by Mrs Hudson
‘It’s not so difficult,’ she growled, seeing my surprise. ‘When I was a girl I knew all these streets better than you know your way to the biscuit jar. That’s why it wasn’t so hard to keep up while you ran around in circles like a pony at the circus. If I thought I was losing you, you did an excellent job at running straight back to me.’
‘But how …?’
‘How did I come to be there? Well, lucky for you I was, my girl. You had trouble written all over your face this evening, Flottie, and you could have woken Nelson on his column with your clumping around when you tried to sneak out. And since you weren’t going to tell me what had happened to you this afternoon, I thought I might find out for myself by giving you a bit of company.’
She broke off with a low chuckle.
‘Mind you, there’s some of the company you were keeping will wake up tomorrow with a headache as ugly as his face. Chasing girls in the fog is a dangerous business. He should have been more careful,’ she concluded, rubbing her elbow with some enthusiasm.
Only when the fire was lit and I had been wrapped in warm blankets, with an unheard of hot brandy in my hands, did I have to account for my desperate escapade. To my surprise, Mrs Hudson took my account of Fogarty’s approach with grim-faced calm and even my first encounter with Smale elicited no more than a raised eyebrow and a slight tightening of her knuckles. However I could see curiosity in her frown when I recounted my visit to the sick boy’s bedside. As I talked, she began to move around the kitchen, rearranging objects with a fixed concentration.
‘He was in pain, ma’am,’ I told her. ‘And because of what Mr Fogarty had said about him, I felt it so hard, every bit of it. I almost cried with relief when they gave him that draught.’
‘But Flottie, child, could he not perhaps be your brother? How can you be so sure he is not what Fogarty claims?’
‘If he’s alive, ma’am, I’ll know him when I see him. I know I will. I remember the feeling when they took him away. I still remember it now, ma’am, just as it was then. If something went that deep, I must feel something when I meet him. I just must.’
Mrs Hudson stopped moving things and looked at me carefully.
‘When I knew it wasn’t him, I was afraid I wouldn’t feel anything at all. But I did. I felt this terrible pain for him because he could have been my brother but wasn’t.’
‘I don’t like leaving him in that house, Flottie, whoever he is. Especially if Fogarty thinks his bait has failed.’
‘Oh no, ma’am. I knew I mustn’t let him think that. And I wanted to find out what he wanted from me.’
‘And what was that?’ she enquired cautiously.
I watched her widening surprise as I told her about Fogarty’s interest in Mr Moran and his tale. Her eyebrows raised in the middle and she got up and began to tidy again.
‘Mr Moran, eh? Well, well. More and more mysterious. I wonder what concern it is of Fogarty’s? I know there is nothing criminal in which Fogarty doesn’t take an interest but I hardly imagined he would concern himself with this little matter of ours.’
‘Mrs Hudson, ma’am, could you tell me about Mr Fogarty? You seem to know so much more about him than I do.’
The housekeeper came forward and knelt next to me by the fireplace. She had arranged a pile of blankets near the hearth and now she wrapped one round each of us so that the wool rubbed my chin.
‘Maurice Orlando Fogarty is the Machiavelli of crime. His pleasure is more in the plotting, in the successful deceit, than in the profit itself. His ingenuity and his unscrupulousness have made him rich but his real reward comes from the sense of power he feels over others, knowing he can manipulate them, deceive them, bend them to his will. He seems to derive the same thrill of power whether it’s a peer of the realm or one of those poor girls he puts on the streets. His father was Irish, his mother Italian, but it would be hard to say that Fogarty has any nationality at all. He can pass as a gentleman in a dozen different countries.’
‘But if he’s a butler, ma’am …’
‘Oh, don’t be fooled by that. Fogarty has chosen to be many things. But he was born into service and sometimes chooses to hide himself below stairs in great houses where society won’t notice him.’
Mrs Hudson took the brandy from my hands, fortified herself with a sip and continued.
