by Mrs Hudson
‘Come now, sir,’ she exclaimed briskly. ‘We can’t have you standing in the street like that. Let us go inside and see if Flotsam and I can offer any assistance.’
The housemaid answered our knock and gave a nervous squeal when she caught sight of her employer. There was no sign of Neale, so Mrs Hudson bundled us all into the parlour. There she quickly identified a cabinet that contained brandy. Positioning an unprotesting Mr Rumbelow in the chair just vacated by his guest, she proceeded to fill one plump glass for him and, after an approving sniff, one for herself.
‘Mr Rumbelow, sir, I’ve always maintained that the law’s gain was a grievous loss to the wine trade.’ She took a devout sip. The brandy, combined with Mrs Hudson’s words, seemed to have a reviving effect on Mr Rumbelow.
‘Merely a hobby, Mrs Hudson,’ he replied, the power of speech returning. ‘Absolutely no more than a hobby. Though I like to think my small cellar contains some items that would not be entirely out of place in establishments grander than my own.’
While Mrs Hudson had been dispensing restoratives, I had been using my handkerchief to staunch as best I could the flow of blood from a small graze on his hand, and now Mr Rumbelow smiled down at me fondly.
‘Thank you, Flotsam. Your attentions are most kind.’
After some moments of brandy-fumed silence, he seemed to become more aware of his circumstances.
‘Really, ladies, I fear I must apologise for my most melodramatic entrance. A quite unforgivable breach of good manners. The truth is I have had a most irregular experience this morning. Most irregular. I am not, as a rule, a man exposed to actions of a physical nature. Indeed you may say that mine is a line of business that does not, in general, require anything in the line of physical, er, exertion.’ I could tell that, despite the brandy, he was still struggling to control his indignation. ‘Really, I have been most damnably treated,’ he finally burst out. ‘It is an outrage!’
Mrs Hudson took another sip from her glass and her action seemed to divert his attention for a moment. A few more quiet sips of his own saw his shoulders relax with a little shudder.
‘Dear me, sir,’ soothed Mrs Hudson, ‘what could have been the occasion for such a thing?’
Mr Rumbelow paused and began for the first time to look slightly embarrassed. ‘Well, Mrs Hudson, I must confess that I was pursuing a line of thought suggested by the problem you placed before me. Indeed so. You asked me to consider the case of the small boy currently resident with one Mr Fogarty, butler to the Fotheringays, at their London residence.’
Mr Rumbelow produced a handkerchief of his own and began to dab at his extensive forehead.
‘A most awkward case, Mrs Hudson. Flotsam’s testimony makes it clear that the aforementioned child is being held as little more than a hostage. And yet the child has made no complaint and has no family to complain on his behalf. It is quite possible, since the child is not in a state to look after himself and since Mr Fogarty has been supplying him with medical assistance, that a court may consider the child’s interest well served by the status quo. Mr Fogarty could well be commended for his charity.’
‘But he’s letting him die!’ I exclaimed.
‘Quite so, Flotsam. I believe you implicitly. But without a blood relative to make a complaint, it is hard to see why our claim to custody of the child should be one whit stronger than Mr Fogarty’s.’
Mrs Hudson was looking at him with a very tiny gleam of amusement escaping from beneath her furrowed brow.
‘You’re not telling us, sir, that you have been so rash as to pay a call on Fogarty yourself?’
Mr Rumbelow’s embarrassment reached its peak.
‘I am, of course, only too acutely aware of your warnings on the subject, Mrs Hudson. It was most rash of me not to heed them. Yes, indeed, most exceedingly rash. I confess I harboured hopes that the, er, person in question, when confronted by a respectable member of the legal profession, might be persuaded to hand over the child without the need for litigation.’
‘Sir,’ Mrs Hudson’s frown had grown into one of stern remonstrance but her voice was slightly more gentle. ‘The person in question is one of the most hardened villains in Europe.’
