by Mrs Hudson
She positioned me by the dark gap and looked from my hips to the hole and back again.
‘What do you think, Flottie? Could you fit down there?’
‘I don’t think so, ma’am.’ The hole was little more than one and a half feet long by a foot wide.
‘Hmm, I think you might be right. Come, let us call on Mrs Smithers and see what more she can tell us.’
At first there was no reply to our knock, but Mrs Hudson persisted grimly. After a minute or two the door opened and I recognised the woman who had visited us in Baker Street. Today, however, there was a degree of confusion in her manner that had not been there before, as if something had occurred to unsettle her.
Mrs Hudson gave her no time for questions.
‘Mrs Smithers, I apologise for this intrusion. Mr Holmes has one or two further questions he wishes to ask.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He would have called in person but he is detained by this matter of the Maharajah’s ruby. I’m sure you understand that his presence is required by . . .’ With a little gesture of her hand, she signalled towards the sky, as though an altogether higher power was in need of Mr Holmes’ services. Mrs Smithers followed the gesture with her eyes and gasped.
‘Yes, of course. If Mr Holmes is required personally by…’ She gave a similar upward gesture. ‘Well, then I’m sure he must do his duty before he can possibly come and see the likes of me. Please,’ she continued, remembering her manners, ‘please come in. My daughter Lavinia is resting upstairs. We have had something of a shock this morning.’
With these words she led us into a crowded little front parlour and offered us seats by the fire and cups of tea. Mrs Hudson accepted the former but was firm in declining the latter.
‘A shock, you say, Mrs Smithers?’ she asked, in the most blandly uncurious of tones.
‘Well, yes. I suppose I should say another shock, for we have not yet come to terms with poor James disappearing. I can only assume that this event is somehow related to the other.’
‘Perhaps if you would care to explain?’
‘Yes, of course. It was something that arrived in this morning’s post. A thick brown envelope addressed to Lavinia. At first I thought it must be some little indulgence she had ordered for herself, so you can imagine my shock when she opened it and we saw what was inside!’
‘What was inside, Mrs Smithers?’
‘Why, it’s still so hard to believe! You see, it was bank notes. Piles of them! Two hundred one pound notes! I’ve never seen so much money in all my born days!’
Mrs Hudson looked across at me and though her face barely changed I could tell by the slight quiver of her eyebrows that this had both surprised and intrigued her.
‘And nothing else, Mrs Smithers? No letter?’
‘Nothing! Though I’m sure the money is in some way from Phillimore. He was a quiet man, but he’s always done right by my Vinnie.’
‘And does your daughter agree with you?’
‘Poor Lavinia! The child hardly knows what to think. She is quite overcome. But I believe that this strange gift has helped her. “Dear James,” she said to me, “Some evil has taken him from me but this tells me at least that he is safe!” It is a great comfort to her.’
‘I can quite imagine. But tell me, Mrs Smithers, can you think of anyway that your son-in-law might be able to command such a sum in cash?’
Mrs Smithers placed her fingers to her cheeks and pondered the question. ‘It’s hard to see how he could have done. He’s always been a steady worker, of course, but never more than a clerk. And of course, there’s been his recent illnesses too.’
The low light of the winter afternoon was beginning to filter into the room and some of it was falling on to Mrs Hudson’s face.
‘He’s been unwell?’ As she asked the question, her eyes seemed to catch some of that late afternoon brightness.
‘Why, yes. It began about three years ago. Phillimore complained of headaches and said that his doctor had recommended a dose of sea air. Vinnie didn’t at all like the idea of going off to the seaside with him, so it was agreed he would go alone, to Broadstairs, where he could stay quite cheaply. In the end he was away for a full ten days, so he must have been quite ill. But he did seem very much better when he came back.’
‘But the illness returned?’
‘It did. He’s been prone to ill health ever since, I’m afraid. Every three or four months he’d come over all funny.’
‘And the cure was always the same?’
‘Always Broadstairs, yes. Sometimes he’d stay more than a week but the last time was only three or four days. Of course, it played havoc with his employment. In the end Jarvis & Stitch had to let him go, and he’s had any number of posts since then. After each illness he’d find himself a new position. For the last five months he’s been with Droitwich & Spooner by Marble Arch.’
