Читать книгу Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #5 - Gary Lovisi - Страница 3

Hôtel des Deux Mondes

22 Avenue de l’Opera

Paris

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27th April 1894

My Dear Mrs Hudson,

It is with deepest regret I must inform you that I can no longer stand as your tenant in the lodgings at 221 C Baker Street and shall not be returning to them when I have concluded my holiday.

Though the modest rent and your good Scotch cooking, Dear Lady, satisfy both pocketbook and palate, there exist, I fear, extenuating circumstances, the nature of which I no longer possess the stamina of character to endure. I am confident you realize I speak of none other than my fellow lodger, Mssr Sherlock Holmes.

I must confess, when first I saw your advert for rooms to let, I recognized the address from Doctor Watson’s memoirs in Strand magazine. I thrilled at the notion of sharing lodgings with the world-renowned Mssr Holmes, offering an additional half-sovereign to the Hansom driver would he but get me there in all haste; that I might arrive before you had let the rooms to someone else. I sobered of this upon meeting you Mrs Hudson, and was humbled and gratified that no less a discerning and gracious lady as yourself deigned to accept such as me into her personal residence. It is this last thought — which I pray shows I hold you in the highest regard — that prompts me to state herein the reasons which prevent me from enjoying any further stay in your lodgings.

Mssr Holmes, inarguably graced with one of the most astute minds of Her Majesty’s era, is nevertheless possessed of certain eccentricities, quirks — dare I say — peculiarities, as well as an often bizarre panoply of visitors, which serve to make occupying the same dwelling as he less than amenable.

Mssr Holmes:

Frequently does not sleep for days on end. He paces audibly about, often playing somber strains on his violin into the wee hours.

Constantly indulges in experimentation with various chemistries, the acrid smells thereof invariably penetrating into my rooms.

Considers the practice of marksmanship an indoor activity. I recall, on one occasion of particular note, an inordinate number of pistol shots which I took to be nothing less than a fierce assault on the person of Mssr Holmes by some of his many enemies. When I dared stir from my apartments the next morning, those shots revealed in their result the initials of our sovereign, Victoria Regina, dotting the corridor walls of Mssr Holmes’s apartments and the adjacent, common stairway — obviously the work of Mssr Holmes himself.

I come now to the issue of the myriad visitors Mssr Holmes claims not to encourage. While it is far from secret that some of the most revered nobility of Britain and the Continent have passed despairingly and hopefully across his threshold, there are the others:

A seemingly endless queue of police constables and detectives.

Street Arabs.

Transients.

Beggars.

Drunkards.

Rogues.

Thieves.

Reprehensible brutes.

Men with violently amputated appendages, bandages dripping with blood.

Men with harpoons.

And then there is the noise: the sudden Aha! or Halloa! shouted in the middle of the night. The sound of bodies dropping to the floor. The violent confrontations and scuffles, taking place invariably at breakfast or dinner and not at all conducive to the enjoyment of one’s repast.

In addition, whenever I passed Mssr Holmes on the stairs, in the foyer or surrounding environs, he would glance at me and what guests I may have, quickly appraising us, it seemed, from head to toe. I would then see in his face, an unstated comment — perhaps my imagination, I think not. A subtle smirk, a frown, a grin — of disapproval, insight or amusement, I know not which. I came to feel — and you may find this preposterous — that he knew my every thought, my every move and could perceive my every desire as well as those of my companions. I must tell you, Mrs Hudson, these unnerving encounters are a constant occurrence where Mssr Holmes is concerned.

When the nation heard of Sherlock Holmes’s untimely and dastardly end at Reichenbach Falls, I grieved with the rest and chastised myself for my petty differences with the world’s greatest detective. I assure you, Madam, my consoling of you and your servants at that time was an act of utmost reverence and grief, as well as humility and self-reproach for the less-than-noble feelings I had acquired for the poor, departed man.

The time that followed was, perhaps, the happiest I can recall; I felt those were, indeed, the Halcyon days which would remain always and fondly in my memory. No longer did I tread lightly upon the staircase, fearing the gaze and unspoken criticisms of Sherlock Holmes. No longer did I lay awake night after night as a consequence of the sounds and odours penetrating my rooms from below. No longer did I fear the sight of one whom I felt could peer into the innermost reaches of my very soul.

Then.

Even before I knew that Mssr Holmes had “returned from the dead,” the now notorious Colonel Moran fired a shot at a silhouette in the window one floor below mine. Though the bullet pierced a wax effigy — not, as the fiend intended, the head of Sherlock Holmes — one can imagine, but for the Grace Of God, my shadow — by mistake — might have been the target. I well appreciate why Mssr Holmes retains a physician as a constant companion and amanuensis.

I implore you to understand, my Dear, Dear, Mrs Hudson that I can no longer thrive under these maddening circumstances, though my respect and affection for you is unwavering.

Please find enclosed with this missive my cheque for 20 guineas above that which I owe you and representing more than a month’s rent extra. I am sure the superfluous shillings will find their way to your servants whom I shall miss as I shall miss you. A man will arrive to return my things to my rooms in Chelsea.

I am, Dear Lady, determined now to seek a lifestyle less nerve-wracking, far more serene and, indeed, free of folly.

