by Mrs Hudson
‘Why, Sir Walter Scott!’ he exclaimed. ‘One of my favourites! Are you an enthusiast?’
Sitting down, with her dressing-gown rising up her calf and her body half-twisted towards us, she was perhaps more beautiful than she had been on stage. I found myself thinking of Lola Del Fuego. I had thought her beautiful too, but hers was a kind of rare, unworldly beauty that seemed to set her apart. The woman before me now was beautiful in a much more believable way; she was someone you might actually meet in real life. And where Lola’s dark, flashing eyes had seemed part of her defences, the eyes that were now turned in amusement on Dr Watson were open and engaging.
But Dr Watson was clearly unaware of them, looking instead – and with undisguised enthusiasm – at a tartan-bound copy of Waverley. His absorption made her smile.
‘I’ve read a lot of Scott, yes, doctor. Old Mortality is a very interesting work.’
‘The one with all the religion in it? Not really my thing, I’m afraid. But I’ve always thought Ivanhoe is rather splendid. A tremendous yarn!’ He grinned at his fellow-reader with honest pleasure, then remembered who she was and looked down in confusion. ‘So, er, all these books are really yours, Miss Fontaine? Keats, Longfellow, Shelley… and yet you…’ His sentence was swallowed by his own embarrassment.
She faced him with unruffled calm. Even if she had been fully dressed, she could not have been more composed.
‘Yes, Dr Watson. You have seen how I make my living. It seems to surprise you that I can also read a book.’
‘Well, I, er… Really, Miss Fontaine…’ It clearly did surprise him, even as he tried to deny the fact.
‘It’s not what I would have chosen, but I am not ashamed of what I do, Doctor. And, please, none of this Miss Fontaine. That’s all nonsense. You can call me Maud. Or, if you prefer, Miss Phillimore.’
At that I couldn’t prevent myself from letting out a squeal.
‘Miss Phillimore?’
‘Yes, Flotsam. That’s my real name.’
‘Related to Mr James Phillimore?’
‘My brother. That’s why I responded to your advertisement.’
‘Do you know where he is, miss?’
Her face fell a little. ‘No, I’m afraid not. That’s why I wrote to Mr Rumbelow. I thought perhaps someone might have come forward… You see, my brother seems to have disappeared.’
‘Oh.’ The disappointment in my voice was clearly evident. ‘I’d hoped you could tell us where to look. We need to find him, you see. His wife…’
‘His wife?’ For the first time that evening, Miss Fontaine – Miss Phillimore – looked disconcerted. ‘My brother is married?’
‘Why, yes. To a lady in Ealing. It was her mother who reported him missing.’
For a moment a silence fell as both she and I digested what we had learned. In the end it was Dr Watson who spoke first, his voice surprisingly gentle.
‘Perhaps, Miss Phillimore, if you were to tell us a bit more about your brother…’
She straightened. ‘Yes, of course. I’m afraid I don’t really know him very well, so perhaps I should start at the beginning.’
*
‘When my father met my mother,’ Miss Phillimore began, ‘it was one of the great surprises of his life. My father was a highly respectable corn merchant in Sussex, a man of very comfortable means and of considerable reputation. My mother, in contrast, was a dancer, one of a chorus of dancers performing at the Alhambra. The two met – it’s not clear how – during one of my father’s infrequent visits to London, and he returned to London again a fortnight later. It was during that second visit that their decision was made, and after the shortest possible engagement, my mother was plucked from the troupe at the Alhambra Palace and transplanted into a prosperous Georgian farmhouse in the countryside near Pyecombe.
‘There can be no doubt that the advantage of the match was all on her side, for as well as a comfortable income and a house surrounded by orchards, she also gained a husband who was devoted to her and, in course of time, two healthy and affectionate young children. My brother James was born but a year after their marriage and I arrived barely twelve months later. We were fortunate children in every way, for both our parents doted on us and we had as our playground a fine old house and beyond it the great sweep of the South Downs.’
‘Ah, the Downs!’ sighed Dr Watson. ‘You know them well?’
‘As I know myself.’
