The prospect of seeing Miss Fidelma Fontaine at even closer quarters clearly inspired in Dr Watson something very close to panic. When the old man repeated his gesture, causing those seated around us to begin to take an interest, Dr Watson turned to me in desperation.
‘Really, Flottie, we can scarcely call upon her now. After seeing her… After seeing her so… I mean, it’s not to be thought of! We must leave at once.’
‘But Dr Watson, sir, Mrs Hudson is relying on us.’
As I knew it would, the idea had a powerful effect on him.
‘Of course, yes. We mustn’t forget that. I wouldn’t wish Mrs Hudson to think we had let her down… Even so, such a woman! No more than a common hussy. I have met girls like that in India, Flottie. Simply not to be trusted. Ignorant, coarse… Must we, Flotsam?’
‘Just one or two questions, sir.’
‘Very well, there can be no harm in that, I suppose. But then we must certainly leave.’
So saying, he allowed me to lead him to the end of our row, where our guide awaited us rather impatiently. As soon as we had disentangled ourselves from the rest of the audience, he ushered us with a strange, sideways gait out of the auditorium and down labyrinthine combinations of stairs and corridors, until we came to a room crowded with performers. It smelled of hot bodies and greasepaint.
‘Here yer go,’ our guide muttered. ‘She’ll see yer now.’ And with that he disappeared into the crowd, leaving us awkward and embarrassed in the middle of the room. Amid that gathering of show people neither Dr Watson nor I could be described as inconspicuous, but the poor doctor stood out particularly: tall and respectable and hurriedly removing his gaze from a naked thigh here or a plump corsage there.
‘Can I help you, ducky?’ A woman in a dancer’s costume came to our rescue, her body trim as a teenager’s but her face beneath the paint nearer forty than fourteen. Dr Watson, who had been looking down, found himself staring into the depths of a plunging cleavage and had to readjust rapidly the direction of his gaze.
‘Why, yes, madam. We have an appointment to see Miss Fidelma Fontaine.’
The dancer signalled with her thumb towards a door marked ‘Filly’. ‘Maud!’ she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Admirer come to see you. Old enough to know better.’
‘Why really, madam!’ Dr Watson began, blushing with indignation, but before he could say more I dragged him towards the door.
‘Come on, sir,’ I urged him. ‘Just one or two questions and then we can go.’
I knocked loudly and a woman’s voice called ‘come in’ in a surprisingly pleasant, well-modulated voice.
I had expected a room characterised by decadence, with a central figure sprawling in luxury amid admirers while calmly sipping gin or painting her nails. Instead the room was small and ugly, lined with bare brick, stained in places by damp, and it contained no decoration of any kind, being as spartan as a monk’s cell. The sole person in it was the young lady from the trapeze, and it was clear from her bare feet, and from the bare legs that showed beneath a thick, camel-coloured woollen dressing-gown, that she wore no more now than when we had seen her last. Instead of preening herself in front of a mirror, she was engaged in packing large piles of books into a box.
She turned to us as we entered and gave us the same, lovely smile that we had seen before, albeit in rather different circumstances.
‘Dr Watson, I believe? Oh, and you must be… ?’
Her voice, as I had already noted, had no discernable accent; she might have been welcoming us to a polite tea party at a rural vicarage.
‘My name’s Flotsam, ma’am. Dr Watson was good enough to bring me to see the show.’
‘Was he?’ She raised an eyebrow and turned it on him, then turned back to me. ‘I’m surprised he considered it suitable. I hope you didn’t find it too terribly shocking.’
‘Oh no, ma’am. Well, that’s to say, yes, a little. I mean, perhaps more surprising than shocking, I think. And, ma’am, the way you did it all was so very wonderful! I mean, you were just amazing on that high wire.’
She smiled at that, a smile full of warmth and pleasure. ‘Why, thank you, Flotsam.’ Then she turned to my companion. ‘And you, Dr Watson, are you scandalised?’
Dr Watson, finding himself in a very small room with a very attractive young woman in a state of near undress, was clearly very far from comfortable; but I could see that what unnerved him even more than her bare ankles or the looseness of her dressing-gown across her bosom was the directness of her question and her total composure in our presence. He had clearly anticipated all sorts of feminine coyness or trickery, perhaps even blushing shame, but nothing like this.
‘I… Well, I confess, madam, that it is not, er, not quite the sort of entertainment to which I am accustomed.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it, Doctor,’ she replied with all seriousness. ‘You will perhaps credit me with an awareness that what I do is not considered very respectable, not even by the men who come here every night to witness it.’
