Mrs Hudson and the Spirits’ Curse

by Martin Davies

  Mrs Hudson looked him directly in the eyes. ‘Sir, I’m sure you will go to great lengths to ensure that information is shared wisely.’

  Mr Holmes, intent on lighting his pipe, seemed oblivious to her earnestness.

  ‘Quite so, Mrs H. I’m glad you appreciate the need to guard the information carefully. We must tell no-one. I made the same point earlier this morning when I called on Mr Moran.’

  There was a terrible crash from the sink as Mrs Hudson dropped the candelabra. ‘You did what, sir?’

  ‘I understand your surprise, Mrs Hudson. When you retired to bed last night, I was still unaware of Mr Moran’s whereabouts. However, driven to action by my concern for his safety, I left the house at once and spent the night with two uniformed officers outside the offices of the shipping company that holds his mail. Shortly after dawn, when the caretaker arrived, we conducted a search and found a note from Moran. It appears he has now found lodgings and I tracked him down to the New Buildings in Portman Street. But rest assured, Mrs Hudson, apart from Watson, Gregory and yourself, Moran is the only person aware of Neale’s address.’

  Mrs Hudson had abandoned the candelabra where it lay and from behind the door had taken my muffler, which she was folding and unfolding as she moved to where I was sitting, quietly ignoring my breakfast.

  ‘Mr Neale is in great danger, sir,’ she said at last.

  Mr Holmes, his pipe now lit, was eyeing her with some amusement.

  ‘Rest assured, Mrs Hudson. Between us, Watson and I will take good care of him. Today, a watch is set and a man is posted at his door. Tonight, I intend to set a little trap. The men shall be withdrawn at dusk and Watson and I shall stand watch instead, as unobtrusively as possible. To all the world it will appear that Neale is unguarded, but if our villains attempt to strike we shall be ready for them. If they have succeeded in tracking Neale to his new address, I rather feel that tonight shall see the dramatic denouement of our little mystery.’

  Mrs Hudson nodded as she wrapped the muffler round my neck. ‘Just as you say, sir. I imagine you are in for an interesting evening.’

  ‘I hope so, Mrs Hudson, I certainly hope so.’ He said it rather absently, and I noticed he was looking pensive. ‘That story Watson told me last night, Mrs Hudson, about Neale and the flower seller. A peculiar tale, was it not? I didn’t know what to make of it at first. But now …’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Mrs Hudson met his gaze, and the great detective shook his head.

  ‘Oh, it is no matter, no matter at all. Now, if you will excuse me …’ He paused. ‘Those flowers on the window sill … Carnations, are they not? Most attractive, Mrs Hudson. They cannot fail to catch they eye. Now I really must bid you good morning …’

  No sooner was he gone than Mrs Hudson turned into a veritable tornado of energy, spinning this way and that as she rushed me into my outdoor clothes, issued orders, retrieved the candelabra and pulled on her own coat, apparently all in the same many-handed movement.

  ‘Flottie, girl, forget the housework. I need you to find Scraggs and send him here as quickly as you can. Tell him to wait for me if I’m not here when he arrives. Then deliver the note for Mr Raffles that I gave you last night and the letter for Mr Rumbelow that you’ll find in the drawer of the dresser. Then go to Whitley’s in Grape Alley and tell him I’ve sent you for rags, your size, dirtiest he’s got and plenty of ‘em. When you’ve done all that, I want you straight back here for a lie down. We’ve got a long night ahead of us, Flottie, and I want you fed, rested and sharp as a dandy’s parting.’

  In my haste, the day seemed to spiral away from me like water down a drain. Mrs Hudson had told me to be back by two o’clock but, although I jostled old ladies and dashed out under the hooves of horses, it took me two hours to track Scraggs to a vegetable stand in Exeter Market. He was trying to charm a young woman on the adjacent fish stand but he abandoned her rather rudely on my approach. His eyes widened when I gave him Mrs Hudson’s message.

  ‘Cor blimey, Flottie! Things is bad when Mrs H gets going like this. Give us five minutes to get someone to watch the stall and I’ll be right along.’ And he turned to pack up his things without any attempt at further flirtation.

