The next day was a Sunday and the persistence of the church bells left the city in no doubt of the fact. Mrs Hudson, who was a surprisingly irregular churchgoer herself, clearly felt that after I had been exposed to such naked transgression of the Sixth Commandment it was vital for the good of my soul on this particular morning that I should attend. So, leaving the gentlemen undisturbed, we ventured smartly into the mist-shrouded morning where the successful completion of much organised standing, kneeling and sitting left us wide awake and with a ready appetite. We returned as pale sunshine was attempting to break through the mist to the streets below. Mrs Hudson seemed peculiarly bashful about her performance of the previous evening, changing the subject whenever, frequently, I returned to it.
‘Flotsam,’ she said eventually, ‘I wish I could share your sense of enthusiasm. But there’s a man dead who should still be alive if I had been a little quicker of thought and a little less willing to think well of myself. And Fogarty will be walking the streets this morning as free as he ever was, with nothing to be done about it.’ The thought seemed to cast her into deep gloom and her lips pursed into a worried grimace.
Despite her words and regardless of the efforts of the Church, I found it hard to mourn Moran. For now the air was bright, people in the streets were smiling and I was full of pride in the solid figure who walked beside me. It seemed like a day to be happy.
‘And you’re forgetting something else, Flotsam.’ It was as if she had divined the frivolity of my thoughts. ‘It’s four days now since you last met Fogarty. That’s four days since he threatened to let that boy of his die. Now the little difficulty with Moran has been sorted out, Fogarty has even less use for your help and even less reason to keep the boy.’
‘But, ma’am, if he feels everything is settled now, won’t he just throw the boy out? What can he gain now from carrying out his threat?’
‘Fogarty thrives on power, Flottie. You have let him down and it is important for him to punish you. He saw you felt pity for the boy. It will amuse him to let you feel the guilt for his death.’
Suddenly the day seemed a good deal less bright and the places touched by the sun seemed only to accentuate the cold of the shadows.
‘What’s to be done, ma’am?’
‘As I said to Mr Rumbelow, we must take action. Fogarty will not expect that from the likes of us, and I’m reluctant to allow him to win every trick. Tell me, Flottie, do you think you could find the boy again if you went back to that house?’
I hesitated, trying to recall the twists and turns I had taken when I had followed Fogarty on my previous visit.
‘I think so, ma’am. It’s all a bit confused in my mind right now, but I think if I was actually there …’
‘Good. That gives us a chance. Though we shall need to enlist some assistance. I wonder …’
And she descended into a deep, contemplative silence that persisted until we were back at Baker Street.
Perhaps to make sure that I didn’t dwell too much on the triumphs of the previous evening, Mrs Hudson made sure that there was plenty to do that morning and it was not until Scraggs arrived in the early afternoon that I had a chance to stop and look around.
‘Hello, Flot,’ he said warmly, perching himself on the kitchen table. ‘I just thought I’d pop in and see what’s up.’
‘I’m up to my neck in hard work, that’s what. Did you hear about last night at all, Scraggs?’
He nodded. ‘Friend of mine has a brother in the police. I hear old Mrs H showed them all a thing or two.’
‘It’s not old Mrs H to you, Scraggs,’ came a stern voice from down the corridor, followed by the appearance of the woman herself. ‘We’ll have a bit of respect when you’re in this house, young scallywag. Nevertheless, for all your cheek, I’m glad to see you. I need someone to take a message to Mr Spencer.’
‘I’m your man, Mrs H,’ he chirped brightly, bouncing down from the table. ‘It’s my pleasure to serve the old and wise.’
Mrs Hudson scowled. ‘You are an insufferable young ruffian, Scraggs. More of your cheek and I’ll take my business elsewhere. Which isn’t to say you didn’t do good work last night. Stuck to your post like glue. Unlike some people.’
I felt myself flushing but, at the crucial moment, Mrs Hudson’s frown at me wobbled slightly in a way that rendered it useless for purposes of serious intimidation. ‘Now, Flottie, you go and take those tea things in to Mr Holmes while I give Scraggs that message.’
If I wondered at all what Mrs Hudson was plotting with Mr Spencer, I was able to form a pretty shrewd guess that very evening. For when at seven o’clock we were called by Mr Holmes into the study, it soon became clear that Mrs Hudson had no intention of satisfying his curiosity there and then. As she stood before the two gentlemen, her face was assembled into a look of deep perturbation.
