by Mrs Hudson
And so a peaceful quarter of an hour passed during which time I was able to arrange my ideas in some semblance of order. By the time I found myself rattling towards St James’s in the Earl’s own carriage, I had a plan of sorts and too many thoughts in my head to leave room for worry. Miss Peters responded to my note precisely as Reynolds had predicted, bounding into the carriage with a whoop barely two minutes after it was delivered.
‘Flottie!’ she cried, folding me in an exuberant embrace. ‘You are an angel! I’ve always heard about the things Mrs Hudson gets up to but I never expected to be allowed to join in! I always thought I was far too silly for anything like that. But here I am! I had the most gorgeous dress ready for the Fitzroys’ but of course this is going to be much more fun! I should only have ended up dancing with the Walters boy who is so painfully dull, though frightfully good-looking, of course, and a quite marvellous dancer, as well as being a war hero and everything, which I think rather goes to show that getting medals is all very well, but it never made anyone good company, did it? Even Rupert is better to talk to, and he can be almost the dullest person alive, with all his formulas and things.’
She gave a little bounce on her seat and looked out of the window.
‘Oh, we’re still here! Shouldn’t we be going somewhere as fast as we can? And where are we going? We can’t keep Carrington sitting up there in the cold all night.’
I gave her the address of Fogarty’s house and after some breathless words to our coachman the carriage rolled on again into the night.
‘But isn’t that the Fotheringays’ address?’ she asked with a little frown when she had settled back into her seat. ‘Oh, Flottie, I can’t possibly call on them. They are frightfully important and they hardly know me from Adam and I’m simply not dressed for it at all. Or should that be from Eve? I’m never sure. Please tell me it’s not the Fotheringays, Flottie.’
Very calmly, speaking without pauses so as to ward off interruptions, I tried to explain my plan. After a while she began to listen quite seriously and it wasn’t until I finished that she spoke again. When she did it was with genuine anxiety.
‘Oh, but Flottie, I simply can’t. I can’t call on the Fotheringays. It would be most irregular. I should make a most frightful fool of myself. The Earl would have a fit!’
I paused to contemplate this setback. I had rather assumed that someone like Miss Peters knew everybody and would be as at home with the Fotheringays as she was with Mr Spencer. It had never occurred to me that it would be anything other than supremely simple for her to stroll into their drawing room and charm all the information I was seeking from the head of the household. I had imagined her sealing Fogarty’s fate while a grateful household volunteered to bear witness against him. Now I had to rethink and, to make matters worse, the carriage was pulling to a halt a few doors away from our destination.
‘You mean you really don’t know them at all?’ I asked desperately.
‘Well, I’ve been at the same parties, but the Fotheringays are so serious, Flottie. Mr Fotheringay is always being called away to advise the Prime Minister on our policy towards Turkestan or Trinchinopoly or somewhere. They wouldn’t have the slightest clue who I was even if I turned up on their doorstep and waved my calling card under their noses.’
An idea came to me.
‘Then you could pretend to be someone else?’
She opened her mouth to dismiss this out of hand but somehow nothing came out. For fully five unprecedented seconds she said nothing at all, and when she spoke it was in rather a small voice.
‘You know, Flottie, I suppose I could.’ A thought struck her and suddenly her face lit up again. ‘You know, I could pretend to be someone completely made-up! Someone a bit dotty and interesting, not like me at all! Of course, if they are at home they will refuse to see me but I would still be able to see if that awful man Fogarty answers the door. And if he doesn’t, I shall . . . I shall interrogate the maid! It will be fun! Do you know, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be one of those earnest women who call at the most inconvenient times to talk interminably about good causes. Nobody seems to think it strange behaviour at all, though I’ve often wondered why they don’t get thrown out a good deal more often than they seem to. And if they can get away with it, why can’t I?’
She made an impetuous movement towards the door where Carrington was waiting politely to hand her down.
‘Wish me luck!’ she cried dramatically and seemed about to disappear when she halted abruptly and turned towards me with a most serious expression on her face.
