Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #4. Arthur Conan Doyle

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СКАЧАТЬ were in college, was exceedingly annoying. How do you deal with the peculiar, middle-of-the-night arrivals of desperate help-seekers wanting assistance from Mr Holmes? Are the renters of 221-A or 221-C upset? Do they protest? Or is that immaterial given the status of your most celebrated tenant?

      John Jakes

      * * * *

      Dear Mr Jakes,

      First of all, thank you so much for your kind concern and realisation of my delicate and unusual position. A woman such as myself, raised in gentility and comfort, is not by nature accustomed to the odd array of rough trade, ragamuffins and ruffians who appear at our doorway all hours of the day and night.

      In fact, I have lost a number of other tenants due to the professional activities of my most famous lodger. A certain Mrs Moynihan in 221-C was most disturbed by the series of random gunshots Mr Holmes was given to discharging whenever he felt like it. Dr Watson mentions this in his stories, but what he fails to mention is that the elderly widow living upstairs, already faint of heart and given to nervous palpitations, was driven to distraction by the unpredictable and unexpected blasts of gun powder from 221-B.

      She complained to me, and Mr Holmes was persuaded to curtail his explosive enthusiasms. Dr Watson prescribed her valerian roots to help her sleep, but her nerves were quite frayed by that time, and she could not be persuaded that Mr Holmes had agreed to give up his odd habit. It seems the gunshots brought her unpleasant memories of her days in Ulster, also known as Northern Ireland, after the famine, during the “Troubles.”

      Dr Watson was kind enough to help her secure a very satisfactory set of rooms in Kensington, and Mr Holmes insisted on paying her first year’s rent. So in the end, I felt she came away well enough, though I daresay she would have preferred not to move.

      Then there was Mr Grieves in 221-A. He was a mild-mannered little man, a bookkeeper by trade, and kept very much to himself. He had a thin little mustache and kept a budgie in his bedroom in a gold cage, which he fed walnuts and raisin bread. He never said a word to me about Mr Holmes’ odd parade of visitors until the day he ran into the baron in the hallway. It seems Mr Grieves didn’t move out of the way fast enough, and the baron challenged him to a duel to satisfy his injured honour. He gave him a choice of pistols or rapiers, as I recall, and told Mr Grieves that his second would call on him at dawn the following Saturday.

      Mr Grieves was gone by Thursday, and left no forwarding address. When the baron’s second arrived on Saturday, he was surprised to be greeted by my newest tenant, a spinster schoolteacher from Tewkesbury. Needless to say, she did not accept his offer to defend Mr Grieves’ honour—though I’m not convinced the second believed her assertion that she had never set eyes upon the unfortunate bookkeeper.

      But even with all of this, I wouldn’t trade my years with Mr Holmes and Dr Watson for anything. Dr Watson is the kindest and most considerate of men, and Mr Holmes, God bless him, has his ways of endearing himself to a woman such as myself. He can be brusque, of course, but when he takes the time to think about it, he is the most charming of men. And of course he is never late with his rent, pays in advance, and insists on giving me a “little extra” for groceries and the like from time to time.

      I consider myself lucky to call both of these gentlemen not only my tenants, but—I flatter myself to think—also my friends.

      Yrs Truly,

      Mrs Hudson

      * * * *

      Dear Mrs Hudson,

      I am a landlady myself, and usually I have no trouble with my tenants. For the most part, they are a reliable and trustworthy lot, paying on time and doing their best not to damage my property.

      However, about a year ago I had a dreadful woman—Kristin Halvorsen by name—who claimed to be an artist from Paris. She gave me a cheque which later bounced, and to top it off, she left the faucet on, creating a leak in the ceiling which I had to have repaired at my own expense. She left in the middle of the night, leaving me with an unpaid bill and an expensive ceiling repair.

      Should I try to hunt her down or write her off as a bad experience?

      Any advice you have for me is much appreciated.

      Sincerely,

      Concerned in Cranleigh

      * * * *

      Dear Concerned,

      Write her off. If you believe in Fate, then this horrid woman will some day get what is coming to her. She may find herself confronted by a landlord someday who will recognize her for what she is, and, with any luck, end up in a gaol cell. It is my experience that people such as her trip up sooner or later.

      Until then, don’t waste any more time thinking about her. My dear sister used to say that everyone gets what they deserve in the end. I am not so confident in the divine justice of Providence, but I do believe in living for the joys in life. It is far too short to do otherwise.

      Go out and buy yourself a new hat, some heavy cream, and make trifle tonight for pudding. It will make you happy, and your lodgers will love you for it. I have listed my own recipe for trifle at the end of this column.

      Sincerely yours,

      Mrs Hudson

      * * * *

      Dear Mrs Hudson,

      Ever since I was a child I have had a delicate constitution, and I am given to fainting spells, especially when attractive men are present. My sister claims I am pretending to faint, but I swear to you that is not the case.

      It is very embarrassing—last week I fainted during Mrs Boyle’s annual Christmas ball, and when I came to, I was in Mr Apthorp’s arms. I was so mortified I pretended to swoon again, and begged to go home, just so I wouldn’t have to face Mrs Apthorp on the dance floor. What can I do? I am already nineteen and my sister says I will never find a husband if I don’t cure myself of this unwelcome affliction. I would be grateful for any advice you can give me.

      Swooning in Swansea

      * * * *

      Dear Swooning,

      Loosen your corset two notches. And do not attend parties where there are handsome married men who are waiting to catch young girls who faint in front of them. Confine your swooning to places where only single young men are present, and you will find a husband within the year.

      Yours,

      Mrs Hudson

      * * * *

      Dear Mrs Hudson,

      I have a nervous stomach. I notice it is much worse when my husband is around, but since we’re living in his mother’s house, I don’t imagine I’ll be getting rid of the source of my stomach trouble anytime soon.

      I would appreciate any advice you can give me.

      Sincerely,

      Bilious in Bathgate

      * * * *

      Dear Bilious,

      The most helpful advice I could give would be to СКАЧАТЬ