Mrs Hudson and the Malabar Rose

by Mrs Hudson

  When I returned to the kitchen, neat and smelling fresh, the room seemed full of a sense of contentment. By some alchemy, instead of smell of grease and burning, Mrs Hudson’s cooking had left the room full of rich, tempting smells, and the lamps and the fire filled the room with a soft, flickering light. Mrs Hudson was sipping her sherry by the fire and behind her the kitchen table stood immaculate as if a duke were dining with us.

  ‘There are three places laid, ma’am,’ I noticed.

  ‘Indeed.’ She looked at her watch and then raised her head to listen. Somewhere at the far end of the street I heard voices singing Christmas carols. ‘Very good timing,’ she muttered to herself. As I listened, the voices came nearer, until they were directly outside our door. I heard footsteps on the steps outside and then the door opened to let in an eddy of snowflakes and the head of Scraggs, grinning merrily.

  ‘How’s that, Mrs H?’

  ‘Very good, Scraggs. Did they take much persuading?’

  ‘Not when I told them they were to come back here for cake at the end of their round.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Now nip up and thank them for me, then get back here sharpish. You’ve got Dr Watson’s portion of game soup waiting for you.’

  And so the three of us sat down to eat and Mrs Hudson allowed us both a small glass of white wine to accompany the entrees, which was delicious and made me feel like laughing. Just as we were about to move on, there came a respectful tap at the window and we saw the round and rather balding head of Mr Rumbelow peeping in.

  ‘Quite wrong of me to intrude, of course,’ he explained when we had drawn him inside and closed the kitchen doors behind us. ‘And of course I in no way wish to appear an, er, scavenger at the feast. Oh, dear me, no. But Flotsam mentioned that your excellent cooking might be going to waste, and at this time on a Christmas evening my house is somewhat quiet…’ He caught sight of the dusty bottle that Mrs Hudson had decanted the day before. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed in rapture. ‘The Chateau Yprieu! I have arrived in time!’

  To me it seemed that the evening sped by. Mr Rumbelow told long stories of the Christmases of his youth, spent in Dorset with his eccentric Aunt Gertrude. Scraggs performed tricks with dried beans hidden under cups. Mrs Hudson, after much persuasion, told us how the Irascible Earl narrowly escaped marriage to an Italian countess the year Lecturer won the Cesarewitch. I laughed a great deal, and the fate of my savings and the fate of the Malabar Rose suddenly seemed less important. I was surrounded by friends and I had tickets for the most amazing show ever to be staged in London.

  Then, when it seemed the evening was already replete with good things, there was a knock on the front door and there stood Hetty Peters, resplendent in the most alarming mauve ball gown, and Mr Rupert Spencer, looking strikingly handsome in evening dress.

  ‘We can’t stay, of course, Flottie, darling,’ Hetty explained, pushing past me and heading immediately downstairs. ‘We’ve come from the most tedious affair imaginable – at a friend of Rupert’s, obviously – and now we’re off to something much better and probably quite scandalous where I shall probably drink too much champagne and kiss the butler…’

  By now she had reached the kitchen and was alarming Mrs Hudson with an impulsive embrace.

  ‘And, you see, we’ve bought presents,’ she went on, ‘though none for you, Mr Rumbelow, or you, Scraggs, because we didn’t know you’d be here, but I daresay Rupert has some cigars to hand, don’t you, Rupert? Anyway, these are from Rupert and me, though of course they aren’t really from Rupert because he never thinks to buy presents, do you, Rupert?’

  Mr Spencer smiled enigmatically at this, but had no chance of replying because Miss Peters barely paused for breath.

  ‘That’s why no sensible girl will ever want to marry him, you see, because generally girls make a fuss about things like that. Mind you, Rupert was very happy to come out for once, weren’t you, Rupert?’

  ‘It’s true.’ He addressed himself to Mrs Hudson. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to my uncle, but he’s very keen on my company at the moment. Tonight he refused to go to his club and wanted us to all to stay in with him. We only got away at all because Hetty bribed Reynolds to play cribbage with him.’

  At that point in the proceedings, a muffled pop made Miss Peters squeal.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Hudson! Champagne? Do you think so? Well, since I’m going to drink far too much of it anyway, I don’t see that it can hurt to start now…’

  ‘Champagne, do you say?’ A voice from the area door made me jump.

