The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (148 page)

THE UNDERAPPRECIATED DOROTHY BELLE HUGHES
(1904–1993) is historically important as being the first female writer to fall squarely into the hard-boiled school. She wrote eleven novels in the 1940s, beginning with
The So Blue Marble
(1940) and including
The Cross-Eyed Bear
(1940),
The Bamboo Blonde
(1941),
The Fallen Sparrow
(1942),
Ride the Pink Horse
(1946), and
In a Lonely Place
(1947), the latter three all made into successful films noir.
The Fallen Sparrow
was released by RKO in 1943 and stars John Garfield and Maureen O'Hara;
Ride the Pink Horse
(1947) stars Robert Montgomery and Thomas Gomez;
In a Lonely Place
(1950) was a vehicle for Humphrey Bogart, Gloria Grahame, and Martha Stewart, and was directed by Nicholas Ray. This classic film noir portrays an alcoholic screenwriter who is prone to violent outbursts and is accused of murdering a hatcheck girl. He is given an alibi by his attractive blond neighbor, who soon becomes fearful that he really did commit the crime and that she might be next. In the book, the writer is, in fact, a psychopathic killer, but the director found it too dark and softened the plot.

At the height of her powers and success, Hughes largely quit writing due to domestic responsibilities. She reviewed mysteries for many years, winning an Edgar for her critical acumen in 1951; in 1978, the Mystery Writers of America named her a Grand Master for lifetime achievement.

“Sherlock Holmes and the Muffin” was first published in
The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
, edited by Martin Harry Greenberg and Carol-Lynn Rössel Waugh (New York, Caroll & Graf, 1987).

THE ICICLES DID
indeed hang by the wall on that early December morning; quite as Sherlock Holmes was caroling as he came from his bedroom into our sitting room:

“When icicles hang by the wall
,

“And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
,

“And Tom bears logs…”

A bump on the corridor door interrupted. It was half after six and our early morning tea had arrived. As he was nearby, Holmes opened the door. Lustily, he resumed his song:

“And greasy Joan doth keel the pot…”

The tweeny entered, balancing the heavy silver tray, with its two brown china pots of Jackson's best English Breakfast blend, a large container of steaming water, two cups and saucers of Wedgewood china, a sugar bowl and milk pitcher also of Wedgewood, and two silver spoons. She managed with care to put down the tray without spilling anything. She then faced up to Holmes. “My name is not Joan,” she stated, “and I am not greasy. I wash myself every morning and every night, and on Saturday I take a full bath in m'Mum's washtub.” She emphasized, “Every Saturday.”

She was a little thing, of no more than ten or eleven years by the looks of her. Over her dress she wore an overall, evidently one of Mrs. Hudson's in the way it hung almost to her ankles. Her mousy brown hair was cut as a small boy's, a straight fringe to the eyebrows and square below the ears. Her eyes were as gray as this wintry morning.

Tweenies came and went at Mrs. Hudson's. Our exemplary landlady was not so goodhearted to underservants as to her tenants. I had frequently heard her berating one or another tearful child. Tweenies being on the lowest rung of domestics, and hence lowest paid, none remained long in Mrs. Hudson's employ.

But this one had spunk. And Sherlock himself was in fine fettle, by which I assumed a new case had come his way. As he so often said, “Give me problems, give me work. I abhor stagnation.” Without a problem, he took to his mournful Stradivari violin and his pipe of 7½ percent solution.

Although his eyes were laughing now, his face remained grave as did his voice. “If you are not Greasy Joan,” he said, “what name are you called?”

“My name is Muffin.”

“Muffin?”

“Muffin,” she repeated firmly, daring him to disdain it.

“Well, Mistress Muffin,” he bowed slightly, “you may pour me a cup of your excellent tea. First a spill of milk, then the tea, and lastly two lumps of sugar.”

She hesitated, as if it were not her job, as indeed it wasn't, to pour the tea. I had already serviced my cup, with a generous pour of the milk, and with one lump of sugar, and stir and
stir, as we were taught in boarding school. But she followed his instructions, quite as if she were accustomed to this extra duty. She knew how, I must say. She probably played Mother for her Mum of an evening.

“And where did you get that fine name, Mistress Muffin?” Sherlock inquired politely as he ventured a sip of his scalding tea.

“M'Mum named me that,” she replied. “Ever before I was born, she once saved a ha'penny from her wages, and she bought for herself a muffin from the Muffin Man. She says it was the best thing she had ever in her life. And when I came to her, she named me Muffin.” As she was concluding, she had edged her way to the door. “Excuse me, sirs, but she'll be accusing me of twattling if I don't get backstairs. I will return for the tray later on.”

