Christmas Eve dawned brightly and for a magical hour the sun shone on clean, white snow. For that time, London looked fleetingly like a city in a fairytale, the sort of scene painted on the backdrops of theatres, where every slate and every sill is neatly layered with snow and every roof dangles icicles like daggers. But even before the night was fully gone, the city had begun to wake and the smoke of its chimneys was spreading on an east wind. Before long, the early carts were churning the road into slush.
I was out early that morning with errands to run and items to purchase that Mrs Hudson felt were essential to the proper celebration of Christmas. Because I had other calls to make, I was dressed like a lady in my smart dress and little hat, and the cold soon brought a fine glow to my cheeks. I felt in fine, high spirits, and it wasn’t only me. The unusual snowfall had brought the best out of people and strangers smiled as they struggled past each other on pavements made treacherous by drifted snow. The shopkeepers seemed happy too. Trade was brisk despite the weather and in more than one of the places I stopped, an extra package was pressed upon me with the season’s greetings. Mr Herbert at the haberdashery blushed, and gave me a ribbon for my hair, while Mrs Williamson, the florist’s wife, presented me with a sprig of mistletoe ‘for all those young beaux out there’.
‘No, don’t thank me,’ she insisted, ‘it will be them lucky lads that are thanking me. Now get on with you!’
My journey took a detour to include the offices of Mr Rumbelow the solicitor. I found him at his desk in a fug of coal smoke and good humour, and when I was shown in by a stammering clerk, he hastened to his feet with a warm smile of welcome.
‘Ah, Flotsam! Excellent! Excellent! Come in, come in. You are too warm? Too cold? Just right? Quite so, quite so.’ He mopped his round and rather extensive forehead with a polka-dot handkerchief and beamed again. ‘You have perhaps come to see if there has been any response to Mrs Hudson’s advertisement in Plays & Player?’
I told him he was right, that Mrs Hudson was anxious to hear news of the missing Mr Phillimore. ‘She seems very taken by the puzzle of his disappearance, sir.’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ he nodded sagely. ‘Mrs Hudson no doubt has her reasons, Flotsam.’
‘I wish she was thinking about the Malabar Rose, sir. Mr Holmes and Sir John are doing everything they can, but if anything was overlooked I’m sure Mrs Hudson would spot it.’
‘Ah, yes, indeed. She is a remarkable woman.’ Having assured himself that I was seated comfortably, he settled back into his own chair. ‘However, I am sure that Mr Holmes has matters in hand, Flotsam, and I am now rather looking forward to the performance of this foreign illusionist. I have taken the step of purchasing a ticket for the show myself.’
‘You have secured a ticket, sir? I thought they had all sold out.’
He blushed a little. ‘Indeed, yes. Quite so. I confess I have paid a price a little higher than that printed on the ticket. As of last night, twelve guineas would appear to be the generally accepted rate.’ Clearly a little embarrassed by this extravagance, he began to rustle through some papers on his desk.
‘Returning to your original inquiry, Flotsam, I regret to say that I have received no response to Mrs Hudson’s advertisement as yet. However, as soon as I do, I shall send word. You may be interested to know that I have received from Mrs Smithers the sum of thirty pounds to be offered as a reward for information leading to the, er, rediscovery of her son-in-law.’ He tapped the breast of his jacket at the place where his wallet sat, as if to reassure himself that the sum in question was still secure.
I wasn’t entirely convinced that Mr Phillimore’s wife, Lavinia, would feel that £30 in return for her husband’s reappearance would constitute a suitable exchange, but I didn’t like to mention it so instead I allowed Mr Rumbelow to accompany me to the door.
‘You will no doubt be aware that tomorrow is Christmas Day, Flotsam.’
I assured him that I was aware.
‘No doubt a busy day for both you and Mrs Hudson, with Christmas dinner to serve and other such seasonal events to accommodate?’
‘Well, sir, Mrs Hudson will be cooking a goose but Mr Holmes and Dr Watson won’t be there to enjoy it because they have to stand guard over the Malabar Rose.’
‘Indeed? Even so, I feel sure the exertion of preparing a goose must be very great. I happen recently to have taken receipt of a very excellent Napoleon brandy. I wonder, do you think Mrs Hudson would be, er, willing to accept a bottle of it? I’m sure it would be admirable at offsetting any seasonal weariness that she might experience.’
