Mrs Hudson and the Malabar Rose

by Mrs Hudson

  *

  The Regal Theatre was, in those days, one of the smartest in the whole of the country. It seemed to me immense, and even for the most ordinary event it could seat eight hundred people in the most sumptuous comfort. From the rich red carpets of the stalls, to the distant, dizzying heights of the Gods, every box, every balustrade, every dangling chandelier and every fragment of cornicing was gilded and glorious, and polished till it shone. The different tiers rose above each other in towering splendour so that faces peeping down from the top balcony were little more than pale spots amid the blaze of colour.

  Eight hundred seats must have sufficed on most occasions, but that night there were at least a thousand people crammed into the old building. Extra seats had been slotted into the aisles to extend each row, and tickets for standing room had been sold so liberally that it seemed the crowds in the Upper Circle and the Gods were doomed to spill over into the stalls below. Even at six o’clock, with two hours still to go until the performance began, the theatre seemed full. By the time Mrs Hudson arrived to take her seat in the stalls, the theatre seemed so full it was impossible to believe that those still queuing outside would ever get in.

  In the midst of the mounting excitement, only Mrs Hudson appeared unmoved.

  ‘A very fair crowd,’ she commented, seating herself calmly and rifling through her bag as if totally unaffected by the atmosphere around her.

  ‘Ah, here we are,’ she said presently, pulling from a bag a very small notebook. ‘I jotted down one or two of the things that Lavinia Phillimore told me this afternoon, Flotsam. I thought you might be interested.’

  I looked at the babbling crowds all around me and wondered how Mrs Phillimore’s recollections of her husband could possibly be interesting at a time like this. Mrs Hudson, however, was undeterred.

  ‘To begin with, I now have the dates of all Mr Phillimore’s periods of convalescence in Broadstairs. They make fascinating reading. And when I asked Mrs Phillimore about the large sum of money she received through the post, she told me that she thought perhaps her husband had been dabbling in the stock markets. She remembers seeing a letter that mentioned shares in an overseas iron company and in North American railways. Sadly, she’s a particularly vapid young woman and she never seems to have thought to ask him about it.’

  The influx of people into the auditorium seemed finally to have come to an end. Wherever I looked, it seemed that people were now in their places. Mrs Hudson nodded towards the stage.

  ‘Look at the front two rows of the stalls, Flottie. It seems that Inspector Lestrade isn’t taking any chances.’

  On looking more closely, I realised that the front two rows appeared to be populated entirely by men in their thirties and forties. Unlike the rest of the audience, none of them were chattering to their neighbours.

  ‘Police constables without their uniforms,’ Mrs Hudson whispered. ‘You can tell. No necks. And look there!’ Mrs Hudson indicated a bent old flower seller in the opposite aisle. ‘Mr Holmes has sneaked away from that ruby of his to keep an eye on things after all.’

  ‘Mr Holmes, ma’am? Her?’

  ‘Of course, Flottie. Look at the hands. And besides, the flowers are arranged wrong. No flower seller puts the roses next to the tiger lilies.’

  But before I could re-examine the old woman in the light of these observations, the lights around me began to dim and the audience hushed itself, and the moment London had been waiting for so impatiently had finally arrived.

  *

  I could fill many pages in describing the wonders we were shown that night. I had seen magicians before, but I had never seen anything like the Great Salmanazar. At first he appeared rather uncertain, a small man in evening dress who perhaps had wondered out of his depth. But as one extraordinary happening followed another, he seemed to grow in stature until he dominated the stage as surely as he dominated the audience in front of it. We were his entirely, to work as he pleased, and his performance grew into something that defied all sense of reason. At first I was able to think about each trick, to wonder what sleight of hand had accomplished it; but the performance moved so fast, and challenged my reason so rapidly and repeatedly, that eventually I could only watch and wonder. By the time he performed the rope trick, a thousand pairs of eyes were locked on his, and when he disappeared, quite literally, in a puff of smoke, a thousand pairs of eyes blinked in disbelief. A few seconds later, at precisely the same moment, a thousand people became aware that the man they had just watched vanish was, in fact, standing in the aisle of the stalls, twenty yards from the stage, apparently having just witnessed his own evaporation.

