by Mrs Hudson
‘Very good, Flotsam. You wear it well. Now quickly, girl, fetch your hat and let’s see you pin it on.’
As I carefully positioned the smart little hat that Mrs Hudson had given me, I couldn’t help but return to my original question.
‘About the Malabar Rose, ma’am. I’m sure it would be good if you could just keep your eye on things a little bit.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Flottie. But there’s plenty to be doing here, what with Christmas coming and the goose still not bought. Besides, I’d like to see this strange business in Ealing settled. Take a look at this, Flotsam.’
From a drawer in the dresser she produced a thin, cheaply-printed newspaper entitled ‘Plays & Players’. It was folded open on a column of small advertisements, one of which had been ringed in black ink.
‘Reward offered for information regarding the whereabouts of Mr James Phillimore of Ealing. Apply Rumbelow and Rumbelow, Solicitors, Birch Street.’
‘I’m not sure what good it will do,’ the housekeeper mused, ‘but it can’t do any harm, and you never know what might crop up. I’ve been thinking a lot about James Phillimore’s headaches, Flotsam ...’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘And do you know, I begin to wonder if he really is the rather pale character that his mother-in-law has described.’
*
My journey to Piccadilly with Dr Watson was a warm and pleasant one. The good doctor went to great lengths to ensure that I was wrapped in blankets against the cold, and endeavoured to entertain me with tales of operations he had performed during the Afghan wars. Despite these, I was still eager to get on with our mission and, after trying the Regal Theatre, we eventually succeeded in tracking the Great Salmanazar to his suite of rooms at Brown’s Hotel.
Although we were anxious to see him, he seemed in no great hurry to see us. In fact he made us wait in the great crimson and gold lobby for fully forty minutes after Dr Watson’s card was sent up, until I began to fear that the good doctor might chew through his moustache or commit some act of violence against one of the marble statues that decorated the hotel’s entrance hall.
‘Confound the man, Flottie!’ the doctor growled. ‘Where is he? Never did like the sound of him, anyway. Don’t like a man who does conjuring tricks. It’s like playing trick shots at billiards. Not quite gentlemanly. And how can you have a conversation with a man when he’s always thinking about how to make your handkerchief disappear?’
‘He’s supposed to be a very special conjurer,’ I reminded him. ‘Do you think he might have special powers?’
‘Nonsense! The chappie’s just a jumped up fakir, I’ll be bound. I daresay a few blunt questions will scare the life out of him.’
As Dr Watson finished speaking, we both became aware that a sallow, Asiatic gentleman in an immaculate dark suit had appeared at his shoulder.
‘You are, I believe, the famous Dr Watson,’ he stated softly.
‘What? Oh, I see. Well, hardly famous, you know,’ the doctor explained hastily, ‘though I suppose one or two people have heard of me.’
‘Indeed, sir. And this young lady?’
‘This is Flotsam. Er, Miss Flotsam. My assistant.’
The man gave a slow, stately bow in my direction, then turned back to Dr Watson.
‘The Great Salmanazar will see you now.’
*
We found our quarry in the midst of a magnificent room with high ceilings, its walls encrusted with mirrors and heavy gilt panels. Amidst all the grandeur, a slight figure stood facing us, his arm already stretching towards us in welcome.
‘Dr Watson! Such an honour! Do please come in.’ He ushered us into the centre of the great room with such enthusiasm that we might have been his most particular friends. ‘Do please take a seat. And of course your companion also. Miss Flotsam, I believe. Of course. Please take a seat, Miss Flotsam. It is a great honour.’
The Great Salmanazar was far from the imposing figure I had expected. He was little more than four or five inches over five feet and he had the slight build and lissom grace of a gymnast. He was neatly dressed in the European style, but he had discarded his jacket and stood before us in his waistcoat. He might have been any age between thirty and fifty. His dark hair was heavily lacquered in the Mediterranean fashion and his moustache was waxed to curl up proudly at the edges. His eyes were as dark as his hair, but from his colouring he might as easily have been a Greek or a Spaniard as an Arab or a Berber. He spoke English almost perfectly with only the faintest trace of an accent.