‘Flottie, you don’t think I should be a suffragist, do you?’ Before she had finished asking, her face had begun to brighten again. ‘No, of course not. I shouldn’t have the least idea what I was talking about!’
I waited anxiously as she made her way down the street, half afraid that she would find the red front door barred against her. But it opened promptly at her knock and she disappeared into the light.
It was hard to measure the passing time in the plush silence of the carriage. Carrington had returned to his box and the horses’ harnesses jingled softly from time to time. The fog clustered around the windows of the big houses as if it hoped to force its way past them, to smother the bright lights that burned there. Just as I began to grow restless, the door opened and Miss Peters reappeared, turning smartly on her heel with a little skip and clipping down the pavement to where we waited.
‘Flottie,’ she began excitedly as she bounced down beside me, ‘I was an absent-minded philanthropist from Battersea! Isn’t that splendid? Do you think it suits me? I was ever so convincing. I don’t know where I learnt so much about good works and things. It can’t have been from Daddy. And of course I’m not entirely sure where Battersea actually is. But I know she was most completely taken in.’
‘Who was? Mrs Fotheringay?’
‘No, silly. The maid. Mrs Fotheringay wasn’t in. Nor was Mr Fotheringay. Nor was their butler as it turned out. Simply no-one was at home.’
‘So what did you find out?’ I found myself stressing the last two words very distinctly to make sure they got through. It was something I had noticed Mr Spencer did on occasions and before I had always thought it a little unkind. Now it seemed an absolute necessity. Miss Peters smiled sweetly and appeared completely unperturbed.
‘Well, first I asked for Mrs Fotheringay and then I asked for Mr Fotheringay but the maid, who looked rather downtrodden, said they weren’t at home, but in the way that means they really aren’t at home, not the way that means they really are. Then I explained that I had called last week on behalf of the Society for the Propagation of Sacred Causes and I rather thought I had left my spectacles behind and she said she that she hadn’t heard of anything left behind and I asked could I speak to the nice butler who I had met when I called. She seemed a bit surprised at that, as if she couldn’t imagine him ever being called nice, and said that Mr Fogarty was away on other duties today and would I like to speak to the housekeeper instead? And I said, “What, away all day?” And she nodded, and of course now she’d told me one of the things you wanted to know so I really didn’t need to speak to the housekeeper at all but I thought I should, just to keep up appearances, so we had a long chat about Sacred Causes, which she seemed to know even less about than I did, which frankly isn’t anything at all. And then I left.’
She sat back with a contented sigh. ‘I think I did ever so well, don’t you, Flottie? I mean, I know you hoped that the Fotheringays would tell me exactly where their butler had been all day, but really I haven’t been completely useless, have I?’
I gave her arm a little squeeze. Now that I knew Fogarty had not been engaged at the Fotheringays’ that day, it was time to turn to the next stage of my plan. I gave Miss Peters another smile.
‘Thank you. You’ve done wonderfully well. I’m going to slip away now. When I’m gone, get Carrington to take you back. I’ll be able to get on with things by myself for a bit and after that I should
be getting back to Dr Watson. He must be finding it a very long evening.’
‘Flottie, darling, you can’t believe for a moment that Carrington and I are going to leave you wandering in this fog. Carrington would be scandalised if we did any such thing. We shall be waiting here for you. I like waiting, I really do, and Carrington’s ever so good at it. I shall be busy imagining the look on Rupert’s face when he hears I have spent the evening talking about Good Works.’
Arguing seemed pointless and it was undeniable that the reassurance of an Earl’s carriage behind me made me feel a little braver. Nevertheless, when Carrington handed me down and I stepped out into the night, I could feel the blood beating strangely hard in the sides of my head. With that rhythm accompanying me, I took a deep breath and made my way out of the big square and into the darkness at the back of the building.
*
The blue light over the area steps made the night seem colder and the fog thicker. The alley looked as dank and unwelcoming as the last time I entered it, and on this occasion I took good care to avoid the archway where Smale had been lurking. Lights showed in the servants’ quarters, throwing squares of light onto the iron steps. At first they didn’t hear my knock but after two or three further efforts I heard Smale’s voice from somewhere behind the door.
