10,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: The Robson Press
- Kategorie: Lebensstil
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012
One frosty winter morning, deep in the vaults of Cox & Co. at Charing Cross, a battered biscuit tin is discovered... Inside are the diaries of that longsuffering resident of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes' landlady, the unflappable Mrs Hudson. She presents her portrait of life with the great detective and his ever-faithful companion with relish, mustard and no small amount of dropped eaves. Mysterious visitors, disappearances, shouts and bangs - life below stairs at 221b is often silly, slapstick and sentimental in equal measure. These diaries offer an affectionate and hilarious sketch of a remarkably enterprising Victorian female, whose humorous musings encompass talking to the spirit world, dancing with government officials and nights at the music hall. Interspersed with Mrs Hudson's fascinating keepsakes - letters, recipes, calling cards and photos - this is a must-have addition for any Sherlock Holmes aficionado. Behind every great man is an even greater woman ... demanding rent.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
With love to Terry, Tony, Jayne, Evan, Dave, Jack, Matt, Ruby, Tom, Archie, Suzannah, Hope, Martha and Connie
Contents
Acknowledgements
To everyone at Biteback Publishing and the Robson Press for helping us find the keys to the kitchen door at 221b.
To Kirsten Wright at Amanda Howard Associates and Sarah Chanin at Roger Hancock Ltd for their invaluable support.
To Lee Jackson’s brilliant social history of Victorian London (www.victorianlondon.org) – an obsession generously shared.
To Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss for raising the bar.
To everyone at the Save Undershaw Campaign (www.saveundershaw.com) for their monumental efforts to preserve Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s home for the nation.
To Conan Doyle himself, without whom this book would not have been possible.
To Oliver Philpott, without whom this book would have been a very different experience.
Preface
One frosty winter morning last year, somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox & Co. at Charing Cross, we found a battered biscuit tin with the word ‘Hudson’ painted upon the lid.
Inside, lay the single greatest Holmes-related discovery for nearly a hundred years: the diaries of Sherlock Holmes’s landlady, Mrs Hudson. We believe it emphatically completes the Sherlockian jigsaw that is the fragmented canon.
We are now able to pass this gold on to you, dear reader, in the form of these carefully selected entries. Not since Sir Arthur Conan Doyle laid down his pen has there been the same sense of expectation in the publishing world.
Conan Doyle left us only a handful of references and a lot to be desired on the subject of Mrs Hudson. This is an error we are now happy to correct. Everything you’ve ever needed to know about this remarkable woman can be found between these two covers. And we can also answer the long-running and tantalising mystery of Mrs Hudson’s first name: it’s Sarah.
For further insights into this incredible discovery, we now leave you in the capable hands of this book’s researcher, Oliver Philpott. His footnotes and annotated images represent a veritable treasure trove of hitherto unseen Victorian social history, as witnessed by our worthy landlady. So, handle with care…
Barry Cryer and Bob Cryer San Marino, 2012
Mrs Hudson’s biographyby Oliver Philpott
NOTE
Whilst reading these diaries, one may notice the odd brief footnote. These have been crafted by yours truly, Oliver Philpott, for your greater understanding of the period. These are my humble attempts to lead you gently by the hand through the narrow streets of Victorian London; streets that are by turns treacherous and confusing to even the most diligent researcher (modesty forbids!). I hope you enjoy this journey as much as I enjoyed mapping it for you. Tally-ho!
O. P.Crawley, 2012
Found on top of the diaries:
Claridge’s Brook StreetMayfairLondon, W.2 November 1914
My dear Watson,
I fear the East wind has finally come but not from Flanders as expected – somewhere much closer to home. I have just returned from a rare visit to Baker Street and now write to you with the gravest of news.
I felt it meet to drop in on our former lodgings whilst I was visiting London from Sussex and I trust you have done the same these last few years. Martha accompanied me and Billy was there to welcome us, you’ll be pleased to know. However, rather than his usual cheery greeting, he was in the poorest of spirits. I therefore write these next few lines with a heavy heart.