  The other errands were quicker but it was fully half past two before I was back in Baker Street with Mr Whitley’s package under my arm. Finding Mrs Hudson had gone out, I obediently did as I had been instructed and went to lie down on my box bed. I even managed to doze a little and it was five o’clock and dark outside when Mrs Hudson woke me with a lump of bread and cheese.

  To my surprise, we got ready in whispers. ‘Mr Holmes is out already and Dr Watson is to follow him shortly,’ she explained, ‘but for now he thinks we’re out on an urgent visit to my sister-in-law in Whitechapel, and that’s the way I want it to stay.’

  ‘What are we going to do, ma’am?’

  ‘I have a bad feeling about tonight, Flottie. A man’s life is at risk and although it’s not my place to say so, I think he’ll be best served if we keep a watch of our own. But since our gentlemen may not share that view, it’s best to keep it to ourselves. And to make sure they don’t find out, we’re going to do a little bit of dressing up.’ And with that she pushed the pile of rags to me across the table.

  Half an hour later, Mrs Hudson turned to me with a grimace of satisfaction.

  ‘I don’t think the gentlemen will spot us now, eh, Flottie?’

  Standing in front of me was the hunched and hideous wreck of a woman, her face deformed with a horrible rash, her nose bulbous, a half-empty bottle of gin sticking out from a filthy, stinking coat. The gin that was no longer in the bottle had been doused liberally over her person so that the smell she had acquired with the coat mixed alarmingly with the stench of cheap spirit. I, in turn, had been transformed into a sadder and more piteous figure than ever Fogarty had managed to make me. Despite so many layers of woollen undergarments that I could hardly walk, I was so hung with torn and tattered remnants of clothing that I gave the impression of being cruelly exposed to the elements. A surreptitious visit to the street had produced such a layer of grime over my face and hands that I looked like dirt come alive.

  Mrs Hudson leaned forward and sniffed me, then stepped back with a demented cackle.

  ‘Flottie,’ she wheezed with a gruesome bronchial gasp, ‘you are truly foul. Now to St Pancras, and God help anyone who gets too close to us!’

  The streets were still busy, yet sad to say we passed unnoticed through them, limping and hunched and disgusting to touch. A light fog was beginning to creep up from the gutters, turning the world grainy and indistinct. Mrs Hudson looked around and sniffed.

  ‘I feared the fog would come on tonight, Flottie. It bodes ill for Mr Neale. If it gets bad you could throw an army of watchers around his door and still have a child evade them. But we must do what we can. When we get there, we’ll watch different sides of the street. Take this for if the fog gets bad.’

  She slid something cold into my palm and my fingers opened to reveal a small tin whistle.

  ‘If you see anything strange, give a light blow on that. And keep your ears open. Scraggs and I will be doing the same. One low whistle is a sign to be on your guard. Two is the signal to meet. That way we’ll find each other however bad it gets.’

  ‘Scraggs, ma’am?’

  ‘I’ve left him outside Mr Moran’s house, but he’s to come and find us if he sees anything unusual.’

  ‘You think Mr Moran is in danger too then, ma’am?’

  But at that moment a policeman approached eyeing us dubiously and Mrs Hudson fell into a fit of disgusting, rattling coughs. When he had passed, I had another question ready.

  ‘What should I be looking for, ma’am?’

  ‘Anything odd, anything you feel doesn’t fit. Anybody carrying a parcel or attempting to deliver a box.’

  ‘Sumatrans, ma’am?’

  This was greeted with an even noisier bout of coughing and an alarming rolling of the eyes which seemed to signal
the end of our conversation.

  The street where the guest house stood was a dark, shabby affair, wider than some of its neighbours but dirty and depressing nonetheless. It ran roughly from north to south, one end leading off towards the station, the other emptying into a seedy network of similar, friendless streets. A gas light towards each end stood for progress, but by the time we arrived the fog had thickened, blurring outlines and asking questions of your eyes. One side of the street was mostly blank walls, the backs of warehouses; the other, where one or two traces of light leaked from shuttered windows, a row of blank-faced dwellings. I knew some of the doorways must conceal rundown guest houses but the fog caught at the meagre light and hid their signs. The one we sought was in the darkest part of the street, most remote from the lamps. Although ill-lit and silent, the street was near enough to the station to ensure a slow trickle of pedestrians and, as the night took hold, it was all too easy for a pair of beggars to sink into the scene and disappear from notice.

