That morning, as we rattled homewards, the fog lifted and for the first time in days a blinking city looked dawn squarely in the face. Before it did, while the night still lingered on the street, we had reached our rooms in Baker Street. The effect of his exertions, coupled with his earlier loss of blood, had rendered Mr Holmes insensible for most of the journey, but once brandy had been supplied and he had been laid in Mrs Hudson’s big chair by the kitchen fire, it soon became clear that no damage had been done that a strict regime of rest would not cure.
‘Really only a scratch,’ he murmured as Watson bound the knuckles of his left hand. ‘It was the timing that did the trick, Watson. I wish you could have seen him fall. As sweet a blow as you’ll ever see, eh, Flottie?’
‘Indeed, sir.’ I was leaning against Mrs Hudson on the other side of the fire, shivering with cold and relief. Mrs Hudson, having denied me brandy, was in the process of warming blankets and wrapping them around me in ever greater numbers until my shape had disappeared altogether and I was as round as a winter sparrow. Crouched between Mr Holmes and I, on the low stool, Scraggs was tending the fire, watching intently as the coals hissed and the flames leapt for the chimney. Behind us, in chairs carried off from the study, Mr Rumbelow and Miss Peters wallowed in the warmth, the latter muted by exhaustion and yawning rather beautifully whenever unobserved. Behind and above them, Mr Spencer perched on the kitchen table and swung his legs like a schoolboy.
‘But tell us, Holmes, how the devil did you come to be there tonight? It defies belief!’ Dr Watson puffed out his cheeks in bafflement at his companion’s dramatic reappearance.
‘It was far simpler than you would imagine, my friend.’
‘Simple? That’s typical of your modesty, Holmes. Simple! Huh, I’ve never known anything like it!’
‘Perhaps if I were to explain . . .’ He reached for his pipe with his bandaged hand and Watson helped him with a light. ‘Thanks to the timely arrival of Mr Rumbelow, I was able to join you in your little raid on Fogarty’s quarters. I was lucky enough to be able to secure your retreat with an old length of iron railing. After that I made my way here as quickly as I could on foot.’
He paused to draw deeply on his pipe.
‘I was just turning into Baker Street when I first noticed the carriage. Those of you who know my methods will be aware I have honed my powers of observation to a unique pitch and it was without great thought that I observed the driver had a tattoo of an anchor on one cheek and one of a mermaid on the back of his left hand. I paid a good deal more attention when I observed the carriage stop at our door and a figure dismount. Imagine my alarm when, still some seventy yards away, I witnessed the brutal abduction of Flotsam. The whole thing was too quick for me to prevent but as they sped away I was close enough to hear the kidnapper address an instruction to his driver. I was able to catch the word ‘wharf’ but nothing more. But of course that, coupled with the nautical theme of the tattoos, allowed me to form a very fair idea of their destination.’
‘Incredible, Holmes. And your reasoning proved spot on!’
‘Alas not, my dear Watson. My guess was entirely wrong.’
‘But, Holmes!’ Watson seemed at a loss.
‘I decided that desperate men with nautical connections might well be heading east, out to the pool of London, where all manner of lawlessness still prevails. As soon as I could hail a hansom, I set off with the vague hope that by heading south towards the Embankment I might gain on them, for a hansom is faster than a growler, especially in these crowded streets. It was, however, entirely fortuitous that our paths crossed rather literally just by the Haymarket. Of course, from then on the rest was child’s play.’
‘You followed them?’
‘Really, Watson! That would have been a singularly illogical reaction. If, as I surmised, they were bound for places where the law stands for nothing, I should hardly have been assisting Flottie by accompanying her there, alone and one-armed. No, it seemed more prudent to instruct my driver to pull directly into their path.’
‘Into their path? Good lord, Holmes! And what happened then?’
The detective examined his bandaged left hand with a satisfied air.
‘A certain amount of confusion ensued, leading – as I had hoped – to that blackguard of a driver stepping down from his box. He was clearly no pugilist. A simple upper cut quite removed him from calculations. Finding him too craven to take further punishment, it was the work of a moment to divest him of his cape and take his place on the box. The substitution went unremarked, as I knew it would, and for want of a better plan I headed for Trafalgar Square. I confess the ride was a wild one for my control with one arm was not all it might have been. That policeman on the Strand was perhaps fortunate to avoid serious injury.’