  ‘Dr Watson!’ I exclaimed. ‘And Mr Holmes!’

  ‘That’s right, Flotsam,’ the doctor beamed. ‘Duty over for tonight. We’ve been on the tail of that Salmanazar all day, haven’t we, Holmes? But he’s safely in bed now and his door and windows are being watched by a small army of police officers. So I think champagne is in order, eh, Holmes?’

  His friend smiled a slightly drawn smile. ‘Why not, my friend? Let us just hope it does not prove premature. For tomorrow is the day that decides our fate.’

  ‘Well, Mr Holmes,’ put in Mr Rumbelow, ‘I shall be attending the performance tomorrow so I shall keep my eyes open for any skulduggery.’

  ‘Oh, and so shall we, shan’t we, Rupert?’ Miss Peters added.

  ‘And I’ve got a place hidden up in the roofing,’ said Scraggs proudly. ‘Should be able to keep an eye on things from up there.’

  And then I heard my own voice, trembling a little with excitement.

  ‘Oh, and do you know? Mrs Hudson and I are going to be there too!’

  At this someone raised a glass and all the other glasses followed, all except Mrs Hudson’s. For some reason a little frown of anxiety had appeared between her eyebrows as though she had remembered something she needed to think about.

  ‘Do you know,’ she said, looking at the table still laden with food, ‘since no one has eaten any yet, I think I might ice that fruit cake after all.’

  Chapter X

  A Disappearing Trick

  Every single person there to witness it would always remember the Great Salmanazar’s London performance. From the scamps and urchins who had crept into the wings or hidden themselves under seats, to the sparkling ladies who sat in the boxes; from the girls selling cigars and bonbons to the moustachioed gentlemen at the back of the stalls who had really come to see the famous Fire Dance; from the lighting men and the stagehands and the musicians in the pit, to the stout constables in the aisles and the plain clothes detectives concealed in the audience, everyone who was there to see it remembered it; and on snowy Boxing Days for many years afterwards they would tell and re-tell the tales.

  Perhaps part of the strangeness of the evening stemmed from the weather, for the whole spectacular show took place at the height of a blizzard. From the first light of dawn that day, the sky threatened snow, and when at nine in the morning the coalman arrived in Baker Street, there was little difference between the shade of his boots and the dark sky above him.

  ‘It will snow, all right,’ he told Mrs Hudson as his soot-black horse shifted nervously in its traces; and in reply she looked at the sky and frowned a little and agreed.

  ‘Yes, Mr Prescott, there’ll be snow tonight, and plenty of it. It’s a night when sensible, honest folk would stay at home.’

  But of course they did not. When the first flakes fell that night, there were still ticket-less crowds queuing at the doors of the Regal Theatre in hope of a miracle, and the whole of the area around Piccadilly Circus teemed with peddlers and jugglers and loiterers, and people just out to see what would happen.

  For rumour was rife. The Malabar Rose was already stolen; the Great Salmanazar was arrested; was fled abroad; had disappeared without trace. The Queen herself was to attend the performance; the Queen had refused to see the show; the Queen had ordered the show to be cancelled to safeguard the Malabar Rose. And through it all, the crowds kept gathering, the price of tickets touched thirty guineas apiece, the taverns and the pickp
ockets did great business. At the Blenheim Hotel, the great French chef Deslandes served truite a la Malabar, and in the Rose and Crown on the corner of Poland Street, the pot boys took bets on whether the foreign magician would magic away the precious stone. The mood of the crowd was patriotic. The British police would stand firm; Sherlock Holmes would foil any plots; Inspector Lestrade was a man to be trusted . . . Six shillings to one said the stone was safe. Eight to one! Ten to one! Hurrah for England and St George!

  The optimism of the crowds no doubt weighed heavily on Mr Holmes and Dr Watson as they paced the Satin Rooms, checking and re-checking that nothing was amiss. At five o’clock that day they were joined by Sir John Plaskett from his house in Randolph Place, who brought with him the velvet display box that was to hold the ruby. Ten minutes after that, Inspector Lestrade, who had been with his men on the roof, completed the group. The inspector was brushing snow from his moustache.

  ‘It’s beginning to come down thick, gentlemen,’ he told them. Together they checked their watches and waited for the gem to arrive.

