by Mrs Hudson
‘Oh, the very least of my talents,’ he announced calmly. His handshake, although firm, was strangely delicate, rather as though his hand was weighing mine as he shook it.
‘To business, Mr Raffles.’ Mrs Hudson gestured me into the armchair usually occupied by Dr Watson and settled herself into the one opposite. Mr Raffles remained standing, leaning against the mantelpiece, smoking the purloined cigar with a series of long, laconic puffs.
‘I received your note the day before yesterday,’ he began, ‘and business being a little quiet just now I thought I would act at once. It is always good to be able to return some of the many kindnesses you have shown me in the past.’ Mrs Hudson replied with a small nod and Mr Raffles continued.
‘Of course, there was no problem gaining entry to the place in Portman Street though the layout of New Buildings meant there was no option but to go through the front door. Moran and his dashed servant seemed to be mightily on their guard. In the end I had to wait till they’d gone to bed before slipping in.’
Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow at him.
‘Oh, it was easy enough, Mrs H, never fear. But it meant my examination was conducted in the dark, with consequences that were almost disastrous.’
I sat wide-eyed as Mr Raffles told his tale. I had imagined all sorts of ways Mr Raffles might have been helping us, but burglary had not been among them.
‘If I may say so, Mrs H, my brief was rather vague. As you know, I generally have a very clear object in these sort of ventures. But I did what I could with the list of things you had asked me to look out for.’
He took another slow draw at his cigar while Mrs Hudson polished the arm of her chair idly with a duster.
‘The first item on the list was easy. It was clear at a glance that there was nothing in the way of scientific equipment to be found there. I don’t know what you hoped for, but it seems like a dead end. After that, it was a case of looking for papers and there were papers everywhere. However it was easy enough to find the ones he wanted to hide. There were caches of them in all the usual places – up the chimney, under the grate in the fireplace … People make these things tediously simple for the most part.’
He reached into his jacket and produced some neatly folded documents which he passed to Mrs Hudson. Beckoning to me, she began to spread them on the floor in front of the fire.
‘There were only three that I felt were of any interest to you. That large one, as you can see, is precisely what you told me to look for. It’s even stamped with the name of his company in the corner, and it seems to be plans for large-scale distilling equipment – stills, tubes and whatnot. I confess I was impressed by the accuracy of your prediction.’
‘What they call a long shot, Mr Raffles. But it seemed to me likely that some such plans would exist somewhere.’
I studied them intently, trying to grasp their import. Stills? Did that mean whisky?
‘The second document you can read at your leisure. It is a letter to Moran from someone called Carruthers. A very conciliatory letter. I thought you would find the passage I have indicated particularly interesting.’
We both turned to the letter in question, a tightly written sheet in blue ink. Mr Raffles had made a mark in the margin next to one of the later paragraphs.
‘The business has transferred remarkably well to London,’ it read, ‘where the ignorant and desperate are to be found in greater numbers even than in the tropics. I confess we are making good money and our backer is delighted.’
‘Interesting . . .’ mused Mrs Hudson, a small frown puckering her brow and her eyebrows pulling together into one straight line.
‘The last document is quite intriguing,’ Mr Raffles went on. ‘My first instinct was to discard it but then it struck me that it may be of significance.’
It was a telegram addressed to Moran, dated November 10th. The message was brief in the extreme.
TASK COMPLETED PENGE
‘The night Carruthers died,’ murmured Mrs Hudson.
‘I rather thought it might be.’
‘Why? Were there any further indications?’
‘Only one thing. A rather disturbing incident at the end of my visit.’ Mr Raffles examined the glowing tip of his cigar with exaggerated interest. ‘It was, I confess, a lesson to me and a lesson I thoroughly deserved. I shall be a great deal more discriminating in future. I was making my way to the door, feeling how nicely my mission had gone, when I was struck by an intriguing wooden jewel box on a table near the door. Now I know the purpose of my venture was purely altruistic, but in a moment of weakness I allowed my curiosity to get the better of me.’ He paused and took another draw on his cigar. ‘Once I was visiting an impoverished maiden aunt in Dorking and, on going through her things in a fit of idle curiosity, came across the finest amber necklace I had ever beheld. The incident made an impression on me and last night it was more than I could do to resist a peek inside that jewel box. The lid came off smoothly and I was just about to reach inside when a prickling at the back of my neck made me hesitate. Instead I turned my light on the box and what I saw gave me a nasty turn. I almost cried out - and I never cry out. But blow me if there wasn’t a blasted scorpion scuttling around down there. It would seem that Mr Moran has something of a penchant for keeping exotic animals.’
