by Mrs Hudson
Mr Phillimore, when supported from the cellar and placed in a chair, cut an extremely sorry figure. The blow to his head clearly pained him, but more dispiriting to him than the physical discomfort appeared to be the stern face of Mrs Hudson and the determined figure of Scraggs barring the doorway. Our captive was bruised, out-numbered and defeated, and on all counts he knew it. He seemed to shrink into his chair, a thin, tired man with despair etched across his features. He eyed Mrs Hudson with dull foreboding.
‘Why have you haunted me this way?’ he asked. ‘I’ve seen you. Always on my scent. Visiting my wife, harassing Polly, advertising for information about me. And taking away the ruby. I saw you in the hotel that day, you know. If it wasn’t for you I’d be on the way to Canada with the ruby in my pocket by now.’
‘Mr Phillimore,’ Mrs Hudson’s voice had a steely edge to it and she fixed him with her sternest gaze. ‘Mr Phillimore, I care very little for rubies. But some good men were tasked to guard that stone and they were faced with ruin by your little plot. And Mrs Smithers, your mother-in-law, has been genuinely concerned for your safety. More concerned than you deserve.’
Mr Phillimore bowed his head at that, apparently not so hardened as to be completely beyond shame.
‘Now I’ve something important to say,’ Mrs Hudson went on. ‘Shortly Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard will be here. You will be charged with breaking and entering, theft, arson, illegal imprisonment and attempted murder. You will be taken from here to a prison cell where you will remain for a very long time.’
‘No!’ he cried. ‘It’s not like that! All those things you’ve said. They’re not true! I’ve done so little. Just some errands for that man Salmanazar.’
Mrs Hudson continued to eye him coldly.
‘Tonight I delivered to Mr Rumbelow, the solicitor, a statement by the Great Salmanazar explaining precisely how the two of you plotted to steal the Malabar Rose. It tells precisely how he came to recruit you to help with his act, how he was looking for a contortionist of sorts, someone who was no longer known in theatrical circles. He’s put it all down. How you first helped him in Budapest, how you bound up his cut hand the night he stole the Romanoff tiara. He says it was you who planned the theft of the Malabar Rose from the start.’
‘That’s not true,’ he groaned. ‘Not the last bit. It was all his plan. It was he who knew all about Perch. It was he who thought of changing the real jewel case for a mechanical one. He even insisted on finding the right sort of butterfly to put in the case. That was the sort of showman he was. He wanted the whole world talking about him.’
‘That may be true, Mr Phillimore.’ Mrs Hudson rose from the table and gathered up a pile of laundry that had earlier been tipped to the floor. She selected a single sheet and began to fold it while Mr Phillimore looked on, wondering, his attention seized by something in her tone. ‘But the Great Salmanazar has escaped to Spain leaving only his statement behind him. Your great friend Polly Perkins has escaped too, you know. That leaves only you, and the police will be keen to have a scapegoat.’
‘What? Polly has gone?’ He had turned even paler. ‘But why?’
‘Because by telling her your plans you had made her an accessory.’ Mrs Hudson looked up from her laundry and impaled him with a stern glare. ‘Meanwhile you still have a wife here, and a good, honest mother-in-law. If you were to stand trial the full story would come out – all about you sneaking off and them not guessing, and all about you and Miss Perkins. It would cause them terrible embarrassment and distress. Much more distress than you have caused them so far. To spare them that, I am prepared to offer you an alternative.’
Such was the power of her presence that Mr Phillimore said nothing, but for the first time since we’d hauled him from the cellar, I saw a tiny gleam of hope in his eye.
‘In two hours’ time,’ Mrs Hudson continued, ‘a train leaves Waterloo for Portsmouth. You will take that train. It’s the slow train, stopping at every station, so it will be breakfast time when you arrive at Portsmouth Harbour. As soon as you get there, you will go to the front door of the offices of the Meyer & Stallard Steam Company. The front door, mind. You will stay there until five o’clock, waiting for someone to come and find you. When they do, you have a choice. They will have a pair of tickets for a boat departing for Canada. You can either accompany them on that boat, or remain in this country and wait for the police.’
Mr Phillimore was looking mystified. ‘The choice seems an easy one. Who will it be, this guardian angel sent to take me away?’
