by George Mann
Lestrade eyed the brandy decanter on the sideboard. “Oh, perhaps something a little more warming...”
As Watson went to do the honours, Mrs Hudson nodded. “I’ll be in the kitchen, then.”
But as she closed the parlour door behind her, she paused then put an ear against the woodwork, listening intently to the voices within.
* * *
“Yesterday afternoon,” said Inspector Lestrade, finishing his brandy and offering his glass to Watson for a refill, “this was dropped off at the Commercial Road police station along with a letter signed by one Melvin Jacobs, informing us he had just purchased it from Billingsgate Fish Market.”
“He purchased it himself? Has he no housekeeper? Or wife?” said Watson, sitting down with a fresh brandy
“Presumably he is not of a position to employ a housekeeper,” said Lestrade. “And the letter said his wife is laid up with a very mild case of typhus.”
“Our Mr Jacobs lives in Aldgate,” pronounced Holmes. “He is a member of the Jewry, and practically destitute.”
“How on earth can you know that?” said Lestrade. “As it happens, he didn’t put his address on the letter...”
Holmes sat back smugly. “Jacobs is a Yiddish name, of course. And there was an item in the newspaper about a typhus outbreak near the Aldgate synagogue. You said yourself he cannot afford a housekeeper, and he was not working on a Friday, so without a proper paying situation. Enough money, though barely I surmise, to purchase a fish to be served gefilte, as is the Yiddish tradition, on the Jewish Sabbath—Saturday, which is today.”
“Genius,” said Watson, sipping his brandy. He pointed at the fish. “Though it’s not on his table. What’s wrong with it?”
Lestrade procured a pencil from his inside pocket and poked it into the slit along the length of the fish’s belly. “He began to prepare it, all right. Then he found this...”
Beneath the skin was an even more glittering prize. Along the length of the fish’s innards were gems and jewels—two diamond rings, a ruby on a golden chain, garnets, a brooch, emeralds...
“A veritable treasure trove!” exclaimed Watson. “That fish has been eating well!”
“Better than Mr Jacobs, I’ll warrant,” said Holmes.
But Lestrade had not finished. He flipped over the fish with his pencil, the booty within scattering along the newspaper wrapping, to reveal a deep x-shaped scar on the previously hidden flank of the char.
Holmes leaned forward, his eyes narrow. “Not a process of the gefilte method of preparation, or certainly not one I have heard about,” he said.
“A mystery, indeed, and one which I thought might whet your appetites.” Lestrade nodded.
“Moreso than the fish,” said Watson. “Having said that, can we keep hold of it?”
Lestrade shrugged. “I don’t see why not, for a day or two.”
“I’ll get Mrs Hudson to put it on ice in the pantry,” said Holmes. “We’ll keep the gems in our safe.”
“Excellent,” said Lestrade, standing. “Then I’ll bid you gentlemen farewell, and look forward to your thoughts.”
Watson rang for Mrs Hudson to see Lestrade to the door, and when the inspector had left, Holmes called for his housekeeper to enter the parlour.
“What do you make of this, Mrs Hudson?” he said, indicating the char.
“Nice bit of fish, or it was,” she said, sniffing. “You don’t see white-spotted char often. A little past its best, mind.”
“Ever seen a fish stuffed with gems?”
She shook her head, studying the jewels spilling out of the char. “Can’t say as I have, Mr Holmes.”
“Put it on ice for us, Mrs Hudson. Watson, put the gems in the safe. I think we need to cogitate upon this mystery.”
When the housekeeper had gone, and Watson had locked the safe, the doctor said, “Is this a two-pipe problem, Holmes?”
The great detective settled back into his chair. “Something a little stronger, I think.”
Watson unlocked the wooden cabinet by the bookcase and pulled out two glass vials. He waggled them both at Holmes. “Morphine or cocaine?”
“Morphine, I fancy. Aids the mental processes somewhat.”
Watson locked the cocaine away and handed the vial, and a small syringe, to Holmes. “Very good. While you’re, ah, cogitating, I think I’ll have a small nap. See if inspiration strikes.”