‘When I first heard of him he was a young man making a name for himself in the kitchens of London. I don’t know where he learned to cook but he was a genius with food. Soon his name was everywhere, though of course he took good care to make sure the name that went everywhere was not his own. Back then he went under the name of Maturin, and it was a banquet he cooked up for the Marquis of Bute that sealed his reputation. After that he could go anywhere. At the house of Monsieur Bertillon in Paris he presented a series of triumphant dinners to the cream of French society. Monsieur Bertillon had them all there – royalty, generals, ambassadors, statesmen. And every one of them ate bucket-loads of the best food they’d ever tasted. It was three months before the scandal broke. It came out that Monsieur Maturin had been cheating with his ingredients. The more successful he became, the more irresistible he found the temptation of making fools of them all. While Monsieur Bertillon was paying for the best, Fogarty was buying meat from the dirtiest butchers in France. Horse meat, condemned meat, it didn’t matter what sort. Such was the man’s genius he could make it taste like anything. And for three months he got away with it, channelling hundreds of thousands of francs into his own pockets.’
I tried to reconcile this image of Fogarty, a humble domestic making a fool out of his employers, with the cold dangerous man I knew. Yes, I could see him relishing the trick, but not with amusement, just with sneering contempt for those he tricked.
‘By the time the news was out, Fogarty was gone. Old Monsieur Bertillon shot himself in the Bois de Boulogne and the talented Monsieur Maturin disappeared forever. None of this was any concern of mine of course, but the next time Mr Fogarty surfaced it most definitely was. You have heard of the Plinlimmon diamond affair? At the time there was a great deal of suspicion attached to Lord Plinlimmon’s domestic staff and only a handful of them could prove their innocence. I was still a junior housekeeper then and I was one whose whereabouts were vouched for. His lordship’s valet was another. Long before I connected this valet with the missing French chef, I had become certain deep inside me that he was the person responsible for the crime. Of course, events proved me right, but not before both diamond and valet had disappeared without trace.
‘From that point on, I’ve made it my business to keep an eye on Fogarty’s career. Whenever the newspapers report a family ruined or a gentleman disgraced, I look to see if perhaps a figure resembling Fogarty was instrumental in their downfall. Whenever I read of a famous theft, I look to find the quiet valet at the gentleman’s shoulder or the innocent butler who has disappeared.’
‘And now he’s here, ma’am?’
‘For the last five years he has been lying low in London. And in keeping a low profile, he has immersed himself in low crime of the sort that your friend Smale might understand. The Fotheringays are so often abroad their butler has few duties and ample opportunities to dirty his hands in London’s uniquely sordid underworld of crime. It is as if he wishes to disappear from the larger stage completely.’
‘And does he know you?’
‘Our paths have crossed more than once. I know he blames me for preventing the suicide of the Lawrence heir, an event that would have earned him 30,000 guineas. And as I always used to say to Hudson …’
But at that moment the clock struck the hour, Mrs Hudson sensed my smothered yawn and I was bustled to bed. In the dark, the night smoothed round me by Mrs Hudson’s sleeping breath, I thought of the boy who was not my brother and of how differently we lived. Then the darkness blurred gently and I slept.
*
The following morning, just before the breakfast hour, Sherlock Holmes surprised us in our kitchen. Resplendent in a crims
on silk dressing gown, he had a twinkle in his eye and a newly-delivered letter in his hand.
‘Ah, Mrs Hudson!’ he declared warmly. ‘I was about to enquire if you slept well, but that is so clearly the case that the question is unnecessary.’
‘And how is that, sir?’ replied Mrs Hudson placidly, continuing to arrange crockery on the dresser without turning around.
‘It is not a difficult piece of reasoning. I can see from the state of the flame in the stove that it is newly lit, which suggests a later start than is your custom. At this hour it is usually ablaze. Flottie’s colossal yawns convey the impression of a young girl recently arisen. In addition, I am aware that Watson was in here very early, foraging for breakfast. Now Watson is not a quiet man, nor a man at ease in a kitchen. If his clattering did not wake you, and he assures me it did not, I feel it is reasonable to conclude that both you and Flottie were enjoying an unusually full night’s rest.’
He waggled the letter under his chin with a pleased smile. Mrs Hudson finished with the crockery and pulled out a chair for him with a friendly nod.
