Mrs Hudson and the Malabar Rose

by Mrs Hudson

  ‘And now,’ he declared, ‘I shall show you something special. You shall be the first to see it. I shall…’

  At that moment the bell above the door rang and the nightingale sang again, and a middle-aged woman with a fur collar stepped into the shop.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she began when she saw Perch, who stood with his hand above his head, poised to set into action some hidden mechanism. ‘Excuse me. I’m looking for a doll for a little girl. Something for about a shilling, I thought.’

  I watched Perch’s features work in wordless rage for a moment, until three rapid shakes of his head brought them under control.

  ‘Please, madam. One moment. I am engaged in a demonstration. Now, young lady,’ he continued, turning to me, ‘pass me the top hat on the floor there.’

  On receiving the hat, he placed it on the three-legged stool and closed the door of the crate.

  ‘Now, remember that the mechanism is still crude,’ he warned, then clicked his fingers.

  As if it had really heard his signal, the mannequin began to move. With a small bow to his audience and a grim, mirthless smile, he reached his hand out to the crate and rapped on it hard three times, then he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a silk handkerchief with which he proceeded to mop his waxen brow. Finally, eerily, he reached forward and pushed at the door of the crate so that it swung open silently.

  ‘Gracious me!’ exclaimed the woman with the fur collar. ‘The hat’s disappeared.’

  Our visit to Kimber Street came to an end shortly afterwards. Perch refused to explain or to repeat his trick, despite the insistence of the woman that he should give a second demonstration solely for her. He met her voluble arguments with a sulky silence and finally, as if to escape her, agreed to sell her at a discount a clockwork Rapunzel, whose hair grew longer at the turn of a key. When this transaction was over and the woman had left the shop, Mrs Hudson thanked Perch for his time and complimented him on his collection, but only as we were actually leaving the shop did she turn to him and ask the question that had been on my mind from the moment we walked in.

  ‘Oh, Mr Perch,’ she began, her brow a little furrowed as she tugged on her gloves. ‘A friend of mine spoke of calling here a couple of weeks ago. I wonder, did he purchase anything? His name is Phillimore. You might remember him.’

  For a moment I thought the old toy-maker hadn’t heard. He was engaged in winding a grandfather clock that stood behind his counter and when Mrs Hudson spoke he continued to wind, apparently oblivious. However, it seemed his head had suddenly bowed a little lower and his face was a little paler, and unless I was very much mistaken, the twitch of his head became a little more frequent.

  ‘Oh, it’s no matter,’ Mrs Hudson continued brightly. ‘I was just a little bit curious, that’s all.’ And with that we let ourselves out into the night.

  Outside the toyshop, Kimber Street lay silent under its thick, white coverlet. By the light of the gas lamps, I could see the snow still falling and I could feel the cutting edge of the winter night keen against my skin. As we followed our own tracks towards the end of the road, Mrs Hudson said nothing but her brow was furrowed again. I was silent too, wondering about the man who had vanished from his own cellar, and then thinking with a shudder of the wax-faced mannequin and the empty three-legged stool. Noticing the shiver that ran through me, my companion paused and adjusted my hat and muffler against the cold.

  ‘You know, Flotsam,’ she said, ‘I’m beginning to worry a very great deal about our Mr Phillimore.’

  Chapter VIII

  The Night Before Christmas

  Christmas Eve dawned brightly and for a magical hour the sun shone on clean, white snow. For that time, London looked fleetingly like a city in a fairytale, the sort of scene painted on the backdrops of theatres, where every slate and every sill is neatly layered with snow and every roof dangles icicles like daggers. But even before the night was fully gone, the city had begun to wake and the smoke of its chimneys was spreading on an east wind. Before long, the early carts were churning the road into slush.

  I was out early that morning with errands to run and items to purchase that Mrs Hudson felt were essential to the proper celebration of Christmas. Because I had other calls to make, I was dressed like a lady in my smart dress and little hat, and the cold soon brought a fine glow to my cheeks. I felt in fine, high spirits, and it wasn’t only me. The unusual snowfall had brought the best out of people and strangers smiled as they struggled past each other on pavements made treacherous by drifted snow. The shopkeepers seemed happy too. Trade was brisk despite the weather and in more than one of the places I stopped, an extra package was pressed upon me with the season’s greetings. Mr Herbert at the haberdashery blushed, and gave me a ribbon for my hair, while Mrs Williamson, the florist’s wife, presented me with a sprig of mistletoe ‘for all those young beaux out there’.

