by Mrs Hudson
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ the rosy gentleman replied a little uncomfortably. ‘Those men are on special assignment. Very important work. I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for reinforcements.’
‘Oh, but surely you could spare some of them, Chief Inspector? You see, I have six tickets here and I’d just love to think they were going to proper, manly young men. Policemen have numbers, don’t they, as well as names?’
‘That’s right, miss.’
‘Well, couldn’t you just send, say, the even numbered men along to the ball? I’m sure five or six of your men would be enough to guard anything.’ Her eyes began to go a little misty. ‘And it’s such an important night for all those young girls. They so rarely get to go out. For them, events like the Annual Scotland Yard New Year’s Eve Sherry Party are just an impossible dream…’
It didn’t take long for the chief inspector’s resistance to crumble. Miss Peters was looking particularly fetching that night, and long before she had finished describing the happy lives that the young women of London would live if only they were fortunate enough to marry policemen, I could see that the gentleman before her was utterly captivated. When she finally finished speaking, I swear it took him a full five seconds to notice.
‘Eh?’ he started. ‘Oh, yes. Of course, Miss Peters, of course. I must say, I can’t see why it needs a dozen of them at Brown’s. Six should be plenty. After all, they’ve only got to keep an eye on one chap.’ He turned to the pimply boy. ‘Mills, take these invitations from Miss Peters to the lads on duty at Brown’s and tell the six with the highest service numbers to attend the event at the Mecklenburg Hotel with immediate effect. That’s an order from me personally. Now, ladies,’ he continued holding out his arms to us, ‘perhaps you’ll allow me to help you to a glass of the Lord Mayor’s excellent sherry…’
It took half an hour and two glasses of sherry before Miss Peters and I were able to return to the earl’s carriage.
‘Well, Flottie,’ my companion sighed happily as she flopped down beside me and squeezed my hand, ‘I think that went rather well, don’t you? That nice man seemed so pleased when I told him the earl would be inviting him to dinner. He’s clearly never met the earl, has he? And that’s six of the twelve out of the way already. What fun!’
‘But Hetty, what was all that you told him about the Below-Stairs Ball?’
‘Oh, it’s all true, Flottie. It’s a terrible event and it happens every year. It’s organised by a woman called Mrs Mayhew who’s the sister of Lord Tolpuddle. She thinks it raises the spirits of what she calls the domestic classes. Well, of course, the domestic classes can all think of much better things to do with an evening off than to spend the evening with Mrs Mayhew, so every year all her friends are forced to buy bucket-loads of tickets and then bribe their servants to attend. This year the going rate at our house was five shillings a head, an extra day off over Christmas and either a tray of chocolates or a bottle of port. And even then Reynolds says he had trouble finding any takers.’ Miss Peters rolled her eyes at the thought of it, and looked out of the window. ‘Oh, we’re not moving! Carrington, why aren’t we moving?’
‘You haven’t told me where to go yet, miss.’
‘Haven’t I? How perfectly ridiculous of me. To the Savoy, if you please, Carrington. The Savoy!’
As Carrington jerked the carriage into motion, I found myself worrying that perhaps Miss Peters had forgotten that there were six more policemen who needed to be removed.
‘But why the Savoy?’ I asked. ‘Shouldn’t we be going to Brown’s?’
‘Oh, no, Flottie! The Savoy is the place! That’s where Sir Marcus Stewart is. You know, the really, really important policeman. The Duchess of Dorset is holding a soiree. And don’t worry, Flottie. I’ve made sure we’re actually invited to this one.’
*
If you had asked me that morning about the likelihood that I should ever in my entire life attend the soiree of a duchess, I should have laughed at the question. Had I known that such an event was precisely where my day was leading, I should have been seized by so great a fit of anxiety that I should probably never have been able to rise from my bed. However Miss Peters seemed to have no concerns whatsoever on my behalf, merely laughing musically when I pointed out that it was surely not the duchess’s intention to invite anyone such as myself, that she would be highly unlikely to invite even Sherlock Holmes, and certainly not his housemaid.
‘And then there’s my clothes! I can hardly turn up dressed like this!’
