by Mrs Hudson
According to Dr Watson, it was at that point in proceedings – and with the most impeccable timing – that Mrs Hudson’s feet were heard in the corridor outside, and her firm knock rapped on the study door.
If I were to attempt a comparison, I should say that she swept into the study that evening the way a battleship sweeps into harbour: purposeful yet somehow majestic. In contrast, I trailed in her wake like a slightly damaged tender, painfully aware of the dark smuts on my cheeks and the slightly singed skirts around my ankles.
Our appearance was clearly dramatic, for all four gentlemen leapt to their feet upon our entrance.
‘My word, Mrs Hudson! What has happened?’ Dr Watson gasped, and I realised that all four were eyeing with astonishment the dark streaks of soot and ash that covered us.
‘We have been most concerned, Mrs Hudson,’ Holmes added. ‘And I see we were right to have been.’
The housekeeper looked down at her blackened hands and her scorched dress and dismissed them with an imperious wave of her arm.
‘It’s nothing, Mr Holmes. Flotsam and I have had a little difficulty with an oil lamp, but both of us are unscathed. Some excellent work by Flotsam with a blanket and the assistance of some passing navvies has seen us through the crisis. We are far more concerned that we were not present to light the fire here, sir. What must you think of us?’
Without waiting for reply, she busied herself in dabbing at the fireplace with the hearth brush.
‘Think nothing of it, Mrs Hudson,’ Mr Holmes reassured her. ‘I’m sure it must have been an extraordinary circumstance to keep you from your duties.’
‘Oh no, sir. Just a little clockwork toy we discovered, one which made us lose track of the time. You see, it was a toy that makes things disappear.’
At her words, Sherlock Holmes looked up sharply and even Dr Watson blinked a little.
‘Eh? What’s that, Mrs H? Makes things disappear?’
Mrs Hudson continued with her tidying. ‘Oh, it’s nothing very remarkable, sir. Certainly nothing that will surprise Mr Holmes.’
I noticed the great detective flush with pleasure, but he appeared reluctant to meet his companion’s eye.
‘Perhaps, Watson, I have been a little slow to share my reasoning with you. I know it is a fault of mine. Yet none of my conclusions have any required particular mental athleticism. The nature of the plot, the mechanism employed, the substitution required, these things can be deduce by pure reason. But the agent of this villainy, the identity of the remarkable individual we seek…’
He was interrupted by Sir John, who snorted as if in exasperation.
‘Really, Mr Holmes, you’re talking in riddles. Are you trying to tell me you have worked out how the Malabar Rose was stolen?’
A very faint smile played around my employer’s lips.
‘Stolen, Sir John? Stolen? I am pleased to inform you, sir, that nothing has been stolen. Do you really think I should have remained rooted here in Baker Street if that were the case? No, sir, I have never thought that. Not for one moment. That ruby of yours has not been stolen, it has simply been moved.’
The old soldier stirred dangerously in his seat.
‘Moved, stolen, what’s the difference? The point is that it’s gone.’
Mr Holmes continued to smile.
‘Forgive me. I should have been clearer. But in truth it is all very simple.’ He glanced across at the soot-stained figure by the fireplace. ‘And it seems that Mrs Hudson here thinks so too. What do you say, Sir John? Shall we hear her out?’
But Mrs Hudson was rubbing her hands briskly.
‘If you please, sir, Flotsam and I could do with five minutes to tidy ourselves up.’ She turned to Sir John. ‘Sir, if you would bear with us for a few moments, we have something to show you that I’m sure will be of great interest to you.’
And almost before he had time to acquiesce, she had bustled out, dragging me behind her as a comet drags its tail. When the doors had closed behind us, she turned to me and winked, then led me back to the kitchen, chuckling quietly to herself.
When, after some hasty ablutions, we returned to the study, we found the gentlemen ready to receive us; Sir John, with scarcely concealed annoyance, Lestrade a little impatiently, Mr Holmes with sly amusement at the confusion of his guests; and Dr Watson, still wearing his bright cravat, with a very full glass of whisky. Mr Holmes’ fire appeared to have recovered from its strange method of ignition and was burning brightly, and Dr Watson, with typical enthusiasm, had lighted every lamp in the room. It made for a warm and welcoming scene.