  ‘No, don’t thank me,’ she insisted, ‘it will be them lucky lads that are thanking me. Now get on with you!’

  My journey took a detour to include the offices of Mr Rumbelow the solicitor. I found him at his desk in a fug of coal smoke and good humour, and when I was shown in by a stammering clerk, he hastened to his feet with a warm smile of welcome.

  ‘Ah, Flotsam! Excellent! Excellent! Come in, come in. You are too warm? Too cold? Just right? Quite so, quite so.’ He mopped his round and rather extensive forehead with a polka-dot handkerchief and beamed again. ‘You have perhaps come to see if there has been any response to Mrs Hudson’s advertisement in Plays & Player?’

  I told him he was right, that Mrs Hudson was anxious to hear news of the missing Mr Phillimore. ‘She seems very taken by the puzzle of his disappearance, sir.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed,’ he nodded sagely. ‘Mrs Hudson no doubt has her reasons, Flotsam.’

  ‘I wish she was thinking about the Malabar Rose, sir. Mr Holmes and Sir John are doing everything they can, but if anything was overlooked I’m sure Mrs Hudson would spot it.’

  ‘Ah, yes, indeed. She is a remarkable woman.’ Having assured himself that I was seated comfortably, he settled back into his own chair. ‘However, I am sure that Mr Holmes has matters in hand, Flotsam, and I am now rather looking forward to the performance of this foreign illusionist. I have taken the step of purchasing a ticket for the show myself.’

  ‘You have secured a ticket, sir? I thought they had all sold out.’

  He blushed a little. ‘Indeed, yes. Quite so. I confess I have paid a price a little higher than that printed on the ticket. As of last night, twelve guineas would appear to be the generally accepted rate.’ Clearly a little embarrassed by this extravagance, he began to rustle through some papers on his desk.

  ‘Returning to your original inquiry, Flotsam, I regret to say that I have received no response to Mrs Hudson’s advertisement as yet. However, as soon as I do, I shall send word. You may be interested to know that I have received from Mrs Smithers the sum of thirty pounds to be offered as a reward for information leading to the, er, rediscovery of her son-in-law.’ He tapped the breast of his jacket at the place where his wallet sat, as if to reassure himself that the sum in question was still secure.

  I wasn’t entirely convinced that Mr Phillimore’s wife, Lavinia, would feel that £30 in return for her husband’s reappearance would constitute a suitable exchange, but I didn’t like to mention it so instead I allowed Mr Rumbelow to accompany me to the door.

  ‘You will no doubt be aware that tomorrow is Christmas Day, Flotsam.’

  I assured him that I was aware.

  ‘No doubt a busy day for both you and Mrs Hudson, with Christmas dinner to serve and other such seasonal events to accommodate?’

  ‘Well, sir, Mrs Hudson will be cooking a goose but Mr Holmes and Dr Watson won’t be there to enjoy it because they have to stand guard over the Malabar Rose.’

  ‘Indeed? Even so, I feel sure the exertion of preparing a goose must be very great. I happen recently to have taken receipt of a very excell
ent Napoleon brandy. I wonder, do you think Mrs Hudson would be, er, willing to accept a bottle of it? I’m sure it would be admirable at offsetting any seasonal weariness that she might experience.’

  I assured him that Mrs Hudson would be more than happy to accommodate another bottle from his cellar, and at this his face brightened.

  ‘Excellent! I shall send it around at once. And merry Christmas to you, Flotsam. Merry Christmas indeed!’

