And what had happened to it? Did it go down amidst the wreckage of the Gloria Scott? Or had one of the survivors found it, and spent it all on house and home and respectability?
No one knew—and yet the belief in Prendergast’s fortune lived on. Just this past winter, seventy years after the Gloria Scott sank, James Hudson’s grandson learned of the mystery, and another generation succumbed to the spell of missing treasure.
A fortune held between finger and thumb. It could not possibly still exist—not after a mutiny, a shipwreck, and a lifetime in the shadows.
Could it?
It was as much a mystery as Mrs Hudson herself, who in her youth had perfected the techniques of teasing money out of rich men, then left that life behind to become first landlady, then housekeeper. A placid chatelaine, an excellent maker of strawberry jam and hot scones.
Perhaps that piquant contrast was the key. She had been content as a Sussex housekeeper not despite, but because of an illicit youth amongst the bright lights. Just as now, she was content in Monaco, because this showy haunt of the rich and powerful was also a place of small, intimate gardens revealed only by a glimpse of leaves and a scent of flowers on the air.
I had never before considered Mrs Hudson as a complex person. That was Holmes’ job, and to a lesser degree, mine. But the more I learned about this elderly woman—who she in fact was, rather than who she seemed to be—the more intriguing I found her. And the stronger my determination grew that she should be given a chance to succeed.
During all this reflection, my feet had continued carrying me along, up to the broad terrace before the Opera House. The Casino, I knew, was around its back. However, a little further on, according to the map, was a police station (on a street blessed by a grotto, or so the name Spélugues suggested). A police station where I, a wealthy visitor in a district catering to money, could enquire about a friend recently moved to Monaco, and expect some degree of assistance.
First, however, I wanted that drink, as much for thirst now as a wish for alcohol. After a brief pause to admire a yacht approaching the harbour, sails out for the afternoon breeze, and behind it a business-like steamer heading for some Italian port, I turned on my heels to follow the path into the beating heart of Monte Carlo.
With the sun going low, the outdoor tables of the café that overlooked the park and Casino were crowded with drinkers—some, I supposed, anticipating a night around the tables, others lamenting a disastrous afternoon. Normally, an unaccompanied young woman would be looked at askance in a restaurant filled with expensive people, but since neither my dress nor my attitude resembled those of a femme de nuit, I thought my chances of being seated and served were fairly good.
In the end, asserting my propriety was not necessary.
When I had scattered my telegrams on the wind the previous afternoon, I knew that sooner or later, one would find its target. Twenty-four hours was too early for the notice to appear in any newspaper agony pages—and yet, I felt less surprise than a sense of inevitability as I saw an arm go up at the back of the café terrace. An arm attached to a tall, thin man in his sixties with a narrow moustache and glossy dark hair, dressed in a perfect evening suit, his long legs extended, ankles crossed to show the gloss on his shoes. Pearl shirt-studs, diamond cuff-links, a diamond sparkling from the little finger of his right hand.
And, I saw as I closed in on his table, a gleam in his grey eyes.
I bent down to kiss his cheek, and allowed the waiter to seat me in the chair across from him.
“Hello, Holmes. What took you so long?”
SEVEN WEEKS EARLIER
Clara Hudson smiled at the tiny bubbles of champagne rising up in the glass, then lifted it, first to her newly furnished morning room, and then to her oldest friend. “Here’s to homes, and friends, and to growing old in Monaco.”
“I’ll drink to the first two, but you and I aren’t going to grow old. Salut! Ah, the first swallow of champagne is always the best. And seriously, Clarissa, I hope you’ll be happy in this little place, for a time at any rate. But I am going to keep my ears out for a flat closer to me, since I’m not sure I’ll manage that climb more than once a week, even with Mathilde to push me along.”
“I don’t know. Oh yes, I would love to be next door to you, but even if I had the money, it might be more sensible to remain here, an invisible old woman in a dull corner of the city. And your pretty Greek friend with the green eyes is a very convenient neighbour.”
“Ah, one is never too old to admire a handsome face.”
“True. Although, dear thing, I shouldn’t trust the boy too far, if I were you. It wouldn’t do to lay temptation too close to him.”
“Clarissa, I learned that lesson almost as early as you did. Still, you have sufficient funds for the time being?”
“I do. And I’ve decided, about the…other thing that you and I talked about.”
“The four ‘papers’ that we mustn’t let anyone see or even mention out loud, except when we can see a hundred feet in every direction and the only ears belong to insects.”
“You think I’m being overly cautious?”
“Of course not, you’re being very sensible, I’m just not accustomed to talking in code about the papers and the things.”
“Well, thank you for indulging what Mary would probably call my paranoia. At any rate, I think I’ll go ahead with our banker friend. For one of the four, at any rate.”
“Are you sure? I do know others in the financial world, if you prefer someone a little more established.”
“It would terrify me to put it into the hands of an actual banker. I have no idea who he’d have to report it to. And my rheumatism would not be happy, ending my days in a prison cell.”
“Don’t be absurd, it’s just a piece of paper!”
