Dear reader, if having read this far you are growing weary of my endless tales of fog, if you find yourself longing for a little clear air and a glimpse of the stars by night, then you can be no more weary, feel no greater longing, than that loose conglomeration known as Londoners when yet another day emerged stillborn, wrapped in a shroud of preternatural dusk. The gathering in Baker Street after breakfast could as easily have been nocturnal as matutinal so closely did the dark grey air press at the windows from the outside, so brightly did the lamps burn and the fires blaze within.
Mr Holmes and Dr Watson had been abroad making investigations all the previous day and this morning our rooms radiated a sense of optimism and cheerful companionship. At eight in the morning Holmes had taken up position by the kitchen range and had remained there through the morning, lavishly dressing-gowned and generously supplied with tobacco, as if the answers he sought were to be found through careful study of our glowing coals. For all his gaunt profile, it was a friendly silence – one that seemed to welcome the domestic currents that eddied around it. By the time the clock struck ten, even the activity of the kitchen had given way to a rare tranquillity. Opposite Mr Holmes, on the other side of the hearth, I was at work with needle and thread while behind us Mrs Hudson was folding laundry with intense concentration. It was thus that Dr Watson found us, his ablutions complete and his affable nature intent on seeking out company.
‘Not intruding am I, Mrs Hudson?’ he wondered from the door.
‘Not at all, Dr Watson. Crowd yourself in by the fire and make yourself comfortable.’
‘Indeed, Watson,’ added Holmes, ‘but since you are about to return to the study to retrieve something from the mantelpiece, may I trouble you to also fetch the telegram that I left behind the clock?’
‘Certainly, Holmes! But how …?’
‘Childishly simple, my dear Watson. I can see from the traces of tobacco still attached to your waistcoat that you have very recently filled your pipe. You have not brought it with you, so I deduce that you have not yet lit it, for you are not the sort of man to abandon a good pipe once it is lit. That being the case, past observation leads me to suppose that you have left it, already filled, beside the clock on the mantelpiece. As, in fact, you do most mornings.’
‘Excellent, Holmes!’ returned Watson reliably, and on returning from his errand he pulled up the kitchen stool and nestled between us by the fire.
‘Since we are all here,’ began Holmes, ‘this would perhaps be a good time for us to summarise the position we have reached. I am ashamed to admit that I have made mistakes over the last few days. I have been led astray by my own assumptions. However, I feel I now make progress.’ He nodded approvingly to himself. ‘Unfortunately, in sharing my thoughts with Gregory, I fear I have provoked one of those rare flashes of imaginative thinking that are so dangerous when stemming from Scotland Yard. He believes the case is all but solved.’
‘I say, Holmes!’ Watson stirred with interest and I paused my needle. But Mrs Hudson, after a brief glance up, continued to fold placidly.
‘Quite,’ the great detective continued. He had settled comfortably into his seat and held his pipe in front of him. ‘My first mistake in all this was eagerness to believe my own preliminary observations about Moran. Based only on his note, I made a number of statements to you about his age and situation. All of them were true except one. Unfortunately, observation of the man himself seemed only to support my initial analysis. The evidence of fever, the recent return from the tropics, the interest in fauna . . . I predicted all these correctly. But I had not reckoned on deliberate deceit on his part.’
Again I ventured a look at Mrs Hudson to see if she betrayed any sign of triumph that her own thinking was proved correct. But her face was impassive and had it not been that the pile of folded linen seemed to grow no larger I might have thought her unaware of what was being said.
‘It was Mrs Hudson who put me on to the right track,’ Holmes continued, with an acknowledging nod in her direction. ‘When you were preparing to visit Neale at Brown’s Hotel, Watson, Mrs Hudson happened to remark that it was one of our better hotels. A throw-away remark perhaps, but according to Moran’s account, supported by those of his colleagues, the three had escaped to these shores penniless. Yet both Neale and Carruthers could now afford to stay in the best hotels. Moran too, when I traced him to his current lodgings, had clearly secured a reputable address.’ Holmes shook his head. ‘You see, his note to us was little more than a lie.’
Watson frowned.
‘But, Holmes, Moran never actually stated in his note that he was in straightened circumstances.’
