by Mrs Hudson
‘The fellow simply disappeared…’
‘Splendid trickery…’
‘… Seen nothing like it since Sindapour in ’56…’
‘… All mirrors, you know, and then there’s the smoke…’
‘… Once you know there’s a trapdoor, you realise it’s really childishly simple…’
‘… Wouldn’t let any daughter of mine cavort around in public like that, but then of course none of my daughters are really built for that sort of thing…’
In the centre of the throng, the Dowager Duchess of Marne was questioning a bishop about his views on black magic, and beyond that a peer from the shires was bribing a waiter to replace his champagne with a whisky and soda. Near the padlocked door, a minor admiral was describing his only ever naval engagement to a young lady who had mistaken him for someone quite different. They were being watched by Dr Watson and Inspector Lestrade, who both leaned nonchalantly against the door itself. Next to them, Sir John Plaskett was looking at his watch.
As if this movement was a signal, the other key-holders disengaged themselves from their conversations and began to gather around him. Mr Bushy mopped his brow. The Indian gentleman looked serious. The Irascible Earl looked slightly irritable. Sherlock Holmes, restored to his usual costume but smelling faintly of tiger lilies, sauntered casually through the crowds and joined them.
‘Come, gentlemen,’ Sir John urged them, ‘let us make no great show of this. Let us remove these padlocks, check that all is well, then let the party come through to admire the stone.’
One by one the locks were removed. It fell to the Earl of Brabham to remove the last, but in his impatience he struggled to turn the key and gestured for his nephew to help him, which is how Mr Spencer came to be right at the front of the group when the clocks struck eleven and the doors swung open.
Despite the Maharajah’s request for darkness, the lights of the inner room had been left burning, so the bare interior was brilliantly lit. Perhaps this bright lighting created a sense of normality and order, for certainly the men responsible for the Malabar Rose were chatting amongst themselves as they entered. Mr Bushy, who was at the back, even paused to close the door behind him. At first he couldn’t understand why the others stopped talking as he did so. But Rupert Spencer, from his position at the front of the group, saw everything with total clarity. He saw the velvet case empty atop its marble column; he saw the ruby vanished; the room undisturbed; and he saw, fluttering gently under the ceiling, translucent against the lights, a single scarlet butterfly.
Chapter XI
The Ace Of Spades
When I arrived at the Blenheim Hotel that evening, shortly after the Great Salmanazar had walked off stage, the scenes that greeted me spoke in equal measures of confusion, consternation and despair. Mrs Hudson had sent me to the Blenheim with a message for Sir John Plaskett, and I had jumped at the chance of returning to see for myself a second time the secret fire of the Malabar Rose. But as I approached the hotel, hunched and muffled against the snowstorm, I became aware that ahead of me a group of ladies and gentlemen in furs and evening dress were being herded from the building and out into the blizzard. A single uniformed officer was endeavouring to calm them.
‘Inspector’s orders, me lady,’ he shouted over the blast. ‘A security matter. Nothing to worry about.’
‘But, constable, we still haven’t seen the ruby!’ Her words were almost swept away in the snow.
‘Another time, ma’am. There’s a little matter we have to sort out tonight. Just routine.’
While the constable was fully occupied making himself heard, I seized the opportunity to slip past the melee of top hats and tiaras, into the warmth beyond. But when I got there and stood in the hotel’s great foyer, I realised at once that whatever was going on, it was certainly very far from routine. There seemed to be policemen everywhere, running in different directions or forming into groups and looking grave. Mixed amongst them were members of the hotel staff, all of them talking at once: waiters gesticulating, porters shrugging, pageboys pulling faces and the hotel manager quite literally tearing at his hair while a ring of chambermaids sought to comfort him with handkerchiefs. Slipping unnoticed through this confusion, I was able to make my way as far as the Satin Rooms before anyone tried to call me back. There, a grim-faced officer found me standing wide-eyed and amazed amid the half-drunk glasses of champagne, the melancholy wreckage of an abandoned evening.
‘Sorry, miss,’ he told me briskly, ‘no one’s allowed in here. All guests to go to their rooms or else to leave the building. There a sergeant on the door will take your name and address.’
