When I arrived at the Blenheim Hotel that evening, shortly after the Great Salmanazar had walked off stage, the scenes that greeted me spoke in equal measures of confusion, consternation and despair. Mrs Hudson had sent me to the Blenheim with a message for Sir John Plaskett, and I had jumped at the chance of returning to see for myself a second time the secret fire of the Malabar Rose. But as I approached the hotel, hunched and muffled against the snowstorm, I became aware that ahead of me a group of ladies and gentlemen in furs and evening dress were being herded from the building and out into the blizzard. A single uniformed officer was endeavouring to calm them.
‘Inspector’s orders, me lady,’ he shouted over the blast. ‘A security matter. Nothing to worry about.’
‘But, constable, we still haven’t seen the ruby!’ Her words were almost swept away in the snow.
‘Another time, ma’am. There’s a little matter we have to sort out tonight. Just routine.’
While the constable was fully occupied making himself heard, I seized the opportunity to slip past the melee of top hats and tiaras, into the warmth beyond. But when I got there and stood in the hotel’s great foyer, I realised at once that whatever was going on, it was certainly very far from routine. There seemed to be policemen everywhere, running in different directions or forming into groups and looking grave. Mixed amongst them were members of the hotel staff, all of them talking at once: waiters gesticulating, porters shrugging, pageboys pulling faces and the hotel manager quite literally tearing at his hair while a ring of chambermaids sought to comfort him with handkerchiefs. Slipping unnoticed through this confusion, I was able to make my way as far as the Satin Rooms before anyone tried to call me back. There, a grim-faced officer found me standing wide-eyed and amazed amid the half-drunk glasses of champagne, the melancholy wreckage of an abandoned evening.
‘Sorry, miss,’ he told me briskly, ‘no one’s allowed in here. All guests to go to their rooms or else to leave the building. There a sergeant on the door will take your name and address.’
‘But I have a message for Sir John,’ I told him, and seeing that this alone might not be sufficient to move him, added quickly, ‘It’s of the utmost importance. It’s about…’ I took a guess. ‘It’s about a sighting of the Malabar Rose.’
He raised his eyebrows at that and opened his eyes wide. ‘Better go straight through, miss. They’ll be pleased to see you.’
I had expected to discover the inner chamber in the same sort of disorder that had prevailed outside, but instead I found the opposite. There were but five people in the room when I entered and, where I had anticipated chaos and confusion, there was only a sombre seriousness and grave, unsmiling faces. The first person I noticed was Sir John, the Hero of Ishtabad, who suddenly seemed very far removed from the scene of his great victories. His face was drawn and pale, and he was pacing to and fro in the centre of the room. Behind him, watching him as he walked, stood Dr Watson and Inspector Lestrade, both clearly distraught but at a loss for anything to say or do. These three formed a triangle, at the centre of which stood the marble column and the empty velvet case where the Malabar Rose should have been. Compared with the taut, tense figures of these three men, the positions adopted by the remaining pair seemed noticeably bizarre. To the right-hand side of the room, Sherlock Holmes was crouching on his knees and examining the skirting board with a magnifying glass; while to the left, Rupert Spencer was standing with his back to everyone else, his nose in the air, peering up at something on the ceiling. I could think of no reason to account for either activity.
‘As I see it,’ Sir John was saying, ‘since the stone isn’t here, it must now be somewhere else. And dammit! If it’s somewhere else, then it must have passed through solid walls!’
All five of them turned when they saw me come in and Mr Holmes, who was just getting to his feet, addressed me with a frown.
‘Yes, Flotsam? What brings you back here at this unfortunate moment?’
‘I have a question, sir, from Mrs Hudson. She wants to ask…’
‘I’m sorry to say this, Flotsam,’ Dr Watson intervened, ‘but this is really not the time. We’re all in a bit of stew at the moment. You must tell Mrs Hudson to expect us when she sees us. There is no need for her to wait up.’
‘Yes, sir, but…’ I would have explained my errand more clearly but at that moment Sir John let out a sudden exclamation.
