by Mrs Hudson
‘I’m afraid so, Mr Holmes.’
‘It never occurred to me you would have been so short-sighted. Thankfully Mrs Hudson has less confidence in Scotland Yard than I do.’ He slapped Gregory’s shoulder a second time. ‘Cheer up! Watson is proved innocent and you will be able to show Lestrange and your other colleagues the mechanics of a singularly daring murder. All that remains to us now is to hear from Mrs Hudson about why this Fogarty character was so determined to kill Moran.’
‘Why, yes!’ Some animation began to return to Gregory and he looked eagerly across at Mrs Hudson. ‘And it may not be too late to make an arrest!’
A knock at the door prevented her from replying and the sturdy figure of Jenkins entered the dining room.
‘Please, sir, just to report that Flynn and I have gone through that alley inch by inch. No sign of anyone hiding there, sir.’
‘No, Jenkins, I’m afraid we’re too late for that.’
‘There was one thing, sir. There’s a drainpipe runs down the wall from just about here. Flynn noticed that the section at the bottom has come away from the wall a fraction. He’s not sure, but he doesn’t think it was like that before. We thought we should mention it, sir.’
Gregory looked slightly sick. ‘Good work, Jenkins,’ he muttered. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Only these, sir.’ He held out his hand and revealed three or four dark objects lying in his large, pink palm. ‘We found them by the drainpipe, sir. Looks like someone was having a smoke.’
We crowded forwards to look closer. The cigarette ends, though damp from the cobbles, were strikingly familiar.
Mrs Hudson picked one up and held it thoughtfully. ‘A number of gentlemen smoke Egyptian cigarettes. And there’s nothing to show these were smoked in this kitchen. I’m afraid, Inspector, there is nothing here to justify an arrest. The man you seek will have taken care there is not.’ She turned to the assembled company.
‘If you will forgive me, gentlemen, I see it is already after midnight. There is nothing I can add to what we’ve all seen tonight and nothing more to be done. Flotsam here has scarcely had a night’s sleep in the last two weeks and Mr Holmes is still pale from his wound. I shall be delighted to explain all my ideas about recent events tomorrow, but now I think it’s time for us to head home. It’s been a difficult day.’
‘Mrs Hudson is right once again, gentlemen,’ Mr Holmes concluded happily. ‘But before we go, Mrs H, I want your promise that tomorrow evening we shall gather at Baker Street to hear what you have to say. That is agreed? Excellent! Very well then. Until tomorrow!’
The Hittites’ Revenge
†
The next day was a Sunday and the persistence of the church bells left the city in no doubt of the fact. Mrs Hudson, who was a surprisingly irregular churchgoer herself, clearly felt that after I had been exposed to such naked transgression of the Sixth Commandment it was vital for the good of my soul on this particular morning that I should attend. So, leaving the gentlemen undisturbed, we ventured smartly into the mist-shrouded morning where the successful completion of much organised standing, kneeling and sitting left us wide awake and with a ready appetite. We returned as pale sunshine was attempting to break through the mist to the streets below. Mrs Hudson seemed peculiarly bashful about her performance of the previous evening, changing the subject whenever, frequently, I returned to it.
‘Flotsam,’ she said eventually, ‘I wish I could share your sense of enthusiasm. But there’s a man dead who should still be alive if I had been a little quicker of thought and a little less willing to think well of myself. And Fogarty will be walking the streets this morning as free as he ever was, with nothing to be done about it.’ The thought seemed to cast her into deep gloom and her lips pursed into a worried grimace.
Despite her words and regardless of the efforts of the Church, I found it hard to mourn Moran. For now the air was bright, people in the streets were smiling and I was full of pride in the solid figure who walked beside me. It seemed like a day to be happy.
‘And you’re forgetting something else, Flotsam.’ It was as if she had divined the frivolity of my thoughts. ‘It’s four days now since you last met Fogarty. That’s four days since he threatened to let that boy of his die. Now the little difficulty with Moran has been sorted out, Fogarty has even less use for your help and even less reason to keep the boy.’
‘But, ma’am, if he feels everything is settled now, won’t he just throw the boy out? What can he gain now from carrying out his threat?’