‘But I have a message for Sir John,’ I told him, and seeing that this alone might not be sufficient to move him, added quickly, ‘It’s of the utmost importance. It’s about…’ I took a guess. ‘It’s about a sighting of the Malabar Rose.’
He raised his eyebrows at that and opened his eyes wide. ‘Better go straight through, miss. They’ll be pleased to see you.’
I had expected to discover the inner chamber in the same sort of disorder that had prevailed outside, but instead I found the opposite. There were but five people in the room when I entered and, where I had anticipated chaos and confusion, there was only a sombre seriousness and grave, unsmiling faces. The first person I noticed was Sir John, the Hero of Ishtabad, who suddenly seemed very far removed from the scene of his great victories. His face was drawn and pale, and he was pacing to and fro in the centre of the room. Behind him, watching him as he walked, stood Dr Watson and Inspector Lestrade, both clearly distraught but at a loss for anything to say or do. These three formed a triangle, at the centre of which stood the marble column and the empty velvet case where the Malabar Rose should have been. Compared with the taut, tense figures of these three men, the positions adopted by the remaining pair seemed noticeably bizarre. To the right-hand side of the room, Sherlock Holmes was crouching on his knees and examining the skirting board with a magnifying glass; while to the left, Rupert Spencer was standing with his back to everyone else, his nose in the air, peering up at something on the ceiling. I could think of no reason to account for either activity.
‘As I see it,’ Sir John was saying, ‘since the stone isn’t here, it must now be somewhere else. And dammit! If it’s somewhere else, then it must have passed through solid walls!’
All five of them turned when they saw me come in and Mr Holmes, who was just getting to his feet, addressed me with a frown.
‘Yes, Flotsam? What brings you back here at this unfortunate moment?’
‘I have a question, sir, from Mrs Hudson. She wants to ask…’
‘I’m sorry to say this, Flotsam,’ Dr Watson intervened, ‘but this is really not the time. We’re all in a bit of stew at the moment. You must tell Mrs Hudson to expect us when she sees us. There is no need for her to wait up.’
‘Yes, sir, but…’ I would have explained my errand more clearly but at that moment Sir John let out a sudden exclamation.
‘Of course!’ He paused in his pacing and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Sabotage! It could have been dissolved with acid! An enemy agent on the roof could drip acid through the skylight. Think how much the French or the Russians would love to see our embarrassment!’
Inspector Lestrade, who had allowed a flicker of hope to appear in his face, sank back into his previous gloom.
‘You forget, sir. The men on the roof. A dozen of them.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Sir John drooped visibly. ‘A conspiracy between them, perhaps?’
‘The men are from different forces, sir, chosen at random. Complete strangers to each other.’
‘Of course.’ Sir John looked suitably glum again. ‘Then there can be no explanation short of sorcery.’
At that word, we all looked up. As the meaning of what he had just said dawned on him, Sir John’s face suddenly suffused with hope. ‘By God, I don’t know how he’s done it, but at least we know who to question. This Salmanazar man, we must arrest him
at once, Lestrade!’
Before Inspector Lestrade could reply, Mr Holmes surprised us all by chuckling dryly.
‘Think again, Sir John. In the entire country there can surely be no man safer from arrest than our conjurer friend. There is a whole theatre of witnesses who can testify that he was on stage for the entire evening. And worse than that, at the moment when these rooms were being opened, the Great Salmanazar was nailed in a coffin and suspended from a chain in full view of at least a thousand people.’
A long pause followed this observation as its implications sunk in. But Sir John was not to be deterred.
‘Even so, Lestrade,’ he continued, ‘there is too much coincidence. Perhaps he doesn’t perform the crimes himself. Perhaps he has accomplices in his retinue. Anyone in his company is a suspect. You must interrogate them all! And in the meantime, their leader must be arrested.’
Inspector Lestrade nodded but looked strangely dubious. However, he was spared the obligation of replying when Rupert Spencer gave a sudden exclamation. We all turned to him and found him looking down and smiling with tremendous satisfaction. Slowly and steadily he held out his hand towards us and I saw that resting softly on the palm was a single red butterfly.