Mrs Hudson leaned forward. ‘Do you think you might be able to recall the dates of Mr Phillimore’s various visits to Broadstairs at all?’
Mrs Smithers looked doubtful. ‘Well, perhaps if I talked to Vinnie… Perhaps between us we might.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Smithers. And do you have a picture of your son-in-law to hand?’
‘A picture? Of James?’
‘A portrait or a photograph, perhaps?’
The idea had clearly never occurred to Mrs Smithers. ‘You know, I don’t believe we do. We always talked of having one done, of course, but somehow…’
‘I see.’ Mrs Hudson rose to her feet. ‘Now I suggest you show us around, so that we can see for ourselves any ways in which your son-in-law might have left the house.’
Slightly to my surprise, Mrs Smithers did exactly as she was bid, never questioning whether Mrs Hudson was truly Mr Holmes’ appointed agent. She proceeded to lead us all over her house, showing us the windows and doors, back and front, on every floor. Mrs Hudson paused to examine each one closely, and while she did so our hostess told me more about her son-in-law, as if talking about him was a relief to her. I learned that he was a man of few words. He had met Lavinia at a tea dance and she had been impressed because he had insisted on paying for her tea. She had found him sober and respectful and endearingly biddable.
That combination, along with a generosity of spirit that he was prepared to demonstrate in suitably material ways, had proved quite enough to win her heart, although whether this had ever been Mr Phillimore’s intention was unclear from his mother-in-law’s narrative. She could tell me nothing about his family or his past, only that Mr Jarvis of Jarvis & Stitch spoke approvingly of the young man. That, and an engagement ring with real stones, had been all the assurance of breeding that Lavinia Smithers required. After that, Mr Phillimore’s history became little more than a footnote to his wife’s, and until his series of illnesses there seemed to be very little that Mrs Smithers could tell us about him. It was as if he had become a shadow in his own home. And if Mrs Hudson had hoped for more details from the gentleman’s wife, she was to be sorely disappointed. We found Lavinia Phillimore dozing on her bed in a laudanum-scented room, a look of beatific happiness on her face and the contents of the mysterious envelope scattered like rose petals across her pillow.
Two strange things happened before we left the house. The first was Mrs Hudson’s insistence on visiting the cellar, where she spent a considerable number of minutes pacing the floor, and rather longer examining the small cavity in the wall that formed the bottom end of the coal chute.
‘Would you be able to climb up there, Flottie, do you think?’ she asked me. ‘If your life depended on it?’
I considered it for a moment, putting my head into the hole itself and peering upwards.
‘No, ma’am,’ I concluded. ‘Someone my size could fit into the gap, I think, but the chute doesn’t go straight up. It’s a sort of Z-shape. You couldn’t get up there without breaking your neck.’
Mrs Hudson looked dissatisfied with this analysis and continued to peer up the chute for a while longer, frowning deeply. �
��But if you’re right, Flotsam, I just don’t see…’ And with that her speech petered out and a deep furrow of thought seemed to fix itself between her eyebrows.
The second unusual thing happened when Mrs Hudson asked to be shown where Mrs Smithers had found the playbill, the one advertising Lola Del Fuego’s next performance. Mrs Smithers directed us to a small draw by the side of Mr Phillimore’s bed that proved empty but for a pair of brand new gentleman’s gloves. Those gloves seemed to fascinate Mrs Hudson. They were wrapped in tissue paper as if only recently carried home from the shop, and when unwrapped they appeared to be nothing more exciting than a very ordinary pair of gloves – neither lavishly expensive nor unduly cheap, in fact just the sort of gloves a clerk might be expected to wear. The name of the glove maker stitched inside them was J Hartington of Kimber Street, Islington, and they had nothing about them to distinguish them from a thousand other pairs. Yet Mrs Hudson lingered over them for a full two minutes, turning them over between her fingers as if contemplating something rich and strange.
‘These gloves were bought by Mr Phillimore?’ she asked.