‘Fogarty thrives on power, Flottie. You have let him down and it is important for him to punish you. He saw you felt pity for the boy. It will amuse him to let you feel the guilt for his death.’
Suddenly the day seemed a good deal less bright and the places touched by the sun seemed only to accentuate the cold of the shadows.
‘What’s to be done, ma’am?’
‘As I said to Mr Rumbelow, we must take action. Fogarty will not expect that from the likes of us, and I’m reluctant to allow him to win every trick. Tell me, Flottie, do you think you could find the boy again if you went back to that house?’
I hesitated, trying to recall the twists and turns I had taken when I had followed Fogarty on my previous visit.
‘I think so, ma’am. It’s all a bit confused in my mind right now, but I think if I was actually there …’
‘Good. That gives us a chance. Though we shall need to enlist some assistance. I wonder …’
And she descended into a deep, contemplative silence that persisted until we were back at Baker Street.
Perhaps to make sure that I didn’t dwell too much on the triumphs of the previous evening, Mrs Hudson made sure that there was plenty to do that morning and it was not until Scraggs arrived in the early afternoon that I had a chance to stop and look around.
‘Hello, Flot,’ he said warmly, perching himself on the kitchen table. ‘I just thought I’d pop in and see what’s up.’
‘I’m up to my neck in hard work, that’s what. Did you hear about last night at all, Scraggs?’
He nodded. ‘Friend of mine has a brother in the police. I hear old Mrs H showed them all a thing or two.’
‘It’s not old Mrs H to you, Scraggs,’ came a stern voice from down the corridor, followed by the appearance of the woman herself. ‘We’ll have a bit of respect when you’re in this house, young scallywag. Nevertheless, for all your cheek, I’m glad to see you. I need someone to take a message to Mr Spencer.’
‘I’m your man, Mrs H,’ he chirped brightly, bouncing down from the table. ‘It’s my pleasure to serve the old and wise.’
Mrs Hudson scowled. ‘You are an insufferable young ruffian, Scraggs. More of your cheek and I’ll take my business elsewhere. Which isn’t to say you didn’t do good work last night. Stuck to your post like glue. Unlike some people.’
I felt myself flushing but, at the crucial moment, Mrs Hudson’s frown at me wobbled slightly in a way that rendered it useless for purposes of serious intimidation. ‘Now, Flottie, you go and take those tea things in to Mr Holmes while I give Scraggs that message.’
If I wondered at all what Mrs Hudson was plotting with Mr Spencer, I was able to form a pretty shrewd guess that very evening. For when at seven o’clock we were called by Mr Holmes into the study, it soon became clear that Mrs Hudson had no intention of satisfying his curiosity there and then. As she stood before the two gentlemen, her face was assembled into a look of deep perturbation.
‘Why, whatever is the matter, Mrs Hudson?’ asked Dr Watson. ‘I’ve never seen you look so glum.’
‘Watson is quite right,’ added Holmes. ‘If there is something troubling you, you mustn’t hesitate to share it. It would be a privilege to be of assistance.’
‘Well, Mr Holmes,’ began Mrs Hudson hesitantly, as if unsure whether to proceed. ‘It relates to the gentleman I was talking about last night.’
‘This man Fogarty?’
‘Yes, sir.’
�
��All the more reason to tell us everything. If he is the villain you say, something must be done.’
And so Mrs Hudson allowed them to draw from her the story of my past encounters with Fogarty and the perilous situation of the child he had attempted to pass off as my brother. As the tale unfolded, Watson’s horrified reactions were enough to reassure me that the help Mrs Hudson had talked of would be forthcoming. If anything, the cold, set face of Mr Holmes as he listened, his injured arm still hanging in a sling, revealed even more determination to strike a blow for justice. When she had finished her tale, it was he who spoke first.
‘You are quite right, Mrs Hudson. Something must be done and there is not a moment to lose. Anxious though I am to hear everything you have to say about this man, I am happy to postpone your full explanation until tomorrow.’
‘But what can be done, sir?’ asked Mrs Hudson with a most unlikely display of uncertainty. ‘Mr Rumbelow says the law cannot help us, and of course physical force is not to be contemplated …’
‘Nonsense, Mrs Hudson!’ Dr Watson was on his feet and quivering with determination. ‘It sounds like the only language this devil understands. We must snatch the boy away! Between us, I’m sure Holmes and I …’
He tailed off as he became aware of Mr Holmes’s arm in its sling.
