by Mrs Hudson
‘Do you think I’ve lost my money, ma’am? Was I just being fooled?’
‘What do you think, Flotsam?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am.’ The tears threatened to recommence.
‘Something made you trust him.’
That was true, but it seemed hard to remember what. ‘Perhaps I just wanted to trust him, ma’am.’
‘Perhaps, Flotsam, perhaps.’ She stood up then and stoked the fire once more. ‘I’m going to make you a hot drink now, and then to bed, you understand.’ I watched her move about the kitchen, unperturbed and imperturbable. She didn’t speak again until the drink was warm and steaming in my hands.
‘Perhaps your instinct was right, Flotsam,’ she concluded. ‘Now we must both trust it for a little and see what happens.’
And when I was finally tucked into bed, I slept soundly. Perhaps Mrs Hudson knew how much I needed that sleep. Perhaps that is why she didn’t tell me at once the things of which she was sure. For Mrs Hudson’s knowledge of the tradesmen and traders of London was unparalleled. And she knew for certain that there was no tanner called Simpson in Greenwich, nor any tannery off Tide Lane.
*
I woke the next morning feeling rested and strangely calm. At first I could think of nothing but the glorious comfort of my bed, but as my senses began to revive I noticed on the floor the empty purse which once had held my savings. The sight made my stomach tighten with a fleeting sense of loss, but I remembered Mrs Hudson’s observation that something had made me trust in the boy, and after that I felt brighter. Those blue eyes had been so full of feeling. Perhaps it would come right after all.
I knew there was something else I should remember that morning, but at first I couldn’t remember what. Then, as if they had been waiting for me to open my eyes, it seemed that every bell in London began to peal at the same time in a great, joyous, tumbling carillon of celebration.
‘Christmas!’ I gasped and began to pull on my clothes in a hurry. Out in the kitchen, although there was no sign of Mrs Hudson, glorious order reigned and the only things not tidied away were a large pan bubbling on the stove and, on the kitchen table, a series of small bundles held together with string. On closer examination, these proved to be the morning’s post, and what a post it was! A full five bundles of cards and letters, all addressed to Mrs Hudson, and much to my surprise two neat, crisp envelopes addressed to me. I examined each in turn. The first was white, the second brown. Both were addressed in clear, capital letters that told me nothing about the hands that had written them. I was just about to break the seal on the first when Mrs Hudson bustled into the room.
‘Ah, Flotsam!’ she began briskly. ‘A Merry Christmas to you. The snow’s stopped and, as you can see, the postman’s already been and gone. However he did find time to stop for a drop of tea and rum. He tells me there are queues right round the Regal Theatre this morning. There’s a rumour that tickets for standing room only will go on sale later today.’
She had taken up a large wooden spoon and began to stir the pot on the stove with muscular vigour.
‘So much post,’ I murmured, gesturing at the piles on the table.
‘Indeed, and some of it for you, Flotsam.’
‘I can’t imagine who from.’
‘Well, you can find out shortly. But first there’s a bowl of cinnamon porridge to be eaten. Here you are. Plenty of time to read your letters later.’
Still a little fuddled by my long sleep, I ate my breakfast in happy silence, contemplating thoughtfully the two envelopes in front of me. Mine had not been the sort of life that had led to old acquaintances, and post of any sort with my name on it was a great and exciting rarity.
As soon as I’d scooped the last spoonful of porridge into my mouth, Mrs Hudson whisked the bowl from under my nose and began to wash it up.
‘Sunday best clothes today, Flotsam. You and I are going out.’
‘To church, ma’am?’
‘No, something rather different. We’re going to pay a visit to that dancer you are so interested in.’
I felt my eyes opening wide. ‘Not Lola Del Fuego, ma’am?’
‘That’s what they call her, I believe.’
‘But will she see us? Today of all days?’
‘Oh, yes, Flotsam. She’ll see us. I sent her a little note yesterday morning and she was good enough to reply most promptly. We are to go to her rooms at the Blenheim Hotel at eleven o’clock. Which doesn’t give us long, so I want you into your smart clothes quicker than a poacher’s rabbit.’