*
In a few minutes more, Mr Raffles left us. After thanking him earnestly for his efforts on our behalf, Mrs Hudson seemed anxious to be left alone to think.
‘Why, Mrs H, anyone would think you were ashamed of me,’ he teased.
‘Now, Mr Raffles, you know I shouldn’t be entertaining in Mr Holmes’s study. You let yourself out the way you came and be off with you.’
‘Very well, Mrs Hudson. It is true I shouldn’t stay too long. I have an appointment to view some rooms above a jewellers in Bond Street. And some wretched drip I was at school with is pestering me for an interview. I can’t imagine why. I don’t even owe him money.’
Taking his hat and coat from a table near the door, he bowed suavely. ‘My very best wishes to you both, and the best of luck with the man who keeps scorpions. The sooner people like him are locked away, the safer the world will be for good citizens like myself.’
‘Well, Flottie,’ said Mrs Hudson once Mr Raffles had made a mysterious exit through Dr Watson’s bedroom. ‘What do you think of that, eh?’
My mind was still reeling as I tried to put everything I had just learnt into some sort of order. Possibilities were jostling each other in my brain like crowds in Piccadilly Circus, and on top of it all was the debonair Mr Raffles.
‘Is he … well, is he a burglar, ma’am?’ It seemed almost disrespectful to so label such an elegant gentleman despite the evidence of the last ten minutes.
‘A gentleman crook, perhaps. He is, of course, an utter disgrace in many ways, but always charming with it. And by relieving the aristocracy of their excess jewellery he creates a great deal of employment for policemen, night-watchmen and the like, while at the same time preventing a number of terrible crimes against good taste.’
‘But isn’t that wrong, ma’am?’
Mrs Hudson smiled and put an arm around my shoulder. ‘You’re right, Flottie, it is wrong. But there’s all sorts of wrong in this world and, for all our efforts, you and I won’t be able to root up all of it. So while the likes of Fogarty are out there on the streets it would seem better to concentrate our efforts there rather than on Mr Raffles’s rather cavalier approach to the redistribution of wealth.’
There seemed to be sense in that, but it seemed to raise other questions too. With a shake of the head I decided to store them away for another time when there were fewer mysteries to grapple with.
‘So what about these documents, ma’am? Did you know they were there?’
‘I hardly dared hope, Flottie. Mr Moran is going to have some explaining to do before long, but even these documents don’t prove anything. They only confirm what I had already suspected.’
‘But the scorpion,
ma’am?’
‘Ah, the scorpion. It’s tempting to read a great deal into that - but how strangely uninformative it really is. I predict that before very long we may be less sanguine about the scorpion.’
‘But, ma’am, surely it proves that …’
Before I could finish my point, the door opened and Mr Holmes appeared brandishing the telegram he had mentioned earlier. Behind him, in the hallway, Dr Watson was hurriedly pulling on his overcoat. Seeing us standing by the fire, still armed with our pile of dusters, Mr Holmes cast an approving eye around the room.
‘Very homely,’ he remarked. ‘What a lot you have achieved while Dr Watson and I have been idling in the kitchen. I fear we scarcely deserve you. Indeed, such was the comfort of our surroundings that it is only a moment ago that I thought to open the telegram that arrived earlier. Fortunately the consequences of this delay have not proved serious but its contents are nevertheless highly significant. It is from Mr Moran in Portman Street. He tells us that yesterday evening he received a parcel similar to the one sent to Carruthers. Luckily we had warned him of what to expect and he exercised due caution. The parcel proved to contain a scorpion, Mrs Hudson. Now what do you make of that?’
