by Mrs Hudson
‘Precisely! And she is bound for the Fotheringays. Move over, sir, or we won’t fit in. We have plenty of time to catch them.’
*
The night had closed around the city like a black glove and when Carrington pulled to a halt the alley leading to Fogarty’s lair lay still. Without thinking why, our voices sank to whispers as we finalised our plan. Mr Spencer had become serious and urgent as he addressed us.
‘Dr Watson, set your watch by mine. In three minutes, Miss Peters and I will knock on the front door. Allow us three more minutes to create a distraction, then you and Flottie can go in. If the door’s locked, smash a window. We’ll try to keep the household occupied for as long as we can. If things go well, we’ll all meet back here.’
At that point a hansom pulled up beside us and Mr Holmes and Mr Rumbelow got down.
‘Good evening, my friends,’ grinned Holmes triumphantly. ‘I felt it was my duty to accompany Rumbelow here, who appears to have taken a very strong dislike to the man Fogarty. How can he and I be of assistance to you?’
Mrs Hudson eyed him reproachfully. ‘I wish you hadn’t come, sir. But since you are here, perhaps you would remain by the coach and keep an eye on our line of retreat. Mr Rumbelow, you can accompany me. We’ll wait outside while Flottie and Dr Watson fetch out the child, just in case any extra help is needed.’
Mr Rumbelow came to attention, his head shining delightedly in the gaslight.
‘At your service, Mrs Hudson,’ he confirmed.
‘In that case, let’s make a start. Good luck to you all.’
And with a sudden lump in my throat I allowed Dr Watson to hand me down from the carriage and into the waiting night.
*
Dr Watson and I were in position at the servants’ door within two minutes. Through a crack in the shutters I could see into the main servants’ room, where three tough-looking footmen were lolling idly. As I watched, they were joined by Mrs Flegg the cook, she who had once conspired with Smale to make my time in that household misery without relief. The room they sat in was one we should have to pass through to accomplish our mission. If Miss Peters and Mr Spencer failed to attract all four of them, our task would be impossible. Dr Watson and I counted the seconds go by and watched anxiously.
Suddenly the four turned and looked at a point above them. One of the footmen was about to speak when some new urgency was communicated, for all exchanged puzzled glances and rose to their feet. In an undignified rush, the room was emptied and our path lay clear.
I was through the door almost instantly, leading the way down a short corridor and across the main servants’ room towards the door beyond. Dr Watson followed gamely. Above us we could hear hysterical screams interspersed with a wild, manic cackle as Miss Peters got into her stride. Then we were through the door, onto a flight of stone steps that led down to the cellars below. At the bottom I hesitated. Three doors led away from the bottom stairwell and, while I was sure Fogarty had taken me to the right, two of the doors seemed to lead in that direction.
‘This one!’ I gasped and flung myself against it, only to come to an abrupt and painful halt. I scrabbled desperately at the handle. ‘Locked!’ I cried.
Doubt enveloped me. I tried the other door and it opened smoothly into a familiar-looking corridor, lined with stained and flaking paint. The only light came from behind us, leaving the far end of the corridor lost in gloom.
‘This way,’ I called again and plunged forward. ‘It’s one of the rooms on the right. Try them all!’ And while I attempted the first one, Dr Watson pushed past me to the second.
I found the first door locked and after tugging at it once or twice I gave up and moved on. Dr Watson had flung open the second door and was peering in.
‘Broom cupboard,’ he grunted and followed me to the third door. This also opened with a turn of the handle and revealed a curtain of darkness. Dr Watson tugged at his waistcoat pocket for a light and when he held up the match we saw a room empty but for a bare iron bed.
‘Is this the one, Flot?’ he asked tersely, sensing my disappointment. I was about to say yes, that we were too late and our mission was lost, when I sensed something different. Surely the other had not had that gap where the plaster had fallen away from the damp bricks? I fumbled at my memory in panic.
‘No, sir! It’s like it, but I don’t think it’s the one.’ I saw him look at me doubtfully.
‘This is the last door, Flottie. The corridor’s a dead end.’
‘Back to the stairs, sir. This must be the wrong corridor. Let’s see if we can try the locked one.’