‘They’re a grand part of the country. Out in Afghanistan I used to dream of them.’
Miss Phillimore smiled at him.
‘I am pleased they have a place in your heart, Doctor. If my life had followed the path intended for it, I should never have left them. Yet that life was not to be, for there was something in my mother’s heart that none of her good fortune could ever quite vanquish. It seems she always entertained a secret yearning for that other life, a yearning that prevented her from settling comfortably into her new world. It was she who taught me as a child the rudiments of the trapeze, and I realise now that those afternoons in the orchard, with a swing slung over a branch, were not filling her with peace, as they did me, but stirring memories of her own past.’
Miss Phillimore paused for a moment. Her dressing-gown had fallen open a little and she absently drew it closer to her.
‘My father was unaware of his wife’s discontent or, if aware, too puzzled by it to know how to respond. It is my belief that for all his great love for her, she always remained a mystery to him. And whether that is true or not, there came a day which altered our lives forever. I was five at the time and my father had taken me with him to market, leaving my mother and brother at home. When we returned, we found her gone, and my brother gone with her. It was the last time we ever saw her.’
When Miss Phillimore paused this time, it was because I had reached out and laid my hand on hers.
‘My father made inquiries, of course,’ she went on, ‘and soon learned that she had returned to her life on the London stage. I don’t think he ever tried to see her, though. The loss and the betrayal had so affected him that he was a broken man. His spirits never recovered from that blow, and, although he lived long enough to celebrate my seventeenth birthday, his career and circumstances went into decline from the day my mother left. They never recovered. His business failed and his debts mounted. Our house was sold when I was ten, and a succession of houses followed, each smaller and less reputable than the last. When he died I was left with nothing.’
Dr Watson was listening most attentively to this narrative, and at this point he puffed out his cheeks in sympathy. ‘So that is how the fates led you to London?’ he asked.
‘That’s right, Doctor.’ She met his gaze and smiled a sweet, sad smile. ‘You must think I have fallen a great distance.’
‘Why, no!’ he mumbled awkwardly. ‘That is to say, I quite understand… Innocent young girl… Left alone… Devilishly difficult… Tragic circumstances… Dashed awkward… Same thing myself, no doubt.’
This last comment made her smile again, but with a sparkle in her eye.
‘I fear your talents may not be suited to it, Doctor. But I, unfortunately, had few options. The day after my father’s funeral I came to London in search of my mother. It took me two months to discover that she too was dead and that I was left an orphan. By then what little money I had was all spent. But in my searches I had met many who remembered my mother and had offered to find me work if I should need it. As I retained some acrobatic skills from my youth, I found myself eventually employed on the trapeze. Oh, do not look so concerned, doctor! I assure you that for many years, as I made my way, my performances really were confined to the trapeze. But the competition is fierce and there are many who can hang prettily from a swing. If I was to continue to find work, I knew I had to make my performance different.
‘I hit upon the idea for my current entertainment only a few months ago, and already it has changed everything. I don’t deny that the first time I performed it I was indescribably
nervous, but it has been such a success that I have had no time to feel ashamed. And next week, for the first time in my career, I am to be top of the bill at a theatre in town.’
She pointed to the box of books. ‘You see, the punishment for my fearful indecency is to escape the Stepney Mermaid.’
Dr Watson swallowed awkwardly. ‘Very pleased to hear it, Miss Phillimore. No place for a young lady… Rough crowd… Scoundrels out there… Upsets me to think… Bare brickwork… Damp, no doubt, too… Much better off in town.’
He swallowed again.
‘And you, er, never married? Dashed strange… Attractive young girl… Reads Keats… Likes the Downs… Admirers, surely… Surprised no nice young man… Take you away from all this… Can’t imagine why… Society too prudish…’
He tailed off with a gulp and studied the cobwebs above the door with great interest. Miss Phillimore watched him for a moment, a quiver of amusement on her lips.
‘In my profession, doctor, I meet very few young men of the sort I might wish to marry, and of course, those I do meet have no desire to marry me. Not many are willing to take the risk my father took.’