‘Of course!’ Dr Watson exclaimed. ‘I’d forgotten all about that butterfly. Now how the devil did that get in here?’
It seemed that no one had an answer to that, but the smile persisted on Mr Spencer’s face.
‘I can’t tell you how this comes to be here, gentlemen, but I can tell you what sort of butterfly it is. I thought the name was familiar. This butterfly is Atrophaneura Pandiyana. They’re found in the south east of India. In English this species of butterfly is called a Malabar Rose.’
Sir John groaned and rubbed his eyes with the ball of his hand. ‘Like a blasted fairy tale! A precious stone turned into a butterfly.’
‘Precisely,’ agreed Mr Spencer. ‘As if at the wave of a wand.’
A long silence followed and during it Dr Watson noticed for the first time that I hadn’t left the room.
‘Still here, Flotsam? I think perhaps you should be getting back. Mrs Hudson will be getting worried about you.’
‘But, sir, I have a message from Mrs Hudson for you.’ I produced a folded scrap of paper and passed it to him.
He flipped the paper open and read it aloud.
‘Sir, I have an urgent question for you and I would be grateful if you could return Flotsam with the answer. I should be greatly obliged if you could ask Sir John exactly how the entrance hall of his house in Randolph Place is currently furnished?’
Sir John’s face flushed with anger as he heard this, although I noticed that Mr Holmes, Dr Watson and Rupert Spencer all seemed to have pricked up their ears.
‘Randolph Place, eh?’ mumbled Dr Watson.
‘The entrance hall furniture…’ Mr Holmes pondered.
‘I wonder what she means?’ muttered Mr Spencer, thoughtfully.
‘It means the woman’s mad!’ declared Sir John, seizing the note and tearing it into pieces. ‘Bothering me with such nonsense at a time like this!’
‘If you knew my housekeeper better, sir,’ Mr Holmes corrected him sternly, ‘you would realise there is no more sane individual in the Empire. Now, your hallway…’
‘Really, Mr Holmes! There’s nothing in my hallway but a hatstand and my old campaign chest! I’ve never heard such nonsense!’ He turned to me with a snort. ‘That is all, girl. Now run along.’
‘But, sir, there’s one other thing. Something I noticed just before I came in.’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘This had been pushed under one of the champagne glasses, sir. Perhaps I should show you exactly where I found it…’
‘But what is it?’
‘It’s a playing card, sir. Just an ordinary playing card, I think, except that it’s an ace of spades, and the ace has got a great big cross through it.’
*
The Great Salmanazar was placed under a sort of house arrest later that night. His arrest was not an official one because of the number of witnesses to his whereabouts at the time when the stone was stolen. Nevertheless, he was made to understand by Inspector Lestrade that any attempt to leave his suite of rooms at Brown’s Hotel would be regarded as an attempt to flee the country. Inquiries by Lestrade’s men had proved that the playing card I found in the Satin Rooms was indeed the one selected during the Great Salmanazar’s show. The gentleman who selected it turned out to be a retired dentist from Cheam who had told his wife that he was attending a dinner of Dentists For Temperance. Although anxious that his name would not appear in the Dental Times or the Cheam Parish Gazette, he was sufficiently clear minded to be sure that the mark on the card was his.
This was enough for Lestrade who took the decision to confine the magician to his quarters. As a precaution, similar steps were taken against Lola Del Fuego, and the rest of the Great Salmanazar’s entourage was rounded up and confined to the Regal Theatre under police guard. The pantomime that was due to be staged there was cancelled ‘due to unforeseen circumstances’. Meanwhile, a statement by Sir John to the newspapers explained that the viewing of the Malabar Rose had been postponed while Scotland Yard investigated ‘certain foreign elements’ believed to pose a threat to its safety. The statement was reassuring in its tone, but it remained to be seen if the British public would be easily reassured.