‘Of course!’ He paused in his pacing and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Sabotage! It could have been dissolved with acid! An enemy agent on the roof could drip acid through the skylight. Think how much the French or the Russians would love to see our embarrassment!’
Inspector Lestrade, who had allowed a flicker of hope to appear in his face, sank back into his previous gloom.
‘You forget, sir. The men on the roof. A dozen of them.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Sir John drooped visibly. ‘A conspiracy between them, perhaps?’
‘The men are from different forces, sir, chosen at random. Complete strangers to each other.’
‘Of course.’ Sir John looked suitably glum again. ‘Then there can be no explanation short of sorcery.’
At that word, we all looked up. As the meaning of what he had just said dawned on him, Sir John’s face suddenly suffused with hope. ‘By God, I don’t know how he’s done it, but at least we know who to question. This Salmanazar man, we must arrest him at once, Lestrade!’
Before Inspector Lestrade could reply, Mr Holmes surprised us all by chuckling dryly.
‘Think again, Sir John. In the entire country there can surely be no man safer from arrest than our conjurer friend. There is a whole theatre of witnesses who can testify that he was on stage for the entire evening. And worse than that, at the moment when these rooms were being opened, the Great Salmanazar was nailed in a coffin and suspended from a chain in full view of at least a thousand people.’
A long pause followed this observation as its implications sunk in. But Sir John was not to be deterred.
‘Even so, Lestrade,’ he continued, ‘there is too much coincidence. Perhaps he doesn’t perform the crimes himself. Perhaps he has accomplices in his retinue. Anyone in his company is a suspect. You must interrogate them all! And in the meantime, their leader must be arrested.’
Inspector Lestrade nodded but looked strangely dubious. However, he was spared the obligation of replying when Rupert Spencer gave a sudden exclamation. We all turned to him and found him looking down and smiling with tremendous satisfaction. Slowly and steadily he held out his hand towards us and I saw that resting softly on the palm was a single red butterfly.
‘Of course!’ Dr Watson exclaimed. ‘I’d forgotten all about that butterfly. Now how the devil did that get in here?’
It seemed that no one had an answer to that, but the smile persisted on Mr Spencer’s face.
‘I can’t tell you how this comes to be here, gentlemen, but I can tell you what sort of butterfly it is. I thought the name was familiar. This butterfly is Atrophaneura Pandiyana. They’re found in the south east of India. In English this species of butterfly is called a Malabar Rose.’
Sir John groaned and rubbed his eyes with the ball of his hand. ‘Like a blasted fairy tale! A precious stone turned into a butterfly.’
‘Precisely,’ agreed Mr Spencer. ‘As if at the wave of a wand.’
A long silence followed and during it Dr Watson noticed for the first time that I hadn’t left the room.
‘Still here, Flotsam? I think perhaps you should be getting back. Mrs Hudson will be getting worried about you.’
‘But, sir, I have a message from Mrs Hudson for you.’ I produced a folded scrap of paper and passed it to him.
He flipped the paper open and read it aloud.
‘Sir, I have an urgent question for you and I would be grateful if you could return Flotsam with the answer. I should be greatly obliged if you could ask Sir John exactly how the entrance hall of his house in Randolph Place is currently furnished?’
Sir John’s face flushed with anger as he heard this, although I noticed that Mr Holmes, Dr Watson and Rupert Spencer all seemed to have pricked up their ears.
‘Randolph Place, eh?’ mumbled Dr Watson.
‘The entrance hall furniture…’ Mr Holmes pondered.
‘I wonder what she means?’ muttered Mr Spencer, thoughtfully.
‘It means the woman’s mad!’ declared Sir John, seizing the note and tearing it into pieces. ‘Bothering me with such nonsense at a time like this!’
‘If you knew my housekeeper better, sir,’ Mr Holmes corrected him sternly, ‘you would realise there is no more sane individual in the Empire. Now, your hallway…’
‘Really, Mr Holmes! There’s nothing in my hallway but a hatstand and my old campaign chest! I’ve never heard such nonsense!’ He turned to me with a snort. ‘That is all, girl. Now run along.’
