Every single person there to witness it would always remember the Great Salmanazar’s London performance. From the scamps and urchins who had crept into the wings or hidden themselves under seats, to the sparkling ladies who sat in the boxes; from the girls selling cigars and bonbons to the moustachioed gentlemen at the back of the stalls who had really come to see the famous Fire Dance; from the lighting men and the stagehands and the musicians in the pit, to the stout constables in the aisles and the plain clothes detectives concealed in the audience, everyone who was there to see it remembered it; and on snowy Boxing Days for many years afterwards they would tell and re-tell the tales.
Perhaps part of the strangeness of the evening stemmed from the weather, for the whole spectacular show took place at the height of a blizzard. From the first light of dawn that day, the sky threatened snow, and when at nine in the morning the coalman arrived in Baker Street, there was little difference between the shade of his boots and the dark sky above him.
‘It will snow, all right,’ he told Mrs Hudson as his soot-black horse shifted nervously in its traces; and in reply she looked at the sky and frowned a little and agreed.
‘Yes, Mr Prescott, there’ll be snow tonight, and plenty of it. It’s a night when sensible, honest folk would stay at home.’
But of course they did not. When the first flakes fell that night, there were still ticket-less crowds queuing at the doors of the Regal Theatre in hope of a miracle, and the whole of the area around Piccadilly Circus teemed with peddlers and jugglers and loiterers, and people just out to see what would happen.
For rumour was rife. The Malabar Rose was already stolen; the Great Salmanazar was arrested; was fled abroad; had disappeared without trace. The Queen herself was to attend the performance; the Queen had refused to see the show; the Queen had ordered the show to be cancelled to safeguard the Malabar Rose. And through it all, the crowds kept gathering, the price of tickets touched thirty guineas apiece, the taverns and the pickpockets did great business. At the Blenheim Hotel, the great French chef Deslandes served truite a la Malabar, and in the Rose and Crown on the corner of Poland Street, the pot boys took bets on whether the foreign magician would magic away the precious stone. The mood of the crowd was patriotic. The British police would stand firm; Sherlock Holmes would foil any plots; Inspector Lestrade was a man to be trusted . . . Six shillings to one said the stone was safe. Eight to one! Ten to one! Hurrah for England and St George!
The optimism of the crowds no doubt weighed heavily on Mr Holmes and Dr Watson as they paced the Satin Rooms, checking and re-checking that nothing was amiss. At five o’clock that day they were joined by Sir John Plaskett from his house in Randolph Place, who brought with him the velvet display box that was to hold the ruby. Ten minutes after that, Inspector Lestrade, who had been with his men on the roof, completed the group. The inspector was brushing snow from his moustache.
‘It’s beginning to come down thick, gentlemen,’ he told them. Together they checked their watches and waited for the gem to arrive.
Back in Baker Street, I had found myself chased out of the house just after lunchtime. Mrs Hudson, busy with household chores and declaring that she had things to do in the afternoon, sent me over to the house in Bloomsbury Square.
‘You are to spend the afternoon keeping Miss Peters company, Flottie, and making sure she doesn’t get too over-excited. That way, when the snow starts, you can get to the theatre in the earl’s carriage. The earl is attending the viewing of the Malabar Rose, but I’m sure he will take the rest of you into town. You can arrive in Piccadilly in style, Flottie.’
‘But what about you, ma’am?’
‘I’ll manage fine on foot. There are one or two little tasks to get done first. I want to see Mrs Phillimore in Sefton Avenue again, for one thing. And I have a call to make on Sir Phillip Westacott, the surgeon, for another.’
‘Are you unwell, ma’am?’
‘Good gracious, no, Flotsam. I’m in the rudest of health. But Sir Phillip is an expert on human anatomy and just at the moment I find myself quite interested in the subject.’
Knowing that Mrs Hudson’s interests could be strangely eclectic, there seemed to be little to say to this. ‘Shall I see you at the theatre then, ma’am?’ I asked.
‘You certainly shall, Flottie. Our tickets are for unnumbered seats, but I have had a word with the theatre manager who has agreed to reserve us a pair together. I shall see you there.’