‘Why, I think so, yes. He mentioned that he needed a new pair the other day. His old pair was quite worn out.’
‘And he was particular about these things?’
‘No, not at all, Mrs Hudson. James cared little for how he dressed. He would pick up such items from any shop he passed just as he needed them. It is one of Lavinia’s constant complaints. She feels he does not take sufficient pride in his appearance.’
‘I see.’ Mrs Hudson seemed to hesitate before going any further, but her next question, when it came, was so unlikely, so patently bizarre, that at first I thought I had misheard.
‘Tell me, Mrs Smithers,’ she asked, ‘has your daughter recently received as a gift either a music box, a pet dog or any variety of clockwork toy?’
*
We left the house in Sefton Avenue with Mrs Smithers’ perplexed denials still fresh in our minds. It was clear that nothing on that eclectic list had recently entered the house, and after satisfying herself on this point, Mrs Hudson seemed ready to depart. While we were indoors the light had faded and had let in the cold, and some first few flakes of snow were beginning to drift into our faces. Mrs Hudson seemed unaware of them, and she kept her thoughts to herself as we began to retrace our footsteps towards the station. At the corner of the street, we passed a small boy carrying a holly wreath almost as large as himself and I realised, with something of a shock, that it was only three days until Christmas.
Chapter VI - The Invisible Worm
Chapter VI
The Invisible Worm
Three days to Christmas meant only four days before the Malabar Rose was to be put on display, and that in turn meant a good deal of work for Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. The whereabouts of the stone remained a mystery to everyone but Sir John Plaskett, who would arrive every morning with a bounce in his stride and a jaunty whistle on his lips. Even the news that two more of his decoys had almost been seized did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm.
‘They’ll never find it!’ he declared happily. ‘It’s in the last place anyone would think to look. And if I were a thief, even if I knew where to look, I’m not sure I’d dare to make an attempt on it! Too demmed risky!’ And he’d guffaw happily with his head thrown back, a laugh that seemed to pain Dr Watson as he tried to balance marmalade on his morning toast.
‘Dash it, Sir John, but what of these latest attempts? Things are getting a little too hot for my liking.’
‘Oh, don’t worry yourself, Dr Watson. As a result of these abortive attempts, we now have all the main threats to the Malabar Rose under lock and key. The only one left is this Salmanazar chap, and I’m trusting you and Holmes to deal with him.’
At that point, just as I was preparing to remove the breakfast tray, there were footsteps on the stairs and with no warning at all a man dressed as a rat-catcher entered the study. He was clad in a soiled jacket and sludge-coloured trousers that ended an inch short of his shoes and revealed a strangely clean and rather jaunty pair of tartan socks. On his head he wore a squashed cap and dangling from one hand was a cage containing three live rats. His face was disgustingly grimy and was distorted by a terrible squint.
‘Great God!’ exclaimed the Major General at the entrance of this unlikely visitor.
‘What… Who on earth?’ began Dr Watson, reduced to a stutter of surprise.
In reply the intruder rolled his eyes horribly and, on spying me in the corner, first set his face into a fiendish leer, then favoured me with a conspiratorial wink.
‘Will you be having breakfast now, sir?’ I asked him. ‘Or would you be wanting to clean yourself up a little first?’
‘Good lord, Holmes, is that really you?’ Dr Watson rose to his feet and peered at his friend in bewilderment.
‘Of course it is, Watson. Who else would be barging in here at this hour? Other than Sir John, of course.’
Sir John’s surprise was scarcely less than Dr Watson’s, though he was much better at concealing it. ‘Mr Holmes? I can hardly believe it! But what is the meaning of all this?’
Mr Holmes, evidently pleased by the gentlemen’s astonishment, gave a low chuckle and began to remove his jacket.
‘Do not be embarrassed, gentlemen. Sharper eyes than yours have failed to see beyond these rags these last twenty hours.’
‘Will you be wanting breakfast, sir?’ I persisted.
‘In a moment, Flotsam. First, you could pour me a bottle of the excellent brown ale that Mrs Hudson always supplies. There is one hidden in that large Wellington boot on the mantelpiece. I know Dr Watson doesn’t approve of brown ale, but I find it makes a very fine start to the day.’