‘That’s true, Watson. Yet that writing paper was as much a deliberate falsehood as if Moran had told us he had come from the moon. It was all the more subtle for being unspoken. And I was, for a time, misled.’
‘But Holmes, why should he wish to mislead us in that way?’
‘Precisely the question I asked myself. We know from independent verification that the main facts of Moran’s story are true – the mysterious deaths, the precipitous abandonment of their ventures – and there is no doubting from your own observations that his colleagues lived in fear. Yet if they really arrived penniless, as they claim, they seem to have commanded a respectable fortune within a relatively short time of their return. Why should this be a fact that Moran sought to conceal?’
‘Goodness, Holmes!’ Watson appeared suddenly enlightened. ‘Were they evading the income tax?’
Mr Holmes permitted himself a smile. ‘I hardly think that was their main concern, Watson. No, I am forced to conclude that their sudden flight and their concealed wealth are in some way linked.’
‘These are deep waters, Holmes. I confess I cannot see …’
‘Think, Watson! What happened in Sumatra immediately before our clients’ flight?’
‘A series of mysterious deaths, Holmes.’
‘Aha! You are getting very warm, Watson. For some years their trading company has struggled to survive. Suddenly a series of inexplicable deaths take place and in no time at all Moran and his friends have the wherewithal to live extremely comfortably in London.’
Watson was alight with excitement and even Mrs Hudson seemed to be favouring Mr Holmes with an approving glance.
‘But, Holmes,’ Watson’s mind was clearly thinking aloud, ‘the victims were mostly natives and such like. None of them were rich. How do you explain it?’
Holmes shook his head calmly. ‘All in good time, my friend. Meanwhile, as I mentioned, Gregory has found a theory of his own. Something to do with Chinese gangs. He reasons that there was a sizable Chinese presence in Port Mary. Had Moran and his friends crossed them in some way, perhaps in pursuit of some illegal venture, they may well have feared violent retribution, and perhaps it was this fear that led them to escape to London.
‘But escape would prove harder than they thought. It might have become apparent to them that even in London they were not safe from those they had crossed. Finding themselves threatened, in their fear they turned to us.’
Watson was following intently. Mrs Hudson was arranging the folded laundry by colour.
‘Of course, Holmes! And if they had been engaged in something disreputable, they wouldn’t be able to tell us the truth, would they? Not without confessing their own murky activities.’
‘Indeed, my friend. That is the beauty of Gregory’s theory. Moran and his friends need help but they cannot explain why without raising awkward questions about their own behaviour. So they seize upon the native superstitions and use them to camouflage the truth.’
Holmes put down his pipe and stretched his arms above his head.
‘The upshot of all this theorising is that Gregory has posted men outside Moran’s rooms with orders to pay particular attention to any Chinaman seen passing the building. And yet for all Gregory’s elaborations I cannot think this is the best advice, so I have promised Moran that you will drop in on him from time to time to check that everything is in order.’
Dr Watson nodded enthusiastically, but before he could reply Mrs Hudson had cleared her throat.
‘If you will excuse us, gentlemen, seeing as you two are so cosy here, perhaps you will have no objection to Flotsam and I dusting the study?’ And with some impressive bustling, she manoeuvred both myself and a large pile of dusters into the hall.
‘Mrs Hudson, ma’am,’ I asked as soon as the door was shut behind us, ‘can all that be true? About the Chinese, I mean?’
‘I think not, Flottie. Though Mr Holmes is certainly asking the right questions. All that sudden wealth, Flottie. How do we explain it? And why are we being told such improbable tales?’
But before I could answer, Mrs Hudson had opened the door to the study and revealed, to our joint astonishment, a tall, slim gentleman lounging casually by the fire. Seeing us enter he rose to his feet with languorous grace and a smile of semi-concealed amusement.
‘Ah, Mrs Hudson!’ he smiled. ‘I’m slightly disappointed it is you, even though it is of course you I have come to see. Is old Sherlock in?’ He was a darkly good looking man of about thirty and beneath clothes cut to the height of fashion he moved with the casual ease of an athlete.
‘Mr Holmes is in the kitchen, Mr Raffles. I see you have let yourself in.’
‘In the kitchen, is he? I hadn’t picked him as the domestic sort. But perhaps he’s looking for clues in the tea leaves or something.’