Half an hour later, there was quiet over the parlour, save for the gentle snoring of Dr Watson and the fevered, low moans of Sherlock Holmes.
* * *
In the kitchen, Mrs Hudson rifled through the store where she kept old newspapers for bunching up and aiding with the lighting of the fires in 221b Baker Street. It had been a warm autumn so there had not been as many blazing hearths as the previous year, and she also burned the oldest dated ones first, so the number of the Illustrated London Argus which she was looking for had not yet been despatched to the fireplace.
There it was, the early edition from four days ago. She took it to the worktop and flicked through until she located the item she was looking for.
It was a small piece headlined THEFT OF PRICELESS JEWELS FROM LADY MORRIS HOLIDAYING IN PARIS, and told in florid language how the head of one of London’s most affluent and established families had been holidaying with her son and retinue in the City of Lights when persons unknown struck at their hotel room, making off with a range of highly valuable and irreplaceable gems and jewellery items.
The report listed some of the items that had been taken: “Two diamond rings, one of them given to Lady Morris upon her engagement to Lord Morris of Fife, sadly deceased these five years; a gold necklace with a ruby stone; an emerald necklace; two garnet rings and a mother-of-pearl and gold brooch.”
Stolen in Paris, and ending up in the belly of a white-spotted char at Billingsgate Market? They were well-travelled jewels, and no mistake. Mrs Hudson carefully folded the newspaper to display the news item and crept into the parlour, where Dr Watson was snuffling into his moustache and Mr Holmes curled, foetus-like, in his chair, his feet jerking as though he was a dog a-dream. Mrs Hudson tutted softly and removed the syringe from his forearm, placing it with distaste upon the salver with the brandy. She would never understand Mr Holmes and his chemical addictions. Mr Hudson—God rest his soul!—had always said, before he lost his life on that African field, of course, that a stout ale and the occasional whisky at Christmas should be enough for any man. He wouldn’t have liked her mingling with these cocaine and morphine types. But Mr Hudson was long gone, and Mrs Hudson had to make ends meet, and if that meant renting out half the building (and re-badging the two halves 221a and 221b for the benefit of the Post Office) to the likes of Mr Holmes, and keeping house for him and Dr Watson, then so be it. She had to confess, she’d never had as much fun before she took on her tenants, not since Mr Hudson had died. So let them have their little foibles.
Dr Watson, as though sensing another presence in the parlour, began to snort more loudly. Quickly, Mrs Hudson placed the folded newspaper into the long, slim fingers of Sherlock Holmes, then stole out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
* * *
“Great Scott, Watson, I think I might have stumbled upon something!” exclaimed Holmes as Mrs Hudson laid out afternoon tea.
Watson harrumphed and sat bolt upright. “Just resting my eyes. What is it, Holmes?”
The detective produced the newspaper with a flourish. “Mrs Hudson, did I come into the kitchen while I cogitated?”
“I believe you did, Mr Holmes,” she said. “You were looking in the bin where I keep the old papers. I asked if I could help but you were quite single-minded.”
“Something must have occurred to me,” said Holmes. “Look, Watson! This description of the jewels stolen from Lady Morris in Paris. Ring any bells?”
“By Jove, Holmes, they are the exact gems found in that blasted fish! Then we know who they belong to... but how did they get from Paris to London?”
Watson frowned. “Is that probable, Holmes?”
Holmes peered down his nose at the doctor. “I have said more than once, Watson, that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Watson reached for his tea. “I dare say you’re right, Holmes. It’s just... well, we haven’t exactly eliminated much so far, impossible or otherwise.”
Holmes glared at him. “And you have a more suitable hypothesis?”
“Well, not as such...”
“Then let us away to Lady Morris, to return her jewels. Mrs Hudson, we shall be back for dinner and that wonderful lamb stew I can smell bubbling on the hob.”
“Very good, Mr Holmes,” said Mrs Hudson. That would just give her enough time for an errand of her own. To Billingsgate, before the fish market closed for the day.