‘As you say, sir, Flotsam and I were up a little later than usual this morning. Although I did have time to observe that Dr Watson had already set off for a day in the country.’
Mr Holmes looked up sharply and for a moment ceased to wave the letter under his chin.
‘Mrs Hudson, that is remarkably perspicacious. May I enquire how …?’
‘Oh, you can tell a great deal from a larder, sir, particularly after a gentleman has been in it. Provisioning a kitchen is a precise science, you see. Gentlemen seem to imagine that a larder contains a feast of random edibles where their plundering will go unnoticed. On this occasion, it didn’t take a lot of thought to realise that Dr Watson would not have endeavoured to create for himself such very substantial ham sandwiches if he were spending the day in town, or indeed within reach of a country inn. A day in the hills, is it, sir?’
‘Quite so, Mrs Hudson. I see my presence inspires you. Your reasoning is still rather unsophisticated but on this occasion you have stumbled upon something very close to the truth. I have sent Watson, in the guise of a walker, to see what information he can surprise from Moran’s father. A remote establishment in the Downs.’
Mrs Hudson nodded approvingly.
‘And would it be out of place for me to ask what Dr Watson found yesterday when he visited Mr Moran’s colleagues?’
‘Not at all, Mrs Hudson. I consider you and Flottie worthy helpers in this case; you are the rods of base metal that help to conduct the lightning. However in this matter I am hardly better informed than yourselves. Watson returned late last night and showed rather indecent haste to retire when I informed him of his impending early start. But tonight we shall hear all and I would be honoured if you and Flottie would join us. Watson with an audience will no doubt be less precise than ever but I daresay I shall be able to extract the salient points.’
‘And does that letter concern this case, sir?’
Mr Holmes was still waving the note under his chin and at this he looked at it a little blankly. Then his face lit up and he settled back in his chair.
‘Indeed it does, Mrs Hudson. Dr Watson being absent I thought I would share it with you. When you have furnished me with some of your excellent brown ale in lieu of breakfast, I beg you to read it and tell me if you grasp its significance.’
The beer supplied, Mrs Hudson and I left Mr Holmes to draw the cork while we turned our attention to the letter. We looked at it with some excitement. Then we looked at it a second time. Then we looked at each other. We were underwhelmed.
Re: The Sumatra and Nassau Trading Company
7 Bishops Yard
Sir,
Subject to your enquiry of the 19th, we can confirm that the above company ceased to trade as per the information you have received. It is not our place to comment on any rumours pertaining to that circumstance. I trust this information is of use.
Your faithful servants,
Marsden and Trocklewood, Stockbrokers
‘Well, Mrs Hudson?’ asked Mr Holmes, dabbing foam from his upper lip with the end of his dressing gown cord.
‘This would seem to confirm the collapse of Mr Moran’s company in much the way he stated, sir.’
‘Precisely! I daresay it may seem to you a very trivial confirmation of detail, but to me it is a vital part of the whole. By pinning down the details, the disciplined mind frees itself to focus on wider horizons. Unfortunately, by confirming Moran’s story, this letter has rendered Dr Watson’s journey somewhat redundant. But I am sure the fresh air will do his constitution a power of good.’
This happy thought was accompanied by a further swig.
‘The same, however, cannot be said for myself. Instead I foresee a cosy afternoon in front of the fire with a good pipe and some serious consideration of the question in hand.’
The great detective rose to leave but at the door he paused as if suddenly troubled.
‘Mrs Hudson, were you truly able to deduce how Watson’s day was to be spent merely by a glance in your larder?’
‘Of course, sir.’
He nodded to himself, as if uncertain what to make of this.
‘Extraordinary!’ he concluded.
‘Very simple, Mr Holmes,’ returned Mrs Hudson steadily. ‘One should never overlook the alimentary.’ And she turned quickly to the dresser as if a great deal of rapid concentration was required to disguise the joyous convulsions of her eyebrows.
It was only when Mr Holmes had ensconced himself firmly by his own fireside that Mrs Hudson revealed a surprising plan for the day.