‘Now, Mr Raffles, we’ll have none of that. I know that you and Mr Holmes have never exactly seen eye to eye.’
‘Well that’s not entirely true, Mrs H.’ The gentleman took a cigar from his waistcoat pocket and tapped it against the mantelpiece with studied care. ‘I know he thinks I’m a frivolous ne’er-do-well, but the truth is we got on well enough once upon a time, until I ran him out at Lord’s one summer in a match against the Gentlemen of Kent. I did it to win a bet of course, but Sherlock couldn’t see the funny side. Lost his temper completely, resigned from the MCC and never played cricket again. Now he makes out he has no time for sporting pursuits. Damn shame, really. He could play the leg glance better than Ranji.’
‘Mr Holmes is certainly a man of many talents, sir.’ Mrs Hudson smoothed down her apron and allowed a glimpse of a smile to slip out from under her frown. ‘It’s good to see you again, Mr Raffles. It’s been nearly a year. Now the two gentlemen were comfortable enough when we left them, so why don’t we sit down here while you tell us what you’ve found out. I don’t think we’ll be disturbed for some time yet.’
‘Of course, Mrs H. As you would expect, I’ve helped myself to a cigar. Not a very good one, I’m afraid, but the best I could find.’ Before sitting down he leaned towards me with his hand extended. ‘Mrs Hudson, you haven’t yet introduced me to your charming assistant.’
She turned to me with another trace of smile. ‘This is Flotsam. Flotsam, Mr Raffles. Since, like Mr Holmes, you don’t read the sporting papers, you may not know that Mr Raffles has gained some small amount of fame as an amateur cricketer.’
‘Oh, the very least of my talents,’ he announced calmly. His handshake, although firm, was strangely delicate, rather as though his hand was weighing mine as he shook it.
‘To business, Mr Raffles.’ Mrs Hudson gestured me into the armchair usually occupied by Dr Watson and settled herself into the one opposite. Mr Raffles remained standing, leaning against the mantelpiece, smoking the purloined cigar with a series of long, laconic puffs.
‘I received your note the day before yesterday,’ he began, ‘and business being a little quiet just now I thought I would act at once. It is always good to be able to return some of the many kindnesses you have shown me in the past.’ Mrs Hudson replied with a small nod and Mr Raffles continued.
‘Of course, there was no problem gaining entry to the place in Portman Street though the layout of New Buildings meant there was no option but to go through the front door. Moran and his dashed servant seemed to be mightily on their guard. In the end I had to wait till they’d gone to bed before slipping in.’
Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow at him.
‘Oh, it was easy enough, Mrs H, never fear. But it meant my examination was conducted in the dark, with consequences that were almost disastrous.’
I sat wide-eyed as Mr Raffles told his tale. I had imagined all sorts of ways Mr Raffles might have been helping us, but burglary had not been among them.
‘If I may say so, Mrs H, my brief was rather vague. As you know, I generally have a very clear object in these sort of ventures. But I did what I could with the list of things you had asked me to look out for.’
He took another slow draw at his cigar while Mrs Hudson polished the arm of her chair idly with a duster.
‘The first item on the list was easy. It was clear at a glance that there was nothing in the way of scientific equipment to be found there. I don’t know what you hoped for, but it seems like a dead end. After that, it was a case of looking for papers and there were papers everywhere. However it was easy enough to find the ones he wanted to hide. There were caches of them in all the usual places – up the chimney, under the grate in the fireplace … People make these things tediously simple for the most part.’
He reached into his jacket and produced some neatly folded documents which he passed to Mrs Hudson. Beckoning to me, she began to spread them on the floor in front of the fire.
‘There were only three that I felt were of any interest to you. That large one, as you can see, is precisely what you told me to look for. It’s even stamped with the name of his company in the corner, and it seems to be plans for large-scale distilling equipment – stills, tubes and whatnot. I confess I was impressed by the accuracy of your prediction.’
‘What they call a long shot, Mr Raffles. But it seemed to me likely that some such plans would exist somewhere.’
I studied them intently, trying to grasp their import. Stills? Did that mean whisky?
‘The second document you can read at your leisure. It is a letter to Moran from someone called Carruthers. A very conciliatory letter. I thought you would find the passage I have indicated particularly interesting.’
We both turned to the letter in question, a tightly written sheet in blue ink. Mr Raffles had made a mark in the margin next to one of the later paragraphs.
