Mrs Hudson Investigates

Susan Knight

Description

A distraught young woman arrives at Baker Street urgently requesting the assistance of Mr Sherlock Holmes. But the great man and his assistant Dr Watson are away. What to do? She confides in Holmes's landlady, Mrs Hudson, who over the years has developed certain powers of deduction from observing her tenant at work. The young woman, responding to this, begs her for help. Reluctantly, Mrs Hudson agrees...Thus begins a series of adventures, recounted engagingly by Mrs Hudson herself. Adventures and investigations which take her across the country, from the Midlands to Sydenham, from Eastbourne to Edinburgh. Her warmth and down-to-earth practicality are brought to bear on a range of strange and startling crimes that occasionally lead even Mrs Hudson herself into mortal danger.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 18 novembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781787054851
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Mrs. Hudson Investigates
Susan Knight



Publisher Information
First published in 2019 by
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor
Royal Drive, London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2019 Susan Knight
The right of Susan Knight to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Brian Belanger




For Ann O’Kelly, loyal reader and encouraging friend



Mrs Hudson and the Smiling Man
What was I supposed to do, the two gentlemen being away? The lady was in such a state and, besides, she refused point-blank to take no for an answer. I felt it incumbent on me under the circumstances to do my best and, if I say so myself, did not manage too badly in the end. Mr. H said not a word about it when he heard. Just asked for his smoking jacket and a pipe. The doctor, now, when I asked could he write up the case the way he did for Mr. H, just laughed and patted me on the shoulder.
So, there you are, I said to myself, Martha, you are on your own here. Either you do the penning of it or no one will and though I am not much of a one for fine words, I intend to try and set it down as it happened and hope for the best.
It was a foggy morning in November and, as I said, the two gentlemen were away out of the city, no doubt getting to the bottom of some new mystery. I was about my usual chores, mightily vexed, it has to be said with the new scullery maid, Phoebe, a gormless country girl of thirteen years, who like as not had never washed a plate in her life before, so many getting broke in the attempt that I had her polishing the silverware, more polish on her hands and nose and forehead and apron than ever on the spoons and forks.
Suddenly there was such a hammering and a banging on the front door as caused us to start even there down in the kitchen, Phoebe, dropping all the silverware on the floor in her agitation, added to the noise and confusion. I hurried to the door, leaving the foolish maid with a stern injunction to recover the spoons and forks and restore them to a sparkling condition, she sobbing betimes.
The impatient visitor turned out to be a young lady, but one in such a state as to have almost lost her ladylikeness (if such a word there be).
“I need to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes this very instant,” said she, attempting to stride past me into the hall without so much as a by your leave.
“That, I am afraid, is an impossibility,” quoth I, barring the way.
She flashed dark eyes at me then, and muttered something under her breath that sounded like “impertinent vixen,” although I might have been mistaken, her voice being so low. I would then have shut the door in her face only that the young lady seemed truly distressed.
“Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are away from London at the moment,” I explained further, “and I have not an inkling as to when they will be back.”
My words, though a simple statement of fact, affected the young lady so hard that she sank in a swoon on the doorstep. I called to Clara, my housemaid, to assist me and together we raised up the visitor and brought her into my parlour, sitting her in my favourite chair by the fire. I then bade Clara fetch a weak concoction of brandy and water and meanwhile attended the young lady with my sal volatile. This soon revived her. She sat up straight, looked around at what I pride myself to be as neat a little room as one might wish for, and finally let those flashing dark eyes alight upon me.
“Away,” she said, picking up on my last words to her. “They are away, you say. Alas, what am I to do?”
At that moment, Clara arrived with the brandy and water. The young lady swallowed it in a single draught and coughed not once, indicating to me that, lady or no, she was not completely unaccustomed to strong spirits. She sat up straighter then and addressed me as follows.
“Forgive me, ma’am, for my impetuous assault on your charming abode but... what is your name...”
I told her.