‘Pah!’ exclaimed Dr Watson. ‘They should be ashamed of themselves! What does that crowd know of respectability?’
‘Oh, I think you wrong them, doctor,’ she replied lightly. ‘Only yesterday one of them caught me by the stage door and insisted that I must repent and seek the Lord, or else face eternal damnation. And he must have been very genuinely concerned for my soul, as I know for a fact that he had witnessed my sinful display at least half a dozen times.’
‘The blackguard!’ It seemed that in his great distaste for his fellow-theatregoers, Dr Watson had temporarily forgotten his own moral outrage. ‘You should have poked him in the eye!’
‘On the contrary, I quoted him something from Thessalonians. I think that startled him rather more.’
It clearly startled Dr Watson too. ‘Thessalonians? I see…’
She laughed at that. ‘Why, Dr Watson, I don’t believe you’ve ever read a word of Thessalonians in your life! Now, please don’t stand there all awkward by the door. I have three chairs, so please make use of one. And you, Flotsam. Here, sit by me…’
Dr Watson, still clearly ill at ease, took the seat that was furthest from our hostess and nearest the half-packed box of books. Almost instinctively as he sat down, he peered at its contents.
‘Why, Sir Walter Scott!’ he exclaimed. ‘One of my favourites! Are you an enthusiast?’
Sitting down, with her dressing-gown rising up her calf and her body half-twisted towards us, she was perhaps more beautiful than she had been on stage. I found myself thinking of Lola Del Fuego. I had thought her beautiful too, but hers was a kind of rare, unworldly beauty that seemed to set her apart. The woman before me now was beautiful in a much more believable way; she was someone you might actually meet in real life. And where Lola’s dark, flashing eyes had seemed part of her defences, the eyes that were now turned in amusement on Dr Watson were open and engaging.
But Dr Watson was clearly unaware of them, looking instead – and with undisguised enthusiasm – at a tartan-bound copy of Waverley. His absorption made her smile.
‘I’ve read a lot of Scott, yes, doctor. Old Mortality is a very interesting work.’
‘The one with all the religion in it? Not really my thing, I’m afraid. But I’ve always thought Ivanhoe is rather splendid. A tremendous yarn!’ He grinned at his fellow-reader with honest pleasure, then remembered who she was and looked down in confusion. ‘So, er, all these books are really yours, Miss Fontaine? Keats, Longfellow, Shelley… and yet you…’ His sentence was swallowed by his own embarrassment.
She faced him with unruffled calm. Even if she had been fully dressed, she could not have been more composed.
‘Yes, Dr Watson. You have seen how I make my living. It seems to surprise you that I can also read a book.’
‘Well, I, er… Really, Miss Fontaine…’ It clearly did surprise him, even as he tried to deny the fact.
‘It’s not what I would have chosen, but I am not ashamed of what I do, Doctor. And, please, none of this Miss Fontaine. That’s all nonsense. You can call me Maud. Or, if you prefer, Miss Phillimore.’
At that I couldn’t prevent myself from letting out a squeal.
‘Miss Phillimore?’
‘Yes, Flotsam. That’s my real name.’
‘Related to Mr James Phillimore?’
‘My brother. That’s why I responded to your advertisement.’
‘Do you know where he is, miss?’
Her face fell a little. ‘No, I’m afraid not. That’s why I wrote to Mr Rumbelow. I thought perhaps someone might have come forward… You see, my brother seems to have disappeared.’
‘Oh.’ The disappointment in my voice was clearly evident. ‘I’d hoped you could tell us where to look. We need to find him, you see. His wife…’
‘His wife?’ For the first time that evening, Miss Fontaine – Miss Phillimore – looked disconcerted. ‘My brother is married?’
‘Why, yes. To a lady in Ealing. It was her mother who reported him missing.’
For a moment a silence fell as both she and I digested what we had learned. In the end it was Dr Watson who spoke first, his voice surprisingly gentle.
‘Perhaps, Miss Phillimore, if you were to tell us a bit more about your brother…’
She straightened. ‘Yes, of course. I’m afraid I don’t really know him very well, so perhaps I should start at the beginning.’
‘When my father met my mother,’ Miss Phillimore began, ‘it was one of the great surprises of his life. My father was a highly respectable corn merchant in Sussex, a man of very comfortable means and of considerable reputation. My mother, in contrast, was a dancer, one of a chorus of dancers performing at the Alhambra. The two met – it’s not clear how – during one of my father’s infrequent visits to London, and he returned to London again a fortnight later. It was during that second visit that their decision was made, and after the shortest possible engagement, my mother was plucked from the troupe at the Alhambra Palace and transplanted into a prosperous Georgian farmhouse in the countryside near Pyecombe.