‘Why, whatever is the matter, Mrs Hudson?’ asked Dr Watson. ‘I’ve never seen you look so glum.’
‘Watson is quite right,’ added Holmes. ‘If there is something troubling you, you mustn’t hesitate to share it. It would be a privilege to be of assistance.’
‘Well, Mr Holmes,’ began Mrs Hudson hesitantly, as if unsure whether to proceed. ‘It relates to the gentleman I was talking about last night.’
‘This man Fogarty?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All the more reason to tell us everything. If he is the villain you say, something must be done.’
And so Mrs Hudson allowed them to draw from her the story of my past encounters with Fogarty and the perilous situation of the child he had attempted to pass off as my brother. As the tale unfolded, Watson’s horrified reactions were enough to reassure me that the help Mrs Hudson had talked of would be forthcoming. If anything, the cold, set face of Mr Holmes as he listened, his injured arm still hanging in a sling, revealed even more determination to strike a blow for justice. When she had finished her tale, it was he who spoke first.
‘You are quite right, Mrs Hudson. Something must be done and there is not a moment to lose. Anxious though I am to hear everything you have to say about this man, I am happy to postpone your full explanation until tomorrow.’
‘But what can be done, sir?’ asked Mrs Hudson with a most unlikely display of uncertainty. ‘Mr Rumbelow says the law cannot help us, and of course physical force is not to be contemplated …’
‘Nonsense, Mrs Hudson!’ Dr Watson was on his feet and quivering with determination. ‘It sounds like the only language this devil understands. We must snatch the boy away! Between us, I’m sure Holmes and I …’
He tailed off as he became aware of Mr Holmes’s arm in its sling.
‘Precisely, my friend. I fear I am not best able to assist. Nevertheless, your instincts are right. But perhaps before we resort to brawn, we should employ our brains a little. What would we need to do to make such an audacious raid possible?’
Mrs Hudson cleared her throat quietly. ‘Well, sir, one thing did occur to me …’ I noticed her eyes travelling to the clock on the mantelpiece as though she were anxious to keep an appointment.
‘And what was that, Mrs Hudson?’
‘The boy is being kept below the servants’ quarters at the rear of the house. I thought that some sort of diversion at the front of the house might give us an opportunity.’
‘Hmm, yes.’ Holmes passed his hand over his chin. ‘I wonder how we might achieve that …’
At that moment the clock struck the half hour and almost simultaneously there was a knock at the front door. Mrs Hudson was on her feet in an instant and returned a minute later, her face impassive, with a calling card on a tray.
‘A gentleman to see you, sir.’
‘A Mr Rupert Spencer,’ read Holmes. ‘I wonder what this is about? Show the gentleman in Mrs Hudson.’
Mr Spencer bustled in with his usual air of irrepressible energy. He sailed past Mrs Hudson as if he had never seen her before and if he noticed me standing at the edge of the lamplight he didn’t for a moment show it.
‘Mr Holmes, so good of you to see me. I have been meaning to call before this, ever since I heard that an old acquaintance of mine is in your service. But tonight I happened to be passing …’
‘I fear, sir, that you find my household engaged in an important matter that concerns us all. Perhaps if you could return another time …?’
‘Of course, Mr Holmes. At your convenience. You see, I’m something of a scientist myself and I’m hoping to persuade my uncle to fund a laboratory for research. I thought a good word from you …’
‘I say, sir!’ It was Watson who interrupted him. ‘Your name’s Spencer. Is it possible that your uncle could be the Earl of Brabham?’
‘Indeed, sir. Are you acquainted with my uncle?’
‘The Irascible Earl? No, I regret to say I am not. But the presence here this evening of the Earl’s nephew is remarkable timely, is it not, Holmes?’
‘Watson, you excel yourself! Come, sir, take a seat. Please excuse our presumption, but an important issue has arisen in which all of us here have an interest. An innocent life is at stake and we need assistance. As the Earl’s nephew, I assume you are acquainted with the Fotheringays?’
‘The Fotheringays? Rather! My uncle used to whip old Fotheringay regularly when they were boys. That sort of thing forms a bond.’
Holmes greeted this with the faintest lift of his eyebrow.