  Soon we were all so accustomed to the performance of the impossible that when the Great Salmanazar released from his hat in rapid succession a cockatoo, an ocelot and a fluttering cloud of scarlet butterflies, he might just as easily have produced an elephant and none of us would have thought it in the least surprising.

  Finally, when it appeared that the procession of wonders must come to an end, the Great Salmanazar stepped forward and addressed his audience for the first time.

  ‘Mesdames et messieurs,’ he began. ‘Shortly I shall perform for you a feat that defies all physical laws. You shall see me bound and gagged, secured in every imaginable way, and suspended above you, encaged. But the Great Salmanazar cannot by confined by natural barriers, as you shall witness for yourselves. But first, something a little less taxing. You, sir!’

  He pointed with his finger to a portly man seated a few rows behind me. ‘And you!’ He pointed in a different direction. ‘And you! And finally you, sir! I ask for you gentlemen to stand.’

  Hesitantly and with obvious embarrassment, four gentlemen rose to their feet. Each was seated at the end of a row, so that they marked very roughly the four corners of the stalls. The Great Salmanazar smiled at each of them in turn.

  ‘Gentlemen, my helpers shall bring each of you a pack of cards. I ask you to select a card from that pack and make a mark on it – a mark known only to yourselves. Your signature, perhaps, or the name of a loved one.’

  As he spoke, four small boys in red uniforms ran forward from the front of the stage and each hurried to one of the gentlemen in question. A short pause ensued as cards were selected and scribbled on, then returned to the boys who ran back to the stage and delivered them to the magician.

  ‘You see that I do not look at them,’ he declared, holding them high above his head. ‘Now I place them safely in my pocket.’ A thousand people watched the cards disappear into the front of his jacket. ‘And now, before my incarceration commences, I request a witness to observe that my bonds are genuine.’

  Almost before he had finished speaking, one of the plain-clothes constables from the front row had hastened onto the stage. The Great Salmanazar raised his arms again.

  ‘And so, begin!’ he ordered, and at the clap of his hands the stage was suddenly full of men carrying ropes and tools and all sorts of paraphernalia. A thousand people watched as the illusionist was bound in a straitjacket, gagged and blind-folded, then tied around with so many ropes that he almost disappeared beneath them. When this binding was complete, he was placed in a sack which was knotted with thick cord, then laid in a coffin that had been carried onto the stage. A pair of carpenters took the coffin’s lid and proceeded to nail it down with vengeful thoroughness. Further ropes were then bound tightly around it and finally two strongmen appeared, puffing and straining, carrying between them a monstrous block of lead the shape of a kitchen weight but two feet square at its base and a further two feet tall. This weight was lifted with some difficulty on top of the coffin and then, while we watched, a crate of plain wood was erected around the whole.

  The carpenters worked quickly and in less than a minute, huge hawsers were being strapped around the crate. Then a mighty iron chain was lowered from the ceiling and the hawsers were attached to it. A thousand pairs of eyes watched the crate being hoisted into the air until it was fully thirty feet above the stage. We watched
it swing for a few seconds and then hang still.

  It was at this point that Mrs Hudson nudged me and showed me her watch.

  ‘Twenty five minutes to eleven,’ she whispered. ‘Twenty five minutes until the Malabar Rose goes on display.’

  But I scarcely heard her. Like everyone around me, my eyes were fixed on the hanging box. As we watched it, the auditorium seemed to grow darker and then, as if from nowhere, small fires began to spring up around the stage. Strange, arabesque music filled the theatre, and I thrilled with excitement. The famous Fire Dance was about to begin.

