by Mrs Hudson
‘And what was different about this one, Polly?’ Mrs Hudson inquired, though I think both she and I already knew the answer.
‘Oh, Mrs Hudson! It was because of me!’ Her shoulders began to shake again and her rather lovely lips trembled. ‘We planned to escape together, to get away from his marriage and from Salmanazar and everything. Jimmy said his wife wouldn’t miss him if he left her enough money instead. He said if we were rich we could give her money to make it all right, and then we could go and live together somewhere abroad, where nobody would find us. We only wanted enough to get away, honestly we did!’
The thought of that shared dream brought more tears rolling down her cheeks, and we waited quietly until she was able to go on.
‘Jimmy knew that Salmanazar needed help to steal the Malabar Rose. The police were watching him now, you see, but none of them knew a thing about Jimmy. He could come and go as he pleased. So they struck a deal and planned it together. Salmanazar liked Jimmy. He offered to share the whole value of the ruby but Jimmy said he only needed enough to live a quiet life in Canada. He said too much money would make people notice him.’
She stifled another sob.
‘So you see, it’s my fault that Jimmy’s in trouble. But he never stole anything before this, Mrs Hudson! He never did!’
‘And he hasn’t stolen very much yet.’ It seemed to me that Mrs Hudson was speaking more to herself than to the woman before her. ‘There’s breaking and entering, of course. And an empty jewellery case stolen from Sir John Plaskett. And there’s the small matter of attempted arson with the aim of destroying criminal evidence. But at least he hasn’t got the Malabar Rose. I’m afraid if he succeeds in getting that, there’s little hope left for him at all…’
Miss Perkins’ pallor had become even more marked during this summary of her loved one’s position. ‘Oh, Mrs Hudson! What’s to be done?’
In reply, the housekeeper looked her firmly in the eye and spoke with unexpected urgency.
‘Listen carefully to this. Your future depends on it. You are in a very difficult position. There are some who might consider you an accessory to the Great Salmanazar’s crimes. You may need to make a very hasty escape if you are to avoid a spell in prison.’
‘Escape without Jimmy?’ She shook her head desperately. ‘No, I won’t! I would rather let them take me!’
‘And spend the rest of your youth stitching sacks in Holloway? What would your Jimmy say to that? No, here’s what you will do, my girl. When you receive word from me, you will slip out of here any way you can. The fire escape may be your best option. Then you’ll take the first train to Portsmouth. Take only the bare essentials with you, and on your arrival find somewhere cheap to spend the night. At four the following afternoon, go to the offices of the Meyer & Stallard Steam Company and wait at the rear door. The rear door, mind. Is that clear?’
‘The rear door, yes.’
‘Wait there until seven o’clock. If no one comes to find you before seven, go in and tell them your name. Your real name. There’ll be a ticket waiting for you. Use it to go to Canada, and don’t look back.’
‘Just go as I am? Leave everything behind? But, Mrs Hudson, I’ve worked so hard to make a little fortune for myself. Back in Paris I have a house and savings… If I run away as you suggest, I lose everything!’
‘If you do not, any chance you have of seeing James Phillimore again will be lost forever.’ Mrs Hudson spoke with such a note of authority in her voice that to contradict her would have taken the courage of a lion.
‘And Jimmy?’ Miss Perkins asked meekly.
‘Jimmy must take what comes. By the time you reach Canada you will know exactly what the future holds for him.’
Miss Perkins nodded meekly at that, and then asked the question that I was asking myself.
‘But, Mrs Hudson, why would you help me like this? You don’t even know me.’
However it was clear from the look in Mrs Hudson’s eye that she had no inclination to elucidate.
‘Oh, I have my reasons, young lady,’ she stated shortly. ‘You don’t need to know what they are. We may not meet again after today, so in parting I’ll leave you with some advice.’
‘Yes, Mrs Hudson?’
‘Simply this. If in the future your path leads you to domestic happiness, I recommend that you always pay very careful attention to your loved one’s socks. Now good day to you, Miss Perkins.’
