Chapter Text
It takes a bit more to maintain my lodgings than a bit of beeswax and black-lead.
There is great value in a reputation as a trustworthy woman who never tells lies – and in that vein, an art to not telling the truth to a dangerous intruder without bearing false witness, and that I have done more than once (“Sir, I’m quite sure I have not seen a gentleman of Mr. Holmes’ description in this building today”).
The broom comes in handy when such unsavoury characters try to barge in to see my tenants, usually carrying a knife instead of a calling card – and young Bridget’s a dab-hand with the coal-scuttle to the back of the head for such ruffians as well.
When those grimy young hooligans stampede into the place, the one thing that scares them into a quiet walk up the stairs like civilized lads is a brandished cake of Pear’s and a threat to physically scrub them, clothes and all – and the currant scones waiting for them when they head back down help reinforce decent behaviour.
There is a way to clean the main room without disrupting Mr. Holmes’ piles of papers, and each one of the slaveys must master that technique before they are permitted to work in the room. (This has proved to be excellent training; several of them have moved on to other situations where their discretion and care with their employees’ belongings have earned them great praise and better wages.)
And if all else fails, I have a Stare that has caused three criminals to fall to their knees confessing all, right in the doorway. That last talent of mine never fails to irritate Mr. Holmes!