Mrs Hudson and the Malabar Rose

by Mrs Hudson

  ‘Yes, Blue, it’s all there.’ I looked down, overwhelmed, suddenly full of guilt for all the anger I’d been carrying with me. ‘But I don’t understand. I gave you this to settle your debts, so you could make a clean start. But that was lies. There was no job where you said. And Mrs Hudson saw you picking pockets at the theatre.’

  ‘She did not!’ Suddenly his small face was full of fire. ‘I wasn’t picking pockets. I wasn’t. I was putting stuff into pockets, I was. Playin’ cards, that’s what they were gettin’. Nothin’ wrong with that, is there? No law ’gainst givin’ folks stuff, is there?’

  In the dim light I could sense rather than see that he was flushed with indignation.

  ‘No, that’s true,’ I agreed. ‘But…’ I paused. ‘Perhaps you should just tell me everything.’

  And this time he did, I was sure of that. If only because there seemed no reason to lie now.

  ‘What I said, ’bout a clean start, it was the honest truth, it was. I knew that I needed to buy myself out. But I never had the money. I used to just sort of dream that someone ’ud give me money out of the blue – just give it, honest-like, so I could get away. An’ I knew just what I’d do if I had it.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘You heard of a place called New Zealand? Everyone says it’s the place to go. There’s chances out there for someone like me.’

  At first I thought he was lying again. This tiny, Thames-eel of a boy who knew nothing but London, to be dreaming of a land so strange and so far away – it seemed impossible to believe. But then the faint light from the street fell for a moment on his face and I saw those amazing blue eyes lit up with something pure and wonderful. They were the eyes of a visionary, a dreamer grasping for his dream.

  ‘What sort of chances, Blue? I’ve heard it’s hard over there.’

  ‘I don’t mind hard. And I’m quick and I learn fast. Faster ’n anyone. Oh, not book stuff. But how to do things. Mend things. An’ I can sell. Can sell anyone anythin’. I just ain’t got nothin’ to sell.’ His eyes drifted back to me. ‘So I’ve been savin’. For the boat. But it takes so long to save, ’cos all I steal I have to give most of it back to the gang. So I just lies awake at night an’ dream.’

  When he paused, I didn’t speak. I felt too moved by the feeling in his voice.

  ‘When I saw you, Flottie, that night when you grabbed my hand, I sort o’ felt like you weren’t the same as the others. Dunno why. Just knew you was different. And then yer goes and gives me that money. No one’s ever done that. Not ever. Made me feel all funny, it did. So I took it to old Monk, the gang-master, and I told him I was quits, that he’d never see me again. An’ he never will.’

  ‘And the theatre, Blue? What was that all about?’

  ‘That was the job I told you about. Didn’t like to tell you what it was, ’cos I thought you’d not like it much, so I made something up. But this thin guy come up to a mate o’ mine in the street, told him there was three guineas for him and his mates if we does some work for him and never tells no one. Three guineas, Flottie. Think of it! An’ easy work too. So I took the money an’ did the work, then come straight here to give you back what’s yours.’

  Perhaps it was because it was late and I was tired, but there was something in his tale that brought a lump to my throat. I suddenly felt small and humbled.

  We talked for a long time that night. I learned that he was only a little short of the total he needed for his boat fare. He had no idea how he’d raise the remainder, but somehow he left me believing that he’d find a way. In return for his confidences, I told him why there were always so many policemen around the house and ended up telling him the whole story of James Phillimore: how his wife was looking for him and how Mr Rumbelow was holding a reward of £30 for anyone who found him, how Mr Holmes was setting a trap for him, how Mrs Hudson had somehow managed to snatch the Malabar Rose from his grasp.

  But that was not the end of that night’s talk, for when Blue came to leave I noticed a reluctance in him to step out into the night. At first I thought it might be the cold that deterred him, and I tried to persuade him to take my winter coat. But it was soon clear there was something quite different on his mind. Eventually he reached into his pocket again and drew something out in his closed palm.

  ‘That first time you spoke to me, Flottie. You asked me if my name was John.’

  ‘You reminded me of someone, that’s all.’