There was something welcoming too in Mr Holmes’ face as he greeted Mrs Hudson on her return to the study.
‘Now, Mrs Hudson,’ he began, ‘I believe you said something about a toy…’
‘Yes, sir,’ she agreed, ‘though a great deal of what Flotsam and I know, sir – and a great deal of what you don’t know – has been discovered entirely by accident, while giving a helping hand to Mrs Smithers in Ealing. So perhaps, sir, if I may begin there…’
Mrs Hudson started at the very beginning, describing to the assembled company Mrs Smithers’s visit to Baker Street and then our journey to her house in Ealing; our examination of its windows and doors, our inspection of its cellar and our observations concerning Mr Phillimore’s wardrobe. She spoke at some length about the cheap gloves that had recently been purchased in Islington and explained patiently about the recent Parisian fashion for lilac socks.
Outside in the quiet streets, more snow was falling. Inside, in contrast, the study had grown very warm, and from some hidden corner a tiny moth had appeared and was flickering helplessly around one of the lamps, as if released by the heat from its winter slumber. When Mrs Hudson began to describe our first visit to the street in Islington where the gloves had been bought, I could sense that her audience was growing a little restless. She had not gone a great deal further before Sir John felt the need to interrupt.
‘Gloves, Mrs Hudson? Neckwear? How can these things matter? They may be of interest to you, but I cannot believe you will ever persuade Inspector Lestrade that his officers would be more effective if better acquainted with Parisian fashions!’
His remark was met with a smirk by the inspector, but Mrs Hudson remained as serene and confident as if she were explaining the best way to bake scones on the range downstairs.
‘Forgive me, sir. Domestic commonplaces are a housekeeper’s business. Now tell me, sir…’ Her tone seemed suddenly firmer and more determined. ‘What exactly were you looking for when you searched the Satin Rooms after the disappearance of the Malabar Rose?’
Sir John arched an eyebrow and exchanged a bemused look with Lestrade.
‘Why, Mrs Hudson, we were looking for any possible way an object the size of the Malabar Rose could have been removed from that room.’
Mrs Hudson nodded knowingly.
‘Yes, sir. I rather thought so. I worked for a lady once, sir – I shan’t mention her name – who was sent an unsigned letter telling her that one of her maids had stolen a large silver candelabra from her drawing room. Now, this lady had long held suspicions of that particular maid and she was delighted to have these suspicions confirmed. She went straight down to the drawing room to see for herself, and when she saw that the candelabra had indeed been removed from its position at the centre of the mantelpiece, she called the police at once.’
‘Very unpleasant,’ Dr Watson sympathised. ‘Had a man in Afghanistan once who used to help himself to my snuff. Damned if I could ever catch him at it though. Did they ever track down the stolen candelabra, Mrs H?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t stolen, sir. In fact it was still in the drawing room, and only a few feet from where it always stood. Someone had simply moved it to a table on the other side of the room. But the lady of the house couldn’t see it there, and neither could the police.’
‘But why on earth not?’
‘You see, the lady had been led to anticipate its theft, so looked no further th
an the place she expected the candelabra to be. And the police, well, they’d been told it was stolen, they’d even been told the name of the thief, so it never occurred to them that the object in question might still be sitting there under their noses. It was only when the girl who did the dusting got to work the following morning that the situation was resolved.’
At the denouement of this little tale, Sir John let out an impatient exclamation.
‘A very amusing little story, Mrs Hudson, but surely you aren’t suggesting that the ruby was still somewhere in the Satin Rooms and yet somehow we failed to find it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Mrs Hudson replied, her face impassive.
‘You mean you are suggesting that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
At this, Sir John could restrain himself no longer. ‘Do you take us for fools?’ he spluttered furiously.
Mrs Hudson looked at him calmly. There was a slight pause.