‘Flottie,’ she said, ‘I have a mind to go to Limehouse today to visit Mrs Trent and I have a mind to take you with me. What do you say?’
‘Today, ma’am? Shouldn’t we …?’
‘I don’t think we need to trouble ourselves too much about domestic affairs today. Dr Watson’s gone for the day and Mr Holmes is determined to see no-one. Poor Mrs Trent has had an unfortunate life which she enjoys sharing with visitors but for once I am eager to hear her story. There was something we heard yesterday that makes it urgent I speak to her as soon as I can.’
She mused for a moment.
‘I’m not generally a believer in coincidence, Flottie. But sometimes it appears to have a very long arm indeed. So a visit is required. Besides, you and I haven’t been out for a jaunt in ages. I can tell you the story of Hudson and the jellied eels. Now, quick. It’s a long way and we haven’t a moment to lose.’
So enthusiastic was Mrs Hudson that I was hurried out of the house into unexpected sunshine with a piece of bread still uneaten in my hand. I was still trying to make sense of the multitude of scarves and mufflers that Mrs Hudson had draped around me on the area steps when a carriage pulled up purposefully at our door. My attention was now so firmly fixed on the attempt to tie my muffler while holding mittens, hat and breakfast simultaneously that I paid it little heed. I had just hit upon the idea of placing all the remaining bread in my mouth at once when a young man with whiskers leapt from the carriage and hailed Mrs Hudson with good humoured familiarity.
He was a remarkably good looking young man with a bright eye and a smile brighter than his waistcoat. Even to my inexperienced eye, it was clear he was dressed in the height of fashion although the way he splashed cheerfully through the mud as he approached us suggested that he was not overly concerned with matters sartorial. He shook Mrs Hudson warmly by the hand and before I had realised what was about to happen he had turned towards me for an introduction.
‘This is Flotsam, sir. Flotsam, Mr Rupert Spencer.’
‘How do you do, Miss Flotsam?’ and he met my gaze with a pair of brown eyes that smiled at the corners as he held out his hand.
It was not a happy moment. I had seldom felt a greater desire to acquit myself with dignity but was rendered speechless by the fact that I had just filled my mouth with my entire breakfast. Both cheeks bulged alarmingly. Unsure whether to
attempt to swallow, I instinctively held out my hand towards his, only to realise that I was still clutching a pair of mittens and one end of my scarf. The other end, I noticed with dismay, dangled limply in a puddle.
‘Allow me!’ he offered gallantly and bent to retrieve it, giving me time to achieve a feat of swallowing of which a London sparrow might have been proud. When he looked up only my reddened face and some nervous undulations in my throat remained to give me away.
‘On the contrary, Mrs Hudson, the privilege was all ours.’ He turned to me again. ‘Our big gloomy town house was the most miserable place for a small boy like me. Mrs Hudson was the only reason I’d agree to come. Do you know, when I was seven she showed me how to stuff a squirrel?’
This was certainly not the sort of activity I imagined Mrs Hudson undertaking and only the fear that my mouth was still full of crumbs prevented my jaw from dropping.
‘Never you mind all that, Flotsam. I’ve learned how to do a lot of useless things in my time.’
Mr Spencer smiled at us both. He seemed genuinely pleased to be standing in the sunshine with us.
‘I am glad I caught you, Mrs H. Your message said you intended to travel to Limehouse and I thought I could take you part of the way. I have an appointment at eleven, otherwise I should take you all the way. Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever been to Limehouse.’
‘I imagine you haven’t,’ returned Mrs Hudson, ‘but we should be most grateful for a ride, sir. It will give us an opportunity to catch up.’
If I imagined the process of catching up involved a polite exchange of news, I was very far wide of the mark. As I arranged myself shyly in the corner of the carriage, still worrying about how I looked in my muffler, Mrs Hudson nudged me and whispered, ‘Mr Spencer is a rather promising young scientist. I thought he might prove useful.’
Then the carriage jolted into motion and by the time Mr Spencer was settled opposite us, we were rolling gently out of Baker Street. He wasted no time on pleasantries.