  *

  Back in Baker Street, I had found myself chased out of the house just after lunchtime. Mrs Hudson, busy with household chores and declaring that she had things to do in the afternoon, sent me over to the house in Bloomsbury Square.

  ‘You are to spend the afternoon keeping Miss Peters company, Flottie, and making sure she doesn’t get too over-excited. That way, when the snow starts, you can get to the theatre in the earl’s carriage. The earl is attending the viewing of the Malabar Rose, but I’m sure he will take the rest of you into town. You can arrive in Piccadilly in style, Flottie.’

  ‘But what about you, ma’am?’

  ‘I’ll manage fine on foot. There are one or two little tasks to get done first. I want to see Mrs Phillimore in Sefton Avenue again, for one thing. And I have a call to make on Sir Phillip Westacott, the surgeon, for another.’

  ‘Are you unwell, ma’am?’

  ‘Good gracious, no, Flotsam. I’m in the rudest of health. But Sir Phillip is an expert on human anatomy and just at the moment I find myself quite interested in the subject.’

  Knowing that Mrs Hudson’s interests could be strangely eclectic, there seemed to be little to say to this. ‘Shall I see you at the theatre then, ma’am?’ I asked.

  ‘You certainly shall, Flottie. Our tickets are for unnumbered seats, but I have had a word with the theatre manager who has agreed to reserve us a pair together. I shall see you there.’

  At twenty minutes to six that evening, while the first flakes of snow were falling from skies pregnant with wintry intent, I was seated in the Earl of Brabham’s brougham, lumbering slowly towards Piccadilly. Next to me, Hetty Peters was bursting with excitement; opposite, Rupert Spencer seemed not at all upset to be foregoing the attentions of the Marylebone Natural Philosophic Society. Only the Irascible Earl seemed out of sorts, checking his watch repeatedly and lowering the window from time to time to berate his coachman.

  ‘Really, the traffic in this town is quite absurd,’ he growled, gesturing at the street in annoyance. ‘Must have moved quicker than this in Tudor times! Look at all those damned hansoms! Always think they have the right of way. And that fellow, there, in the victoria! What’s he doing bringing his vehicle into the heart of London on a night like this? Must know he’s only going to snarl up the roads for everyone else. Fellows like him should have to pay to drive into town!’ He lowered the window. ‘Carrington, if that fellow gets in the way, drive over him!’

  Miss Peters wasn’t listening. She was gripping my hand and pointing at people in the crowd, uttering little gasps of excitement.

  ‘Look, Flottie! That man there! Doesn’t he have a face like a burglar! I bet he’s after the Malabar Rose! Oh, goodness, I think I know him. Do I know him, Rupert? The man over there with the red whiskers?’

  Mr Spencer examined the crowd in a leisurely way. ‘Yes, Hetty. It’s the vicar of St Margaret’s. You spilled tea over him at the charity bazaar last month.’

  ‘Did I? Are you sure? Oh, that vicar. Yes, I remember now. I remember being surprised that you’re allowed to be a vicar when you look so much like a burglar. It must make his parishioners awfully nervous when he comes calling…’

  And in that way, in between flurries of snow and volleys of aristocratic ire, we arrived at the Blenheim Hotel, where the earl had been invited to witness the safe arrival of the Malabar Rose.

  The contrast between the calm of the Blenheim Hotel and the turbulence outside could not have been greater. The Satin Rooms seemed to float amidst the city’s noise like an iceberg of good order in a sea of over-excitement. We approached down the thickly carpeted corridor, past uniformed policemen who, after much deliberation and much checking of lists, eventually allowed us into the ante-chamber beyond which the ruby was to be displayed. There we found Sir John Plaskett awaiting us, along with Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, Inspector Lestrade and a group of gentlemen in suits whom I didn’t recognise. Dr Watson, on seeing us arrive, gave a happy snort and came over to greet me.

  ‘Ah, Flotsam! Excellent. Dashed pleased to see you. Good to have an extra pair of eyes. Though apparently the ruby isn’t here yet. I must say, I wish it would hurry up. All this waiting is beginning to give me the jitters.’