I needed no second urging, sliding into my smart clothes with what was becoming practised ease. I even made a fair job of pinning my own hair in the way Mrs Hudson had shown me. When I emerged, the housekeeper was working through her pile of cards but she looked up when I came in.
‘Why, Flotsam, you look more grown up with every day that passes.’
I smiled a little shyly at that and joined her at the table. Mrs Hudson was peering at some chaotic handwriting.
‘There’s a little note here from Lord Bredonbury, sending his best wishes. At least I think that’s what it says. His lordship’s writing is somewhat eccentric.’
I fingered the first of my two envelopes. ‘Have I time to open these now, ma’am?’
‘Why not, Flotsam? We have a moment or two before we need to set out.’
The first envelope was the brown one. Mrs Hudson had pushed the paper knife towards me and with something approaching trepidation I sliced it open. In doing so I fumbled it slightly and its contents spilled out onto the table in front of us. There was no letter or note, just a small piece of crisp, white card, printed at the top with the words ‘Regal Theatre’.
The Great Salmanazar
And
Miss Lola Del Fuego
Thursday 26th December
This ticket is for Supplementary Seating
Supplementary Seats are Unnumbered
Doors open from Six O’Clock
‘It’s a ticket,’ I said, my voice hushed with awe and hesitant with disbelief. ‘For the show tomorrow.’
‘Well, well, well.’ Mrs Hudson picked it up and examined it closely. ‘It’s exactly what you say. And in the other envelope?’
I opened the second more hurriedly and squinted inside.
‘Yes, Flotsam? What is it?’
Without saying anything I reached inside and placed its contents on the table: another ticket, identical in every way, now rested against the first.
‘Well, well,’ said Mrs Hudson again. ‘You have generous admirers, Flotsam.’
I didn’t know what to say to that, or even what to think about such an incredible occurrence, so instead I rather timidly pushed one of the tickets over to her. ‘Please, ma’am,’ I said, my voice a little shaky, ‘it seems as we shall both see the famous Fire Dance after all.’
*
I was whisked away to the Blenheim Hotel in something of a daze. I simply couldn’t conceive how either of the tickets had come to be sent to me, and Mrs Hudson gave me little time to ponder. Before I had a chance to contemplate the great miracle that had befallen me, I was wrapped tightly against the elements and pressed with equal firmness into a rattling hansom cab. There Mrs Hudson seized the opportunity as we sped through the snowy streets to summarise for me what we knew about the disappearance of James Phillimore.
I listened a little fitfully, still full of a sense of wonder that such a thing – two such things – could happen to me. Who could possibly want to give me such a present? And why? For all that Mrs Hudson appeared totally incurious about them, these questions both seemed to me as surprising as they were unanswerable.
‘So, Flotsam,’ Mrs Hudson was concluding, ‘we know Phillimore disappeared from that house but we don’t know how. But we do know he didn’t leave through the doors or the windows.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I agreed hastily.
‘And does that suggest anything to you, Flottie?’
‘Er, no, ma’am. It all seems rather
baffling.’
‘It doesn’t suggest anything unusual about Mr Phillimore, for instance?’
‘Perhaps he really can make himself invisible, ma’am?’
Mrs Hudson smiled at this. ‘I don’t think so, Flotsam. Very nearly, but perhaps not quite.’ She paused for a moment and looked about her. The day was a grey one that threatened more snow, but every house was brightly lit and there were holly wreaths on every door.
‘Cavendish Square,’ Mrs Hudson commented. ‘They always do the decorations well in Cavendish Square. Now, Flottie, two unusual things we know about Mr Phillimore are his trip to Kimber Street and the playbill with Lola Del Fuego’s name on it. I wonder if by any chance the two might be linked.’
‘But the playbill doesn’t mean anything, ma’am. There are so many of them about the place.’
‘True, Flotsam, but in the case of Mr Phillimore, I think we can be sure that Miss Del Fuego is not completely unaware of his existence. Nor is she unconcerned about it.’
‘But how do you know that, ma’am?’