‘Precisely, my friend. I fear I am not best able to assist. Nevertheless, your instincts are right. But perhaps before we resort to brawn, we should employ our brains a little. What would we need to do to make such an audacious raid possible?’
Mrs Hudson cleared her throat quietly. ‘Well, sir, one thing did occur to me …’ I noticed her eyes travelling to the clock on the mantelpiece as though she were anxious to keep an appointment.
‘And what was that, Mrs Hudson?’
‘The boy is being kept below the servants’ quarters at the rear of the house. I thought that some sort of diversion at the front of the house might give us an opportunity.’
‘Hmm, yes.’ Holmes passed his hand over his chin. ‘I wonder how we might achieve that …’
At that moment the clock struck the half hour and almost simultaneously there was a knock at the front door. Mrs Hudson was on her feet in an instant and returned a minute later, her face impassive, with a calling card on a tray.
‘A gentleman to see you, sir.’
‘A Mr Rupert Spencer,’ read Holmes. ‘I wonder what this is about? Show the gentleman in Mrs Hudson.’
Mr Spencer bustled in with his usual air of irrepressible energy. He sailed past Mrs Hudson as if he had never seen her before and if he noticed me standing at the edge of the lamplight he didn’t for a moment show it.
‘Mr Holmes, so good of you to see me. I have been meaning to call before this, ever since I heard that an old acquaintance of mine is in your service. But tonight I happened to be passing …’
‘I fear, sir, that you find my household engaged in an important matter that concerns us all. Perhaps if you could return another time …?’
‘Of course, Mr Holmes. At your convenience. You see, I’m something of a scientist myself and I’m hoping to persuade my uncle to fund a laboratory for research. I thought a good word from you …’
‘I say, sir!’ It was Watson who interrupted him. ‘Your name’s Spencer. Is it possible that your uncle could be the Earl of Brabham?’
‘Indeed, sir. Are you acquainted with my uncle?’
‘The Irascible Earl? No, I regret to say I am not. But the presence here this evening of the Earl’s nephew is remarkable timely, is it not, Holmes?’
‘Watson, you excel yourself! Come, sir, take a seat. Please excuse our presumption, but an important issue has arisen in which all of us here have an interest. An innocent life is at stake and we need assistance. As the Earl’s nephew, I assume you are acquainted with the Fotheringays?’
‘The Fotheringays? Rather! My uncle used to whip old Fotheringay regularly when they were boys. That sort of thing forms a bond.’
Holmes greeted this with the faintest lift of his eyebrow.
‘Sir, I am aware that we are presuming upon the shortest of acquaintances, but it is in your power to help us greatly.’ In a few short sentences he sketched out the situation regarding Fogarty and the boy.
‘Despicable!’ declared Mr Spencer when he had finished. ‘The man is a monster! How like the Fotheringays not to notice that they have a monster for a butler!’
‘You will understand, sir, that we need someone to cause a disturbance at the Fotheringays’. Do you feel you might be able to oblige?’
‘Absolutely! What a remarkable coincidence my calling just now!’ He looked around the room innocently. ‘I shall be delighted to help. As it happens, I am accompanied this evening by the Earl’s ward, Miss Peters. She is waiting in the carriage as we speak. Something tells me she may be the perfect person for this situation.’
‘So what’s the plan, Holmes?’ asked Watson excitedly.
‘Simple, Watson. The excellent Mr Spencer here will create some sort of uproar at the front of the house such that all able-bodied men in the servants’ hall will be called upon to assist. While they are absent, you and I, guided by Flotsam, will retrieve the boy and make our escape.’
‘But, Holmes, your arm! You can’t possibly risk yourself in that way. You are still weak and if we ran into any difficulties you would be a liability rather than an asset.’
‘Nonsense, Watson!’
But Mrs Hudson sided with the doctor and in truth Mr Holmes still looked a shadow of his usual self. I had already noted that he stayed seated more than his wont and lost his colour quickly when he stood for more than a few minutes. Eventually, when it became clear the opposition was implacable, he turned to Mr Spencer and said, ‘You see, sir, how I am fussed over. It seems that the excitement will take place without me.’