In reply, Mrs Hudson shook her head. ‘You will find out tomorrow. However, it is possible no one will come to find you. If they haven’t come by five o’clock – and the timing is vital here, you understand – then you will find your way to the back door of the offices. Wait there. The instruction remains the same. Someone will be looking for you and when they find you, go with them.’
‘And if no one comes to that door? What then?’
‘Oh, they will, Mr Phillimore, they will. In that respect you are a lucky man.’
‘But why all this mystery? Why can you not tell me who I am looking for?’
Mrs Hudson sighed. ‘I can’t help thinking, Mr Phillimore, your time is better spent making yourself scarce than asking unnecessary questions.’
At this Mr Phillimore began to rise, only to sink once more back into his chair.
‘But what’s the point?’ he sighed. ‘Without Polly, what’s the point? Oh, I know how generous your offer is. I don’t fully understand why you should do so much to help me. But without Polly there’s no future for me anywhere. I might as well stay here and rot in gaol.’
Mrs Hudson nodded and finished the folding of a second sheet before reaching into her apron and passing him a slim, cream envelope.
‘As it happens, I spoke to Miss Perkins earlier this evening, before she fled. She asked me to give you this.’
Mr Phillimore took the letter with a look of awe on his face and with fingers that trembled as he opened it. The note was clearly short, for by following his eyes I could see that he re-read it a dozen times before folding it reverently into his pocket.
‘She begs me to go,’ he said quietly. ‘She says it would break her heart for me to be locked away. She says that if I love her I must escape, even if it means we can never be together.’
For a long time after that, he sat with his head bowed. A stillness settled on the room around him, a stillness so intense it seemed I could hear it, a stillness only broken when Scraggs, very softly, stepped away from the kitchen door. When Mr Phillimore finally looked up, his eyes were moist with tears.
‘Very well,’ he whispered hoarsely, rising to his feet. ‘I don’t understand why, but Polly says I am to trust you. The Meyer & Stallard Steam Company, you say?’
‘That’s right, Mr Phillimore. The front door.’
‘Then I shall go.’ He took one step towards the door and paused, almost as if he expected us to stop him. When nothing happened, he continued to the door and there, with the night beckoning him, he paused once more.
‘I have a sister…’
‘Yes, we know. We will get word to her of what has happened to you.’
He nodded briefly, then turned away, and in a moment he too had vanished into the night.
*
I can’t pretend that I wasn’t bursting with questions about Mrs Hudson’s decision to release the man we had spent so long plotting to catch. However, after witnessing Mr Phillimore’s departure, neither Scraggs nor I had opportunity to ask a single question before Mrs Hudson cleared her throat and began to direct the clearing up of the disordered kitchen. If it occurred to either of us that such an operation might reasonably have waited until the following day, it was a thought that Mrs Hudson’s stern demeanour was sufficient to put out of our heads; and we found ourselves stacking china, repopulating shelves, rescuing provisions and filling the dustbins with broken glasses. We had already returned the pantry to a semblance of order and had
largely cleared the floor of debris when we were disturbed by a timid knock at the kitchen door.
‘Mr Rumbelow!’ I cried on opening it, the blinking, slightly bewildered-looking lawyer being the very last person I expected to find on our doorstep in the early hours of the first morning of the year.
‘Er, yes,’ he mumbled. ‘It is indeed me. Quite so. And if I may be so bold, a happy new year to you, Flotsam. And to you, Mrs Hudson. Scraggs, you’re here too? Extraordinary hours you all keep…’
We shepherded him into the kitchen and seated him by the fire.
‘I must say, sir,’ Mrs Hudson observed, ‘your own hours are a little unusual. And you appear a little put out. Is there anything we can do for you?’
‘Do for me? Do for me?’ Mr Rumbelow seemed to find the question astonishing. ‘But you sent for me, Mrs Hudson. Just now. And I came as soon as I could. Unfortunately I have suffered a slight mishap on the way.’
Mrs Hudson and I exchanged puzzled glances.
‘A mishap, sir?’ she asked gently.
‘Well, in truth, something a little worse than that. A failing in my professional duty. I cannot imagine what my client will say.’
Mrs Hudson decided help was needed. ‘Flotsam, the moment for that port has finally arrived. If you would be so good as to fetch Mr Rumbelow a small glass of it… Now, sir, please go on.’