  From Holborn I made my way towards Bloomsbury, where I had been asked to call upon Miss Peters. As always when calling on Miss Peters, I arrived expecting anything but in fact the scene that greeted me when Reynolds showed me into the drawing room was one of comparative calm. Rupert Spencer was sitting at the table surrounded by a barricade of weighty tomes, studying something minutely through a magnifying glass. Around him, like rose petals or apple blossom, fluttered an almost transparent cloud of tiny butterflies in shades of red and pink through to cream and white. In the corner, perched on one of those sets of high steps used in libraries, Miss Peters sat calmly, also reading a book, a large butterfly net dangling from one hand.

  ‘I think the blue ones must been Queens of Patagonia,’ she was saying, ‘or perhaps Blue Mormons. Ooooh! Hello, Flottie.’ Both of them rose to welcome me. ‘Do you think you might be good with one of these?’ She waved the butterfly net at me. Before I could reply, Mr Spencer intervened.

  ‘Don’t answer that question, Miss Flotsam, or she will have you here all day lending her a hand. You see, we have reached something of an impasse here.’

  ‘Nonsense, Rupert, we haven’t reached any sort of pass at all. Not even a pretty one. Any moment now I shall walk out with my head held high and go to the De Courcy’s luncheon with my aunt and the Strutheringtons, and everyone will say I did the right thing. So there!’

  I looked again at the flight of butterflies. ‘How did they all get out?’ I asked. ‘It can’t have been an accident, surely?’

  I addressed the question to Miss Peters and she had the decency to blush a little.

  ‘Well, not entirely, Flottie, no. You see Rupert spent all yesterday poring over his books and his butterflies and quite refused to come the ball at Ballestier’s because he has to give the collection back today. And even though he’s always so dull at balls, I was a little annoyed with him for not coming because I’d told everyone he’d be there, so when he refused to come I felt like a deserted wife or something, though of course I probably never shall be a deserted wife because Rupert will probably never marry me in the first place because he much prefers moths and things to people. Even pretty ones.’

  Rupert Spencer permitted himself a wry smile at this but Hetty was still in full flow.

  ‘Anyway, when I found him here this morning with his head still in his books as though he hadn’t moved all night, I decided I had to do something to make him move.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘And so I let them all out,’ she ended with a flourish.

  ‘And how did Mr Spencer respond to that?’ I asked with a smile, looking across at him.

  ‘He ignored me completely,’ Miss Peters admitted, and formed her lips into something very close to a pout.

  ‘Which is a much harder thing to do than it sounds.’ Mr Spencer looked across at me and smiled. ‘So now Hetty must either restore them all to their boxes or face the wrath of Lord Clyde, who shall be here to collect them at lunchtime. Lord Clyde is a great enthusiast for butterflies but rather less of an enthusiast for human beings. And he’s really rather fierce. He’s been known to horsewhip people he feels have treated his butterfly specimens with insufficient respect.’

  ‘Oh, all right!’ Hetty stamped her foot rather prettily and snatched up the butterfly net again. ‘If you are going to behave like a brute, Rupert, then I have no choice. You two can sit there and pour the tea and never mind if I am breaking my neck chasing stupid Cabbage Admirals all over the place.’ She proceeded to advance on the nearest butterfly and caught it neatly with a wristy flick.

  Ignoring her completely, Mr Spencer rose and addressed himself to me. ‘If you please, Miss Flotsam, Reynolds has brought in some tea. Since Hetty is otherwise engaged, perhaps you would be good enough to pour?’

  So we sat and drank tea together while Miss Peters stalked the drawing room, berating us for our lack of feeling. Mr Spencer seemed in very good spirits, telling me of the species he had studied and explaining to me details of butterfly life cycles and anatomy. From there we passed to the subject of Christmas and then to the prospect of the Great Salmanazar’s show. As I told him about plans to keep safe the Malabar Rose, Mr Spencer listened attentively. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he looked uncommonly well, his strong brown forearms a contrast to the tiny teacup and saucer that balanced between his fingers. From time to time, Miss Peters would add a word or two to contradict something that he said, and at the mention of the Great Salmanazar she gave a little shriek.

  ‘Ooo, Flottie! I forgot to say. Rupert has found us tickets! We shall see it all for ourselves, though I think they must have been terribly expensive because Rupert positively gulped when Reynolds told him how much they were.’

