by Mrs Hudson
‘And I’ll tell you another thing, Flot,’ Scraggs declared, when Mrs Hudson stepped upstairs to answer Dr Watson’s call for breakfast. ‘There’s whispers on the streets about this magician chap, this Salmanazar. They say he collects precious stones, uses his magic to spirit them away into his own pocket.’
‘But that might be true, Scraggs!’ There was something in my voice very like excitement, as though part of me hoped that the mysterious Salmanazar really did have such amazing powers. ‘The police are really worried about him. I heard them saying so last night.’
Scraggs let out a low whistle. ‘Are they now? Then there’s going to be some fireworks that night, an’ no mistake, what with the magician on stage and the ruby next door and that Lola Del Fuego doing her fire dance on the same bill. Not surprising that the tickets are moving quicker than frogs in an eel pond. I’m just hoping that Jennings the chestnut seller can sneak me into the roof space to watch the fun.’
‘Oh, Scraggs, I wish I could go! I’d love to see that dance, and all the magic too.’
Scraggs was already pulling on his coat and preparing to leave. In the time since I’d first met him, Scraggs had grown taller, and sometimes, especially in this sort of half-light, his face seemed stronger and firmer than I remembered it.
‘Well, Flot,’ he replied, placing his hand on my shoulder, ‘you never know. Perhaps there’ll be some tickets spare in the end after all. I’ll be off now, so you can tell old Mrs H goodbye from me.’
‘Old Mrs H, Scraggs?’ Mrs Hudson boomed, bustling back into the kitchen bearing an empty tray and two pairs of Dr Watson’s socks for darning. ‘You can tell her that yourself and get a clip round the ear for your pains. But first, I’ve got something for you.’ She reached into her apron and produced a folded piece of paper which she then slipped deftly into Scraggs’ pocket. ‘You can make yourself useful for once and deliver that to Mr Rumbelow for me.’
Scraggs looked pleased. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied, almost respectfully. ‘I’m always pleased to go and see Mr Rumbelow. Is it a legal matter, ma’am?’
‘Never you mind, Scraggs. Now you should be on your way, and no more chatter. As for you, Flotsam my girl, have you forgotten that you’ve got a chemistry lesson this morning?’
I had forgotten. The excitement of the previous day had completely put it from my mind, with the result that I had no more than ten minutes to scramble myself out of my work things and into the neat, smart clothes required for such a visit.
The chemistry lessons had been Mrs Hudson’s idea. She had noticed in me an instinctive fascination for the phials of liquid and the brightly coloured test tubes that from time to time made their appearance in Mr Holmes’ study; and since she needed little in the way of encouragement when it came to furthering my education, she had pressed into service as my tutor no less a person than Mr Rupert Spencer, nephew to the Earl of Brabham. Mr Spencer was a rising young man and already a chemist of some note, and known since his childhood to Mrs Hudson, who had once worked for their family in both their London residence and in the big house at Brabham-on-Stream. I suspect that Mr Spencer was as surprised to discover himself my teacher as I was to find myself his pupil, but Mrs Hudson had a way of stating that things would happen which meant that they did happen, and it never occurred to either Mr Spencer or myself to do anything but comply.
These lessons had become special to me for many reasons. For one, when I arrived at the townhouse in Bloomsbury Square, I was under strict instructions to present myself at the front door, like a real caller. ‘You are a student like his other students, Flotsam, and when it comes to study it is achievement that counts.’
‘But, Mrs Hudson, I haven’t achieved anything yet,’ I would whimper feebly.
‘No, Flotsam, not yet. Not yet.’ And she would chuckle to herself and continue her chores with a satisfied smile.
And once I had grown used to knocking at such a grand front door, and to the ritual of tea served in a drawing room bigger than all the rooms in Baker Street knocked together, then I found myself free to concentrate my thoughts on the lessons themselves, and the amazing hidden world they revealed to me. Mr Spencer talked of the sciences with a rare enthusiasm and I would treasure every word, drawing it all in with rapt attention. It was unprecedented for me to forget a lesson.
