by Mrs Hudson
‘And her husband, this Mr Phillimore, is a clerk, you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So I imagine that your daughter’s little indulgences must account for a considerable portion of his salary?’
‘Well, I couldn’t say that for sure, sir. I suppose they must. He’s always been very generous.’ She paused and frowned rather thoughtfully. ‘But then again, Phillimore is a very ordinary sort of man. Never seems to have any interests of his own. And Vinnie never could abide the idea of money sitting idle, sir.’
‘I see.’ Outside the day had turned rather dark and I could hear rain driving against the windows. While Mr Holmes pondered, Mrs Hudson moved silently to one of the side tables and lit a lamp. Its light fell obliquely on Mr Holmes’ face and I saw that the glimpse of excitement there had turned to one of amusement.
‘Would you say Mr Phillimore was a man content with his lot, Mrs Smithers?’
This question seemed to surprise her and she pursed her lips as she puzzled it.
‘I don’t rightly know, sir. I’ve never really thought about it. But he had a roof over his head and a wife who is so elegant that any man would be glad to marry her.’
‘Indeed.’ Mr Holmes turned to his colleague. ‘It is one of the great mysteries, Watson, how the two sexes can see the same objects so very differently. Tell me, Mrs Smithers, in the days before he disappeared had Mr Phillimore’s behaviour been in any way unusual? Think very carefully before you answer.’
‘Unusual, sir? I wouldn’t say so. He isn’t the sort to do anything out of the ordinary.’ She pondered her son-in-law’s extreme predictability for a moment and then her face changed suddenly. ‘There was one thing, though. Something I found in a drawer along with his new pair of gloves.’ She began to fumble with her handbag, her cheeks flushing even redder than before. ‘I brought it with me, sir, because I didn’t want Vinnie to see it. It would bring on the vapours, it would. To think of her husband bringing such a thing into the house!’
After a moment of determined rooting in the depths of her bag, she produced a folded square of paper and passed it to Dr Watson with such alacrity that it might have been burning her fingers. I watched Mrs Hudson lean forward slightly as the doctor opened it up and glanced at its contents.
‘Why, it’s a playbill, Holmes! For some dancer who’s set to perform in Piccadilly. A Spanish lady by the sound of it.’
Mrs Smithers snorted. ‘She’s no lady, sir, at least not in my book. I know about those sort of dancers. Why, it’s downright indecent! To think of a quiet man like Phillimore entertaining such thoughts! If Vinnie knew, she’d be broken-hearted.’
Dr Watson held the bill out to his friend but Mr Holmes waved it away and rose to his feet, taking up a position by the mantelpiece from where he faced his audience.
‘I think, Watson, it requires no act of genius to solve this particular problem.’ A flicker of amusement played around the corners of his mouth. ‘Mrs Smithers, the answer to the next question is vital. It will give me the final piece to the puzzle. Now tell me…’ He paused one moment more and drew happily on his pipe. ‘When you and your daughter were waiting in the street for your son-in-law to appear, was it dresses that you were discussing, or was it the latest fashion in hats?’
It would be hard to say whether Dr Watson or Mrs Smithers was the most taken aback at this question. Both seemed to blink a little in surprise, and Mrs Smithers needed a second or two before she could respond.
‘Why, that’s amazing, that is! It’s just as you say, sir, though it beats me how you could know it. It was hats we was talking about, sir. Vinnie thinks a lot about hats. That day she was wearing a new style and she wanted to know how she looked. And then there was a woman walking past who had a hat very like her own, so of course we had to talk about that too…’ She tailed off as though a thought had struck her. ‘But, sir, how does that explain what’s happened to Phillimore?’
Mr Holmes surveyed his audience and smiled. ‘If I were to tell you it were possible, under certain conditions, for a man to become invisible, you would no doubt mock me. And yet I assure you that is the case.’
‘Nonsense, Holmes!’ Dr Watson exclaimed. ‘Under what conditions could that possibly be?’