At twenty minutes to six that evening, while the first flakes of snow were falling from skies pregnant with wintry intent, I was seated in the Earl of Brabham’s brougham, lumbering slowly towards Piccadilly. Next to me, Hetty Peters was bursting with excitement; opposite, Rupert Spencer seemed not at all upset to be foregoing the attentions of the Marylebone Natural Philosophic Society. Only the Irascible Earl seemed out of sorts, checking his watch repeatedly and lowering the window from time to time to berate his coachman.
‘Really, the traffic in this town is quite absurd,’ he growled, gesturing at the street in annoyance. ‘Must have moved quicker than this in Tudor times! Look at all those damned hansoms! Always think they have the right of way. And that fellow, there, in the victoria! What’s he doing bringing his vehicle into the heart of London on a night like this? Must know he’s only going to snarl up the roads for everyone else. Fellows like him should have to pay to drive into town!’ He lowered the window. ‘Carrington, if that fellow gets in the way, drive over him!’
Miss Peters wasn’t listening. She was gripping my hand and pointing at people in the crowd, uttering little gasps of excitement.
‘Look, Flottie! That man there! Doesn’t he have a face like a burglar! I bet he’s after the Malabar Rose! Oh, goodness, I think I know him. Do I know him, Rupert? The man over there with the red whiskers?’
Mr Spencer examined the crowd in a leisurely way. ‘Yes, Hetty. It’s the vicar of St Margaret’s. You spilled tea over him at the charity bazaar last month.’
‘Did I? Are you sure? Oh, that vicar. Yes, I remember now. I remember being surprised that you’re allowed to be a vicar when you look so much like a burglar. It must make his parishioners awfully nervous when he comes calling…’
And in that way, in between flurries of snow and volleys of aristocratic ire, we arrived at the Blenheim Hotel, where the earl had been invited to witness the safe arrival of the Malabar Rose.
The contrast between the calm of the Blenheim Hotel and the turbulence outside could not have been greater. The Satin Rooms seemed to float amidst the city’s noise like an iceberg of good order in a sea of over-excitement. We approached down the thickly carpeted corridor, past uniformed policemen who, after much deliberation and much checking of lists, eventually allowed us into the ante-chamber beyond which the ruby was to be displayed. There we found Sir John Plaskett awaiting us, along with Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, Inspector Lestrade and a group of gentlemen in suits whom I didn’t recognise. Dr Watson, on seeing us arrive, gave a happy snort and came over to greet me.
‘Ah, Flotsam! Excellent. Dashed pleased to see you. Good to have an extra pair of eyes. Though apparently the ruby isn’t here yet. I must say, I wish it would hurry up. All this waiting is beginning to give me the jitters.’
Sir John meanwhile was introducing the various people present. As well as the Earl of Brabham, the other official witnesses were Sir John, for the Crown, a man with a bowler hat and a moustache called Mr Bushy who represented the insurers, an Indian gentleman representing the Maharajah, and a gaunt, silver-haired gentleman who turned out to be the royal jeweller. When everyone had shaken hands with everyone else, Sir John led us past two more policemen and into the inner chamber itself. The great circular room was just as I’d seen it last, but for one difference: on the slim column of marble at its centre there now stood the elegant velvet case that was to display the ruby. The case, just like the one I had seen in Baker Street, was shaped like a truncated pyramid, with a dimple at its apex where the stone would stand. Without a word the crowd gathered around it. Even Miss Peters fell silent, and I hardly dared breathe lest someone would notice my presence and decide that I had no right to be there.
‘Gentlemen,’ Sir John began. ‘Three of the doors to this room are already sealed. The fourth we shall lock behind us when we leave. You are all aware of the safeguards in place. Are you satisfied with them?’
There was a general murmur of assent.
‘And do you have any questions? If not, all that remains is for me to produce the Malabar Rose itself. I am happy to report that the decoy stones have been completely successful. The Malabar Rose itself has been in a completely unguessable location and has arrived here safely. Now it is time for me to take it back. The Malabar Rose, if you please!’
At first I thought he was looking directly at me and I began to shrink with embarrassment at such cruel teasing. But then I became aware that behind me the Earl of Brabham was clearing his throat and fidgeting. To my total astonishment, he stepped forward and reached into his jacket pocket.
