by Mrs Hudson
‘I’m sure you mustn’t blame yourself, ma’am. I know how busy you’ve been lately, especially with Christmas and everything.’ I paused there, a little embarrassed. ‘It’s just that I’m not sure I’ve drawn any conclusions about anything just yet. I’ve no idea why we’re interested in Sir John’s house. I don’t know how the Malabar Rose disappeared. And I’ve no idea why you’re so interested in that man Mr Phillimore who disappeared in Ealing.’
‘Ah, yes! Mr Phillimore.’ The housekeeper nodded approvingly. ‘We have been very lucky there, Flottie. If Mrs Smithers hadn’t brought her problem to us, we’d never even have heard of him. And if that was the case, then we’d probably have no idea at all where the ruby had got to.’
‘But do we have any idea where the ruby has got to, ma’am?’
She squeezed my hand then, and her voice was full of reassurance. ‘I promise you, Flotsam, the Malabar Rose is in very safe hands. But we must be cautious. There still remains at liberty a man who’s determined to steal it. A man driven by the greatest force of all.’
I pondered that for a moment. What force did she mean? A hunger for wealth? For power?
Mrs Hudson seemed to read my thoughts. ‘No, Flottie. None of those.’ She squeezed my hand again. ‘I’m talking about the greatest force of all. Flotsam, the gentleman we seek is in love.’
*
For the rest of the journey home, Mrs Hudson entertained me with various observations that she hoped might prompt me to form some conclusions of my own. As she talked, the bright sunshine of the morning faded around us and gave way to the grey drudgery of a winter afternoon. Above us, dark clouds were building from the east, trapping beneath them the city’s exhalations of soot and smoke. This dark breath flecked the air with black, and the cheeks of every passer-by were quickly smeared, as if by the city’s dark fingerprints. Soon the white cape of the previous evening had become the grey overcoat of a malevolent day. And in the east the wind was rising. It would be another hard night. Mrs Hudson, however, refused to be intimidated by the weather.
‘So, Flotsam, what’s the most significant thing we know about Mr Phillimore?’
‘He disappeared, ma’am.’
‘He certainly did. There’s been quite a lot of disappearing going on these last few days. But Mr Phillimore has been disappearing from time to time for a while now, hasn’t he?’
‘You mean his trips to Broadstairs, ma’am?’
‘That’s right. Those mysterious trips to Broadstairs. For three years there has been a fascinating regularity to those little trips of his. And other things have been happening at regular intervals too.’
‘Jewel thefts, ma’am. And magic shows.’
‘And nothing in the great scheme of things to connect Mr Phillimore with either. But suddenly something has changed. Mr Phillimore has disappeared for good. Now what has changed recently, Flottie?’
I thought hard. ‘You mean before he disappeared, ma’am?’
‘Before or shortly after. For instance, what has changed about the Great Salmanazar’s shows?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am. They say his tricks get better and better. And of course now he has Lola Del Fuego performing with him, and that means even bigger crowds.’
‘Ah, yes. In Paris and Berlin, his last two shows, he performs with the famous Lola. And a little after that a humble clerk in Ealing disappears.’
‘But, ma’am, there’s nothing to connect those two things. There’s nothing to connect him to the Great Salmanazar’s show at all.’
‘The card for Lola’s show found in his room, Flottie?’
‘Lots of men must have taken those home, ma’am.’
‘The fact that Miss Lola agreed to see us when we mentioned Phillimore’s name?’
‘Perhaps she really was just scared because you’d mentioned the police.’
‘The fact that both Mr Phillimore and the Great Salmanazar appear able to vanish into thin air?’
‘I’m sure there’s an explanation for both those things, ma’am.’
A gust of cold wind tugged at Mrs Hudson’s collar and she pulled her coat closer together at the neck.
‘Very well, Flotsam, if none of those arguments persuade you, I shall have to draw your attention to Mr Phillimore’s socks.’
‘His socks, ma’am?’
‘If you remember, he kept them in a drawer close to his bed. I took a very close look at them.’
I dimly remembered Mr Phillimore’s sock drawer and its collection of little round bundles crammed closely together.