‘The note I sent her, Flotsam. A note from someone who is a complete stranger to her, a note which must have arrived amid many other notes from admirers and well-wishers. And yet a note to which she replied by return.’
This made sense. It had surprised me that someone so famous should agree to meet two people such as Mrs Hudson and myself on Christmas morning. Now I began to see that perhaps it was more than just exceptional courtesy.
‘What did the note say, ma’am?’
‘Oh, it was very short, Flotsam. Only two sentences. ‘The police shall shortly ask you about James Phillimore. I suggest you speak to me first.’
*
Lola Del Fuego proved even more beautiful than I had imagined. She was tall and slim, with strong shoulders and slim hips above what seemed to be the longest legs imaginable. Her skin was pale but her features were dramatic – full lips, a strong, shapely nose, prominent cheekbones and dark brown eyes that flashed with fire. Her face was framed by cascades of glorious dark hair.
She welcomed us into her suite with a mixture of courtesy and disdain, dressed in the most remarkable morning dress, a green, silken affair that I viewed with undisguised admiration. It was a suite of considerable grandeur, hung in pale blue silk trimmed with gold. It smelled of roses and exotic perfume.
Having ushered us away from the door, Miss Del Fuego looked us up and down, as if uncertain of who we were and what we represented. Rather pointedly, she neither sat herself nor invited us to sit.
‘You are Señora Hudson?’ she asked at last. Her accent was heavily Spanish, and she hesitated each time she spoke, as if uncertain of her English.
‘I am. And this is Flotsam, my colleague.’
In reply, our hostess picked up a piece of paper from the table between us.
‘I have received this note,’ she told us, lisping her ‘s’ slightly in the Castilian manner. ‘I understand it not at all. I think perhaps it is what you call a threat. In my country, servants do not send such notes to their betters. So I think I call you here to explain yourselves to me, and if it is threat you make me, I call your English police.’
Even though she was looking at us with her head held high and her eyes full of scorn, she still succeeded in looking quite captivating. Her face was attractive in repose; when alive with emotion that attractiveness grew into magnificence.
Mrs Hudson, however, seemed less impressed. In fact, she seemed more interested in the details of the hotel suite than in Miss Del Fuego’s person, and rather than replying immediately, she began to potter around the room, running her hands over pieces of furniture or touching the hangings with her fingers.
Finally she arrived at the picture above the fireplace, an impressive oil painting of ruins in a classical landscape.
‘Ah! A copy of a painting by Fabricio, I believe. The original was at Hadley Hall when I was a maid there. Do you know the painting?’
‘Phut! It is not paintings that I am asking you about!’
‘But such a fine painting. I believe the earl bought it from a countryman of yours, the Duke of Catania. Of course, you will know all about him.’
‘The Duke of Catania? Yes, I know him, of course. In my own country I have admirers most many.’
Mrs Hudson turned from the painting and looked directly at the dancer. ‘Did you meet James Phillimore in Paris?’ she asked.
Miss Del Fuego lifted her chin and her eyes glinted dangerously. ‘Phut! Phillimore! Phillimore! I know no name Phillimore.’
Mrs Hudson shook her head gently. ‘Ah, but you do. And you want to know why the police are interested in him.’
‘The police?’ She spat the word out with scorn. ‘What does a person of your position know of the police?’
Mrs Hudson nodded at the note still gripped in the young woman’s hand. ‘Perhaps you have heard of Mr Sherlock Holmes? You will see that the address on that note is his address.’
The dancer looked again at the piece of paper and I thought she paled a little. When she spoke her voice was quieter.
‘I have heard of this Holmes, yes. And I wish not to be in trouble here with police, that is why I write to you to call.’
‘I see.’ Mrs Hudson seemed to have turned her attention to the plush fabric of the nearest armchair. ‘And I come to tell you that Mr Phillimore is suspected of involvement in a very serious crime. If you were found to be assisting him, your stay in London might be longer than you expect.’
‘No, it is not true!’ The young woman’s eyes were aflame and her body taut as a spring. ‘There is no crime. I know this. It is not true.’
‘But you know nothing of James Phillimore, I think you said.’