‘Mr Holmes, if Miss Peters and I play our part, Dr Watson will have to do nothing more than carry out the patient. Let us hope that is the case. The Earl’s carriage is at your disposal, Dr Watson. Shall we set off at once?’
And that is how the strangely assorted grouping of Mrs Hudson, Dr Watson, Mr Spencer and myself all came to be crowding into the Earl’s carriage at eight o’clock on a dark winter’s evening, bound for the lair of a master criminal. Miss Peters gave an excited squeak as we crushed in, and up on the box Carrington surveyed the scene with some bemusement. But Mr Spencer shouted the address before squeezing in beside Miss Peters and, before I’d time to think about what would happen next, we were on our way.
The journey was not a comfortable one.
‘Rupert, darling?’ asked Miss Peters plaintively once appropriate introductions had been made. ‘I know I insisted on coming, and I know that I’ll need to be frightfully intrepid and everything, but must you sit on my dress like that? It’s not that I mind about the dress, you understand, it’s just that I don’t know what you want me to do yet and if it’s something where I need to look my best then having a dress that looks as though it’s been sat on by a camel will simply ruin everything.’
Mr Spencer shifted awkwardly until he was crushing Dr Watson’s hat instead.
‘Listen, Hetty, I think you’re going to excel at this. Remember how you called on the Fotheringays the other day? Well, we’re going back there. I’m going to tell old Fotheringay you’re the patient of a friend of mine and you suffer from delusions, and the delusion you are suffering from at the moment is that you’re married to him or something. Then, before we have to explain exactly why we’ve come, you have to throw a complete fit and scream the house down. What do you think?’
Miss Peters looked aghast. ‘But, Rupert, they’ll have me locked away! Mr Fotheringay will make sure I’m committed forever. And even if he didn’t, I’d become a social outcast. Even the Walters boy won’t dance with a known lunatic. I’ll never be able to go out again. Rupert, you haven’t thought this up as a way of getting rid of me, have you?’
Mr Spencer seemed to think about this. ‘It’s an excellent id
ea for the future, Hetty, but on this occasion I’ll make sure no-one locks you up. As soon as you’ve got all the servants up there trying to restrain you, I’ll rush you off muttering about a sanatorium.’
‘But that’s terrible, Rupert! I’ll be man-handled by footmen and however exciting that may sound, it’s quite unladylike and even rather undignified, and when you’ve seen me like that you won’t ever want to marry me. And then think what the Earl would say!’
‘The Earl won’t ever know.’
‘He’ll know when Mr Fotheringay meets him over dinner and tells him that his favourite ward has tried to seduce him in his own hallway.’
‘Hetty, my dear, I promise you that old Fotheringay is far too busy worrying about the Balkan question to recognise you again. So long as you don’t say anything against Servia he’ll have forgotten the whole incident before bedtime. He’s got no idea what’s going on in the real world at all.’
Miss Peters seemed to find this comforting. Her face began to brighten. ‘Actually, it might be rather fun to throw a fit. But how can I make sure they call the servants? Why wouldn’t a big brute like you just bundle me out all by yourself?’
Mr Spencer considered. ‘I know. You’d better hit me.’
Her eyes opened wide with joy. ‘No, Rupert, not really? Well, if I really must …’ She turned to me, bubbling with excitement. ‘You see, Flottie, I told Rupert that I was good at adventures. And now I can show him for myself!’
Mrs Hudson, meanwhile, was conferring earnestly with Dr Watson and the carriage had long since pulled out of Baker Street. None of us were aware of events behind us, where a pale figure in a cape was attempting to hail a cab with the one good arm at his disposal. As the Earl’s carriage lumbered into the night, a hansom carrying a small, neatly suited gentleman pulled up in a flurry of hooves and harness.
‘Mr Holmes?’ queried the passenger in the hansom.
‘Ah, Mr Rumbelow!’ replied Holmes. ‘I perceive you are bound for the Fotheringays.’
‘Well actually, Mr Holmes, I was looking for Mrs Hudson.’