Dr Watson was first back to the stairwell where he eyed the locked door coldly then met it firmly with his shoulder. The door stood defiantly firm. Stepping back, he tried again with extra determination and to my surprise the door burst open, sending him sprawling to the ground. ‘Just like my rugby days,’ he grunted as he picked himself up, but by then I was past him and into the darkness. Again there were three doors and again they yielded nothing. The first two rooms were empty even of furniture and devoid of any sign of recent habitation. The third opened onto narrow wooden stairs that led down to a wine cellar.
‘That’s it, Flotsam. We’ve tried them all.’ Dr Watson was peering at his watch in the gloom. ‘We can’t be found down here, you know. It’s time to go.’
‘One more, sir. Please! There was that locked door in the first corridor. Can we try it again?’
Silently he moved past me, back to the original corridor. I could hear his breathing, heavy and irregular, as he paused to size up the door. ‘Into touch, then!’ he growled, and charged it with his shoulder. With a splintering of wood it sprang open.
This time there was no need for a light. A cheap candle still burned faintly in one corner, illuminating the scene I remembered. A boy no more than a child lay gaunt and still on the bare bed. His arm, flung out, was dangling towards the floor.
‘He’s dead!’ I moaned, feeling for a moment a terrible faintness pass through me, but Dr Watson already had his fingers to the boy’s neck, feeling for a pulse.
‘No, Flottie. We’re in time.’ He lifted the boy in his arms with a grunt. ‘Can you find the way out?’
Suddenly, for the first time, fear of being caught gripped me. I sprang up the stairs at double speed and it was not until I reached the proper light of the servants’ room that I paused for Dr Watson to catch up. It was while I was looking back to where he trailed behind me that the door at the other end of the room swung open. Dr Watson stepped into the light at precisely the same moment as the first of Fogarty’s footmen. By the time speechless surprise had been registered on all sides, all three footmen and Mrs Flegg the cook were lined up opposite us, barring our way.
‘Well, what have we here?’ began Mrs Flegg, and one of the footmen began to roll up his sleeves in a manner full of menace. Dr Watson looked at me helplessly but at that moment there was a rustling in the doorway behind the line of footmen.
‘Over here, sir!’ boomed Mrs Hudson’s commanding voice and in perfect synchronicity the four who faced us turned to see who had come up at their rear. Never has surprise been more effective. As the tallest of the three men turned, someone small and impeccably suited burst through the doorway, head down, and butted him at maximum velocity in the stomach.
‘Mr Rumbelow!’ I yelped, but before I’d finished speaking Dr Watson had seized his opportunity. With the child carefully shielded in his arms, he repeated the manoeuvre he had employed so successfully on the doors downstairs, this time on the back of one of the footman. The impact of his shoulder sent the man crashing into the door post. Meeting it solidly, he sank slowly to the ground while momentum carried Dr Watson forward, through the line of the opposition and into the corridor beyond. I hastened to Mrs Hudson’s side through the gap he had created.
The third footman stood still in bewilderment, gazing dumbly at his fallen colleague, until Mr Rumbelow, in attempting to disentangle himself from his first opponent, fell awkwar
dly against the back of his knees and pitched him forward.
‘Oi!’ Mrs Flegg suddenly found her voice but as she began to move her eyes fell on Mrs Hudson who was peeling back her sleeves with an awful deliberation. Mrs Flegg looked at those forearms and stepped back smartly.
So rapid had been our victory that for a moment we hesitated. Then Watson, seeing the way ahead unbarred, let out a roar of encouragement and all four of us were blundering onwards while the fallen footmen were still struggling to their feet.
The night welcomed us into its arms but the iron steps were narrow and awkward in the darkness. I was the last to the top and it was clear from the sounds behind us that our opponents were re-forming and intent on pursuit. Before I could think what to do, a cool male voice sounded at my shoulder.
‘To the carriage as quickly as you can, Flotsam. This should hold them.’
Beside me stood Sherlock Holmes, brandishing an iron bar in his left hand.
‘Don’t wait,’ he added before plunging down the steps, and I didn’t hesitate to take him at his word. The panic of flight had seized me and I scuttled towards the waiting carriage without a backward glance.
