by Barry Cryer
21 March
The doctor returned at three and he quickly became caught up in his friend’s thoughts. He was certainly rather curt with me again today. I wasn’t upset as I know it means they are once more working together, just like old times. I cannot say I know Mrs Watson very well, save for her visit last year, but I hope she realises they are like hounds on a scent, those two, when they are at a case.
22 March
Feeling better today. Gave myself the challenge of making breakfast for Mr H. and the doctor. I had no sooner taken them their toast and coffee this morning, when the same gentleman from the other day, dressed in his ridiculous cape and astrakhan fuzz, comes bounding up to the room. Mrs Turner said that the man in question was actually a king. To be honest, I’ve seen so many different people come through these doors in the last seven years, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he was the Queen of Sheba. It wasn’t long before all three gentlemen were out in the street boarding a rather impressive looking carriage. As they left, they mentioned a pair of women called Adler and Norton, and it is the first time I’ve heard Mr H. talk so much about a woman. I’ve seldom thought about such things but it did make me think. What would it be like to be married to Mr H.? He wants his things just so, even if it means leaving his room in a mess, and he doesn’t take any nonsense. Martha said she wouldn’t be Mrs H. for a thousand pounds and I said what about two thousand? We laughed and laughed. I do sometimes wonder if he ever gets lonely now that the doctor is married. Inspector Lestrade once said he wouldn’t be surprised if Mr H. was lonely but if he is, he’s only got himself to blame. I thought that was unkind. I knew what he meant, but still.
18 July
Very strange and secretive happenings today. I have the cards in front of me of two very distinguished and honourable gentlemen that every person in the country would recognise.32 I also have the card of the wife of one of the gentlemen,33 only she visited separately and in the afternoon. What would Mme Charpentier say if she knew I had all three here under my roof in the same day? Well, she will never find out, it seems. The good doctor visited me this evening before he left, to say that under no circumstances should I reveal their presence here today. Good as my word, the three cards are going on the fire right now. I suppose that all will be revealed in good time. All that I can say is that one of them has visited here before and, knowing Mr H., will do so again.
31 November
I was thinking today of that odd fellow Mr Jankewicz who recently took a room on the top floor. What he got up to, I’ll never know, but talk about a night owl. He was in his room all day and then, quite late at night, I’d hear him go out. He was always wearing a long coat and a homburg hat and carrying a bag. I often used to see him in the corridor at eleven, just as I was closing my door at night. None of my business, obviously – but what was his business?
I must say he was always very pleasant and polite, and once helped me when I got the flue brush stuck up the chimney. Bit of a mystery though and I’ve enough of those with the comings and goings of Mr H. and the doctor.
One day, the police arrived and for once it wasn’t for Mr H. Two constables demanded entry and bustled past his rooms and went up to the second floor. Down they came with Mr Jankewicz. He smiled at me, thanked me for my hospitality and said that he hoped we’d meet again.
I asked other landladies what they’d heard, but nothing. However, Hannah told me this morning that she’d read of a poor man found floating in the Thames wearing an astrakhan coat and homburg, but that could be any number of gentlemen. I still wonder about him.34
22 December
To Cavanaugh’s Music Hall, with Hannah.
Bella Lomax has returned from New York with new songs,35 a new wig and a new husband. I think this one is a doctor. Not that it means she’s one to avoid trouble, as there was quite a stir in the front row this evening. I don’t know what the gentleman concerned was thinking, but there he was, bold as brass, jumping up on stage trying to dance with poor old Bella.
I should say that it is not unheard of for Bella to dance with a member of the audience, but that is always much later on, after Bella has had a chance to gargle with some brandy – which she calls her cough mixture.
Do you know what? Hannah nearly missed the whole thing as she got up to excuse herself halfway through ‘Your Father Never Told You ’Cos Your Mother Never Would’. Odd, I thought, as it’s one of her favourites. She was back in time to see what happened.