‘The business has transferred remarkably well to London,’ it read, ‘where the ignorant and desperate are to be found in greater numbers even than in the tropics. I confess we are making good money and our backer is delighted.’
‘Interesting . . .’ mused Mrs Hudson, a small frown puckering her brow and her eyebrows pulling together into one straight line.
‘The last document is quite intriguing,’ Mr Raffles went on. ‘My first instinct was to discard it but then it struck me that it may be of significance.’
It was a telegram addressed to Moran, dated November 10th. The message was brief in the extreme.
TASK COMPLETED PENGE
‘The night Carruthers died,’ murmured Mrs Hudson.
‘I rather thought it might be.’
‘Why? Were there any further indications?’
‘Only one thing. A rather disturbing incident at the end of my visit.’ Mr Raffles examined the glowing tip of his cigar with exaggerated interest. ‘It was, I confess, a lesson to me and a lesson I thoroughly deserved. I shall be a great deal more discriminating in future. I was making my way to the door, feeling how nicely my mission had gone, when I was struck by an intriguing wooden jewel box on a table near the door. Now I know the purpose of my venture was purely altruistic, but in a moment of weakness I allowed my curiosity to get the better of me.’ He paused and took another draw on his cigar. ‘Once I was visiting an impoverished maiden aunt in Dorking and, on going through her things in a fit of idle curiosity, came across the finest amber necklace I had ever beheld. The incident made an impression on me and last night it was more than I could do to resist a peek inside that jewel box. The lid came off smoothly and I was just about to reach inside when a prickling at the back of my neck made me hesitate. Instead I turned my light on the box and what I saw gave me a nasty turn. I almost cried out - and I never cry out. But blow me if there wasn’t a blasted scorpion scuttling around down there. It would seem that Mr Moran has something of a penchant for keeping exotic animals.’
In a few minutes more, Mr Raffles left us. After thanking him earnestly for his efforts on our behalf, Mrs Hudson seemed anxious to be left alone to think.
‘Why, Mrs H, anyone would think you were ashamed of me,’ he teased.
‘Now, Mr Raffles, you know I shouldn’t be entertaining in Mr Holmes’s study. You let yourself out the way you came and be off with you.’
‘Very well, Mrs Hudson. It is true I shouldn’t stay too long. I have an appointment to view some rooms above a jewellers in Bond Street. And some wretched drip I was at school with is pestering me for an interview. I can’t imagine why. I don’t even owe him money.’
Taking his hat and coat from a table near the door, he bowed suavely. ‘My very best wishes to you both, and the best of luck with the man who keeps scorpions. The sooner people like him are locked away, the safer the world will be for good citizens like myself.’
‘Well, Flottie,’ said Mrs Hudson once Mr Raffles had made a mysterious exit through Dr Watson’s bedroom. ‘What do you think of that, eh?’
My mind was still reeling as I tried to put everything I had just learnt into some sort of order. Possibilities were jostling each other in my brain like crowds in Piccadilly Circus, and on top of it all was the debonair Mr Raffles.
‘Is he … well, is he a burglar, ma’am?’ It seemed almost disrespectful to so label such an elegant gentleman despite the evidence of the last ten minutes.
‘A gentleman crook, perhaps. He is, of course, an utter disgrace in many ways, but always charming with it. And by relieving the aristocracy of their excess jewellery he creates a great deal of employment for policemen, night-watchmen and the like, while at the same time preventing a number of terrible crimes against good taste.’
‘But isn’t that wrong, ma’am?’
Mrs Hudson smiled and put an arm around my shoulder. ‘You’re right, Flottie, it is wrong. But there’s all sorts of wrong in this world and, for all our efforts, you and I won’t be able to root up all of it. So while the likes of Fogarty are out there on the streets it would seem better to concentrate our efforts there rather than on Mr Raffles’s rather cavalier approach to the redistribution of wealth.’
There seemed to be sense in that, but it seemed to raise other questions too. With a shake of the head I decided to store them away for another time when there were fewer mysteries to grapple with.
‘So what about these documents, ma’am? Did you know they were there?’
‘I hardly dared hope, Flottie. Mr Moran is going to have some explaining to do before long, but even these documents don’t prove anything. They only confirm what I had already suspected.’