  We settled to our watch. I crouched in the shadow where the wall met the pavement and used my outstretched palm as an excuse to examine the muffled faces that passed by. It grew darker. Time and people passed, equally blurred, and the cold became the only constant. Somewhere a clock struck nine. A little after that an elderly gentleman stumbled past and pressed a coin into my hand. When the clock struck ten, it remained the only such offering I had received. Nothing then until half past the hour when a woman stopped and gave me a piece of paper. She told me it was the address of somewhere where they would give me food and pray for me. But it was too dark to read the narrow print. Occasionally I heard the horrible cough of Mrs Hudson or watched her shuffle down the other side of the street, mumbling to herself.

  Then just before eleven, I heard a soft low whistle to my left. Turning towards it I saw a tall figure slouching towards me. I drew into the shadow and there was just enough light to make out a man in a naval uniform, half unbuttoned, his cap pulled down over his face. He was singing drunkenly to himself in an undertone so low I couldn’t make out the words. Still slurring, he changed angle abruptly and tacked past me into the fog.

  ‘What do you think?’ croaked a voice close to me and I turned to see the lopsided figure of Mrs Hudson squinting at me out of the fog.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Hudson! You made me jump. Is that the person we’ve been waiting for?’ I asked, signally in the direction of the departing sailor.

  ‘I don’t think so, Flottie.’ She seemed amused. ‘Mr Holmes is many things but I don’t think he’s our murderer.’

  ‘Mr Holmes?’ I tried to recall the details of the figure that had passed me.

  ‘That’s right, Flotsam. He’s passed me three or four times now and although he’s taken a careful look I don’t think he has any suspicions. So smelling this bad might not be a bad thing after all. Look up there, Flottie.’

  She pointed to the one lit window of the house we were watching. It was a first floor window without shutters, about eight or nine feet above the street, its pale yellow light standing out very faintly in the fog.

  ‘That must be Mr Neale’s room. Every time Mr Holmes passes he takes a look up at it. If anything untoward happens, Flot, keep an eye on that window. And blow your whistle for all you’re worth if you think anything’s going on.’

  I nodded and tried not to shiver. It was going to be a very cold night. For the next hour or so, things went on unchanged. A group of gentlemen in tails, slightly drunk, walked down the middle of the street. The drunken sailor appeared from time to time and then vanished just after midnight to be replaced by a priest caped in a huge, sinister cowl. Only when he passed very close to me as I crouched low in the gutter did a glimpse of naval trouser beneath his hem serve to allay my suspicions.

  Then suddenly, just before one, the fog began to thicken. The light in the house we were watching seemed to flicker and go out. The far pavement disappeared, then the street itself, then the pavement I was sitting on. Neale’s window became an almost imperceptible square of yellow grey that wasn’t there when you looked at it but lingered on the edge of your vision when you turned away. Instinctively I found my other senses sharpening. My ears strained for any suggestion of movement and suddenly there seemed to be lots of it, as though the anonymity of the fog had breathed a pulse back into the dying street. A pair of steady, heavy boots approached from the south end of the street and a uniformed policeman passed within two feet of where I crouched. Two minutes later he passed in the other direction. Inspector Gregory wants to be certain, I thought.

  The next footsteps to approach, no more than a minute after the appearance of the policeman, were hesitant and hard to follow, as if someone were moving forward only to stop, rethink, retreat a few yards and then continue forward. I drew back into a doorway, afraid the approaching feet would stumble over me, and for an instant in the swirling fog I glimpsed the features of Dr Watson, his collar up against the cold, looking desperately around him as though baffled as to how to find his friend. As he passed slowly away from me, the silence closed again. The fog smothered time with a damp hand and it became hard to guess the hour. The flow of pedestrians dried up. The policeman, Watson and the disguised Mr Holmes somehow contrived to avoid each other as if in some complicated danse macabre.

  Just when I thought the moment must come when all three would coincide by chance on the same spot, the heavy silence of the fog was pierced by two urgent blasts of a whistle. The effect was dramatic. It was as if everyone in the street had stopped to hold their breath. Then just as I realised I should be moving towards the signal, another whistle sounded twice no more than two yards to my right. I paused, confused, and a figure leaned out of the fog and touched my arm.