Chapter XVIII
Midnight in Trafalgar Square
The case of the Malabar Rose reached both its climax and its conclusion on the night in which one year ended and the next began. It had taken Dr Watson until the morning of the 30th to obtain an interview with the Great Salmanazar that was not closely observed by one or other of Inspector Lestrade’s officers. When the chance finally arose, Dr Watson, by his own account, gave an excellent performance in the role of bluff old fool, and was able not only to inform the illusionist that the Malabar Rose was being held at Sir John’s house, but also to intimate to him that the evening of New Year’s Eve might be a time when the attention of that gentleman’s police guards was most likely to waver.
Those seeds having been planted, the study in Baker Street became a place where plans were laid and re-laid, where decisions were taken boldly and then quietly reconsidered. Dr Watson reiterated his wish to include at least Sir John and possibly also Inspector Lestrade in the Baker Street confederacy.
‘After all,’ argued Dr Watson, ‘deliberately setting free this Salmanazar chappie so that he can bait the trap for Phillimore is all very well, but what if we lose him? There’d be the devil to pay! We’d become a national laughing stock, Holmes!’
‘We won’t lose him, Watson,’ Mr Holmes returned reassuringly. ‘You and I will dog his footsteps every inch of the way. When it’s clear that he’s found a way of communicating to Phillimore the whereabouts of the ruby, we shall perform a citizen’s arrest and take him back into custody.’
So we began to decide exactly what role each of us would play. It was agreed that Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes, both disguised so as not to startle their quarry, would be responsible for following the Great Salmanazar and making sure he didn’t escape. But, to our great surprise, Mrs Hudson refused to play any role at all, insisting that it was her night off and that she had half a mind to visit a relative of hers in Sydenham, a suggestion that provoked alarm and despondency in equal proportion amongst her co-conspirators.
‘But who will distract all the policemen on duty at Brown’s Hotel, Mrs H?’ Dr Watson asked. ‘That’s the key to this whole thing.’
‘I’m sure we can leave that to Flottie, sir,’ Mrs Hudson assured him.
Sherlock Holmes peered at me over his violin, which he had raised to his chin but had not yet begun to play.
‘And do you feel you have it in you to be sufficiently distracting, Flotsam?’ he inquired.
‘I’m not sure that I do, sir,’ I replied honestly, ‘but I certainly know someone who does.’
*
It’s fair to say that Miss Peters showed no reluctance whatsoever when I explained to her that she was required, single-handedly, to lure a dozen different policemen away from their posts. If I had expected a display of maidenly modesty, I was to be severely disappointed.
‘Really?’ she gasped, when I explained to her the task ahead. ‘Oh, Flottie, you are an angel! You know how much I always want to help with Mrs Hudson’s plots and plans. No, I don’t think I need you to explain it all in detail, really I don’t. I’m sure it’s all very clever, but you know how I never really understand Mrs Hudson’s adventures until she explains them very carefully right at the end. I think for now I’ll just stick to the policemen, shall I? You know, I’ve always liked policemen, ever since I was six and one of them arrested me for tying fireworks to the door of the post office. Or was it the vicarage? Well, somewhere with a door, anyway.’
When I wondered aloud if Rupert Spencer would altogether approve of her flirting with uniform
ed policemen, she simply laughed the question away with a little shake of her head.
‘Oh, of course I shan’t tell Rupert. I shall tell him I’m going to the Winter Ball and that I intend to dance all night with the Walters boy. He never seems to mind when I do that. He just smiles and shrugs. It’s most unflattering. Anyway, I’m sure he won’t be jealous however many policemen I flirt with. And if he was jealous, well, that would just be simply too divine…’
‘But how will you do it?’ I asked, marvelling at her confidence. ‘After all, there are twelve of them.’
She giggled rather charmingly at the thought. ‘Don’t you worry about it, Flottie. I have a plan. I’m very good at plans, you know, it’s just that nobody ever notices. I forget it myself sometimes. But don’t worry, it’s all going to be too easy. I shall pick you up tomorrow night at seven. Make sure you are dressed in your very smartest clothes. I shall be wearing that pale blue evening dress and I shall be looking really rather heavenly.’
At which thought she smiled and began to talk about hats.