‘Who the ‘ell’s that? Get the door, won’t yer?’
The door was opened by a pale girl a year or so younger than me. There was dread in her eyes as she did so, as if every task carried with it the inevitability of failure and of punishment. I might have been this girl, I thought, if fate and a stolen cabbage hadn’t intervened.
Her eyes widened with surprise when she found herself confronted by someone female in a respectable coat and hat, as though such callers were beyond her experience. ‘I’d like to talk to Smale,’ I told her as gently as I could.
‘It’s a lady for you, Mr Smale,’ she called out timidly, and with a curse Smale emerged from the back room into the light. He was in a soiled shirt with his sleeves pushed up untidily and he looked every inch the brute I knew him to be. He too blinked with surprise when he saw me standing there.
‘Flotsam, eh? Decided to come back for a spot of work, have yer? Them posh gents not paying?’
‘I need to speak to Mr Fogarty, Smale. I’ve got urgent news for him.’
‘You do, do yer?’ His surprise was replaced with his more familiar lecherous leer. ‘And what might that be then?’
‘That’s between me and Mr Fogarty. Can I speak to him?’
He drew himself straighter and put one hand on the door frame a little above my head.
‘And what’s to stop me shaking it out of you right now?’ He ran his eyes up and down me. ‘Right smart you are again. I’d get a thrill giving a shake to someone who looks like a lady, even though I know there’s gutter just under the surface.’
I looked at him with my face as still and expressionless as it had ever been.
‘Mr Fogarty might feel he’d get more from me if I volunteered it. Where is he?’
‘He’s out.’ Smale seemed a little unsure of himself, his instinct to bully curbed by his fear of Fogarty’s wrath.
‘Where?’
He smiled a smile of low cunning. ‘That’d be telling. Why’re you so keen to see ‘im all of a sudden?’
‘He wanted news about Moran’s case and I’ve got it. Big news.’
‘Oh, that.’ Smale seemed to think he was moving onto safer ground. ‘I get the feeling Mr Fogarty’s a bit disappointed in you on that score, Flotsam. Told me he’d be sorting that problem out for himself. You weren’t any bleedin’ help at all.’ Again his eyes travelled down my body. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t send for you soon to tell you so. Or he might send me round to give you a few lessons in friendly co-operation.’
I tried to look confused. ‘What do you mean, Smale, “sorting it out for himself”? I’ve got something he needs to know. There’s been a murder, you see.’
Smale pulled a face of mock surprise.
‘Yer don’t say! You’ll have to do a lot better than that to get yerself off the hook. Oh, and you can forget all about that boy of yours downstairs. I’d give him two more days at most. Fogarty wants rid of ‘im.’
‘You know Mr Neale’s dead?’
Smale hesitated, suddenly aware he might be giving too much away, but the habit of boasting was too strong for him.
‘I’ve heard the news, I can tell you that much. Bit of a choker for Sherlock Holmes, eh? The bloke he’s meant to protect catching a bullet right under his nose.’
A little thrill of triumph tickled my neck. How much more did Smale know?
‘Mr Holmes has an idea about that murder. That’s why I must find Mr Fogarty tonight. Where is he?’
But Smale was not as stupid as I’d hoped and expected. He was shaking his head.
‘Sorry, Flotsam. Not good enough. Fogarty ain’t got nothin’ to fear from the likes of Mr Holmes. Like I said, he’s sorting out his problem by himself. Tonight he’s tying up the loose ends. Anything you’ve got to say can wait till tomorrow when he’s finished.’ He reached forward and put his hand round the back of my neck. ‘Of course, you could come on in and wait inside …’
I shook him off and stepped back. My spirits were sinking again and Smale’s touch filled me with disgust. I hated giving him the chance to gloat, but it was true that I’d relied on him giving away much more. Oh, I’d found out Fogarty had been away all day and that Smale knew how Neale had died, and that was proof of sorts. But it was nothing Mrs Hudson didn’t suspect already. Perhaps she had been right about the threat to Moran. What were those loose ends Fogarty was tying up? It was time to get back to Dr Watson . . .