  To gasps of wonder, Lola Del Fuego appeared from the wings as if she was floating on the heat from the fires. Her feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground. She was wearing loose layers of white silk that flowed out from her body and were turned red by the light of the fires, until they seemed like flames licking around her. So loose, so insubstantial was the silk that I marvelled at her daring, but the swiftness of the movements and the flickering firelight made it impossible to be sure just how much of that graceful body was displayed. As the music grew faster, the dance became more wild, and as she leapt through the flames they seemed to clutch at her feet and kiss the tails of silk that trailed behind her.

  ‘Careful, Flotsam.’ Mrs Hudson wasn’t looking at the dance at all, I realised. ‘Keep your eyes on the crate if you can.’

  But I couldn’t. It was too much to ask. I noticed that even among the rows of constables, every one of the heads had tilted forwards and was following the movements of the dancer.

  I had no idea how long the dance lasted. So enchanted was I, so overcome with the wild grace of it, that it might have been an hour, or more. But when the flames died down and the music faded and the applause swept over us like a breaking storm, while the moustachioed hearties were shouting for more and the grey-whiskered gents were waving their programmes, Mrs Hudson leaned over to me and whispered, ‘Listen!’ And above all the noise, very faintly from the street outside, I could hear a clock striking eleven.

  ‘The Malabar Rose!’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes, they’ll be opening the doors right now. Mr Spencer slipped out earlier, along with all the others invited to the event next door.’

  But before I could start thinking about the Malabar Rose, my attention was caught again by the wooden box that contained the Great Salmanazar. Now, very slowly, to the rhythm of a single drumbeat, it was being lowered back to the stage. The audience who only a few moments ago had been in such an uproar began to fall silent again until, as the crate came slowly lower and the drumbeat grew faster, the whole theatre was hushed. When the crate was within six feet of the stage, the two strongmen reappeared from the wings and kept it steady as it came lower, until finally it touched the stage and settled there. The drumming was very urgent now, louder and louder with every moment that passed. The strongmen withdrew. The drumming reached a crescendo and then, dramatically, stopped dead. The silence was almost unbelievable. In my seat by the aisle, I held my breath.

  Then came a crash that made me leap in my seat and made the audience gasp with shock. A gloved fist had punched through the board that formed one side of the crate. We watched fascinated as the fist was withdrawn and then with another tremendous crash smashed through the wood once more, widening the hole. Gradually the Great Salmanazar freed himself from the box. With a final push he stepped clear of the splintered wood and stood before us, immaculate and unflustered, his arms spread wide as if to embrace our applause.

  And applaud we did! It was as if the breaking of the wood had released us from a spell and now we were properly able to acknowledge all we had seen. The audience rose to its feet in one movement and bellowed its appreciation. Cries of ‘Bravo!’ and ‘More!’ rose above the applause, and the stamping of feet seemed to shake the theatre. A hat was thrown in the air, then another, then hundreds, as if the favourite had just won the Derby. A gentleman in front of me sobbed and waved his handkerchief. A young lady of earnest demeanour was restrained by the constables as she tried to run on to the stage. And amidst it all, the Great Salmanazar was signalling for quiet.

  ‘Please!’ he cried, waving his arms. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please!’ Eventually the noise began to subside. ‘Please,’ he cried again, ‘there is one more thing! Please!’ The noise from the Upper Circle took a little longer to die down and when it did the magician spoke again.

  ‘You, sir!’ He pointed to one of the gentlemen who earlier had selected a playing card. ‘I find, sir, that my pocket is empty. I fear I have mislaid your card. Perhaps if you were just to open your pocket book…’

  Bemused, the fellow reached into his jacket and took out a leather wallet. ‘Well, I’ll be…’ he declared, looking up wildly and holding something white in his hand.

  ‘Would that be the knave of clubs, sir?’ the illusionist asked.

  ‘It is! It is! The very one. Look!’ He held it up to those around him. ‘My wife’s name signed in the corner!’

