‘Really, this is too much!’ Lady Templeford protested. ‘Mr Holmes, why do you allow your staff to behave in this unseemly fashion?’
‘Laudanum, Madam,’ I cried, forgetting the correct form of address. ‘Every woman of the working class recognises its smell, a drink cheaper than gin and sadly in just as much use. An opium-based painkiller prescribed for everything from a headache to tuberculosis, fed to infants by their nursemaids in order to keep them quiet – often with fatal results. I hear the drug has found popularity among even the grandest ladies now. You cannot deny it – the bottle was in your pocket.’ I had seen the octagonal brown glass and smelled its contents. ‘It is my conjecture you paid one of your son’s servants to remove the baby from its cradle and deliver it to your lodgings in Mount Row. But there are many apartments around you whose occupants might hear an infant cry, so you silenced the poor mite with laudanum. Shame upon you!’
‘The woman is mad!’ cried her ladyship. ‘I shall not countenance such an accusation.’
‘Then this will do it for you,’ I told her, raising the bottle so that Mr Holmes could see it. ‘Your name is written upon the label. Your doctor will verify the prescription, I am sure.’ No man can survive without the influence of women. But we live in a world that belongs to men. Even our own dear queen has withdrawn completely from British life, her strength brought low by the memory of her husband. What hope can there be for other women without her?
The truth did indeed come to light, although I do not know whether justice will be done. It is not my business to know. Certainly, Mr Holmes was not best pleased. How could he be in his position? Still, I look up to him. And he must look down upon me.
To him, I will always be the lady downstairs.
Old Bag Dad by Keith Miles
Nobody knew his real name. Since he was in his seventies, kept all of his worldly possessions in a plastic bag, and had a paternal manner, he was known as Old Bag Dad. Everyone who visited the Memorial Park knew and liked him. He was an institution. Sitting on his favourite bench and wearing the same tattered clothes year in and year out, he was a familiar figure in the community landscape, a cherished eccentric who radiated a kind of gentle wisdom.
Children loved him, parents trusted him and Douglas Pym, the head park keeper, treated him with amused reverence. Old Bag Dad was not a troublemaker, or a wino, or a beggar, or a misfit, or a lunatic or even one of the many aimless drifters who wandered in from time to time. He was, by his own definition, a good, oldfashioned, unrepentant tramp.
The bag was incongruous. Emblazoned with the distinctive logo of Harrods, it was filled with the most amazing range of items. It was hard to believe that Old Bag Dad had actually shopped in London’s most exclusive store, still less that he had bought there the penny whistle, the golliwog, the pack of Tarot cards, the straw boater, the magnifying glass, the tartan scarf, the alarm clock, the bicycle pump, the dog-eared copy of War and Peace or any of the other unlikely objects that he invariably carried around with him. He was a collector with random tastes.
Douglas Pym always teased the old man about the bag. When he saw his friend on his bench that morning, he could not resist a joke.
‘What have you got in there today?’ he asked, peering into the bag. ‘Something from Harrods’ Food Hall?’
‘Loaf of stale bread, Doug. That’s all.’
‘Where did you get that?’
‘I have my sources,’ said the old man with a smile.
‘They never seem to let you down. You always manage to get grub from somewhere. I saw you with a punnet of strawberries yesterday. Who gave you those?’
‘That would be telling!’
Old Bag Dad was very fond of Douglas Pym. Though the park was locked every night, the old man was allowed to sleep there during warmer months, stretching out on his bench under a newspaper or two. On rainy days, Pym even left the door to his storeroom open so that his resident tramp could slumber under a roof for a change. What happened to Old Bag Dad in the winter was a mystery that Pym had never managed to solve. He repeated a question that he had asked a hundred times over the years.
‘Where do you go, Bag Dad?’
‘Here and there.’
‘Come on,’ said the park keeper, nudging him. ‘You can tell me now. I retire next week. I’ll take your secret with me. Scouts’ honour! Where do you hide out in the winter?’
‘I migrate south with the birds.’
‘Can’t you be more specific?’
‘No,’ said the old man. ‘You’d only follow me.’
‘What did you do before you became a tramp?’
‘I lived a useless and unproductive existence.’
‘And now?’
Old Bag Dad gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I’m happy,’ he said.
‘I’m not sure that your happiness will continue,’ warned Pym, sadly. ‘My successor may not be as easy-going as me. Ex-army man. Does everything by the book.’
‘I’ll win him over, Doug.’
‘You may find it difficult. Ken Latimer’s a martinet. When I told him that I made a few allowances for you, he said that they’d have to stop right away. Watch out, Bag Dad. He’s a bossy type. Likes to throw his weight about.’
Old Bag Dad grinned. ‘I’ll charm the pants off him.’
His voice was educated, his manners impeccable. It led many people to speculate about his earlier life. Some believed he was a university professor who had fallen on hard times, or a brilliant scientist who had had some kind of mental breakdown, or even a famous writer who could no longer get published. What set him apart from every other tramp was the pleasant aroma that always surrounded him. In a way of life not known for its attention to basic hygiene, Old Bag Dad was noted for his strong whiff of aftershave lotion, an odd choice for a man who had not shaved for years. It was almost as if he bathed in it.
‘Good luck, anyway,’ said Pym, offering his hand.
Old Bag Dad shook it. ‘Thanks for everything, Doug.’
‘I should be thanking you. Whenever you’re around, the kids seem to behave much better. They wouldn’t dare to use drugs or sniff glue while Old Bag Dad is watching them. You’re a one-man police force.’
‘I’ve been called worse.’
‘Not by me.’
Douglas Pym gave him a salute before walking away. When he glanced over his shoulder, a young woman was asking the tramp to keep an eye on her baby while she went to the rest room. It was visible proof of the trust that he inspired. Singing a lullaby, Old Bag Dad rocked the child gently in its buggy. He was a picture of contentment.
Set in the heart of a large Midlands city, the Memorial Park was one of its finest assets. It contained three football pitches, two tennis courts, an open-air swimming bath, a well-tended bowling green and – a quaint survival from an earlier age – a magnificent wrought-iron bandstand that was an irresistible challenge to juvenile climbers. Older visitors preferred the botanical gardens but younger ones opted for the playground and its childsafe equipment. It was near the playground that Old Bag Dad liked to sit. Reclining on his bench, he was reading a book when he had his first encounter with the new head park keeper.
Ken Latimer did not believe in mincing his words. He was a tall, well-built man in his late forties with a military bearing. A tiny moustache bristled at the centre of a craggy face. Marching up to the tramp, he stood over him and looked down with disdain.
‘So!’ he sneered. ‘You’re Old Bag Dad, are you?’
‘That’s what they call me,’ replied the other.