Mrs Hudson’s announcement was met with some considerable consternation. Where we had anticipated a figure of magisterial gravity, there stood before us a rather corpulent woman of about fifty-five, dressed in an old-fashioned coat and a hat that, although maintaining the awkward air of Sunday best, had clearly in its time witnessed a great many Sundays. And if her appearance caused a surprise in the study at Baker Street, that surprise seemed nothing to the astonishment felt by our visitor at finding herself the focus of such direct and bemused scrutiny. She stood before us wringing her hands nervously and looking from Sherlock Holmes to Dr Watson and back again, until Dr Watson, remembering his manners, leapt to his feet.
‘Mrs Smithers, you say?’ he began, clearly still in some confusion. ‘Surely not from the Home Office, madam?’
The stout woman’s nervousness began to intensify into outright panic.
‘The Home Office, sir? No, sir, from Sefton Avenue. That’s in Ealing, sir.’
‘Mrs Smithers has come to consult Mr Holmes on a personal matter, sir.’ Mrs Hudson ushered the visitor smoothly to the centre of the room. ‘Her difficulty sounds most intriguing, sir, and your instructions were to bring the caller straight up . . . I am sure the matter she wishes to discuss will be of some interest to you gentlemen.’
Mr Holmes had raised himself to the edge of his chair upon Mrs Smithers’ arrival and he now rose to his feet and paced towards the window.
‘Quite right, Mrs Hudson. And under normal circumstances I’m sure we would be delighted to assist. But at this particular moment…’ He began to feel in his pockets for his pipe, as if his attention was already returning to matters of greater import.
‘You must excuse us, madam,’ Dr Watson continued. ‘Mr Holmes and I are expecting a most distinguished visitor. If you were to return at another time, perhaps in the New Year…’
Mrs Smithers nodded frantically and began to back away.
‘Yes, of course,’ she murmured. ‘No wish to be a trouble. Another time…’ But I could see that Mrs Hudson was having none of that. The housekeeper reached out a reassuring arm that had the effect of holding our visitor firmly on the edge of the rug. When she spoke, there was iron in her voice.
‘I fear, sir, that Mrs Smithers’ business is more pressing than that. And it is her belief that, in the whole of London, only Mr Holmes can assist her.’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ burst out Mrs Smithers eagerly. ‘I’ve heard so much about you, sir, and when I found that the police were right flummoxed by the whole thing, I said to my Lavinia “this is a case for Mr Sherlock Holmes, this is. Mark my words, he’s the man to sort this out,” I told her.’
Dr Watson appeared at a loss how to respond to this statement but Mr Holmes, who had now succeeded in lighting his pipe, appeared strangely moved by her words.
‘Now, Watson,’ he reproved, ‘let us not be too hasty in this. There is no doubt a lot of truth in what our visitor says.’ Here he favoured Mrs Smithers with a polite nod and motioned her vaguely towards a chair. ‘While we have a few moments I can see no harm in hearing her story. That the police are bewildered means nothing, of course. It may be something that we can clear up here and now, without the need for further investigation.’
He turned again to Mrs Smithers, who had remained standing, her hand now clamped tightly to Mrs Hudson’s arm.
‘Now, madam, if you would tell your tale clearly, confining yourself strictly to the facts, Dr Watson and I will endeavour to assist in any way we can. Mrs Hudson, since Mrs Smithers appears to find your presence reassuring, perhaps you would be so good as to remain with us?’
And with that, he returned to his seat, drew deeply on his pipe and closed his eyes again. Watson perched himself on the arm of his chair and smiled encouragingly.
‘Go ahead, Mrs Smithers. Whenever you’re ready…’
By now I had retreated to a corner of the room that was partially hidden by Dr Watson’s collection of primitive medical instruments. Realising that neither the gentleman nor Mrs Smithers were aware of my presence, I decided that I would be least in the way by sitting still and saying nothing.
Even when settled in a low chair, Mrs Smithers seemed uncertain where to begin, but eventually she took a deep breath and plunged in.
‘Well, sir,’ she began, ‘it all happened last Sunday. Sunday is the day when my daughter – my Lavinia, that is – likes to take tea in town. It’s a little thing of hers. I daresay you will think it a little piece of nonsense, and it’s certainly an extravagance, but in truth my Vinnie was spoiled something terrible by her father, and when he died she was that upset I’ve never liked to rein her in. She’s certainly grown up more lady-like than the daughter of a haberdasher has any right to be.’
Now that she’d begun, Mrs Smithers began to gather speed.