Seeing me about to leave, Smale couldn’t restrain himself from one parting shot. So closely did it match the fears passing through my mind that at first I hardly took it in.
‘Yes, Flotsam. You get along back to that fancy detective of yours. He’ll be havin’ a bit to do, explainin’ to the newspapers how all three of his clients ended up dead.’
All three. All three. All three. A clock was striking nine. At the end of the alley the carriage was waiting. Was there still time? I turned and ran.
‘Hetty,’ I cried, leaping into the carriage before Carrington could get down from his box. ‘We have to get back to Portman Street as quickly as we can. I’ve made the most terrible mistake.’
*
I had already discovered in the course of the evening that the irascible Earl of Brabham was blessed with sporting servants, and Carrington proceeded to prove the point. He responded gamely to my exhortations and drove his team for all they were worth. However, the Earl’s lumbering carriage was not built for speed and the congested streets conspired to thwart his efforts. At times we waited in queues while unnamed obstructions ahead of us choked the streets to a standstill. Frustrated in their attempts to advance, the assorted cabbies and coachmen turned their ire on each other, shouting raucously, trading frank and unflattering epithets with their fellow strugglers. Eventually, somewhere in Oxford Street, Carrington gave up and shouted down to us.
‘This is hopeless, miss. Some idiot up ahead tried to turn in the street and now we’re stuck fast in all directions. It’s these streets, you see. They weren’t designed for all this traffic. They should say cabs and carriages only up here after five o’clock. That’d be a start.’
‘How long to Portman Street?’ I asked.
‘Twenty minutes by carriage, miss, five minutes on foot. You’d be quicker to walk from here, and that’s the truth.’
I turned hastily to Miss Peters. ‘I’m going to leave you, Hetty. I have to get back to Dr Watson as soon as I can. Thank you for being so good to me tonight.’ Her reassuring squeeze of my hand as I slipped out of the carriage went a long way towards fortifying me for the ordeal to come.
Out in the street, I was able to make good progress and I was panting by the time I reached Portman Street. When I was still thirty yards
short of Moran’s door, I glimpsed through the crowds the solid figure of Mrs Hudson approaching from the other direction. She was walking briskly with a large basket on one arm, and the crowds seemed to part for her like water round a battleship. Although I quailed at the reception I would receive when she learned I had deserted my post, my heart gave a little leap at the sight of her. Surely Moran was safe after all. Perhaps my old fear of Smale had distorted my judgement and had allowed his taunt to take on a significance it had not deserved.
Mrs Hudson raised a questioning eyebrow when she noticed my approach.
‘Flottie?’ she asked when I came up to her. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be upstairs looking after Dr Watson? What has happened?’
Still out of breath, I poured out my story, how I had left my post in pursuit of clues about Fogarty, and how Smale’s last words had brought me rushing back. As I spoke I could see clouds of anxiety gathering on her forehead until her face was set in its sternest expression.
‘Come inside, Flotsam. There’s nothing to be gained by us freezing out here.’
Inside, at the foot of the stairs that led to Moran’s rooms, she paused to take stock.
‘I don’t like this, Flotsam. I have a bad feeling about tonight and it’s getting worse as the evening goes on. Scraggs has just told me about the scuffle in the street earlier. He thinks it was all put on. But you say Moran was well enough when you left him? I hope Dr Watson is safe, Flottie. I wish you’d stayed with him.’
Our conference was interrupted by a small commotion in the street outside caused by the arrival of Inspector Gregory and Mr Holmes, the latter’s arm neatly bound in a sling. Before stepping in they heard reports from O’Donnell and his uniformed colleague, and through the glass in the door we could see Holmes shaking his head gravely. When they finally entered the hallway, Mr Holmes did not seem surprised to find us waiting for him.