  ‘It’s true, Miss Flotsam. They’re up to fifteen guineas apiece now. However, Reynolds had rather anticipated my need for them and had gone into the market on my behalf when they still stood at thirteen guineas. At least that’s what he claims. If I know Reynolds, I suspect he may have done rather better than that.’

  I paused with my cup halfway to my lips. ‘But what about the Marylebone Natural Philosophic Society? Aren’t they going to be terribly let down?’

  Mr Spencer blushed slightly.

  ‘Far from it. It turns out that the gentlemen of the Marylebone Natural Philosophic Society have, to a man, decided they would prefer to be at the Regal Theatre. So in the spirit of scientific investigation, I have decided to follow them.’

  ‘That’s why Rupert was looking sombre when you came in, Flottie.’ Miss Peters seemed to be making excellent headway in her retrieval of the butterflies. ‘He’s terrified that the Great Salmanazar will call him on stage and steal his watch, aren’t you, Rupert?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort! If you must know, I’m worried about my uncle.’

  ‘The earl?’ Miss Peters seemed unsurprised. ‘Has he been frightening the tradesmen again?’

  Mr Spencer shook his head. ‘Far from it. And it’s at least two days since he wrote anything angry to The Times. Worst of all, last night, when you’d gone to the ball, he came in and asked to play cribbage with me.’

  ‘Cribbage? The Irascible Earl? No, Rupert, darling, you must be thinking of someone else.’

  ‘It’s true, I promise. Seemed very anxious to spend some time with me. When I told him that I had a piece of work to finish before I could play, he didn’t shout or yell, or any of the things you’d expect. He didn’t even fume quietly. He just nodded and said he’d sit and read a book until I was ready.’

  Miss Peters and I looked at each other. ‘Read a book?’ she asked faintly.

  ‘Yes, truly. Stirring Tales of Noble Deeds, I think it was.’

  Miss Peters and I were prevented from commenting further by a timid knock at the drawing room door, and with immaculate timing the earl himself poked his head into the room.

  ‘Ah, Rupert! Not disturbing you, am I?’ he inquired with unusual affability.

  ‘No, uncle, not at all. Come in and join us. Miss Flotsam is just pouring some tea.’

  ‘Tea? Tea?’ The earl began to growl, in the manner with which Mr Spencer and Miss Peters were familiar, but before he could launch himself into a full-blooded renunciation of the beverage, something seemed to check him. ‘Ah, yes. Tea,’ he conceded. ‘A refreshing drink, I believe. I would be delighted to join you for a cup.’

  This was so remarkable a statement, such a total reversal of his lordship’s usual preferences, that even Hetty appeared too stunned to reply. She just stood there, gaping at him, waving her butterfly net vaguely in
the direction of a Limoges vase. Noting this, the earl seemed to rediscover some of his former energy.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Hetty,’ he snapped, ‘put that blasted thing away before you break another heirloom. And I’m damned if I’ll have the place turned into a zoo!’

  Strangely, this note of resurgent irritability had the effect of putting everyone at their ease, and for a while the conversation became general, with the earl stating in robust terms his views on tariff reform, suffragettes, Welshmen and the decline of the railways. Even so, although he demonstrated considerable ire on all these subjects, it was clear that some other, unspoken, issue was on his mind. When Hetty embarked on a long description of the latest fashion in French hats, instead of his normal trenchant views on fashion and the French, he fell silent and pondered.

  ‘Rupert,’ he began when she had finished, ‘I was thinking of going to my club tonight.’

  ‘Yes, uncle. You go to your club every night.’

  ‘Ah, yes. So I do. But what I meant was, tonight I wondered if you’d like to come with me?’

  ‘Me, uncle?’

  ‘Yes, you, dammit!’ he growled before recovering himself and smiling weakly. ‘Apologies, my boy. This tea seems to be making me a trifle irritable. Yes, it occurred to me when I was shaving this morning that it would be good for you to come along and meet some of the people there. It must be years since you were last at the club.’

  Mr Spencer did a rapid calculation. ‘Not since I was twelve, I think. If you remember I was thrown out for setting fire to the Foreign Secretary’s whiskers. I seem to recall you were quite cross about it.’