That morning, as I scurried through the slushy streets towards Bloomsbury Square, I noticed that the poster bills were everywhere. ‘The Great Salmanazar!’ they proclaimed, and promised ‘the Greatest Feat of Magic ever Witnessed on these Shores’. Next to each of them was a bill about Lola Del Fuego, like the one I had seen the night before. From the attention of the crowds gathering around them, I could see that ‘Lola Del Fuego, the Lady of the Flames!’ was anticipated with quite as much eagerness as the illusionist she accompanied. And I was clearly not the only person with a passionate desire to watch Miss Del Fuego dance, for as I was being welcomed into the hall of the great house in Bloomsbury, a voice somewhere in one of the downstairs rooms could be heard squealing with excitement.
‘But Rupert, darling, you must, you must, you must, you must, you must! You simply must! She is so unutterably gorgeous. Everyone says so. I simply must see if she is as amazing as everyone says.’
Reynolds the butler raised an eloquent eyebrow as he took my coat from me. ‘Miss Peters, miss. As you will gather, she has formed an urgent desire to witness the forthcoming theatricals at the Regal Theatre. I fear Mr Spencer will have little choice but to purchase tickets.’
I smiled back at him warmly. Reynolds was an old acquaintance of mine from my visits with Mrs Hudson to the servants’ door, and ever since my lessons began he had always done everything possible to put me at my ease.
‘I think he may have to hurry,’ I told him. ‘Scraggs says the tickets will probably sell out very soon.’
‘Indeed, miss. I believe the last ticket sold at twenty minutes past nine this morning. But that is hardly an end to the matter. I understand that tickets already purchased are now changing hands through unofficial channels for up to five guineas apiece. If asked, I would strongly advise Mr Spencer to act promptly in the matter, as I believe that price is unlikely to hold for very many hours.’
At that moment we were interrupted by another shriek from the drawing room and with the shadow of a wink, Reynolds ushered me in.
Prepared though I was for a scene of some excitement, I was greeted by the most unlikely sight. For I had expected to find Miss Peters pouring tea at the little Louis XIV table in the centre of the room, and was alarmed to find that she was in fact standing on top of it. And not just standing either. She was, from time to time, giving little jumps into the air, all the time waving around her head a bamboo cane with a small muslin net attached to it. Although this looked vigorous work, it was not enough to impede even slightly the flow of her argument.
‘Surely you want to see the most beautiful woman in Europe, Rupert?’ She paused to make another little jump. ‘I mean, despite all your dull old experiments, no one can really be that dry and dusty. They simply can’t. And most young men are in a positive froth at the thought of her flame dance! Oh!’
That sudden exclamation was the result of her noticing my arrival just as she was about to make a particularly energetic leap towards the ceiling. It took her a moment to regain her balance.
‘Hello, Flottie!’ she gushed when she had. ‘Don’t you think it is absolutely essential to Rupert’s education that he should go and see Lola La Thing-ummy dance? Do please tell him it is!’
Hetty Peters was the ward of the Earl of Brabham and she and Mr Spencer had known each other since childhood. As it was considered proper that my chemistry lessons should be chaperoned, Miss Peters had been pressed into service as a fellow student, and as a result I had become quite accustomed to a certain unconventionality in her ways. Even so, her behaviour on this occasion seemed unusually bizarre, particularly as I was unable to detect the presence of Mr Spencer, or indeed anybody else, anywher
e in the room.
At that moment, Miss Peters let out a little scream.
‘There, Rupert! There!’ She began to point wildly at a point somewhere above my head and, as I turned in confusion, I realised that Miss Peters was not after all alone: Mr Rupert Spencer, his jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up, was hanging from the top of a bookcase in the corner of the room, a good ten feet above the floor, wielding in his spare hand a net very like Miss Peters’.
‘Got it!’ he cried triumphantly, and cradling the net in one hand he began to clamber back to earth.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Miss Peters sighed. ‘Here, Flottie, help me down. I’m absolutely exhausted. I never thought we’d get them all. I only carried on as long as I did so I could demonstrate to Rupert how fantastically plucky I am. But to be honest, I’m really not sure he noticed.’