  ‘And you said about a picture.’

  ‘That boy I knew had a picture,’ I explained.

  ‘Pictures have writing, don’t they? To tell yer who they are.’

  ‘Some pictures do.’

  ‘I reckon you can read, Flottie.’ He was looking at me appraisingly.

  ‘Yes, Blue.’

  ‘Can you read this?’

  He opened his palm and showed me, resting in it, a slim oval locket. It was too dark to see the detail but when I took it from him he struck a match, and by that dancing light I could see it plainly.

  ‘You open it there,’ Blue whispered. ‘See? You pushes that…’

  The locket sprang open, revealing the portrait inside. A young woman smiling, indescribably lovely. The softness of that face, the smiling eyes with their mixture of love and laughter… I remembered her so clearly. And had any doubts remained, the words on the back, engraved in sloping letters, would have dispelled each one.

  To John, my loving husband

  For always and forever my life, my love

  Your wife for always,

  Sarah

  Before I could read it aloud, the match flickered out.

  ‘What’s it say, Flot?’ Blue was trying not to let his eagerness show. ‘I’ve never had anyone to ask before, you see. Does it say her name?’

  ‘Her name’s Sarah. I think she’s your mother,’ I told him. ‘The locket was her gift to your father. He was called John. It says she really loved him.’ I couldn’t hide the catch in my voice. ‘And, Blue, you and I, we’ve met before.’

  *

  The day that followed the heavy snowfall dawned grey and uninviting. The snow clouds hung low over the city and the smoke from London’s chimneys, trapped by the dark canopy above them, filled the air with a grey drizzle of soot. The streets that day were a bad place to be. Traffic struggled and tempers flared. The drifted snow was quickly churned by scrabbling hooves, and the pristine whiteness of midnight was churned into the filthy slush of dawn.

  Dr Watson, attempting an early morning walk in a mauve and green necktie, was quickly beaten back by the dirt and the confusion.

  ‘How is it, Mrs Hudson, that we can run an empire that spans the globe, but we can’t manage to keep a path open between Baker Street and Hyde Park on a snowy morning?’

  ‘No doubt the situation will improve, sir. Indeed, I trust it does, for Flottie and I have a call to make this morning. And indeed, you yourself will be calling on the Great Salmanazar this morning, will you not?’

  Dr Watson appeared gloomy at the prospect. ‘That’s right, Mrs Hudson. Must play my part. And I don’t mind. It’s just that I was very keen to fit in a walk in the park this morning.’

  ‘In this weather, sir?’

  Dr Watson looked suddenly nonchalant. ‘Oh, what’s a bit of snow? Can’t let it get in the way of a good walk, can we? Tell me, Mrs Hudson, what do you think of this necktie?’

  ‘A very colourful garment, sir.’

  ‘You think so?’ Dr Watson sounded doubtful. ‘I’m not sure myself. I might go and change it for something with a bit more character…’

  And with that, Dr Watson pottered back to his room, humming in rather a carefree manner.

  ‘Now, Flotsam,’ Mrs Hudson continued when he’d gone, ‘as I said, we have a call to make. An urgent one. The future happiness of any number of people is at stake. Who knows, it might even affect the colour of Dr Watson’s neckwear. So less of your yawning and on with your coat. I’ve known cats in creameries yawn less than that.’

&nbs
p; I felt this remark could not be allowed to pass, so as we readied ourselves for the rigours of the streets outside, I explained to Mrs Hudson about my nocturnal visitor. She listened with great attention and when I told her about the return of my savings she vowed to improve the locks on the kitchen door. When I described how Blue’s locket had proved that he really was the helpless child who had once clung so close to me, for some reason the telling of the story made me cry. Mrs Hudson said very little but allowed the tears to flow, diverting me deftly into a tearoom off Paul Street so that when at last the sobs ran out of strength, I was faced with a steaming bowl of hot milk and a hearty plate of cinnamon toast.

  While the toast was being demolished with an appetite surprising in one so watery-eyed, Mrs Hudson explained by way of a diversion that we were on our way to see Lola Del Fuego.