‘Sir, I am aware that we are presuming upon the shortest of acquaintances, but it is in your power to help us greatly.’ In a few short sentences he sketched out the situation regarding Fogarty and the boy.
‘Despicable!’ declared Mr Spencer when he had finished. ‘The man is a monster! How like the Fotheringays not to notice that they have a monster for a butler!’
‘You will understand, sir, that we need someone to cause a disturbance at the Fotheringays’. Do you feel you might be able to oblige?’
‘Absolutely! What a remarkable coincidence my calling just now!’ He looked around the room innocently. ‘I shall be delighted to help. As it happens, I am accompanied this evening by the Earl’s ward, Miss Peters. She is waiting in the carriage as we speak. Something tells me she may be the perfect person for this situation.’
‘So what’s the plan, Holmes?’ asked Watson excitedly.
‘Simple, Watson. The excellent Mr Spencer here will create some sort of uproar at the front of the house such that all able-bodied men in the servants’ hall will be called upon to assist. While they are absent, you and I, guided by Flotsam, will retrieve the boy and make our escape.’
‘But, Holmes, your arm! You can’t possibly risk yourself in that way. You are still weak and if we ran into any difficulties you would be a liability rather than an asset.’
‘Nonsense, Watson!’
But Mrs Hudson sided with the doctor and in truth Mr Holmes still looked a shadow of his usual self. I had already noted that he stayed seated more than his wont and lost his colour quickly when he stood for more than a few minutes. Eventually, when it became clear the opposition was implacable, he turned to Mr Spencer and said, ‘You see, sir, how I am fussed over. It seems that the excitement will take place without me.’
‘Mr Holmes, if Miss Peters and I play our part, Dr Watson will have to do nothing more than carry out the patient. Let us hope that is the case. The Earl’s carriage is at your disposal, Dr Watson. Shall we set off at once?’
And that is how the strangely assorted grouping of Mrs Hudson, Dr Watson, Mr Spencer and myself all came to be crowding into the Earl’s carriage at eight o’clock on a dark winter’s evening, bound for the lair of a master criminal. Miss Peters gave an excited squeak as we crushed in, and up on the box Carrington surveyed the scene with some bemusement. But Mr Spencer shouted the address before squeezing in beside Miss Peters and, before I’d time to think about what would happen next, we were on our way.
The journey was not a comfortable one.
‘Rupert, darling?’ asked Miss Peters plaintively once appropriate introductions had been made. ‘I know I insisted on coming, and I know that I’ll need to be frightfully intrepid and everything, but must you sit on my dress like that? It’s not that I mind about the dress, you understand, it’s just that I don’t know what you want me to do yet and if it’s something where I need to look my best then having a dress that looks as though it’s been sat on by a camel will simply ruin everything.’
Mr Spencer shifted awkwardly until he was crushing Dr Watson’s hat instead.
‘Listen, Hetty, I think you’re going to excel at this. Remember how you called on the Fotheringays the other day? Well, we’re going back there. I’m going to tell old Fotheringay you’re the patient of a friend of mine and you suffer from delusions, and the delusion you are suffering from at the moment is that you’re married to him or something. Then, before we have to explain exactly why we’ve come, you have to throw a complete fit and scream the house down. What do you think?’
Miss Peters looked aghast. ‘But, Rupert, they’ll have me locked away! Mr Fotheringay will make sure I’m committed forever. And even if he didn’t, I’d become a social outcast. Even the Walters boy won’t dance with a known lunatic. I’ll never be able to go out again. Rupert, you haven’t thought this up as a way of getting rid of me, have you?’
Mr Spencer seemed to think about this. ‘It’s an excellent idea for the future, Hetty, but on this occasion I’ll make sure no-one locks you up. As soon as you’ve got all the servants up there trying to restrain you, I’ll rush you off muttering about a sanatorium.’
‘But that’s terrible, Rupert! I’ll be man-handled by footmen and however exciting that may sound, it’s quite unladylike and even rather undignified, and when you’ve seen me like that you won’t ever want to marry me. And then think what the Earl would say!’
‘The Earl won’t ever know.’
‘He’ll know when Mr Fotheringay meets him over dinner and tells him that his favourite ward has tried to seduce him in his own hallway.’
