Mrs Hudson and the Malabar Rose

by Mrs Hudson

  On arriving at the house in Bloomsbury Square, we found Rupert Spencer at home and able to confirm for himself the story that Miss Peters had sketched out. Although nobody seemed to know how the butterfly had been introduced into the Satin Rooms, it seemed certain that it must have passed through the hands of the toy-maker Perch. Mr Spencer had called on Perch that morning but had found no one at home. But, he declared firmly, he had given the name to Lestrade and he was pretty sure that Mr Perch was going to have a few questions to answer.

  When, in turn, I told him about how the toy-maker had already crossed Mrs Hudson’s path, Mr Spencer nodded thoughtfully, his brown eyes pensive and resting on my own.

  ‘So she’s onto something, is she? I thought she must be.’ He smiled again then, his eyes crinkling at the edges, and faced with the honest warmth of that look I almost told him of Mrs Hudson’s plan to call upon Perch that very evening. But fearing that she might not welcome a crowd of companions, I kept silent, and watched Mr Spencer help Miss Peters to another slice of ham, and thought how nice he was.

  But at a quarter to five that evening, as I made my way on foot through the dimly lit streets that led to Perch’s shop, I rather wished I had made a different decision. I had forgotten how quiet those streets were, how inimical to strangers. The winter night comes on very quickly in London when you are a little nervous or a little lonely, and that night, to my surprise, I found I was both. I hadn’t set out like that. I’d said my farewells to Miss Peters full of excitement at the thought of joining Mrs Hudson. But with every step I took away from the lights of Islington’s Upper Street, I found my confidence diminishing. The streets were very quiet just there, devoid of any of the commercial bustle I knew from central London, and by half past four they were empty but for occasional pedestrians, straggling their way homeward through a freshly-fallen layer of snow. The houses turned blind eyes to the street, their faces set in fixed and haughty frowns. And yet, as I passed them, there grew in me a sense of being watched, and I found myself shrinking deeper into my collar and keeping to the shadows. I would have given a great deal then to have had Rupert Spencer striding along beside me.

  At the corner of Kimber Street, I paused and let myself sink for a moment into the snow-wrapped silence. I’d hoped to meet Mrs Hudson before this, as she made her way here, but when I turned to look behind me I could make out nothing but the shadows and the pale pools of gaslight on the snow. I gathered my collar close to my neck and continued rather hastily along the row of shuttered shops to where the toyshop stood.

  As I approached, I noticed that this time there was no glow of lights from the old man’s shop as there had been before. And then, peering into the gloom, I realised that two figures were standing in the shadows near its door. Before I had time to worry about who they were or what they wanted there, one of them moved a little into the light and I recognised Mrs Hudson’s formidable figure. Her companion, however, I didn’t recognise: an elderly woman, hunched and rather scrawny. She seemed to be engrossed by her own conversation.

  ‘Gone, I tell you. Into thin air. He was there last night when I passed by back from the Angel and Trumpet. Working on something at the back of the shop, he was. But this morning his door was open to the street and when I went in looking for him, he was gone. Gone! With all his tools still on his bench, like he’d been carried off by angels straight to heaven.’ This thought made her cackle, a thin, reedy attempt at laughter that ended in a cough. ‘Or the Other Place!’ she concluded. ‘Most likely to the Other Place! Heh! Heh!’

  By now I had joined them and Mrs Hudson welcomed me with a nod.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Griffiths,’ she said firmly, drawing the conversation to a close. ‘Since the place is unlocked, I think we’ll just have a little look around before we go.’

  And quicker than the old woman could reply, Mrs Hudson seized my arm and thrust me through the door of Perch’s shop.

  The sight that welcomed us was very different from the one that had greeted our first visit. Then the whole shop had glowed with light and there had been more movement than the eye could easily take in. Now there was darkness and shadow, but much worse than that was the stillness. It seemed intense, unnatural, as if an enchanter’s spell had been cast over the figures that surrounded us. The poodle in the window had slumped into immobility, the hoop above its head forgotten; the Spanish dancer had stopped dancing, as if in the grip of a grim paralysis; and even the jack-in-the-box had failed to return to its box and hung, distended and limp, where it had fallen.