‘But the scorpion, ma’am?’
‘Ah, the scorpion. It’s tempting to read a great deal into that - but how strangely uninformative it really is. I predict that before very long we may be less sanguine about the scorpion.’
‘But, ma’am, surely it proves that …’
Before I could finish my point, the door opened and Mr Holmes appeared brandishing the telegram he had mentioned earlier. Behind him, in the hallway, Dr Watson was hurriedly pulling on his overcoat. Seeing us standing by the fire, still armed with our pile of dusters, Mr Holmes cast an approving eye around the room.
‘Very homely,’ he remarked. ‘What a lot you have achieved while Dr Watson and I have been idling in the kitchen. I fear we scarcely deserve you. Indeed, such was the comfort of our surroundings that it is only a moment ago that I thought to open the telegram that arrived earlier. Fortunately the consequences of this delay have not proved serious but its contents are nevertheless highly significant. It is from Mr Moran in Portman Street. He tells us that yesterday evening he received a parcel similar to the one sent to Carruthers. Luckily we had warned him of what to expect and he exercised due caution. The parcel proved to contain a scorpion, Mrs Hudson. Now what do you make of that?’
‘Mr Holmes, I can honestly say that developments in Mr Moran’s case have long ceased to surprise me. I can see that this news has, however, left Flottie unsure what to think.’
Mr Holmes favoured me with a reassuring nod. ‘Entirely to be expected. I know the fairer sex generally have a horror of such creatures. However, we cannot linger. We are off to assure Moran that he is safe. His house is being guarded day and night. Not a soul can leave or enter without our knowing it.’
As we watched the gentlemen depart, Mrs Hudson gave my shoulder a slight squeeze.
‘You see, Flottie, it would be hard to prove whether the scorpion that so alarmed Mr Raffles was on its way in or on its way out. For the time being, we must suspend judgement. At least until we have had a good long conversation with Mr Neale. There are some things I want to ask him about his friend Moran.’ She led the way back to the kitchen. ‘It is tempting to do that today, but Mr Neale will wait for tomorrow. Both he and Moran seem safe enough for now. I think we might spend today tying up some loose ends. This afternoon would you be so good as to go back to Mr Spencer? I’m interested to know what he can tell us about the two dead creatures we sent him. In a hansom this time, I think, Flottie. That way you’ll be sooner back.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said with a little inner bounce. ‘What will you do, ma’am?’
‘I think the time is approaching when we shall need to visit Mr Moran in his lair. Before then I’d like to have a little look at how the land lies so we aren’t in for any surprises. So this afternoon I shall conduct a little discreet reconnaissance. Let us agree to meet here by five, Flottie. That way you will not have to rush off rudely were you are pressed to stay for tea.’
Mrs Hudson’s words proved invaluable in preparing me for what lay ahead, so that when just such an invitation was made by the radiant Miss Peters I found myself able to accept without the incoherent stammering that, I fear, would have been my instinctive response. Managing instead two or three mute nods of the head, I found myself, within five minutes of my arrival, seated nervously at a lace tablecloth.
‘Rupert is still out, you see,’ explained Miss Peters enthusiastically, ‘but he left strict orders that I was to detain you if you called. He said he had something hugely important to convey.’ She uttered the last words in a perfect imitation of Mr Spencer’s voice, then laughed prettily. ‘You see how privileged you are. I’ve known him since we were both too small to stand up but he’s never attempted to convey anything of the least importance to me. Now, do you take milk? Lemon? Oh, I always take milk too. I can’t bear all those tedious people who insist that milk ruins a perfectly good drink. Just because I haven’t been to India and brewed my own tea at dawn on the banks of the Yangtze Kiang doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s nice to drink and what isn’t.’
Miss Peters made it all very easy, and gradually my nervousness subsided under the weight of words pouring over me. Those long-ago afternoons when Swordsmith used to show me how to take tea like a lady now seemed hugely important, but Miss Peters gave the impression that I could have drunk my tea standing on my head without appearing anything other than mildly eccentric.
In fact so comfortable did I become that I quite forgot about Mr Spencer until Miss Peters’s chatter was interrupted by his return. He seemed delighted to see us both and he joined us at the tea table with a quiet grin.