‘Please, at this hour of the day I believe it is considered right to take a drink before one’s luncheon. This hotel contains every luxury. Please let me help you to some refreshment.’
There was something in the extreme earnestness of his manner that made us feel it would be most hurtful to refuse. I could see Dr Watson’s barrier of formality beginning to crumble a little under the pressure of his host’s desire to please.
‘Very well then. I daresay a small Scotch would help to keep out the cold.’
‘A wise choice. And Miss Flotsam?’
I had no idea what to say, as I had no idea what drink would be appropriate for a young girl to request in such company. For a moment I floundered, until Dr Watson realised my distress and came to my rescue.
‘I always say a glass of champagne at this time of day is the sort of tonic a young lady needs.’
‘Ah, yes! Champagne!’ Our host seemed delighted. ‘Pol Roger, I think. Allow me…’
At that moment, for the first time, I noticed on the table in front of us a small, silver tray, its contents hidden beneath a linen napkin that had been draped carefully over them. The tray must have been there from the moment we entered the room but, distracted by the Great Salmanazar’s welcome, I had somehow failed to observe it. Now our host reached down and pulled away the napkin with a flick of his wrist.
The cloth fell away at his touch to reveal a bottle of Scotch whisky, soda water and a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. A single champagne flute had already been filled and stout whisky tumbler already contained a handsome quantity of golden liquor.
‘Excellent! Just as you ordered!’
Seeing the expressions of astonishment on our faces, the illusionist laughed softly. ‘Please forgive me,’ he chuckled. ‘Just a small conceit of mine. I must apologise for it. Please, doctor, the soda water is not yet added. I beg that you help yourself to the required quantity.’
‘Really, sir!’ Dr Watson had rediscovered his earlier mood and his moustache bristled. ‘We didn’t come here to see your blasted tricks! I’ve come about the ruby, sir, and I’m sure you know it.’
‘Ruby?’ Our host hesitated as if the word was new to him. ‘Ah, of course. A precious stone. And is it a particular ruby that you have come about?’
‘Don’t pretend you haven’t heard of the Malabar Rose!’
‘Ah, your English roses! So fragrant yet so fragile. However, I regret, sir, that I am not a horticulturalist.’
I could sense Dr Watson’s choler rising, and to slow it in its ascent, I dared to ask a question of my own.
‘Please, sir, have you ever been to the Blenheim Hotel?’
The Great Salmanazar seemed surprised by the question and he turned to me and eyed me closely.
‘The Blenheim Hotel? You forget, Miss Flotsam, this is my first visit to this mighty city of yours, and I stay in this hotel, this Brown’s, which has been greatly recommended to me.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s only that there’s a piece of writing paper in your jacket pocket. It has the Blenheim Hotel heading on it.’
His first instinct was to clap his hand to his chest, as if he still retained his jacket. Realising his mistake, he looked around and saw that item of dress draped casually over the chair beside me. He retrieved it hurriedly and put it on.
‘You must accept my apologies if I failed to understand you. I thought you asked if I had been to the Blenheim Hotel. I have not. But my fellow performer, Miss De
l Fuego, is staying at that hotel. It is from her, this letter that you have observed.’
‘Well, sir,’ Dr Watson cut in, ‘Miss Del Fuego must know of the Malabar Rose. Anyone staying at the Blenheim could hardly fail to be aware of it.’
‘I am afraid her letter was entirely confined to matters concerning the performance she is to give.’ He smoothed down his jacket with the palms of his hands, as if to lay the matter to rest.
‘Please, sir,’ I persisted, ‘Miss Del Fuego writes in a very strong, masculine hand, doesn’t she?’
‘Indeed? I am not a graphologist, Miss Flotsam.’
‘I wasn’t meaning to pry, sir, but I couldn’t help noticing that the part of the letter I could see seemed to have some sort of floor plan sketched on it.’
‘Floor plan? Most certainly not.’ He seemed offended at the suggestion. ‘Miss Del Fuego was merely making some suggestions about aspects of the staging. Her diagrams concerned only that.’
