by Mrs Hudson
It is hard now to explain my reaction to what I saw that night, hard to convey the utter weariness that seemed to weigh on every limb or the paralysis that gripped my thoughts almost as tightly as my body. In one corner of the kitchen, not far from where I dozed, there was a small, low wooden chest that we used for kitchen linen. It was no more than two feet across and less than that in height, and in my search of the kitchen it had never occurred to me look inside something so small. But now, as I looked, another movement in the shadow caught my eye, and the lid of the box began to lift as if raised by an invisible hand.
I should have screamed or jumped to my feet, but I simply could not – it was as if fear like an opiate had numbed my senses, giving me no choice but to watch. From inside the box a dark arm appeared. It was followed by another, easing the lid upwards until it fell open, revealing narrow shoulders and a head too dark in the half-light to be blessed with features. Slowly, like a shade emerging from the underworld, the dark figure emerged from its box.
At no point had it made the slightest sound, and only when it turned and stepped out into the kitchen did I hear its footfall on the stone flags. That sound, tiny as it was, broke the spell that bound me and suddenly I found my feet, rushing as fast as I could for the kitchen door, for the street that lay beyond. I had surprise in my favour, for as soon as I moved I heard a gasp of astonishment behind me. But my own precautions proved my downfall, for when I reached the door I found the bolts pushed firmly home and as I struggled to release them, the dark figure was upon me. His arms went around me and he lifted me bodily back into the kitchen. As he did so, the light from outside fell on his features and I saw for the first time the face of James Phillimore, the disappearing man.
To my utter surprise, it was a kind face. I had imagined villainy, cunning, relentless determination. But pale as it was, and lined as if by years of disappointment, I sensed in it no malice, no pleasure in the task it contemplated. Before that night I had never imagined what he looked like, thinking of him only as the faceless clerk of Ealing, the man of whom his own wife had never bothered to own a portrait. Even in his crimes, he was strangely faceless. We knew about his socks and his ties, but nothing about the looks of the man who wore them; and in his appearances for the Great Salmanazar his role had always been to lurk unnoticed, his presence unguessed at by the stagehands around him. He had somehow stolen into the story of the Malabar Rose by stealth, leaving no trace behind him but his name.
But now, suddenly and shockingly, he was real, with strong arms forcing me back into my chair.
‘Not a word!’ he whispered urgently. ‘Any sound at all and I will gag you, I swear I will.’ Then he reached behind him for one of Mrs Hudson’s immaculately folded sheets and began to knot my hands together behind the back of the chair.
‘I know who you are!’ I told him fiercely, suddenly angry at his bullying. ‘You’re James Phillimore. We know all about you.’
He smiled, and even though his lips were pinched with anxiety it was not an unpleasant smile. ‘I’ve come to fame too late then. Look, I don’t want to hurt you but, by God, I swear I will if I have to. I haven’t come this far to fail now. Now tell me, where is the Malabar Rose?’
I met his eye without flinching. ‘It’s at Sir John’s house. Sir John Plaskett. He’s got it.’
‘Liar!’ he cried, and I glimpsed then something of the passion that gripped him. His breathing was unsteady, and there was a desperation in his voice that he fought to control. ‘I’ve been watching Sir John. Him and that policeman, they haven’t a clue where it is.’ He fixed me with eyes that flared with anger. ‘No, it’s that housekeeper who has it. She took it from the Blenheim Hotel. Oh, I’d be away and clear with the stone in my pocket by now if it wasn’t for her! Now where is it?’
He shook me then, but there something in the way he did it that made me suddenly sorry for him. He was angry, yes. I could see that. But not angry at me, not even angry at Mrs Hudson, angry at the fates that had thwarted him, and angry at his own helplessness. It was the choking, flailing desperation of a man who has reached for his dream but cannot quite catch hold of it.
I waited until he took his hands from my shoulders, then looked him in the eye and replied quite calmly.
‘I don’t know where it is. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t tell me.’
Something in my voice clearly convinced him, for he stepped away and began to look around him.
‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘I’ll start upstairs. You’re coming with me, though. I want to keep an eye on you.’
The ransacking of our rooms that followed was of an unimaginable scale. Working at a ferocious pace, he moved through Mr Holmes’ and Dr Watson’s rooms, turning out every drawer, emptying every chest. The neatly catalogued filing cabinets were toppled to the ground and every tray ripped from them and overturned. Nothing was spared. Soon the neat and tidy rooms were lost beneath a carpet of debris. When he failed to find anything resembling a ruby in any of the cabinets, he produced a knife and began to cut out the upholstery of chairs and to disembowel cushions, cutting the throats of pillows so that they bled white feathers into the air.
While he did all this, his forehead was beaded with sweat, but, strangest of all, he talked. At first he gave a muttered commentary on his searching, but soon it was clear his words were not intended for me but were a fiery, fractured monologue aimed at the Fates with whom he duelled.
‘Please,’ he muttered over and over. ‘Please, please let me find it. I swear it will be the last thing. I’ll go away. Away. Never ask anything more.’ He overturned a small cabinet full of letters written in invisible ink. ‘It isn’t for me. I was prepared to let her go, to let my life drain away in Ealing if it meant I didn’t pull her down. I asked nothing then. Nothing! And not once did I complain. Not once! But then you sent her back to me. I never asked for that! And she loved me. She loved me!’ He sliced through the leather arms of an armchair. ‘It’s for her. All this is for her. So she can have the things she deserves. Not for me. None of it for me.’
Suddenly he dropped to his knees amid the wreckage of the room and put both hands to his face.
‘Oh, God! Please show me where it is! I love her. I love her so.’
He remained in that position for some moments, weeping soundlessly, apparently oblivious to my presence. When he finally rose to his feet, there was a grim determination in his face.
‘It’s as I thought,’ he said. ‘She’s hidden it downstairs.’
If I found the destruction of Mr Holmes’ study difficult to witness, the chaos now unleashed on Mrs Hudson’s kitchen filled me with despair. That place was my sanctuary, and to see it so defiled was to feel my whole life overturned. Worse even than that was the certainty in my own heart that this was where the Malabar Rose was hidden. At any moment he might discover it! Even now he was in the pantry, swiping food off the shelves to see what might be concealed behind. And while the crashing and the banging continued, I listened for the striking of the clock. It was after three now. Surely Mrs Hudson come home soon?
Finally, when every inch of the kitchen and the adjoining bedrooms had been devastated by his search, Phillimore came to stand before me.
‘That trapdoor there, where does it lead?’
‘There’s a little cellar.’
He looked at me for a moment. I was still tied to my chair. He had carried it with him as he moved me around the house so that in every room I had been tied down and there had been no chance of escape.
‘I can’t take you down there with me. So I’m afraid I must make you a little more secure.’
He had already tied me by my wrists but now he took another sheet and secured me by the ankles too. Then he placed a handkerchief in my mouth and tied a pillowcase tightly around it.
‘That should hold you,’ he said, and stooped to pull open the bolt that kept the trapdoor in place.
I had allowed myself to be gagged with no great struggle because I was sure the cellar was too obvious a
place for Mrs Hudson to have hidden the Malabar Rose. Every moment he spent there was time when the true hiding place was safe. It was therefore with some satisfaction, bound and gagged as I was, that I watched James Phillimore take up the oil lamp and descend the ladder, leaving me alone and in near darkness.
My instinct as soon as he had gone was to see if there was anything I could do to loosen my bonds. My first attempts were aimed at working free my hands and feet, but in both cases I quickly found that the knots binding me were tight and would not easily give. However, before I could test them to any significant degree, I heard something. Not James Phillimore’s triumphant progress of destruction. Something quite different: an indistinct sound of scraping from one corner of the room. It was too dark to make out what had caused it, but just as I was beginning to believe that it had been something moving in the street outside, I heard it again – the creak of iron grinding slowly over iron.