I assured him that Mrs Hudson would be more than happy to accommodate another bottle from his cellar, and at this his face brightened.
‘Excellent! I shall send it around at once. And merry Christmas to you, Flotsam. Merry Christmas indeed!’
From Holborn I made my way towards Bloomsbury, where I had been asked to call upon Miss Peters. As always when calling on Miss Peters, I arrived expecting anything but in fact the scene that greeted me when Reynolds showed me into the drawing room was one of comparative calm. Rupert Spencer was sitting at the table surrounded by a barricade of weighty tomes, studying something minutely through a magnifying glass. Around him, like rose petals or apple blossom, fluttered an almost transparent cloud of tiny butterflies in shades of red and pink through to cream and white. In the corner, perched on one of those sets of high steps used in libraries, Miss Peters sat calmly, also reading a book, a large butterfly net dangling from one hand.
‘I think the blue ones must been Queens of Patagonia,’ she was saying, ‘or perhaps Blue Mormons. Ooooh! Hello, Flottie.’ Both of them rose to welcome me. ‘Do you think you might be good with one of these?’ She waved the butterfly net at me. Before I could reply, Mr Spencer intervened.
‘Don’t answer that question, Miss Flotsam, or she will have you here all day lending her a hand. You see, we have reached something of an impasse here.’
‘Nonsense, Rupert, we haven’t reached any sort of pass at all. Not even a pretty one. Any moment now I shall walk out with my head held high and go to the De Courcy’s luncheon with my aunt and the Strutheringtons, and everyone will say I did the right thing. So there!’
I looked again at the flight of butterflies. ‘How did they all get out?’ I asked. ‘It can’t have been an accident, surely?’
I addressed the question to Miss Peters and she had the decency to blush a little.
‘Well, not entirely, Flottie, no. You see Rupert spent all yesterday poring over his books and his butterflies and quite refused to come the ball at Ballestier’s because he has to give the collection back today. And even though he’s always so dull at balls, I was a little annoyed with him for not coming because I’d told everyone he’d be there, so when he refused to come I felt like a deserted wife or something, though of course I probably never shall be a deserted wife because Rupert will probably never marry me in the first place because he much prefers moths and things to people. Even pretty ones.’
Rupert Spencer permitted himself a wry smile at this but Hetty was still in full flow.
‘Anyway, when I found him here this morning with his head still in his books as though he hadn’t moved all night, I decided I had to do something to make him move.’
‘And so?’
‘And so I let them all out,’ she ended with a flourish.
‘And how did Mr Spencer respond to that?’ I asked with a smile, looking across at him.
‘He ignored me completely,’ Miss Peters admitted, and formed her lips into something very close to a pout.
‘Which is a much harder thing to do than it sounds.’ Mr Spencer looked across at me and smiled. ‘So now Hetty must either restore them all to their boxes or face the wrath of Lord Clyde, who shall be here to collect them at lunchtime. Lord Clyde is a great enthusiast for butterflies but rather less of an enthusiast for human beings. And he’s really rather fierce. He’s been known to horsewhip people he feels have treated his butterfly specimens with insufficient respect.’
‘Oh, all right!’ Hetty stamped her foot rather prettily and snatched up the butterfly net again. ‘If you are going to behave like a brute, Rupert, then I have no choice. You two can sit there and pour the tea and never mind if I am breaking my neck chasing stupid Cabbage Admirals all over the place.’ She proceeded to advance on the nearest butterfly and caught it neatly with a wristy flick.
Ignoring her completely, Mr Spencer rose and addressed himself to me. ‘If you please, Miss Flotsam, Reynolds has brought in some tea. Since Hetty is otherwise engaged, perhaps you would be good enough to pour?’
So we sat and drank tea together while Miss Peters stalked the drawing room, berating us for our lack of feeling. Mr Spencer seemed in very good spirits, telling me of the species he had studied and explaining to me details of butterfly life cycles and anatomy. From there we passed to the subject of Christmas and then to the prospect of the Great Salmanazar’s show. As I told him about plans to keep safe the Malabar Rose, Mr Spencer listened attentively. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he looked uncommonly well, his strong brown forearms a contrast to the tiny teacup and saucer that balanced between his fingers. From time to time, Miss Peters would add a word or two to contradict something that he said, and at the mention of the Great Salmanazar she gave a little shriek.
