Mrs Hudson and the Malabar Rose

by Mrs Hudson

  Mrs Hudson nodded as if the news came as no surprise. ‘Old Mr Fortescue used to know his caviar but those sons of his are sadly lacking. Anything else?’

  Scraggs turned to me and winked. ‘This is one you’ll like, Flot. There’s been a big stir at the Regal Theatre. Seems they’ve booked some foreign conjurer for just after Christmas. They say he’s the toast of society over on the Continent – Paris, Berlin, Budapest, all the posh places. Packed houses everywhere he goes, and he never does more than one night. Keeps himself mysterious. And he does tricks no one’s ever even seen before. And it gets even better. You’ve heard of Lola Del Fuego?’

  I nodded breathlessly. ‘The dancer? Yes, of course. They say she’s the most beautiful woman in Europe. And half of the gentlemen on the Continent seem to be in love with her. They say she’s turned down offers of marriage from royalty in three different countries. You can’t mean that she’s coming to London, Scraggs?’

  He chewed slowly on a mouthful of hot dumpling, enjoying my pent up excitement. ‘She most certainly is,’ he confirmed at last. ‘On the same bill as the magician. Just for the one night. They say it will be the biggest event for years. The tickets are starting at a guinea a go, and they reckon they’ll all be gone by the end of tomorrow.’

  The fact that a guinea was a quite impossible price did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm. Just the thought that the most famous dancer in the world was going to be in London, walking the same pavements as I walked, was more than enough for me.

  ‘Do you think we shall see her?’ I asked, looking across at Mrs Hudson. ‘In the street, I mean, on the way to the theatre perhaps?’

  Mrs Hudson rose and began to pile up our empty plates. ‘I daresay we might, Flotsam. Though I can’t say that particular line of dancing is one I greatly approve of. I should imagine that Miss Del Fuego’s admirers are not always intent on her dance steps. Tell me, Scraggs, you say that there is really only one performance?’

  ‘That’s right, Mrs H. Apparently it’s going to contain some stupendous piece of magic never seen before. Everyone at the theatre’s talking about it. Simkins, the boy who does the chestnuts outside, says they’re expecting the toffs to be fighting for tickets.’

  ‘I imagine he’s right. The ladies will want to see the magic and the gentlemen won’t be adverse to the dancing. As Hudson always used to say…’

  But at that moment there came a crisp, decisive knock at the front door. Mrs Hudson paused in her handling of the dirty dishes.

  ‘Hmmm,’ she murmured thoughtfully. ‘It’s rather late for callers. Flotsam, would you be so kind?’

  So pausing only to smooth down my apron and to push out of sight the strands of hair that habitually escaped down my forehead, I slipped out of the kitchen and up the dark passageway that led me to the front door. The bolts were not yet drawn for the evening and the door, though heavy, swung open easily.

  The first thing that struck me was the snow. It had come on much stronger since we’d closed the curtains for the night and now it was piling high on the rooftops and coating everything below with a crisp layer of greying white. In front of me, exposed to the full hostility of the elements, stood a short, bespectacled man with the most marked air of self-regard. He had removed his hat on my opening the door and as a result the snow was beginning to land unimpeded on the bald dome of his head, but his chest was pushed out very determinedly and his manner when he spoke was one of the most scrupulous formality.

  ‘I believe this is the residence of Mr Sherlock Holmes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very good. And is Mr Holmes at home?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m afraid Mr Holmes is out of London.’

  This information appeared to disconcert the caller and he wiped a gloved hand over his forehead where the flakes of snow were beginning to melt.

  ‘I have a letter here of the utmost importance. Please see to it that it is brought to his attention at the very earliest opportunity.’

  He reached inside his coat and produced a heavily embossed envelope that he pressed into my hands, then turned on his heel and trotted to a dark carriage that was waiting on the other side of the street. Even through the falling snow I could see that its doors were adorned with a bright gold crest but before I could make out the details the carriage had pulled away, and a thicker than usual flurry of snow reminded me of the need to close the door against the swirling night.