Downstairs I could hear boxes crashing to the floor and being kicking open. But now my attention was entirely focused on one corner of the room. Despite the darkness, I could make out a movement there now, and my heart raced at the sight. Someone was unbolting the kitchen door. Not from the inside, but from the outside, with a wire, working it through the crack of the door. My rescuers, whoever they were, had arrived!
But their progress was clearly very slow. And there was very little time left: very soon James Phillimore would return to the kitchen. Already the bangs and thumps from below were diminishing in frequency, as if his search was drawing to a close. I waited motionless, hardly daring to breathe lest it should attract his attention, while the thin scraping noise continued.
Down in the cellar, I heard James Phillimore curse softly and then fall still. I imagined him looking around, surveying the chaos he had caused, uncertain what to try next. Meanwhile, above his head, the drawing of the bolts seemed to have hit some sort of difficulty, for although the top bolt was now undone, all movement of the lower bolt seemed to have ceased. I strained to detect any further movement, but all I could hear was a creak from below as Phillimore took hold of the ladder and began to place his weight on it. Then, just as he began to ascend, the bolt began to move again. But surely it was too late? I could hear Phillimore climbing the ladder. Any moment now his head would reappear…
Then, abruptly, with a loud metallic screech, the final bolt shot free and the kitchen door burst open and crashed back against the wall. Caught off balance, a small boy tumbled through it and caught hold of the kitchen table to steady himself.
‘Blue!’ I cried uselessly, for the word was completely smothered by my gag. Luckily, Blue ignored me. Three strides were enough to take him round the table to the mouth of the trapdoor and he reached it just as James Phillimore’s head poked into the room.
‘Wh… ?’ the older man began, taken aback by the sight of this unexpected boy looming over him. But Blue had clearly understood the fleeting nature of his advantage, and with a great firmness he slammed the trapdoor hard upon James Phillimore’s head.
His victim had only time to mutter a gasp of surprise before the door struck him and slammed shut. The sound of its slamming was followed a moment later by the soft thump of Phillimore’s body hitting the floor below.
‘Coo,’ my rescuer remarked, quickly placing himself on top of the trapdoor. Then he looked up at me, his blue eyes wild with surmise. ‘Blimey, Flottie,’ he exclaimed. ‘Who the bloomin’ heck was he?’
Chapter XX
The Icing On The Cake
It was some time before I could answer Blue’s question, as first he had to untie my hands and feet, and then remove the gag from my mouth. Then, when I could speak, I insisted that we lift the trapdoor and investigate whether Mr Phillimore was still alive. A cursory examination carried out from six feet above his fallen body showed our victim to be unconscious but breathing regularly.
‘Just knocked ’im out,’ Blue commentated with some satisfaction. And I agreed, though to be on the safe side I still insisted on re-locking the trapdoor before we moved on.
‘His name’s James Phillimore,’ I explained. ‘He’s the one who went missing from his wife.’
‘The one there’s a reward for?’
‘Yes, that’s the man. I’d forgotten about the reward. Why, Blue, you might get some money! We can ask Mr Rumbelow all about it. He has the money in cash so perhaps he can give you something today!’
‘Mr Rumbelow…’ He lingered on the name. ‘That’d be good, Flottie. You can ask him for us. Just think of that. A reward…’
‘But what are you doing here, Blue? You couldn’t have known that I needed rescuing.’
He shook his head. ‘Came to say goodbye, Flottie. There’s a boat leaving for New Zealand late tomorrer. A mate can get me a place, cheap like. I’ve got just about enough to get me there and I’ll trust to luck after that. So I came to tell yer. Gave me a right shock when I saw you all tied up, an’ that geezer heading down for the cellars. What was ’e after?’
‘The Malabar Rose. He didn’t find it though.’
‘You mean it’s here?’
‘Somewhere.’
Blue let his eye wonder over the chaos that surrounded us. The floor was littered with broken plates and shattered glass and all manner of displaced objects.
‘Think o’ that, eh! A ruby big a bloomin’ egg somewhere at me fingertips!’ He dwelled on the thought for a moment, then turned back to me and shrugged. ‘But what would I do with a ruddy great ruby? You can’t flog somethin’ like that in a back alley, can yer?’ He signalled to the trapdoor. ‘What about him?’