‘Hetty, my dear, I promise you that old Fotheringay is far too busy worrying about the Balkan question to recognise you again. So long as you don’t say anything against Servia he’ll have forgotten the whole incident before bedtime. He’s got no idea what’s going on in the real world at all.’
Miss Peters seemed to find this comforting. Her face began to brighten. ‘Actually, it might be rather fun to throw a fit. But how can I make sure they call the servants? Why wouldn’t a big brute like you just bundle me out all by yourself?’
Mr Spencer considered. ‘I know. You’d better hit me.’
Her eyes opened wide with joy. ‘No, Rupert, not really? Well, if I really must …’ She turned to me, bubbling with excitement. ‘You see, Flottie, I told Rupert that I was good at adventures. And now I can show him for myself!’
Mrs Hudson, meanwhile, was conferring earnestly with Dr Watson and the carriage had long since pulled out of Baker Street. None of us were aware of events behind us, where a pale figure in a cape was attempting to hail a cab with the one good arm at his disposal. As the Earl’s carriage lumbered into the night, a hansom carrying a small, neatly suited gentleman pulled up in a flurry of hooves and harness.
‘Mr Holmes?’ queried the passenger in the hansom.
‘Ah, Mr Rumbelow!’ replied Holmes. ‘I perceive you are bound for the Fotheringays.’
‘Well actually, Mr Holmes, I was looking for Mrs Hudson.’
‘Precisely! And she is bound for the Fotheringays. Move over, sir, or we won’t fit in. We have plenty of time to catch them.’
The night had closed around the city like a black glove and when Carrington pulled to a halt the alley leading to Fogarty’s lair lay still. Without thinking why, our voices sank to whispers as we finalised our plan. Mr Spencer had become serious and urgent as he addressed us.
‘Dr Watson, set your watch by mine. In three minutes, Miss Peters and I will knock on the front door. Allow us three more minutes to create a distraction, then you and Flottie can go in. If the door’s locked, smash a window. We’ll try to keep the household occupied for as long as we can. If things go well, we’ll all meet back here.’
At that point a hansom pulled up beside us and Mr Holmes and Mr Rumbelow got down.
‘Good evening, my friends,’ grinned Holmes triumphantly. ‘I felt it was my duty to accompany Rumbelow here, who appears to have taken a very strong dislike to the man Fogarty. How can he and I be of assistance to you?’
Mrs Hudson eyed him reproachfully. ‘I wish you hadn’t come, sir. But since you are here, perhaps you would remain by the coach and keep an eye on our line of retreat. Mr Rumbelow, you can accompany me. We’ll wait outside while Flottie and Dr Watson fetch out the child, just in case any extra help is needed.’
Mr Rumbelow came to attention, his head shining delightedly in the gaslight.
‘At your service, Mrs Hudson,’ he confirmed.
‘In that case, let’s make a start. Good luck to you all.’
And with a sudden lump in my throat I allowed Dr Watson to hand me down from the carriage and into the waiting night.
Dr Watson and I were in position at the servants’ door within two minutes. Through a crack in the shutters I could see into the main servants’ room, where three tough-looking footmen were lolling idly. As I watched, they were joined by Mrs Flegg the cook, she who had once conspired with Smale to make my time in that household misery without relief. The room they sat in was one we should have to pass through to accomplish our mission. If Miss Peters and Mr Spencer failed to attract all four of them, our task would be impossible. Dr Watson and I counted the seconds go by and watched anxiously.
Suddenly the four turned and looked at a point above them. One of the footmen was about to speak when some new urgency was communicated, for all exchanged puzzled glances and rose to their feet. In an undignified rush, the room was emptied and our path lay clear.
I was through the door almost instantly, leading the way down a short corridor and across the main servants’ room towards the door beyond. Dr Watson followed gamely. Above us we could hear hysterical screams interspersed with a wild, manic cackle as Miss Peters got into her stride. Then we were through the door, onto a flight of stone steps that led down to the cellars below. At the bottom I hesitated. Three doors led away from the bottom stairwell and, while I was sure Fogarty had taken me to the right, two of the doors seemed to lead in that direction.
‘This one!’ I gasped and flung myself against it, only to come to an abrupt and painful halt. I scrabbled desperately at the handle. ‘Locked!’ I cried.