‘Going back to Mr Phillimore, sir,’ she went on, ‘I mentioned there was a toy-maker’s shop on the street where he bought his gloves…’ Inspector Lestrade rolled his eyes at the mention of Mr Phillimore’s name, but it was going to take more than that to deflect Mrs Hudson. ‘Flotsam and I visited that shop today, sir. And instead of finding a good doll for a shilling, we discovered some very interesting bits and pieces. I have something I’d like to show you.’
She moved purposefully to the door but paused by the lamp where the moth still fluttered. Very carefully she reached out and caught it between her cupped hands, and then left the room in silence.
When she returned a minute later, it was with a small parcel loosely wrapped in brown paper. This she placed solemnly on a low chest marked ‘Cords, Garrottes and General Strangulation’ that stood beside Mr Holmes chair. Then, without any drama or fanfare, she put aside the brown paper to reveal a large velvet jewel case. Opened, this revealed a velvet pyramid – just the sort of stand upon which a large stone might be displayed.
‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Dr Watson, recognising it at once. ‘It’s the replica case. You remember, Holmes. Sir John left one here on his first visit.’
‘Very nearly, sir,’ Mrs Hudson corrected him. ‘It’s certainly quite like the replica case but it is not the same one. Let me show you something.’
She rummaged for a moment in the deep pocket of her apron, and it was noticeable as she did so that now, with the appearance of the jewel case, her audience was suddenly paying much closer attention. Even Sir John had leaned forward in his chair in order to observe the object more closely. I don’t know what magic or drama I was expecting from Mrs Hudson at this point, but I remember being most surprised at the object she produced from her apron – a neat, blue duck egg of unremarkable appearance. I was clearly not the only one to be a little taken aback either, for Sir John’s eyebrows rose dangerously.
‘An egg, gentlemen,’ she explained, in case there was any doubt. ‘You’ll agree, I hope, that it is about the size of the Malabar Rose. Now, watch…’
She reached down to the jewel case and balanced the egg on the apex of the velvet pyramid, so that it perfectly filled the hollow intended for the ruby. There was another quickening of interest in the room now, and I could see all four gentlemen edging closer in their seats. Of the three, only Sherlock Holmes looked at ease. Indeed, the expression on his face seemed to convey more amusement than suspense.
‘So what now, Mrs Hudson?’ Dr Watson asked, slightly puzzled.
Mrs Hudson looked up at the clock. ‘We wait, sir. Timing is very important to all this. The timing needed to be perfect, you see. Probably Perch is the only man in the kingdom capable of getting it exactly right.’
‘Eh? I’m not sure that I follow, Mrs H,’ Dr Watson grunted. ‘What exactly are we waiting for? It’s not about to hatch, is it?’
‘Ssssh! One moment, sir.’
She was watching the clock intently now. The hands stood one minute short of the hour and I realised she was waiting for the clock to strike. Even Dr Watson seemed to sense the importance of the moment, and he, like the rest of us, fell silent and watched the minute hand as it edged slowly towards the perpendicular.
That minute seemed to take an age to pass. Mrs Hudson, for all her apparent serenity, appeared as absorbed as the rest of us. As we watched, the silence thickened around us, stirred only by the ticking of the clock. So when, with a click, the minute hand finally edged home, that noise was enough to make me jump, and the chimes that rang out seemed to boom like church bells. But the egg, which we were all now studying with unashamed intensity, did nothing. It continued to sit where the ruby should have been, looking faintly ridiculous. When the last stroke of nine faded away and still nothing had happened, there was a general shifting in seats and, from Sir John, another exclamation of impatience.
‘What now?’ he demanded.
But his question went unanswered for at the very moment he spoke, the egg began to move. A faint whirr of clockwork started up from somewhere inside the case and, as we watched in astonishment, the velvet pyramid on which the egg rested seemed to shrink into itself, so that very gradually, very gently, the egg was being lowered into the dark base upon which it stood. Fascinated by its progress, we watched until the pyramid had become a hollow and the egg had reached the floor of the case. When it could sink no lower, the velvet slopes that supported it began to open, creating a hole through which the egg fell softly. For a moment it rested upright, its balance almost perfect, but then, inevitably, it toppled to its side and rolled away, out of sight into the concealed depths of the box. The opening of the velvet panels had another effect too, for as the egg disappeared, something small came fluttering upwards into the light.