  Returning to the kitchen with snowflakes still unmelted on my shoulders, I found Mrs Hudson washing plates and instructing Scraggs in the art of polishing glasses. ‘Not your hand,’ she was rumbling, ‘always move the glass instead. That’s more like it…’ She looked up at me as I entered.

  ‘A message, Flotsam?’

  ‘A letter for Mr Holmes, ma’am. The gentleman said it was very urgent.’

  ‘Did he now?’ She performed three emphatic wipes of her cloth on a large meat platter then placed it on the draining board and joined me by the fire. ‘Just what did this gentleman look like?’ she asked, taking the envelope and turning it thoughtfully between her fingers.

  ‘A small man, ma’am. Bald with little round glasses. And all puffed up like a bantam.’

  ‘Was he on foot?’

  ‘No, ma’am, he came in a carriage, a big, black one with a gold crest on the door.’

  ‘I see. And was the crest like this one?’

  She showed me a golden emblem pressed into the surface of the envelope.

  ‘Yes, I think so. It was a little hard to see because of all the snow.’

  While Scraggs strained to peer over her shoulder she ran her finger over the envelope once more. ‘This paper is hand-made, Flottie, and of the very highest quality. And this is the Home Office crest. But the Home Office doesn’t use paper like this every day. And the Brunswick Carriage doesn’t come out in the snow for any old errand. I have a suspicion that this letter comes from the minister himself.’

  ‘Surely not the little man at the door, ma’am?’

  ‘Certainly not, Flotsam. The Home Secretary does not deliver his own mail.’

  ‘Blimey, just think of that!’ Scraggs sounded impressed. ‘Lord Shastonbury himself writing to old Sherlock.’

  ‘So what do we do with the letter now, ma’am? Do we send it on?’

  She looked at me then and I could see she had come to a decision.

  ‘Matters of state must not be trifled with,’ she said firmly. ‘Not a moment must be wasted.’ She began to examine the envelope’s big wax seal.

  ‘But Mrs Hudson, ma’am, you surely don’t mean… ?’

  ‘This is a time for common sense, Flotsam. There’ll be plenty of time later to stand on ceremony. Now pass me the paper knife – it’s in the dresser, next to the nutmeg grinder – and let’s see what His Grace has to say.’

  While I fetched the knife from the big dresser at the back of the kitchen, Mrs Hudson settled down in her familiar chair by the fire and Scraggs pulled up a seat alongside her. She took the paper knife from me with barely concealed relish and sliced open the envelope with a flourish of the wrist.

  Inside there was a single sheet of paper, headed with the same gold crest. The few words on it were written in a strong, flowing hand and the wording was that of a man accustomed to command.

  Sir,

  It is in your power to assist in a matter of vital importance. The honour of the nation is at stake. You are requested to attend at the address below at the earliest opportunity. Please consider it your duty to do so.

  Yours, etc, etc,

  SHASTONBURY

  Printed neatly below was an address in Whitehall. The envelope contained no further instructions.

  For a moment none of us spoke and I could hear the fresh coals spitting on the fire.

  ‘What a very interesting letter,’ Mrs Hudson said at last. ‘I hadn’t thought things would progress so quickly. What do you think, Flotsam?’

  ‘We must telegraph Mr Holmes at once, ma’am! He must start for Whitehall
immediately.’

  I think I must have sounded rather breathless in my excitement, but Mrs Hudson greeted this call to action with only a very slow nod of her head.

  ‘Yes, Flottie, I suppose Mr Holmes must be alerted. Come, you two, we have telegrams to write.’

  She moved across the room to the kitchen table and, from its drawer, produced paper and a bit of pencil. She had seated herself comfortably at the table and seemed about to write when she noticed that Scraggs and I were still hovering uncertainly by the fire.

  ‘Come on, Flotsam. Over here. You must tell me if you think my wording is appropriate. And Scraggs, you’ll be taking these to the office so start getting your things on. There’s no time to lose.’

  Mrs Hudson wrote two telegrams that evening and both were remarkable. The first was addressed to the Earl of Shastonbury:

  REGRET CANNOT REACH LONDON UNTIL WEDNESDAY EARLIEST STOP INDISPOSITION RENDERS ME UNABLE TO ATTEND WHITEHALL STOP BEG YOU TO CALL AT BAKER ST WED FROM NOON STOP HOLMES

  ‘But Mrs Hudson, ma’am,’ I spluttered, ‘Mr Holmes is in perfect health. How can he refuse to attend Whitehall? And won’t he be furious if you answer for him like that?’