‘That’s why I was quite surprised when she married Phillimore, sir. He being only a clerk, and a quiet chap at that. Reserved, you’d call him. But she saw something in him and, to be fair to her, he’s always kept her as she likes to be kept, and he’s never said anything against indulging her little habits. Take Sunday afternoons, for instance. She likes to dress up so you wouldn’t know her from a duchess, and he takes her into town to have afternoon tea in a proper ’otel. Always somewhere fancy, it is.’
Throughout this speech, Mr Holmes’ eyes had remained tightly shut but now he opened one of them and fixed her with a baleful glare.
‘Very nice, I’m sure, Mrs Smithers,’ he opined. ‘However perhaps if we were to get back to this particular Sunday…’
‘Yes, sir. Well, this Sunday they were going off as normal. The three of us live together in Ealing, sir. Sefton Avenue – I don’t know if you know it. It’s just the three of us there. Vinnie and her husband haven’t had no children yet, sir, but of course there’s plenty of time for that. To be honest with you, sir, I’m not sure Lavinia is that bothered by it, though of course I’d like grandchildren for myself, sir.’
Sherlock Holmes stirred dangerously in his seat.
‘This particular Sunday, Mrs Smithers?’
‘Yes, sir. Well, sir, this Sunday they were going out at about half past two. I happened to be going out at the same time because I wanted to call on a cousin of mine who lives in Perivale. So the three of us left the house together, sir, which is a bit unusual. Anyway, we’d only gone about twenty steps when Phillimore began to fret about the weather. He said he thought there’d be showers.’
‘Eh?’ Dr Watson scratched his head. ‘But Sunday was a fine day, Mrs Smithers. Remember it well because we haven’t had many this winter. I almost went for a walk myself, if I remember rightly.’
‘That’s right, sir. That’s what I told Phillimore, but he seemed uneasy. Said he’d just step inside for an umbrella.’
‘Very well, Mrs Smithers. So what happened then?’
‘That’s just it, sir. Nothing happened. We waited, but he didn’t come out again. And when we went in to look for him, well, you could have knocked me down with a feather! You see, he just wasn’t there! He couldn’t have left the house, sir, not without us noticing. Be he weren’t inside, neither. And we’ve never seen him since, sir. It’s as Mrs Hudson here said: he’s gone and vanished into thin air.’
Mrs Smithers’ story made Sherlock Holmes sit up sharply and open his eyes. Although he remained silent, and made a show of attending to his pipe, I could tell by the gleam in his eye that her narrative had engaged his interest. Even so, it was Dr Watson who spoke first, blinking slightly as if a crucial element of the tale had passed him by.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Smithers, I don’t quite see… Could your son-in-law not have left the house unnoticed by some back route?’
‘Oh, no, sir. I can be sure he did not.’
‘But you have a back door and rear windows, Mrs Smithers?’ Mr Holmes was still apparently absorbed in his pipe. ‘It must have been impossible for you to observe them from the street.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mrs Smithers turned to him eagerly, her honest face full of confidence. ‘But the back door was locked from the inside and all the windows were latched. You see, when we couldn’t find Phillimore anywhere in the house I thought he must be playing some joke on us. I thought ‘he’s gone out the back.’ But he couldn’t have done. I took care to check all the windows, sir. Everything was locked from the inside.’
‘Remarkable!’ Dr Watson reached for his glass. ‘What do you make of it, Holmes?’
‘That remains to be seen, Watson.’ Mr Holmes removed his pipe and looked directly at our visitor. ‘You say, Mrs Smithers, that your daughter is a woman of expensive tastes?’
‘Well, sir, let’s just say that my Vinnie has always liked nice things.’
‘And her husband, this Mr Phillimore, is a clerk, you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So I imagine that your daughter’s little indulgences must account for a considerable portion of his salary?’
‘Well, I couldn’t say that for sure, sir. I suppose they must. He’s always been very generous.’ She paused and frowned rather thoughtfully. ‘But then again, Phillimore is a very ordinary sort of man. Never seems to have any interests of his own. And Vinnie never could abide the idea of money sitting idle, sir.’
‘I see.’ Outside the day had turned rather dark and I could hear rain driving against the windows. While Mr Holmes pondered, Mrs Hudson moved silently to one of the side tables and lit a lamp. Its light fell obliquely on Mr Holmes’ face and I saw that the glimpse of excitement there had turned to one of amusement.
‘Would you say Mr Phillimore was a man content with his lot, Mrs Smithers?’
This question seemed to surprise her and she pursed her lips as she puzzled it.
‘I don’t rightly know, sir. I’ve never really thought about it. But he had a roof over his head and a wife who is so elegant that any man would be glad to marry her.’
‘Indeed.’ Mr Holmes turned to his colleague. ‘It is one of the great mysteries, Watson, how the two sexes can see the same objects so very differently. Tell me, Mrs Smithers, in the days before he disappeared had Mr Phillimore’s behaviour been in any way unusual? Think very carefully before you answer.’