While I poured the ale, Mr Holmes explained himself to the two gentlemen. ‘I have made it my business to find out a little more about the Great Salmanazar and his bag of tricks. Since we took on this case he has scarcely been out of my sight.’
‘Remarkable, Holmes!’ Watson allowed a small pile of pipe tobacco to spill onto the front of his waistcoat. ‘And he is unaware that he is being watched?’
‘Far from it, Watson. Lestrade has detailed a minimum of three officers to follow him at all times. Our friend must think we are a nation of policemen. But I flatter myself that he is not aware of every person who observes him!’ He dropped his jacket on the rats’ cage and sat down with a satisfied sigh. ‘It hasn’t been easy, of course. The man works through the night on his rehearsals. He spends hours positioning every hook, every rope, every beam.’
Sir John, having recovered from Mr Holmes’ unconventional entrance, seemed impressed by this evidence of his energy. ‘Fine work, Mr Holmes. Now tell us what you have learned.’
Mr Holmes raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, for one thing, I have learned that this Salmanazar is a very deep fellow. He gives nothing away. Although I have dogged his footsteps, he has shown no outward interest in the Malabar Rose. He neither reads the papers nor listens to gossip. He seems entirely intent on his forthcoming performance.’
Watson looked a trifle disappointed at this. ‘So what’s the next step, Holmes?’ he asked. ‘I was hoping we’d have the fellow behind bars by now.’
‘Arrest the Great Salmanazar before his performance, Watson? Why, there’d be a riot. Unless they found him with the ruby actually in his pocket, I don’t think Lestrade’s men would have the nerve. His performance threatens to be the most sensational event to happen in London for years. I hear that tickets are fetching ten guineas apiece.’
‘Really, Holmes, be serious! Are we to let this chappie lay his plans completely unimpeded?’
‘On the contrary, Watson. I feel it is time we confronted him. I would like to see what happens if we can unsettle him a little.’
‘Ideal, Holmes! When will you do it?’
‘Me, Watson?’ Mr Holmes looked over at Sir John and smiled with unconcealed amusement. ‘Would I go to these lengths to conceal my appearance if I planned to then mar
ch into the Regal Theatre and introduce myself to the man? No, my friend, I shall leave that job to you. Later this morning Sir John and I are to have another look at the arrangements for the ruby at the Blenheim Hotel. I suggest you call on Mr Salmanazar then and see what you can get out of him.’
‘Just me, Holmes? By myself? I’m not sure I like the sound of that. After all, this chap sounds dashed tricky.’
‘Very well.’ The detective looked across to where I was standing with the breakfast tray and I felt him fix me with a hawkish gaze. ‘Flotsam, you have proved an admirable assistant to Dr Watson in the past. Please get yourself out of that ridiculous apron at the earliest opportunity. You must be ready to leave for the Regal Theatre within the hour.’
*
With Mrs Hudson’s help, it took me only a few minutes to transform myself from Sherlock Holmes’ maid into the neatly dressed young lady who accompanied Dr Watson out into the icy rain. Mrs Hudson had been soothing and unperturbed throughout, pinning my hair for me in front of the mirror and murmuring words of advice as she pinned.
‘Keep your eyes open, Flotsam. Don’t on any account allow Dr Watson’s questioning to distract you. I doubt if you will learn very much from it anyway. Watch out for the ordinary things, Flottie. Nine times out of ten, that’s where you can find the truth.’
I digested this advice thoughtfully, but I had something else on my mind.
‘Mrs Hudson, ma’am,’ I wondered aloud, ‘how worried are you about the safety of the Malabar Rose?’
‘Worried, Flotsam? When the whole might of the nation’s police force is available to protect it?’
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s being wonderfully well guarded, ma’am, it’s just that I rather thought you might have wanted to visit the Blenheim Hotel yourself. Just to see what’s going on, ma’am.’
In front of me, in the mirror, I watched Mrs Hudson position the last pin so that my hair was held high on my head in the way I’d seen smart young women. She cast a careful look at her work.