‘Butterflies, Miss Flotsam,’ Mr Spencer explained, with a friendly grin. He was an athletically-built young man, with brown eyes that crinkled at the edges. ‘I’m making a study of them. A contact of mine was good enough to send me some wonderful specimens but within moments of them arriving Hetty here contrived to release the lot of them into one of the highest ceiling-ed drawing rooms in London.’
Miss Peters, still flushed from her exertions, turned a shade redder. ‘Really, Rupert! That is absolutely untrue! I did just what he told me to, Flottie. Rupert never said anything about shutting the little door. Besides, I thought they looked perfectly happy in their little box, with their leaves and things. They didn’t look as though they were all going to fly out just the moment they had a tiny opportunity.’
Mr Spencer had brought over the box in question, a cube of wood and wire-mesh with a little garden of plants in it. ‘Watch!’ he whispered, and he gently pressed his net against the box then pulled back the wooden shutter that acted as a door. Immediately a tiny butterfly of the most brilliant bright blue fluttered into the box and settled on one of the leaves.
‘Paris Peacocks,’ he told me. ‘From India.’ Then, in a louder voice: ‘They’ve led us something of a dance, I’m afraid. Hetty, will you ring for tea? I think I need refreshment before we can begin our lesson.’
While the tea was being poured, Miss Peters returned to her original subject.
‘Rupert, darling, don’t you think you’re being very short-sighted in not taking me to the magic show? I’m sure the Bradshaw twins will both want to take me if you don’t, and if they do I shall wear my pink dress, and you know how well I look in that.’
‘The Bradshaw twins are both colour-blind, Hetty. They told me so themselves. But I’m sure they’ll enjoy the show, even if they don’t fully appreciate the dress.’ He turned to me. ‘Unfortunately, Miss Flotsam, I’m already engaged to address the Marylebone Natural Philosophic Society that evening. It’s a group of very eminent men. I can hardly excuse myself by telling them that I wish to witness some conjuring tricks.’
‘Oh, Rupert! Sometimes you are so indescribably dull I wonder why I want to marry you. I believe you do it deliberately, just to put me off. But it’s no good, you know, because I know that no one can really be that dull. Besides, I don’t believe the Marylebone Natural Philosophic Society actually exists. I think you have made it up just because you’d like it to.’
Mr Spencer looked grave. ‘I shall put that theory to the society and canvass their views,’ he replied solemnly.
At that point we were interrupted by the entry of a short, grey gentleman. He was a man of about seventy, impeccably dressed with neatly trimmed hair and moustache, and I recognised him straightaway as the master of the house, none other than the Earl of Brabham himself. Widely known as the Irascible Earl on account of his fiery temper, today he looked more anxious than angry. On his entry, we all rose to our feet.
‘Hello, Uncle,’ Rupert greeted him. ‘Will you join us for tea?’
The idea seemed to strike him as palpably idiotic. ‘Tea, Rupert? Tea? At this hour? I haven’t even had a drop of Scotch yet.’
‘Hello, Nuncle,’ Miss Peters responded sweetly. ‘Do come and join us, even if you only eat the shortbread.’ She drew him over to the table and guided him down into an empty chair.
‘I don’t believe you know Miss Flotsam, uncle?’
‘Flotsam? Flotsam? No, I don’t believe I do. There were some Motsams in Wiltshire once, I recall. The chap would never stop talking. Ended up running away with a publican’s daughter and opening a brothel in Constantinople. Showed a lot more initiative than I ever gave him credit for. No relation, I take it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Miss Flotsam is very interested in chemistry, uncle.’
‘Chemistry?’ The Irascible Earl began to growl dangerously. ‘For ladies? Preposterous! One of the few things I can say in your favour, Hetty, is that you’ve never once shown the slightest interest in education. Now tell me, Rupert, have you seen a newspaper this morning?’
‘No sir, not for a day or two, I’m afraid.’