Back to this poor lad, ruddy faced and in his best bib and tucker, who began his advances by singing along with Bella. She was not impressed, I can tell you. Every time he tried to finish a line, she changed the words. Very funny. And then, when he began to climb onto the stage (with beer bottle in hand, I might add) Bella did her famous little-girl act. She twirled her ringlets and shouted something into the wings that a little girl would never say. And to think that in days of old she would have joined in. Unfortunately, he found no such welcome on stage. As he was dragged away to the back of the stalls he even made a complaint that Bella sent him a note! The very thought. How we laughed! We saw the gentleman in question a while later. Talk about two lovely black eyes. I don’t think he’ll be interrupting Bella’s act again.
She really is a marvel and one only hopes that she graces us for longer in these dark times.
The mood was lifted considerably when we all sang ‘Gladstone’s Pen is Full of Ink’.
Much Ripper talk on the way home made us thankful that Hannah’s nephew, Marcus, was there to walk us home.
23 December
Christmas visit with the Brayleys. As she handed me another ivy ribbon (honestly, that is six she has given me already) Hannah confessed to me that she had written the note at Cavanaugh’s. Cheeky thing. Happy Christmas!
Page 164 torn out of The Martyrdom of Man by Winwood Reade, annotated by John Watson, with an additional note at the bottom by Sherlock Holmes. Date unknown. Possibly 1872.
J. W.’s notes at the top: ‘Morstan. Mary. Governess. Daughter of a Captain. Indian Regiment. 27? Blue eyes.’
The wife was at first a domestic animal like a dog or a horse. She could not be used without the consent of the proprietor but he was always willing to let her out for hire. Among savages it is usually the duty of the host to lend a wife to his stranger guest, and if the loan is declined the husband considers himself insulted. Adultery is merely a question of debt. The law of debt is terribly severe: the body of the insolvent belongs to the creditor to sell or to kill. But no other feelings are involved in the question. The injured husband is merely a creditor, and is always pleased that the debt has been incurred. Petitioner and co-respondent may often be seen smoking a friendly pipe together after the case has been proved and the money has been paid. However, as the intelligence expands and the sentiments become more refined, marriage is hallowed by religion; adultery is regarded as a shame to the husband, and a sin against the gods; and a new feeling – Jealousy – enters for the first time the heart of man. The husband desires to monopolise his wife, body and soul. He intercepts her glances; he attempts to penetrate into her thoughts. He covers her with clothes; he hides even her face from the public gaze. His jealousy, not only anxious for the future, is extended over the past. Thus women from their earliest childhood are subjected by the selfishness of man to severe but salutary laws. Chastity becomes the rule of female life. At first it is preserved by force alone. Male slaves are appointed to guard the women who, except sometimes from momentary pique, never betray one another, and are allied against the men.
J. W. – A remarkable book, made all the more remarkable by your decision to remove this page to write notes upon. I return it forthwith from the isolation of the bureau to complete your understanding of the Bedouin. S. H.
29 £6.60 in today’s money. Probably wouldn’t buy you a latte in Baker Street these days.
30 Apparently Holmes’s birthday coincided with the Feast of The Epiphany. Make of that what you will.
3
1 Quite what Mrs Hudson had been doing for the previous eighteen years, one cannot say, but this particular branch of London’s seminal underground railway system had been operational since 1865.
32 Could this be Gilbert and Sullivan? I think not.
33 On second thoughts, it could be.
34 Jaroslav Jankewicz, a Polish émigré, was released by the police after questioning during the Ripper enquiries. As something of an amateur Ripperologist myself, I can only see Jankewicz as a red herring. It seems fairly obvious that the famous jockey, Aiden MacGinty, was the Ripper. Quite why people need to speculate any further is beyond me.
35 A playbill of the period reveals the following additions to the Lomax portfolio: ‘Billy the Kid is the boy for me’; ‘A cow and three acres’ (alternate title: ‘Three acres and a cow’) and ‘Diddle diddle dumpling (my son John)’.