The dancer took a deep breath to calm herself. ‘I see what you think. You think, ‘If she knows nothing of this man, why does she care?’ But your letter with talk of police, and your words of crime, they upset me. I want nothing of trouble. Tomorrow is my last performance. Then I go away. Live happily. Live quiet life.’
‘Ah, yes. I had heard rumours that you planned to retire.’ Mrs Hudson was paying attention again. ‘The word is that you are to be congratulated.’
A genuine flush of pleasure seemed to colour Miss Del Fuego’s cheeks. ‘Ah, the gossip, they know everything. Is true. After tomorrow, I marry. I become wife. I go away.’
‘You go back to Spain?’
The younger woman shook her head prettily. ‘Not to Spain. To Canada. My fiancé, he is rich from Canada. He owns much land of Canada. And I, I do not mind the snow to be with him.’ The smile that had spread across her face lingered for a moment, beautiful in its simplicity, then disappeared abruptly. ‘That is why these words of police, of crime, they frighten me. My fiancé is very honest man. He not like talk of crime. You tell police, no crime, no James Phillimore, is nothing to do with me.’
Mrs Hudson nodded slowly. ‘Very well,’ she agreed after a pause. ‘If they ask me, I shall tell them exactly that.’
And with those words, rather to my surprise, our interview with Europe’s most famous dancer was at an end.
*
That afternoon, finding no sign of either Mr Holmes or Dr Watson in Baker Street, and receiving no word that either intended to return in time to celebrate Christmas Day, Mrs Hudson determined to prepare their dinner without them.
‘I have never yet been in service in a house where Christmas has not been properly marked,’ she declared, ‘and I certainly don’t intend to start now. If there is no one above stairs to do the thing correctly, then we must do their duty for them. Now, Flottie, the goose is in the cold room and its ready for the oven. Fetch it out, and let’s get started.’
We worked as hard as if we had an army of redcoats to feed, and with as much delicacy as if our efforts were to be judged by a banquet of French chefs. Watching Mrs Hudson’s concentration on the minute details of seasoning, I would quite forget that the beneficiaries of her care were no one but ourselves. While we cooked, I had a chan
ce to ask Mrs Hudson some of the questions I’d been pondering ever since our morning visit.
‘Mrs Hudson, ma’am,’ I began, ‘didn’t we leave rather early today?’
‘You wished to stay longer, Flottie?’
‘Well, I’m not sure what we really learned. We don’t even know if Miss Del Fuego really had heard of Mr Phillimore before.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Flottie. I thought we learned some interesting things today.’
‘What sort of things, ma’am?’
‘That Miss Del Fuego is planning to marry. And that she leaps to the defence of a man she has never heard of when he is accused of a crime.’
I stirred the soup a little more and pondered for a little longer.
‘She’s certainly very beautiful, ma’am.’
‘Yes, Flotsam. A very striking young lady.’ She leaned over and tasted the soup. ‘Tell me, Flottie, have you ever heard of the Duke of Catania?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Neither have I, Flottie. Neither have I. A touch more salt in there, I think, if you please.’
While I was still struggling to understand the implications of all these things, there came a crisis in our culinary campaign when everything seemed to happen at once, when we were so heavily outnumbered by the pots around us that it seemed certain we would be overrun. Like Hector beneath the walls of Troy, Mrs Hudson commanded as she battled, throwing herself into the thick of the action while directing the forces behind her.
‘Quickly, Flotsam! There, on your right. A pinch of sage and then off the heat. And watch on your left. The gravy threatens to boil.’
Then, as suddenly as the crisis had arrived, it passed, and an eerie calm seemed to descend upon the kitchen. Each element of our feast stood ready or warming, and the debris of the struggle had all been swept away to soak in the corner by the sink. We stood, weary but triumphant, and surveyed the scene of our victory.
‘Do you know, Flottie, I feel that bottle of Chateau Yprieu has been richly deserved. But not yet, of course. I’ll begin with a glass of the chilled sherry while you wash your hands and get that apron off. No dawdling now, the food’s waiting to be eaten.’