‘Mr Holmes, I can honestly say that developments in Mr Moran’s case have long ceased to surprise me. I can see that this news has, however, left Flottie unsure what to think.’
Mr Holmes favoured me with a reassuring nod. ‘Entirely to be expected. I know the fairer sex generally have a horror of such creatures. However, we cannot linger. We are off to assure Moran that he is safe. His house is being guarded day and night. Not a soul can leave or enter without our knowing it.’
As we watched the gentlemen depart, Mrs Hudson gave my shoulder a slight squeeze.
‘You see, Flottie, it would be hard to prove whether the scorpion that so alarmed Mr Raffles was on its way in or on its way out. For the time being, we must suspend judgement. At least until we have had a good long conversation with Mr Neale. There are some things I want to ask him about his friend Moran.’ She led the way back to the kitchen. ‘It is tempting to do that today, but Mr Neale will wait for tomorrow. Both he and Moran seem safe enough for now. I think we might spend today tying up some loose ends. This afternoon would you be so good as to go back to Mr Spencer? I’m interested to know what he can tell us about the two dead creatures we sent him. In a hansom this time, I think, Flottie. That way you’ll be sooner back.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said with a little inner bounce. ‘What will you do, ma’am?’
‘I think the time is approaching when we shall need to visit Mr Moran in his lair. Before then I’d like to have a little look at how the land lies so we aren’t in for any surprises. So this afternoon I shall conduct a little discreet reconnaissance. Let us agree to meet here by five, Flottie. That way you will not have to rush off rudely were you are pressed to stay for tea.’
Mrs Hudson’s words proved invaluable in preparing me for what lay ahead, so that when just such an invitation was made by the radiant Miss Peters I found myself able to accept without the incoherent stammering that, I fear, would have been my instinctive response. Managing instead two or three mute nods of the head, I found myself, within five minutes of my arrival, seated nervously at a lace tablecloth.
‘Rupert is still out, you see,’ explained Miss Peters enthusiastically, ‘but he left strict orders that I was to detain you if you called. He said he had something hugely important to convey.’ She uttered the last words in a perfect imitation of Mr Spencer’s voice, then laughed prettily. ‘You see how privileged you are. I’ve known him since we were both too small to stand up but he’s never attempted to convey anything of the least importance to me. Now, do you take milk? Lemon? Oh, I always take milk too. I can’t bear all those tedious people who insist that milk ruins a perfectly good drink. Just because I haven’t been to India and brewed my own tea at dawn on the banks of the Yangtze Kiang doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s nice to drink and what isn’t.’
Miss Peters made it all very easy, and gradually my nervousness subsided under the weight of words pouring over me. Those long-ago afternoons when Swordsmith used to show me how to take tea like a lady now seemed hugely important, but Miss Peters gave the impression that I could have drunk my tea standing on my head without appearing anything other than mildly eccentric.
In fact so comfortable did I become that I quite forgot about Mr Spencer until Miss Peters’s chatter was interrupted by his return. He seemed delighted to see us both and he joined us at the tea table with a quiet grin.
‘Is Hetty talking at you, Miss Flotsam?’ he enquired with elaborate seriousness.
‘Of course I’m not, Rupert. Flottie and I are just discussing the fashion in hats. We think women over forty who will wear those new French creations do so at great risk to their personal dignity.’
‘Hetty is well-equipped to judge,’ he confided to me, ‘as someone who never felt the slightest hesitation in sacrificing all personal dignity if it meant that she could wear something French and fashionable.’
Miss Peters let out a little squeak and appeared to kick him under the table. Ignoring her with practised ease, he turned to me again.
‘Since it’s too late in the day for a lesson, Miss Flotsam, I assume you have called to find out about the specimens you brought me.’ I noticed that his jovial manner concealed an air of considerable excitement.
‘Rupert has spent all day touting that revolting squashed spider around the houses of funny little men,’ put in Miss Peters. ‘Sometimes I think he goes to enormous lengths to put me off him.’