My questions had clearly put him out, for after that the great illusionist became taciturn and replied to all Dr Watson’s questions by puffing out his cheeks and grunting tense, unhelpful answers. Was he aware of the thefts that had followed him across Europe? He was not a policeman. Had he heard of the Lafayette necklace or the Von Metzen diamonds? He was not a jeweller. Would he agree to remain confined to the Regal Theatre for the whole evening of his performance? Of course. He was not a tourist. The more Dr Watson battered away, the less forthcoming he became.
Eventually I could see that Dr Watson’s spirits were beginning to fail. After a few more perfunctory questions along the same lines, he signalled to me his readiness to depart, and we bade the magician a formal and somewhat uncomfortable farewell. As we left, I saw that he had returned to the table where our drinks stood untouched and was thoughtfully covering them with a linen cloth, as if to send them back from whence they’d come.
Outside, Dr Watson proved rather despondent. ‘Not much luck there, I’m afraid, Flotsam. Still, your sharp eyes have spotted something and we must tell Holmes about it at once. We should be able to catch him and Sir John at the Blenheim. Perhaps they are having a more successful morning than we are.’
*
It was clear from the moment of our arrival there that something had happened to disturb the Blenheim Hotel’s usual air of dignified superiority. The first indication of this came as we mounted the steps towards its imposing entrance, only to be confronted by the sight of two uniformed policemen huffing and puffing towards us, an enormous gilded harp carried awkwardly between them.
‘Where did he say to put it, Bert?’ panted one, as they felt their way gingerly down the steps.
‘He said to use our nishiative, you great lummox,’ his companion replied shortly, possibly annoyed that it had fallen to him to carry the heavy end of the harp.
‘And what do you think he meant by that exactly?’
‘He meant to get this down to the station on the first wagon we can find and to keep it under lock and key till someone remembers it and wants it back.’
‘So that’s what he meant.’ The second policeman was less red in the face than his companion but considerably more bemused. ‘It’s amazing what these brainy types will think up, isn’t it? I can’t see how this is saving the nation. It just looks like a ruddy big harp to me.’
At the top of the steps, the doorman was watching this performance and shaking his head.
‘I’ve never seen the like of it,’ he told us sadly. ‘Wouldn’t hear of using the trade doors at the back, would they? Said they’d been ordered to get everything out by the fastest route, and no questions.’
Dr Watson, still irritated by his unsuccessful interview with the Great Salmanazar, was in no mood to discuss the movements of the hotel furniture. ‘Tell me, my man, do you know where we can find Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ he asked.
‘Mr Holmes?’ The doorman didn’t sound overjoyed at the name. ‘I certainly can, sir. He’s in the Satin Rooms. Through the door, then follow the trail of tables and chairs. You can’t miss him.’
Those directions proved remarkably good ones. Beneath the domed ceiling of the hotel’s famous lobby, four perspiring policemen were pausing for breath. Between them, resting at the most disorderly of angles, were two enormous chaises longues. Judging by the faces of the policemen it was likely to be some time before either made it through the great door of the hotel. Then, as we advanced up the great, sweeping staircase, we were passed by further constables carrying in turn a small ornamental table, a grandfather clock, a red velvet footstool, a cigar cabinet, an enormous candelabra shaped like an elephant and a large portrait of the Duke of Wellington of rather doubtful likeness. And when we arrived at the Satin Rooms, the scene was every bit as chaotic as our approach had led us to expect.
The name ‘Satin Rooms’ is perhaps a misleading one, in that it is used both to describe the whole suite of rooms that the Maharajah maintained at the Blenheim Hotel, and more specifically to describe the main room itself, which is hung, not with satin, but with finest Indian silk. The rooms had first been taken by the Maharajah’s grandfather, the 6th Maharajah of Majoudh, a man whose life had contained more than its fair share of plotters and would-be assassins. As a result, the Maharajah had developed, amongst other things, a morbid fear of corners. He had therefore required his suite at the Blenheim to be remodelled to suit his needs and the result was an exceptionally large, circular drawing room, domed and elegant, which rather unusually contained four doors and no windows. The doors faced north, south, east and west, and each of them opened into the same ante-room, in truth nothing more than a large corridor that encircled and contained the main drawing room. The room’s only light came from glass panels fitted into the dome above it.