Mr Spencer and Miss Peters were there ahead of us and Carrington, game as ever, was ready with the doors open. In the carriage, wrapped in a tense, sickly silence, Dr Watson was examining the boy. For a moment no-one spoke. Then the doctor raised his head, his eyes gleaming.
‘We’re in time!’ he cried. ‘I’m sure of it!’
Miss Peters let out a breathless hurrah and suddenly everyone was piling noisily into the coach, squeezing around the patient as best we could.
‘Quickly!’ Dr Watson shouted to the coachman. ‘Baker Street as if your life depended on it!’
Carrington needed no second urging and with a whoop of joy he shook the reins and sent us rattling into the darkness.
Headlong flight breeds panic and panic is a contagious disease. Only Mrs Hudson seemed immune. While she tried to restore some order, the rest of us became convinced that our pursuers were on our heels and capture was imminent. Dr Watson made things worse by persisting in shouting ‘Faster!’ in his loudest voice whenever he looked up from his patient.
‘Whoa, sir!’ Mrs Hudson countered, unheard. ‘We are clear of pursuit and out of danger.’
But before this message had communicated itself to Carrington, we heard an oath from his box and the carriage juddered to an alarming halt. Peering out of the window, the reason became obvious. In our headlong flight, we had come face to face with a speeding hansom cab and only excellent horsemanship on the part of both drivers had spared us a collision. As we paused for Carrington to recover himself and to sooth the horses, there was an angry shout from outside. A distinguished-looking gentleman of about seventy was descending the steps of his club, gesticulating violently.
Something in his voice had a galvanising effect on the occupants of the carriage. Mrs Hudson, Mr Spencer and Miss Peters all put their faces to the window and Carrington, now back on his box, let out a nervous groan.
‘My carriage!’ exclaimed the distinguished gentleman.
‘My uncle!’ gasped Mr Spencer.
‘The Irascible Earl,’ explained Mrs Hudson to those in the carriage who harboured any doubt. Before she could say more, he had recognised her face at the window.
‘Mrs Hudson!’ he roared.
‘Indeed, your lordship,’ she replied calmly, lowering the window. ‘You’ll be relieved to know that all’s well. We shall explain later. Carrington? Drive on!’
*
It was an exhilarated and talkative group who finally tumbled out onto the pavement in Baker Street. In the course of the journey, Dr Watson had found space to reassure us again that the unconscious boy, though malnourished, was not in immediate danger. This news, following the narrow escape from Fogarty’s and our brush with the Earl, bred a euphoria that touched us all. Mr Rumbelow, squashed between Mrs Hudson and Miss Peters, beamed pleasantly as plaudits were rained on him for employing his legal brain with such great effect, while I, wedged rather tightly between Mrs Hudson and the window, told anyone who would listen about Dr Watson’s prowess with his shoulders. A few feet away I could hear Miss Peters taking gaily at Dr Watson and Mr Spencer about her mastery of the hysterical state.
‘Hitting Rupert proved such a spectacular success that it seemed obvious to try it again. So I looked Mr Fotheringay in the eye and hit him too. And do you know, I rather think that took his mind off the Balkans for a bit.’
‘My dear Miss Peters …’
‘Oh, it’s all right, Dr Watson, I didn’t hit him nearly so hard as I hit Rupert, did I, darling?’
Mr Spencer grimaced.
‘Tell me, Hetty, just where did you learn so much about the activities of fallen women? Your ravings on the subject were very persuasive.’
‘Well, do you know, Rupert, I rather think that must have come from Daddy …’
It was only on our arrival that Dr Watson looked around and asked a question that had seemed obvious to me for some time.
‘I say, Mrs Hudson, where’s Holmes?’
There was a little pause as everyone looked around, taking in his absence.
‘Yes, Dr Watson, I have been a little worried about that myself. I understand it was his intention to bar the door behind us. His instructions for us to complete our escape were quite clear and it didn’t seem a sensible thing to argue. Mr Holmes can be a very stubborn man.’
I quickly told them what I had seen of Mr Holmes actions and said that I thought he must have succeeded in barring the door.