“Mrs Hudson,” said she. “I am at my wit’s end and if someone doesn’t help me, I fear it may soon be all over for my poor grandfather.”
“I see that you came here in a great hurry from home and from the railway station too,” said I.
“Yes, indeed,” she replied. Then looked at me closely. “How can you tell?”
I have not been Mr. H’s landlady for so long without picking up a little on his powers of observation.
“Your hat is askew upon your head. Your hair looks barely fashioned. Your blouse is buttoned up all wrong. You are wearing odd stockings and you are still clutching a return ticket to... well, that I cannot tell you, though no doubt Mr. H would have deduced it from the nature of the mud on your shoes.”
“Astounding,” she said. “Yes indeed. After what happened over the past two days and the way it has affected my grandfather, I made all haste to catch the early train from N to Marylebone station and then ran all the way here without a thought for my appearance. I must beg your forgiveness.”
Despite the untidiness of her dress, before me sat a young woman of considerable beauty. Indeed, the rush through the cold morning had brought a fine rosiness to the porcelain of her cheeks and a sparkle to her brown eyes. The chestnut curls falling around her face, though shocking in terms of etiquette, made a charming picture, and I hastened to reassure her that under the circumstances, a grandfather’s welfare being in question, there was no need for apologies.
“But let me tell all,” she said, “and then perhaps you can advise me further.”
I shook my head at that but was flattered that she thought me capable of assisting her.
“My name,” she said, “is Beatrice Trueblood. My parents being deceased and me an only child, I dwell with my widowed grandfather in the village of N in Buckinghamshire. Oh, Mrs Hudson,” she added impetuously. “I owe everything to my dear grandfather who took me in when I had nothing and no one to turn to.”
“But now your grandfather has fallen on hard times,” I ventured and she looked at me again with those eyes.
“Only I see, my dear,” I explained, “that your dress, though of quality fabric, is somewhat faded and not of the most current fashion, while your gloves are positively...” I was about to say “revolting” but amended it to the kinder “worse for the wear of them.”
“Mrs Hudson,” said she with determination. “You have convinced me that if Mr. Holmes is unable to help me in this, I can only hope to throw myself on your mercy and further desire, nay insist, that you accompany me to Braxton Parvis forthwith.”
To say I was astonished does no credit to the extremity of the emotion I was experiencing.
“My dear Miss Trueblood,” I babbled. “I can assure you that I have no ability, no experience in solving mysteries. I leave that sort of thing to the gentlemen.”
“But the gentlemen are not here, nor, as I understand it, likely to be so in time to halt what I fear is otherwise an inevitable catastrophe. My dear Mrs Hudson, you have proved to me, through your few words, the perspicuity of your observation and judgment, and you would honour me by accompanying me home. I can explain further the details of the case on the train. I assure you, there is no time to be lost.”
Well, there she was flattering me again. And to tell the truth I was tempted. I had not ventured out of London, nay barely out of Baker Street, for many a long year, not since the passing away of Henry, my dear spouse, and I craved to see the fields and lanes of my youth once more. For the village of N was not unknown to me. As a girl I had a favourite aunt who dwelt in the very place and as a child, with my sister and brother, I had visited her often.
Thus it was that before an hour had elapsed, I found myself on the train with Miss Trueblood, a small case packed with necessities, since the lateness of the morning meant that I should have occasion to stay the night away. I had left dear Clara in charge, instructed to be stern with young Phoebe and note any further breakages to be offset against her wages. I am not in general a harsh taskmistress but hold the firm opinion that only such extreme measures can teach the young to mend their ways.
It was on the train that Miss Trueblood fully opened her heart to me. She explained that it was only for the past few months that she had dwelt with her grandfather. Since the deaths of both beloved parents in the Asian flu epidemic of the early nineties, which took so many worthy lives, she had spent her youth, as she said, (she was now, I surmised, to be aged barely twenty) at boarding school, and her holidays, having as she thought no other living relatives, with her old nurse, Nancy.
Following the passing of this beloved individual and the ending of her schooling, her only recourse as a young woman utterly without means, would have been to take up a position as governess or lady’s companion. However, it was at this moment that, quite unexpectedly, she received a letter from the grandfather she had never met, indicating that he was now returned to E