“True. And if this one goes nowhere, you and I can think about who to turn to for the next.”
“Where are the others? You told me Niko might have a safe place?”
“He has a place, one that ruined a perfectly good pair of shoes, but I do not wish to leave them there for long. Sooner or later he’ll stumble across them. But I do have an idea of where to move them. Should I tell you, when I decide? It would be a pity to lose track of them if I were to get run down by an omnibus.”
“You may whisper it in my ear any time.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Oh, it is rather exciting, isn’t it? Such a lot of money.”
“Do you know, I can barely think of it in those terms. Too many uncertainties.”
“Not counting on our Count, eh?”
“My doubt lies in the…paper itself. As for him, well, I have to trust someone. Better the scoundrel I know than one who takes me by surprise.”
“Yevgeny is no scoundrel!”
“Of course not, dear heart—I’m sure he’s honourable among friends. But he does have some questionable acquaintances.”
“This is Monaco—who doesn’t have questionable acquaintances?”
“Some more intimate than others. Well, we shall see how it plays out. If the thing is worthless, lesson learned. And if someone along the way helps himself to it—well, that’s a different lesson learned. At least I haven’t been silly enough to put all four eggs in the same basket.”
“I’ve always wondered what that meant. Doesn’t one want to collect all one’s eggs at the same time?”
“Dear heart, your social class is showing. If you’d ever had to train a clumsy young house-maid in ill-fitting shoes, you’d know why you don’t want her to risk all the day’s eggs at once.”
“It is so odd to think of you in those terms, Clarissa.”
“Sussex was indeed another world.”
“Oh, I hope this goes smoothly! Though if you change your mind about him, I’ll happily write to one of my friends in Paris, or America. And I wouldn�
��t take a commission on it, you can be sure of that.”
“No, you’ve done quite enough. You welcomed me here, you got me started, you showed me a direction. Without you, I’d be standing with my nose pressed to the Casino windows. And I’d like to be finished with this transaction soon, before Mr Holmes shows up.”
“You really think he will?”
“I have no doubt. Any week now, I’ll turn around and poof! There will be Mr Holmes, dressed as a street-sweeper or a preacher or a riverboat gambler. And once he’s found me, if I haven’t got this…thing swept out of the way of that inquisitive nose, I’ll need to wait until his attention moves on. Which could be years.”
“Even if you’re an invisible old lady?”
The two old women laughed, and Clarissa filled their glasses again.
“It’s true that Mr Holmes is more likely to underestimate a woman than a man, but only marginally. He hasn’t trusted me since 1880.”
“What you’re doing is not criminal!”
“Isn’t it?”
“Well, any crime involved was committed long ago, by someone else entirely.”
“I’m not sure Mr Holmes would see it that way.”
“Clarissa Hudson, I do not know how you managed to put up with that man.”
“What choice did I have? I was a criminal! I stole money from men—”
“Your father did that.”
“I helped. And though I was a child when I started, by the end I was a willing participant. If it hadn’t been for Mr Holmes, I’d have ended up in prison for sure. And I say he didn’t trust me, but that’s absurd. Twice now he has not reported what would have led to a charge of murder. Twice! Don’t you doubt that both those episodes lie heavy on his mind. And now, as an old woman you’d think would have learned her lesson, back I go, flirting with the hangman.”
“Clarissa, no, you mustn’t say that! Don’t even think it. None of this has been your doing.”
“I have killed—”
“Stop!”
“Dear thing, there is blood on my hands. I owe my very life to Mr Holmes. Just because the life he gave me was closely restricted does not change that it was a gift.”
“Gift? Pah! I’m going to put away the champagne, it’s making you weepy.”
“It was a gift. And remember, in the end, he did let me leave England. Who could blame him if he decided to check on me, to be certain that his trust was not misplaced? Though when he does show up, what will he find? Clarissa Hudson, surrounded by people like Zedzed the arms dealer and Niko Cassavetes with the shady antecedents. There’s not a lot I can do about that, but I can at least make sure that the…things are well out of sight.”
“You’re far too forgiving, Clarissa. Forty-odd years of having that man looking over your shoulder. And not even the benefits of marriage.”
“Benefits? Could you imagine being married to the man? Mary Russell is a brave young woman. And it was forty-four years—well, minus his absences.”
“Ah, those absences. Such mischief we all got up to, when you had the freedom to roam.”
“We did have fun, didn’t we?”
“Oh, Clarissa, even if we only get up to old woman mischief, it’s going to be so good to have you back!”
Materialising out of nowhere was a traditional part of the Sherlock Holmes mystique. However, I knew his methods all too well, and it did not take long to put the pieces together. My telegrams had not summoned him into a mad aeroplane dash from out of a distant Roumanian mountain. Nor had his spymaster brother been keeping tabs on me. Holmes had not noted the distinctive soil on a passing shoe and matched it with the hair from a Gibraltar ape and a flower known only in Monaco…
None of those things had been required—because he was already here. I’d told him three weeks ago in Venice roughly where the Stella Maris was going, and approximately how long it would take. He knew back in May that his long-time housekeeper was thinking of heading to Monte Carlo. It was no great leap to know that I would, finding myself on the Riviera, seek her out. All he had to do was wait in a place near the well-beaten path. Although that did leave the question of why.