‘There can be no doubt that the advantage of the match was all on her side, for as well as a comfortable income and a house surrounded by orchards, she also gained a husband who was devoted to her and, in course of time, two healthy and affectionate young children. My brother James was born but a year after their marriage and I arrived barely twelve months later. We were fortunate children in every way, for both our parents doted on us and we had as our playground a fine old house and beyond it the great sweep of the South Downs.’
‘Ah, the Downs!’ sighed Dr Watson. ‘You know them well?’
‘As I know myself.’
‘They’re a grand part of the country. Out in Afghanistan I used to dream of them.’
Miss Phillimore smiled at him.
‘I am pleased they have a place in your heart, Doctor. If my life had followed the path intended for it, I should never have left them. Yet that life was not to be, for there was something in my mother’s heart that none of her good fortune could ever quite vanquish. It seems she always entertained a secret yearning for that other life, a yearning that prevented her from settling comfortably into her new world. It was she who taught me as a child the rudiments of the trapeze, and I realise now that those afternoons in the orchard, with a swing slung over a branch, were not filling her with peace, as they did me, but stirring memories of her own past.’
Miss Phillimore paused for a moment. Her dressing-gown had fallen open a little and she absently drew it closer to her.
‘My father was unaware of his wife’s discontent or, if aware, too puzzled by it to know how to respond. It is my belief that for all his great love for her, she always remained a mystery to him. And whether that is true or not, there came a day which altered our lives forever. I was five at the time and my father had taken me with him to market, leaving my mother and brother at home. When we returned, we found her gone, and my brother gone with her. It was the last time we ever saw her.’
When Miss Phillimore paused this time, it was because I had reached out and laid my hand on hers.
‘My father made inquiries, of course,’ she went on, ‘and soon learned that she had returned to her life on the London stage. I don’t think he ever tried to see her, though. The loss and the betrayal had so affected him that he was a broken man. His spirits never recovered from that blow, and, although he lived long enough to celebrate my seventeenth birthday, his career and circumstances went into decline from the day my mother left. They never recovered. His business failed and his debts mounted. Our house was sold when I was ten, and a succession of houses followed, each smaller and less reputable than the last. When he died I was left with nothing.’
Dr Watson was listening most attentively to this narrative, and at this point he puffed out his cheeks in sympathy. ‘So that is how the fates led you to London?’ he asked.
‘That’s right, Doctor.’ She met his gaze and smiled a sweet, sad smile. ‘You must think I have fallen a great distance.’
‘Why, no!’ he mumbled awkwardly. ‘That is to say, I quite understand… Innocent young girl… Left alone… Devilishly difficult… Tragic circumstances… Dashed awkward… Same thing myself, no doubt.’
This last comment made her smile again, but with a sparkle in her eye.
‘I fear your talents may not be suited to it, Doctor. But I, unfortunately, had few options. The day after my father’s funeral I came to London in search of my mother. It took me two months to discover that she too was dead and that I was left an orphan. By then what little money I had was all spent. But in my searches I had met many who remembered my mother and had offered to find me work if I should need it. As I retained some acrobatic skills from my youth, I found myself eventually employed on the trapeze. Oh, do not look so concerned, doctor! I assure you that for many years, as I made my way, my performances really were confined to the trapeze. But the competition is fierce and there are many who can hang prettily from a swing. If I was to continue to find work, I knew I had to make my performance different.
‘I hit upon the idea for my current entertainment only a few months ago, and already it has changed everything. I don’t deny that the first time I performed it I was indescribably nervous, but it has been such a success that I have had no time to feel ashamed. And next week, for the first time in my career, I am to be top of the bill at a theatre in town.’
She pointed to the box of books. ‘You see, the punishment for my fearful indecency is to escape the Stepney Mermaid.’
Dr Watson swallowed awkwardly. ‘Very pleased to hear it, Miss Phillimore. No place for a young lady… Rough crowd… Scoundrels out there… Upsets me to think… Bare brickwork… Damp, no doubt, too… Much better off in town.’
He swallowed again.
‘And you, er, never married? Dashed strange… Attractive young girl… Reads Keats… Likes the Downs… Admirers, surely… Surprised no nice young man… Take you away from all this… Can’t imagine why… Society too prudish…’
He tailed off with a gulp and studied the cobwebs above the door with great interest. Miss Phillimore watched him for a moment, a quiver of amusement on her lips.
‘In my profession, doctor, I meet very few young men of the sort I might wish to marry, and of course, those I do meet have no desire to marry me. Not many are willing to take the risk my father took.’