‘Got it here, Sir John,’ he murmured. ‘Never let it out of my pocket, you see. Have to admit, I was beginning to get a bit windy, though.’
This remarkable revelation caused a stirring of surprise amongst the assembled company.
‘My word, sir!’ exclaimed Dr Watson. ‘Had it all this time, have you? Who’d have guessed it?’
‘Who indeed, Watson?’ Mr Holmes coughed modestly. ‘Although it was not impossible to divine that the stone was likely to be in the possession of a respectable gentleman with no public office, conservative political views, a sturdy coachman and membership of the same clubs as Sir John.’
‘But, Uncle,’ Mr Spencer was asking, ignoring Mr Holmes’ demonstration of his deductive powers, ‘you mean it has just been lying around the house all this time?’
‘What do you mean, “lying around the house”?’ the earl growled. ‘It was in my blasted pocket, wasn’t it? Why do you think I’ve been wanting you to accompany me to the blasted club these last few days? Why do you think I wanted to stay in and play cribbage when you wouldn’t come? I ask you! Most ghastly few days of my life! Worse than that time I attended the House of Lords. I hardly dared go out, dammit.’ The earl shook his head, as if in horror. ‘Cribbage, indeed! Game for old ladies and clergymen! To be honest, I don’t know it’s really fit for clergymen.’
While the earl continued in that vein, the Malabar Rose had been removed from his grasp by the elderly jeweller. I could see his eyes widen as he examined it, and even from where I stood it was easy to see that it was special. The stone he held was not dissimilar in size and shape to the glass replica we had been shown in Baker Street, but there could have been no confusing the two. For the Malabar Rose seemed to burn with a fire at its very heart, and whatever light there was in the room seemed to be captured by it, as if to feed those flames. It was, quite simply, exquisite.
‘Magnificent!’ exclaimed the jeweller, his eyes still wide. ‘I have never seen anything like it. Such depth! Such fire!’
The Maharajah’s representative was studying it closely too. ‘Yes, that is the Malabar Rose,’ he confirmed. ‘My congratulations to you, sir, on its safe delivery.’
The ruby was passed to Sir John who placed it carefully on the velvet case. It fitted perfectly and suddenly the room didn’t feel bare anymore; it seemed to fill with light, as if the Malabar Rose had furnished it with colour and lustre of its own. At the same time, the assembled group seemed to diminish beside it. We simply stood and watched the fire at its centre twist and flicker and weave patterns of meaning that none of us would ever decode.
The formalities that followed were almost a relief and were quickly over. Receipts were signed and counter signed. The door was sealed behind us with four padlocks, one for each of the signatories, and two constables took up position with their backs to it. Sir John, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson and Inspector Lestrade stated their intention to stay and patrol the ante chamber, while the Earl of Brabham, Mr Spencer, and those others who were to be there at the official viewing were enjoined to return at eleven o’clock, when the door would be officially re-opened. Then our group broke up, and those of us with tickets to the show next door made haste to secure our seats.
The Regal Theatre was, in those days, one of the smartest in the whole of the country. It seemed to me immense, and even for the most ordinary event it could seat eight hundred people in the most sumptuous comfort. From the rich red carpets of the stalls, to the distant, dizzying heights of the Gods, every box, every balustrade, every dangling chandelier and every fragment of cornicing was gilded and glorious, and polished till it shone. The different tiers rose above each other in towering splendour so that faces peeping down from the top balcony were little more than pale spots amid the blaze of colour.
Eight hundred seats must have sufficed on most occasions, but that night there were at least a thousand people crammed into the old building. Extra seats had been slotted into the aisles to extend each row, and tickets for standing room had been sold so liberally that it seemed the crowds in the Upper Circle and the Gods were doomed to spill over into the stalls below. Even at six o’clock, with two hours still to go until the performance began, the theatre seemed full. By the time Mrs Hudson arrived to take her seat in the stalls, the theatre seemed so full it was impossible to believe that those still queuing outside would ever get in.
In the midst of the mounting excitement, only Mrs Hudson appeared unmoved.
