THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF CHARLOTTE HOLMES
Hilary Bailey
Contents
Introduction
1 Introducing Miss Holmes and her Friend
2 The Kravonian Adventure
3 An Adventure in Whitechapel
4 Who killed the Little Cockney Nightingale?
5 A Missing Boy and a Royal Connection
6 The New Monster
7 Mary Watson Takes a Hand
A Note on the Author
Introduction
The first Sherlock Holmes story was published by its author, Arthur Conan Doyle, in 1887. For forty years (including the gap where he killed off his hero and had, by popular demand, to bring him back to life again) Arthur Conan Doyle continued with novels and tales about the famous detective and his friend and biographer, Dr John Watson. Yet Sherlock Holmes exists in something of a vacuum. We are never told anything about his parents or early life. It’s not until quite late in the saga that Sherlock even reveals to Dr Watson the existence of his equally brilliant brother, Mycroft.
Nevertheless, man without a past though he may be, Sherlock lives. And I have taken the liberty now, over a hundred years after his invention, to add a third member to the Holmes clan. This is Charlotte, also a clever scientific detective. Readers will find a portrait of the family as children described in the early pages of this book – Mycroft with butterfly net, Sherlock with telescope and little Charlotte on the grass at their feet, reading …
1
Introducing Miss Holmes and her Friend
Number 11, Tuesday Street in Chelsea is a short street of terraced cottages erected in 1855. Tuesday Street runs off Cheyne Walk which itself runs parallel to the River Thames opposite Battersea. Thus, Tuesday Street is at right angles to the river and Number 11 itself is only some four hundred yards from that great, tidal body of water.
The little houses have, in front, short gardens and at the back much longer ones. In them residents grow vegetables, flowers, trees and shrubs. Here is where they hang out their washing; some even keep hens. Beyond the back wall of these gardens lie the equally long back gardens of the street’s next-door neighbour, Wednesday Street.
Inside the identical houses a short passageway from the front door leads to one door on the right which opens on to a small parlour, or drawing-room, if the more dignified term is appropriate. The second door is to the dining-room, which looks out over the back garden. Beyond that is a kitchen. Upstairs are two bedrooms and higher up still, under the eaves, two small attic rooms. At Number 11 these were occupied by two servants – the cook-housekeeper, Mrs Digby, and the maidservant, Betsey Morpurgo.
At the time we’re talking about, in the last years of the nineteenth century, Tuesday Street was a modest street, the kind of place where might have been found a young government clerk and his wife, with one servant, or an elderly widow living in retirement, or, perhaps, a hard-pressed family man with a hard-pressed wife, no domestic help and children sleeping in the attic rooms. Indeed, next door to Number 11, at Number 9, lived a quiet, middle-aged couple, retired on a small pension from the Indian Civil Service, and at Number 15 (the unlucky Number 13 having been avoided) lived a rumbustious family of four: the man a painter – of rooms, pub signs and, when time and finance permitted, large oil paintings – the woman an occasional seamstress for a firm which made smart dresses in the West End, and their energetic twins, Eddie and Dora.
The really unusual aspect of Number 11 was that it was occupied by a beautiful young woman in her twenties, living alone except for two servants. Also unusual was the fact that, at the bottom of the garden, where the other residents of Tuesday Street nurtured vegetables or flowers, or kept their hens, or merely allowed a tangle of weeds to grow, the young woman had built, across the length of the whole back wall, a brick laboratory, supplied with gas and water and equipped in the most modern way.
It was in this garden on a pleasant late summer afternoon that two women were sitting on cane chairs, enjoying a cup of tea. The tea things were on a small table in front of them. A blackbird sang in the branches of an apple tree by the wall at the end of the garden, next to the laboratory. The only other sounds were a bee buzzing in a clump of larkspur and, from a distance, the faint clop, clop and a rattling of wheels as a horse pulled a cart up a road some distance away.