Doubt enveloped me. I tried the other door and it opened smoothly into a familiar-looking corridor, lined with stained and flaking paint. The only light came from behind us, leaving the far end of the corridor lost in gloom.
‘This way,’ I called again and plunged forward. ‘It’s one of the rooms on the right. Try them all!’ And while I attempted the first one, Dr Watson pushed past me to the second.
I found the first door locked and after tugging at it once or twice I gave up and moved on. Dr Watson had flung open the second door and was peering in.
‘Broom cupboard,’ he grunted and followed me to the third door. This also opened with a turn of the handle and revealed a curtain of darkness. Dr Watson tugged at his waistcoat pocket for a light and when he held up the match we saw a room empty but for a bare iron bed.
‘Is this the one, Flot?’ he asked tersely, sensing my disappointment. I was about to say yes, that we were too late and our mission was lost, when I sensed something different. Surely the other had not had that gap where the plaster had fallen away from the damp bricks? I fumbled at my memory in panic.
‘No, sir! It’s like it, but I don’t think it’s the one.’ I saw him look at me doubtfully.
‘This is the last door, Flottie. The corridor’s a dead end.’
‘Back to the stairs, sir. This must be the wrong corridor. Let’s see if we can try the locked one.’
Dr Watson was first back to the stairwell where he eyed the locked door coldly then met it firmly with his shoulder. The door stood defiantly firm. Stepping back, he tried again with extra determination and to my surprise the door burst open, sending him sprawling to the ground. ‘Just like my rugby days,’ he grunted as he picked himself up, but by then I was past him and into the darkness. Again there were three doors and again they yielded nothing. The first two rooms were empty even of furniture and devoid of any sign of recent habitation. The third opened onto narrow wooden stairs that led down to a wine cellar.
‘That’s it, Flotsam. We’ve tried them all.’ Dr Watson was peering at his watch in the gloom. ‘We can’t be found down here, you know. It’s time to go.’
‘One more, sir. Please! There was that locked door in the first corridor. Can we try it again?’
Silently he moved past me, back to the original corridor. I could hear his breathing, heavy and irregular, as he paused to size up the door. ‘Into touch, then!’ he growled, and charged it with his shoulder. With a splintering of wood it sprang open.
This time there was no need for a light. A cheap candle still burned faintly in one corner, illuminating the scene I remembered. A boy no more than a child lay gaunt and still on the bare bed. His arm, flung out, was dangling towards the floor.
‘He’s dead!’ I moaned, feeling for a moment a terrible faintness pass through me, but Dr Watson already had his fingers to the boy’s neck, feeling for a pulse.
‘No, Flottie. We’re in time.’ He lifted the boy in his arms with a grunt. ‘Can you find the way out?’
Suddenly, for the first time, fear of being caught gripped me. I sprang up the stairs at double speed and it was not until I reached the proper light of the servants’ room that I paused for Dr Watson to catch up. It was while I was looking back to where he trailed behind me that the door at the other end of the room swung open. Dr Watson stepped into the light at precisely the same moment as the first of Fogarty’s footmen. By the time speechless surprise had been registered on all sides, all three footmen and Mrs Flegg the cook were lined up opposite us, barring our way.
‘Well, what have we here?’ began Mrs Flegg, and one of the footmen began to roll up his sleeves in a manner full of menace. Dr Watson looked at me helplessly but at that moment there was a rustling in the doorway behind the line of footmen.
‘Over here, sir!’ boomed Mrs Hudson’s commanding voice and in perfect synchronicity the four who faced us turned to see who had come up at their rear. Never has surprise been more effective. As the tallest of the three men turned, someone small and impeccably suited burst through the doorway, head down, and butted him at maximum velocity in the stomach.
‘Mr Rumbelow!’ I yelped, but before I’d finished speaking Dr Watson had seized his opportunity. With the child carefully shielded in his arms, he repeated the manoeuvre he had employed so successfully on the doors downstairs, this time on the back of one of the footman. The impact of his shoulder sent the man crashing into the door post. Meeting it solidly, he sank slowly to the ground while momentum carried Dr Watson forward, through the line of the opposition and into the corridor beyond. I hastened to Mrs Hudson’s side through the gap he had created.
The third footman stood still in bewilderment, gazing dumbly at his fallen colleague, until Mr Rumbelow, in attempting to disentangle himself from his first opponent, fell awkwardly against the back of his knees and pitched him forward.