‘Nonsense, Flottie! Stay close to me and everyone will think it’s just me being peculiar. They’re used to that. And to be perfectly honest, by the time we arrive they’ll all be rather merry and probably won’t notice us much at all.’
Although it rather saddened me to agree, I had to concede that there was perhaps some truth in this last statement, for our arrival at The Savoy seemed to go largely unmarked by the glittering crowd gathered at the duchess’s behest. Miss Peters guided me rather deftly around a ruddy-faced butler who was there to announce the guests, and then we found ourselves enveloped in the swirl of elegant men and women who eddied around the salon in seemingly inexhaustible waves. It is hard to say exactly how Miss Peters came to be introduced to Sir Marcus Stewart; harder still to say how he came to be clutching six tickets for the Below-Stairs Ball while simultaneously calling for the constable on duty. To this day I am convinced that Sir Marcus was only vaguely aware of the instructions he gave the constable, so intent was he on assuring Miss Peters that her concern for the hapless housemaids of London did her great credit and was a cause that he would dearly like to discuss with her at greater length.
‘Here, Andrews, I have some orders for the men at Brown’s Hotel,’ he told the uniformed officer. ‘The six with the lowest service numbers are to proceed at once to the ballroom of the Mecklenburg Hotel. They are to dance till dawn, you understand. No shirking. I want a full report from each of them tomorrow morning, with full details. And woe betide any of them who try to sneak off to the punchbowl when they should be waltzing! Now, Miss Peters, I was just mentioning the tiger hunting I did in Bengal last spring…’
Miss Peters apparently found the tigers extraordinarily fascinating, for she refused to hear of anything else for a good half hour. Only when at least half a dozen of the creatures had been stalked and dispatched and transformed into rugs did she begin to look around her.
‘Oooo!’ she gasped suddenly. ‘There’s the Bishop of Lichfield! How wonderful! Flottie and I simply adore the Bishop of Lichfield, don’t we, Flottie? Those sermons of his! So uplifting! And so very long! I particularly love that one about kindness to animals. You won’t join us, Sir Marcus? No? Are you quite sure? Oh, well, if you really don’t want to…’
She guided me with the lightest of touches towards an elderly gentleman in a clerical collar and then, quite suddenly and with something very like a footballer’s shoulder charge, diverted me unceremoniously through the door of the salon and out into the hall beyond.
‘Quickly, Flottie,’ she whispered. ‘Back to the carriage!’
‘But why? We’ve done our bit now. And I want to know if he really is the Bishop of Lichfield, or whether you’ve just made that up.’
‘Of course I’ve made it up, Flottie! I don’t even know where Lichfield is. But any minute now that funny little magician is going to be on the run in London and I simply have to know what happens next. Come on, through those doors there. Ho! Carrington! Excellent! Now straight to Brown’s Hotel. And, Carrington… Drive like the clappers!’
*
Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, in order to be able to follow the Great Salmanazar both closely and discreetly, had taken the decision to disguise themselves as ordinary labourers, and had taken up positions where they could easily observe all the comings and goings from Brown’s Hotel. It was with considerable astonishment that they witnessed the departure of all twelve policeman, noting but not understanding the high spirits with which the
y made their way to their next assignment; and on seeing them go, the two gentlemen had redoubled their concentration, anticipating at any moment the appearance of their quarry. Mr Holmes, his face blackened and strangely anonymous in the guise of a working man, lurked in an archway opposite the main entrance. Dr Watson, predictably ill at ease in the rough garments he had been allotted, was a hundred yards to the left, on a corner from which he could view both Holmes’ position and the narrow street leading to the hotel’s rear entrance. Helped by the crowds and the darkness, they blended easily into the scene, even Dr Watson appearing in some way camouflaged amongst the array of other flushed and rosy faces that spilled from the public houses around him.
Miss Peters and I, however, had none of those gentleman’s advantages. Rather than blending into the crowd, Miss Peters was dressed with the express purpose of standing out from it, and our arrival in the earl’s grand and ornate carriage could in no way be considered surreptitious. It was hard to see how the Great Salmanazar, or indeed any passer-by, could fail to notice us. Dr Watson certainly did, for he waved at me merrily before remembering his disguise, and turning his wave into an elaborate and bizarre scratching of the head.