‘Is Hetty talking at you, Miss Flotsam?’ he enquired with elaborate seriousness.
‘Of course I’m not, Rupert. Flottie and I are just discussing the fashion in hats. We think women over forty who will wear those new French creations do so at great risk to their personal dignity.’
‘Hetty is well-equipped to judge,’ he confided to me, ‘as someone who never felt the slightest hesitation in sacrificing all personal dignity if it meant that she could wear something French and fashionable.’
Miss Peters let out a little squeak and appeared to kick him under the table. Ignoring her with practised ease, he turned to me again.
‘Since it’s too late in the day for a lesson, Miss Flotsam, I assume you have called to find out about the specimens you brought me.’ I noticed that his jovial manner concealed an air of considerable excitement.
‘Rupert has spent all day touting that revolting squashed spider around the houses of funny little men,’ put in Miss Peters. ‘Sometimes I think he goes to enormous lengths to put me off him.’
‘Hetty is quite wrong, Miss Flotsam,’ he carried on. ‘The spider was very easy to identify. The snake however was a different matter. You see, there’s a lot of snakes about in the world and lots of them seem to look quite like each other. However, there’s a chap called Michaels at the British Museum who’s very keen on snakes. He got onto the case and fairly quickly he was able to tell me the little charmer that killed Carruthers is something called a blue coral snake. Only a baby, apparently. The grown-ups can be about four or five feet long and they lurk about on the fringes of the jungle and make a nuisance of themselves. He wasn’t surprised Carruthers was dead. Highly venomous, apparently, and no known antidote to the bite. The chap seemed rather pleased with himself until I asked him where it came from. Then he went all vague on me. The thing is the little blighter could have come from any number of places - Sumatra, Borneo, even Siam. I was tempted to leave it at that but Michaels gave me a couple of other names and eventually I was pointed to an old chap called Mathers who had spent 35 years as a surveyor in the Colonial Service. Seems this chap is a manic herpetologist. Spent all his spare time studying snakes and such. Knows more about the snakes of the East Indies than anyone really needs to know.’
‘Rupert, please tell me you won’t want me to call on him,’ interrupted Miss Peters with a grimace. ‘Not like the man with the frightful beard and the collection of beetles?’
‘Hetty, that was the Earl of Cleveland.’ Mr Spencer gave her a look of exaggerated menace and carried on.
‘I showed this chap Mathers the snake that killed Carruthers and it took him about two seconds to tell me what it was. He was very interested in the whole thing so I told him how I came by it and when I got to the bit about the Sumatran curse he interrupted me at once. “But Mr Spencer,” he said as if it was obvious to anyone, “this snake isn’t from Sumatra. This is rather a distinctive shade of dark blue. The Sumatran population is much closer to black. And the stripe is not so pale on the specimens you find in Sumatra,” he insisted. “So where might I be able to collect a specimen resembling this particular snake?” I asked. “Singapore would be the place,” he told me. “There’s loads of them like this one in Singapore.” So there you go, Miss Flotsam, it’s not a Sumatran snake at all.’
‘Singapore! Where Mr Moran went when he left Sumatra! He could have collected it there.’
Mr Spencer nodded happily. ‘I suppose it’s technically possible that the priests might have got hold of a Singapore version of their local snake to send to London, but I can’t for the life of me see why they should.’
‘And did the spider come from the same place, Mr Spencer?’
‘Oh, that’s just it, Miss Flotsam. Everyone was unanimous about the spider. It didn’t come from Asia at all. It’s a tarantula spider from South America or Mexico or somewhere. I did a bit of investigation and found it’s quite easy to buy one down on the docks. Sailors bring them back and sell them as curiosities. They drive up the price by saying they’re terribly poisonous, practically man-eaters, and someone was obviously taken in. Because whoever it was who went to all that trouble to throw one at Mr Neale can’t have realised that for all their loathsome appearance they aren’t particularly poisonous at all.’
‘So neither of the creatures used in these strange attacks was from Sumatra?’
He shook his head. ‘Though someone seems to want us to think they are.’
‘Moran!’ I murmured under my breath. ‘Someone who wanted us to believe in the Sumatran curse … You must both excuse me,’ I told them abruptly, looking up at two intent, interested faces. ‘You see, I simply have to get back to Mrs Hudson as quickly as I can.’