  ‘On the contrary, Flottie. You know Mr Holmes. He likes to hear these things in the comfort of his own study. I think this arrangement will be altogether more to his liking, don’t you?’

  While I contemplated the audacity of this argument, Mrs Hudson was composing a telegram to Mr Holmes in the West Country. If I had found the contents of the first telegram startling, the second left me blinking with bewilderment.

  PRESENCE REQUIRED BAKER STREET STOP MOST URGENT STOP

  HOME SECRETARY WISHES TO CONSULT YOU RE SAFETY OF THE MALABAR ROSE

  Chapter II

  A Silver Case

  The next day passed in a haze of excitement. A telegram from Mr Holmes confirmed that he and Watson would catch the night train and would be in Baker Street the following morning. Mrs Hudson had been planning accordingly and even before that message reached us preparations for the gentlemen’s return had begun. Beds needed to be aired, provisions bought and a veritable banquet of baking, roasting, stuffing and chopping was required before Mrs Hudson was satisfied that the pantry was in a sufficient state of readiness. My day was spent running errands and carrying messages to tradesmen through the slushy streets of a leaden day. In between I was searching the markets for winter vegetables or collecting supplies of pipe tobacco from Mr Hicks, the tobacconist on York Street. There was no time to be cold or to worry about the mud, and when I spotted Scraggs pushing a heavy barrow through Smithfields I barely had time to wave my hand before I was off in the other direction, in search of sausages and silver polish.

  Only when the dusk began to close in from the docks and my list of tasks was finally complete did I find an opportunity to ask Mrs Hudson the question that she had somehow evaded the night before. I returned weighed down with packages and weary from head to toe, and found Mrs Hudson lighting the lamps. Outside, the cold of the previous evening had returned and with the fading light there had appeared a strange yellowness in the clouds that threatened snow; but inside, in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, the fire was burning with a hearty roar and the air was heavy with the scent of cinnamon and cloves. The effect was to send a little shiver of pleasure through me and Mrs Hudson, noticing it, feared it might be a sign of too much time out of doors.

  ‘Now, Flotsam,’ she ordered, ‘sit yourself down in front of the fire. We’ve done fine work today and I’ve just taken two game pies out of the oven. The gentlemen won’t miss a slice or two of one of them. So get yourself out of that coat and we’ll have a little something by the fire.’

  Mrs Hudson’s idea of a little something turned out to be a cup of hot shrub and lemon for me and for herself a glass of the old Madeira. I waited until she had taken a first, contented sip before I dared to begin my questions.

  ‘Mrs Hudson, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, Flotsam?’

  ‘There’s something I don’t quite understand. Last night, that letter…’

  ‘Yes, Flotsam?’

  Twenty hours’ worth of curiosity came bubbling out. ‘Well, how can you know it’s about the Malabar Rose, ma’am? There was nothing in it about rubies. It could be about anything. And what if Mr Holmes rushes all the way back here and it turns out to be about something else altogether?’

  She permitted herself the faintest twitch of a smile and sighed happily.

  ‘Ah, yes. The Malabar Rose. Very interesting. Wait a moment while I fetch that newspaper…’ She bustled to the back of the kitchen and returned with the item we had read together the previous day. ‘Now, Flottie, there are one or two very noticeable things in this report. For instance, yesterday’s guard of honour was led by Major General Sir John Plaskett. Does that name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Isn’t he the Hero of Ishtabad, ma’am?’

  ‘And the safest pair of hands in a British uniform, Flottie. Now he’s hardly the sort of man to be chosen for minor ceremonial duties at a time when there’s so many rumblings abroad. He’d expect to be out on the Irrawaddy, or wintering in Kabul, not leading guards of honour around the streets of London. And then there’s HMS Imperious, the newest ship in the Navy. She was supposed to be in the Indian Ocean, Flotsam, but instead we find her over here, playing the role of glorified cargo ship.’