With that she was gone like a streak.

When she was well away, Sherlock burst into laughter. “Muffin. Because it was the best thing she ever had.” Then his face became serious. “Poor woman. Waiting—how long?—until she could spare a ha'penny for her special treat. I daresay the child has not ever tasted one.”

“Not on a tweeny's wages,” I agreed. I poured myself more tea. “You are up early. A new case?”

“It would seem so. A chest of jewels shipped from India on
The Prince of Poona
is missing. This morning I meet with the ship's captain and representatives of the viceroy. After I learn more of the details, I shall decide whether or not I wish to undertake this case.”

“Not the Gaekwar of Baroda's gems!” I had read of their worth this past week in the dallies.

“Indeed, yes. From your service in India, Watson, I daresay you know that the Gaekwar receives each year from his subjects his weight in gold and jewels. Doubtless this is why he emulates a Strasbourg goose at table.” We could exchange a smile, having seen news photographs of the present Gaekwar. Holmes continued, “It seems he has decided to have some of his treasure set in pieces—breastplates, coronets, rings and things, possibly as gifts to his ladies and to favored courtiers.”

“But why London?” The East Indians were noted for their skills as lapidaries.

“Why indeed? Because the best stone-cutters are now in London, it seems. At least the Gaekwar considers this to be so. And he will have no one else cut these gems.”

Beneath his dressing gown, Holmes was dressed save for his coat jacket. Briefly, he returned to his room, only to emerge in his stout boots, his Inverness topcoat, several woolen mufflers wrapped about his neck, and carrying his fur-lined winter gloves. On his head was a fur hat he had bought in Russia. He had lowered the ear flaps.

Because of the weather, I suggested he take a hansom cab to his meeting place. He scoffed at that. “Cold fresh air is what my lungs have needed.” And he was off. I envied him. I was still more or less housebound, nursing the wounds of my services in Afghanistan. I gathered by the fire, settling in an easy chair with my briar and the morning
London Times
. Sherlock claimed that the
Times
was read only by intellectuals, of which ilk I make no claim. But for me, the
Times
was the only paper which gave proper news.

I'd forgotten about Muffin until she thumped the door later and reappeared. In one breath she said, “Miz Hudson says your breakfast will be ready in one hour is that too late and will you be down?”

Holmes and I usually took our breakfast in the downstairs dining room, it being difficult, if not impossible, to keep toast and eggs and bacon properly warm when a tray has to be loaded and carried two flights from the kitchen to the first floor front, where we had our quarters.

“Yes, I will be down.” I told her. “And eight o'clock will suit me properly. And please to inform Mrs. Hudson that Mr. Holmes will not be coming to breakfast as he has already gone out.” This was not unusual when he was on a case. There were times when he actually left before early morning tea!

“Yessir,” said Muffin. She had been stacking the tray with the remains of this early morning's. She made as if to take it up now, but I halted her.

“I want you to know,” I said, “that Mr. Holmes was not speaking of you when he spoke of greasy Joan. He was just singing one of Mr. Will Shakespeare's songs.”

Her face lighted. “Oh. I have heard some of them before. When I was little, m'Mum took me to see some of his plays at the Lyceum. There was one where a father's ghost appears to a prince named Hamlet. Ever so scary. And another one called
Twelfth Night
where a girl pretends to be a boy and where there are two old gentlemen who sing and dance. Very comical they are.”

I wondered, “Your mother is in theatre?”

“Oh, no, Dr. Watson, sir. It was when she was charing at the Lyceum. It is not far from the docks, just off the Strand. The usher let her bring me in if I would sit quiet on the steps.” She tossed her head. “I can tell you, young as I was, I was much more quiet than the folks in the stalls or the balcony.” She hoisted the tray, it was not so heavy with the teapots empty. “I'd best hurry before Miz Hudson gets crotchety again.” And off she went.

That evening by the fireplace I regaled Holmes with the further revelations of Muffin. He was as impressed as I at her knowing of Shakespeare. “I wonder can she read and write,” he reflected.

Education for females was still scarce to non-existent, although the National Education Act was initiated by Parliament some years before. To a goodly extent, Parliament had acted because of John Stuart Mill's movement for the improvement of schools for females, to which Miss Florence Nightingale had added her influence. Both Holmes and I were staunch supporters of education for all.

