The Case Book of Mrs. Hudson

Mrs. Hudson put aside her newspaper and watched as Miss Morstan crossed gracefully to the mantelpiece. She was wearing grey today, with a touch of blue at the neck bringing out the colour of her large, sympathetic eyes. Mrs. Hudson’s friend and colleague truly was a picture of sensitivity and refinement.

Until she tripped over the bearskin rug.

“Damn and blast the wretched thing!”

Mrs. Hudson winced. “My dear, do try and remember to moderate your language.”

Miss Morstan grinned. “There are no clients here to be shocked.” She continued to the mantelpiece and selected a cigar.

“But we are not alone in the house,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Our landlords may come in at any time.”

Perfectly on cue, Mr. Holmes entered with the tea tray.

Miss Morstan hid her smile by bending to light the cigar. Mrs. Hudson frowned at her and turned to Holmes.

“Thank you,” she said, as he placed the tray on the table beside her chair. She poured herself a cup but then realised Holmes was still dithering.

“Was there something else?” she asked, glancing longingly at the tea. It could take a while before Holmes came to the point.

“I wondered if I could have a word,” he said.

He looked nervously at Miss Morstan, who took the hint. She and her cigar went to the other end of the room and pretended to find Mrs. Hudson’s filing system fascinating.

There was a pause.

“Is it about the mess?” said Mrs. Hudson eventually, indicating her many piles of paper. “I will be sorting through my documents in the near future.”

“No,” said Holmes, “that’s not…”

“Is it the clients? As a consulting detective, I must have somewhere where I can be consulted.”

“Of course…” said Holmes, “however…”

“Is it using the wall for target practice, perhaps?”

“No, that’s… Well, naturally, I would rather you… But no…”

Holmes straightened his shoulders.

“It concerns your colleague. She has been leaving her… apparel… about.”

Mrs. Hudson was perplexed. “Can you speak more plainly, Mr. Holmes?”

“Petticoats, Mrs. Hudson!”

There was muffled hilarity from the far end of the room.

Holmes flushed.

“If you could ask Miss Morstan to be more careful. You know how shy Dr. Watson is when it comes to the fairer sex. The last time he went up to tidy Miss Morstan’s room, it took two glasses of brandy to calm him down afterwards.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I shall certainly speak to her.”

She glared at Miss Morstan, who had now rejoined them. But Miss Morstan simply looked down demurely, stubbed out the cigar and poured herself some tea.

Holmes nodded awkwardly and left them.

The laughter exploded out of Miss Morstan.

“My dear, please,” said Mrs. Hudson. She lifted her own cup, and took a sip.

“I don’t know why you care, anyway,” said Miss Morstan. “You’re always so disparaging about men.”

“I dislike and distrust the sex, it is true,” said Mrs. Hudson, putting the cup back on its saucer. “However, that is no excuse for bad manners.”

She took up her newspaper again and silence fell for a while.




Holmes came up later to collect the tea things. Shortly after, Dr. Watson arrived too, accompanied by a stranger.

“A gentleman to see you,” Watson announced.

Was that a look of surprise from Holmes? Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” said Miss Morstan. She smiled lasciviously at Dr. Watson, who abandoned the newcomer and dashed away.

The startled gentleman collected himself and bowed to the ladies.

“My name is Moriarty,” he said.

“A friend of yours, Mr. Holmes?” enquired Mrs. Hudson.

“Yes,” admitted Holmes in some embarrassment. “Mr. Moriarty is a fellow landlord.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled. “I promise not to hold it against him.”

“I changed my mind about coming,” said Moriarty, looking at Holmes. “I trust this does not make things difficult for you?”

“No, I am… glad,” said Holmes. He picked up the tray. “I shall leave you to your consultation then. There are things to do…” He exited quickly.

“Well, Mr. Moriarty,” said Mrs. Hudson, “do sit down and tell me about your case…”




“So, Mr. Moriarty’s tenants have all simultaneously disappeared, leaving their belongings behind,” said Miss Morstan, gazing around one of the upper sitting rooms. “Everything does look untouched. It’s almost as though they never left.”

“Hmm…” said Mrs. Hudson. There was definitely something odd going on. “I can find no useful clues here. I think we should leave.” She strode to the door and turned the handle.

“Oh, dear,” she said.

The case had suddenly turned into a locked room mystery.




Eventually they managed to escape by climbing out of the window.

As Mrs. Hudson concluded her descent upside down in the rhododendron bushes, just for a moment she could have sworn she saw Dr. Watson scampering away on the other side of the road…




Back in Baker Street, Miss Morstan stomped up to the front door. “What an awful day. I can’t wait for supper.”

Mrs. Hudson inserted her key—and found it would not turn. She tried again but with the same result: it was not a difficult deduction to make.

In their absence, the locks had been changed.

An envelope fluttered down and landed on the pavement beside Mrs. Hudson. She automatically picked it up and raised her eyes to see Holmes grinning at her from an upstairs window.

Mrs. Hudson ripped open the letter and recoiled.

“We have been evicted,” she said. “On the grounds of unreasonable behaviour.”

Miss Morstan turned purple. “The rotten…” She began banging on the door but Mrs. Hudson stopped her.

“We have been outplayed, my dear.” She sighed. “And I didn’t suspect a thing. Maybe it is finally time for us to retire to that cottage in Sussex.”




As she flagged down a cab, Mrs. Hudson took one last rueful glance back at 221B Baker Street. And at that man Sherlock Holmes.

The man.

The only one who ever beat her.