  ‘I suppose they want to keep the Malabar Rose very safe, ma’am.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s right, Flotsam. Somebody is worried. A gift like the Malabar Rose sounds like good news, but until they get it safely into the vaults, it’s a terrible headache for the government. And they can’t just lock it away at once, which is probably what they’d like to do, because the Maharajah, God bless him, insists that his stone is shown off beforehand.’

  I paused to consider this while Mrs Hudson took another sip of Madeira. ‘But, ma’am,’ I continued after a moment, ‘you still can’t be sure that last night’s letter was about the Malabar Rose. It could be about anything.’

  Mrs Hudson gave a little chuckle. ‘The Home Secretary is hardly likely to require Mr Holmes’ views on the suffrage or on prison welfare, now is he, Flotsam? But who better to turn to when it is feared that plans may be afoot to steal a national treasure?’

  Mrs Hudson took another sip of Madeira while I considered the simple logic of her reasoning and found myself looking forward with quickening interest to our impending visit from the Home Office.

  ‘Mrs Hudson, ma’am?’ I asked timidly. ‘You know that you sent me for some silver polish today?’

  ‘Yes, Flotsam?’ Her tone could not have been more innocent.

  ‘I was thinking that we’ll need to get to work on the silver tomorrow, won’t we?’

  ‘We certainly will, Flotsam.’

  ‘And we usually work on the silver in the little storeroom by the study, don’t we, ma’am?’

  ‘That’s what we usually do, yes, Flottie.’

  I was about to say more but just then our eyes met and Mrs Hudson nodded gently. So I said nothing, but sipped my drink and wiggled my toes and waited for the morrow.

  *

  The return of Mr Holmes and Dr Watson created a great deal of hustle and bustle. They were much later than we had expected them and no sooner was the door open than they stamped up to the study, blowing on their fingers and leaving little frozen lumps of slush in their wake.

  ‘Really, Mrs Hudson, it was the smallest dusting of snow imaginable!’ Dr Watson’s outrage was almost incandescent.

  ‘Indeed it was,’ agreed Mr Holmes more calmly. ‘It is difficult to see how such a thin covering of snow would be enough to halt a locomotive of approximately 50 tons. However, as it is the same story every winter, I suppose we should have anticipated some such delay.’

  The two men had taken up positions in front of the fire in their study, the main room of the house, where as well as reading and discussing their cases, the two men would smoke, take their
meals, interview visitors and enjoy the comfort of Mrs Hudson’s excellent housekeeping. Now, as they allowed the warmth of the room to sweep over them, the flushed, puffing indignation of Dr Watson contrasted quite noticeably with the angular intelligence and rather hawkish features of his friend.

  ‘Dashed incompetence is what I call it!’ Dr Watson insisted. ‘You’d think our train companies might anticipate a degree of bad weather in December, eh?’

  ‘Well, my friend, we’re here now with a good fire and a new case to occupy us.’ Mr Holmes looked about him, his features softened by the pleasure of once more being amid familiar surroundings. The study was a large, bright room with two good windows, a table in front of them, and comfortable armchairs arranged around a generous fireplace. Around the walls stood the various cabinets that held his collections. He gave a contented sigh.

  ‘I see that you have once again created order out of chaos, Mrs Hudson. Your talent for the domestic arts never ceases to impress.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. We’ve done a little tidying and I believe Flotsam here has done some dusting. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll allow us to take those coats… ?’

  But Mr Holmes wasn’t listening. He had advanced to the tall bookcase in the corner of the room and, while I helped Dr Watson out of his overcoat, he appeared to be examining something. As he turned I could see that he was holding in his hand a gentleman’s cigarette case.

  ‘So!’ he exclaimed. ‘I perceive we have had visitors already this morning, Mrs Hudson.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mrs Hudson responded, evidently unimpressed by this particular deduction. ‘A gentleman called at noon and waited for a few minutes. He promised to return within the hour.’

  ‘I see…’ Mr Holmes was studying the cigarette case with the most minute attention and only when he had run his gaze over it four or five times did he pass it over to his companion. ‘Well, Watson, what does this object tell us of our visitor?’