He smiled happily to himself, then considered his pipe before continuing.
‘Had my control been greater, it was my intention to pull up safely in a well-lit area, but it was not until we were across the river that I was able to assert myself and by then the ruffian below me was shouting instructions. Deciding that in those dark streets surprise was my best weapon, I followed his orders. He made it easy by telling me precisely where he wished to be collected. With Flottie all tied up and moving slowly, it was the simplest thing to get there ahead of him and spring my little surprise.’
Watson’s eyes glowed with admiration. ‘I say, Holmes, that really is the most splendid thing. Your brilliance at its very best.’
‘Really, Watson, you quite embarrass me.’ Holmes gave a self-deprecatory wave of the hand and smiled broadly.
Then a thought seemed to strike Watson. ‘But I’m forgetting, Holmes. I still don’t have the slightest idea who it was you sent into the river, or why he was after Flottie. In fact,’ and here he ran his eye around the assembled company in mute appeal, ‘I have to say there’s quite a lot about our recent adventures that I really don’t understand at all.’
Mr Holmes turned to Mrs Hudson with an apologetic flap of his sling.
‘I know that everyone here is waiting for an explanation but I find myself still a little weak. Mrs Hudson, perhaps you would be so kind as to put our friends out of their misery and give them your own views on what has been going on?’ He turned to the rest of us. ‘I am convinced that Mrs Hudson’s grasp of events is scarcely less complete than mine. I recommend that you trust her account as if it were my own.’
‘Hear, hear!’ added Watson. ‘Greatly appreciate it if you spill the beans, Mrs H. Shouldn’t be surprised if you know just about everything.’
A murmur of concurrence rose around the fire and all eyes turned to the stern figure of the housekeeper.
‘Very well, sir,’ she replied with a slow nod of her head. ‘I’m happy to tell the story from the beginning, if that’s what you wish.’
‘Oh, goody!’ squeaked Miss Peters, now thoroughly awake again. ‘I do love a story! I hope I understand it, Rupert. You know how awfully clever Mrs Hudson is.’
‘I think this calls for the old tawny, Mr Rumbelow,’ decided Mrs Hudson, deftly ignoring her. ‘You’ll find it next to the laundry cupboard. I took the liberty of decanting it earlier, in anticipation. Mr Spencer, the correct glasses are on the dresser . . . One for Flotsam too, I think, if you’d be so kind.’
A tingle of excitement ran along my shoulders as, furnished with port, we settled back into our places and Mrs Hudson began the explanation I had waited so long to hear.
‘I think you all know a little about the events that led us here tonight,’ she began cautiously, her voice a little gruff, her forehead drawn into a frown as she sought a starting place. ‘It all really began on our first night in these rooms, when Flottie was so alarmed by the delivery of a letter by a one-eyed servant who slipped away into the darkness.
‘My suspicions about Mr Moran were aroused from the very moment Flottie told us how his letter had been delivered. All that cloak and dagger nonsense . . . well, really! A simple call one morning would have sufficed. And if there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s drama for the sake of it. So, while I couldn’t find any reasons to contradict the conclusions Mr Holmes drew on that first evening, my instincts were telling me that Mr Moran was a man not to be trusted.’
‘But, Mrs Hudson,’ struck in Dr Watson, ‘all the observations Holmes made about that letter seemed to be spot on.’
‘Indeed, sir. And very brilliant observations they were too. But it struck me that all of them were open to more than one interpretation. You see, sir, Mr Holmes is a detective and he looks at things from a certain angle. A detective gathers things together and then looks to see what he’s got. But when a cook goes shopping she already has an idea of what dinner she’s going to prepare. Since my instinct was to distrust Moran, I decided to look for facts to support my theories rather than the other way round. To my surprise, they were rather thick on the ground.’
Mrs Hudson took another sip and signalled to Scraggs with the lift of an eyebrow that it was time to replenish the glasses.
