Mrs Hudson and the Malabar Rose

by Mrs Hudson

  ‘Oh, nothing wrong with some boyish high spirits!’

  ‘No, uncle. But you had the club alter its constitution so that I wouldn’t be eligible for membership for at least eighty-seven years.’

  ‘Ha!’ gulped the earl unconvincingly. ‘Ha! Ha! Excellent memory you have! But so long ago! And only a harmless prank. Water under the bridge, and all that. But of course I can see your point. No need to come if you don’t wish it. I can stay here with you instead.’

  ‘Stay here? With me?’ Rupert Spencer was a quick-witted young gentleman under normal circumstances but this sudden subversion of the established order was clearly causing him to flounder.

  ‘Yes, Rupert, stay here. And you too, of course, Hetty. We could all sit together and, er, study…’ Mr Spencer’s jaw began to sag downwards. Hetty simply stared. It took a moment or two before either could respond.

  ‘Uncle, I’m afraid I’ve promised to take Hetty to the Petershams’ Mistletoe Ball tonight. It’s a fairly long-standing arrangement and I know the Petershams are rather expecting us.’

  To our surprise, the earl brightened considerably. ‘A ball? Excellent! Lots of people, no doubt. Respectable ones. And the Petershams’ is a very solidly built old house. I shall certainly join you! Carrington can take us in the carriage. And Reynolds shall accompany him, in case, er, well, in case we need him for anything.’

  He rose to his feet.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare. Reynolds!’

  He put back his head and roared with all his usual force and volume.

  ‘Reynolds! We’re going to a ball!’ As the door shut behind him we could still hear his voice on the staircase. ‘And none of those parvenu new fashions, Reynolds! Lay out some proper clothes! There’s nothing wrong with those tails I wore for the Palace the night Ackworth won the Cambridgeshire…’

  Whatever was affecting the Earl of Brabham, it did not appear to be the spirit of Christmas.

  *

  I passed the afternoon of that day at Baker Street, a willing accomplice in Mrs Hudson’s plans to prepare for Christmas. In that one hectic afternoon, the goose was stuffed, three brace of grouse were lightly braised, a side of gammon was studded with cloves and baked whole, a large box of vegetables was washed and trimmed, five different sauces were stirred and a bottle of Chateau Yprieu ’62 was carefully decanted.

  In addition to the cooking, there was cleaning to be done, beds to be stripped, clothes to be washed, collars to be starched, trousers pressed, silver to be polished, and a great many tradesmen and errand boys to be greeted and dealt with. But if all that work sounds laborious, not for one moment did it feel so; for through it all ran the gathering excitement of the approaching celebration and a burgeoning sense of festivity amongst all our callers, and the knowledge that on Boxing Day the Great Salmanazar would take to the stage and the fate of the Malabar Rose would be decided.

  Our day was further enlivened by regular reports from the Regal Theatre and the Blenheim Hotel. At four o’clock, Dr Watson arrived from the Satin Rooms and reported that all seemed quiet. Mrs Hudson took one look at the doctor’s red eyes and sagging countenance and installed him by the fire with a reviving mince pie and a large glass of brandy and shrub, to such good effect that after half an hour or so he returned to his watch with a spring in his step and a slice of Madeira cake in his pocket.

  Twenty minutes later, Sherlock Holmes returned from the Regal Theatre, hungry, unshaven and very dirty.

  ‘It has been a taxing day, Mrs Hudson. You are no doubt aware that it is customary at Christmas for the theatres of London to give themselves over to pantomime,’ he explained. ‘You know, the sort of thing, Mrs Hudson: Jack and the Beanstalk, Cinderella, Aladdin, lots of lights and costumes and such like.’

  Mrs Hudson assured him that she knew what a pantomime was.

  ‘I am not a student of such entertainments myself. Anyway, there’s a pantomime troupe booked for the Regal Theatre as soon as the Great Salmanazar departs, and they have been allowed to rehearse there today. The resulting chaos has made it difficult in the extreme to keep an eye on the illusionist. Even so, I am confident he has remained all day within the theatre and has not been anywhere near the Blenheim Hotel.’

  ‘And has Miss Del Fuego made an appearance at the theatre today, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Miss Del Fuego? No, I gather her rehearsals are complete.’

