The long journey homewards was a silent one. The sunshine had given way to a sky pregnant with winter and the chill seemed to creep out of the ground into the opaque afternoon. It seemed that Mrs Trent’s tale had given Mrs Hudson something to ponder and for the first time since our move to Baker Street she seemed a trifle perplexed. She sat and watched through the window as our omnibus shook off the docks and shuffled westwards. Her brow was knitted in the most fixed of frowns and very slowly she stroked one finger backwards and forwards along her lower lip. It was not until we were walking back up Baker Street in the evening gloom that she let out a low, rumbling chuckle.
‘Well, Flottie, events can make fools of us all and at least you know now why I was anxious to visit Mrs Trent. What do you feel we’ve learned from her story?’
That was the question I had been puzzling over myself but I was no nearer an answer as we reached our front door than I had been when we waved goodbye to Mrs Trent in the shadows of the warehouses.
‘It seems a strange coincidence, ma’am. It was only yesterday that we heard reports the ship was haunted with evil spirits, and now it pops up again. Perhaps Mr Holmes was wrong to dismiss that letter so out-of-hand.’
‘A very sensible answer, Flotsam. I am convinced that Mr Holmes made a very grave error in disregarding the letter about the Matilda Briggs. And you are right that it is a strange coincidence.’
By now we had reached the corridor and she popped her head into the study as we passed.
‘Excellent! Dr Watson’s not yet returned and Mr Holmes is fast asleep in his armchair. That means we have a little time to get the place sorted for the evening before the doctor arrives.’
‘Do you think, then, that Mrs Trent’s story is important?’
‘Oh, yes. I think we’ve learned something of great significance. In fact, now that I’ve had time to pull together a few threads, I think I’m beginning to understand a lot more about what was going on in Sumatra.’
‘Golly!’ I exclaimed.
‘Young ladies do not say “golly”, Flotsam.’
‘You mean you know how all those people died, ma’am?’
‘Yes, I think that is becoming very clear, although there are one or two details which it would be prudent to check. The important thing to understand, Flottie, is that those unhappy deaths are the least of the mysteries that face us. We have much deeper questions to consider. However, I think there are two lessons we have learned today. First of all, we shouldn’t rush to dismiss coincidence. And then we should remember that getting the right answer isn’t always as important as asking the right question.’
And with that she shrugged off her coat and bent to revive the kitchen fire while I endeavoured to look alert and knowing.
‘No, there are much more worrying mysteries that face us, Flottie. Such as why does Mr Moran use cheap writing paper? Why is Fogarty suddenly taking an interest in Mr Holmes’s maid? And why,’ she added slowly, ‘why on earth don’t we know more about Penge?’
It wasn’t until much later in the evening that Dr Watson arrived home after a tramp across the moors that had proved as damp as it was dispiriting.
‘I like a good walk as much as the next man,’ he declared as Mrs Hudson helped him out of his dripping coat, ‘but to walk ten miles through a bog only to be sent about my business like a common tramp . . . Well, it’s enough to make a fellow’s blood boil!’
And as if to prove the point the doctor began to steam gently in the warm corridor.
‘I take it, Watson, that Mr Moran senior wasn’t inclined to talk about his son’s doings?’ asked Holmes with a smile of amusement.
‘He most certainly was not, Holmes! The blighter almost set his dogs on me. He met me in the hills before I had even reached his house. Asked me what I wanted there and when I said I knew his son you’d have thought I’d said I was planning to steal his silver. The fellow wouldn’t listen to a word after that. Said his son had made his choices and could rot in hell. Nothing for it but to hike back the way I came and wait for the last train soaked to the skin. Dashed poor form if you ask me!’
‘Come, Watson. Let us make amends for your wasted trip. While you change into some dry clothes, Mrs Hudson will serve you some supper and I myself shall mix you a drink. No, no, sir, I know how you like it. Plenty of water. I am quite the connoisseur.’
He beamed proudly and continued before Watson could speak.