1889
29 July
Before I served tea and coffee to Mr H., Dr W. and their visitor Mr Phelps this morning, Mr H. came downstairs to request that I serve him curried chicken, to serve ham and eggs to Dr Watson but to withhold Mr Phelps’s breakfast and deliver an empty plate instead. When I asked Mr H. why, he said nothing but gave me a little cylinder of blue paper to hide under Phelps’s cover. I just hope Mr Phelps doesn’t eat that – what larks!
Having done what he asked and upon my return, Mr H. said that my breakfast is as good as any Scotswoman’s. Why he said that, I’ll never know. Another mystery.
As I left, I heard quite a commotion and then Dr Watson calling down for brandy on account of Mr Phelps nearly fainting.
I said to the doctor that my curried chicken usually produces this reaction, but he was too distracted by events upstairs to laugh at my little joke. I told Hannah later on and she laughed.
CURRIED CHICKEN
1 chicken, 2oz of butter, 2 large onions sliced, 1 apple, 1 pint of gravy, 1 dessertspoonful of curry powder, 1 tablespoonful of flour, 4 tablespoons of cream, ½ pint of gravy and 1 tablespoonful of lemon-juice.
Slice the onions and then peel, core and chop your apple before cutting the chicken into equal joints. Put the butter into a pan along with the peeled, cored and minced apple. Fry this until brown and add the stock, before stewing gently for twenty minutes. Mix the curry powder and the flour with a little of the gravy and stir this into the pan. Let it simmer for half an hour, and then add the cream and lemon-juice. Serve with boiled rice.
Dr Watson often likes me to add some shallots with shavings of little garlic.
4 October
Here’s a thing. This morning, we arranged for a hansom to take Dr Watson to Paddington. Mr H. had his face on – I call it his ‘case face’. Normally this means that he is excited, but for some reason, after the doctor left, he seemed troubled. I wondered what was going on. Well, when Mr H. went out this afternoon, he left a book behind. Not that I’m one to be nosey but I noticed it was called Crossing’s Wanderings and Adventures on Dartmoor and it was open on a page about a family called Baskerville, who lived there. I remember that this was the name of the gentleman who was here earlier in the week – I have his card. Hannah was with me and she said that she would like to play detective. So she read further and we saw some pencil marks on a bit about a dog. I could not make head nor tail of it, I can tell you, and nor could Hannah. We wondered why Mr Holmes and Dr Watson had not gone together but before we could wonder any more, Mr H. came back to retrieve his book. He looked down at the book and then up at us, and smiled.
‘Don’t worry Mrs Hudson,’ he said. ‘Dr Watson is quite safe.’
I believed him. There’s more goes on in that head than we will ever know.
14 October
Although Dr Watson has moved out, he seems to still be living here. I will ask him in the morning what his intentions are. Mr Disraeli has gone missing.
15 October
Still no sign of Mr Disraeli.
23 October
Mr Disraeli has met his end. I saw him in Baker Street chasing a cat called Napoleon who had stolen a fish. Mr Disraeli was killed trying to outrun a cab that had got in his way. Billy has buried him in the yard and Martha sang a song about a fishing boat she’d remembered from school. He died nobly, trying to battle a villain. Mr H. would have been proud.
1890
1 January
It is nearly ten years since I began writing a diary and nearly ten years since Mr Holmes moved in. Every day seems to bring a new challenge stranger than the last. I suppose if they made sense, Mr H. would be out of a job.
16 November
Mr H. has been working at a case down at Rotherhithe and he came back today looking quite terrible. White as a sheet he was and, with not so much as a sound, he took to his bed. I can’t say I’ll ever get used to his manner, but I am a little worried when it prevents him getting some help.
17 November
Mr H. often stays in his room for a whole morning but today I was understandably concerned when he didn’t appear. When Mrs Brayley’s nephew, Marcus, returned with the navy from the Caribbean last year, he left me some Warburg’s Fever Tincture.36 I climbed the stairs this afternoon to offer Mr H. some but there was not even a response. This is more than worrying. If only the doctor were here. He would know what to do. I shall insist in the morning that I fetch a doctor. I don’t think I shall sleep much tonight.