  Mrs Hudson had taken up a pile of laundry and now she began to fold the top item, a large bath towel.

  ‘It is curious, sir, is it not, that the young man who disappeared from Sefton Avenue in Ealing should have had in his possession a playbill advertising Miss Del Fuego’s act?’

  Mr Holmes snorted. ‘You are still thinking of that domestic tiff, Mrs Hudson? I can see nothing curious about it at all. It would appear that the majority of London’s male population is agog to witness the famous Fire Dance.’

  And with that he allowed Mrs Hudson to press upon him a parcel of cold pork sausages, a slice of veal pie and a bottle of brown ale concealed up his sleeve.

  The third report on events followed much later that evening, when Mrs Hudson and I were sitting at the kitchen table on the brink of retiring. We heard a light tapping at the area door, and to our surprise Sherlock Holmes entered, leading in his wake Dr Watson, Sir John Plaskett and Inspector Lestrade. Mrs Hudson, who felt her kitchen to be very much her own domain, raised an eyebrow at the sight.

  ‘Mr Holmes, sir? Can we help you?’

  ‘Of course, Mrs Hudson, otherwise we should not have bothered you. Dr Watson has spent the journey here speculating as to what little Christmas treats you might be hoarding away down here so I volunteered to lead a raid on your larder.’ He waved impatiently at his colleagues, who appeared every bit as put out by this unconventional approach as Mrs Hudson. ‘Come on in, gentlemen, come on in. I’m sure Mrs Hudson will find you a slice of something and a bottle of ale before you go on your way.’

  It can’t be said that Mrs Hudson’s instinct for hospitality ever failed her, and whatever her feelings about Mr Holmes entertaining in her kitchen, she kept them to herself; and it was notable that both Sir John and Inspector Lestrade brightened considerably when they found themselves in front of the blazing kitchen fire with glasses of hot whisky in their hands. With snow falling outside and the last hours of Christmas Eve ticking away, it made for a festive scene.

  ‘Now, gentlemen, before we part for the night, let us summarise our position.’ Mr Holmes’ energy seemed undiminished either by the late hour or by the rigours of his day. ‘The Great Salmanazar is safely in his rooms at Browns Hotel with a dozen constables standing watch. How are things at the Blenheim, gentlemen?’

  ‘All’s in order, Mr Holmes.’ Lestrade had drained his drink in a couple of gulps and was now looking more cheerful – and a little pinker – than I had ever seen him. ‘If Sir John can get the ruby to the Satin Rooms safely, then we can be sure it will stay there until the dragoons arrive to take it to the vaults. If anything happens to it while it’s under our supervision, why, then it must be that the Devil himself has spirited it away.’

  ‘However, I hardly think that either the public or the Home Office will be content to lay the blame entirely on that gentleman, Lestrade. They may wish to find a scapegoat a little closer to home.’

  ‘You’re right, Mr Holmes.’ Sir John twirled the end of his moustache into an anxious spiral. ‘If anything goes wrong, our reputations are ruined. We will be a laughing stock and a national disgrace.’ He looked a little anxiously at his colleagues. ‘However, I’m damned if I can see how anything can go wrong. It would take an infantry assault to penetrate the security around the Satin Rooms.’

  ‘And you are sure the stone will be delivered safely, Sir John?’

  The old soldier chuckled. ‘Hidden better than a pebble on a beach, gentlemen. And guarded by a veritable Cerberus. What was that?’

  All heads turned for a moment towards the window that faced the area ste
ps. Mrs Hudson, who had been polishing spoons, apparently with no interest whatsoever in the gentlemen’s conversation, turned to look too.

  ‘I thought I heard a noise outside,’ Sir John explained, still facing the window.

  ‘What about you, Flotsam?’ Mrs Hudson asked. ‘You were closest to the window. Did you hear anything?’

  For a moment all eyes were on me. ‘Nothing, ma’am,’ I told her. ‘Perhaps it was a carriage in the street.’

  ‘Or a floorboard creaking,’ suggested Dr Watson.