‘But, sir, there’s one other thing. Something I noticed just before I came in.’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘This had been pushed under one of the champagne glasses, sir. Perhaps I should show you exactly where I found it…’
‘But what is it?’
‘It’s a playing card, sir. Just an ordinary playing card, I think, except that it’s an ace of spades, and the ace has got a great big cross through it.’
The Great Salmanazar was placed under a sort of house arrest later that night. His arrest was not an official one because of the number of witnesses to his whereabouts at the time when the stone was stolen. Nevertheless, he was made to understand by Inspector Lestrade that any attempt to leave his suite of rooms at Brown’s Hotel would be regarded as an attempt to flee the country. Inquiries by Lestrade’s men had proved that the playing card I found in the Satin Rooms was indeed the one selected during the Great Salmanazar’s show. The gentleman who selected it turned out to be a retired dentist from Cheam who had told his wife that he was attending a dinner of Dentists For Temperance. Although anxious that his name would not appear in the Dental Times or the Cheam Parish Gazette, he was sufficiently clear minded to be sure that the mark on the card was his.
This was enough for Lestrade who took the decision to confine the magician to his quarters. As a precaution, similar steps were taken against Lola Del Fuego, and the rest of the Great Salmanazar’s entourage was rounded up and confined to the Regal Theatre under police guard. The pantomime that was due to be staged there was cancelled ‘due to unforeseen circumstances’. Meanwhile, a statement by Sir John to the newspapers explained that the viewing of the Malabar Rose had been postponed while Scotland Yard investigated ‘certain foreign elements’ believed to pose a threat to its safety. The statement was reassuring in its tone, but it remained to be seen if the British public would be easily reassured.
Inspector Lestrade, who had appeared at first quite crushed by the blow that had befallen him, became transformed at the thought of decisive action and was soon directing investigations with the energy of a desert dervish: warnings were sent to all ports; policemen were recalled from their holidays; all known receivers of stolen jewellery were to be hauled in for questioning so as to take them out of circulation; honest jewellers across the Home Counties were roused in the early hours and warned to be alert to anything unusual; a man from the Natural History Museum was dragged from his bed to supply a list of any lepidopterists who might keep live specimens of the Malabar Rose butterfly; and finally, at Mr Holmes’ insistence, two constables were placed at the door of the chamber from which the ruby had vanished, to ensure that nothing would be touched prior to a further examination the following day.
If the events of the night had one happy outcome for me, it was that they appeared finally to have persuaded Mrs Hudson to take an interest in the Malabar Rose. For when Dr Watson, Mr Holmes and myself returned to Baker Street at half past four in the morning, I found her wide awake and eager to hear every detail I could recall. She had kept the fires burning throughout the house in anticipation of our return, and there was something to lift the spirits of all three of us in the sight of our windows glowing orange over the snow-lined street. I felt Mr Holmes’ shoulders straighten a little at the sight, and Dr Watson mumbled something about joy in the morning.
‘Indeed my friend. An apt observation. Up to now this has been all about anticipating events, but now it becomes an exercise in pure reason. And I think it can safely be said that no greater practitioners of that activity can be found than here in Baker Street. Now come, let us see what restoratives the excellent Mrs Hudson has prepared for us.’
In that murky December dawn, the two gentlemen went to their beds comforted by hot buttered rum and by sheets that had been warmed for an hour or more in front of a blazing fire. For me, there was the comfort of the warm, dark kitchen, so safe and orderly that you felt no magic, however extraordinary, could ever disturb its placid calm. Guided by Mrs Hudson’s promptings, I recounted everything I could remember about events that night, until my eyes became heavy and the housekeeper, tutting at herself for her thoughtlessness, wrapped me in a blanket and half carried me to my bed.
There, however, sleep seemed to abandon me. From where I lay, I could see the shadows from the street falling across the kitchen floor. Just the ordinary shadows, but they made me restless. I found myself remembering the empty velvet case where the ruby should have been, and then my own empty purse, now bereft of the savings that had once been special to me. Eventually I rose and slipped quietly to the kitchen window. Outside the street lay motionless under the snow. No one signalled. No one called. No figure lurked there, waiting for me.