‘Quite so, Mrs Hudson. Quite so. Just as you warned me, in fact. I made the mistake of calling at the tradesman’s entrance, not wanting my visit to be considered in any way official. In the course of a short interview the, er, individual in question was both dismissive and offensive.’ Here Mr Rumbelow suddenly blushed hotly. ‘He made, er, certain suggestions as to the relationship between Flotsam and myself that I found most objectionable. As indeed I told him. I made it clear that my next action would be to inform the Fotheringays of his abominable behaviour, at which he laughed most unpleasantly. He gave me to understand that any such action would have a most detrimental effect on the health of the child I was concerned with. He accompanied this with a most graphic epithet of a grossly personal nature and at that point, I regret to say, I may have crossed the strict line between professional conduct and personal satisfaction.’
‘Mr Rumbelow! You didn’t!’
‘Mrs Hudson, I fear I did.’ His eyes were engaged in elaborate manoeuvres to avoid ours. ‘I attempted to strike the man in his own pantry. A most lamentable lapse and, I’m sorry to say, a most futile one. He eluded my blow with some ease and proceeded to throw me out. In the most literal sense. A process in which he was ably assisted by two large and unappealing individuals dressed as footmen.’
I confess that for a moment I was torn between laughter and applause. Instead, taking heed of the warning frown nodded in my direction by Mrs Hudson, I looked down demurely and endeavoured to compose myself.
‘Mr Rumbelow,’ the housekeeper replied gently, ‘you may take consolation from the fact that there can be no-one more deserving of the blow you aimed at him than Fogarty. And from the fact that we are very far from finished with him and that child. Before long, I trust you will consider yourself avenged. But first, are you certain there is no legal proceeding that will serve our purposes?’
‘I fear that any such attempt is only likely to endanger the individual it is intended to protect, Mrs Hudson.’
‘Yes, I think that’s true. Very well. In that case we shall have to play our other card.’
‘And what card is that, Mrs Hudson?’
‘Surprise, sir. Surprise backed up, if we must, by a good helping of physical force.’
Mr Rumbelow and I exchanged alarmed glances.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Hudson chuckled to herself. ‘Deduction and reasoning are all very well, but at the end of the day even Solomon, for all his wisdom, wasn’t above smiting the Hittites.’
The Servant of Chance
†
It soon became clear that Mrs Hudson was in the mood for action in other areas too. For the greater part of our return journey she muttered darkly about polishing, and on our arrival she pitched us into a frantic campaign of domestic duties, from scrubbing the floors to dusting the tops of the wardrobes. While I scuttled to and fro, Mrs Hudson towered above proceedings like Horatius at the bridge, never apparently engaging fewer than two jobs at a time, with her eyes already running ahead to where a third was lurking. Her face was fixed in brooding concentration and you might have believed her entire being centred on the elimination of household chores were it not for the occasional words mumbled under her breath when her physical effort was at its most intense.
‘Introductions were made, were they?’ she quoted to herself as, on her hands and knees, she scrubbed at the tiles around the hearth. ‘I bet they were. If you touch pitch . . .’ and she continued to scrub, with strong, soot-stained hands.
I was far too breathless to ask any questions but my own mind was working too. Neale’s tale, and what it revealed about the casual ruthlessness of the people we sought to protect, preyed on my mind. What would happen to Neale now? By his own confession he stood guilty of crimes that had condemned scores of innocent people to a horrible death. I t
hought of Mrs Trent, all alone in Limehouse, mourning her lost son. There must be others out there, even among the untutored Sumatrans, who still sometimes gazed emptily ahead as they remembered a lost child’s terrible last moments. Somehow the scene kept blurring in my mind until it became a memory of the small fair-haired boy as he twisted and turned in the damp bareness of Fogarty’s cellar. I paused in my work. Mrs Hudson was polishing with controlled fury at the legs of Dr Watson’s chair. Later the fires would be lit and the gentlemen would return with news of their day, Dr Watson blinking in the gas light, Holmes listening to his exclamations with a quiet good humour. But for now there was a floor to clean, and I threw myself into the task with some of Mrs Hudson’s passion, suddenly glad of where I was and the people I was with.
‘So, Flottie,’ Mrs Hudson declared finally when we had retired to the kitchen with sore knees and necks. ‘The place is sparkling like a guardsman’s buttons and we are nearly at the end of this sorry affair. I think we can sleep well tonight. There shouldn’t be any more unpleasant surprises.’
‘Will you be able to explain everything to me after tomorrow, ma’am? There are still a few things I don’t quite understand.’