‘My very first step was to find out more about Mr Moran’s whereabouts. From his notepaper I knew he wished us to think him poor, so I instinctively concentrated my search in the better areas of the city. I commissioned Scraggs and a few of his fellows to make enquiries on my behalf. Scraggs and his friends see a great deal. If they weren’t already aware of a tall, scarred, one-eyed servant, recently arrived at a good London address, then I didn’t think the information would be very hard for them to elicit. One of Scraggs’s colleagues called that very afternoon with the news that a gentleman with a servant fitting that description had recently taken rooms in New Buildings on Portman Street. I took the precaution of confirming the fact with Moran when he called that evening and he was unable to deny it.
‘So by the time Moran arrived in this house, I already knew him to be, if not a liar, then at least someone deliberately intent on misleading us. What I didn’t know was why. Why the charade with the cheap paper when he could clearly afford much better? What motive could he have for wishing to foist this fiction upon us? I felt sure that the answer would lie in the story he was to tell us. I awaited his appearance with considerable interest.’
I recalled Moran’s arrival, his nervous air, his alert, watchful eyes as he surveyed the company before him. Mrs Hudson cleared her throat and went on.
‘So what were we left with once he had told his tale? Thanks to Lord Ponsonby, I was quickly able to ascertain that Moran had indeed been in Sumatra; that his company had failed; that the terrible and fatal blindings Moran described did occur, and that the natives of Sumatra felt a very great hostility to Moran’s company at the time of its collapse. All that was in the official report of the Dutch authorities. In addition I knew – whatever the true explanation of those events – that Moran wished us to believe a fanciful tale of a malignant curse and vindictive spirits.’
‘Now, Mrs Hudson,’ Watson frowned, ‘why on earth would he want us to do that?’
‘Obviously, sir, his tale was a deliberate smokescreen to distract us from the true sequence of events. But again, why? No-one appeared to be asking any questions about those events. If any crime had been committed it was under Dutch jurisdiction rather than our own. And if anyone over here had ever wondered about the unfortunate deaths in Sumatra, their concerns were now surely forgotten. Moran had avoided bankruptcy and had no stain on his character more damaging than a failed business venture. Yet for some reason he now felt it vital that Mr Holmes should believe that he and his colleagues were under threat of death from a band of remote and primitive tribesmen.’
‘Absurd!’ snorted Watson.
‘Quite,’ added Holmes, very intent on filling his pipe.
‘I sat down and thought about it. If Moran, for some reason I couldn’t yet fathom, wanted us to believe that Sumatran tribesmen were poised to murder him on the pavements of Oxford Street, he had to provide us with a motive for their obsession. The motive he gave us was the insults to their sacred spirits, a rather thin tale which never rang true for a moment. And yet it was clear from the Dutch intelligence reports that there genuinely did exist a great resentment on the part of the local people for Moran and his company. Moran was clearly going to great lengths to hide the true reason for that resentment.’
Dr Watson, who had just raised his glass to his lips, lowered it again and opened his mouth as if to speak. Then he closed it again. ‘It’s beyond me, Mrs H,’ he concluded sadly.
‘Well, sir, clearly the true reason did not reflect well on him or the company and needed to be concealed. I felt if I could discover what it was I would be some way towards understanding the mystery we were meant to be solving. What was Moran’s company doing that was so much worse than a hundred other trading companies up and down those coasts? I’m sorry to say it, but there are many unscrupulous traders in those parts, many who trick and cheat and bully in the name of trade. But although resented, sometimes even threatened, they are rarely forced to flee their quarters, leaving their fortunes behind, in fear of their lives.
‘Then things began to happen quite fast. I had recognised the name Matilda Briggs, a vessel that plies the East Indian routes and which was to come to our attention again. An old friend of mine had lost her son at sea from that very vessel. I remembered vaguely that he had been unwell before he died. On checking I found that at the time he was lost he was suffering all the symptoms of the fatal illnesses that had been reported in Sumatra. Once I had heard his mother’s story again, the connection was made. Her son was given to hard liquor. That was the link I sought.