‘Hetty is quite wrong, Miss Flotsam,’ he carried on. ‘The spider was very easy to identify. The snake however was a different matter. You see, there’s a lot of snakes about in the world and lots of them seem to look quite like each other. However, there’s a chap called Michaels at the British Museum who’s very keen on snakes. He got onto the case and fairly quickly he was able to tell me the little charmer that killed Carruthers is something called a blue coral snake. Only a baby, apparently. The grown-ups can be about four or five feet long and they lurk about on the fringes of the jungle and make a nuisance of themselves. He wasn’t surprised Carruthers was dead. Highly venomous, apparently, and no known antidote to the bite. The chap seemed rather pleased with himself until I asked him where it came from. Then he went all vague on me. The thing is the little blighter could have come from any number of places - Sumatra, Borneo, even Siam. I was tempted to leave it at that but Michaels gave me a couple of other names and eventually I was pointed to an old chap called Mathers who had spent 35 years as a surveyor in the Colonial Service. Seems this chap is a manic herpetologist. Spent all his spare time studying snakes and such. Knows more about the snakes of the East Indies than anyone really needs to know.’
‘Rupert, please tell me you won’t want me to call on him,’ interrupted Miss Peters with a grimace. ‘Not like the man with the frightful beard and the collection of beetles?’
‘Hetty, that was the Earl of Cleveland.’ Mr Spencer gave her a look of exaggerated menace and carried on.
‘I showed this chap Mathers the snake that killed Carruthers and it took him about two seconds to tell me what it was. He was very interested in the whole thing so I told him how I came by it and when I got to the bit about the Sumatran curse he interrupted me at once. “But Mr Spencer,” he said as if it was obvious to anyone, “this snake isn’t from Sumatra. This is rather a distinctive shade of dark blue. The Sumatran population is much closer to black. And the stripe is not so pale on the specimens you find in Sumatra,” he insisted. “So where might I be able to collect a specimen resembling this particular snake?” I asked. “Singapore would be the place,” he told me. “There’s loads of them like this one in Singapore.” So there you go, Miss Flotsam, it’s not a Sumatran snake at all.’
‘Singapore! Where Mr Moran went when he left Sumatra! He could have collected it there.’
Mr Spencer nodded
happily. ‘I suppose it’s technically possible that the priests might have got hold of a Singapore version of their local snake to send to London, but I can’t for the life of me see why they should.’
‘And did the spider come from the same place, Mr Spencer?’
‘Oh, that’s just it, Miss Flotsam. Everyone was unanimous about the spider. It didn’t come from Asia at all. It’s a tarantula spider from South America or Mexico or somewhere. I did a bit of investigation and found it’s quite easy to buy one down on the docks. Sailors bring them back and sell them as curiosities. They drive up the price by saying they’re terribly poisonous, practically man-eaters, and someone was obviously taken in. Because whoever it was who went to all that trouble to throw one at Mr Neale can’t have realised that for all their loathsome appearance they aren’t particularly poisonous at all.’
‘So neither of the creatures used in these strange attacks was from Sumatra?’
He shook his head. ‘Though someone seems to want us to think they are.’
‘Moran!’ I murmured under my breath. ‘Someone who wanted us to believe in the Sumatran curse … You must both excuse me,’ I told them abruptly, looking up at two intent, interested faces. ‘You see, I simply have to get back to Mrs Hudson as quickly as I can.’
The Wisdom of Solomon
†
Mrs Hudson was home before me. By the time I stepped out of the undiminished fog, the rooms in Baker Street were already glowing warmly and a rich smell of cooking promised a cheering supper. The strange calm of that morning had persisted into nightfall: Dr Watson was in his bedroom sorting through his collection of artworks, and in the study Mr Holmes had taken up his violin. The music, soft and surprisingly wistful, filled the air with a sense of drowsy thoughtfulness. Mrs Hudson herself was in the kitchen, sewing. The fire was banked up bright, and close to her chair stood a glass of the old Oloroso that had arrived the previous day with the compliments of Mr Rumbelow. While I changed my clothes she listened intently to my panting account of Mr Spencer’s findings, nodding occasionally over her needlework, pausing occasionally to take a sip of sherry or to frown at the fire. When I finished, she lay down her work and signalled towards the seat beside her.