‘Ooo, Flottie! I forgot to say. Rupert has found us tickets! We shall see it all for ourselves, though I think they must have been terribly expensive because Rupert positively gulped when Reynolds told him how much they were.’
‘It’s true, Miss Flotsam. They’re up to fifteen guineas apiece now. However, Reynolds had rather anticipated my need for them and had gone into the market on my behalf when they still stood at thirteen guineas. At least that’s what he claims. If I know Reynolds, I suspect he may have done rather better than that.’
I paused with my cup halfway to my lips. ‘But what about the Marylebone Natural Philosophic Society? Aren’t they going to be terribly let down?’
Mr Spencer blushed slightly.
‘Far from it. It turns out that the gentlemen of the Marylebone Natural Philosophic Society have, to a man, decided they would prefer to be at the Regal Theatre. So in the spirit of scientific investigation, I have decided to follow them.’
‘That’s why Rupert was looking sombre when you came in, Flottie.’ Miss Peters seemed to be making excellent headway in her retrieval of the butterflies. ‘He’s terrified that the Great Salmanazar will call him on stage and steal his watch, aren’t you, Rupert?’
‘Nothing of the sort! If you must know, I’m worried about my uncle.’
‘The earl?’ Miss Peters seemed unsurprised. ‘Has he been frightening the tradesmen again?’
Mr Spencer shook his head. ‘Far from it. And it’s at least two days since he wrote anything angry to The Times. Worst of all, last night, when you’d gone to the ball, he came in and asked to play cribbage with me.’
‘Cribbage? The Irascible Earl? No, Rupert, darling, you must be thinking of someone else.’
‘It’s true, I promise. Seemed very anxious to spend some time with me. When I told him that I had a piece of work to finish before I could play, he didn’t shout or yell, or any of the things you’d expect. He didn’t even fume quietly. He just nodded and said he’d sit and read a book until I was ready.’
Miss Peters and I looked at each other. ‘Read a book?’ she asked faintly.
‘Yes, truly. Stirring Tales of Noble Deeds, I think it was.’
Miss Peters and I were prevented from commenting further by a timid knock at the drawing room door, and with immaculate timing the earl himself poked his head into the room.
‘Ah, Rupert! Not disturbing you, am I?’ he inquired with unusual affability.
‘No, uncle, not at all. Come in and join us. Miss Flotsam is just pouring some tea.’
‘Tea? Tea?’ The earl began to growl, in the manner with which Mr Spencer and Miss Peters were familiar, but before he could launch himself into a full-blooded renunciation of the beverage, something seemed to check him. ‘Ah, yes. Tea,’ he conceded. ‘A refreshing drink, I believe. I would be delighted to join you for a cup.’
This was so remarkable a statement, such a total reversal of his lordship’s usual preferences, that even Hetty appeared too stunned to reply. She just stood there, gaping at him, waving her butterfly net vaguely in the direction of a Limoges vase. Noting this, the earl seemed to rediscover some of his former energy.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Hetty,’ he snapped, ‘put that blasted thing away before you break another heirloom. And I’m damned if I’ll have the place turned into a zoo!’
Strangely, this note of resurgent irritability had the effect of putting everyone at their ease, and for a while the conversation became general, with the earl stating in robust terms his views on tariff reform, suffragettes, Welshmen and the decline of the railways. Even so, although he demonstrated considerable ire on all these subjects, it was clear that some other, unspoken, issue was on his mind. When Hetty embarked on a long description of the latest fashion in French hats, instead of his normal trenchant views on fashion and the French, he fell silent and pondered.
‘Rupert,’ he began when she had finished, ‘I was thinking of going to my club tonight.’
‘Yes, uncle. You go to your club every night.’
‘Ah, yes. So I do. But what I meant was, tonight I wondered if you’d like to come with me?’
‘Me, uncle?’
‘Yes, you, dammit!’ he growled before recovering himself and smiling weakly. ‘Apologies, my boy. This tea seems to be making me a trifle irritable. Yes, it occurred to me when I was shaving this morning that it would be good for you to come along and meet some of the people there. It must be years since you were last at the club.’
Mr Spencer did a rapid calculation. ‘Not since I was twelve, I think. If you remember I was thrown out for setting fire to the Foreign Secretary’s whiskers. I seem to recall you were quite cross about it.’
‘Oh, nothing wrong with some boyish high spirits!’
‘No, uncle. But you had the club alter its constitution so that I wouldn’t be eligible for membership for at least eighty-seven years.’