It was the shorter of the two women – plump-faced with big, blue eyes and a cloud of fluffy blonde-brown hair – who spoke first, after a short silence. A little tentatively she asked, ‘Charlotte, tell me – please do not think me impertinent, but why do you think it is that of the three of you – your brothers and yourself – none of you has so far married? Not,’ she added hastily, ‘that it is too late for any of you. As for you, you are still less than thirty and these days that is not too late for a woman …’ She broke off as she saw her friend’s eyes resting on her, steadily and quizzically. ‘Oh, Charlotte,’ Mary sighed. ‘Is it considered wrong to speak of marriage to a New Woman, an advanced woman?’
Her friend, who was tall and slim and wore, for the day was hot, the gauzy dress of an Arab woman (a present given to her by a grateful Sultan Abdul Hamed when she assisted in stopping the dreadful massacre of the Armenians) laughed aloud and said, ‘Of course not, dear Mary.’ She had large black eyes and her heavy, curly hair hung loose on her shoulders. Her nose, a little prow, was a feminine version of her brother’s.
‘Perhaps you are too clever,’ sighed Mary. ‘Men so dislike a clever woman.’
‘For myself,’ Charlotte said, stretching, ‘I find little rational reason for marriage – ’
‘Rational!’ cried Mary. ‘Rational, Charlotte? Where is reason when love comes through the door? The Holmes family is perhaps too rational. Two rational brothers, bachelors, not young, and yourself, also unmarried, following in their footsteps. But Charlotte, what may suit a man may not be the best thing for a woman. You have a double first in mathematics, strong feelings and convictions and a comfortable life, but what of the future? A double first is no compensation for the love of a good man.’
‘I am so lazy, my dear,’ said the other woman, stretching out even further in her chair, ‘I’m so comfortable in my little cottage here, with all my things about me – and friends, and books and my laboratory …’
Some listeners might have been slightly sceptical about Charlotte’s statement. Mary, though was not. ‘Laboratory! What comfort is that on a cold winter’s night? Apart from love, Charlotte, there is companionship in marriage.’
‘Hm,’ said Charlotte, looking up into the blue, blue sky. ‘You must admit it was you, the companionably married person, who sent a telegram inviting yourself to tea and dinner as you were so lonely …’
‘I did not mean a couple has to be together all the time like Siamese twins,’ said Mary crossly. ‘I admit, though, that John has been a very long time in the West Country, with your brother.’
‘At Baskerville Hall, isn’t it?’ said Charlotte Holmes. ‘Shall we go in? It’s turning a little chilly. Well,’ she looked down at her gauzy dress, ‘perhaps this is more suitable for Constantinople than Chelsea.’
They went through the back door and into the kitchen, where Mrs Digby, the cook, and Charlotte’s cheeky servant Betsey were sitting at the kitchen table, stoning plums.
They entered Charlotte’s charming little sitting-room, which had a cherry-coloured carpet, many interesting ornaments and pictures, a comfortable sofa and two blue and white chairs. Mary sank into one of these and Charlotte seated herself at the piano, over which hung a portrait of three children, two boys and a girl in a garden, beneath a tree. One of the lads was round, wore a panama
hat and carried a butterfly net. The second brother was tall and thin and held in his hand a telescope. At their feet in the grass was a small girl in a white dress. She had a lot of black hair and lay, one chubby hand beneath her cheek, reading a very large book.
The older version of the girl now turned to Mary and said, from the piano stool, ‘It’s high time your husband and my brother returned from Baskerville Hall. I’m uneasy. I think they’ll pick on the wrong man – and blame a large mongrel dog, too.’
‘Do you believe Sherlock – and John – could be wrong?’ exclaimed Mary.
‘Unlikely as it seems,’ Charlotte said.
The wife of the celebrated Dr Watson looked doubtful, but did not reply. She leaned back as Charlotte began to play one of Beethoven’s later sonatas, then, realising this did not suit her friend’s mood, or tastes, started a selection of tunes from the operas of Gilbert and Sullivan. Soon they were singing, Mrs Watson’s high, true soprano well complemented by Charlotte’s lower voice.
They must not have heard Betsey’s first knock for it was only with the second, followed immediately by the bursting open of the door, that Charlotte stopped playing. Startled, both women looked towards the tall figure in the doorway. He was evidently not a man in the habit of waiting at doors, especially the doors of small London cottages, for behind him, trying to peer over his shoulder, Betsey was crying indignantly, ‘He couldn’t wait. He was too impatient.’