* * *
“Now then, Mrs H., what can I do for you today?” Herbert the fishmonger was as broad as he was tall, ruddy of complexion and smelled perpetually of his stock in trade. Mrs Hudson wondered how his wife put up with it. “Bit of cod? Hake? Some lovely haddock just come in.”
“I might be in the market for a nice white-spotted char,” she said, clutching her ever-present carpet bag.
Herbert rubbed his broad chin. “White-spotted char? Now there’s a fish. Not seen that for a while. Shockingly expensive, that is. Your Mr Holmes developed what we might call a sophisticated palate?”
“He likes his luxuries, now and again,” she said. “So you don’t have any, as a rule?”
Herbert shook his head. “To be honest, not had anyone offer me any, nor ask for it. On account of the cost, like. Have you tried up Covent Garden?”
Herbert was the sixth fishmonger she had tried at Billingsgate, and every time it was the same answer. Not a piece of white-spotted char to be had, nor had there been for some time. How surprising, then, that Melvin Jacobs had managed to buy one from Billingsgate just yesterday. Or so he said.
“Covent Garden?” asked Mrs Hudson.
“Oh, aye, there’s a very posh little place up there, does all kinds of fish you won’t get here in Billingsgate. Very snooty. For the la-di-dah folk. Now, are you sure I can’t tempt you with a piece of this hake?”
* * *
The shop in Covent Garden was indeed very la-di-dah. It went by the name of Highfield’s, and as well as fish it sold pickled goods and dried meats of a most exotic nature: salamis and German sausage, olives and big beef tomatoes. The woman with the long nose who presided over the clean, bright counter regarded Mrs Hudson somewhat sniffily as she entered, heralded by a tinkling bell over the door.
“Do you sell white-spotted char?” asked Mrs Hudson pleasantly
The woman waved her hand at the display of fish upon a bed of crushed ice. “We do. How many would you like?”
Mrs Hudson looked at the prices and blanched. Perhaps Mr Jacobs wasn’t as destitute as Mr Holmes’ intuition suggested, if he was buying fish at these prices. She said, “Did you sell one to a chap yesterday? Party by the name of Jacobs?”
“I couldn’t say who I sold them to. He doesn’t sound like one of our regular clientele, but we have many, many customers. Why would you want to know?”
Mrs Hudson made her excuses and left, pausing in the street. Why would Jacobs have travelled to Covent Garden for a piece of overpriced fish? The daylight was fading and she decided she’d better get back to Baker Street before the gentlemen did. One more errand, though... just around the corner were the offices of White Horse Transport and Travel, the operators of the passenger line which had taken Lady Morris to Paris and back.
Mrs Hudson presented herself at the travel desk and murmured to the clerk, “I do hope you can help. I work for Lady Morris and... well, she’s had a lot on her plate recently. You might have heard...”
The clerk, a young man with sprouting sideburns, glanced from side to side. “Terrible business, yes. How can I help you?”
“Just for the purposes of organising her bills... as I said, the Lady has been most upset and has been unable to locate her passenger manifests for the outward and return journeys. It’s for extra payments to the staff who attended her...”
“Of course,” said the clerk, nodding, and swiftly located the documents. “Do tell Lady Morris that all at White Horse wish her the speediest of recoveries from this shock.”
Waiting for a cab to take her back to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson inspected the manifests. Just as she had thought. Now she had just to hope that one of those Baker Street Irregulars was hanging around up to no good in Marylebone.
* * *
“I must say, I thought Lady Morris might have been a tad more pleased at us returning her lost property,” said Watson.
“I suppose that’s the upper classes for you,” said Holmes. “Find it difficult to show their emotions.”
“This is dashed good lamb stew, Mrs Hudson,” said Watson, ladling another helping into his dish. “Dashed good.”
“Very warming, is lamb stew,” acknowledged Mrs Hudson as her tenants ate a hearty dinner. “However... all that business got me thinking. I was sure I had a good recipe for white-spotted char somewhere.”
“Probably in that carpet bag you cart around all the time,” said Watson. “Heaven knows what you keep in that thing.”
“A mystery we shall never solve, Watson!” declared Holmes, dipping bread into his stew.