‘That boy you sent, Mrs Hudson. I fear he is not entirely honest.’
‘Sir, I’ve sent no boy for you this evening.’
‘You have not?’ The stout solicitor half rose in his seat and then sank back down with a groan as a terrible understanding dawned. ‘Then I’ve been tricked, Mrs Hudson! Most blatantly, cunningly tricked!’ He passed his hand weakly over his forehead. ‘A quarter of an hour ago I was roused by a young boy. He said that you required my presence here most urgently to attend to the case of James Phillimore. He said you asked most particularly that I should bring with me the reward money that his wife had placed with me. A sum of £30, if you remember.’
‘I see, sir.’ Mrs Hudson nodded soothingly. ‘Here, try a little of this.’
Mr Rumbelow sipped at the port and closed his eyes for a moment in quiet contemplation.
‘Ah, yes! The Wellington port. Quite sensational. And so few bottles left…’ He opened his eyes again. ‘But I scarcely deserve it. You see, when I had pulled on my clothes and returned to the street, the boy was waiting for me. Helped me on with my overcoat, he did. Well, naturally I expected him to accompany me here, but no sooner did we step off the pavement than he simply ran off. And do you know, the little scamp took my wallet with him!’
While Mr Rumbelow paused to mop his brow, Mrs Hudson gave me a questioning glance.
‘Tell me, sir,’ I asked timidly. ‘This boy, did you notice if he had blue eyes?’
Mr Rumbelow sat up as if startled. ‘Why, Flotsam! How remarkable! Do you know, that’s the only thing I noticed about him. The boy had the most striking blue eyes imaginable.’
I couldn’t help but smile at the news, and Mrs Hudson let out a long, low chuckle.
‘So justice has been done. I think you can enjoy your port after all, sir. It seems that James Phillimore’s captor has found his own way to claim the reward.’
‘Reward, Mrs Hudson?’ A new voice from the edge of the kitchen interrupted us and I saw that the door into the basement area had opened a little to admit the head and shoulders of Sherlock Holmes. ‘I fear our vigil tonight has had no reward. We have waited all night for that man Phillimore to walk into our trap and we’d be there still if we had not seen the error of our ways. I’m afraid your plan has failed, Mrs Hudson.’
‘Ah, Mr Holmes, sir,’ Mrs Hudson beamed. ‘I’m very pleased to see you. Now you two gentlemen come in here and get yourself warm. There are a few things you need to know.’
‘Not just the two of us,’ the detective replied. ‘We had two assistants in our watching. And I fear they are as cold and dispirited as we are.’
He pushed the door open to reveal, alongside Dr Watson, the shivering forms of Rupert Spencer and Hetty Peters.
‘But, Hetty!’ I exclaimed. ‘I thought Rupert was taking you home?’
‘Well, you know, Flottie,’ she began brightly as they were ushered in, ‘I rather think Rupert thought the same. But obviously I wasn’t going to miss the fun. So when we got home, I went upstairs and climbed out of the window.’
‘Oh, Hetty, you didn’t!’
Rupert Spencer manoeuvred her a little closer to the fire with a wry grin.
‘I’m afraid she did. Apparently the next door’s footman witnessed the whole episode. They needed to revive him with brandy, I believe.’
‘What nonsense, Rupert! I’m inclined to think he rather enjoyed it. He certainly didn’t seem in any hurry to stop looking.’
‘Rooted to the spot in horror, no doubt,’ Mr Spencer concluded and then turned to listen to Mr Holmes, who was interrogating Mrs Hudson.
‘You say there’s something we need to know, Mrs Hudson? Is it about the whereabouts of James Phillimore?’
‘No, sir,’ she responded calmly. ‘I’m afraid Mr Phillimore has fled the country.’
‘He has? About the man Salmanazar then?’
‘No, sir. I’m afraid he has fled the country too.’
‘You know this for certain?’
‘I do, sir.’
He looked around and nodded wisely.
‘I see from the state of this kitchen that there are things you no doubt wish to share with us. But if you can’t tell us the whereabouts of those two gentlemen, Mrs Hudson, then I’m afraid that little you say can be of any comfort to us.’