  ‘Or your nerves playing tricks, Sir John,’ Mr Holmes concluded. ‘Come, gentlemen, the illusionist is being watched. The ruby is hidden. Our plans are watertight. I don’t think we need to worry about noises in the night. Tomorrow we can meet again to review how things stand, but now I think we should enjoy another of Mrs Hudson’s excellent drinks.’

  His companions concurred and more hot whiskies were mixed. Mrs Hudson then returned to the spoons, polishing each of them with a slightly furrowed brow. And none of the gentlemen paid the slightest attention to me, where I stood near the back door with my hands clenched tightly beneath my apron, half expecting to be found out.

  For that night I told a lie. I had heard a noise in the darkness outside, I had seen the flutter of a shadow cross the light that fell on the area steps. But I stood still and said nothing. Outside the clock struck midnight. It was Christmas Day.

  Chapter IX

  The Spanish Dancer

  Mr Sherlock Holmes had declared very clearly his intention to ignore Christmas, but that did not stop him and his colleagues sitting late into the night by our kitchen fire, raising more than one glass to peace on earth and goodwill to men, with particular goodwill directed to all those men involved in the guarding of the Malabar Rose. It was not until nearly one o’clock that they had gone their separate ways, by which time Mrs Hudson had polished all the spoons three times and was beginning to look distinctly impatient. On seeing them go, she had been quick to retire to her bedroom, with a yawned goodnight to me and a ruffle of my hair by way of Merry Christmas. I yawned too, and made to head for my own bed, but when I had blown out all the lights except for one candle, instead of retiring I sat down by the fire and waited.

  Only when I felt sure that Mrs Hudson must be asleep did I make my next move, and that was to begin pulling on extra clothes and my heavy coat. Only when I could actually make out her rhythmic breathing did I dare to tiptoe to the front door and let myself out into the bitter night air.

  The streets at that hour on that day were as empty as they ever were, and there was scarcely a mark in either direction on the freshly fallen snow, nor any sound of horse or harness to ring into the Christmas night. The churches were all darkened now too and their doors closed, and even the usual pacing policeman was nowhere to be seen.

  The boy called Blue was hidden in the same pool of shadow as before, only this time he was waiting for me. Instead of attempting to run, he stepped forward when he saw me coming.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ I told him in a whisper. ‘What have you come for?’

  Instead of answering, he looked at me closely, his eyes hesitant.

  ‘I knew you’d come out,’ he said.

  ‘I thought you might be in trouble. Have you been waiting long? There’s snow all over you.’

  ‘Them in there.’ He signalled with his thumb towards the kitchen. ‘Didn’t like the look of them. Looked like policemen. Or preachers.’

  ‘That was Sherlock Holmes, Blue. Have you heard of him?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nah. What do I know of that sort? Turkeys that wants pluckin’, if you ask me.’

  ‘But that’s not why you’re here tonight, is it?’

  He looked at me again, as if still undecided about something.

  ‘Nah. That bloke I told you about. Geezer who said he had work. I went to see him, didn’t I?’ He turned and looked up the street as he spoke though I could see nothing there to catch his attention. ‘Said I could have a job.’

  I felt a little glow of warmth inside me. ‘That’s wonderful, Blue. What sort of work is it?’

  ‘Sweeping. At a tanner’s. Dirty work. ’Spect nobody else wants it.’

  ‘But it’s a start, and it will keep you out of the hands of the policemen. You can make something of yourself, Blue, I’m sure you can.’

  He looked back at me and began to reply, but something stopped him. Instead he wiped the back of his hands over his forehead as though the snow gathered on his cap had begun to drip into his face. Those hands were tiny – boy’s hands – nothing like the hands that his hard, flat voice demanded.

  ‘This gent said I was to stay out of trouble till the job starts.’

  ‘And when’s that? Do you have long to wait?’

  ‘He wants me on Boxing Day.’

  ‘Why, that’s only a day away. You can surely keep out of trouble until then.’

  He looked down at his boots, worn, mis-shapen items made dark where the snow had dampened them. ‘There’s a man I owe. His name’s Monk. We take him stuff and he pays us. Sometimes he lets us borrow off him.’

  ‘He pays you to steal, you mean?’

  He nodded, still not looking up. ‘If we don’t pay, he gets his fists out. He’s a right hard one. One of the boys, name of Silver, Monk smashed his jaw so hard Silver can’t chew proper anymore. Monk ain’t going to let me take no job till I pays him.’

