by Mrs Hudson
Mrs Hudson and the Spirits’ Curse
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
Prologue
The Curse of the Spirits
The Tell-tale Stain
The Lost Child
The Sailor’s Widow
The Fell Sergeant
The Vanished Witness
The Guard Watch
A Lesson
The Night Thief
The Wisdom of Solomon
The Servant of Chance
The Errant Sentry
The Sealed Room
The Hittites’ Revenge
The Clear Light of Day
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Copyright
No book can give exact laws and regulations which will be found sensible to every house; but common-sense rules apply to every household in all stations of life
Every-Day Cookery and Housekeeping Book
Prologue
†
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 a
sk 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?’