‘Prison, I suppose. It’s sad really. I don’t think he wants money for himself. He just thinks he needs it because of a girl.’
‘Pah! Serves ’im right then.’ Blue smiled cheerfully, then stiffened in his seat. ‘Listen. Voices!’
He was right, although they were still very distant. Somewhere along Baker Street two people were approaching.
‘I’m off, Flot. Don’t want to meet no one. And they’re sure as shovels to be comin’ here. There’s always folks comin’ and goin’ here in the middle o’ the night.’
‘But you don’t need to rush off, Blue. You’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Nah, don’t fancy stayin’. An’ besides, I got somethin’ else to do tonight. Got to see a man about somethin’…’
He reached out then and put his arms around me. I remembered the tiny child in the orphanage, too frightened to touch anyone for fear of a scolding, and a lump rose in my throat.
‘Good luck, Blue,’ I whispered.
‘And to yerself, Flot.’
He winked at me then, with the finest blue eyes I’d ever seen, then turned and walked away, out of the kitchen, up the area steps and out into the snow-lined night. When Mrs Hudson and Scraggs entered the kitchen a minute later, I was still sitting quietly, letting him go.
*
If I had expected Mrs Hudson to register any consternation or dismay at the destruction of her lovingly ordered kitchen, I was most definitely disappointed. If she felt any surprise at all at the devastation that greeted her, it was expressed in the raising of a single eyebrow as she surveyed the scene.
‘So he’s been here, has he?’ she asked, as much to herself as to me, and then bustled over to where I was sitting and placed a hand on my shoulder while she surveyed the damage.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I replied. ‘Mr Phillimore, I mean. He tied me up.’
‘And has he been gone long?’
‘Gone? Oh, no, ma’am. He’s still here. I’ve locked him in the cellar.’
It was only then that I had the satisfaction of seeing Mrs Hudson surprised, for on hearing this news both her eyebrows twitched upwards and she rewarded me with a look of unabashed approval.
‘Scraggs,’ she declared, ‘I think Flotsam has something of a story to tell us. See if you can revive the fire while I light some lamps. And let’s try not to tread on any of the best china, shall we?’
It
is hard to imagine that a room so thoroughly ransacked could ever be considered welcoming, but such was Mrs Hudson’s power to bring order to chaos that her simple instructions proved enough to transform the place. Soon the lamps were lit and the night shut out, the fire revived, and the fallen chairs righted amidst the wreckage and arranged around the table. While all that was being accomplished, I told them how Mr Phillimore had appeared from the linen chest and had wreaked havoc throughout the house, only to be laid low by my friend with the blue eyes.
Mrs Hudson listened attentively and when I had finished my tale she tiptoed gingerly over to the pantry and peered inside. After studying the debris for a brief moment, she returned to the kitchen table, her face content.
‘He didn’t find it, did he, ma’am?’
She gave a little snort in reply. ‘Certainly not, Flotsam. He only looked in the places he himself would have hidden it.’ She looked across at Scraggs and chuckled. ‘The male brain is like that. If he’d found the stone tonight I’d have eaten my…’ She paused, the shadow of a smile on her lips. ‘Well, never you mind what I’d have eaten. Now, enough of all this chatter. I think it’s time we had a word with the famous James Phillimore. From the noises down below, it seems he’s come to.’
Scraggs paused in his tidying and looked up with considerable enthusiasm.
‘Shall we tie him up, Mrs H?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, Scraggs. I don’t think we’ll find much fight left in him. But perhaps you should keep yourself between him and the door, just in case. Now, let me see…’ She bent down, and from the debris at her feet retrieved a dusty brown bottle. ‘Ah, just as I thought. The Wellington port. And not too badly shaken by the look of it, which is a great blessing. Flotsam, while we fetch up Mr Phillimore, would you be so kind as to decant this very, very carefully? I think tonight we deserve a little celebration.’