  ‘And a very different sort of interview it will be this time,’ she declared menacingly and, as it proved, entirely correctly. For the Lola that we found at the Blenheim Hotel had none of the sheen or the freshness that I remembered from our first interview. She still possessed an imperious beauty, though now there were dark circles under her eyes and a hollowness in her cheeks, as if anxiety had pinched them tight. At first she refused to see us but relented even before her message of refusal had reached us. When we were shown into her rooms, she flew at us in a grand Iberian passion.

  ‘Ah, so it is you!’ she raged. ‘You, who since your visit to me all things go wrong! I am here like a bird in a cage. Your police say, no, I cannot leave. Cannot walk in the streets. Cannot send letter to man I will marry. I know nothing what goes on, only you lose your silly ruby and you think, ‘Ah! Lola is foreigner, she has not friends here as she does in Spain. We say she steals stone. Then all his happy.’’

  Her eyes flashed venomously. ‘But is not true. I dance while ruby is lost. I dance. Many, many people see. So soon I go from here, and then you will see what happens, all you who treat me like so.’

  Mrs Hudson showed no sign of flinching in the face of this storm. She simply waited until the tirade had run its course, returning the dancer’s gaze with unruffled composure. Then, when the accusations had run out, she began slowly to unbutton her coat, as if readying herself for a long interview.

  ‘Now then, Polly Perkins,’ she began sternly, ‘I think we might all get on a little better in plain English, don’t you?’

  On hearing these words, the dancer paled as if all the passion and defiance had drained from her. Even so, she mustered her strength for one last, brave stand.

  ‘Poll-ee? Who is this Poll-ee? Is not my name. I am Lola Conchita Santa-Maria De La Cruz, and I speak the Spanish of Castile.’

  ‘No, you are Polly Perkins and you speak the English of Clapham Junction. Judging by your accent, you have never been to Castile, or indeed any other part of Spain, in your entire life. Now, my girl, I’ve no time for charades. If you don’t give up this ridiculous pretence at once, I’m afraid you’re going to find yourself in a great deal of trouble.’

  For a moment the younger woman hesitated, and I watched a succession of emotions play across her features – surprise, anger, fear . . . At the end of them all, came a sudden and unexpected surrender, and I watched a tense, watery smile appear on her lips. When she spoke, it was with the undisguised accent of south London.

  ‘So, you’ve found out about me. I can’t say I mind. I need someone to talk to more than I’ve ever needed anything in my life, and that’s the truth.’ Her lips trembled a little. ‘It’s driving me mad, being kept here with no idea what’s going on! If I don’t find out, I shall go insane, I know I shall.’

  She turned and beckoned us deeper into her suite of rooms, still struggling to control her emotions. ‘I’m sorry. I must stay calm. And you’re both cold. Come here, by the fire.’

  As we divested ourselves of our outside coats and began to warm our hands, Lola – Miss Perkins – was watching us with a curious expression.

  ‘I’ve heard of you,’ she said after a pause. ‘My cousin was in service. She said you helped her when she dropped some sort of old pot.’

  ‘The Hardwick vase? I recall her name was Thompson.’

  ‘Yes, she was from the other side of the family.’

  ‘I remember her well. I hear she is doing very nicely as a seamstress in Barnstaple now. And I believe Lord Hardwick is no longer trying to have her thrown into chains. Now . . .’ She fixed the dancer with her most reproving stare. ‘Now, your beau, James Phillimore, is making a great deal of trouble. The way he’s going, he’s likely to end up behind bars for a very, very long time.’

  ‘No!’ The hair comb Miss Perkins was playing with snapped abruptly between her fingers. ‘That can’t be true!’ she pleaded. ‘He’s not a bad man! It’s that Salmanazar! It’s him who should be in the dock, not my Jimmy!’ She broke down in a fit of weeping and covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, Mrs Hudson! I love him so! I’ve always loved him! I can’t bear for anything to happen to him. I can’t bear for him to go to prison. I’d rather give him up altogether than have that happen!’

  Mrs Hudson guided her gently into an armchair, but her voice was still stern. ‘It might yet come to that. Mr Phillimore has a wife, you know.’