*
For all the unusual severity of the winter weather, it seemed that the citizens of London were determined to celebrate the dawning of the New Year with considerable enthusiasm. Right from the moment when the shops began to close on the evening of the 31st, it seemed that everyone from the humble clerk to the rather tipsy costermonger was making his way into town with a mission to drink a toast or two to the New Year, to the Old Year, to Her Majesty, to Olde England, to his fellow topers, perhaps even to the Malabar Rose, which surely, it was generally agreed, should be put on show without further delay.
As a result of this great influx of revellers, the streets were congested, the theatres sold out, and the public houses were heaving with crowds and good humour. At the Tudor Rose, off The Haymarket, a woman dressed as Britannia was singing ribald seas shanties to generous and raucous accompaniment. Down by the river, a crowd had gathered, and bets were being taken on which of two monkeys would be quickest up the mast of the schooner Percival. In at least a hundred different streets small boys were setting off firecrackers, and a hundred different grandmothers were recalling that, when the Duke of Wellington was Prime Minister, young lads used to know some manners. In Trafalgar Square, the pantomime troupe that had been barred from the Regal Theatre in the wake of Salmanazar’s show had decided to put on its own, impromptu performance at the foot of Nelson’s Column; and soon after they had raised their makeshift curtain, a crowd of cheering hearties was roaring on Baron Bounder as he pursued Widow Wellbeloved around the fountains, and was weeping as the principal boy vowed to win the heart of the beautiful princess, even though he had no fortune to his name but a handful of beans and a rather shapely pair of legs.
Before leaving Baker Street and placing ourselves at the mercy of these boisterous elements, Mrs Hudson and I found a little time to talk quietly as we completed our daily chores. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson had already left to take up their chosen positions near Brown’s Hotel, positions where they felt they could observe the Great Salmanazar’s movements without themselves being seen. Without them, a restful hush settled over the house.
‘So, Flotsam,’ Mrs Hudson began when the last pan had been scoured and the last glass polished. ‘If things happen as we plan, by dawn James Phillimore could be in the hands of Inspector Lestrade. What do you think of that, eh?’
The question took me by surprise a little. ‘I suppose that’s a good thing, ma’am,’ I told her. ‘After all, he’s a desperate man. Who knows what he might do?’
‘Yes, desperate to get away from London, Flotsam. And desperate to escape Lavinia Phillimore. Desperate to be with Polly Perkins somewhere where there are no theatres. I wonder, Flotsam, is that really so bad?’
‘But, ma’am, people can’t go stealing things just because they want them!’
‘Can’t they, Flottie?’
I blushed, remembering that Mrs Hudson and I had first met because I, in desperation, had attempted to steal a cabbage from Scraggs’ barrow.
‘Besides, Flottie, James Phillimore hasn’t really done much wrong yet, has he? Oh, I know he’s trying to, but that’s rather different.’
‘But he tried to burn us alive in Mr Perch’s toyshop, ma’am!’
‘Oh, I think we just happened to be in the way when he was trying to destroy the evidence that connected the toyshop – and him – to the Malabar Rose.’
‘And then there’s his wife, ma’am. He seems to have forgotten about her completely.’
‘Well, Flottie, he sent her that pile of notes, enough to keep her in dresses for quite a long time. But you’re right, my girl. It would not do for us to forget Mrs Phillimore, would it?’ She picked up a stray dishcloth and folded it into a neat square, then folded it into triangles, reconsidered, made it once again a square, and placed it carefully on top of a pile of plates. ‘Good luck tonight, Flottie. And remember, if Salmanazar succeeds in getting word to Mr Phillimore about where the ruby is, we can expect the attempt on Sir John’s house to follow very rapidly. You’ll need to be on your toes, girl.’
She had advanced as far as the pantry and was peering into it, her face pensive.
‘Mrs Hudson, ma’am, you aren’t really going to Sydenham tonight, are you?’
She favoured me with an approving smile. ‘Of course not, Flotsam. But I’ve got a little idea of my own for tonight that I didn’t want to tell Mr Holmes about. There’s someone I want a quiet word with and this would seem to be my only chance. Which means I may not be back here to guard the ruby tonight if anything goes awry.’