‘Let us gather in the study in thirty minutes time. I have promised Mrs Hudson and Flottie here that they may hear your tale from the horse’s mouth, for they are developing a taste for sensation and if you were ever to do as you vow and commit one of our adventures to paper, they would be your most loyal readers.’
Dr Watson directed a nod in our direction.
‘Jolly good! It will be a pleasure, Mrs Hudson. I daresay that in your line of work you observe a great deal of human nature.’
‘Come, Watson, no time for idle pleasantries or you shall have to cut short your ablutions. We expect you in thirty minutes.’
And he turned regally into the study bequeathing a lingering scent of tobacco and brown ale to the troublesome process of separating Dr Watson from his watery boots.
An observer would have found an unlikely scene laid before him had he been shown the Baker Street study thirty minutes later. On each side of the fire, in their familiar armchairs, sat Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, but just behind them, owlish in the half-light, loomed Mrs Hudson. Having discreetly examined the port on offer, she had resisted all Dr Watson’s offers of refreshment and now waited by the drinks tray blending so perfectly into the background that our observer may not have been immediately aware of her presence. Even less obtrusive and even further away, perched at the insistence of Dr Watson on a velvet footstool, I sat so deep in the shadows that I might have been hidden from observation altogether.
Dr Watson, looking warmer and rosier, was peering dubiously into his glass when Holmes interrupted his meditations.
‘So, Watson, we are gathered to learn what your examination of Neale and Carruthers revealed. I have no doubts that you have acquitted yourself admirably. First, for those less familiar with the principles of scientific thought, it may be helpful if you summarise the situation as you saw it when you set out.’
‘Certainly, Holmes. I hope you will feel that I have repaid your confidence.’ Turning in the direction of Mrs Hudson and myself, he went on. ‘The most important task of these last few days has been to test the details of Moran’s story. Such an outlandish tale must clearly be subjected to scrutiny, though as Holmes here pointed out, the process of verifying an account of such distant events must necessarily be a lengthy one. I was happy to leave the technical aspects to the expert and confine myself to interviewing the witnesses.’
Here Holmes gave a slight nod of acknowledgement.
‘Indeed, Watson. An admirable exposition of our approach.’
Watson glowed a little more rosily and drained his glass with a determined gulp.
‘I interviewed Neale first. He has taken rooms at Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair in a bid to evade any pursuer who may have obtained his address in Cavendish Street. I have to say, he proved a strange cove. I expected that he would be eager to receive any emissary of yours but throughout he seemed quite disturbed, as though his mind wasn’t really on the answers he gave me.
‘My first impression of him was one of weakness. The man is of impressive physique but there was something about his carriage that suggested a man accustomed to following the lead of others. He held himself badly, for a start, and never quite met my eye.’
‘Really, Watson!’ interrupted Holmes. ‘We are gathered here to discover the facts of the case!’ He turned to Mrs Hudson. ‘You must forgive Dr Watson. I’m afraid his army training has left him with an innate distrust of anyone who lacks the military bearing.’
‘Merely painting a picture, Holmes,’ mumbled Watson, mostly to himself. ‘Anyway, in response to my questions he confirmed pretty much every detail Moran had told us. The hideous mysterious deaths, his terror of remaining in Sumatra, his precipitate escape. He even confirmed Moran’s fever, though he glossed over the business of leaving his friend behind in Sumatra. The fellow must realise he comes out of that looking pretty shabby.’
‘And what of his subsequent activities?’
‘He says he and Carruthers hope to raise the capital for another venture closer to home.’
‘What else, Watson?’
‘That was about it, Holmes.’
‘That’s all? Really, Watson, I hadn’t expected you to ask every question that I should have posed but I did expect a little more than that! What of the man’s history, those little clues that tell us what sort of man he really is?’
‘He seemed a dashed plain blighter to me, Holmes.’
At that Mr Holmes’s face warmed into an affectionate smile.