‘Ha!’ gulped the earl unconvincingly. ‘Ha! Ha! Excellent memory you have! But so long ago! And only a harmless prank. Water under the bridge, and all that. But of course I can see your point. No need to come if you don’t wish it. I can stay here with you instead.’
‘Stay here? With me?’ Rupert Spencer was a quick-witted young gentleman under normal circumstances but this sudden subversion of the established order was clearly causing him to flounder.
‘Yes, Rupert, stay here. And you too, of course, Hetty. We could all sit together and, er, study…’ Mr Spencer’s jaw began to sag downwards. Hetty simply stared. It took a moment or two before either could respond.
‘Uncle, I’m afraid I’ve promised to take Hetty to the Petershams’ Mistletoe Ball tonight. It’s a fairly long-standing arrangement and I know the Petershams are rather expecting us.’
To our surprise, the earl brightened considerably. ‘A ball? Excellent! Lots of people, no doubt. Respectable ones. And the Petershams’ is a very solidly built old house. I shall certainly join you! Carrington can take us in the carriage. And Reynolds shall accompany him, in case, er, well, in case we need him for anything.’
He rose to his feet.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare. Reynolds!’
He put back his head and roared with all his usual force and volume.
‘Reynolds! We’re going to a ball!’ As the door shut behind him we could still hear his voice on the staircase. ‘And none of those parvenu new fashions, Reynolds! Lay out some proper clothes! There’s nothing wrong with those tails I wore for the Palace the night Ackworth won the Cambridgeshire…’
Whatever was affecting the Earl of Brabham, it did not appear to be the spirit of Christmas.
I passed the afternoon of that day at Baker Street, a willing accomplice in Mrs Hudson’s plans to prepare for Christmas. In that one hectic afternoon, the goose was stuffed, three brace of grouse were lightly braised, a side of gammon was studded with cloves and baked whole, a large box of vegetables was washed and trimmed, five different sauces were stirred and a bottle of Chateau Yprieu ’62 was carefully decanted.
In addition to the cooking, there was cleaning to be done, beds to be stripped, clothes to be washed, collars to be starched, trousers pressed, silver to be polished, and a great many tradesmen and errand boys to be greeted and dealt with. But if all that work sounds laborious, not for one moment did it feel so; for through it all ran the gathering excitement of the approaching celebration and a burgeoning sense of festivity amongst all our callers, and the knowledge that on Boxing Day the Great Salmanazar would take to the stage and the fate of the Malabar Rose would be decided.
Our day was further enlivened by regular reports from the Regal Theatre and the Blenheim Hotel. At four o’clock, Dr Watson arrived from the Satin Rooms and reported that all seemed quiet. Mrs Hudson took one look at the doctor’s red eyes and sagging countenance and installed him by the fire with a reviving mince pie and a large glass of brandy and shrub, to such good effect that after half an hour or so he returned to his watch with a spring in his step and a slice of Madeira cake in his pocket.
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock Holmes returned from the Regal Theatre, hungry, unshaven and very dirty.
‘It has been a taxing day, Mrs Hudson. You are no doubt aware that it is customary at Christmas for the theatres of London to give themselves over to pantomime,’ he explained. ‘You know, the sort of thing, Mrs Hudson: Jack and the Beanstalk, Cinderella, Aladdin, lots of lights and costumes and such like.’
Mrs Hudson assured him that she knew what a pantomime was.
‘I am not a student of such entertainments myself. Anyway, there’s a pantomime troupe booked for the Regal Theatre as soon as the Great Salmanazar departs, and they have been allowed to rehearse there today. The resulting chaos has made it difficult in the extreme to keep an eye on the illusionist. Even so, I am confident he has remained all day within the theatre and has not been anywhere near the Blenheim Hotel.’
‘And has Miss Del Fuego made an appearance at the theatre today, sir?’ she asked.
‘Miss Del Fuego? No, I gather her rehearsals are complete.’
Mrs Hudson had taken up a pile of laundry and now she began to fold the top item, a large bath towel.
‘It is curious, sir, is it not, that the young man who disappeared from Sefton Avenue in Ealing should have had in his possession a playbill advertising Miss Del Fuego’s act?’
Mr Holmes snorted. ‘You are still thinking of that domestic tiff, Mrs Hudson? I can see nothing curious about it at all. It would appear that the majority of London’s male population is agog to witness the famous Fire Dance.’