‘Oi!’ Mrs Flegg suddenly found her voice but as she began to move her eyes fell on Mrs Hudson who was peeling back her sleeves with an awful deliberation. Mrs Flegg looked at those forearms and stepped back smartly.
So rapid had been our victory that for a moment we hesitated. Then Watson, seeing the way ahead unbarred, let out a roar of encouragement and all four of us were blundering onwards while the fallen footmen were still struggling to their feet.
The night welcomed us into its arms but the iron steps were narrow and awkward in the darkness. I was the last to the top and it was clear from the sounds behind us that our opponents were re-forming and intent on pursuit. Before I could think what to do, a cool male voice sounded at my shoulder.
‘To the carriage as quickly as you can, Flotsam. This should hold them.’
Beside me stood Sherlock Holmes, brandishing an iron bar in his left hand.
‘Don’t wait,’ he added before plunging down the steps, and I didn’t hesitate to take him at his word. The panic of flight had seized me and I scuttled towards the waiting carriage without a backward glance.
Mr Spencer and Miss Peters were there ahead of us and Carrington, game as ever, was ready with the doors open. In the carriage, wrapped in a tense, sickly silence, Dr Watson was examining the boy. For a moment no-one spoke. Then the doctor raised his head, his eyes gleaming.
‘We’re in time!’ he cried. ‘I’m sure of it!’
Miss Peters let out a breathless hurrah and suddenly everyone was piling noisily into the coach, squeezing around the patient as best we could.
‘Quickly!’ Dr Watson shouted to the coachman. ‘Baker Street as if your life depended on it!’
Carrington needed no second urging and with a whoop of joy he shook the reins and sent us rattling into the darkness.
Headlong flight breeds panic and panic is a contagious disease. Only Mrs Hudson seemed immune. While she tried to restore some order, the rest of us became convinced that our pursuers were on our heels and capture was imminent. Dr Watson made things worse by persisting in shouting ‘Faster!’ in his loudest voice whenever he looked up from his patient.
‘Whoa, sir!’ Mrs Hudson countered, unheard. ‘We are clear of pursuit and out of danger.’
But before this message had communicated itself to Carrington, we heard an oath from his box and the carriage juddered to an alarming halt. Peering out of the window, the reason became obvious. In our headlong flight, we had come face to face with a speeding hansom cab and only excellent horsemanship on the part of both drivers had spared us a collision. As we paused for Carrington to recover himself and to sooth the horses, there was an angry shout from outside. A distinguished-looking gentleman of about seventy was descending the steps of his club, gesticulating violently.
Something in his voice had a galvanising effect on the occupants of the carriage. Mrs Hudson, Mr Spencer and Miss Peters all put their faces to the window and Carrington, now back on his box, let out a nervous groan.
‘My carriage!’ exclaimed the distinguished gentleman.
‘My uncle!’ gasped Mr Spencer.
‘The Irascible Earl,’ explained Mrs Hudson to those in the carriage who harboured any doubt. Before she could say more, he had recognised her face at the window.
‘Mrs Hudson!’ he roared.
‘Indeed, your lordship,’ she replied calmly, lowering the window. ‘You’ll be relieved to know that all’s well. We shall explain later. Carrington? Drive on!’
It was an exhilarated and talkative group who finally tumbled out onto the pavement in Baker Street. In the course of the journey, Dr Watson had found space to reassure us again that the unconscious boy, though malnourished, was not in immediate danger. This news, following the narrow escape from Fogarty’s and our brush with the Earl, bred a euphoria that touched us all. Mr Rumbelow, squashed between Mrs Hudson and Miss Peters, beamed pleasantly as plaudits were rained on him for employing his legal brain with such great effect, while I, wedged rather tightly between Mrs Hudson and the window, told anyone who would listen about Dr Watson’s prowess with his shoulders. A few feet away I could hear Miss Peters taking gaily at Dr Watson and Mr Spencer about her mastery of the hysterical state.
‘Hitting Rupert proved such a spectacular success that it seemed obvious to try it again. So I looked Mr Fotheringay in the eye and hit him too. And do you know, I rather think that took his mind off the Balkans for a bit.’