‘Moran had given us all the clues himself, perhaps from carelessness, perhaps from a desire to bolster his fiction with genuine facts, or perhaps from that tiresome over-confidence that men so often have when they aren’t telling the truth. He told precisely what possessions were found beside the first victim – no food or clothes, only his weapons, some lucky charms and bottles of liquor from Port Mary. Again, when describing the white settler who died soon after, Moran told us he came into Port Mary to trade skins for gin. So was that the cause of all these horrors? Was it the spirits they were drinking? Some gruesome failure on the part of the distillers? It was impossible to be certain, but I was sure that Moran’s fiction was designed to obscure his role in this wretched, shabby episode.’
From behind me Rupert Spencer coughed politely.
‘Is that all you had on which to draw your conclusions, Mrs H? I can’t help thinking it’s all a bit tenuous …’
‘Oh no, Mr Spencer, there were other ways in which Moran betrayed himself too. For instance, in an elaborate attempt to sustain the illusion of an evil curse, Moran told us a second dagger had been cursed and dispatched to him. Well really, sir! Why would they think to perform the curse twice? I could see how a second dagger, sinisterly delivered, added to the drama of Moran’s tale. But wouldn’t one deadly curse generally be considered sufficient? To curse the same person twice is to use two eggs when the recipe only calls for one.
‘Moran also mentioned that the second dagger had arrived on the ship Matilda Briggs. At about the time he told us this, a certain Mr Norman called on the ship’s owner and told him an alarming tale of supernatural malevolence on a recent passage from the Indies. Here I recognised another attempt to introduce themes of the exotic and supernatural where none existed. Nathaniel Moran … Mr Norman … Mr N Moran …’ She smiled at me. ‘It doesn’t take someone with Flotsam’s flair for word games to see a connection. And sure enough, when I prevailed on the ship’s owner, Mr Winterton, to accompany me to Portman Street, he was able to observe Moran from a distance and confirm that Norman and Moran were indeed the same person. You see, it was easy for Moran to bribe the Lascar crew to support his tale; much harder for him to refrain from over-cleverness in his fictions.
‘But here again I seemed to run out of steam. I felt convinced in my heart of hearts that Moran’s greed had been behind the deaths of a dozen or more people. Horrible, painful deaths. Yet guilt would be hard to prove. The incident was closed and would surely stay closed. What possible motive could he have for bringing it all to our attention again?
‘If I had been quicker to answer that question, I may have been able to save Carruthers from an agonising death. My only consolation is that Carruthers, Neale and Moran were all equally responsible for the experiment in Sumatra, and all to a certain measure deserved their fates. The first clue was when Dr Watson told us of Carruthers’s great terror. I began to feel it might be inspired by something more tangible than a remote Sumatran curse. What could it be that Carruthers and Neale both feared so greatly?’
Dr Watson stabbed the air with his pipe. ‘That devil Moran!’
The housekeeper nodded sagely.
‘Precisely. They knew they had betrayed Moran and they knew he was a man to take violent revenge. Of course, with Carruthers’s death everything became clear. The absurdly melodramatic method in which it was brought about made it obvious to me that the perpetrator was trying to make us look abroad for our assassin. And which individual was already trying to direct our attentions abroad? Mr N Moran. Once a murder had taken place, it became clear that his tale had all along been intended to distract us from the truth. Moran arrived in these shores with the explicit intention of murdering his former colleagues. It was the problem of how to kill both men without incurring overwhelming suspicion that led him to create his fictional story. If he could make the world believe a hideous curse was being worked out by native assassins he became a pitied victim – and if he subsequently chose to disappear from sight completely no-one would think it anything other than a very sensible precaution. All his fictions – and his request for your aid – were smokescreens to conceal his own murderous intentions.’
‘Duped!’ murmured Watson and frowned furiously to himself.
‘Go on, Mrs Hudson,’ prompted Mr Holmes. ‘I’m confident you’ve grasped all the salient points.’
‘One problem, sir, was to prove that Moran’s motive for following his friends to London really was pure hatred. But I understand his manservant Penge has now confirmed this. As a result of a telegram I suggested to Inspector Gregory, Penge was arrested in Truro this morning. He throws all the blame for the murders onto Moran. He claims it was hatred roused by his companions’ behaviour in Sumatra that was driving him. They had taken a solemn vow, remember, to stand shoulder to shoulder until their fortunes were made. Yet Neale and Carruthers lost their nerve and abandoned Moran to almost certain death in Sumatra. Moran was not a man to forgive that. So he travelled to London to take his revenge.