It pains me to inform you of the death of our worthy landlady.
She died at one minute past eleven on 31 July having fulfilled her duties. There was no mystery surrounding her passing.
I had only missed her by a day but will continue to miss the one and only Mrs H.
I fear that this news will come at a cost which will give you pain, my dear Watson. I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to her but I hope that by some chance you have visited and that this news is tempered by that thought.
Billy told me that there was quite a celebration for her sixty-fourth year and that her stately tread was felt thatday as surely as it was the day that we moved in. Little did we know, as we were coming to our country’s aid, what revels we were missing. A small service of remembrance has been arranged by Finsbury boxing club in accordance with her wishes. I fear study will prevent me from travelling and I leave our contribution to the attendance of tenants past to you, my dear friend, should the need arise.
Before I left, the most remarkable thing happened as I gave my respects to the mute. Billy, amidst sobs and mumblings, thrust a package into my hands with instructions for it to be passed on to you for safe keeping. Closer inspection revealed the bounty to be a stack of notebooks. It seems our Mrs H. was something of a chronicler, like yourself. By cunning questions and ejaculations of wonder you could always elevate my simple art, which is but systematised common sense, into a prodigy. In your case, I’ve always maintained that a confederate who foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but one to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise, and to whom the future is always a closed book, is indeed an ideal helpmate. However, it seemslittle astonished our landlady, and the tomes certainly confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of her abilities as a gossip.
Mycroft has charge of my London affairs and he can point you to their presence in pigeonhole H., done up with a blue ribbon and inscribed ‘Hudson’. A copy of the Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen, also awaits Lestrade, as requested.
And for yourself, an occasional weekend visit would be most welcome.
Pray give my greetings to the current Mrs Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow,
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
P.S. Come at once if convenient – if inconvenient come all the same.
I
The very worst tenant in London 1881–90
1881
1 January
Well, here I am writing a diary.
5 January
Martha1has informed me that the purpose of writing a diary is that there is not really a purpose at all. She says that I should come back after a year and find that my thoughts will make sense.
Well, what with all the comings and goings at 221b, I wonder whether any of the following will ever make sense?
This morning, the bell rang. Mr Rawlings (known in the Music Halls as the Great Mysto) was in his room practising another one of his ‘tricks’. I had to take him the famous ‘bucket of sand’ thathe needs to make an elephant disappear. You have to see it to believe it. And many do.
6 January
A very cold wind. Chestnut Charlie2told me that he found his stall halfway up Great Portland Street before he caught up with it. By the time the children had snaffled their share, Charlie said he’d lost half of his stock. Poor man. So I invited him in from the cold. As I write, he’s still thawing out by the fire.
7 January
What an odd thing it is to write a diary. Martha keeps a diary and she tells me her auntie does the same. Well, if it’s good enough for Mrs Hemple,3it’s good enough for me! Had to let Mr Rawlings in again as the Great Mysto keeps losing his key. He might be able to magic an elephant from thin air, but ask him where his key is and he’s quite lost.
8 January
Now, about my resolutions this year. I have one and that is to keep a diary.
1 February
Mr Rawlings on the first floor has informed me that he is to sail for America on Tuesday morning. I asked him if he was taking the elephant with him and he laughed. He’s given me two tickets for his farewell performance on Saturday at The Tivoli. What a treat, I do enjoy a night at the music hall.
11 February
New tenants in the first floor rooms. Beds turned down.
A doctor no less! I didn’t catch the other gentleman’s name. His signature is quite ragged. I think his name is Shylock.
13 February
Seems his name is Sherlock. Not that it matters; it’ll be Mr Holmes from now on.
14 February
The doctor seems a most trustworthy gentleman, but his acquaintance, this Mr Holmes, must be the very worst tenant in London. I wouldn’t put up with his behaviour, but his payments are so princely. There’s his stinking chemistry bench and the jack-knife holes in the mantelpiece, but the worst of it happened this morning.