  ‘So old Perch has gone, has he?’ Mrs Hudson murmured. ‘I wonder what’s become of him?’

  But instead of replying, I told her as rapidly as I could what I had learned about Perch and the butterflies, and about the warning note thrust into Miss Peters’ hand.

  ‘I see,’ she mused as I brought my tale to an end. ‘I rather expected something of the sort. I have been taking care in my wanderings. But now, I think, we need to work out, if we can, what has happened to Perch. You take the front of the shop, Flottie, and I’ll take a look around the back.’

  ‘And what are we looking for, ma’am?’

  She looked sombre for a moment. ‘Anything we can find, Flotsam. And let’s hope it’s nothing grisly.’

  Perhaps it was those words that unsettled me, but as I began my investigation of the darkened shop, the unease that I had felt earlier began to grow. However hard I tried to be practical, I was unable to rid myself of a slight wariness and the feeling I was being watched. As I moved amongst them, the lifeless eyes of Perch’s mannequins seemed to follow me, and I began to fancy that each of them was somehow waiting for something to happen: waiting for me to discover something, or else to leave them to their silence. At one point I brushed against the half-sized figure of a soldier, only to cry out when his hand jerked instantly upwards into a crisp salute, as if caught sleeping on guard duty. However, his salute was never completed, for his energy waned with the action only half complete, and his hand sank slowly to his side, as though sleep had once again overcome him.

  Startled by my cry, Mrs Hudson thrust her head out from behind the curtain that separated Perch’s workroom from the front of the shop.

  ‘Back here, Flottie,’ she beckoned. ‘There’s something you should see.’

  In the back of the shop, safe from the eyes of the street, Mrs Hudson had felt able to light a candle, and by its light I could make out the outline of a crooked, cramped workshop, the benches covered with objects in a state of semi-construction. The item that had excited Mrs Hudson’s interest turned out to be a wooden crate which she had found pushed under one of Perch’s work benches. As she unpacked it, I saw that it contained a number of much smaller boxes in various stages of completion, some empty, some with complicated mechanisms fitted neatly into them. Folded amongst them, almost black in the dim light, were a number of lengths of thick, luxurious velvet.

  Mrs Hudson placed one of the more complete boxes on the bench in front of her. As well as four square sides, this one had been fitted with a hinged top in the shape of a truncated pyramid. Mrs Hudson wrapped a part of the dark fabric around it.

  ‘Does this remind you of anything, Flottie?’

  My heart gave a leap. ‘Of course, ma’am!’ It was as if the pieces fell into place with a huge and satisfying rush. ‘I understand it now, ma’am! I’m sure I do.’

  Mrs Hudson chuckled to herself, a low, happy chuckle. ‘Evidence at last, Flotsam. Real, solid, tangible evidence. How careless of Perch to leave these things behind. I think our visit must have panicked him, for it seems he left in an almighty hurry. Now we just need to find where he’s gone.’

  I returned to my search of the front of the shop, peering into dark corners and under furniture, not entirely sure what I was looking for. Although it had filled me with an uncommon sense of enlightenment, Mrs Hudson’s discovery had also added to my feelings of apprehension. The work benches abandoned in mid-task; the objects left behind that should have been dest
royed; the stock of the shop unsold and untended: these things preyed on my mind. And while they did, each set of unseeing eyes followed me as I passed.

  Determined to keep my imagination in check, I tried as hard as I could to thrust these thoughts from my head. After all, there was no reason why anything untoward should have befallen the old shopkeeper. There were a hundred and one reasons why he might have gone away, none of them in the least bit sinister. Why should I be thinking the worst? People didn’t just disappear…

  It was at this point in my investigations that I came to the clockwork magician.

  For a moment I thought of calling out to Mrs Hudson. His face was hideous, frozen in a mocking, inhuman grin. His eyes seemed to follow me. But I wouldn’t run away. I took a deep breath and waited patiently until I had regained my composure. One should investigate calmly, I told myself, or not at all.