“I did find it, but...” said Mrs Hudson, and paused.
Holmes glanced up. “What? Out with it!”
“I went along to Billingsgate but there wasn’t any white-spotted char at all. Hadn’t been for some time. Not the sort of fish you find at Billingsgate. More likely to get it in the posh shops up at Covent Garden, such as Highfield’s.”
“I know it,” nodded Holmes. “For those with very expensive tastes and the wallets to match.” He paused. “But Lestrade said Jacobs had told the police he purchased the fish at Billingsgate.”
Watson harrumphed. “But why lie about something like that?”
“Because he has something to hide!” said Holmes.
Mrs Hudson said nothing, and began to clear the plates so she could bring out the pudding. She had laid out the spotted dick when the doorbell sounded. “I’ll attend to it,” she said.
A moment later Mrs Hudson ushered a ragged little scamp, his face streaked with dirt and his shoes flapping like wet fish, into the dining room. “A boy to see you, Mr Holmes.”
“Ah, one of the Irregulars!” exclaimed the detective. “You have a tip-off for us, young man? You and your army of waifs have been keeping your ears to the ground on the hunt for titbits of nefarious deeds and dark doings?”
The boy said nothing until Mrs Hudson pinched him in the shoulder. “Ow! Ah, yes, sir. I brought the thing. Like you said.” He held out two sheets of crumpled paper.
“The thing? Like I said?” Holmes frowned.
Another pinch from Mrs Hudson. “Ow! Earlier today, sir. You asked me to fetch you this from the...” He glanced at Mrs Hudson. “Oh yes, the White Star. I mean the White Horse.”
“Must have been while you were cogitating, Holmes,” said Watson.
Holmes took the papers from the boy. “Passenger manifests? I don’t recall... Great Scott, Watson! These are from the journeys Lady Morris took to the Continent, and her return trip. And... dashed if Melvin Jacobs isn’t listed as part of her itinerary! He’s only Lady Morris’s blasted footman!”
Holmes tossed the boy a sixpence and Mrs Hudson hurried the scamp from the house. When she returned, the grea
t detective had already solved the mystery.
“Jacobs stole the jewels while he was in Paris with his employer, and at the docks had them inserted into a fish that he knew must be bound for Covent Garden, for fear all the servants would be searched following the discovery of the crime! Then he went to purchase the exact fish—which he had marked with a cross—to obtain his stolen booty.”
“Damned clever footman,” observed Watson.
“The criminal mind is a fine example of the adage necessity is the mother of invention, Watson. We must away to Lestrade, and have him apprehend the villain immediately.”
“You really are quite remarkable, Holmes,” said Watson, wiping his mouth with his napkin and depositing it on the remains of his pudding.
“But why,” wondered Mrs Hudson, “should Jacobs then hand the gems in himself?”
Holmes and Watson, however, had already gone, leaving her question hanging there above the dirty dishes, dishes that were not about to wash themselves.
* * *
It being a Sunday the next day, Mrs Hudson only worked the morning and had the rest of the day to herself. She prepared a hearty breakfast for Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, and gently enquired over the kippers if Inspector Lestrade had successfully apprehended the villain.
“He did indeed,” said Holmes. “He has yet to confess to the crime, but the evidence stacked against him is insurmountable, I judge.”
“Odd, though,” said Watson, inspecting the bottom of his teacup. “Turns out that not only was he not destitute, he is not a Jew. Nor does he live in Aldgate.”
Holmes glared at the doctor. “But his wife is suffering from typhus, as I deduced.”
Mrs Hudson decided not to mention that it was Inspector Lestrade who had offered that information. Besides, she had somewhere to be.
On the passenger manifests Mrs Hudson had seen another name she recognised, that of Eliza Ramsbottom, listed as part of Lady Morris’s retinue. Mrs Hudson, when she was younger and used to do for grand houses herself, had worked briefly with Eliza and kept in touch with her sporadically. She presented herself just after lunch at the tradesman’s entrance of the tall townhouse in Mayfair which was the seat of the Morris family in town, where Eliza was indeed enjoying a brief repast in advance of her afternoon off
