There’s a new opera piece opened up here in London last month, I heard some people talking about it and thought maybe I’d take your sister (I’d rather take you, Allie dear, if only you were closer than Sydney!) and since it’s said to be funny along with the music, I thought maybe once she’s cheered up by it, she’ll sit down and have a nice talk with her old man. It’s called Pinafore, although what a girl’s dress has to do with sailing I’ll just have to see.
Sorry this is a short one, Allie dear, I’ll write more soon. Meantime, here’s a pair of earrings I made you, from some pretty silk thread that reminded me of your eyes.
Love,
Your Father
23 September 1879
Portsmouth
Darling Allie,
My dear daughter, this letter finds your father in a funny place, not so much ha ha as funny tearing out what hair he has. Last time I wrote (hope you are getting my letters—I do write all the time, promise!) I was still pretty beat up from that tramp steamer I was on for way too long, sailing is a young man’s life it sure is. I had a good rest up in Norfolk with the old pal I told you about, but he died all of a sudden, weak heart I guess, so I’ve had to leave there. It would of been a more restful summer but his son never took to me and since the lazy lad was home doing nothing for the long vacation from University he had nothing better to do than make trouble for his father’s old mate Hudson, him and this sharp-nosed friend of his with a Toff accent, two boys looking down their noses at a hard working sailor.
Anyway honey mine, I’ve shaken that dust off my boots for sure and no thanks to them in Norfolk. However that time there proved to be a Blessing in Disguise, ten thousand of them, because while I was there old “Trevor” (as he called himself thow I know better) explained to me something that’s been just sitting there quiet at the back of my head for many and many a year, before you were born even, and thow I cant go into any details at all here on paper, I can say this here and now: DONT THROW ANYTHING OUT. Nothing at all that either Clarrie or I left with you, don’t get rid of one little thing.
After I get back, things will get lots better. Don’t know if you remember, but when you were a little mite I used to tell you stories about secret treasures? Honest I thought they were just stories, make-believe and only for the sorts of people who already have their fortunes.
But old Trevor—and God Bless the man, stingy son and all—let me know that anyone at all can have his fortune drop out of the sky. Allie girl, your Pa has finally figured things out, and found himself a shining temple on a hill.
Just dont throw nothing out, not until I get back.
And theres the part that’s making me tear my hair—getting back to Sydney!
I got two options, if I cant get the money off Clarrie.
First is, I got another friend—one without a son to get in the way, far as I know. I’ll see him tomorrow—I’m in Portsmouth tonight, catching a train first thing. Portsmouth makes me think of when your sister and I arrived from Sydney, Lo those many years ago. I wish it was you I brought Allie, youd have stayed faithful. And Clarrie will just have to come and beg for us to forgive her.
Anyway, I’m pretty sure I can get my old pal Beddoes to stand me the price of a ticket to Sydney, so I can get out of this stuckup country and back to my true family in Australia, where we’ll live in comfort all the days of our lives. If he wont, well, I know another man, back in London, thow he and I have a history that makes asking him for anything a bit tricky. A kind of a moneylender among other things, like his father before him, but I already owe him, and he has the kinds of friends you don’t want to get on the bad side of.
Still, asking him would be better than breaking my back on another steamer for months on end.
Honey thing, you’re the only faithful daughter I know in all the world, I wish you was here in England instead of your sister. Clarrie must have had her baby by now, wonder what she had?
Allie dear I hope your well and happy. Give my respects to your husband, tell him to treat you good like youre worth, and I will write again when I am better situated to say when you can meet me at the docks.
Your Pa.
PS I know youre good at keeping mum on things—you were even when you were a little girl, like when I gave you that necklace with your birthday on it, and Clarrie never knew—but heres another thing you probably should keep tucked underneath your pretty hair.
Tantalising as the letters were, it was the notes written in the margins that drew the attention. On the earliest letter here, written in 1878, someone—one assumed their recipient, Mrs Hudson’s sister, Alicia—had underlined phrases and added her notes beside them.
Next to out of her mind was written: C has always been mad. By the phrase country house was the note: She spends her life at country houses, operas, and parties! She’d noted beside husband’s hard-earned money: As if I’d send him money!
But the most thorough commentary, in a bewildering tangle of interwoven and overlaid writing that spanned many years, was linked to the underlined words: Young Lord:
Of course it would be a LORD for Clarrie!
What does Pa mean by Lord? Anyth. short of Duke. Earl??
(Ida says “Lord” can even be peer’s son—can’t ask Pa, C would see it. Pa!!)
Well Pa was right about Clarrie’s Lord not being the permanent sort! And her pregnant!
When C comes, do I let her know I know this?
What is Vicount?
Viscount, not v. impt. Father an Earl? Eldest son?
Got him!
Can’t see him at all in S—S looks like ME.
In the second letter, written by Hudson on his way to meet Beddoes, one line alone was underscored—but so many times, the bitter ink had eaten entirely through the paper, leaving nothing but a long, thin window beneath the phrase:
Clarrie must have had her baby by now
—
Holmes laid down the heavy magnifying glass and the letters, reaching again for his pipe. When it was going, he returned his heels to the table. “Those letters do indeed contain some interesting elements.”