  The large crate that stood next to the mannequin was the size of a man, its door firmly closed. It was in this crate that Perch had placed his hat before it vanished. It was also, I realised, the most capacious, most practical, most obvious place to hide something in the entire shop. Especially if it was something large. Something the size of a man…

  Once again I hesitated. The arm of the mechanical magician had come to rest reaching out towards the door, in such a way that I would have to touch the arm to reveal the contents of the crate. And confronted with this obstacle I found I had no great enthusiasm for touching that pale, waxen hand. In my head I heard Miss Peters’ voice, all wistful, saying, ‘It must be wonderful to have so much excitement, Flottie!’ and I sincerely wished that she were with me then, for I felt sure that she would have flung open the door without a second thought. Emboldened by this reflection, I reached out, shut my eyes, and tugged the door open . . .

  ‘So now we know what happened to Perch.’ Mrs Hudson’s voice sounded at my shoulder, uncommonly grave and sombre. I realised I still hadn’t opened my eyes. ‘He’s gone to a much warmer place, Flotsam,’ she continued, ‘and there’s little we can do about it now.’

  ‘You mean… ?’ I could hardly bear the promptings of my own imagination, and yet they still seemed better than opening my eyes.

  ‘Yes, Flotsam. Cape Town. I’ve heard the climate there is wonderful. And as good a place as any to hide a guilty conscience. I don’t suppose he’ll be needing those anymore.’

  Blinking my eyes open, I saw that she was pointing into the crate, where, instead of the crumpled, bloodied corpse which I had fully convinced myself must be lying there, there was nothing but a pair of broken spectacles. Apart from those, the crate stood empty.

  ‘But…’ I stammered, ‘I thought…’

  ‘Yes, Flottie, I admit I was a little worried too. But look, I found this in the next room. It’s a typed note confirming a first class passage to South Africa on the Queen Sophia. She left Southampton at noon today. Whatever Perch’s role in all this, it would appear his employers are not ungenerous.’

  ‘But what’s to be done, Mrs Hudson? Is there nothing we can do to stop him?’

  Mrs Hudson’s answer to that question was never clear, for as she began to speak, the silence of the shop was fractured by a terrible crash of glass, and the toyshop’s front window crumpled into fallen shards. Amid the fragments, a half-brick pitched onto the floor and rolled to a rest at our feet. Before either of us had time even to flinch, the brick was followed by a burning oil lantern, thrown so that it shattered against the wall beside us. From it, in a swathe of liquid beauty, flowed a great, golden arc of flame.

  Chapter XVI

  The Clockwork Thief

  That evening, Mr Holmes’ study in Baker Street played host to a select gathering of those most concerned with the fate of the Malabar Rose. Later I was to hear various accounts of what passed; from Dr Watson, from Sir John, from Mr Holmes himself. Between them, even allowing for any embellishments and omissions, and for the forgetfulness inevitable with the passing years, those gentlemen painted for me a picture of the scene that was both vivid and rather touching.

  Mr Holmes had been the first to return and had been surprised to find his rooms unlit and the grates uniformly cold. Ever the practical man, he had attempted to light the fire in the study by means of a flask of spirit of naphtha, which he happened to notice at the front of his own chemical cabinet. While he was engaged in this rather perilous activity, Dr Watson entered the room, whistling brightly and sporting a cravat of alarming yellow and blue swirls. It was an adornment wasted on his friend, who at that point was close to losing his eyebrows to the conflagration he had engendered.

  ‘Where the devil have you been all this time, Watson?’ he snapped impatiently. ‘We have a major case on our hands, our reputations hang by a thread, and in the middle of it all, I find you have taken yourself off somewhere. To make matters worse, we don’t have a fire and the place is as dark as a morgue.’

  ‘Sorry, old man,’ his friend replied, his equanimity undented. ‘Went for a stroll in the park. Hyde Park, you know. Thought it would be good for my constitution. Most refreshing. It’s amazing what a walk can do for you. I feel a new man.’ He paused and sniffed the fire suspiciously. ‘Mrs Hudson not in then?’

  ‘Evidently not,’ Mr Holmes observed dryly. ‘I should hardly undertake this task for recreation, should I?’ He pulled out his watch. ‘Watson, it’s nearly seven o’clock on one of the shortest days of the year. You cannot have been in the park until this hour.’