‘Unusual, sir? I wouldn’t say so. He isn’t the sort to do anything out of the ordinary.’ She pondered her son-in-law’s extreme predictability for a moment and then her face changed suddenly. ‘There was one thing, though. Something I found in a drawer along with his new pair of gloves.’ She began to fumble with her handbag, her cheeks flushing even redder than before. ‘I brought it with me, sir, because I didn’t want Vinnie to see it. It would bring on the vapours, it would. To think of her husband bringing such a thing into the house!’
After a moment of determined rooting in the depths of her bag, she produced a folded square of paper and passed it to Dr Watson with such alacrity that it might have been burning her fingers. I watched Mrs Hudson lean forward slightly as the doctor opened it up and glanced at its contents.
‘Why, it’s a playbill, Holmes! For some dancer who’s set to perform in Piccadilly. A Spanish lady by the sound of it.’
Mrs Smithers snorted. ‘She’s no lady, sir, at least not in my book. I know about those sort of dancers. Why, it’s downright indecent! To think of a quiet man like Phillimore entertaining such thoughts! If Vinnie knew, she’d be broken-hearted.’
Dr Watson held the bill out to his friend but Mr Holmes waved it away and rose to his feet, taking up a position by the mantelpiece from where he faced his audience.
‘I think, Watson, it requires no act of genius to solve this particular problem.’ A flicker of amusement played around the corners of his mouth. ‘Mrs Smithers, the answer to the next question is vital. It will give me the final piece to the puzzle. Now tell me…’ He paused one moment more and drew happily on his pipe. ‘When you and your daughter were waiting in the street for your son-in-law to appear, was it dresses that you were discussing, or was it the latest fashion in hats?’
It would be hard to say whether Dr Watson or Mrs Smithers was the most taken aback at this question. Both seemed to blink a little in surprise, and Mrs Smithers needed a second or two before she could respond.
‘Why, that’s amazing, that is! It’s just as you say, sir, though it beats me how you could know it. It was hats we was talking about, sir. Vinnie thinks a lot about hats. That day she was wearing a new style and she wanted to know how she looked. And then there was a woman walking past who had a hat very like her own, so of course we had to talk about that too…’ She tailed off as though a thought had struck her. ‘But, sir, how does that explain what’s happened to Phillimore?’
Mr Holmes surveyed his audience and smiled. ‘If I were to tell you it were possible, under certain conditions, for a man to become invisible, you would no doubt mock me. And yet I assure you that is the case.’
‘Nonsense, Holmes!’ Dr Watson exclaimed. ‘Under what conditions could that possibly be?’
‘Why, Watson, my observations have shown me that during any prolonged discussion of feminine attire, it is possible for any number of men to disappear entirely. As far as the female protagonists are concerned, they simply cease to exist. In this case, seeing his wife engrossed in what is, no doubt, her favourite subject, Mr Phillimore quite accurately concluded that he might slip past both women in a cloak of total invisibility.’
‘But, sir!’ Mrs Smithers’ ruddy face was becoming mottled with confusion.
‘No, madam! No discussion! Look at the facts. The most likely explanation is that your son-in-law found some means of egress at the back of your property that you have overlooked. But if, as you assure me, that is not the case – if it is physically impossible for him to have left the building that way – and if, as you also assure me, he does not remain hidden somewhere inside, then logic dictates that he must have left by the front door, unobserved by either your daughter or yourself. There can be no other explanation. Objects do not simply disappear, do they, Watson?’
‘Of course not, Holmes,’ Dr Watson replied dutifully.
‘And since, madam, you have admitted to me that you and your daughter were engaged in animated conversation on a subject of great interest to you both, I think it is reasonable to believe that your observational powers were not at their most acute. As for your next steps in the matter, I suggest that if you wait two weeks it is very likely your son-in-law will come to his senses and return home begging to be forgiven. If the situation is worse, if he has discovered a taste for freedom, then I would suggest a small notice, perhaps in the theatrical papers, urging him to return home to discover something to his advantage. That should do the trick. After all, a man who abandons his wife, whatever the provocation, is a poor fellow and highly likely to succumb to other forms of temptation. Would you not agree, Mrs Hudson?’
During Mr Holmes’ explanation the housekeeper had been listening to his comments with a furrowed brow, absently wiping with the hem of her apron at tiny marks on the sideboard. Now she paused and seemed to consider her response.
‘His behaviour certainly leaves something to be desired, sir.’