‘That moth!’ I gasped and Mrs Hudson nodded, as the tiny creature flapped up into the shadows in search of a dark crevice in which to hide. Now, with the egg hidden and the moth released, the velvet sides of the pyramid were moving upwards again, and by the time the minute hand of the clock showed two minutes past the hour, the jewel case was exactly as it had been before – but for one significant difference: the egg, instead of resting on top of the case was now securely hidden inside it.
The impact of this demonstration on the four gentlemen was no less than extraordinary. Sir John leapt to his feet but appeared lost for words. Inspector Lestrade was shaking his head as if in disbelief, quietly repeating the word ‘Blimey!’ to himself. Dr Watson mopped his brow with an unusually lurid silk handkerchief.
‘Bravo, Mrs Hudson!’ he declared with great enthusiasm.
‘Superb,’ Holmes agreed, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘Mrs Hudson, it is exactly as I imagined it. Logically, there could have been no other explanation. But what superb work! What a magnificent mechanism!’ He turned then to Sir John. ‘So now you see, sir, the stone is not stolen, it has simply moved. That is why I have insisted that the Satin Rooms remain as closely guarded now as they were before. So long as Lestrade’s men are keeping careful watch, the Malabar Rose is as a safe there as anywhere. You see, sir, the architects of this villainy relied upon us lowering our guard. In fact their entire scheme depended upon our panicking and behaving like imbeciles. But by maintaining our vigilance we have thwarted them, and now our best hope of apprehending those responsible lies in patience. Mark my words, Sir John, if we keep alert and do nothing, it is only a matter of time before they will show their hand. We should expect some sort of attempt to storm the Satin Rooms, and we should expect it soon. When it comes we shall have our perpetrators!’
Sir John, however, was showing no sign of triumph. A look of utter horror had distorted his features.
‘But it can’t be true!’ he gasped, an observation he repeated, apparently in the hope that someone would support it. ‘The case the ruby stood on came from the Royal Jewellers. I received it from them myself and brought it to the Satin Rooms in person.’
‘Hmmm, Sir John has a point, Mrs Hudson,’ conceded Dr Watson. ‘I can’t see the Royal Jewellers pulling a trick like that, what
?’
‘The boxes were switched, sir.’ Mrs Hudson’s air of serenity remained undisturbed. ‘A visitor called at Sir John’s house a few days ago. The butler allowed him into the entrance hall, but found him gone almost as soon as he had turned his back. Of course, he hadn’t really left the house. He had hidden himself in the chest that decorates Sir John’s hall, along with the clockwork jewellery case that he intended to substitute for the real one. That night, when the household was asleep, he emerged, found the original case in Sir John’s study, switched the two, and left by a downstairs window. The timer was already set, of course, and the chrysalis of the butterfly was on the inside and on the point of hatching.’
‘It seems a dashed complicated way of doing it, Mrs H,’
‘Oh, no, sir. It had to be done like that. If there had been any sign of breaking and entering, Sir John would have been immediately on his guard. But this way there was no sign the switch had taken place. The butler found an unlatched window the next morning, but being a man of advancing years he assumed he had simply failed to close it properly on his nightly rounds.’
‘But how did they know what the jewellery case looked like, Mrs H?’ Dr Watson asked. ‘And how could they possibly have made a copy beforehand?’
‘Really, sir,’ Mrs Hudson replied sternly, ‘all the jewellery cases made by the royal jewellers are made to the same design. It is their special feature.’
‘I don’t believe a word!’ Sir John’s colour had deepened to a rich burgundy and the veins were standing out in his temples. ‘That bit about the chest is ridiculous. The chest in my hallway is tiny. Honestly, Mr Holmes,’ he continued, almost imploringly, ‘no man could fit into it.’
‘Mr James Phillimore could, sir. A man with what they call double joints. He was also able to squeeze himself up the coal chute in Sefton Avenue. And incidentally, that’s how he could assist the Great Salmanazar in his escape trick.’
‘Eh? Sorry, Mrs Hudson,’ Dr Watson put in, ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.’