon you to see us towards a little supper.’
It wasn’t until we were alone in the kitchen that I dared look at Mrs Hudson’s face. To my surprise, instead of indignation there was a certain resigned amusement.
‘Well, Flottie,’ she sighed with the suspicion of a smile, ‘we took this position because it interested us to do so. And I can see that the gentlemen aren’t going to disappoint.’
She was halted by a swift knock at the kitchen door, followed in an instant by the entry of Mr Holmes. Our previous employers had never been tolerated in Mrs Hudson’s domestic demesne but at Baker Street things were different from the start. The kitchen there was, for me, the best room in the house, warm and safe whether full of angled morning sunshine or lit only by a flicker from the range. And indeed through the years to come, when Dr Watson was out or resting or keeping his room after one of their disagreements, Mr Holmes was often to be found beside our fire with a bottle or two of brown ale, listening avidly to Mrs Hudson’s explanations of various domestic mysteries. It was, I think, a side of him that Dr Watson never really saw; perhaps it was a side for which the public wasn’t ready.
But this time he was here on more important matters.
‘Well, Mrs Hudson, I trust that the few things I sent along will prove adequate for a simple repast?’
‘Mr Holmes, just when was it that you agreed to take these rooms?’
‘At ten minutes after eleven on the morning of the 22nd,’ he replied.
‘That would be two weeks ago, Mr Holmes.’
‘Fifteen days, to be precise.’
‘And are you aware what effect fifteen days may have on a box of meat and vegetables? Even one which appears to have been thrown together by someone under the influence of strong drink?’
‘Indeed I am, Mrs Hudson. I have had cause to conduct a detailed study into rates of decay of various foodstuffs under a variety of conditions. The results have proved invaluable on several occasions.’
‘Well on this occasion the results have proved something of a mess, Mr Holmes.’ Mrs Hudson began to produce an array of vegetables from the box, all of them showing very clear signs of decomposition. An uncomfortable smell began to circulate around the room.
Mr Holmes picked up the remains of a parsnip, now mostly pulp and squashed almost flat.
‘Fascinating!’ he declared, looking at it closely. ‘From the shape to which this has been reduced one could make accurate assumptions about the shapes of the foodstuffs stored close to it, as well as accurate estimates of their sizes and relative densities. Although I would have to concede, Mrs Hudson, that these items are uniformly unenticing. I may perhaps have failed to apply my knowledge in these matters to the practicalities of the domestic arts. Is there anything to be done?’
‘Look at it like this, sir.’ Mrs Hudson was now engaged in rooting out and discarding an extravagant selection of unrelated comestibles. ‘When we have discarded the inedible, what remains, however unlikely, will have to be dinner.’
Mr Holmes paused as though struck by an important thought.
‘Do you know, Mrs Hudson, I believe you may have something there.’
No-one ever said Mrs Hudson wasn’t the woman to rise to an occasion and by eight o’clock there was a distinctly homely feel to our new quarters. Dr Watson and Mr Holmes, the latter suddenly wrapped in thought, were settled among their packing cases making a healthy supper of bread, cheese, a braised bird we had sent out for and a bottle of burgundy. A much greater air of order prevailed in the kitchen where, the day’s undertakings completed, Mrs Hudson and I were sitting quietly by the fire, watching the restful excitement of the small blue flames licking through a shovelful of fresh coal. Mrs Hudson was drinking a glass of the old Madeira that Mr Rumbelow had thought to send.
‘You know, Flottie, those two gentlemen are innocents. They need a pair like us who are versed in the ways of the world to see that they come to no harm. And we’ll see some excitement in the process, make no mistake. As I always used to say to Hudson . . .’
But she was interrupted by a flurry of sharp raps on the street door, an urgent, imperious knock that burst through our contented calm like a locomotive through fog. At a signal from Mrs Hudson, I hurried to answer. Fumbling with the bolts I became aware of the insidious cold outside, stealing under the door with a frosty menace. And as I swung the door open, I was confronted by a sight more heart-stoppingly chilling than any freezing night. In front of me towered a figure dressed in black, swathed in a cape so dark its edges seemed of the same substance as the night. He wore on his head not a hat, but a soft dark hood that set most of his face in shadow. But not enough to hide from me the cold silver scar that ran from beneath one ear to just beneath his eye. And where his eye should have been, no eye at all, just a deep, monstrous shadow.
Before I could compose myself enough to scream, something was thrust into my hand and the spectre had stepped backwards into the waiting night.
By the thin light from the windows, I could make out what I held in my hand: an envelope addressed in scarlet and a slim silver dagger.