‘And your brother, Miss Phillimore,’ I put in, afraid we were drifting a little off the point. ‘What about him?’
She nodded and gave a sad little shrug.
‘Nearly fifteen years passed from the day my mother took him away to the day I met him again. Even that meeting was by chance. I had asked after him, of course, but I had never been able to track him down. Growing up at my mother’s side, he had very soon been encouraged to fill the role of child entertainer, so he had gone under many strange names. Then one day we found ourselves in the same theatre, and by some miracle we succeeded in recognising each other. Our reunion was a joyous one.
‘As a child performer, my brother had been a tremendous success. He had indeed earned more at the age of eight than my mother ever earned. The stage was the only life he knew and he basked in his success. However, by the time I was reunited with him, his stage career was over and he had become a disappointed man. It appears that his particular act had not survived the transition into manhood. He had found himself slipping down the bill until one day he slipped off it altogether. And to make it worse, he was in love with his childhood sweetheart, a very pretty young girl called Polly Perkins. As James’ success evaporated, hers was growing, and it was soon clear she was destined to top the bill in playhouses well beyond Stepney. It became harder and harder for the two to keep in touch, and her successes only served to emphasise his failure. Eventually James refused to see her anymore, saying he didn’t want to be a blight on her career. He declared that he was to abandon theatre work altogether and would take a job as a clerk.’
‘But you kept in touch, miss?’
She shrugged again. ‘He disappeared. I had no idea where he worked or even what name he went by. But at the beginning of every month he always came to watch my act. Mostly he wouldn’t even stay to talk – I think coming to the shows made him sad. He would just watch from the stalls and wait until he’d caught my eye, then leave. But this month he didn’t come. I have been watching for him every day, but nothing. So when I saw the advertisement in Plays & Players, I determined to write in the hope that there might be some news.’
Dr Watson was nodding understandingly at this, as though there was nothing else about James Phillimore that his sister could possibly add. But, in contrast, I was almost beside myself, tapping my feet and burning with excitement as the full import of Maud Phillimore’s words began to dawn on me.
‘One thing, miss. It’s really important. What was your brother’s particular talent? What act was it that he found himself unable to continue as an adult?’
‘Why, it is a common story for performers in his line. As children there are many who can be flexible, but only very few retain that ability totally undiminished into adulthood.’
Dr Watson was looking puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite see . . .’
Miss Phillimore gave a wry smile. ‘As a child my brother was mostly known as Folding Freddie, the Boy in the Box. He could fold himself up to the size of a football. His speciality was appearing out of specially large top hats. Yes, Flotsam, that’s right – my brother was a child contortionist.’
*
Just as I had experienced problems in getting him there, so it was with some difficulty that I eventually dragged Dr Watson away from Miss Phillimore’s dressing room. He had clearly been most affected by the story she had told us, and in addition, having found a safe haven, he seemed most reluctant to brave again the storm of greasepaint that prevailed outside. Nevertheless, eventually my repeated urgings succeeded in raising him to his feet and the goodbyes we said to Miss Phillimore were both grateful and sincere.
‘Mrs Hudson will find your brother, miss,’ I reassured her. ‘I’m sure she’ll have news soon.’
‘Indeed!’ confirmed Dr Watson. ‘I’m sure she will. Er, if she were to find anything of interest to you, where might we be able to contact you?’
‘I shall be at the Oriental for the next twelve weeks, doctor. A message will reach me there.’
‘Ah, the Oriental! Near Victoria. Pleased to hear it. Very handy for Hyde Park. Thoroughly recommend that as a place to take exercise. Even in this weather. Not quite the Downs, of course, but can’t be beaten for a good constitutional.’
‘I shall be sure to take your advice, doctor,’ she told him solemnly, and the pair shook hands before Dr Watson allowed himself to be hurried outside. Once we were out in the cold air, I allowed my urgency to show.
‘A cab, sir! We must hail a cab!’ I insisted. ‘We must get back to Mrs Hudson as quickly as we can.’
‘Really, Flotsam? Anything you say, of course. Not sure I fully understand the rush, though.’