‘But I’m quite sure he didn’t pass us…’ Mrs Smithers rose, shaking her head as if a butterfly of doubt was fluttering around it. ‘But if you really think so, sir… I suppose he might…’ She bobbed a little curtsey as if making up her mind. ‘I must thank you for your time, sir.’
Mrs Hudson paused to direct a rather frosty look at Mr Holmes, then guided our visitor gently to the door. ‘I’m sure the gentlemen will think further on your problem,’ she reassured her. ‘And if anything else occurs to them, they will no doubt wish to be in touch. I’ll take a note of your address as I show you out…’
When the door closed behind them, I gave a little bow and began to follow them out, stopping on the way, for the sake of tidiness, to pick up the playbill that Dr Watson had left lying on the floor. When I reached the sanctuary of the kitchen, I stopped to study it. At its head a very familiar name was trumpeted in large letters.
Lola Del Fuego!
The World Famous!
The Spectacular!
The Uniquely Talented!
The Most Beautiful Woman in Europe!!
The Greatest Dancer in the World!!
The Lady of the Fires
comes to London!!
For one night only!
At the Regal Theatre, Piccadilly
December 26th
Tickets by application to the Box Office
Advance sales only
Not sure what to do with it, I smoothed it flat and placed it neatly in the middle of the kitchen table where Mrs Hudson would be sure to notice it on her return.
With the departure of Mrs Smithers, the house became strangely subdued. Dr Watson, seizing his chance, retired to his room for a restorative nap. Mr Holmes, in retaliation, took up his violin, and soon the house hummed with a low, wistful melody. Outside, the rain that lashed the windows was slowly turning into sleet and although it was not yet one o’clock, the streets seemed grainy, as if dissolving into a preternatural dusk.
In the kitchen Mrs Hudson and I prepared lunch in silence. The housekeeper had escorted Mrs Smithers to the door and had returned with a little crooked furrow in her brow. For a while after that she said nothing, but from time to time she would take up the playbill and look at it as if it contained the answer to a question she had not yet fully formulated. When I tried to ask her about it, she shook her head.
‘Not now, Flotsam. There’s only one thing I can tell you just at the moment.’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘That in any decent world, an honest woman’s peace of mind is worth quite as much as rubies.’
And that was all she would say on the matter until the cold roast beef was carved and the horseradish grated. Then, as we prepared to carry the trays to the study, she paused and looked at the rain running down the window.
‘If it’s fine tomorrow, Flottie, I think we might make a little expedition. It is some time since I was last in Ealing but I believe it has some very fine public buildings. And do you know, on top of that, I find myself inclined to pay a short visit to Sefton Avenue…’
I knew her too well to ask more and soon the subject was pushed from my mind, for as the afternoon advanced and no further caller made themselves known, an air of expectancy began to stifle all that we did.
‘Dash it, Holmes! It’s too bad of Branchester to leave us waiting like this!’ grumbled Dr Watson when his lunch had been cleared away and the morning paper had been looked through twice.
‘Yet his cigarette case tells us that he will return, my friend,’ Mr Holmes replied gently, and the two lapsed into silence. Then, while Holmes smoked pipe after pipe and studied with extraordinary care a small portion of the ceiling, Dr Watson took up a pack of cards and began to play patience, a pastime he conducted with a singular lack of the quality which gave it its name. At about three o’clock, when the kitchen was smart as an Irish hussar and fresh as a Whitstable oyster, Mrs Hudson finally gestured towards the pot of silver polish.
‘I think we might go up now, Flotsam,’ she said softly, and after we had gathered up our things she led the way upstairs with a candlestick in each hand and two more under her arm.
The small linen room upstairs had never been intended for the polishing of silver but, although it lacked in space, it had certain other unique advantages. For one thing, its position just opposite the gentlemen’s study meant that silver items in everyday use could be stored there, without the need for always carrying up and down the stairs; for another, its proximity to the warm pipes meant that even in the coldest weather you could work with warm fingers and bare arms. Furthermore, although the fact was never commented upon between us, it was undeniable that when the door of the linen room was a little open and the door of the study not quite closed, then a clear line of vision ran between the two rooms, and any conversation in one might easily be heard in the other. Aware of this, and obviously not wishing to disturb the gentlemen, Mrs Hudson and I tended to work there in complete silence.
We had not been working for very many minutes before we heard the knock on the door that we had been so keenly expecting, three strong, imperious blows that told of a forceful hand and an equally forceful disposition.
‘If you’d be so kind, Flotsam…’ Mrs Hudson carried on rubbing at the large candelabra as though she had no other interest on earth, so it was me, heart beating a little faster and errant curls peeping from beneath my cap, who had the honour of attending to the arrival in Baker Street of Mr Godwin Branchester, confidante of princes, adviser to governments and the man charged with the safety of the Malabar Rose.