After that, I slept.
At eleven o’clock the following morning, Mrs Hudson and I were surprised by a knock on the kitchen door and the appearance of Mr Holmes in a rather splendid silk dressing gown, Paisley-patterned pyjamas and a pair of stout woollen rugby socks.
‘Mrs Hudson,’ he commenced, ‘I wonder if I might join you for a few moments. I imagine you are not unaware of events last night. I’m sure young Flotsam has informed you of the salient points.’
‘She has, sir.’ Mrs Hudson, without apparently pausing in her polishing of Dr Watson’s boots, succeeded in ushering Mr Holmes into the chair by the fire and in indicating with a nod that I was to bring him a bottle of his favourite brown ale.
‘Mrs Hudson, I have not forgotten that in the past your powers of observation have proved unusually acute for one of your sex, and I wondered if you would be prepared to give me your own observations on last night’s performance at the Regal Theatre. I witnessed some of it for myself and for the rest I have read the police reports. But perhaps you might have noticed something they did not.’
Mrs Hudson’s response to this was surprisingly even-tempered. She simply put down the boot she was polishing, wiped her hands on her apron, and seated herself opposite Mr Holmes.
‘Very well, sir. I hope I can be of some help. And if Flotsam here will join us, she can correct me if I leave anything out.’
With that simple introduction, the housekeeper proceeded to describe the performance of the Great Salmanazar in remarkable detail. From time to time, Mr Holmes would ask a question but mostly he listened in silence, sipping his beer and running the tip of his tongue over his lips as if in great thought. When Mrs Hudson came to the part of the evening when the Great Salmanazar was being nailed into the coffin, the great detective leaned forward eagerly, and remained in that pose until the narrative was concluded.
‘So tell me, Mrs Hudson,’ he began, after at least a minute of silent musing, ‘you agree with me that this Salmanazar was definitely inside the case when it was hoist into the air?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And that is the opinion of everyone who witnessed it. Yet there are those who would like to believe otherwise, to believe that by some magic power he really had taken wings and transplanted himself into the Blenheim Hotel.’
‘Then you do not believe that, sir?’
He snorted with a mixture of derision and disdain.
‘Most definitely not! The facts of this case are clear. The Great Salmanazar never left the theatre. Neither he nor anyone else entered the room where the Malabar Rose was on display after the door was secured. The Malabar Rose did not evaporate into thin air, nor did it turn into a butterfly. In which case, I am forced to conclude…’
‘I say, Holmes, there you are!’ Dr Watson had appeared at the kitchen door, tousled and a little bleary-eyed, his army greatcoat pulled on over his nightclothes. ‘Thought you might have gone out.’
‘Not at all, Watson. I am hearing Mrs Hudson’s account of last night’s flummery.’
The doctor, yawning prodigiously, made his way to the fire and sank down into the seat vacated by Mrs Hudson, who had risen and was beginning to make tea.
‘I say, Holmes,’ he began a little plaintively, ‘I couldn’t help but overhear. If you really think this chappie was in the theatre all the time, then how did he magic away the ruby from under our noses?’
‘Ah, Watson! So sure of the culprit! So willing to believe the illusion while distrusting the illusionist!’
‘Eh? Sorry, Holmes, not sure I understand quite what you’re getting at.’
‘Well, Watson, my ideas are not yet fully formed, but let me ask you this. Did anyone break into the Satin Rooms by force last night?’
‘Definitely not, Holmes.’
‘And did anyone achieve such entry by guile?’
‘You mean, sneak past us? Don’t think so, Holmes. Can’t see how they could have done it.’
‘In fact, everything we know, and all the evidence available to us, says that nobody entered the room after the last door was sealed?’
‘I suppose that’s right, Holmes, yes.’
‘And at the moment when the door was locked behind us, are we certain that the Malabar Rose was still in its place?’
‘Eh? Well, I think so, Holmes. I mean, we all saw the blasted thing being put on display. Though I suppose, speaking for myself, there must have been a moment when I turned my back on it, just as I was leaving the room. Why, you don’t think… ? My word, I suppose it’s just possible…’
The great detective turned to me. ‘Flotsam?’