Meanwhile Charlotte had risen from the piano and crossed the room to greet the man in the doorway, her arms outstretched. How gracefully she moved, thought Mary. Charlotte took the man’s hands in hers. He was tall, with longish blond hair and blond moustache. He wore a tight red jacket, heavily frogged in gold, and tight trousers of the same material. A high cap was under his arm, on his feet gleaming black boots.
‘Colonel Justin!’ Charlotte exclaimed delightedly. ‘How wonderful to see you! And you gave me no warning you would be in London.’
‘There was scarcely time,’ he said, smiling. ‘We came here in response to an urgent message from Mr Gladstone for a conference designed – ’
‘To safeguard the independence of Kravonia and prevent a war between Russia and Germany,’ Charlotte said gravely. ‘A very serious affair. But,’ she said more lightly, ‘now you are here there will be no war. Please sit down and let us talk.’ To Mary Watson she said, ‘This is my old friend Colonel Justin. And this, Colonel, is my friend Mrs Watson.’
The handsome Colonel advanced towards Mary, bowed, clicking his heels as he did so, then lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘I am delighted to meet you, Mrs Watson,’ he said. ‘I have heard much of Dr Watson, of course.’ He turned to Charlotte. ‘Alas,’ he said, ‘I cannot stay. We have much to do before the conference begins tomorrow morning. I come merely to present Prince Rudolph’s deepest compliments, Miss Holmes, and as the bearer of a gift he much hopes you will accept. I also deliver an invitation to a ball, tomorrow at the Mansion House, to which he hopes you will accompany him. Also, his profound apologies for the shortness of the invitation, due to the hasty nature of his arrival.’
As he spoke Mary’s hand had gone to her breast. The quiet afternoon she had anticipated had become a matter of the arrival of a handsome Kravonian officer, the revelation of Charlotte’s involvement in high politics – and now her friend was to attend a ball given by the Lord Mayor, accompanied by the heir to the Kravonian throne! But, she observed, Charlotte herself seemed a little taken aback, though, attempting to disguise this, she replied with seeming calm, ‘I should be most pleased to accept Prince Rudolph’s invitation. But what of the Princess Ursula? Is she not with her husband?’
‘They are not yet married,’ answered Colonel Justin. He smiled, showing very white teeth. ‘I’m astonished to be telling the intelligent Miss Holmes something she does not know.’
‘When I left Kravonia for the last time all the arrangements for the wedding had begun. It was to be last September, was it not? I was forced to go abroad in August to investigate the murder of a Pathan leader – a trail which led me to Leningrad and then to Paris, and, incidentally, involved an interesting case of lycanthropy. At some point I recall noting in an old copy of The Times that the wedding had been postponed because of the illness of King Weland. I returned to Britain at Christmas, assuming the marriage had taken place.’
‘Strange that you did not enquire?’ Colonel Justin remarked.
‘I am often busy,’ said Charlotte coldly. ‘One does not enquire into every little thing.’
Bowing slightly, Colonel Justin said, ‘Of course.’
‘I now see,’ Charlotte said, ‘that this conference is more important than I thought. Without the Holstein marriage …’
Colonel Justin nodded. ‘Exactly so.’ Then he took from inside his tight jacket a small package wrapped in white paper and told her, ‘I am sorry to be abrupt but we have many miles of paper to cover before nightfall, so, sadly, I must give you Prince Rudolph’s little gift and leave you. I cannot say how much more I would like to be with you in this charming room than round a huge table with many men smoking cigars, discussing boundaries and regiments.’
‘But duty calls,’ suggested Charlotte, as he handed the parcel to her. ‘Please thank the Prince and say I look forward to seeing him tomorrow.’
After Colonel Justin had made his farewells and left, Charlotte sat down in the chair opposite Mary with her hand to her brow. She stared in contemplation at the carpet, the ceiling, the fireplace, then into Mary’s face as she murmured, ‘A very curious business. Very curious. No wedding. Had you heard anything of this?’