I remain, Madam,

Ever Your Obedient Servant,

Oscar Wilde

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Dear Mr Wilde,

I am in receipt of your letter of the 27th of April. First of all, let me thank you for your more than generous contribution to my establishment; I assure you I will put it to good use. I will share some of it with my small but loyal staff, as you suggest: my new scullery maid Mary could do with a new dress for her sister’s confirmation, and young Nicholas has had his eye on a red wool vest. I will surprise them both with rather more lavish than usual Christmas presents this year! Your gesture was unnecessary but gracious, as your conduct was unfailingly kind and gracious during your tenancy at 221 Baker Street. Young Nick was always rather in awe of you, as I’m sure you know. He used to say he wanted to grow up to be “just like Mr Wilde.” It was so kind of you to have him to your rooms for tea from time to time — it was the highlight of his week.

I must say, my dear Mr Wilde, I will miss you. I have long considered myself to be the luckiest landlady in London, fortunate to have as tenants not only the greatest living detective but also one of the greatest writers and wits of our time. I hope I do not make you blush when I say that I have felt a pride no less than your own mother must feel when your successes in the literary world heaped upon one another like the delicious layers of a Christmas trifle.

Not that your writing is trifling — far from it, dear Mr Wilde. I have enjoyed both your comedies and your more serious works of fiction. I nearly split my sides laughing at Lady Windermere’s Fan when it premiered at St James Theatre (thanks once again to you for procuring me a ticket.) And I consider The Picture of Dorian Gray to be a classic of our time — truly a story for the ages. I predict that it will seize hold of the imaginations of future generations as it has ours. The theme and scope of the writing is surely as universal as it is brilliant.

I understand that you are working on a new comedy, one involving orphans in handbags left in railway stations, mistaken identity and general merriment. I must say, it does sound jolly, and I only wish that you were writing it under my roof as before. If it will not distress you, please think of me on opening night, as nothing would make me happier than being among the audience applauding your latest work of genius.

As to your reasons for leaving, alas, I must confess I do understand them. I would like to come to the defense of Mr Holmes, and explain that his genius and his eccentricities are different weave patterns in the same cloth; you could not have one without the other. But surely a man of your intellectual capacity understands all of this. I can tell from your letter that your decision was neither hasty nor born of anger, and that it was a long time in coming. I assure you, you are not the first tenant to quite Baker Street after falling afoul of Mr Holmes’s peculiarities — though you are most certainly the most renowned.

I am very glad you did not give me forewarning, and present me with the predicament of having to choose between you. Indeed, I would have been hard pressed to find a solution, in that case. I must say that you will have an easier time finding new lodgings than would Mr Holmes. Even with Dr Watson to look after him and perhaps temper his extreme ways, it would be extremely difficult for him to find another landlord who would put up with his odd (and occasionally dangerous) habits — not to mention the parade of unsavoury visitors, as you point out.

So I suppose I feel a bit protective of him, seeing as how I may well be the only landlady in London who could stand to have Mr Holmes as a tenant. But the city needs him, Mr Wilde — the world needs him. Sometimes good things come in unexpected packages. Heroes often appear in odd guises, prickly and unpleasant and difficult — Mr Holmes is certainly odd and difficult; no one knows this better than I do. But he is a hero, Mr Wilde, and though it pains me to lose you, I am still proud to call myself his landlady — and, I hope, his friend.

I wish you the very best wishes in all your endeavours, and good luck with your new play. Is it true you are thinking of calling it The Importance of Being Earnest? Perhaps with a little more thought, you can come up with a better title. That one strikes me as unlikely; no doubt it will confuse and confound audiences. A comedy should have a straightforward, sprightly title: perhaps something like Orphans in Handbags. I hope you do not think it presumptuous of me to add my thoughts to the matter.

I remain, as always, your most devoted fan,

Mrs Hudson

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Well, I could not resist sharing the above venerable missives with my faithful readers, but now let us turn to more immediate concerns. Dear readers, here is one of my favourite recipes for rack of lamb. I remember one rainy night in October Mr Holmes came back late from chasing around London, and I had it ready for him. I was shocked to have him grasp me by the shoulders and plant a kiss on my forehead! An unusual display of emotion for him, to be sure, but often the surest way to a man’s stomach … well, dear reader, you know the rest.

Ingredients

1/2 cup fresh bread crumbs

2 tablespoons minced garlic

2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary

1 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon black pepper

2 tablespoons olive oil

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1 (7 bone) rack of lamb, trimmed and Frenched

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon black pepper

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon Dijon style mustard

DIRECTIONS

1 Preheat oven to 230 degrees C (if you live in America, that would be 450 degrees F). Move oven rack to the center position.

2 In a large bowl, combine bread crumbs, garlic, rosemary, 1 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. Toss in 2 tablespoons olive oil to moisten mixture. Set aside.

3 Season the rack all over with salt and pepper. Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in a large heavy oven proof skillet over high heat. Sear rack of lamb for 1 to 2 minutes on all sides. Set aside for a few minutes. Brush rack of lamb with the mustard. Roll in the bread crumb mixture until evenly coated. Cover the ends of the bones with brown wrapping paper to prevent charring. (Be sure you don’t light the paper on fire!)

4 Arrange the rack bone side down in the skillet. Roast the lamb in preheated oven for 12 to 18 minutes, depending on the degree of doneness you want. With a meat thermometer, take a reading in the center of the meat after 10 to 12 minutes and remove the meat, or let it cook longer, to your taste. Let it rest for 5 to 7 minutes, loosely covered, before carving between the ribs.

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Editor’s note: The letter from Mr Wilde was submitted to SHMM as “221 C Baker Street” and was written by Alan McCright. — MK