‘Of course, Flotsam. I would share my thoughts with you right now but I’m hoping that most of the explaining will be done tomorrow when Mr Neale finishes his tale. Let’s hope that in this at least he can be trusted.’
And Mr Neale was as good as his word. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson arrived home shortly after dark and after changing into smoking jackets settled down with their evening mail. Not long afterwards came a decisive knock on the kitchen door and Mr Holmes entered with a letter in his hand and a quizzical gleam in his eye.
‘Mrs Hudson, I see you have been busy today.’
‘Good gracious, sir, I didn’t expect you to notice. It was nothing more than a quick brush and a bit of polishing.’
‘You misunderstand me, madam.’ He held the letter up to his chin. ‘This is another note from Mr Neale. He has broken cover and writes that he wishes to see us tomorrow. He adds the following …’ Mr Holmes opened the letter and began to read.
‘Through the agency of your estimable housekeeper, Mrs Hudson, I have been persuaded that my only course is to place myself entirely in your hands.’
Mrs Hudson flushed slightly and turned to the large pot bubbling on the stove.
‘So you see, Mrs Hudson, your secret is out and I am in your debt. I begin to see you are a dark horse. Watson and I must look to our laurels.’
Mrs Hudson continued to stir the pot.
‘Indeed,’ the great detective continued, ‘Mr Neale even extends tomorrow’s invitation to you. That is, in my opinion, going a little beyond what is necessary but I’m pleased that he recognises your contribution.’
‘Really, sir, it would hardly be our place for Flotsam and I to accompany Dr Watson and yourself on such a delicate visit.’ I thought I detected a gleam in her eye. ‘It would be most irregular, sir. What would people think?’
The words were well-chosen for they were greeted with a frown.
‘Nonsense, Mrs Hudson! Dr Watson and I never stand on ceremony. We should be sorely limited in our investigations if we did. If it is Mr Neale’s wish that you be present, however unconventional, I have no hesitation in urging your acceptance. Indeed I insist on your company.’
‘Very good, sir,’ responded Mrs Hudson very formally. ‘If you furnish us with the address, sir, I’m sure Flotsam and I will both enjoy an outing.’
‘That is decided then, Mrs H. We meet at one o’clock sharp at 84 Cavendish Street. Mr Neale is returning to the house he lived in before Moran’s return from Sumatra turned him into something of a fugitive. I look forward to tomorrow. Oh, and Mrs Hudson …’ He paused on the brink of leaving the room. ‘Do not expect me ever to underestimate your talents in the future.’
‘So Mr Neale plans to leave Rumbelow’s, does he?’ growled Mrs Hudson when we were left alone. ‘Unwise, but perhaps inevitable. He must be wanting to put his things in order prior to an enforced absence.’
I had taken over the stirring of the pot and I watched as Mrs Hudson dipped a spoon for tasting.
‘Oddly, Flottie, although I feel the danger is contained, I still don’t like to see our pheasant flushed from cover. I shall make sure Scraggs is on Moran’s doorstep from dawn. If Moran leaves his house, I want to know within minutes. And if he stays put, Neale is surely safe.’
She touched the spoon very delicately with her top lip and then pursed both lips together meditatively.
‘Smart clothes tomorrow, I think, Flottie. And just a tiny bit more salt.’
*
Mr Neale’s house in Cavendish Street proved smart and spacious and featured a great deal of marble. We were shown by a sharp-faced maid through a hallway into an airy drawing room. Beyond the drawing room was another door and it was at this she knocked to announce us. As the door opened, I saw that Mr Holmes and Dr Watson were there before us. The room we were ushered into was the sort sometimes referred to as a snug, although it bore no resemblance to those back rooms in public houses from which the name derived. It was furnished with self-conscious regard for comfort, with leather chairs, a desk and bookshelves that were a little too orderly to convey any sense of habitual use. Three armchairs had been drawn up into the centre of the room. Those occupied by Holmes and Watson faced into the room with their backs to the door, but the one intended for Neale faced us all full on so that he commanded a view of the whole room, even of the low bench behind the door where Mrs Hudson and I had settled a little awkwardly. Mr Neale had greeted us with a nod but no further sign of recognition, and he waited until we were all seated before he began.