‘Why, Watson, my observations have shown me that during any prolonged discussion of feminine attire, it is possible for any number of men to disappear entirely. As far as the female protagonists are concerned, they simply cease to exist. In this case, seeing his wife engrossed in what is, no doubt, her favourite subject, Mr Phillimore quite accurately concluded that he might slip past both women in a cloak of total invisibility.’
‘But, sir!’ Mrs Smithers’ ruddy face was becoming mottled with confusion.
‘No, madam! No discussion! Look at the facts. The most likely explanation is that your son-in-law found some means of egress at the back of your property that you have overlooked. But if, as you assure me, that is not the case – if it is physically impossible for him to have left the building that way – and if, as you also assure me, he does not remain hidden somewhere inside, then logic dictates that he must have left by the front door, unobserved by either your daughter or yourself. There can be no other explanation. Objects do not simply disappear, do they, Watson?’
‘Of course not, Holmes,’ Dr Watson replied dutifully.
‘And since, madam, you have admitted to me that you and your daughter were engaged in animated conversation on a subject of great interest to you both, I think it is reasonable to believe that your observational powers were not at their most acute. As for your next steps in the matter, I suggest that if you wait two weeks it is very likely your son-in-law will come to his senses and return home begging to be forgiven. If the situation is worse, if he has discovered a taste for freedom, then I would suggest a small notice, perhaps in the theatrical papers, urging him to return home to discover something to his advantage. That should do the trick. After all, a man who abandons his wife, whatever the provocation, is a poor fellow and highly likely to succumb to other forms of temptation. Would you not agree, Mrs Hudson?’
During Mr Holmes’ explanation the housekeeper had been listening to his comments with a furrowed brow, absently wiping with the hem of her apron at tiny marks on the sideboard. Now she paused and seemed to consider her response.
‘His behaviour certainly leaves something to be desired, sir.’
‘But I’m quite sure he didn’t pass us…’ Mrs Smithers rose, shaking her head as if a butterfly of doubt was fluttering around it. ‘But if you really think so, sir… I suppose he might…’ She bobbed a little curtsey as if making up her mind. ‘I must thank you for your time, sir.’
Mrs Hudson paused to direct a rather frosty look at Mr Holmes, then guided our visitor gently to the door. ‘I’m sure the gentlemen will think further on your problem,’ she reassured her. ‘And if anything else occurs to them, they will no doubt wish to be in touch. I’ll take a note of your address as I show you out…’
When the door closed behind them, I gave a little bow and began to follow them out, stopping on the way, for the sake of tidiness, to pick up the playbill that Dr Watson had left lying on the floor. When I reached the sanctuary of the kitchen, I stopped to study it. At its head a very familiar name was trumpeted in large letters.
Lola Del Fuego!
The World Famous!
The Spectacular!
The Uniquely Talented!
The Most Beautiful Woman in Europe!!
The Greatest Dancer in the World!!
The Lady of the Fires
comes to London!!
For one night only!
At the Regal Theatre, Piccadilly
December 26th
Tickets by application to the Box Office
Advance sales only
Not sure what to do with it, I smoothed it flat and placed it neatly in the middle of the kitchen table where Mrs Hudson would be sure to notice it on her return.
*
W
ith the departure of Mrs Smithers, the house became strangely subdued. Dr Watson, seizing his chance, retired to his room for a restorative nap. Mr Holmes, in retaliation, took up his violin, and soon the house hummed with a low, wistful melody. Outside, the rain that lashed the windows was slowly turning into sleet and although it was not yet one o’clock, the streets seemed grainy, as if dissolving into a preternatural dusk.
In the kitchen Mrs Hudson and I prepared lunch in silence. The housekeeper had escorted Mrs Smithers to the door and had returned with a little crooked furrow in her brow. For a while after that she said nothing, but from time to time she would take up the playbill and look at it as if it contained the answer to a question she had not yet fully formulated. When I tried to ask her about it, she shook her head.