‘Miss Phillimore’s brother, sir. What we have learnt tonight explains how he disappeared. You see, there was a coal chute from the street to the cellar, sir, but we didn’t think of it as a way of escape because someone would have to bend double to use it. But that’s exactly what James Phillimore can do! He may not be able to tie himself in knots as he did when he was a child, but I’m sure he’s still able to squeeze himself into a very small space!’
‘I see,’ Dr Watson replied, with no great conviction. ‘Folding Freddie, indeed! Very droll! But can’t see why it’s urgent, Flottie. Nothing to be done about it tonight.’
‘Yes, that’s true, sir. I just want Mrs Hudson to know as soon as possible. Please, sir, let’s keep moving!’
‘You don’t feel we should have offered to help Miss Phillimore pack her books, Flottie?’
‘No, sir. She’ll manage very well without us. And besides, sir, she was rather scantily dressed.’
‘Eh?’ Dr Watson looked momentarily nonplussed. ‘Ah! Yes. See what you mean. A bit indelicate to linger, perhaps. Still, we mustn’t blame the young lady for her unfortunate circumstances. Great strength of character… Admirable fortitude… Very thick dressing-gown… Nothing improper… Tragic tale… Fine woman… Ah! There’s a cab!’
So saying, he darted into the street, his arm raised enthusiastically, and a minute later we were on our way back to Baker Street.
For all my haste, it was late by the time we reached home. The heavy snowfall of the day before had been broken up by the busy traffic into a ghastly, syrupy slush, which the night air was now freezing into black and unforgiving ice. Our horse was properly shod for such weather, but many were not and progress through the busy streets was slow. It was about midnight when I bade goodnight to Dr Watson and slipped downstairs to the glowing sanctuary of the kitchen.
To my surprise, not only was Mrs Hudson still awake, she was busily at work icing the fruitcake that had gone uneaten on Christmas Day. By the time I arrived, the rich darkness of the cake was already enclosed in a thick crust of royal icing sugar, and Mrs Hudson was at work decorating the surface with swirls and patterns that were as elegant and detailed as marble friezes.
&nb
sp; She welcomed me with a nod of the head and a raised eyebrow.
‘Now, young Flotsam, if you are going to start attending music halls in Stepney with older gentlemen, I shall have to start worrying about you.’
‘But, ma’am,’ I stammered, ‘how could you know… ?’
She nodded again, this time at Mr Rumbelow’s note, which I had left lying open on the kitchen table.
‘Oh, I see! Of course the note was really for you, ma’am, but I thought you’d want to talk to Miss Fontaine before she moved on to another theatre and we lost her address. And you weren’t here, you see, so when Dr Watson offered to take me…’
Mrs Hudson dusted her hands against each other briskly.
‘You did quite right, Flotsam. Though I’m a little surprised at Dr Watson for taking you to such a show. I imagine he expected something rather different.’
‘Oh, he did, ma’am. You should have seen his face when Miss Fontaine started taking off her clothes! And although I’m calling her that, it isn’t her real name at all. Guess who she really is, ma’am!’
Mrs Hudson was unknotting her apron. ‘Go on, Flottie.’
‘She’s Maud Phillimore, ma’am. James Phillimore’s sister!’
Rather than throw up her hands or whistle or make some other gesture of surprise at this revelation, as I had secretly hoped she might, Mr Hudson merely nodded serenely.
‘Is she indeed? That’s very good work, Flotsam. Very good work indeed. And she will no doubt have told you about her brother’s peculiar talents?’
‘So you know that already…’ I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that my discovery had been anticipated, but in no more than a moment my excitement returned. ‘You see, ma’am, that’s how he was able to vanish from the cellar! And I know all about his past, too. His mother ran away to go on the stage. Do you think that’s what he’s done?’
‘I do, Flotsam, at least in a manner of speaking.’ She checked her icing with a damp finger, then straightened and smiled at me properly. ‘You’ve done very well tonight, Flottie, you really have. You have clearly learned a lot about our Mr Phillimore’s past that I know nothing about. I suggest we make ourselves a hot drink and swap tales. But first, what do you think of my icing?’