‘What about his socks, ma’am?’
‘Their colour, Flotsam. They were all very muted shades, very like a clerk’s socks should be. But for one pair. A pair of pale lilac socks that leapt out at me straightaway. Not just because they were lilac, you understand, but also because they were made of very fine silk. They were quite a cut above anything else in that drawer. Have you seen many men in lilac socks, Flottie?’
I screwed up my eyes and tried to recall. ‘Not that I remember, ma’am.’
‘No, they haven’t really been worn over here. But in Paris last summer they were considered the very height of fashion. I’m told that every young gentleman was wearing them.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Though what a room full of men in lilac socks must have looked like is anyone’s guess. Now, what do we know about Mr Phillimore’s shopping habits?’
‘He didn’t care much about his clothes, ma’am. He just bought what he needed where he happened to be.’
‘Precisely. So where would he be when he bought those socks?’
I hesitated. ‘Well, I suppose he might have been in Paris.’
‘And not just in Paris. In a very grand part of Paris. Those were very fine socks. Now, are we to suppose he had merely run short of socks? Well, that’s possible. But then we have to consider the necktie…’
‘The necktie, ma’am?’
‘At the back of his wardrobe, almost as though he’d pushed it out of sight deliberately. It was quite different from all his others. Philippe Sagars, Paris, according to the maker’s label. A very expensive piece of neckwear, Flottie. Now, I can’t believe he had forgotten to pack both socks and ties. No, I think something happened to him in Paris to make him go out and buy expensive new clothes.’
My mind raced. ‘A disguise, ma’am? Perhaps he was on the run! Perhaps he dressed up to make his escape?’
The housekeeper tutted while we paused to cross the road. ‘Really, Flottie, a moment ago you maintained he was innocently in Broadstairs. Now you have him pursued through Paris by who knows what manner of ruffians. No, I think the explanation is a little more commonplace than that. I’ve always found there is one thing more than any other that drives unfashionable men suddenly to buy new clothes, Flottie.’
This time I understood without prompting. ‘I see, ma’am. You mean love again.’
‘That’s right, Flottie. Mr Phillimore was in Paris and in love. His response to the situation was to purchase new socks and a rather too bright necktie.’
‘But, ma’am, that’s all just speculation. Mr Holmes would laugh at us if he heard all that.’
‘Of course he would, Flotsam. And he’d be right. But for one more thing.’
‘And what’s that, ma’am?’
‘It was just an idea I had one day when I happened to be passing down here.’
She stopped and pointed. We were half way down a small alleyway that provided a short cut through towards Baker Street. The walls of the alley had been covered with layer upon layer of posters and advertisements, each new bill pasted on top of its predecessors, most of them now weathered and peeling. The poster Mrs Hudson was pointing at was some months old and torn in places, and stained dark by the rain and the black London fog. But for all that, it was still clearly legible.
Mr John Grovsner Johnson
presents
A Spectacular Show
A Variety of Famous Acts
including
The spectac
ular, the amazing
The Brindisi Brothers!
Gravity-defying Acrobats
~
The Remarkable Cycling Butler!
~
Grimaldi’s Human Automatons!
~
The famous voice of
Sally Shye, the Shoreditch Nightingale!
~
Conrad Phelps, Contortionist
The Rubber Man of Bow Bells!
~
A freak of nature!
Spectacled Jack the Memory Man!
~
Fido the Fiddling Hound!
~
And much, much more!
THE WINDMILL ON THE GREEN
JUNE 4th-29th
I read it all three times but to my disappointment was seized by no sudden revelation.
‘As I say,’ Mrs Hudson went on, ‘that poster gave me an idea of why James Phillimore was in Paris.’ As she spoke I noticed her eyes seemed to be locked on something a long way away, and her face was full of thought. ‘Yes, indeed. It all fits. Think about it, Flotsam, and if you need a clue, ask yourself this: just how did the Great Salmanazar escape from that coffin when we know beyond all doubt that it had been properly nailed down and then chained up tightly from the outside?’