That night Holmes did not talk of his new case, save to say he had accepted it and would be leaving early in the morning for the docks. Possibly the docks were somewhat improved now, in the late 19th century, but they were still unsavoury at best and dangerous below that. Not that Holmes was ever fearful walking even the meanest alleys. His lean frame gave no hint of the muscular power beneath. Holmes was as fine a boxer as any professional, and with exercise and proper diet, he kept himself fit. Nevertheless, he did not rely on brute strength alone. The stick he carried was weighted, as more than one malefactor could testify.

He did remark, “It is to be hoped that the cache is not in the hands of a dredger. It might be somewhat difficult to retrieve.”

For the most part dredgermen were steady, hardworking men of the lowest class, searching among the flotsam for objects of possible value. They also had the duty of recovering drowned bodies from the river. For this latter they were paid “inquest money.” Unfortunately, smugglers larded themselves among the decent dredgers. These were most active when East Indian ships rode at anchor in the river.

Holmes puffed placidly on his after-dinner shag. “Certainly, with diamonds the stakes, time is of the essence.”

“Diamonds!” I could not help but exclaim.

“The cache contains diamonds, in weight near 500 stone.”

“And you are to recover it?”

“I intend to try.” His lips were unsmiling. “I do not intend to fail.”

The following morning Muffin did not linger after bringing our early morning tea. I daresay Mrs. Hudson had dressed her down for yesterday's lapses. Holmes had his tea with his customary before-breakfast pipe, filled, as always, with the day-before dottle, which he dried on his bureau overnight. With it he had his usual two cups with two sugars, but he did not linger over them. He was off to his room in no time to dress, eager to get himself down to the docks.

I lighted my briar and poured myself a third cup. Without warning, without even her customary thump, Muffin burst into the room. In each hand she held a man's walking boot. “Is not Mr. Holmes here?” she demanded.

“He is here. In his room, dressing,” I replied.

She gasped, “Someone put his boots in the dustbin. I went to empty the kitchen baskets into the bin and saw them atop the leavings. The dust cart comes this afternoon, and they would have been taken to the dust yard.” She tossed her head. “If the dustman did not keep them to sell.”

From his doorway, Holmes called out, “What is this you say?”

Muffin spun around, and the boots fell from her fingers. In a moment, she gulped, “Gor, Mr. Holmes. You gave me such a start.” She let out a deep breath. “I took you for a lascar.”

Holmes was now concealed in the guise of one of those fierce East Indian sailors. An angry scar slanted down his entire left cheek. His face was colored as brown as coffee. Even to me, a medical man, and in these close quarters, it appeared to be an actual scar.

“You are familiar with the lascars?” Holmes asked her.

“Oh yes, m'Mum and I live near the docks. My Da was a seafaring man until his ship was lost in the Indian Ocean, all hands aboard. I never knew him; I was just a babe.” She shook off memories and returned to the present. “Lascars are mean. They'd as leave knife you as give you the time of day.”

Holmes now turned to me. “And do I pass inspection with you, Doctor Watson?”

“You've passed a stiffer test,” I informed him. “It is more difficult to deceive children than it is their elders.” I then explained to him, “Muffin rescued your boots from the dustbin.”

Having recovered them from the floor, she held them out to him.

“How good of you to look out for me, Mistress Muffin. However, these are boots I have discarded.”

“But Mr. Holmes,” she protested. “The leather is not broken. Look. And the soles! Yet strong—”

“I no longer need them,” he told her. “My Jermyn Street bootmaker delivered my new ones this week. These you may consign again to the dustheap.”

“If you say.” Reluctantly she turned to depart, still rubbing her thumb on the smooth leather. And then she turned back to him again, asking in a small voice, “Would you mind if instead of the dustbin, I kept them myself?”

He was taken aback for a moment. “Not at all. But I fear they would be rather too big for you, Mistress Muffin.”

“Oh, not for me, sir. For m'Mum. Her feet are that cold when she comes home late at night from her charing, like sticks of ice they are. When it's damp out her shoes are wet clean through to her skin. Her soles are paper cardboard.”

“Won't they be too big for her?” I put in dubiously. “A woman's foot is different from a man's.”

“Not with new-old stockings. Maybe two pair to fill the chinks.”

“New-old stockings?” It was an expression I had not heard.

She told me, “All the Mums make them. They cut off the worn foot and sew together what's left. And then they cut a top piece off another old stocking and sew that to the top to make them long enough. And you have a new-old stocking.”

A peremptory knock on the door silenced her. It was Mrs. Hudson's knock. I noted only then that Sherlock had made an unobtrusive exit while Muffin and I were engaged.

I opened the door to our landlady. She bade me goodmorning, then directed her gaze to Muffin. “You are needed below.”

“Yes'm,” the child said meekly and scuttled away.