‘The challenge at this point was to gather enough evidence to hang Moran for the murder of Carruthers while preventing the murder of Neale. Flottie and I were able to intervene to prolong Neale’s wretched and guilt-wracked existence for a time. I thought we had succeeded in our task, but I reckoned without the entry of another character into our drama, a criminal mind far greater, far subtler, far more sophisticated than Moran’s …
‘Sir, it was my misfortune to know no small amount about Maurice Fogarty before I joined your service. I shall be happy to tell you all I know of his past when Inspector Gregory arrives, though I fear no crime that has occurred this week will be successfully laid at his door. For now suffice it to say that, although corrupt to the core and motivated by a desire to control and manipulate others, he is nothing if not daring. Indeed there are areas in which he could be considered brilliant. Flottie was known to him in the past but he showed no interest in continuing their acquaintance until shortly after Moran called on us. Then he attempted to convince her that her brother was in his power, although his investigation had already shown the boy was dead. Flottie had the intuition to see through this fiction and the great good sense to find out what he wanted. It became clear that Fogarty was interested in Moran’s affairs and in Mr Holmes’s assessment of them.’
Dr Watson looked puzzled. ‘Eh? I’m afraid I don’t see the connection, Mrs H.’
‘Nor did I, sir. But suddenly the pieces began to fall together. Carruthers and Neale’s choice of hotels suggested they had come into funds. How? Did they make their fortune in Sumatra or had they found a way to get rich on their return? If the latter, you could be sure it was not by legitimate means. Through an old acquaintance I was able to lay my hands on certain papers that put things into sharper focus – plans for distillation equipment and a conciliatory letter from Carruthers to Moran alluding to the success of his ventures and mentioning a mysterious sponsor who was well pleased with the outcome of his investment. I know Fogarty to have a hand in every sort of illegality. The link between Fogarty and Moran began to become clearer.’
‘Of course!’ muttered Watson. ‘Cheap gin!’ His eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. ‘I suppose you could say it was evil spirits at work here after all, eh, Mrs H?’
‘As you say, sir. The papers from Moran’s flat confirmed that in Sumatra the three associates had been involved in unlicensed distilling, which is not an evil only confined to foreign shores. All the papers are in the dresser drawer, sir, behind the jelly moulds, should you wish to examine them.’
‘I’m sure that can wait, Mrs Hudson,’ allowed Mr Holmes with a regal nod.
‘I begin to understand!’ Dr Watson exclaimed. ‘This Melmoth-Fogarty chap struck a deal with Carruthers and Neale and used their knowledge and connections to circumvent the Excise.’ His voice dropped. ‘But why should Fogarty be concerned about Moran? Why not just ignore him and carry on as he was?’
‘Because, Doctor, Neale and Carruthers left Fogarty in no doubt that their cosy situation was likely to be severely disrupted by Moran’s arrival. This didn’t suit Fogarty at all. Carruthers’s respectable connections were of value to him. He didn’t want Neale or Carruthers panicked into any indiscretion. He warned off Moran but Moran was intent on his own agenda of revenge. In the normal course of things, Fogarty wouldn’t have hesitated to eliminate an annoyance like Moran, but before he could do that he discovered that Moran had called here to consult Mr Holmes.’
‘That spiked his guns, eh, Mrs H!’ chortled Watson.
‘It certainly made him hesitate, sir. He couldn’t be sure what had passed here. Had Moran, in a fit of revenge, explained everything to Mr Holmes? How much did Moran know and how much had he passed on? Fogarty wanted to know. So he approached Flotsam in the hope of finding out if his own name had been in any way implicated. When he had found out how things stood here, he would be better able to plan his next move.
‘The situation changed drastically when Moran murdered Carruthers. It left Neale in a fatally compromised position. Moran was already intent on his murder and suddenly, without Carruthers and his connections, Neale was of no value to Fogarty either. If I had understood how peripheral Neale was to Fogarty’s schemes, I would have realised the danger. But I assumed that Neale, as an ally of Fogarty’s, was only at risk from Moran. While Moran was being watched, I thought Neale was safe. By the time I learned otherwise, it was too late.