‘No more than you. I saw the Court page of The Times in September, the one you also saw, which stated that the wedding was postponed because of the King’s illness. That is all.’
‘I should have guessed,’ Charlotte said. ‘If King Weland had been ill the wedding would have been hastened, not delayed.’ She smiled, then struck herself reproachfully on the breast. ‘Ah – heart! Heart! How you betray us.’
Mary sat up in her chair, her big blue eyes wide with curiosity. ‘Do you mean your own heart, Charlotte?’
Charlotte recovered herself. ‘Certainly not,’ she said severely. ‘Well then, there must be another reason for the cancelled wedding. The Holstein marriage is most important. Holstein stands on Kravonia’s western border, on the German side. The alliance would protect Kravonia against its eastern neighbour, Russia. No wonder Mr Gladstone is alarmed. Moreover, the bride was to bring a healthy dowry with her.’
‘For me,’ Mary said, ‘Kravonia is a faraway country of which I know little. That parcel you have so casually disposed of on the small table beside you is much more important. Are you never going to open it?’
‘Ah,’ said Charlotte. ‘Some things may have escaped me but at least I know what is in the parcel.’
‘I have just seen it delivered by the hand of a handsome Colonel of the King’s Guard, along with an invitation to a ball at the Mansion House, and I am thoroughly excited. If you don’t open the parcel I shall seize it and open it myself,’ declared Mary.
‘Open it, then,’ said Charlotte.
Mary opened the paper and then the leather box inside. Her eyes widened and she pulled out the contents of the box and held it up, winking and glittering in the afternoon sunshine flooding through the windows. There could be no doubt about the value, or the antiquity, of the long necklace. Glowing rubies and bright emeralds alternated on a chain of finely worked gold. At the end of the necklace swung a large, oval ruby.
Charlotte frowned. ‘The Osteire Blood and Grass – red for the blood Kravonia has shed defending its freedom, green for the land itself. It dates back to the seventeenth century, when Peter the Great married a female relative to King Parsifal of Kravonia. This was part of her dowry. Of course, it should never have left the State Treasury.’
Mary, swinging the necklace to and fro, suddenly understood something and asked bluntly, ‘Is there perhaps some feeling between yourself
and Prince Rudolph?’
Charlotte sighed. ‘We are very fond of each other. Nothing can come of it, though. Naturally we could not marry, or only morganatically, and morganatic marriages, those between commoners and royalty, are not acceptable in this country. And Kravonia relies on Rudolph to marry for his country’s benefit.’
‘I am astonished,’ was all the astonished Mary could find to say.
‘I, of course, am a republican,’ declared Charlotte. ‘But that’s not the point – I shall have to return the bauble.’
Mary returned the necklace to its box and put it regretfully on the table beside Charlotte’s chair. She looked down at the jewels wistfully. Perhaps Charlotte was too clever and high-minded to care about giving them back. She realised this was not the case when Charlotte sighed, ‘I’d better return it tomorrow, before the temptation to keep it grows.’
‘I condole with you deeply, my dear,’ sympathised Mary. ‘I can imagine no greater hardship.’
‘Try it on,’ suggested Charlotte.
‘May I?’ Mary said, her eyes gleaming. ‘No – I must not. I must go home. I have a thousand things to do.’ Yet her hand sneaked out to the box where the necklace glittered and, before she knew it, she had slipped it over her head. She examined herself in the gilt mirror above the mantelpiece, turning her head to and fro to catch the light.
‘To the manner born,’ Charlotte said.
‘For the first and last time, alas.’ Her hand went reluctantly to her throat and she began to take off the necklace. ‘I must go home to ordinary life.’
As she put the necklace back there came a knock at the front door. She closed the box as if the police had come to arrest her.
Betsey, at the sitting-room door, said dubiously, ‘There’s a young person to see you, Miss Charlotte.’ She added, ‘She looks highly agitated. I hope she hasn’t been up to anything.’
‘Well, let’s find out,’ said Charlotte. ‘Show her in.’
The Strange Adventures of Charlotte Holmes Page 1