  ‘Flottie!’ it whispered. ‘This way, quickly!’

  Mrs Hudson took my arm and tugged me urgently to the other side of the street, into a doorway I thought must be Mr Neale’s guest house. I soon understood her reasoning. The second signal had produced the opposite effect to the first. After a fractional pause, footsteps began to converge from three sides towards the place where I had stood. It was only the confusion of the fog that prevented a collision, for once the sound had died away it became increasingly difficult to be certain where it had come from. The pair of heavy boots passed us moving southwards at speed. A second pair, lighter and quieter, set off in pursuit of them. A third set of footsteps, still hesitant, passed in the other direction. ‘Holmes?’ a small voice wondered in a whisper. ‘Holmes? Is that you?’

  No sooner had the doctor passed than I became aware of a new set of footsteps edging slowly towards us along the wall. Mrs Hudson pulled me hastily back into the doorway. Our faces now were no more than two inches apart and I could see her straining to listen. Below the sound of his footsteps, the approaching figure was humming ever so softly, and I saw Mrs Hudson’s face relax.

  ‘Friend, not foe,’ she whispered to me. The shuffling footsteps stopped for a moment and then came forward with new certainty. When they reached the part of the pavement adjacent to our recess, Mrs Hudson shot out a hand and hauled in the pale figure of Scraggs.

  ‘Phew, Mrs Hudson,’ he whispered, ‘it’s a proper pea-souper and no mistake. You could march a brass band down here and lose ‘em before they got half way.’ He scrambled onto the step close to us so that our faces were almost touching.

  ‘What’s up, Scraggs?’

  ‘Moran’s gone, ma’am. He went out just after midnight. The lights had all gone out by then and I was just thinking nothing was happening when I caught a glimpse of him slipping out the main door. I followed him up to Marylebone but then the fog came on and he disappeared into it, so I came runnin’ on here. Except the fog’s so thick I ran past this street two or three times without seeing it, which is why I took so long.’

  I could hear Mrs Hudson taking a long, slow breath.

  ‘Moran’s out in this fog, is he? And Mr Holmes’s trap gone all awry because no-one can see their fingers in front of their noses. There’ll be m
urder done tonight if we’re not careful.’

  She scratched softly on the door we were leaning against and to my surprise it opened a fraction. Standing up, Mrs Hudson whispered something into the darkness and the door opened a little wider, enough for Mrs Hudson to guide Scraggs through the gap. Then it closed silently behind him and we were left alone. My teeth had just begun to chatter when the policeman’s heavy boots passed us heading north, towards the station. Close behind stole the lighter, softer footfalls. Not long afterwards Watson’s hesitant footsteps passed us heading south. I leaned against Mrs Hudson and she put an arm around me.

  ‘Cheer up, Flottie,’ she whispered, ‘at times like this Hudson always used to say …’

  But before she could finish, she was brought to a halt by the heart-stopping sound of a human scream, swelling into the night with the serrated agony of terror. While it still hung jagged in the air, we were both up and running, cutting through the fog towards the station end of the road. No sooner had the scream stopped than it was followed by the sound of smashing glass, once, twice and again. We pressed forward but without sound there was no direction and within a few strides we had to stop to listen. At that moment, a few yards to our right, there erupted the sound of two men struggling. A punch landed with a hefty thud, then a cry and the sound of heavy bodies grappling. From the heart of the melee, a frantic voice yelled, ‘Let go, man! There’s a murder taking place!’ while another, panting, gasped, ‘Stop! Police!’

  Miraculously, as though controlled by a higher power, the fog chose that moment to lift a little and we were confronted by the sight of Mr Holmes desperately trying to evade the grip of a burly constable who, as we watched, succeeded in pulling open the priestly cloak to reveal the naval costume beneath.

  ‘You’re no clergyman, Jack!’ he grunted just as Mr Holmes, yielding to frustration, launched a straight left to his jaw. With an oath the policeman lurched backwards and the two of them rolled into the dark of an archway. I was aware of Mrs Hudson’s grip on my arm tensing as she began to turn.