‘In which case, Dr Watson, I’m sure he will be on his way home to us,’ added Mrs Hudson reassuringly. But I could see that Dr Watson was concerned, and while Mr Holmes’s absence continued the good doctor’s sense of triumph remained slightly dimmed.
We were a merry gathering for all that. The boy was put to bed in my cupboard room and Dr Watson sat with him for some time before rejoining the rest of us. Meanwhile Carrington was dispatched home with a note for the Earl composed by Mrs Hudson.
‘That should do the trick,’ she commented as she sealed it up. ‘I have reminded the Earl of the day in ‘63 when Macaroni won the Derby. Tell Carrington his lordship will be quite all right once he has read that.’
The rest of us were gathered around the newly awakened fires and Miss Peters and Mr Rumbelow were debating whether champagne or brandy should be opened when we heard a sharp knock on the front door.
‘Holmes at last!’ declared Watson happily and I was sent off downstairs to let in the errant detective with all speed.
On opening the front door, however, I found the doorstep empty. A dark cab waiting on the far side of the street, its driver wrapped against the cold, was the only sign of life. Concerned that it might contain the weakened Mr Holmes, I had just stepped towards it when a rough hand closed tightly over my mouth.
‘So here we are again, Flotsam,’ hissed Smale’s voice in my ear. ‘And this time you come with me. It’s time for you to be taught a lesson or two.’
Struggling furiously, grunting and squealing as best I could, I was dragged towards the waiting growler, whose driver was dismounting with a cruel smile. Between the two of them they forced a gag into my mouth and thrust me roughly onto the floor of the cab. Smale climbed in behind me and began to knot my hands tight behind my back. I thought I heard a cry from somewhere down the street as the door was slammed shut and then the carriage jolted forward, carrying me away from the warm study and into the heart of the night.
*
Unseen by me, it was Scraggs who raised the alarm. Slamming frantically through our open front door, he burst upon the celebrating company with a cry.
‘Mrs Hudson! They’ve just taken Flottie! They’ve taken her away in a growler! Come at once!’
Mrs Hudson and Mr Spencer were first down the stairs, reaching the street a few seconds ahead of Dr Watson and Miss Peters, just as two empty hansom cabs passed the door.
&
nbsp; ‘Driver!’ boomed Mrs Hudson, bringing both to a halt. ‘Have you seen a growler pass?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Going at some lick, he was. As if he had the devil behind him.’
‘Catch that cab!’ commanded Mrs Hudson, signalling the start of a chase that is talked about to this day in cabbing circles. The two cabmen, fired by a sense of right and the prospect of a guinea apiece, jostled with each other for position as they rattled through the cobbled streets, shouting for reports to their colleagues on other cabs when the trail seemed to be going cold. In this way they were able to keep in touch with their quarry, following Smale’s progress by word of mouth as he and I were carried southwards, towards the river and the dark streets beyond. In Piccadilly a startled policeman pointed Mrs Hudson’s cab south and even in the tangle of cabs around Trafalgar Square the pursuit was maintained, flying with a whoop into the Strand amid a riot of police whistles and the startled fists of choleric gentlemen.
It was after Waterloo, where the crowds began to thin, that the scent was lost amid the stench of rubbish and the competing invitations of numerous dark streets. The two cabs slowed while the drivers looked for someone to consult. A small boy looked blankly back at them when asked, and there was no-one else to question.
It was Mrs Hudson who kept up their momentum. ‘That way, driver!’ she commanded. ‘Back down there and work back towards the river. They’re in there somewhere.’
Mr Spencer looked at her in astonishment. ‘But, Mrs H, how can you tell? They could be anywhere!’
‘Indeed, Mr Spencer. But we won’t help Flottie by stopping here. Besides, I have a feeling. Drive on!’ And Mrs Hudson, her lips clamped tight, set her face towards the on-rushing night.
*
While my would-be rescuers blundered into the tangle of dark wharves and warehouses that spread along the river like an infection, my own plight was becoming desperate. At first Smale had been too anxious of pursuit to turn his thoughts to me. At one point, after I had felt us change direction a dozen times, we had stopped abruptly and I heard him lean out of the window and curse.