But I started with his cuff-links.
“Really, Holmes—diamonds?”
He raised one wrist to give the garish object an approving look. “Hideous, aren’t they?”
“The suit is nice, though. Italian?”
“I had it made as I passed through Rome.”
One did not “pass through” Rome on the way from Roumania to Monaco, or even from Venice, but I ignored the blatant red herring. “I see you decided to keep the moustache.”
“I did shave it, upon leaving Venice, but I let it grow again before I came here. It seemed to go with the diamonds.” His fingers came up to smooth the narrow line on his upper lip.
“A most precise decoration,” I said. “Though not as carefully engineered as one I saw last night near Antibes.”
“Ah: you have met Count Vasilev.”
God, the man’s omniscience could be irritating. I gave up and went for straight interrogation.
“How long have you been here, Holmes?”
“Only a day or so.”
“How many?”
“Two,” he admitted. “And a half.”
“Have you found Mrs Hudson?”
“I have seen her.”
“But you don’t know where she’s living?” I was surprised—after two days, I’d have thought Holmes would not only have located her house, but her maid, her hair-dresser, and her bank-manager as well. Perhaps things worked differently in Monaco. And perhaps asking at the local police station wouldn’t have led me to her, after all.
“Not yet. Either she has been remarkably inconspicuous, or the Monégasques I have spoken with have been singularly close-mouthed. She is definitely here—I have seen her three times, although each time she has been going somewhere other than home. And before you ask—no, we have not spoken. I do not believe she has spotted me.”
“You’re spying on her?”
“I would not put it that way, precisely.”
“How would you put it?”
“I am attempting to confirm that the agreement I reached with her, long ago, still stands.”
That agreement had amounted to a sort of lifetime parole: she could remain in England, but only under his roof, living a life of obedience and morality.
“You honestly don’t trust her?”
“Should I?”
“Holmes, this is Mrs Hudson!”
“A woman linked to the deaths of two men. A person who was once Clarissa Hudson, a gifted swindler and natural-born confidence trickster, who spent her most lucrative years working the casinos of Europe. Who only gave up that life when I narrowed her choice to leaving England, or remaining under my eye in Baker Street. Who ‘coincidentally’ chose to retire to a place heavily populated by those sheltering fortunes both legal and otherwise.”
“Holmes, neither of the deaths was murder, and her…swindling was a lifetime ago. As a young woman. Under her father’s influence.”
“A father who left behind a huge question mark at his death. A question of some quarter million pounds.”
“Oh, Holmes, we’re not back in that pipe-dream, are we?”
“The Prendergast case has never been closed to my satisfaction.”
A glass of wine had appeared before me. The air took on the odour of Holmes’ cigarettes. I sat, unseeing. Or rather, I sat seeing two paths open before me.
In May, I had learned that my beloved Mrs Hudson possessed a History that was scandalous, adventurous, and criminal.
Mrs Hudson, who had looked across her kitchen at a truculent fifteen-year-old girl—a girl who set out one morning from her dead mother’s house, dressed in her dead father’s jacket and her dead brother’s cap—and percei
ved not the ink-stains of education and the accents of an upbringing, as Sherlock Holmes had seen, but the clear signs of pain and hunger and emptiness.
Everything I assumed about Mrs Hudson—everything I knew—had been tipped on its head this past May. I had killed a human being myself, during that same time, and yet my thoughts dwelled less on my act than on what I had learned about her. That indicates how deeply the revelations had shaken me.
I wasn’t even given time to absorb the news before she was gone, fleeing from the law (yet another impossibility to wrap my head around). Soon after, Holmes and I were caught up in the search for a missing woman, the case that had taken us to Venice. All of which meant that my time on board the Stella Maris had been my first opportunity to merely sit, out on the deck in the dead of night, and contemplate the moon’s, and my own, reflections.
It seems a touch absurd to say that I had grown up during that summer. At the age of twenty-five, most women have long entered into adult responsibilities. But the orphaned and the displaced often cling to the remnants of childhood, and during those deck-top meditations, I realised that such had been the case with me.
I resented Mrs Hudson’s lies, the false face she had deceived me with. And I resented Holmes, for keeping it from me, his wife and partner. As if I had any right to require a full confession from her—from either of them—for a thing that happened long before I was born. But I was very young when I lost my family. The loss of Mrs Hudson felt like a second abandonment.
That summer, as I began to step back from childish resentments, I also began to see that young Clarissa Hudson did what she did in order to survive. Would I not have done the same, had I been raised by criminals? She had changed when she needed to, and she had kept her dignity even at the harshest of accusations. Including accusations from one who loved her, yet felt betrayed by surprise.
I realised, during those silent nights on the Stella Maris, that what I wanted most was not to tell her that I forgave her. What I wanted was for her to forgive me, for having judged her.
And now here was my husband suggesting I was wrong.
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