‘A very fair crowd,’ she commented, seating herself calmly and rifling through her bag as if totally unaffected by the atmosphere around her.
‘Ah, here we are,’ she said presently, pulling from a bag a very small notebook. ‘I jotted down one or two of the things that Lavinia Phillimore told me this afternoon, Flotsam. I thought you might be interested.’
I looked at the babbling crowds all around me and wondered how Mrs Phillimore’s recollections of her husband could possibly be interesting at a time like this. Mrs Hudson, however, was undeterred.
‘To begin with, I now have the dates of all Mr Phillimore’s periods of convalescence in Broadstairs. They make fascinating reading. And when I asked Mrs Phillimore about the large sum of money she received through the post, she told me that she thought perhaps her husband had been dabbling in the stock markets. She remembers seeing a letter that mentioned shares in an overseas iron company and in North American railways. Sadly, she’s a particularly vapid young woman and she never seems to have thought to ask him about it.’
The influx of people into the auditorium seemed finally to have come to an end. Wherever I looked, it seemed that people were now in their places. Mrs Hudson nodded towards the stage.
‘Look at the front two rows of the stalls, Flottie. It seems that Inspector Lestrade isn’t taking any chances.’
On looking more closely, I realised that the front two rows appeared to be populated entirely by men in their thirties and forties. Unlike the rest of the audience, none of them were chattering to their neighbours.
‘Police constables without their uniforms,’ Mrs Hudson whispered. ‘You can tell. No necks. And look there!’ Mrs Hudson indicated a bent old flower seller in the opposite aisle. ‘Mr Holmes has sneaked away from that ruby of his to keep an eye on things after all.’
‘Mr Holmes, ma’am? Her?’
‘Of course, Flottie. Look at the hands. And besides, the flowers are arranged wrong. No flower seller puts the roses next to the tiger lilies.’
But before I could re-examine the old woman in the light of these observations, the lights around me began to dim and the audience hushed itself, and the moment London had been waiting for so impatiently had finally arrived.
I could fill many pages in describing the wonders we were shown that night. I had seen magicians before, but I had never seen anything like the Great Salmanazar. At first he appeared rather uncertain, a small man in evening dress who perhaps had wondered out of his depth. But as one extraordinary happening followed another, he seemed to grow in stature until he dominated the stage as surely as he dominated the audience in front of it. We were his entirely, to work as he pleased, and his performance grew into something that defied all sense of reason. At first I was able to think about each trick, to wonder what sleight of hand had accomplished it; but the performance moved so fast, and challenged my reason so rapidly and repeatedly, that eventually I could only watch and wonder. By the time he performed the rope trick, a thousand pairs of eyes were locked on his, and when he disappeared, quite literally, in a puff of smoke, a thousand pairs of eyes blinked in disbelief. A few seconds later, at precisely the same moment, a thousand people became aware that the man they had just watched vanish was, in fact, standing in the aisle of the stalls, twenty yards from the stage, apparently having just witnessed his own evaporation.
Soon we were all so accustomed to the performance of the impossible that when the Great Salmanazar released from his hat in rapid succession a cockatoo, an ocelot and a fluttering cloud of scarlet butterflies, he might just as easily have produced an elephant and none of us would have thought it in the least surprising.
Finally, when it appeared that the procession of wonders must come to an end, the Great Salmanazar stepped forward and addressed his audience for the first time.
‘Mesdames et messieurs,’ he began. ‘Shortly I shall perform for you a feat that defies all physical laws. You shall see me bound and gagged, secured in every imaginable way, and suspended above you, encaged. But the Great Salmanazar cannot by confined by natural barriers, as you shall witness for yourselves. But first, something a little less taxing. You, sir!’
He pointed with his finger to a portly man seated a few rows behind me. ‘And you!’ He pointed in a different direction. ‘And you! And finally you, sir! I ask for you gentlemen to stand.’
Hesitantly and with obvious embarrassment, four gentlemen rose to their feet. Each was seated at the end of a row, so that they marked very roughly the four corners of the stalls. The Great Salmanazar smiled at each of them in turn.