‘My dear Miss Peters …’
‘Oh, it’s all right, Dr Watson, I didn’t hit him nearly so hard as I hit Rupert, did I, darling?’
Mr Spencer grimaced.
‘Tell me, Hetty, just where did you learn so much about the activities of fallen women? Your ravings on the subject were very persuasive.’
‘Well, do you know, Rupert, I rather think that must have come from Daddy …’
It was only on our arrival that Dr Watson looked around and asked a question that had seemed obvious to me for some time.
‘I say, Mrs Hudson, where’s Holmes?’
There was a little pause as everyone looked around, taking in his absence.
‘Yes, Dr Watson, I have been a little worried about that myself. I understand it was his intention to bar the door behind us. His instructions for us to complete our escape were quite clear and it didn’t seem a sensible thing to argue. Mr Holmes can be a very stubborn man.’
I quickly told them what I had seen of Mr Holmes actions and said that I thought he must have succeeded in barring the door.
‘In which case, Dr Watson, I’m sure he will be on his way home to us,’ added Mrs Hudson reassuringly. But I could see that Dr Watson was concerned, and while Mr Holmes’s absence continued the good doctor’s sense of triumph remained slightly dimmed.
We were a merry gathering for all that. The boy was put to bed in my cupboard room and Dr Watson sat with him for some time before rejoining the rest of us. Meanwhile Carrington was dispatched home with a note for the Earl composed by Mrs Hudson.
‘That should do the trick,’ she commented as she sealed it up. ‘I have reminded the Earl of the day in ‘63 when Macaroni won the Derby. Tell Carrington his lordship will be quite all right once he has read that.’
The rest of us were gathered around the newly awakened fires and Miss Peters and Mr Rumbelow were debating whether champagne or brandy should be opened when we heard a sharp knock on the front door.
‘Holmes at last!’ declared Watson happily and I was sent off downstairs to let in the errant detective with all speed.
On opening the front door, however, I found the doorstep empty. A dark cab waiting on the far side of the street, its driver wrapped against the cold, was the only sign of life. Concerned that it might contain the weakened Mr Holmes, I had just stepped towards it when a rough hand closed tightly over my mouth.
‘So here we are again, Flotsam,’ hissed Smale’s voice in my ear. ‘And this time you come with me. It’s time for you to be taught a lesson or two.’
Struggling furiously, grunting and squealing as best I could, I was dragged towards the waiting growler, whose driver was dismounting with a cruel smile. Between the two of them they forced a gag into my mouth and thrust me roughly onto the floor of the cab. Smale climbed in behind me and began to knot my hands tight behind my back. I thought I heard a cry from somewhere down the street as the door was slammed shut and then the carriage jolted forward, carrying me away from the warm study and into the heart of the night.
Unseen by me, it was Scraggs who raised the alarm. Slamming frantically through our open front door, he burst upon the celebrating company with a cry.
‘Mrs Hudson! They’ve just taken Flottie! They’ve taken her away in a growler! Come at once!’
Mrs Hudson and Mr Spencer were first down the stairs, reaching the street a few seconds ahead of Dr Watson and Miss Peters, just as two empty hansom cabs passed the door.
‘Driver!’ boomed Mrs Hudson, bringing both to a halt. ‘Have you seen a growler pass?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Going at some lick, he was. As if he had the devil behind him.’
‘Catch that cab!’ commanded Mrs Hudson, signalling the start of a chase that is talked about to this day in cabbing circles. The two cabmen, fired by a sense of right and the prospect of a guinea apiece, jostled with each other for position as they rattled through the cobbled streets, shouting for reports to their colleagues on other cabs when the trail seemed to be going cold. In this way they were able to keep in touch with their quarry, following Smale’s progress by word of mouth as he and I were carried southwards, towards the river and the dark streets beyond. In Piccadilly a startled policeman pointed Mrs Hudson’s cab south and even in the tangle of cabs around Trafalgar Square the pursuit was maintained, flying with a whoop into the Strand amid a riot of police whistles and the startled fists of choleric gentlemen.
It was after Waterloo, where the crowds began to thin, that the scent was lost amid the stench of rubbish and the competing invitations of numerous dark streets. The two cabs slowed while the drivers looked for someone to consult. A small boy looked blankly back at them when asked, and there was no-one else to question.