  I drew in my breath. I began to understand the problem put before me.

  ‘How much do you owe?’ I asked. My voice sounded suddenly small. Blue looked up and for a moment I saw a glimpse of real pain in his eyes.

  ‘Five pounds,’ he told me.

  I think I must have gasped. It was an enormous sum, more than I’d saved in all my life, in all my time with Mrs Hudson. I felt my hopes plummeting, all the optimism that had urged me out of the kitchen to this dark rendezvous turned, at a stroke, into a dull sense of dread. And now I had a decision to make. My decision. There was no one there to help me.

  The boy seemed to sense my dismay and rattled on hurriedly. ‘Five pounds is what I owe, but I have some put away. Savings. A wallet I never told him about. It must be nearly two pounds in all.’

  ‘So you need another three?’

  He nodded, his head hung low again.

  ‘And with that you’d be able to escape from this Monk person?’ Another nod. ‘And start a proper job?’

  ‘A proper job.’ The words were whispered so low they were almost inaudible.

  ‘I think you’d better tell me about this position you’ve found. Is it regular work?’

  Blue looked up. ‘He says so. I know someone who works for him. Says it’s a good place. Fair pay and regular.’

  ‘Who is this employer?’

  ‘Simpson. In Greenwich. Off Tide Lane.’

  ‘And this man Monk will let you go? You’ll really be free of him?’

  He nodded again, his eyes back on his boots.

  I looked at him, at his bowed head and at the shame and misery in his shoulders. There was a bruise under his ear, the only part of his face visible to me below the pulled-down cap. As I looked, I couldn’t help but remember the boy at the orphanage, the way he too would bow his head as he pressed close to me, as if by looking down he could escape notice. The thought made something twist inside me and when I spoke next there were tears in my eyes.

  ‘I have some savings too. Come on. You have to wait at the kitchen door.’

  I left him at the bottom of the area steps and crept back into the kitchen. It took me two or three minutes to retrieve my little collection of coins from the hidden place behind the panelling. As I felt for them, I held my breath and listened but there was no sound of anyone stirring anywhere in the house. When I returned to where the boy was waiting, I found him hunched with cold and stamping his feet.

  ‘Here,’ I said. The money clinked musically as it passed from my palm to his. He looked down at it and then looked me full in the face. For a mo
ment those pale blue eyes of his seemed cloudy and turbulent, as though struggling with unknown emotions. And then, without any words at all, he was off, clattering up the steps two at a time. At the top, he turned left, stepped smartly past the deep shadows by the front door and was gone.

  I watched him go, partly hurt, partly afraid: hurt at the haste in his going and afraid of what I had done. But worse was the part of me that felt neither thing, the part that watched him go and felt the old emptiness inside me, the emptiness that was worse than pain.

  I was about to turn to go inside when a movement in the thick shadows above me caught my eye. I looked up and as I moved forward to see better, the shadow seemed to move towards me.

  ‘Well, Flotsam,’ a familiar voice said in the darkness. ‘You’ve made your decision. Let’s just hope that you’ve made the right one.’

  *

  Ten minutes later, wrapped in a blanket in front of a re-awakened fire, with Mrs Hudson’s arm securely around me, I cried and I cried and I cried. I don’t think I knew why, I only knew that the feelings inside me felt too great to be contained by my narrow frame, and the sobs shook themselves out of me in great convulsions of tears. At first I couldn’t even speak and Mrs Hudson said nothing either, just sat solidly with my head on her shoulder and my shoulders nestling under her strong right arm. Two o’clock passed and Mrs Hudson stirred the fire, and gradually between the tears I began to find words to tell her of my two meetings with Blue and of what I had done. She listened silently, without comment, so that only an occasional tightening of the arm around me gave any sign that she was listening at all.

  When I finally ran out of both tears and words, she allowed herself to speak.

  ‘But, Flottie, why did you not tell me any of this before?’

  I shook my head and began to sob again. ‘I knew I was being stupid. But that time at the orphanage… Those blue eyes… I wanted that boy at the orphanage to be all right.’

  To my surprise she nodded at this, as if I’d managed to say something that made sense.