‘Exotic enough to have attracted a tropical curse, my friend. However, we must be content with that for now. Do you have any observations to make, Mrs Hudson?’
Mrs Hudson considered for a moment, her face still impassive. I waited, hoping desperately that she would demonstrate to Mr Holmes some breathtaking piece of deduction. She considered carefully.
‘Brown’s Hotel is reputed to be a very fine establishment, sir.’
‘Is that so, Mrs Hudson? I shall make a note of your recommendation. Now what of Carruthers, Watson?’
‘I found him at the old St James’s Hotel in Knightsbridge, Holmes. A mean-looking man, all moustache and eyebrows. I could imagine him leaving a friend in peril to make good his own escape. I daresay he would find someone like Neale easy to influence, too. Anyway, he seemed absolutely solid on the Sumatra story. Said it was the worst time of his life.’
‘Any new details, Watson?’
‘Sorry, Holmes.’ Watson looked gloomily at his empty glass.
‘Not to worry, my friend. You have succeeded in confirming Moran’s story, which was our primary objective. If we wish to know more, we can visit Mr Carruthers again. And Mrs Hudson and Flottie have learnt that not all the work we do is as sensational as they might expect.’ He stirred in his seat. ‘Now, after my exertions today I feel I would benefit from an early night. If you and Mrs Hudson will excuse me …?’
‘May I ask Dr Watson a question, sir?’ Mrs Hudson’s face was still motionless but at the very top of her nose her brow was ever so slightly wrinkled.
‘Of course, Mrs Hudson.’
‘Well, sir, I don’t pretend to be very scientific, Dr Watson, but from the human point of view, as it were, I should be very interested in learning how the two gentlemen struck you. I mean, sir, what was the overall impression you formed?’
‘I can give a very simple answer to that question, Mrs Hudson, for it was particularly striking in both cases. I have never in my life met two men more terrified. If I were to abandon the language of precise observation, I’d say each was quite simply scared out of his wits.’
‘So, the mystery deepens, eh, Flottie?’ chuckled Mrs Hudson when we were back in front of the kitchen fire.
‘Does it, ma’am? I thought Dr Watson’s story was going to be a bit more exciting. Doesn’t it suggest that Mr Moran was telling the truth after all? Or at least,’ I added thoughtfully, ‘that they are all telling the same lie?’
‘Very good, Flottie. Now there are things Dr Watson said which I need to mull over. Their fear, for instance. I hadn’t entirely expected that.’
‘But the curse …?’
‘Now, Flottie, you can’t go believing in that sort of thing. I think it must be a sign that your bed is beckoning. You get yourself ready. I shall just write a quick note.’
But as I watched her write I seemed strangely awake. My arms and legs ached from the unusual exercise of the night before and all the bumps and cuts that were beginning to throb again seemed to amplify the call of a warm bed. But my mind refused to be tired. There seemed to have been so many events happening so quickly that, as I changed into my nightdress in front of the fire, it seemed only a matter of time before a sudden visitor would pound on our door and demand our attention.
Mrs Hudson sealed up her note and handed it to me. It was addressed in her neat handwriting to Mr A J Raffles at the Albany.
‘Tomorrow morning, Flottie, you and I need to work like navvies. Even Mr Holmes and Dr Watson expect certain standards. But when you’re through your list of chores, you may be good enough to deliver this for me. For myself, I would like another word with young Mr Spencer when the chance arises.’
She eyed me quizzically as I stood before her, still uneasily wakeful.
‘Come on, Flottie, if that brain of yours is still turning over we may as well put it to some proper use. Do you remember the word game that Swordsmith used to have you play? I was thinking we could play a round or two. If running around in the gutter all night doesn’t wear you out, perhaps some mental exercise will do the trick.’
I ran to fetch paper and pencils with a childish enthusiasm. It was rare for Mrs Hudson to suggest a game, though once she and Swordsmith had wracked their brains to devise ways of entertaining me when I was sleepless.
‘I’ll choose the first word, Flottie. How about orchestra?’ and she turned over the one-minute timer with a twist of her wrist.