‘Then I suppose you won’t know anything about it. Never heard of the Malabar Rose, I suppose?’
‘Malabar Rose…’ Mr Spencer looked thoughtful. ‘It’s a familiar name but I can’t quite place it…’
‘Then you’re the only damned fool in London who can’t,’ snapped the earl. ‘It’s a blasted ruby. Everyone’s talking about it. It’s going on display at the Blenheim Hotel on Boxing Day. Invitation only, and I’m invited. Want you to come with me.’
‘Me, uncle?’
‘Yes, you! You, dammit! Simple enough request.’
‘Well, of course normally I’d be delighted, uncle, but I’m afraid that evening I’m attending a meeting of the Marylebone Natural Philosophic Society to address them on the subject of…’
‘The WHO??’ The earl snorted dangerously. ‘Nonsense! Don’t believe a word of it. Besides, don’t need you all evening. Just want you to come with me to the hotel. About six-ish. Viewing doesn’t begin till eleven, so you can do what you like in between. Natural philosophers, indeed! Sometimes think you make it up just to annoy me!’ And with a curt bow in my direction, the earl turned on his heel and strode from the room.
‘Ahhh!’ Miss Peters was the first to speak after the door had slammed shut. ‘I love it when he’s in one of those moods. So much easier than when he’s trying to be nice.’
Mr Spencer watched the door still shuddering on its hinges. ‘Yes, he did seem in good form today. I wonder what that stuff about the ruby is all about? Who do you think can tell us about the Malabar Rose?’
I felt a warm glow of satisfaction. I could. And I did.
*
That afternoon, Mrs Hudson took me with her to Ealing. I had returned from my chemistry lesson at around lunchtime and found the rooms in Baker Street unusually quiet. Mr Holmes’ study was silent and, from the empty hooks where the gentlemen’s hats usually hung, I could tell that both he and Dr Watson were out. Downstairs too there was an air of unwonted calm. The kitchen was immaculate, the only movement the flickering of a flame in the stove. Surprised by this quietness I made myself busy getting together a little lunch and re-reading the lines in the paper about the Malabar Rose. But when Mrs Hudson finally returned, flapping the dampness out of her coat and blowing hard on her fingertips, it was not the safety of the famous ruby that she had in mind.
‘Come, Flotsam. Into your coat! Mr Holmes and Dr Watson are out with Inspector Lestrade at the Blenheim Hotel, fretting about the placement of guards and so forth, so you and I have the afternoon off. If we are to help Mrs Smithers find her son-in-law, there’s no time to lose. Men don’t just vanish, Flotsam, though I daresay at times they wish to.’
We travelled to Ealing by train and then went on by foot to Sefton Avenue, an unremarkable street of sturdy terraced houses with red-brick fronts and small gardens both front and rear. Mrs Smithers’ house turned out to be at the end of the terrace, on the corner of Sefton Avenue and another quiet street, similar in almost every respect. Before knocking at the door, Mrs Huds
on led me round the corner to examine the house from the rear.
‘Note all the details, Flotsam. There is a puzzle here that perhaps we can solve if we understand the shape of the pieces.’ And, duly encouraged, I noted all I could: the front of the house had a bay window to the front room and a front door set with panes of bright stained-glass; the upstairs windows were closed and heavily net-curtained. The rear of the house had smaller windows and a weathered door that opened into the damp, narrow garden. It being the end of the terrace, the house had a third wall, a blind one, solid brick from pavement to chimney with no chink or piercing that might permit escape. In front of this wall, Mrs Hudson stopped, her toe tapping as if with uncontrollable energy.
‘And what have we here, Flotsam?’
‘Where, ma’am?’
‘Right here.’ She tapped her toe harder and I realised she was tapping it to draw my attention to a small metal panel set into the pavement at our feet. It was grey and dull, and didn’t draw attention to itself.
‘It looks like a coal chute, Flotsam. So they can deliver coal directly to the cellar.’ She bent down and succeeded in levering it open, then peered into the darkness for a moment. ‘Here, Flottie, next to it for a moment…’