‘Not now, Flotsam. There’s only one thing I can tell you just at the moment.’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘That in any decent world, an honest woman’s peace of mind is worth quite as much as rubies.’
And that was all she would say on the matter until the cold roast beef was carved and the horseradish grated. Then, as we prepared to carry the trays to the study, she paused and looked at the rain running down the window.
‘If it’s fine tomorrow, Flottie, I think we might make a little expedition. It is some time since I was last in Ealing but I believe it has some very fine public buildings. And do you know, on top of that, I find myself inclined to pay a short visit to Sefton Avenue…’
I knew her too well to ask more and soon the subject was pushed from my mind, for as the afternoon advanced and no further caller made themselves known, an air of expectancy began to stifle all that we did.
‘Dash it, Holmes! It’s too bad of Branchester to leave us waiting like this!’ grumbled Dr Watson when his lunch had been cleared away and the morning paper had been looked through twice.
‘Yet his cigarette case tells us that he will return, my friend,’ Mr Holmes replied gently, and the two lapsed into silence. Then, while Holmes smoked pipe after pipe and studied with extraordinary care a small portion of the ceiling, Dr Watson took up a pack of cards and began to play patience, a pastime he conducted with a singular lack of the quality which gave it its name. At about three o’clock, when the kitchen was smart as an Irish hussar and fresh as a Whitstable oyster, Mrs Hudson finally gestured towards the pot of silver polish.
‘I think we might go up now, Flotsam,’ she said softly, and after we had gathered up our things she led the way upstairs with a candlestick in each hand and two more under her arm.
The small linen room upstairs had never been intended for the polishing of silver but, although it lacked in space, it had certain other unique advantages. For one thing, its position just opposite the gentlemen’s study meant that silver items in everyday use could be stored there, without the need for always carrying up and down the stairs; for another, its proximity to the warm pipes meant that even in the coldest weather you could work with warm fingers and bare arms. Furthermore, although the fact was never commented upon between us, it was undeniable that when the door of the linen room was a little open and the door of the study not quite closed, then a clear line of vision ran between the two rooms, and any conversation in one might easily be heard in the other. Aware of this, and obviously not wishing to disturb the gentlemen, Mrs Hudson and I tended to work there in complete silence.
We had not been working for very many minutes before we heard the knock on the door that we had been so keenly expecting, three strong, imperious blows that told of a forceful hand and an equally forceful disposition.
‘If you’d be so kind, Flotsam…’ Mrs Hudson carried on rubbing at the large candelabra as though she had no other interest on earth, so it was me, heart beating a little faster and errant curls peeping from beneath my cap, who had the honour of attending to the arrival in Baker Street of Mr Godwin Branchester, confidante of princes, adviser to governments and the man charged with the safety of the Malabar Rose.
Chapter IV
An Affair Of State
That afternoon the rain became sleet and the sleet became snow, and the wind turned so that it blew from the east. It was a day when the early darkness and the relentless, blustering flurries of snow combined to make the city strange and different. Familiar buildings blurred at the edges and the friendly faces of neighbours disappeared beneath scarves and mufflers. The cold played its games with minds as well as bodies, so while on market stalls the wares were being fumbled and dropped by icy hands, so straightforward thoughts became difficult and strangely clouded by snow. Housewives battling back from market took wrong turns on routes they’d known forever. Policemen on their regular patrols found themselves inexplicably down alleyways they didn’t recognise on beats that were not their own. The constable on duty in Baker Street thought more than once that he had spotted a small urchin lingering near our door, but each time, when he managed to battle across the road to grab him by the ear, the boy, if he had ever existed, had disappeared.
Down on the docks, Scraggs, who had taken the afternoon off, was watching a ship being unloaded. Great packing cases of unusual shapes and strange dimensions were being piled on the harbour side by men cursing as they slipped and strained in the snow. Each box was stamped with the same device: a crescent moon and three small stars. And overseeing the handling of each one was a short, dark-skinned man wrapped in an enormous cloak and with an astrakhan hat pulled low over his face. Describing him later, Scraggs could remember nothing but a neatly clipped moustache and an urgent pair of brown eyes that followed every inch of every movement of every case.