‘Neale’s murder was a typical example of Fogarty’s daring. Neale had now become a danger to him – a weak man who knew too much. Fogarty’s course was clear. His interception of the messenger and the way he turned that circumstance to his advantage – these things are typical of the man. I should have anticipated such an attack but instead I allowed Neale to break cover and return to his own quarters for one last time. I fear I did him a poor service.’
Mr Holmes shook his head pensively. ‘Don’t torment yourself, Mrs Hudson. It takes a rigorously trained intellect to see the full picture on every occasion.’
‘Thank you, sir. You are very comforting.’ Mrs Hudson turned to the rest of us. ‘There is very little more to tell. Immediately after his attack on Neale, Fogarty paid a visit to Moran to settle the score. In order to ensure a welcome, I imagine Fogarty had written to Moran and offered to cut him into the profits of his operation in some way. Certainly Moran seemed eager to talk to him on that last evening, until Dr Watson’s arrival interrupted them. But Moran had defied Fogarty’s warnings, killed off a valuable business venture and, worst of all, he knew more about Fogarty’s dealings than Fogarty was comfortable with. Fogarty had already planned a diversion in the street to allow him to visit Moran unnoticed but he never planned to talk business. I feel sure that Fogarty knew all along that he would kill Moran that very night.’
‘The man is an ogre!’ exploded Mr Rumbelow, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘Am I to understand that he has been responsible for two murders, the imprisonment of a child and countless other outrages, and yet absolutely nothing can be done about it?’
‘I fear it is as Mrs Hudson says, sir,’ returned Mr Holmes. ‘What you have heard tonight can leave none of you in any doubt as to the true sequence of events, yet what evidence is there? Some cigarette ends, an identification by a nervous maid … A man such as Fogarty will have taken steps to ensure he can account for his movements at all times.’
‘But we can hound him out of town, Holmes!’ Watson was looking fiery. ‘My word, if I have to go to Fotheringay myself, we can make sure he is smoked out of that nest of his!’
‘No need for that, sir,’ replied Mrs Hudson calmly. ‘With Sherlock Holmes and the police both taking an interest in his affairs, I suspect Mr Fogarty is likely to disappear of his own accord. It is usually his way. But I fear, sir, he will be back.’ She gazed at her port, apparently lost in thought. ‘Oh, yes, he will be back.’ And I knew she was thinking of that time in the future and promising herself she would still be here, waiting for him.
‘And what of Flottie’s abduction?’ chirped Miss Peters. ‘Isn’t anyone concerned about that?’
‘It was someone called Smale,’ I told her. ‘Someone who used to bully me. But he’s gone now. Into the river. I’ve nothing to fear from him again.’
‘Bravely said!’ declared Watson. ‘On my honour, Flottie, I swear we shall never let you come to any harm.’ A declaration that I blush to say was warmly drunk to on all sides.
And so the evening passed and conversation became more general. Mrs Hudson promised Mr Spencer that the Irascible Earl would be appeased by her message but refused to be drawn, regardless of the mellowing port, on any of the details of Derby Day in 1863. Disappointed, Miss Peters took to yawning again.
‘I think it is time you carried me off, Rupert,’ she announced happily. ‘Of course it’s now so late that in the eyes of Society I’m already completely compromised. So I think carrying me off is the very least you can do.’
For once Mr Spencer made no attempt to protest but went himself into the street to hail a cab.
‘I cannot help but notice,’ commented Mr Rumbelow sadly when he returned a minute later, ‘that everyone here gets a cab the moment they want one. That never happens to me.’ He poured himself another glass of the old tawny in recompense. ‘Quite so,’ he concluded.
The departure of Miss Peters and Mr Spencer reminded Dr Watson that the night was gone and the dawn already well set. With an impressive show of determination, he supported the drooping Holmes from his chair and to his bed. A few moments later he returned and put his head round the door for a last word.
‘Mrs Hudson, it’s been a great pleasure. Dashed fine!’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mrs Hudson simply.
And then there was only Scraggs and Mr Rumbelow left. For a while the four of us sat in silence looking at the fire, but eventually the glasses were drained and Mrs Hudson rose to her feet.