I was busy kneading a loaf when I heard the most almightybanging from upstairs. Now, the clouds had gathered and a storm was brewing but it seemed a little early for thunder. Then it started again and I realised it must be coming from the first floor. So, up I went and knocked on the door. Another volley of banging. I went in and found the whole room fogged up with smoke. My new tenant, Mr Holmes, was sat there in his armchair firing a gun. I think I must have been too shocked to be angry. Then I looked at my poor wall. There, in perfectly straight lines, were the letters ‘V. R’. I looked at Mr Holmes for an explanation. Instead, he carried on looking at the letters and fired a final full stop after the ‘R’. Now I’m as much a patriot as the next landlady, but how is this sort of behaviour going to pay the rent?
Well, he assures me that he is going to be practising his detection on my premises. Seems to me he spends more time practising his violin,4so I’ll just have to take his word for it that he has an occupation. I wouldn’t mind about the violin only it jangles my nerves! And to think, Dr Watson says heplays most delightfully.
I said to the doctor, about his bull terrier James and the situation with our cat, Mr Disraeli, that he might have to put the dog down, menace that he is. He said to me ‘I’m a doctor, not a vet!’ I couldn’targue with him there and, before I knew it, he’d helped me carry the ash bucket to the back door. He won’t get round me that way! Well, maybe a little.
Will any good come of this tenancy? Well, as I sit here at the kitchen table, with Martha knitting at my elbow, I am happy to say that as long as they pay their rent on time, I couldn’t give a fig.
4 March
He’s back again. Mr Holmes’s visitor. That’s the third time this week and today he had to sit in my kitchen because they had someone else up there. Never gives his name but Mr Holmes agrees to see him all the same. Funny little mouse he is. Barely said a word, just sat there rubbing his hands. I offered him a cup of tea but no sooner had the kettle boiled, the bell rang, and he scurried upstairs.
5 March
His name is Lestrade5and he’s a well-known detective. At least that’s what he told me. I asked him if he was here to arrest Mr Holmes and he laughed. Much activity upstairs. The dog’s gone though. Mr Disraeli will be pleased.
6 March
What did I say? No visitors without my say so. First it’s that policeman from down the road and now it’s half a dozen street arabs treating my place like it was their own. They were ringing my bell more than once,when I’ve only just had it polished. Any more of this and they’ll be chased off, the lot of them.
And lamb’s up a penny.
7 March
Street organ came again today. Can’t join in due to my calves but try and hold Martha back. Sat for a good hour watching events. Even the census man joined in, halfway between asking my occupation and my age. I told him I’m as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth. And he said, ‘Well which is it?’ The larrikin.
8 March
It’s been twenty years since I heard the name of Madame Charpentier.6We had another Inspector visiting Mr Holmes this morning – the third this week – called Gregs7or something I think he was, and I heard him clearly mentioning her name. Even though she was a solid gold troublemaker back when I lived in Clerkenwell, to have your son bundled away and your daughter leered at, well, Iwouldn’t wish that on anyone. It reminds me of the old days when my Arthur8was still with us. Bless you dear man, wherever you may be.
12 April
Dear Arthur,
I can’t believe it’s been twenty years, my little Prince. Well, where does the time go? Just today, I was hanging out some washing in the back when I heard a bird chirruping away and I thought it was you. It sounded like the whistle you used to do when you came home. I thought I was back in Clerkenwell. Ihalf expected to hear your dear footsteps skipping in the hall. ‘We toasted you, my Queen!’ you used to say. And I’d say ‘And how many more did you toast?’
19 April
Here’s a strange thing that happened. Martha found a little kitten in the back yard this morning and we have decided to take him in. The poor mite is still a little unsure of the kitchen but when I fed him some smoked mackerel he cheered up. In fact, so much so, that when Mr Disraeli9attempted to take some for himself, the little one gave him a punch on his nose. Then, would you believe it, Mrs Turner came in with such a sad expression and told us that the realMr Disraeli, Lord Beaconsfield,10had died. The house has been in a hush since. I have decided to call the kitten O’Connell11as a tribute to the late Earl.