‘Keep walking,’ I whispered urgently to Miss Peters. ‘We’ll have to pretend we’re on our way somewhere else. Mr Holmes will be awfully cross if he thinks we’re getting in the way of his plans.’
‘I know!’ Miss Peters decided brightly. ‘In here!’ And before I could do or say anything to dissuade her, she had darted with great swiftness and no little enthusiasm into a public house of the very roughest appearance.
Although I was sure that Miss Peters had never before seen the inside of a London tavern, it soon became equally apparent that this London tavern had never before seen anything quite like Miss Peters. On a less rowdy night, her arrival would certainly have turned every head in the place and would almost equally certainly have reduced the regular drinkers to silence. That night, however, the crowd was squeezed so tightly together that only those in the immediate vicinity of the door were aware of our arrival, and those that were – nearly all of them men – looked at Miss Peters and blinked in astonishment. In reply, Miss Peters smiled back her most winning smile.
‘Oh, Flottie, it’s really rather jolly in here. Much nicer than I imagined. I love men in flat caps, don’t you? They always look so sensible. Now, where’s the waiter, do you think? We shall need a table for two, in the window, so we can watch what’s going on outside.’
Over the din of the assembled company, I tried to explain that there were no waiters in establishments of this sort and that you had to purchase your drinks from the public bar, but from the serene smile on her face it seemed that she could make out very little of what I said.
‘Yes, we probably should have some champagne,’ she shouted back. ‘What a pity we didn’t think to reserve a table.’ She examined the crowds around her again. ‘Really, Flottie, a lot of people seem to be staring at us. It must be my dress. I told you it was simply too beautiful for words. Look, that man in the window looks like a gentleman. I think we should ask to join him at his table, don’t you? It’s just the perfect place to keep watch, and I must say that he looks rather dashing from behind. I do so like a man with broad shoulders.’
I looked to where her finger was pointing and saw a well-dressed young man with brown hair staring intently out of the window. His back was turned to us but even from a distance there was something about him that looked extremely familiar.
‘But, Miss Peters,’ I exclaimed, ‘isn’t that Mr Spencer?’
‘Rupert? No, of course not, Flottie. It can’t be. Rupert distinctly told me that he was going to the New Year gathering of the Kensington and Chelsea Society of Chemists. I remember it because it sounded a more than usually dull way for him to see in the New Year. When I told him I was going to dance all night with the Walters boy, he looked rather pleased and said something about it keeping me out of trouble. So it can’t possibly be Rupert, can it?’
At just that moment the gentleman turned round. It was Rupert.
Miss Peters gave a shriek that was audible to at least two-dozen drinkers, and began to push forward forcefully.
‘Really, Rupert! What are you doing here? Oh, I see it all! It’s some sordid affair, isn’t it? And in a place like this! How dreadful for you! I must rescue you from her clutches at once…’
‘’Ere, what’s this?’ asked a man with a pint of stout who found himself thrust to one side by Miss Peters’ determined progress through the crowd.
‘Gent’s been caught by his missus, Fred,’ his friend told him. ‘Tasty bit o’ goods too. You’d think he’d have the sense to stay at home.’
If Rupert Spencer heard any of that, his only response was to wave cheerily in our direction and then to clear a path for us to his table, where he settled us on low stools and began to chuckle to himself.
‘I should have known it, Hetty! And you, too, Flotsam! As if you two would let all this Salmanazar business go by without taking a hand yourselves. It serves me right for not thinking of it before! If I’d thought about it sensibly, Hetty, I’d have locked you in the cellar before I came out.’
‘Well, I like that! Really! Flottie and I have every right to be here, haven’t we, Flottie? We like it here. And besides, I shouldn’t be talking to you at all. You told me you were going to be in Kensington.’
Mr Spencer’s eyes crinkled at the edges. ‘A change of plan, Hetty. I found the Society of Chemists every bit as dull as you had imagined them. And, besides, I thought Mr Holmes might need some help. But tell me, are you not concerned that the Walters boy is without a dancing partner tonight?’
‘Oh, Rupert! As if I care!’ She took his hand fondly. ‘Now tell us, did you see all those policemen going off duty? That was all because of me, you know.’