‘And thank you all,’ she told us softly. ‘Now we should all get to our beds for an hour or so. Because as Hudson always used to say, there’s no knowing what will happen tomorrow.’
So while Mr Rumbelow looked for his coat, I walked Scraggs to the door.
‘I was keeping watch tonight, Flot. I’d seen that bit of slime watching you before this. I was trying to keep an eye on him. Thought you’d be all right if I was watching. But I was too far off to stop him.’
‘Thank you, Scraggs. For looking out for me.’
‘Is it all right, Flot? Me looking out for you?’
I thought about it.
‘Perhaps I should be looking out for myself.’
He looked at me.
‘Yes, I think you’ll be good at that,’ he said slowly. ‘Goodnight, Flot.’ And he turned to the street and stepped out into the new day.
I watched him out of sight and turned to find Mr Rumbelow approaching from the stairs.
‘Ah, Flotsam!’ he bumbled. ‘Just off, I am.’ He paused on the doorstep. ‘You should stick close to Mrs Hudson, young lady. She’s a very fine woman. A very fine woman indeed. Indeed. But that is not to say she isn’t by nature independent. Oh, yes. Fiercely independent.’ He sighed sadly to himself. ‘I must remember to replace the bottle we drank tonight. I have some very fine Madeira that might fit the bill.’
So he made his departure muttering of vaults and vintages, and I bolted the door and made my way up to the kitchen. I’d forgotten that my bed was taken up by the boy whose name we didn’t know, and was only reminded when I found Mrs Hudson making up a bed for me by the fire. She looked up when I came in and we smiled. We didn’t say anything. There wasn’t any need.
The next days passed calmly and the flood of events slowed to a trickle. Inspector Gregory called to tell us Fogarty had disappeared without trace; a message from Mr Spencer confirmed that the Earl had become quite mellow on receipt of Mrs Hudson’s message; Scraggs reported that Mr Fotheringay had taken on as butler a Slav called Volshin; Miss Peters promised to teach me to dance; a number of dusty bottles arrived for Mrs Hudson; Mr Holmes kept weakly and reluctantly to his room; and eventually, one evening, Dr Watson knocked on the kitchen door.
He looked embarrassed.
‘I wondered, Mrs Hudson, if I could, er, have the honour of a quick word.’
‘Of course, sir. Come in and make yourself comfortable. Flotsam and I have just finished baking.’
He took a seat by the range but continued to look slightly ill at ease. He had a thick pile of papers in one hand, the edges of which he thumbed nervously.
‘Mrs Hudson, you may have heard me mention that I have long considered putting down on paper the details of some of the mysteries it has been my good fortune to observe.’
‘Indeed, sir. Mr Holmes has alluded to it more than once.’
‘I’ve tried it before, dash it, but I always seem to lose heart. A combination of my diffidence with the pen and Holmes’s modesty when discussing his cases has always made the thing dashed tricky.’ His unease was evident. ‘Anyway, I thought this time I’d do it and be damned, if you’ll pardon my language. I’ve put down all my recollections of recent events and all I can say is I hope I’ve done you justice!’
Mrs Hudson allowed one eye to flicker upwards for a moment, then came forward, wiping her floury arms on her apron, and seated herself opposite him.
‘I see, Dr Watson. An interesting idea. If I may be permitted to see …’
‘Of course, Mrs H. Hoped you’d take a look. Any suggestions most welcome.’
She read quietly for a minute or two while Dr Watson fidgeted in front of the fire.
‘You mention Flotsam here, I see.’
‘Indeed, Mrs Hudson. Flottie played a vital part in proceedings.’
‘And you begin your story with an account of how you and Mr Holmes came to quit your previous lodgings in search of our present, roomier accommodation.’
‘Absolutely, Mrs H. That decision led directly to meeting you and Flotsam. A most happy event.’
She read on further and for a while there was silence in the firelit kitchen. Having moved fully fifteen or sixteen pages from the top to the bottom of the pile, Mrs Hudson moved the papers to one side and sat in thought for a moment.
‘Well, Mrs Hudson?’
‘May I speak to you frankly, sir?’
‘Of course, Mrs H. I should expect nothing less from you.’