‘Gentlemen, my helpers shall bring each of you a pack of cards. I ask you to select a card from that pack and make a mark on it – a mark known only to yourselves. Your signature, perhaps, or the name of a loved one.’
As he spoke, four small boys in red uniforms ran forward from the front of the stage and each hurried to one of the gentlemen in question. A short pause ensued as cards were selected and scribbled on, then returned to the boys who ran back to the stage and delivered them to the magician.
‘You see that I do not look at them,’ he declared, holding them high above his head. ‘Now I place them safely in my pocket.’ A thousand people watched the cards disappear into the front of his jacket. ‘And now, before my incarceration commences, I request a witness to observe that my bonds are genuine.’
Almost before he had finished speaking, one of the plain-clothes constables from the front row had hastened onto the stage. The Great Salmanazar raised his arms again.
‘And so, begin!’ he ordered, and at the clap of his hands the stage was suddenly full of men carrying ropes and tools and all sorts of paraphernalia. A thousand people watched as the illusionist was bound in a straitjacket, gagged and blind-folded, then tied around with so many ropes that he almost disappeared beneath them. When this binding was complete, he was placed in a sack which was knotted with thick cord, then laid in a coffin that had been carried onto the stage. A pair of carpenters took the coffin’s lid and proceeded to nail it down with vengeful thoroughness. Further ropes were then bound tightly around it and finally two strongmen appeared, puffing and straining, carrying between them a monstrous block of lead the shape of a kitchen weight but two feet square at its base and a further two feet tall. This weight was lifted with some difficulty on top of the coffin and then, while we watched, a crate of plain wood was erected around the whole.
The carpenters worked quickly and in less than a minute, huge hawsers were being strapped around the crate. Then a mighty iron chain was lowered from the ceiling and the hawsers were attached to it. A thousand pairs of eyes watched the crate being hoisted into the air until it was fully thirty feet above the stage. We watched it swing for a few seconds and then hang still.
It was at this point that Mrs Hudson nudged me and showed me her watch.
‘Twenty five minutes to eleven,’ she whispered. ‘Twenty five minutes until the Malabar Rose goes on display.’
But I scarcely heard her. Like everyone around me, my eyes were fixed on the hanging box. As we watched it, the auditorium seemed to grow darker and then, as if from nowhere, small fires began to spring up around the stage. Strange, arabesque music filled the theatre, and I thrilled with excitement. The famous Fire Dance was about to begin.
To gasps of wonder, Lola Del Fuego appeared from the wings as if she was floating on the heat from the fires. Her feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground. She was wearing loose layers of white silk that flowed out from her body and were turned red by the light of the fires, until they seemed like flames licking around her. So loose, so insubstantial was the silk that I marvelled at her daring, but the swiftness of the movements and the flickering firelight made it impossible to be sure just how much of that graceful body was displayed. As the music grew faster, the dance became more wild, and as she leapt through the flames they seemed to clutch at her feet and kiss the tails of silk that trailed behind her.
‘Careful, Flotsam.’ Mrs Hudson wasn’t looking at the dance at all, I realised. ‘Keep your eyes on the crate if you can.’
But I couldn’t. It was too much to ask. I noticed that even among the rows of constables, every one of the heads had tilted forwards and was following the movements of the dancer.
I had no idea how long the dance lasted. So enchanted was I, so overcome with the wild grace of it, that it might have been an hour, or more. But when the flames died down and the music faded and the applause swept over us like a breaking storm, while the moustachioed hearties were shouting for more and the grey-whiskered gents were waving their programmes, Mrs Hudson leaned over to me and whispered, ‘Listen!’ And above all the noise, very faintly from the street outside, I could hear a clock striking eleven.
‘The Malabar Rose!’ I whispered.
‘Yes, they’ll be opening the doors right now. Mr Spencer slipped out earlier, along with all the others invited to the event next door.’