It was in this exceptional room that the current Maharajah required the Malabar Rose to be displayed, and it was in this room that we now found Mr Holmes, Sir John Plaskett, Inspector Lestrade and a muddled crowd of harassed-looking policemen. Also present, though obscured by the enormous Chinese vase that he was attempting to remove, was the hotel’s flustered and protesting manager.
‘But Sir John,’ he was expostulating, ‘is it really necessary that everything must go? I cannot see how these objects could possibly…’
‘Everything, Mr Dupont! The room must be bare but for the plinth where the ruby is to be displayed. Come, man, we’re nearly there.’
And it was true. By the time Dr Watson and I had fought our way into the room against the tide of furniture, none of the room’s sumptuous furnishings remained in place. The only object of any description left in the room was a slender green column of marble, about four feet high, in the very centre of the room. Mr Holmes was examining it suspiciously.
‘Solid marble, Mr Holmes. I guarantee it.’ Sir John tapped it with his cane as if to emphasise the fact. ‘I selected it myself and brought it here under guard this morning.’
‘I congratulate you on your thoroughness, Sir John. We cannot be too careful.’ Mr Holmes straightened and noticed Dr Watson for the first time. ‘Ah, my friend, what do you make of this citadel of ours?’
As he spoke, Inspector Lestrade was ushering out Mr Dupont and the remaining policemen, leaving just our small group in possession of the room. He then turned to Dr Watson and gave his own, rather proud, description of the defensive measures that had been put in place.
‘With the exception of the four doors, the room is completely sealed, sir. The glass panels in the dome are built into the brickwork and there are no other apertures of any sort. To make sure, I have stationed four officers up on the roof, and I’ll keep a guard up there night and day until the ruby is safely removed from this room.’
While his audience craned its neck upwards and nodded, Lestrade turned his attention to the rest of the room.
‘The walls are made of stone, lined with oak. We have examined each oak panel and can guarantee all are solid. No possibility of hidden doors or secret chambers, or any such nonsense. The floorboard
s are oak too, each secured to oak joists. I’ve had men down there underneath them and they say it would take a gang of men with heavy equipment to smash a way through.’
Sir John nodded approvingly. ‘Excellent work, inspector. What about the doors?’
‘The south, east and north doors have already been sealed, sir. Literally boarded up. Each one has an officer on guard outside. All entry now must be by the west door. On the night in question, the ruby will arrive four or five hours beforehand. That’s something the Maharajah has insisted upon, I’m afraid. Tradition has it that the stone must be in position, ideally in darkness, for at least four hours before it is viewed. Some nonsense about allowing its flame to waken after a journey, apparently. Whatever our views about that, gentlemen, I fear we are bound by the Maharajah’s request.
‘Now, when the stone arrives it will be placed on the velvet display case that Sir John is bringing, and that case will be placed on the plinth in front of a select group of witnesses. The room will then be vacated and the west door will be chained and padlocked. Two officers will guard each door. I personally shall patrol the ante-chamber throughout the evening with a group of my most trusted plainclothes men. It won’t be possible for an ant to crawl in here without us knowing!’
‘Bravo, Lestrade!’ Dr Watson exclaimed. ‘It would take a miracle to penetrate such defences.’
The inspector looked suitably proud. ‘Thank you, sir. Any questions?’
I knew Inspector Lestrade’s final remark wasn’t addressed to me, but Mrs Hudson had always taught me to ask questions, and to my horror I found myself clearing my throat.
‘Please, sir,’ I asked, and suddenly every pair of eyes was upon me. ‘All those people on guard… Why don’t they just guard the ruby from inside this room? Then they can all see for themselves that the ruby is safe.’
A slightly embarrassed silence followed this question as the gentlemen all turned to Sherlock Holmes to explain.