  Miss Perkins’ shoulders began to shake with even greater wretchedness. ‘I know,’ she whimpered. ‘But only because he was trying to forget me! She doesn’t love him as I do! She cannot! I know she cannot!’

  Mrs Hudson eased herself into the chair opposite the stricken woman and signalled with an eyebrow for me to settle myself beside her.

  ‘Now then, Polly Perkins,’ she said softly, ‘I think the best thing you can do is to tell us everything right from the beginning…’

  *

  And that is how I heard for the second time how James Phillimore’s mother ran away from her home in the South Downs to return to the London stage, taking with her the young son who had been left in her charge on that fateful afternoon. With that desperate act began Mr Phillimore’s long journey from privileged country childhood to becoming, briefly and almost accidentally, the most wanted man in Britain.

  The experience of his early years, after his mother’s return to the grubby stages of the East End, was not, however, entirely without parallels. Like him, Polly Perkins had been brought up in London’s seedier halls of entertainment and the two had been thrown together from an early age. Each had been there to watch the other’s first, infant steps into the limelight, and each had been there to support the other as they had grown into seasoned child performers. The boy contortionist and the girl singer were soon seen by those around them to be particular friends, and that friendship grew and became something fonder as they began to leave their childhood behind them.

  But adulthood brought change, and Folding Freddie’s rather straightforward act did not translate to the adult stage, while his sweetheart’s voice grew everyday clearer and more beautiful. Yet that same voice cracked with emotion as Miss Perkins told us how Phillimore’s career had begun to crumble.

  ‘It never mattered to me that he wasn’t successful,’ she wailed. ‘I would have loved him if he’d been a dustman or a chimney-sweep. I just wanted him to be with me! But his pride wouldn’t allow it. He hated that I had money and he didn’t. He took to avoiding all his old friends, and he told his casual acquaintances that he was going to start a new life somewhere else. Then one day he just disappeared. He left me a note to say he loved me too much to hold me back, that one day I would forget him and would thank him for what he had done. But I couldn’t forget him! Not for a day. I went abroad and turned myself into Lola Del Fuego, but I never forgot him. All that time when there were counts and dukes and who knows what begging for my company, I could only think of how we used to laugh together, how he’d put his arms around me and make me feel I was the most special person in the world. By the time I went to Paris to perform with the Great Salmanazar, I’d almost forgotten what Jimmy looked like, but I still missed him. I missed him every day.’
>
  She looked up at us then, and smiled bravely through the tears. Polly Perkins had given up some of Lola Del Fuego’s exotic veneer, but she seemed to me to have gained a beauty of a different sort: the sort of simple sweetness you glimpse sometimes amid crowds on busy streets and which makes you for a moment forget the greyness of the day around you.

  ‘I’ll always remember that day in Paris when he walked in,’ she told us with a faint glow rising to her cheeks. ‘I felt my heart miss a beat and I thought I was going to fall to the ground. After all that time, to have him suddenly walk into the room so completely unexpected! And I could see he felt the same. It was like we’d never stopped thinking of each other. From that moment, we knew we had to be together. Oh, we knew it was wrong! Don’t think that we didn’t. But the touch of his fingers made me feel like I was melting, and there was nothing I wouldn’t give up just to be with him.’

  At that first meeting she learned that Phillimore was Salmanazar’s secret collaborator. He had been recruited by the illusionist because since his retirement he was no longer known in theatrical circles, and because he had not lost his simple talent for folding himself into tiny spaces. He was Salmanazar’s most jealously guarded secret, appearing only on the eve of performances and then disappearing again immediately afterwards, so that even the stagehands didn’t know how the magician was escaping from those tightly chained crates and those nailed-down coffins.

  ‘But Jimmy soon came to know about Salmanazar’s other business,’ Miss Perkins confided. ‘He knew about all those famous thefts, but he never had nothing to do with them!’ Miss Perkins became defiant at the thought. ‘He knew how Salmanazar used his act to slip away, knew about all the big robberies, but he was paid to keep quiet. He never got involved in any of them, at least not until…’ She hesitated, looking anxiously up at Mrs Hudson. ‘At least not until this time.’