‘I would like to offer my thanks to you all for coming here,’ he opened. His voice was much stronger than the previous day and his stance more determined, as if he had achieved a dignity in these last hours which in the past, when the option of flight remained, had always eluded him. ‘I am a stranger to confession but I find that when one is ready to unburden one’s soul there is a certain satisfaction in drawing together an audience to hear it. You mentioned, Mr Holmes, that Inspector Gregory of Scotland Yard may honour our little gathering?’
‘Gregory will be here when he can,’ replied Holmes. ‘In the meantime, sir, I suggest you make a start.’
‘I had also asked my solicitor to be present but a message was returned to say that the gentleman who has dealt with my affairs in the past is out of town. I understand that someone is to be sent in his stead, but in truth I feel that his absence is a blessing. He might wish to check me in my narration and I am in no mood to be cautious with my words.’
A silence settled on his audience as he began. He told from the beginning the story of his fateful venture in Sumatra. As he spoke I seemed to see even more clearly than before the rainy season lashing over the miserable collection of huts that passed for a town, the relentless tropical growth that ignored all attempts at clearance so that the jungle was constantly at their throats. The scene set, he proceeded to describe his suggestion of exploiting the natives’ weakness for liquor, the growing contempt among his group for those around them, their descent into chaos and death. Holmes and Watson listened without interruption, Holmes’s face impassive while Watson’s betrayed an increasing sense of horror and revulsion. When Neale told of the decision after Postgate’s violent death to continue their selling regardless, the doctor could stand it no longer.
‘I say, sir! This beggars belief! I’ve never heard of such conduct amongst Englishmen!’
Neale smiled to himself.
‘Dr Watson, I fear your experience of our countrymen overseas has been very different from my own. Your regimental spirit may well have survived the Afghan campaigns, but out beyond the edges of the Empire there is less scope for fair play. Out there you soon realise that the Empire won’t protect you from the fevers and the flies. No-one will come to your aid when your money runs out in pursuit of a fairly-won fortune. An
d look around you. Back in London no-one asks about the means of your success. For seven years in the jungle I dreamed of a room such as this. Now, through dishonest endeavour, I have one. Did the army look after you so well, Doctor?’
Dr Watson seemed about to respond. His hands gripped the arms of his chair and his eyes burned with the indignant scorn of the honest man taunted for his honesty. But before he could launch into a reply, Mr Holmes had intervened.
‘Steady, Watson. We came here to listen, my friend. Let us hear all there is to hear before we pass comment.’
‘Very well, Holmes,’ mumbled Watson, and he subsided a little in his seat. However, his usually placid gaze retained a simmering anger.
Neale continued with his tale, describing his last desperate days in Sumatra. I marvelled at his new-found calm. Although his hands worked as he spoke and I could sense the tension in his body, he returned the gentlemen’s gaze frankly and his voice betrayed scarcely a hint of the hysteria that only the previous day had almost overwhelmed him.
He had just begun to describe his return to London with Carruthers when there was a fresh knock on the door, followed by the tentative entry of the maid. In one hand she held a silver salver on which rested a calling card.
‘The gentleman from the solicitor’s office, sir.’
Neale waved the card away. ‘Ask the gentleman to wait out there in the drawing room, Gladys. I have no need of him at the moment.’
Again I was surprised by the decision in his voice, as though his days of being afraid of others were finally over. However, the interruption had broken his flow and Mr Holmes took the opportunity to ask a question.
‘You were saying, sir, that you were able to continue your illegal activities in London. How could that be? There are surely a great many hardened criminals better versed in these things than yourselves?’
‘You are right, Mr Holmes. In London our luck turned. Carruthers had been able to ship a small consignment of the remaining gin ahead of us. I don’t know how he smuggled it past the excisemen, but he did. It was our only asset. But on trying to sell it we were taken in hand by a man called Melmoth. He was a gentleman by appearance but there was no doubt that he was the intellect behind any number of criminal activities. He had abrupt ways with people who tried to set up in competition and Carruthers and I thought we were bound for the bottom of the Thames that very night. But Carruthers talked fast, said he had connections in London whom he hoped to make use of. This man Melmoth seemed impressed when he heard we already had blood on our hands and he seemed even more impressed when he heard who Carruthers’s contacts were. You see, despite spending most of his life at odds with his family, Carruthers had always been well connected. He was able to mention peers, Members of Parliament, even a bishop.