I enumerated them on my fingers. “That Clarissa Hudson was most likely Samuel’s true mother, making him both illegitimate and adopted; that his grandfather had contact with criminals; that Samuel’s father was a peer, who had been a viscount when Clarissa knew him; and that there was something in Alicia’s possession that James Hudson thought might prove extremely valuable.”
“Plus a clue towards The Bishop, and the name Beddoes, and a location near Portsmouth,” Holmes added. “But how would he—”
I held out my second-to-last contribution to the puzzle.
This envelope was an oversized square, of the sort that had once held a decorated card. Inside was a full page of The Illustrated London News, dated 15 November, 1919. Holmes unfolded it, running his eyes over several articles concerning the one-year anniversary of Armistice, then turned it over to a page of illustrations: eight captioned photographs showing various scenes of War memorials and the laying of wreaths. Typical of London News, the images were clear, well lit, and crisply printed. I half rose to tap a finger on the one in the upper right quadrant.
“This man here? He looks remarkably like Samuel Hudson.”
The caption read:
HUGH EDMUNDS, EARL STEADWORTH, REMEMBERS HIS LOST SON DURING THE DEDICATION OF THE VILLAGE WAR MEMORIAL IN HANLEIGH, BERKS.
“The Earl of Steadworth,” Holmes said. “And The Bishop thought Samuel didn’t know.”
Time to lay my final puzzle-piece onto the table. “I looked him up in Debrett’s and some of Mycroft’s other books. The current Earl, Hugh Edmunds, was Viscount Edmunds until 1886, when his father committed suicide following some kind of financial scandal. Edmunds has a list of good deeds to his name that stretches down the page, most of them the sort of public-eye projects that engender a lot of acclaim—war orphans, soldiers’ hospitals, programs sponsored by the Royal Family, that sort of thing. He served in
South Africa for a brief time, where he was injured in 1878—he claimed a Zulu bullet, although there appears to have been some discussion on the matter. After that, his military service involved a lot of decorations and a very few guns: strictly red-tab stuff well behind any lines. He has several alphabets’ worth of minor honorifics after his name, two living daughters, and has just turned seventy-three.
“And,” I said, relishing my rare opportunity for dramatic flourish, “would you like to hear an intriguing coincidence? Hugh Edmunds’ name is on the Birthday Honours list that your brother has just approved for the King.”
At 3:40 Saturday morning, Mrs Clara Hudson stood at the bay window, watching the lights of Billy’s motorcar recede down the lane. When all was dark, when the last murmur of the big engine had disappeared even from her imagination, she let the curtains fall and turned back to the room. How many times had she cleaned that floor from his muddy boots, returned those pillows to the settee after he’d used them for a nest before the fire, dusted those bookshelves after some experiment had filled the house with a noxious powder? Twenty-two years in Baker Street, then the same number here, living with a man who was…what? Tenant and employer? Gaoler and conscience-enforcer? Friend?
That lad with the big nose and the sticking-out shirt cuffs, a lifetime ago—one lifetime, paid for a dozen times over, scrubbing on her knees.
—
Truth to tell, Mrs Hudson was not in the habit of scrubbing on her knees, since a woman in her seventh decade tended to hire village girls for the hard work. But that night, as the clock on the mantelpiece urged her onward and the sky crept towards morning, Clara Hudson spent some more time bent over the scrub-brush, removing all traces of the past week from her floors. She plumped the cushions, she dried and put the dishes away on their shelves, she wiped down the stove, table, and sink. As a last act, she cleaned and cooked the garden-party strawberries into preserves, leaving the cooling jars beneath a towel on the kitchen table.
When the sun was well up, Patrick let himself in the back door. He knew—unlike the constable lurking near the drive—that Mary had been found, and safe, and the knowledge restored his appetite for the Sussex ham on Mrs Hudson’s sideboard.
She laid a heaping plate before him. “Now, get yourself around that while I go and dress. I think since I’m not needed here, I’ll go and visit my friend Mrs Turner. But—” She affected not to notice his eyebrows coming together. “—since Mr Holmes didn’t want people to know yet, that Mary’s safe, I wonder if you could take me on the quiet, like? To the Eastbourne station, I think. They don’t know me there as well as they do in Seaford.”
His jaws began to work meditatively. When he had swallowed, doubt was gone as well. “I think that would be a fine idea. Don’t you be telling anyone where you’re going though, hear?”
“I’ll telephone to Mr Mycroft’s flat when I reach Mrs Turner’s. Other than that, nobody will know.”
If there was one thing Patrick enjoyed, she thought guiltily, it was to be permitted a moment of intrigue.
She left him to his breakfast, and put on a Sunday-best dress, put her feet into an old woman’s shoes, settled a landlady’s go-to-Town hat over her drab hair. She tucked her emergency stash of bank notes—annoying to have lost her passbook—into the very bottom of a dowdy and capacious handbag, adding a few necessities on top.
Patrick was drying his plate as she came into the kitchen. “I’ll get your valise,” he said.
“Oh, I’ll borrow what I need from Eloise—we take the same dress size, and I’ll be less noticeable without a bag. But I’m afraid Inspector Lestrade will not be happy.”