Chapter XIII
Surprises At The Mermaid
We returned to Baker Street to find the familiar rooms plunged into an unwonted gloom. Dr Watson had retired to his bedroom with a headache and the stated intent of cataloguing his collection of unusual Oriental artworks. Mr Holmes had taken up his violin and was filling the house with music of the most exquisite melancholy, music that made me think of silent pools in dark and distant forests. In our absence, neither gentleman had thought to light the lamps or throw any coals on the fire, even though the afternoon was a cold one and the rooms were full of shadow. On realising this, Mrs Hudson grimaced and pulled on her apron.
‘Follow me, Flotsam,’ she growled beneath gritted teeth, and I followed in her wake as she bustled into the study.
‘Now, sir,’ she exclaimed as the startled detective broke off from his playing. ‘You two gentlemen have eaten none of the luncheon I laid out for you – the shutters, Flotsam – and you’ve let the fire go quite out. I can’t see how being cold and hungry and surrounded by darkness – the lamps, Flottie, if you will – is going to help either of you solve any mysteries. Rather than catching chills here, I’m sure you’d be better off out and about, catching villains or something.’
As I saw to the lamps, she dropped nimbly to her knees and began to breath some life into the dying fire. Mrs Hudson had the sort of lungs that rendered bellows redundant.
‘Really, Mrs Hudson!’ Mr Holmes countered. ‘I cannot permit this sort of disturbance! For those who are strangers to the ways of pure reason I may appear to be idling, but I assure you that I do not need to run around in the manner of Lestrade and his men to be fully engaged in the solution of our problem.’
‘I daresay pure reason will not be hampered by a cold mutton chop, sir. Nor will it be fatigued by a bit of lamplight or a touch of warmth. Now, if you don’t mind, sir…’
And with magnificent disregard for the detective’s objections, she continued to blow life into the fire.
The cessation of the violin very quickly alerted Dr Watson to a change in the prevailing mood, and in only a few moments he appeared from his bedroom. The sight that greeted him evidently cheered him greatly.
‘Did you mention a mutton chop, Mrs H?’ he asked hopefully.
‘I did, sir. On the table by the window.’ She straightened up and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘And you’ll find a portion of curried goose there too, should you fancy it.’
‘Splendid, Mrs H!’ Dr Watson advanced to where lunch had been laid and began to load his plate with some enthusiasm. ‘Splendid!’ he said again. ‘A fine, seasonal spread if ever I saw one. There’s nothing like a mouthful of goose to raise the spirits. Why, if we only knew where that blasted ruby had got to, just think how festive we should feel!’
At this, Mr Holmes sighed wearily.
‘Oh, my dear Watson, can you not see? It is not the whereabouts of the ruby that worries us. Clear reasoning, properly applied, is quite enough to reassure me on that score. So long as Lestrade and his men show the smallest modicum of watchfulness and common sense, the nation has nothing to fear. No, it is not the where, not even the how, but the who with which I must grapple. I trust Sir John implicitly. And the Royal Jewellers are above suspicion. And yet somehow someone found a way…’
His voice trailed off, and there followed a moment of silence before Mrs Hudson cleared her throat.
‘This may be a strange time to raise the subject, sir, but perhaps I might say a few words about Mr Phillimore, the gentleman who disappeared from Ealing? His mother-in-law called here, if you remember, sir. If you were to hear a little more about his strange disappearance…’
But the great detective appeared to have made a decision and was rising from his chair.
‘That domestic dispute in Ealing, Mrs Hudson? I know you well enough to understand that you would not raise the matter if you did not think it somehow germane. Furthermore, I would be neglecting the lessons of my own experience if I were not prepared to listen. But perhaps you will humour me for an hour or two. We can return to the subject presently, but first I have a call to make.’ As he rose, I noticed his eyes were bright with purpose. ‘There is no need to disturb yourself, Watson. I have no desire to drag you from your chop. But I think, as Mrs Hudson would not doubt agree, it is time I called upon Sir John.’
‘What’s that, Holmes? Sir John? I can’t imagine he’ll be at home just now.’
Mr Holmes smiled fondly at his companion.