As she spoke I was watching Mr Spencer, whose profile was framed by the windows behind him, and my eye was caught by a movement in the street beyond. A slight figure moving deftly through the crowds slipped furtively passed the window.
‘Mr Spencer!’ I cried urgently. ‘Who was that over there?’
He turned towards the street, suddenly tense. ‘Where, Flotsam? No, I don’t see.’ Suddenly his knuckles tightened on the back of his chair. ‘By jove! There’s Sherlock Holmes on the move! Come on! The game’s afoot!’
The three of us were on our feet in an instant, pushing through the packed mass of revellers towards the door, but out in the cool of the street we had to pause to look around.
‘The Great Salmanazar must have slipped out while we were talking. Now where… ?’
‘There! There’s Dr Watson, sir! If we cut down Mermaid Alley I think we can head him off!’
‘Excellent! Well done, Flottie. Look, the three of us will move quicker if we spread out, and that way we’ll have less chance of missing them. I’ll take the other pavement. Wave like mad if you need to attract my attention.’
‘Isn’t he wonderful, Flottie?’ Miss Peters sighed as we watched him go. ‘He’s so good at pretending to be masterful. And he really is incredibly handsome, isn’t he? Even though he’s so totally hopeless at polite society, I’m sure there must be hundreds of girls wanting to marry him, you know…’
But I didn’t reply. The chase was gathering speed and we had given the leaders a considerable head start. I had no breath for chatter and found myself at times forced into a half-run in order to keep up. Miss Peters, sensing my urgency, fell in behind me and did her best to follow.
The Great Salmanazar set a fierce pace, leading us first north towards Oxford Circus, then south again, always keeping to the busiest streets where his cover was greater and where it was harder for any pursuer to follow. From time to time I glimpsed him, his collar pulled up and one gloved hand grasping an envelope close to his chest; but more often I was able to keep on his trail by following in the wake of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, who despite the surging crowds were clinging to their quarry with grim tenacity.
‘That letter in his hand,’ I gasped to Miss Peters, ‘it must be a note to Mr Phillimore telling him where the ruby is supposed to be. We’ve got to let him post it, and then we can pounce. As soon as it’s out of his hand, we’re free to grab him.’
Miss Peters nodded. She was a little flushed by now, and it was clear from a number of despairing glances downwards that the damage done to her evening gown during the chase was preying on her mind every bit as much as the fate of the Great Salmanazar. However, before she had time to put her anguish into words, we were off again, and even quicker than before.
Now the illusionist seemed to be moving with a definite plan. He picked his way neatly through the warren of streets that led to Covent Garden, and there I nearly lost him, for on turning the corner I found the market square one seething mass of humanity. Amidst the groups of people walking, laughing, dancing, even wrestling with each other, it was impossible to make out the direction taken by the Great Salmanazar. But just as I began to despair of the chase, Rupert Spencer popped up at my shoulder.
‘Over there! See? It’s Sherlock Holmes. Follow him!’ And he was off in pursuit without waiting to see if I’d understood. Miss Peters and I darted after him and a moment later I saw Dr Watson ahead of me. Following determinedly in his tracks, we soon found ourselves once more in touch with our prey.
Twice we saw the Great Salmanazar approaching post boxes and each time he hesitated with the envelope in his fingertips; each time we waited breathlessly for his message to be dispatched. But on both occasions he looked about him, changed his mind and continued his flight through the crowds.
From Covent Garden we were led onto Long Acre and then down Bow Street and onto The Strand. There an overturned fruit barrow caused a blockage and allowed us to creep much closer to the head of the chase, which was just as well, for when the magician reached Charing Cross, something peculiar happened. He had paused for a moment on the kerb, facing towards the church of St Martin, when a small boy ran up to him, apparently to beg. The Great Salmanazar seemed to be reaching into his pocket to find a coin when something the child said caught his attention and he bent down to listen. The boy signaled with his arm up Duncannon Street, and the magician followed the gesture with his eyes and nodded. I held my breath and waited for the note to change hands, but the boy scuttled away and the Great Salmanazar, gripping the envelope a little more tightly, strode purposefully up Duncannon Street and towards Trafalgar Square.