It was Mrs Hudson who kept up their momentum. ‘That way, driver!’ she commanded. ‘Back down there and work back towards the river. They’re in there somewhere.’
Mr Spencer looked at her in astonishment. ‘But, Mrs H, how can you tell? They could be anywhere!’
‘Indeed, Mr Spencer. But we won’t help Flottie by stopping here. Besides, I have a feeling. Drive on!’ And Mrs Hudson, her lips clamped tight, set her face towards the on-rushing night.
While my would-be rescuers blundered into the tangle of dark wharves and warehouses that spread along the river like an infection, my own plight was becoming desperate. At first Smale had been too anxious of pursuit to turn his thoughts to me. At one point, after I had felt us change direction a dozen times, we had stopped abruptly and I heard him lean out of the window and curse.
‘Bloody cab drivers, blocking the road like that! Go and sort him out, man!’
He returned to his seat and I felt the vehicle lurch as our driver got down from his box. A few moments later he returned to his place with a grunt and our journey continued. Now I felt Smale begin to relax. I still lay on the floor of the cab, my hands tied and my mouth gagged so tightly that my first fear was of suffocation. That, however, was soon replaced by worse as Smale turned his attention to me for the first time. He reached down and began to stroke my cheek with his thick, clammy fingers.
‘So, Flotsam, it’s true. You really are mine now.’ He continued to stroke, slowly, without tenderness. The icy menace in his voice was unmistakable. I remembered it from years before, from the moments before his most calculated acts of cruelty. Suddenly he grabbed my hair and pulled me up so hard that I was lifted, gasping with pain, onto the seat beside him.
‘I’m taking you to a quiet place, Flotsam. Not even your Mr Holmes will be able to find us there. And we’ll stay there until you learn to be agreeable.’
With a laugh that flecked my face with saliva, he pushed me back to the floor and began to give directions to the driver. I’d seen enough from where I lay to know that we had turned off the main thoroughfares and were plunging into a world of unlit streets. I thought I could smell the river.
Eventually Smale called on the driver to stop.
‘This is good enough,’ he shouted up. ‘I want to walk the last bit so my friend here can see there’s no place to run. So get yerself out of here and I don’t want to see your face till dawn. Pick me up then at Cable Wharf. The warehouse by the river. You know the place. I’ll be waiting.’
He pulled me out of the carriage without a glance at the driver and from there we went on by foot, Smale pushing and shoving me in the direction he desired. Our progress was slow. More than once his pushing made me stumble and fall. But the pain of his kicks and blows was nothing to the pain caused by my helplessness. My hands were still bound fast. There could be no escape.
After more twists and turns than I could remember, Smale pushed me into a narrow street, in reality little more than a gap between two old warehouses, that ended abruptly with a drop to the river. I could see a small dark doorway in the wall of one of the warehouses, right up by the water’s edge, and it was towards this that Smale prodded me. We were still a few yards short when the sound of horses reached us, moving at speed and coming closer.
‘Mrs Hudson!’ I thought and felt a warm rush of hope. But the sounds were still streets away and with a sudden loss of heart I realised she couldn’t be in time.
Smale realised too and his voice was triumphant.
‘This is the place. No-one’s going to find us in here, you know.’
He pushed me to within a few feet of the door then stepped past me, reaching into his pockets for a key.
‘How right you are!’ came a voice from the doorway. Before I had time to focus properly a tall figure with his arm in a sling stepped out of the shadow and, with a straight left to the jaw, sent Smale spinning away from me and crashing to the water below.
Mr Holmes and I were still peering into the murky water when the pair of hansom cabs arrived somewhere behind us and began to disgorge their passengers into the alleyway. The two drivers, having been converted completely to my cause, were quick off their boxes and began to advance menacingly on Mr Holmes until Dr Watson’s assurances persuaded them back to their cabs. Mrs Hudson, meanwhile, advanced to where we stood and eyed us both thoughtfully.
‘Mr Holmes,’ she began.
‘Oh, it was nothing, Mrs Hudson,’ he replied loftily, examining his knuckles.
‘Mr Holmes,’ she continued, ‘you are in disgrace. Your wound is bleeding, you look a fright and if you survive the night at all it will only be because we’re taking you home this instant.’
In reply the great detective swayed a little, gave an embarrassed smile and dropped in a faint to the cobblestones.