Elsewhere that afternoon, there were others braving the snow. In Randolph Place, a slim, angular man was hunched against the railings, watching the carriages pass by. He had turned up the collar of his coat against the snow and under one arm he carried a small, brown-paper parcel. Eventually, when the moment was right, he crossed the road and knocked on one of the smart red front doors. This door was opened by a butler of very advanced years who ran a careful eye over his visitor’s clothes while he listened to his request. Apparently satisfied by what he saw and heard, he beckoned the man inside and indicated that he should wait in the hallway. It was not a particularly inviting room, with cold marble floors and very little furniture to make it welcoming, only a stand for coats, a small table in the classical style and a low chest, no more than three feet long and a couple of feet high, the sort that may once have contained the personal effects of a military man on foreign service. As the stranger look around him, a small pool of water began to gather at his feet.
The butler was away for no more than a minute before he returned with an answer to the man’s inquiry. But to his surprise he found the front door open and the hall empty but for the marks of the stranger’s feet retreating to the door. Before calling for a maid and a mop, the butler looked both up and down the street, but the snow confused the view and it was hard to tell amongst the hurrying crowds which direction the stranger had taken.
*
In Mr Holmes’ study, the haphazard snow and the growling wind were kept very firmly in their places. Mr Godwin Branchester stood with his back to a roaring fire and eyed his audience carefully. The curtains had been closed to shut out the weather and the warm glow of the lamps softened the austerity of the great man’s features. He was, as Mr Holmes had predicted, a tall man and broad with it, so that his presence dominated the room. He stood straight despite his limp, and his mane of white hair made his figure even more imposing. When he spoke, his voice was gruff and business-like.
‘You will understand, gentlemen,’ he began, ‘that it is highly unusual for Her Majesty’s Government to seek assistance in this way.’
‘Of course, sir.’ At Mr Branchester’s insistence, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson had remained seated. Mr Holmes was studying his guest carefully. ‘But equally it is highly unusual for Her Majesty’s Government to find itself in possession of a ruby such as the Malabar Rose.’
Mr Brancheste
r, his air of authority a little dented, allowed himself to smile. ‘My word, sir, you are every bit as sharp as I have been led to believe. So you have divined that it is of the Malabar Rose that I wish to speak?’
Mr Holmes waved the compliment away but allowed himself to look ever so slightly pleased. ‘It is not a difficult deduction to make, sir. A jewel beyond price is as much a burden as a blessing.’
‘Well, you are right enough, Mr Holmes. The Maharajah’s gift comes with certain conditions. One is that it should be put on display before the end of this year so that London society might admire it. I don’t mind admitting that this is causing unease at the very highest levels. The very highest levels, you understand.’ He paused for a moment to allow the significance of this remark to sink in. Although Sherlock Holmes appeared unimpressed and continued to examine the bowl of his pipe, Dr Watson sat a little straighter in his chair.
‘Very honoured, I’m sure, sir,’ he muttered. ‘At Her Majesty’s service. Try to do our best, and all that.’
Mr Holmes waited for his friend to subside before speaking.
‘Tell me, sir, with all the resources available to you, I am surprised that you require any special help from us. This is a police matter, surely?’
The gentleman nodded his great maned head in agreement.
‘I must admit, sir, if I had my way that would be the case. I’d have the stone in the vaults of the Bank of England quicker than the eye can see and that would be an end of it. But the Maharajah has stipulated a viewing and, worse, he demands it should be in the suite of rooms he keeps at the Blenheim Hotel. The Maharajah himself of course has remained in Madras, but we have no choice but comply with his instructions. Her Majesty insists upon it.’
Mr Holmes scratched his chin with the stem of his pipe. ‘I agree that arrangement creates certain difficulties, but nothing that a cordon of moderately alert policeman can’t solve. Where is the stone now? Is it safe?’