  The doctor flushed slightly. ‘May have stopped off for a pot of tea, too. Just to refresh myself, don’t you know? Get the old grey cells working…’

  ‘Really, Watson,’ Mr Holmes returned rather testily, ‘this is most unlike you. We are expecting Sir John Plaskett and Inspector Lestrade at any moment and, as you have no doubt divined, neither Mrs Hudson nor Flotsam is anywhere to be found.’

  Dr Watson took a step away from the fire, which was threatening to ignite the objects on the mantelpiece above it.

  ‘A bit rum, that,’ he decided. ‘Never known Mrs H to let us down before.’

  ‘There may be more grounds for concern than you imagine, my friend. Look at what I discovered on Mrs Hudson’s kitchen table.’

  He produced from his pocket the strange note that I had received earlier that day and placed it in front of his companion.

  sTop yoUr SnOopiNg oR face tHe consEqueNcEs

  Dr Watson studied it with such incomprehension that it might have been a species of exotic fish.

  ‘But surely this note is intended for you, Holmes? Mrs Hudson must have forgotten to bring it up.’

  ‘You think so, Watson? I fear you are overlooking an important detail.’

  ‘And what is that, Holmes?’

  ‘If you cast you mind back over recent events, you may notice that we haven’t actually done any snooping yet. Although it is hardly a word I would choose to employ when describing our activities, Watson, it is certainly one that implies a degree of activity. Since the Malabar Rose disappeared we have pondered a great deal, but we have done rather less. This note was composed by someone who feels threatened. And although this period of contemplation has not been wasted, it is hard to conceive that anything we have done thus far would intimidate even the most timid of criminals.’

  Dr Watson considered this hypothesis. ‘Hmm, I take your point, Holmes. But really, why would anyone wish to threaten Mrs Hudson?’

  Mr Holmes paused, and for a moment seemed unsure how to express himself.

  ‘It may perhaps have come to your attention, Watson, that Mrs Hudson is not like other housekeepers. You will surely have noticed that she shows uncommon speed of thought for one in her position. And I fear that in the last few days she has rather taken to heart that drab little case in Ealing…’

  ‘You mean there might be something in that disappearance tale after all? Dashed inconvenient of her to let it get in the way of your investigations though, Holmes.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I confess to some slight feelings of an
xiety on her behalf. For now, however, there is little we can do. I have created a very fine fire. If you were to light the lamps, I feel we can go ahead with our appointment this evening as if nothing were amiss.’

  That something was amiss, however, was apparent from Mr Holmes’ demeanour that evening. His discussions with Sir John and Inspector Lestrade centred on their attempts to interrogate the Great Salmanazar, and on their questioning of the rest of his troupe. But they had little to report. The illusionist had simply insisted that he was on stage in front of a thousand people at the time of the theft, and that therefore their questioning was both pointless and impertinent. And on coming up against such a formidable defence, their investigations had inevitably foundered. This failure left both men vexed and short tempered, and when, for the fourth time, Mr Holmes crossed the room to peer through the window, Sir John’s patience finally gave way.

  ‘Really, Mr Holmes!’ he snorted. ‘We are involved in an issue of unparalleled importance, one which the Palace itself has placed in our hands, and frankly we have made an appalling mess of it. I hardly think it unreasonable to expect your undivided attention for an hour or two.’

  Mr Holmes turned from the window. ‘You must forgive me, Sir John. I am concerned about my housekeeper. She was expected home rather earlier than this…’

  ‘Your housekeeper, Mr Holmes?’ the soldier exploded. ‘Really, sir! I hardly see how your housekeeper can be of the slightest interest to us when we are facing both national disaster and personal disgrace of the most public kind.’

  ‘Which shows how little you know Mrs Hudson, sir,’ Mr Holmes snapped. ‘You remember that question she asked of you? About the furniture in your hallway? Perhaps if we had paid more attention to that at the time… However, I agree that for now we must apply ourselves to the problem in hand. You say you have rounded up a large number of London’s known criminals?’