And with that he allowed Mrs Hudson to press upon him a parcel of cold pork sausages, a slice of veal pie and a bottle of brown ale concealed up his sleeve.
The third report on events followed much later that evening, when Mrs Hudson and I were sitting at the kitchen table on the brink of retiring. We heard a light tapping at the area door, and to our surprise Sherlock Holmes entered, leading in his wake Dr Watson, Sir John Plaskett and Inspector Lestrade. Mrs Hudson, who felt her kitchen to be very much her own domain, raised an eyebrow at the sight.
‘Mr Holmes, sir? Can we help you?’
‘Of course, Mrs Hudson, otherwise we should not have bothered you. Dr Watson has spent the journey here speculating as to what little Christmas treats you might be hoarding away down here so I volunteered to lead a raid on your larder.’ He waved impatiently at his colleagues, who appeared every bit as put out by this unconventional approach as Mrs Hudson. ‘Come on in, gentlemen, come on in. I’m sure Mrs Hudson will find you a slice of something and a bottle of ale before you go on your way.’
It can’t be said that Mrs Hudson’s instinct for hospitality ever failed her, and whatever her feelings about Mr Holmes entertaining in her kitchen, she kept them to herself; and it was notable that both Sir John and Inspector Lestrade brightened considerably when they found themselves in front of the blazing kitchen fire with glasses of hot whisky in their hands. With snow falling outside and the last hours of Christmas Eve ticking away, it made for a festive scene.
‘Now, gentlemen, before we part for the night, let us summarise our position.’ Mr Holmes’ energy seemed undiminished either by the late hour or by the rigours of his day. ‘The Great Salmanazar is safely in his rooms at Browns Hotel with a dozen constables standing watch. How are things at the Blenheim, gentlemen?’
‘All’s in order, Mr Holmes.’ Lestrade had drained his drink in a couple of gulps and was now looking more cheerful – and a little pinker – than I had ever seen him. ‘If Sir John can get the ruby to the Satin Rooms safely, then we can be sure it will stay there until the dragoons arrive to take it to the vaults. If anything happens to it while it’s under our supervision, why, then it must be that the Devil himself has spirited it away.’
‘However, I hardly think that either the public or the Home Office will be content to lay the blame entirely on that gentleman, Lestrade. They may wish to find a scapegoat a little closer to home.’
‘You’re right, Mr Holmes.’ Sir John twirled the end of his moustache into an anxious spiral. ‘If anything goes wrong, our reputations are ruined. We will be a laughing stock and a national disgrace.’ He looked a little anxiously at his colleagues. ‘However, I’m damned if I can see how anything can go wrong. It would take an infantry assault to penetrate the security around the Satin Rooms.’
‘And you are sure the stone will be delivered safely, Sir John?’
The old soldier chuckled. ‘Hidden better than a pebble on a beach, gentlemen. And guarded by a veritable Cerberus. What was that?’
All heads turned for a moment towards the window that faced the area steps. Mrs Hudson, who had been polishing spoons, apparently with no interest whatsoever in the gentlemen’s conversation, turned to look too.
‘I thought I heard a noise outside,’ Sir John explained, still facing the window.
‘What about you, Flotsam?’ Mrs Hudson asked. ‘You were closest to the window. Did you hear anything?’
For a moment all eyes were on me. ‘Nothing, ma’am,’ I told her. ‘Perhaps it was a carriage in the street.’
‘Or a floorboard creaking,’ suggested Dr Watson.
‘Or your nerves playing tricks, Sir John,’ Mr Holmes concluded. ‘Come, gentlemen, the illusionist is being watched. The ruby is hidden. Our plans are watertight. I don’t think we need to worry about noises in the night. Tomorrow we can meet again to review how things stand, but now I think we should enjoy another of Mrs Hudson’s excellent drinks.’
His companions concurred and more hot whiskies were mixed. Mrs Hudson then returned to the spoons, polishing each of them with a slightly furrowed brow. And none of the gentlemen paid the slightest attention to me, where I stood near the back door with my hands clenched tightly beneath my apron, half expecting to be found out.
For that night I told a lie. I had heard a noise in the darkness outside, I had seen the flutter of a shadow cross the light that fell on the area steps. But I stood still and said nothing. Outside the clock struck midnight. It was Christmas Day.