‘There’s no denying that you tell your story well. But is it your intention that this narrative should be published?’
Dr Watson flushed modestly. ‘Oh, I really hadn’t thought. Of course, if it was considered good enough for publication …’
‘You see, Dr Watson, it’s like this. I don’t mind so much for myself, but Flottie is a young girl with a future ahead of her. I have high hopes for Flottie. How is she supposed to get on in the world if a story like this propels her into the public gaze?’
Watson looked a little shamefaced.
‘My word, Mrs Hudson, I hadn’t thought of that. Dashed insensitive of me. Thought you’d be pleased. And without Flottie there’d be a big gap in the tale.’
‘Yes, sir, I can see that. Of course there will be times, when visitors are being shown in perhaps, or when errands are run, when it will be difficult to have no-one in Flottie’s position. Have you considered a simple substitution? I think perhaps a pageboy would do the trick.’
‘A pageboy, Mrs Hudson?’
‘You could call him Billy. All pageboys seem to be called Billy nowadays.’
‘Well, if you really think …’
‘I do, Dr Watson,’ she replied very firmly. Dr Watson gave me an apologetic look.
‘Well, if it’s for the good of Flottie’s future, I suppose …’
‘And then there’s the question of the address, sir.’
‘The address, Mrs H?’
‘You see, Dr Watson, I believe stories such as this are very popular just now. And Mr Holmes is already set fair to become a very famous man. Do we really want every reader of The Strand Magazine to be able to walk up to our front door any time they feel like it? They’ll frighten off Mr Holmes’s clients. And Heaven knows, we get little enough peace as it is.’
‘But what would you suggest, Mrs Hudson.’
‘Well, I can’t see why you need to mention the true address at all. There are plenty of addresses that don’t actually exist. Something like 221B Baker Street would sound well enough. Those that need us will find us anyway but the passing idlers will be looking in the wrong place.’
Dr Watson nodded sagely. ‘Yes, I can certainly see the sense in that. 221B, you think? Hmm, well perhaps … I suppose it has a ring to it. Is there anything else, Mrs H?’
‘I can’t help thinking that perhaps you overstate my role in proceedings, sir.’
‘But you were central to proceedings!’
‘Oh, you exaggerate, Doctor. I may have been lucky enough on this occasion to have some of the pieces of the puzzle fall into my hands, but a casual reader of your document would be forgiven for thinking that it was me and not Mr Holmes who is the great detective. But my little scraps of domestic knowledge are hardly likely to interest the public, while his scientific principles will surely prove a far greater inspiration. You must show how he led us through events like a great general.’
‘You really see it like that, Mrs Hudson? I confess at the time I thought your actions were rather independent of his. But if that’s what you really feel … His role in my narrative is perhaps on the marginal side.’
‘And is that going to be good for business, Dr Watson?’
‘I say, I hadn’t thought of that, Mrs H.’
‘What the public really needs are cases that show off his genius. And a man with your strengths as a writer will surely be able to oblige.’
‘Hmm, yes. There are a number of cases that might illustrate his talents better than this one. That odd case about blood, perhaps … But this was such a dramatic tale, Mrs Hudson. You see I have called it The Case of the Giant Rat. I feel sure no publisher would be able to resist it.’
‘Of course, sir, I haven’t come to Scraggs yet. It would surely be unfair to drag his name into this until he is considerably older. And then there’s Mr Rumbelow. He has his practice to think about. And then there’s Miss Peters’s reputation. And Mr Spencer is hoping the Earl will sponsor his new laboratory. I can’t believe the Earl will approve of the role that pair played in all this.’
‘Hmm … Perhaps you are right, Mrs Hudson. Perhaps this is a tale for which the Earl is not yet ready. You think another case?’
‘Indeed, sir. Another case may present rather fewer problems. Of course, I have no objection to appearing at the margins, as it were, sir. And Flotsam – well, Flotsam will just have to make a name for herself in another way, won’t you, Flottie?’
But I had drifted away from them, warm and happy enough not to care. Instead I was dreaming into the fire about a future that seemed to burn as bright as the flames and to glow as warm as the fiery embers on Mrs Hudson’s hearth.