‘Oh, come, sir. You were asked to safeguard the Malabar Rose and that stone is now safely in front of you.’
‘I do not see it, Mrs H.’
‘No, sir. But you see a large iced fruitcake. Now Flotsam here knows that I abhor an iced fruitcake. This will be the only one of its kind you are ever offered in this house, sir. However there is no denying that a thick layer of royal icing sugar can hide any number of flaws beneath its surface. It is a trick that any cook learns at her mother’s knee. Perhaps we shall have a slice presently. It is hardly the ideal accompaniment to the Wellington port but, after all, it is Christmas.’
‘Great Scott!’ Dr Watson exclaimed. ‘You mean the world’s most famous ruby is inside that fruitcake?’
‘Of course, sir. If Mr Phillimore had ever worked in a busy kitchen, he would have thought of that immediately. But, of course, if he ever had, I wouldn’t have hidden it there.’
Sherlock Holmes eased himself out of his coat and reached for his pipe.
‘You know, Watson, Mrs Hudson is right. We may have made no arrest, but the plot to steal the Malabar Rose has been thwarted, the plotters are fled and the stone itself is safe. The gentlemen of the press will be able to announce that a dangerous plot has been foiled, which will reflect well on both the government and ourselves, so all in all the Home Secretary has every reason to feel pleased. He could scarcely ask for much more, could he, Mrs Hudson?’
‘Oh, but he could, sir. That is what I wished to tell you. You see, I thought it would be helpful if you could tell him where to find a few other things too.’
Mr Holmes raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Such as?’
‘Such as the Godolphin sapphire, sir. Or the Von Metzen diamonds or the Star of the Danube. Or the Rheims altarpiece or the Lafayatte necklace. Or the Plevski emeralds. Or even that dreadful jewel-encrusted camel that was stolen in Naples.’
‘But those things have all vanished,’ put in Dr Watson, clearly confused. ‘Each was stolen in the most mysterious of circumstances.’
‘Yes, sir. By the Great Salmanazar. But they are all very difficult to sell, so he kept them all in a strong box in Paris while he decided what to do with them. The key to the strong box is over there, sir, next to the fish kettle.’
Dr Watson sat down heavily.
‘Do you know, Mrs Huds
on,’ he muttered faintly, ‘I rather think you’re going to have to start right at the beginning.’
*
The fire was built up so high that our faces were brightly lit as we sat around it and listened to Mrs Hudson’s explanations. Fresh coals hissed satisfyingly in front of us, and Scraggs had been tasked with roasting chestnuts over the flames, so that every now and then a nut would leap in the pan or sigh sweetly at us as the heat began to work its changes. The Wellington port had been shared around, although Mrs Hudson had taken great care to steer some of the company in other directions. Mr Holmes had been furnished with a bottle of brown ale, Dr Watson with a substantial glass of brandy and shrub, and Miss Peters with a glass of champagne and a slice of lemon, a combination which she insisted was all the rage that season at London’s most fashionable establishments.
From time to time in the telling of her tale, Mrs Hudson would break off to savour the port, providing an opportunity for one of the rest of us to leap in with a question.
‘So we now know how they made the ruby vanish, Mrs H,’ Dr Watson commented at one such moment, ‘but I don’t understand all the rest. I mean, how did that magician chappie make himself disappear this evening. We all saw him go into that alley. And then the wretched fellow simply vanished under our noses!’
Mrs Hudson nodded calmly at the row of faces turned to her.
‘Well, you see, sir, their plan was going fine until I got hold of the ruby. They thought that once the ruby had vanished, they had all the time in the world to obtain the mechanical jewel case. After all, there was no reason for anyone to guard it particularly closely. But after I had spoiled that plan, they were lurching from one crisis to another. James Phillimore attempted to burn the evidence of how Perch’s box could make the stone disappear. You see, once we could prove that, the authorities would be willing to track down Perch, and Perch was the weak link in their chain. So they packed him off to South Africa as quickly as they could.’
‘Yes, Mrs H, but you haven’t answered Dr Watson’s question about events this evening.’ Mr Holmes’ tone suggested that he was every bit as puzzled as his friend, but I had learned to recognise a certain glint in his eye that showed itself at particular times, a glint that led me to suspect Mr Holmes had already placed a great many pieces of the jigsaw into their rightful places.