‘Ah, but it is not Sir John I wish to see, my friend, nor anyone else at his residence. But I would very much like to examine for myself the state of his locks and the condition of his window catches.’
If I found that statement surprising, I was even more surprised, on returning to the kitchen, to discover that Mrs Hudson also had plans for the evening.
‘Really, Flottie,’ she grumbled, as she pulled on her coat, ‘it never seems the right time to raise the subject of Mr Phillimore, does it? But I daresay it can wait until Mr Holmes returns. In the meantime I’m trusting you to look after Dr Watson, young lady. See that he eats properly. Oh, and while Mr Holmes is out, perhaps you might tidy away that violin of his…’
‘Why, ma’am, will you be out for long?’
‘Perhaps, Flotsam. I have been invited to call on old Lord Boothroyd at his house in Berkeley Square. I was able to do his lordship a small service once in a matter involving a Swedish opera singer and a trick mirror, and his lordship has been good enough to remember me ever since. While I’m away, Flottie, make sure you keep the fires going and see if you can get on top of all the darning that needs to be done. And whatever you do, don’t let anyone touch the fruitcake in the pantry. I have plans for it.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I replied obediently, wondering absently how, at a time when so many things seemed more urgent, Mrs Hudson had time to call upon elderly peers of the realm.
*
Mrs Hudson left Baker Street at four o’clock, and after her departure the place fell quiet. Dr Watson rested fitfully in the study behind a copy of The Times; I darned socks quietly in the orange warmth of the kitchen. Despite the silence, it was easy to believe that both us were, in our own way, grappling with the problem of the Malabar Rose.
At half past four, Dr Watson could contain himself no longer and sought some refuge in action: in this case, a brisk constitutional through the winter streets. He returned a quarter of an hour later, damp of foot and red of face but looking better for the exercise.
‘Ah, Flottie,’ he smiled when I appeared to help him out of his coat. ‘Just the person. I bumped into Mr Rumbelow at the corner of the street. He was on his way here with a message for Mrs Hudson, which I insisted I could deliver for him. He kep
t telling me how urgent it was, as if he thought I might not remember. Now where did I put it… ?’
‘I’m afraid Mrs Hudson has gone out, sir. It’s her afternoon off. She may not be back till much later.’
Dr Watson pulled a face. ‘Out, eh? I must say, that’s a blow. Mr Rumbelow was most insistent. Ah! Here it is.’ He held up a crumpled envelope and we both regarded it with some concern. ‘I tell you what, Flotsam, why don’t you open it on her behalf? Just in case it’s something that can’t afford to wait. I wouldn’t like Mr Rumbelow to feel I hadn’t taken proper steps. Of course, you are welcome to come and find me in the study if you think it is a matter in which I can be of assistance.’
I hadn’t really imagined myself taking up this offer but one glance at the contents of the note changed my mind. Ten minutes later I found Dr Watson looking much restored in a pair of dry trousers, with a restorative glass of brandy and soda water clutched firmly in his hand.
‘Ah, Flotsam!’ he greeted me brightly. ‘All is well, I hope?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s just that I think Mr Rumbelow’s note might be quite important after all. You see, after Mrs Smithers’ visit here, Mrs Hudson placed an advertisement in a newspaper called Plays & Players.’
‘Quite right too. Just what Holmes recommended. About that man Phillips, was it not?’
‘Phillimore, sir. Well, there’s been a reply. Mr Rumbelow has received a note from an actress called Fidelma Fontaine saying that she has information about Mr Phillimore. She said she can be found at the Mermaid Theatre in Stepney after eight o’clock in the evenings. But her letter to Mr Rumbelow was delayed and only reached him this morning. And tonight is her last performance there.’
Dr Watson nodded wisely. ‘I see. So after tonight she might be anywhere. Very awkward. The Mermaid Theatre, you say? That must mean Shakespeare, I suppose. I’ve always been fond of the Bard. There’s that one about the chap in the hat…’
‘Will it really be Shakespeare, sir?’ I wondered. ‘I thought the Mermaid in Stepney might be a little more…’ I struggled for the right word but couldn’t quite find it. ‘Well, rather more popular than that.’