  Sir John meanwhile was introducing the various people present. As well as the Earl of Brabham, the other official witnesses were Sir John, for the Crown, a man with a bowler hat and a moustache called Mr Bushy who represented the insurers, an Indian gentleman representing the Maharajah, and a gaunt, silver-haired gentleman who turned out to be the royal jeweller. When everyone had shaken hands with everyone else, Sir John led us past two more policemen and into the inner chamber itself. The great circular room was just as I’d seen it last, but for one difference: on the slim column of marble at its centre there now stood the elegant velvet case that was to display the ruby. The case, just like the one I had seen in Baker Street, was shaped like a truncated pyramid, with a dimple at its apex where the stone would stand. Without a word the crowd gathered around it. Even Miss Peters fell silent, and I hardly dared breathe lest someone would notice my presence and decide that I had no right to be there.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Sir John began. ‘Three of the doors to this room are already sealed. The fourth we shall lock behind us when we leave. You are all aware of the safeguards in place. Are you satisfied with them?’

  There was a general murmur of assent.

  ‘And do you have any questions? If not, all that remains is for me to produce the Malabar Rose itself. I am happy to report that the decoy stones have been completely successful. The Malabar Rose itself has been in a completely unguessable location and has arrived here safely. Now it is time for me to take it back. The Malabar Rose, if you please!’

  At first I thought he was looking directly at me and I began to shrink with embarrassment at such cruel teasing. But then I became aware that behind me the Earl of Brabham was clearing his throat and fidgeting. To my total astonishment, he stepped forward and reached into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Got it here, Sir John,’ he murmured. ‘Never let it out of my pocket, you see. Have to admit, I was beginning to get a bit windy, though.’

  This remarkable revelation caused a stirring of surprise amongst the assembled company.

  ‘My word, sir!’ exclaimed Dr Watson. ‘Had it all this time, have you? Who’d have guessed it?’

  ‘Who indeed, Watson?’ Mr Holmes coughed modestly. ‘Although it was not impossible to divine that the stone was likely to be in the possession of a respectable gentleman with no public office, conservative political views, a sturdy coachman and membership of the same clubs as Sir John.’

  ‘But, Uncle,’ Mr Spencer was asking, ignoring Mr Holmes’ demonstration of his deductive powers, ‘you mean it has just been lying around the house all this time?’

  ‘What do you mean, “lying around the house”?’ the earl growled. ‘It was in my blasted pocket, wasn’t it? Why do you think
I’ve been wanting you to accompany me to the blasted club these last few days? Why do you think I wanted to stay in and play cribbage when you wouldn’t come? I ask you! Most ghastly few days of my life! Worse than that time I attended the House of Lords. I hardly dared go out, dammit.’ The earl shook his head, as if in horror. ‘Cribbage, indeed! Game for old ladies and clergymen! To be honest, I don’t know it’s really fit for clergymen.’

  While the earl continued in that vein, the Malabar Rose had been removed from his grasp by the elderly jeweller. I could see his eyes widen as he examined it, and even from where I stood it was easy to see that it was special. The stone he held was not dissimilar in size and shape to the glass replica we had been shown in Baker Street, but there could have been no confusing the two. For the Malabar Rose seemed to burn with a fire at its very heart, and whatever light there was in the room seemed to be captured by it, as if to feed those flames. It was, quite simply, exquisite.

  ‘Magnificent!’ exclaimed the jeweller, his eyes still wide. ‘I have never seen anything like it. Such depth! Such fire!’

  The Maharajah’s representative was studying it closely too. ‘Yes, that is the Malabar Rose,’ he confirmed. ‘My congratulations to you, sir, on its safe delivery.’

  The ruby was passed to Sir John who placed it carefully on the velvet case. It fitted perfectly and suddenly the room didn’t feel bare anymore; it seemed to fill with light, as if the Malabar Rose had furnished it with colour and lustre of its own. At the same time, the assembled group seemed to diminish beside it. We simply stood and watched the fire at its centre twist and flicker and weave patterns of meaning that none of us would ever decode.

  The formalities that followed were almost a relief and were quickly over. Receipts were signed and counter signed. The door was sealed behind us with four padlocks, one for each of the signatories, and two constables took up position with their backs to it. Sir John, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson and Inspector Lestrade stated their intention to stay and patrol the ante chamber, while the Earl of Brabham, Mr Spencer, and those others who were to be there at the official viewing were enjoined to return at eleven o’clock, when the door would be officially re-opened. Then our group broke up, and those of us with tickets to the show next door made haste to secure our seats.