Before the first dozen grains had fallen my mind was entirely occupied with the game, trying to find smaller words contained in the word Mrs Hudson had chosen. The game was to find most words, but the real honour lay in finding the longest. After a minute of scribbling, we agreed that my search matched Mrs Hudson’s starch. Four or five more games ensued before Mrs Hudson sat back and smiled at my enthusiasm.
‘Now off to bed you go, Flottie, and no lying awake. I’ll give you one more to think about, just in case you can’t sleep. It will be easier than solving mysteries and better than counting pigeons. Just a simple one, I think. Try ‘Norman’. That should be about the right size.’
And as I cuddled under my blanket in the velvet dark, my mind tried to play with the word Mrs Hudson had given me.
‘Norman,’ I considered. ‘There’s Roman and roam … manor … arm … roan … moan …’ But sleep was creeping up from my toes and before the thought was complete it had faded into the night.
Elsewhere in that same night not even the driving rain that had come with the darkness could empty the streets of London. Braziers burned in nameless yards. Ships slipped their moorings and edged from the pool of London into thick mist. Somewhere Mr Fogarty was at work, laying his plans, plotting his plots, smiling his thin, menacing smile. Somewhere else again, his collar hunched against the rain, Smale was smiling too, crouched in a doorway and looking up at a window where the last light had just been extinguished. And, nearer and nearer, a small boy was running with gasping urgency ever closer to our door.
When it came, the rapping I had been half expecting broke in on us with the violence of thunder. Mrs Hudson and I were awake at once and stumbling into a state of dress. But, fast as we were, by the time Mrs Hudson reached the corridor wrapped in an old gentleman’s overcoat, Mr Holmes was already there, running a hand through unexpectedly tousled hair. Dr Watson and I joined them a moment later, the doctor yawning dazedly in what appeared to be a regimental dressing gown.
Mrs Hudson made her way to the door while the rest of us were still making embarrassed adjustments to our attire. We heard the street door open, a hushed exchange and then Mrs Hudson’s footsteps returning. There was a note in her hand that she held out to Mr Holmes with a short nod of her head.
‘From Inspector Gregory, sir.’
Holmes took the note and opened it eagerly. After a quick glance at its contents he stepped back and passed the note to Dr Watson.
‘It appears we shall not be interviewing Carruthers a second time, after all. He is dead, Watson. Murdered.’
The three of us crowded round the letter but there was little else to be gleaned.
‘As you see from his postscript, Gregory found your card in the man’s pocket, Watson. So for once he has sent for us with commendable promptness.’
‘The boy is waiting, sir.’
‘Of course, Mrs Hudson. Tell him I shall accompany him at once. Dr Watson shall follow us with all available speed. Watson, this might be the perfect opportunity to test the Niermeister equipment you have been so interested in. We can test Herr Niermeister’s theory of electrostatic irregularities. Would you be so good as to prepare the equipment and follow on?’
‘I say, Holmes, that’s a bit steep! It’s the middle of the night, it’s pouring with rain and I’ve only just dried out from my last soaking. And that German paraphernalia is dashed heavy for lugging around.’
‘Of course, dear fellow. How selfish of me. I shall insist that Flottie accompany you with an umbrella.’
For a moment I thought Mrs Hudson was going to object but she caught my eye and seemed to understand the pleading there.
‘Well really, sir,’ she began, but by now I was essaying the most melting expression I could muster. ‘Of course, sir, if Flottie can be of assistance . . . I’m sure Dr Watson will answer for her well-being and perhaps the young need their sleep less than the rest of us.’
Bending down, apparently to untuck my hair from my nightdress, she added in a low voice, ‘Keep your mind open as well as your eyes, Flottie. I know I couldn’t have a better deputy.’
And it was with those words of praise still warm inside me that I found myself, ten minutes later, seated next to Dr Watson in a grumbling hansom as it shook its way southwards, its destination Knightsbridge.