But before I could start thinking about the Malabar Rose, my attention was caught again by the wooden box that contained the Great Salmanazar. Now, very slowly, to the rhythm of a single drumbeat, it was being lowered back to the stage. The audience who only a few moments ago had been in such an uproar began to fall silent again until, as the crate came slowly lower and the drumbeat grew faster, the whole theatre was hushed. When the crate was within six feet of the stage, the two strongmen reappeared from the wings and kept it steady as it came lower, until finally it touched the stage and settled there. The drumming was very urgent now, louder and louder with every moment that passed. The strongmen withdrew. The drumming reached a crescendo and then, dramatically, stopped dead. The silence was almost unbelievable. In my seat by the aisle, I held my breath.
Then came a crash that made me leap in my seat and made the audience gasp with shock. A gloved fist had punched through the board that formed one side of the crate. We watched fascinated as the fist was withdrawn and then with another tremendous crash smashed through the wood once more, widening the hole. Gradually the Great Salmanazar freed himself from the box. With a final push he stepped clear of the splintered wood and stood before us, immaculate and unflustered, his arms spread wide as if to embrace our applause.
And applaud we did! It was as if the breaking of the wood had released us from a spell and now we were properly able to acknowledge all we had seen. The audience rose to its feet in one movement and bellowed its appreciation. Cries of ‘Bravo!’ and ‘More!’ rose above the applause, and the stamping of feet seemed to shake the theatre. A hat was thrown in the air, then another, then hundreds, as if the favourite had just won the Derby. A gentleman in front of me sobbed and waved his handkerchief. A young lady of earnest demeanour was restrained by the constables as she tried to run on to the stage. And amidst it all, the Great Salmanazar was signalling for quiet.
‘Please!’ he cried, waving his arms. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please!’ Eventually the noise began to subside. ‘Please,’ he cried again, ‘there is one more thing! Please!’ The noise from the Upper Circle took a little longer to die down and when it did the magician spoke again.
‘You, sir!’ He pointed to one of the gentlemen who earlier had selected a playing card. ‘I find, sir, that my pocket is empty. I fear I have mislaid your card. Perhaps if you were just to open your pocket book…’
Bemused, the fellow reached into his jacket and took out a leather wallet. ‘Well, I’ll be…’ he declared, looking up wildly and holding something white in his hand.
‘Would that be the knave of clubs, sir?’ the illusionist asked.
‘It is! It is! The very one. Look!’ He held it up to those around him. ‘My wife’s name signed in the corner!’
By now the other three men were scrambling to pull out their wallets.
‘You, sir! The nine of diamonds?’
‘Yes, that’s right. It’s here! The same card!’
‘And you! The king of hearts?’
‘The same! Here’s my name on it!’
‘And you, sir!’ He pointed to the last of the four. ‘The ace of spades?’
But instead of smiling back, the gentleman was looking confused, searching through the papers in his pocket book.
‘The ace of spades, I say,’ the Great Salmanazar repeated.
‘The ace of spades is correct, sir,’ the man agreed, still searching anxiously, ‘but there is no such card here.’
Suddenly the theatre, which had been in an uproar of surprise and admiration, began to fall silent. People looked from the stage to the man in the audience and back again. A certain tension seemed to have entered the magician’s body.
‘Perhaps then in your pocket, sir.’
The man began to go through his pockets with an air of dejection. ‘I marked it with a cross, so I should definitely know it again. But I can tell you without doubt I don’t have it here.’
The Great Salmanazar had gone very pale. He seemed to have shrunk in size again, to have become the same uncertain performer who’d first walked onto the stage. I watched him take a deep breath and address the audience.
‘Mesdames et messieurs, forgive me. It would appear in this act of physical transportation I have failed. Please forgive me.’ And with that he stepped back, out of the light and into the darkness, and disappeared from the stage.
To say the audience was taken aback would be an understatement. We sat in silence, confused and a little embarrassed at this unexpected finale. After a few seconds, the curtain descended sharply to the stage and there was a spattering of applause, but for the most part people were too uncertain to clap their hands. A low murmur of surmise and speculation was running through the building, and I turned to Mrs Hudson. To my total surprise, she was smiling a smile of utter contentment. Sensing that I was looking at her, she turned to me and hastily rearranged her features into more solemn lines.
‘Forgive me, Flotsam,’ she said. ‘I’m sure this isn’t the time to appear too triumphant. But I think I know the exact whereabouts of our mysterious Mr Phillimore.’