Inspector Lestrade, who had appeared at first quite crushed by the blow that had befallen him, became transformed at the thought of decisive action and was soon directing investigations with the energy of a desert dervish: warnings were sent to all ports; policemen were recalled from their holidays; all known receivers of stolen jewellery were to be hauled in for questioning so as to take them out of circulation; honest jewellers across the Home Counties were roused in the early hours and warned to be alert to anything unusual; a man from the Natural History Museum was dragged from his bed to supply a list of any lepidopterists who might keep live specimens of the Malabar Rose butterfly; and finally, at Mr Holmes’ insistence, two constables were placed at the door of the chamber from which the ruby had vanished, to ensure that nothing would be touched prior to a further examination the following day.
If the events of the night had one happy outcome for me, it was that they appeared finally to have persuaded Mrs Hudson to take an interest in the Malabar Rose. For when Dr Watson, Mr Holmes and myself returned to Baker Street at half past four in the morning, I found her wide awake and eager to hear every detail I could recall. She had kept the fires burning throughout the house in anticipation of our return, and there was something to lift the spirits of all three of us in the sight of our windows glowing orange over the snow-lined street. I felt Mr Holmes’ shoulders straighten a little at the sight, and Dr Watson mumbled something about joy in the morning.
‘Indeed my friend. An apt observation. Up to now this has been all about anticipating events, but now it becomes an exercise in pure reason. And I think it can safely be said that no greater practitioners of that activity can be found than here in Baker Street. Now come, let us see what restoratives the excellent Mrs Hudson has prepared for us.’
In that murky December dawn, the two gentlemen went to their beds comforted by hot buttered rum and by sheets that had been warmed for an hour or more in front of a blazing fire. For me, there was the comfort of the warm, dark kitchen, so safe and orderly that you felt no magic, however extraordinary, could ever disturb its placid calm. Guided by Mrs Hudson’s promptings, I recounted everything I could remember about events that night, until my eyes became heavy and the housekeeper, tutting at herself for her thoughtlessness, wrapped me in a blanket and half carried me to my bed.
There, however, sleep seemed to abandon me. From where I lay, I could see the shadows from the street falling across the kitchen floor. Just the ordinary shadows, but they made me restless. I found myself remembering the empty velvet case where the ruby should have been, and then my own empty purse, now be
reft of the savings that had once been special to me. Eventually I rose and slipped quietly to the kitchen window. Outside the street lay motionless under the snow. No one signalled. No one called. No figure lurked there, waiting for me.
After that, I slept.
*
At eleven o’clock the following morning, Mrs Hudson and I were surprised by a knock on the kitchen door and the appearance of Mr Holmes in a rather splendid silk dressing gown, Paisley-patterned pyjamas and a pair of stout woollen rugby socks.
‘Mrs Hudson,’ he commenced, ‘I wonder if I might join you for a few moments. I imagine you are not unaware of events last night. I’m sure young Flotsam has informed you of the salient points.’
‘She has, sir.’ Mrs Hudson, without apparently pausing in her polishing of Dr Watson’s boots, succeeded in ushering Mr Holmes into the chair by the fire and in indicating with a nod that I was to bring him a bottle of his favourite brown ale.
‘Mrs Hudson, I have not forgotten that in the past your powers of observation have proved unusually acute for one of your sex, and I wondered if you would be prepared to give me your own observations on last night’s performance at the Regal Theatre. I witnessed some of it for myself and for the rest I have read the police reports. But perhaps you might have noticed something they did not.’
Mrs Hudson’s response to this was surprisingly even-tempered. She simply put down the boot she was polishing, wiped her hands on her apron, and seated herself opposite Mr Holmes.
‘Very well, sir. I hope I can be of some help. And if Flotsam here will join us, she can correct me if I leave anything out.’
With that simple introduction, the housekeeper proceeded to describe the performance of the Great Salmanazar in remarkable detail. From time to time, Mr Holmes would ask a question but mostly he listened in silence, sipping his beer and running the tip of his tongue over his lips as if in great thought. When Mrs Hudson came to the part of the evening when the Great Salmanazar was being nailed into the coffin, the great detective leaned forward eagerly, and remained in that pose until the narrative was concluded.