18 November
Mr H. said he would not let me get a doctor at first when I persisted this morning, but thank heavens he eventually let me fetch Dr Watson. There was no other way to put this but I thought he was dying. For three days now he’s had neither food nor drink and he has been sinking fast. This morning I saw his bones sticking out of his face and his great bright eyes, now dimmed, looking at me. I doubted he would last the day. I could stand no more of it and thought that now the disease was taking hold, I must do something about it.
I returned with Dr Watson, who wasted no time in going up to his old rooms to talk to his stubborn friend. Immediately there were raised voices and even an almighty cry from Mr H. – I thought that there must be some hope.
I have to say I did not behave very well when Dr Watson came down, and I must confess to having shed some tears. However, things moved so quickly afterwards that I didn’t know what to think.
Dr Watson returned with a Mr Culverton Smith. And then Inspector Morton followed. Then there was a crash and a scuffle and Mr Culverton Smith was led out. All in a matter of minutes.
Mr H. and the doctor followed a little while later and would you believe it, Mr H. was in fine fettle with not a trace of his former complaint. Rather than explaining events to me, he merely asked for supper to be cancelled as he would be dining at Simpson’s. I was left none the wiser and not a little unhappy, I can tell you. Next time he’s at death’s door, he might have the decency to tell me. After today’s events, I think I’ll need some medication myself and probably more than one.
28 December
I prepared a woodcock for Mr H. and the doctor as agreed, and then they both hurry out of the door without so much as a by-your-leave. I wouldn’t mind only I spent the best part of an afternoon cleaning a goose for Mr H. and he immediately gave that away to a loony in a scotch bonnet. Merry Christmas indeed!
Initially, I thought this was a picture of Mrs Hudson herself, but the signature on the back seems to give a lie to this. I confess your humble researcher was at a loss to determine its origin of such a name but, nothing daunted, I pursued the quest and noticed a strong resemblance to another photograph. This, I had discovered was a distant relative of Mrs Hudson, Charlotte Kirby, who had moved to the Outer Hebrides where she had married a crofter. Nevertheless, who was the ‘Michaelene’ scrawled on the reverse?37 The hunt was on. Such a distinctive name must emerge and, heavens be praised, it did. Michaelene Ferrier was the sister of Charlotte and had a very different life. A brilliant medical student, she qualified and practised in the East End of London as one of the first female GPs in Britain. She became involved in social wo
rk among the poor and, due to befriending various (ahem) ‘ladies of the night’, also came to know some of the criminal class. The details are not clear, but what is an established fact is that she was once arrested in possession of explosives. Around this time, anarchists were active in the area and it is intriguing to speculate how such a socially conscious woman came to embrace such a cause. My research produced the amazing discovery that she became known as ‘Fireworks Ferrier – the gelignite girl’,38 and, sad to relate, she finally blew herself up in Southwark. When one realises that Mrs Hudson’s husband also suffered a similar combustive end, the coincidence is remarkable. Explosive revelations indeed.
36 Warburg’s Fever Tincture was a fever medicine that is no longer readily available. It was developed in 1834 by German physician Dr Carl Warburg. His tincture was very popular at the time, however, I consider it to be inferior to quinine. I happen to be a keen amateur tropical disease specialist and have managed to identify Holmes’s fever as a melioidosis or a rare form of TB known as Vietnamese tuberculosis. I feel confident that Dr Watson would have come to the same conclusion had he been given the chance. Instead, he probably made the rather snap judgement that it is some sort of coolie disease from Sumatra. The coughing, weight loss, fatigue and fever may indeed lead one to this conclusion, naive as it may sound, but an analysis of the bloody vomit, aching upper back, sleeplessness and clear signs of iron deficient related ennui would point the good doctor in my direction. How people die of it and how many a year is an area I am keen to follow up on (note to self: new book?), given that early signs give the number of potential fatalities to be as much as 200,000.