Читать книгу Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #8 - Ron Goulart - Страница 8

ASK MRS HUDSON

Dear Mrs. Hudson,

I am curious to know which is your favourite Sherlock Holmes story written by Dr Watson?

Peter

* * * *

Dear Peter,

What an intriguing question, and how difficult it is to answer! As I contemplate the question, half a dozen stories pop into my mind—“A Scandal in Bohemia,” “The Adventure of the Dancing Man,” “A Study in Scarlet” (I must confess a special fondness for the very first one, as a mother often has a special feeling for her first-born child.)

But then as I review this list, half a dozen more leap into my head, until my poor brain is quite muddled with the surfeit of choices. Very well, let me choose one and then tell you why I like it, if you will bear with me.

I shall choose “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client.” In it, you may remember, Mr Holmes is engaged to keep the headstrong young Violet de Merville from making a disastrous marriage.

I think the tale demonstrates Holmes’s reasoning ability as well as his fearlessness—he takes on the odious Baron Gruner, who promptly sends thugs to attack him. In spite of his expertise at single-stick combat, they do him considerable injury. There is a touching scene where dear Dr Watson visits the injured detective, fearing the worst, and Holmes soothes him, assuring the good doctor that the press has exaggerated his injuries.

The story also shows Mr Holmes’s gallantry and tenderness toward women. It is true he does not trust them, but he has been misrepresented as loathing the sex entirely. Nothing could be further from the truth—no one is more solicitous or kinder to me than Mr Holmes, when the mood strikes him. Of course, he can be abrupt and dismissive, but that’s as may be, and doesn’t negate the many instances of his kindness. Otherwise, I should not have put up with his unorthodox behaviour for all these years, I can assure you!

I don’t want to spoil the story for those of my readers who have yet to encounter it, but when the identity of the “illustrious client” was revealed, I must say I was quite thrilled, and my heart was quite aflutter for some time. I regard it as yet another tribute to my most unusual tenant—though Mr Holmes, bless him, took it quite in stride, as you may imagine.

Had he been half as impressed as Dr Watson and myself, I think he, too, would have taken pause to consider the honour it represented. But that’s not Mr Holmes’s way and never has been—he is of a most egalitarian disposition, and treats a stable groom with as much respect as a peer of the realm. A man ahead of his time in many ways, I always say, though I expect there are some who would take issue with me.

Although the doctor seldom speaks of it—I think for fear of embarrassing his friend—Mr Holmes is not without his admirers. I hope it’s not telling tales out of school to relay an amusing incident involving a well-born young lady and her infatuation with Mr Holmes—that’s the only word for it, I’m afraid—infatuation. She was quite besotted, and behaved with some forwardness, I’m afraid. Mr Holmes found himself in a rather delicate situation, which was compounded by Dr Watson’s sincere desire to help his friend, though he did it rather clumsily, I’m afraid.

Of course I can’t reveal the young lady’s identity, but she was the sister of one of Mr Holmes’s clients, and had occasion to meet him when he and Dr Watson paid a visit to their house. Lady W, as I shall call her, joined her brother for tea with the good doctor and Mr Holmes. She took a shine to Mr Holmes—apparently it was quite obvious, as Dr Watson himself remarked upon it. Mr Holmes alone dismissed it as “feminine charm” directed at everyone equally. That he did not perceive himself as the object of this young lady’s affections further demonstrates his lack of understanding of matters of the heart.

Well, it seems that after the case was solved, Lady W contrived to “drop in” on my tenant, showing up at Baker Street in a very handsome carriage and four, if you can believe it! We don’t see such extravagance in this part of London, I can tell you, and people were fairly hanging out of their windows to have a good look. The local street urchins fought with one another for the privilege of holding the horses while her Ladyship was inside, and although her coachman was quite capable of handling the situation, she gave them each half-a-crown! Bless me, but she was generous as well as extravagant.

Mr Holmes was out on a case, so I conversed with her briefly, until Dr Watson appeared, quite surprised to see her. I set out quite an impressive spread for tea, if I do say so myself, and we endeavoured to entertain her Ladyship as best we could. Mr Holmes was not due to arrive back at Baker Street for some time, and we certainly didn’t expect her to take advantage of our hospitality and wait for him.

When it became clear that she was there to pursue a romantic interest in Mr Holmes—having no intention of engaging his professional services—Dr Watson embarked upon an ill-conceived attempt to dissuade her, engaging me as his unwilling accomplice.

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson,” said he, “Holmes is still rather down in the dumps, don’t you think?”

Not knowing what on earth he meant, I replied, “I suppose he is, if you think so.”

The doctor then gave a mournful sigh, which sounded rather fake to me; I don’t suppose he numbers acting among his many skills. I glanced at her Ladyship to see how she was receiving his rather amateur histrionics, but the keen expression on her face showed that she was very attentive, indeed. Dr Watson heaved another sigh, and I nearly burst out laughing, but he glared at me and I swallowed my mirth in a hastily-conceived coughing fit.