When Mr Spencer left the theatre that evening, the Fire Dance had just begun. He found it hard to leave, partly because he found Lola Del Fuego’s attractions to be in no way exaggerated, partly because neither his uncle nor Miss Peters was at first willing to accompany him, and partly because the sheer pressure of people meant that his progress, when he did move, was slow and wretchedly difficult. He did at least succeed in bringing the earl with him, though Miss Peters utterly refused to budge.
‘Don’t be silly, Rupert,’ she hissed. ‘This is the most thrilling moment of my entire life! Go off to your boring old soiree if you must, but if you try to take me with you I shall scream the theatre down!’
Mr Spencer, deciding that this was an act of public outrage of which she was fully capable, left her in the care of the elderly archdeacon seated next to her, and accompanied his uncle to the front door of the Regal Theatre. It was there for the first time they fully appreciated the force of the storm that had gripped London while the Great Salmanazar was on stage. As soon as the door opened for them, snow drove itself into their faces with polar fury, and for a moment each man wavered and stepped back.
‘My word!’ The Earl of Brabham held down his top hat with grim determination. ‘It’s a blasted blizzard. But nothing for it but to struggle through. Mustn’t be late!’
At first it seemed there was more snow in the air than on the ground, but when they stepped out into it, their boots sank deep into freshly fallen snow. The storm had emptied the streets. All those bustling crowds and those legions of hawkers had been swept away by its force, and the city seemed deserted. By the time the two men had made their way next door, stamping their feet and brushing snow from their coats, it was seven minutes to eleven.
They found a considerable throng of people in the ante chamber of the Satin Rooms, waiting for the viewing to begin. Most of them had also torn themselves away from the performance next door, duty dictating that royal invitations must be honoured, even when Lola Del Fuego was on stage. To compensate for this sacrifice, a very fine champagne was being served and as Mr Spencer entered the room, the excited chatter was all of events at the Regal Theatre.
‘The fellow simply disappeared…’
‘Splendid trickery…’
‘… Seen nothing like it since Sindapour in ’56…’
‘… All mirrors, you know, and then there’s the smoke…’
‘… Once you know there’s a trapdoor, you realise it’s really childishly simple…’
‘… Wouldn’t let any daughter of mine cavort around in public like that, but then of course none of my daughters are really built for that sort of thing…’
In the centre of the throng, the Dowager Duchess of Marne was questioning a bishop about his views on black magic, and beyond that a peer from the shires was bribing a waiter to replace his champagne with a whisky and soda. Near the padlocked door, a minor admiral was describing his only ever naval engagement to a young lady who had mistaken him for someone quite different. They were being watched by Dr Watson and Inspector Lestrade, who both leaned nonchalantly against the door itself. Next to them, Sir John Plaskett was looking at his watch.
As if this movement was a signal, the other key-holders disengaged themselves from their conversations and began to gather around him. Mr Bushy mopped his brow. The Indian gentleman looked serious. The Irascible Earl looked slightly irritable. Sherlock Holmes, restored to his usual costume but smelling faintly of tiger lilies, sauntered casually through the crowds and joined them.
‘Come, gentlemen,’ Sir John urged them, ‘let us make no great show of this. Let us remove these padlocks, check that all is well, then let the party come through to admire the stone.’
One by one the locks were removed. It fell to the Earl of Brabham to remove the last, but in his impatience he struggled to turn the key and gestured for his nephew to help him, which is how Mr Spencer came to be right at the front of the group when the clocks struck eleven and the doors swung open.
Despite the Maharajah’s request for darkness, the lights of the inner room had been left burning, so the bare interior was brilliantly lit. Perhaps this bright lighting created a sense of normality and order, for certainly the men responsible for the Malabar Rose were chatting amongst themselves as they entered. Mr Bushy, who was at the back, even paused to close the door behind him. At first he couldn’t understand why the others stopped talking as he did so. But Rupert Spencer, from his position at the front of the group, saw everything with total clarity. He saw the velvet case empty atop its marble column; he saw the ruby vanished; the room undisturbed; and he saw, fluttering gently under the ceiling, translucent against the lights, a single scarlet butterfly.