“Shall I tell him where you’ve gone?”
“No. Although you’ll have to tell him that I have gone—we wouldn’t want his poor constable to discover my absence on his own.”
“Leave it to me,” he said, and went out to distract the constable away from the motorcar, that she might depart unnoticed.
Mrs Hudson checked the doors, arranged the dish-towel to hang more neatly before the stove, and walked firmly across her pristine floorboards to the front door.
She waited in the roofed portico, following the progress of two men as they headed towards the back garden. As their voices faded, she listened with all her heart to the breeze in the hedgerow, the voices of the sheep, the low rhythm of wave on stone—and most of all, to the sounds of the bees working the roses that covered the portico. She gave a sigh, then turned to shut the door and drop the key through the mail slot.
She climbed into the back of the car and lay flat on the seat. In a few minutes, Patrick’s feet came along the gravel. He started the car, and they continued sedately up the road to the Eastbourne station.
—
Mrs Hudson bought her ticket and boarded the train without having anyone recognise her. The train conductor did know her by sight, but not to speak with, so that was fine as well. And naturally, once they came to Victoria station, the huge city closed its anonymous arms around her, and she disappeared.
She had the taxi drop her two streets up from where she was going, more by habit than anything. As she walked through the Saturday morning crowds, she was a touch anxious to see if the place was still in business. Surely Jonny was getting towards retirement—but when she rounded the corner, there it was, narrow-fronted and uninformative.
The man at the desk looked up at the bell, arranging his face into a look both repressive and polite. “Madam, is there something I may help you with?” Meaning, What could a woman like you possibly want here?
She felt her first honest smile in days take over her face. “Oh, Jonny, you’ve forgotten me already?”
Startled, the little man looked more closely—and then exclaimed and hurried out from behind the desk to grab her shoulders and kiss her roundly on both cheeks.
“Clara Hudson, as I live and breathe! Oh, darling, what a treat it is to lay eyes on you. How many years has it been? Nine? Ten?”
“Surely it can’t be that?” she said, returning his embrace. “You’re looking marvellous, Jonny. New friend?”
“Ah, you know me too well. And you’re…well, it’s good to see you.”
At that, she laughed aloud. “I’m looking horrible and grey, I know. But I need to look a little less horrible and grey, and I need it fast, so I’ve come to you for help.”
“Oh, perfect, just let me see if I have some bubbly here, and we can lock the door and have a nice talk.”
Jonny Harflinger was a dressmaker-tailor who specialised in secrets: secrets told him, secrets worn, secrets that could shatter careers and lives. If a Member of Parliament sought a negligée for the privacy of his dressing room, Jonny could make it. If that MP’s wife wanted to take a special female friend to the theatre and dinner after, Jonny’s evening suit would help her to move like a man. He’d got his start making theatrical costumes, but his growing reputation had led him to a specific clientèle, including one Mr Sherlock Holmes.
One or two of Mrs Hudson’s special tasks for her employer had required special garments, which Jonny had been able to provide. After that, and once she’d realised that to Jonny, a secret meant to the grave, she had come to him for her own purposes: Jonny was not a couturier, but he could copy anything, and he was nothing short of brilliant at listening to a client’s vague impressions of what he or she wanted and interpreting that vision into silks and fine cottons and wool.
Today, he listened with a growing frown, before leaning over and refilling their glasses with the champagne he drank from breakfast to night. “My dear thing, you’re underselling yourself. Yes, you’ve put on a few pounds—”
“A stone,” she provided.
“—but it’s in all the right places, for a man with that sort of inclination, and your bones are good. Twenty years ago, that brown skin you’re wearing would have been a problem, but all the best sorts wear a tan now. Although your hands…”
“A month of manicures won’t help those,” she said. “It’ll have
to be gloves, despite the heat. As for the other, no, I’m afraid I’m set on it. I shouldn’t have come—even asking is an affront to your skills. I’ll just pop up to Oxford Street and find something off the racks, but—”
“Good Lord, woman,” he protested, “we can’t have that. I’ll make what you asked for, but you have to promise me that you’ll also let me make you something proper. Something that makes you shine.”
“Jonny, I’ll be seventy next year, a bit late for shining.”
“Never!” He was fierce about it, and he had a knack of making one feel as if he were speaking only the truth. In the end, she promised, and he sat back, satisfied, studying her body with a naked intensity that in another man would have been uncomfortable.
“Now,” he said. “When you say, ‘fast,’ do you mean next week?”
“I mean tonight.”
Fortunately, his glass was only half-full, and the carpet beneath him showed signs of being well accustomed to emphatic spills of champagne. He protested vigorously, asked if she did not realise it was a Saturday.
“Oh, Jonny, I do understand, and I wouldn’t think of asking you to work late. Never mind, I’ll be fine with Mr Selfridge. Thanks so for the bubbly, it cheers a girl just talking to you.”
He eyed her bitterly, not fooled in the least—as indeed, she had not been trying to fool him. “You’re a bitch, you know that?”
Mrs Hudson nodded her head, a bit sadly. “I do, Jonny. I really do.”