“It is indeed too bad,” says he, “that the love of his life is in America, and not expected to return for some time yet.”

My expression must have showed my utter astonishment at this pronouncement, but luckily the young lady was not looking at me. She leaned in toward the good doctor, so that her dainty hand nearly touched his.

“Is Mr Holmes married, then?”

“Married? No, I should think not,” Dr Watson replied. “Though I daresay he wishes he were. The lady in question is not of a mind to marry—at least not at present, and not to him.”

Lady W blushed most prettily and smiled, though even I could tell it was a forced smile. “I do not wish to pry,” said she, though from her tone of voice and expression it was clear that was precisely her aim.

“Oh, it’s no secret,” the good doctor said with a wave of his hand. I daresay I was rather shocked to hear this claim, since it was not only a secret, it was a complete falsehood. “He is smitten with a lady of great birth and station in life, and she takes little notice of him. Still, he will entertain no other woman as a love interest, having given his heart to her. He is the kind of man who, once his troth is pledged, will remain forever faithful.”

The young lady reddened. “If I had the good fortune to be loved by such a man as Mr Holmes, I should not treat him so lightly,” she declared, her voice harsh with emotion.

“Your Ladyship is very kind,” Dr Watson replied, pretending not to understand the sentiment behind her words. “I daresay you are a great deal more considerate than the young lady in question.”

I offered more tea, which was refused, and our visitor soon took her leave of us, gliding down to her waiting carriage amidst the importuning of street waifs anxious to capitalize on her generosity. Dr Watson promised to give her regards to Mr Holmes, but I knew he would not tell of her visit unless he could not help it.

“Why, Dr Watson!” I exclaimed after the coach had driven off on the rain-slicked cobblestones. “I’m surprised at you! Lying to her Ladyship like that—whatever gave you the nerve to do such a thing?”

“My dear Mrs. Hudson,” he replied, lighting a cheroot, “I wished to spare the young lady some embarrassment, and avoid putting Holmes in a delicate situation he is ill-equipped to handle. It seems to me a small lie is a small price to pay for such a thing.”

Mr Holmes had the last word, though. When he arrived later that afternoon, with his usual alacrity and powers of observation, he deduced not only that we had had a visitor in his absence, but concluded correctly who it was. Dr Watson had no choice but to confirm his conclusions.

“And what did you tell her that caused her to depart so abruptly?” Holmes inquired.

Dr Watson nearly choked on his whisky. “How on earth did you know she—?”

Holmes gave a little laugh. “My dear fellow, when a woman hurries out of a room so quickly that she snags her expensive silk wrap on the door frame,” he said, plucking a few cream-coloured threads from the door, “and furthermore, leaves her parasol,” he added with a glance at the feather-trimmed accessory on the hearth, leaning against the mantel, “I can only conclude she left in some haste.” He glanced at the table I was in the process of clearing. “Since she arrived in no particular haste—judging by the amount of tea and cakes she consumed—I can only conclude it was something you said that caused her to leave in such a flustered state of mind.”

Dr Watson frowned and tossed his cigarette into the glowing embers of the fireplace. “Very well, Holmes, you win,” he said, and proceeded to tell the entire story of Lady W’s visit.

“Tut tut, Watson,” Holmes said when he had finished. “I’m surprised you came up with a credible lie so readily. I do hope you aren’t considering a future as a writer of agony columns.”

“No chance of that,” Watson muttered, moving to his writing desk.

“I am sorry you felt it necessary to lie to the young lady,” Holmes remarked.

“I was merely trying to spare her—and you—considerable embarrassment,” Watson said, clearly miffed. “I should think you’d be grateful.”

“Hmm,” said Holmes, turning to me. “Well then, Mrs Hudson, what have you for our dinner tonight? I’m quite famished.”

“Lamb chops,” I replied. “Either that or Welsh rarebit. Take your pick.”

“I’m not hungry,” Watson declared moodily.

“Come along, my dear fellow, dine with me, won’t you?” said Holmes. Things had evidently gone well for him today, for he was in a jovial mood.

“I shouldn’t think you’d want to have dinner with a liar,” Watson grumbled.

“Goodness, Watson,” Holmes said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about human nature, it’s that everybody lies. You told a lie today that you hoped would help me out, and for that I should be grateful. Never mind whether it was the right thing to do or not—you did your best as you saw it.”

“Very well,” Watson said. “Next time I’ll let you fend for yourself when a woman like that practically throws herself at you.”

“If you must,” Holmes said. “But for God’s sake, next time you give me a fictional lady friend, would you do me a favour and put her somewhere else other than America? I mean, if you want your story to be credible. Who on earth would leave England to go there?”

“Yes, I supposed you’re right,” said Watson. “Mrs Hudson, I think I’ll have the Welsh rarebit, if you don’t mind.”

“And I’ll have the chops,” Holmes proclaimed. “If that’s not too much trouble for you.”

“No,” said I. “It’s no trouble at all.”

* * * *

Thank you again for your letter, Peter—please write again sometime.

Very truly yours,

Mrs Hudson