‘You mean the ruby’s here, ma’am?’
‘Wherever else would I keep it, Flottie? Yes, it’s here, though you’re better off not knowing exactly where. Now, if there’s any time tonight when you think things are going wrong, I want you to come back here and keep watch. Lock all the doors and shout for a policeman if anyone tries to get in. And Flotsam? If anything were to happen to me tonight, I’d hate to think of that iced fruitcake going to waste. Do you think you can promise me to get the whole thing eaten in the next few days, while it’s still nice and fresh?’
And with that great weight off her mind, she smiled happily and set about a detailed inventory of all our tinned goods and preserves.
*
Miss Peters arrived to collect me on the stroke of seven o’clock, and arrived in some style, comfortably ensconced in the Earl of Brabham’s carriage with Carrington, the earl’s coachman, impassive on the box.
‘Well, my uncle wasn’t using it,’ she explained gaily, ‘and Carrington always likes to keep an eye on me, don’t you, Carrington?’
It was hard to tell from Carrington’s delicately raised eyebrow if that was the case or not, but he certainly steered us out of Baker Street with great care, the carriage picking its way through the evening traffic with the quiet dignity of a dowager duchess at a village harvest fair. To my great surprise, our path led not to Brown’s Hotel where Salmanazar was being confined to his rooms, but to the very headquarters of those guarding him, to Scotland Yard itself. There Miss Peters instructed Carrington to set us down, and to wait close at hand for our return.
‘But Hetty,’ I asked as we climbed the steps to the door, ‘who will be here at a quarter to eight on New Year’s Eve?’
‘Well, Flottie, I think quite a lot of people.’ She pulled a small card from her bag and studied it. ‘Yes, honestly. Tonight is the night of the annual Scotland Yard sherry party, which may sound pretty ghastly to you and me, but I’m hoping it’s when all those detectives go absolutely wild on too much amontillado and start throwing canapés at the Lord Mayor of London. I know it’s happening because my uncle was invited, but he said he’d rather spend the night on a bare mountainside with a sabre-toothed tiger eating his entrails, so I rather think he wasn’t planning on coming. So, Flottie darling, we shall jolly well go in and see for ourselves…’
The appearance of Miss Peters in a shimmering blue evening gown seemed to da
zzle the sergeant on duty to such an extent that he could barely manage a polite ‘good evening’ as we swept through the door. And when the vision in front of him demanded to see someone very important at once, he had to shake himself a little before he could respond.
‘Er, may I know what it’s about, miss?’
‘Oh, yes, officer, you must hear all about it. You see, it’s the most appalling tragedy, and it’s taking place right now. If something isn’t done soon, I hate to think how it will end. I told the Earl of Brabham that if I came here someone was bound to help.’
‘The Earl of Brabham, miss? Er, yes. Of course. In that case…’ He signalled to a rather pimply youth who was lurking somewhere behind him. ‘Mills, go and fetch down the Chief Inspector. Tell him it’s urgent.’
‘A chief inspector?’ Miss Peters whispered in awe. ‘A chief inspector sounds terribly important.’
‘Oh yes, miss. Of course, if you’d been here earlier, you could have spoken to Sir Marcus Stewart himself, but he’s had to go on somewhere else.’
‘Oh, I’m sure a chief inspector will be quite good enough, officer. I’m sure he’ll be able to sort out everything.’
This touching belief was one she repeated at great length to the gentleman himself when he finally appeared – a tall, rather portly man, grown a little rosy though too much oloroso and an over-indulgence in Scotland Yard mince pies. He listened in something approaching bewilderment as Miss Peters gave him the details of the disaster that only he could avert. The Below-Stairs Ball at the Mecklenburg Hotel was disastrously short of eligible men, she explained; any number of footmen, gardeners, butlers, and the like, had failed to arrive; the housemaids and under-cooks of London were on the brink of collective hysteria for want of sufficient dancing partners; Miss Peters knew that in an emergency you could always trust a policeman, and she had noticed a dozen dashing representatives of the force on duty at Brown’s Hotel, just a short distance from the Mecklenburg…