  By now the other three men were scrambling to pull out their wallets.

  ‘You, sir! The nine of diamonds?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It’s here! The same card!’

  ‘And you! The king of hearts?’

  ‘The same! Here’s my name on it!’

  ‘And you, sir!’ He pointed to the last of the four. ‘The ace of spades?’

  But instead of smiling back, the gentleman was looking confused, searching through the papers in his pocket book.

  ‘The ace of spades, I say,’ the Great Salmanazar repeated.

  ‘The ace of spades is correct, sir,’ the man agreed, still searching anxiously, ‘but there is no such card here.’

  Suddenly the theatre, which had been in an uproar of surprise and admiration, began to fall silent. People looked from the stage to the man in the audience and back again. A certain tension seemed to have entered the magician’s body.

  ‘Perhaps then in your pocket, sir.’

  The man began to go through his pockets with an air of dejection. ‘I marked it with a cross, so I should definitely know it again. But I can tell you without doubt I don’t have it here.’

  The Great Salmanazar had gone very pale. He seemed to have shrunk in size again, to have become the same uncertain performer who’d first walked onto the stage. I watched him take a deep breath and address the audience.

  ‘Mesdames et messieurs, forgive me. It would appear in this act of physical transportation I have failed. Please forgive me.’ And with that he stepped back, out of the light and into the darkness, and disappeared from the stage.

  To say the audience was taken aback would be an understatement. We sat in silence, confused and a little embarrassed at this unexpected finale. After a few seconds, the curtain descended sharply to the stage and there was a spattering of applause, but for the most part people were too uncertain to clap their hands. A low murmur of surmise and speculation was running through the building, and I turned to Mrs Hudson. To my total surprise, she was smiling a smile of utter contentment. Sensing that I was looking at her, she turned to me and hastily rearranged her features into more solemn lines.

  ‘Forgive me, Flotsam,’ she said. ‘I’m sure this isn’t the time to appear too triumphant. But I think I know the exact whereabouts of our mysterious Mr Phillimore.’

  *

  When Mr Spencer left the theatre that evening, the Fire Dance had just begun. He found it hard to leave, partly because he found Lola Del Fuego’s attractions to be in no way exaggerated, partly because neither his uncle nor Miss Peters was at first willing to accompany him, and partly because the sheer pressure of people meant that his progress, when he did move, was slow and wretchedly difficult. He did at least succeed in bringing the earl with him, though Miss Peters utterly refused to budge.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Rupert,’ she hissed. ‘This is the most thrilling moment of my entire life! Go off to your boring old soiree if you must, but if you try to take me with you I shall scream the theatre down!’

 
Mr Spencer, deciding that this was an act of public outrage of which she was fully capable, left her in the care of the elderly archdeacon seated next to her, and accompanied his uncle to the front door of the Regal Theatre. It was there for the first time they fully appreciated the force of the storm that had gripped London while the Great Salmanazar was on stage. As soon as the door opened for them, snow drove itself into their faces with polar fury, and for a moment each man wavered and stepped back.

  ‘My word!’ The Earl of Brabham held down his top hat with grim determination. ‘It’s a blasted blizzard. But nothing for it but to struggle through. Mustn’t be late!’

  At first it seemed there was more snow in the air than on the ground, but when they stepped out into it, their boots sank deep into freshly fallen snow. The storm had emptied the streets. All those bustling crowds and those legions of hawkers had been swept away by its force, and the city seemed deserted. By the time the two men had made their way next door, stamping their feet and brushing snow from their coats, it was seven minutes to eleven.

  They found a considerable throng of people in the ante chamber of the Satin Rooms, waiting for the viewing to begin. Most of them had also torn themselves away from the performance next door, duty dictating that royal invitations must be honoured, even when Lola Del Fuego was on stage. To compensate for this sacrifice, a very fine champagne was being served and as Mr Spencer entered the room, the excited chatter was all of events at the Regal Theatre.