I coughed politely. ‘I’m quite certain the Malabar Rose was there as the door was locked, sir. I made a particular point of checking. If the truth be told, sir, it was so beautiful I couldn’t take my eyes off it.’
Mr Holmes looked pleased. ‘You see, Watson! We shall make a detective of young Flotsam yet. I too made absolutely certain that my eyes never left the stone until the door closed behind us.’ He paused and I thought I detected the trace of a smile at the corner of his lips. ‘So we can be certain the Malabar Rose was in the room when the door was locked, and certain that no one found a way past the locks until we re-opened the room later that evening. In which case, Watson, it is surely obvious to you that the stone… Ah! Toast!’
This time the great detective’s demonstration of analytical thought was interrupted by Mrs Hudson, who placed before him a large tea tray and two plates of toasted bread, thickly spread with marmalade.
‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ve always believed there are times for talking and there are times for eating. Now, I fear Flotsam and I have an urgent errand to run this morning, so I’ll serve breakfast in the study in half an hour, if that’s convenient.’
‘As you please, Mrs Hudson,’ replied Mr Holmes carelessly, licking his fingers, ‘though I have little need for physical sustenance at a time such as this. However, if my reasoning is correct, I see no great need for urgency on my part, and a good breakfast is always a sound investment. But first, before you rush off on whatever domestic matters require your attention, I have one further question to ask you.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘It’s about the performance of the Great Salmanazar. As you know, I could not stay to watch it end. But you are certain that he was physically present inside the suspended crate for the entire duration of the Spanish woman’s dance?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then how do you explain those playing cards reappearing in the gentlemen’s wallets? And how, in your opinion, did the ace of spades come to be found just outside the room from which the Malabar Rose was stolen?’
Mrs Hudson had been busy preparing to go out, but the question made her pause. To my surprise, it was me she was looking at, not Sherlock Holmes.
‘Well, you see, sir,’ she began a little hesitantly, turning slowly to face her questioner, ‘the secret of that trick is very simple indeed. The cards the gentlemen signed never were in the illusionist’s pocket. Not before he was locked in that crate, nor after. Each of those four gentlemen was offered a pack containing only one denomination of card, so the Great Salmanazar knew exactly which card each of them had selected. Then, when the gentlemen had made their own particular marks on the cards, the pageboys who had offered them the packs were responsible for slipping the marked cards back into their wallets before returning to the stage.’
‘But how could they do that, Mrs H?’ Dr Watson puzzled. ‘Surely the audience would have noticed such sleight of hand even if the gentlemen themselves did not.’
‘No, sir. We were all being distracted by events on stage. And what if those boys in their smart uniforms had been recruited from the ranks of our finest pickpockets? It would be as easy for them to remove and return a wallet as it would for you to light that pipe.’
‘I see!’ Mr Holmes was looking delighted at Mrs Hudson’s perspicacity. ‘So the cards returned to the illusionist were not the signed ones?’
‘Of course not, sir.’
Dr Watson appeared less than convinced. ‘But what about the ace of spades, Mrs Hudson? How did that come to miss its mark? It was a signal blunder for it to be dropped so near the scene of the crime!’
‘Not at all, sir. It was contrived most deliberately. By charging one of his boys to slip the card unnoticed into the Blenheim Hotel, the Great Salmanazar has rather cleverly drawn attention to himself, and has no doubt diverted the police from the real solution of the puzzle.’
Mr Holmes chuckled to himself. ‘Mrs Hudson, you do not disappoint me. But what if I were to object that your theory is pure speculation?’
‘Well, sir,’ and here the housekeeper gave me another swift glance, a glance of such solicitude that I knew at once what I was about to hear. ‘It so happens I had a very good look at the pageboy who came closest to us. I was right by the aisle, so I could see him a good deal better than most people. There can be no doubt, sir. The boy in question is a known thief.’
She turned to me then, her face full of feeling.
‘Your description was an excellent one, Flottie. In the whole of my life I have never seen such remarkable blue eyes.’