‘And your brother, Miss Phillimore,’ I put in, afraid we were drifting a little off the point. ‘What about him?’
She nodded and gave a sad little shrug.
‘Nearly fifteen years passed from the day my mother took him away to the day I met him again. Even that meeting was by chance. I had asked after him, of course, but I had never been able to track him down. Growing up at my mother’s side, he had very soon been encouraged to fill the role of child entertainer, so he had gone under many strange names. Then one day we found ourselves in the same theatre, and by some miracle we succeeded in recognising each other. Our reunion was a joyous one.
‘As a child performer, my brother had been a tremendous success. He had indeed earned more at the age of eight than my mother ever earned. The stage was the only life he knew and he basked in his success. However, by the time I was reunited with him, his stage career was over and he had become a disappointed man. It appears that his particular act had not survived the transition into manhood. He had found himself slipping down the bill until one day he slipped off it altogether. And to make it worse, he was in love with his childhood sweetheart, a very pretty young girl called Polly Perkins. As James’ success evaporated, hers was growing, and it was soon clear she was destined to top the bill in playhouses well beyond Stepney. It became harder and harder for the two to keep in touch, and her successes only served to emphasise his failure. Eventually James refused to see her anymore, saying he didn’t want to be a blight on her career. He declared that he was to abandon theatre work altogether and would take a job as a clerk.’
‘But you kept in touch, miss?’
She shrugged again. ‘He disappeared. I had no idea where he worked or even what name he went by. But at the beginning of every month he always came to watch my act. Mostly he wouldn’t even stay to talk – I think coming to the shows made him sad. He would just watch from the stalls and wait until he’d caught my eye, then leave. But this month he didn’t come. I have been watching for him every day, but nothing. So when I saw the advertisement in Plays & Players, I determined to write in the hope that there might be some news.’
Dr Watson was nodding understandingly at this, as though there was nothing else about James Phillimore that his sister could possibly add. But, in contrast, I was almost beside myself, tapping my feet and burning with excitement as the full import of Maud Phillimore’s words began to dawn on me.
‘One thing, miss. It’s really important. What was your brother’s particular talent? What act was it that he found himself unable to continue as an adult?’
‘Why, it is a common story for performers in his line. As children there are many who can be flexible, but only very few retain that ability totally undiminished into adulthood.’
Dr Watson was looking puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite see . . .’
Miss Phillimore gave a wry smile. ‘As a child my brother was mostly known as Folding Freddie, the Boy in the Box. He could fold himself up to the size of a football. His speciality was appearing out of specially large top hats. Yes, Flotsam, that’s right – my brother was a child contortionist.’
Just as I had experienced problems in getting him there, so it was with some difficulty that I eventually dragged Dr Watson away from Miss Phillimore’s dressing room. He had clearly been most affected by the story she had told us, and in addition, having found a safe haven, he seemed most reluctant to brave again the storm of greasepaint that prevailed outside. Nevertheless, eventually my repeated urgings succeeded in raising him to his feet and the goodbyes we said to Miss Phillimore were both grateful and sincere.
‘Mrs Hudson will find your brother, miss,’ I reassured her. ‘I’m sure she’ll have news soon.’
‘Indeed!’ confirmed Dr Watson. ‘I’m sure she will. Er, if she were to find anything of interest to you, where might we be able to contact you?’
‘I shall be at the Oriental for the next twelve weeks, doctor. A message will reach me there.’
‘Ah, the Oriental! Near Victoria. Pleased to hear it. Very handy for Hyde Park. Thoroughly recommend that as a place to take exercise. Even in this weather. Not quite the Downs, of course, but can’t be beaten for a good constitutional.’
‘I shall be sure to take your advice, doctor,’ she told him solemnly, and the pair shook hands before Dr Watson allowed himself to be hurried outside. Once we were out in the cold air, I allowed my urgency to show.
‘A cab, sir! We must hail a cab!’ I insisted. ‘We must get back to Mrs Hudson as quickly as we can.’
‘Really, Flotsam? Anything you say, of course. Not sure I fully understand the rush, though.’
‘Miss Phillimore’s brother, sir. What we have learnt tonight explains how he disappeared. You see, there was a coal chute from the street to the cellar, sir, but we didn’t think of it as a way of escape because someone would have to bend double to use it. But that’s exactly what James Phillimore can do! He may not be able to tie himself in knots as he did when he was a child, but I’m sure he’s still able to squeeze himself into a very small space!’
‘I see,’ Dr Watson replied, with no great conviction. ‘Folding Freddie, indeed! Very droll! But can’t see why it’s urgent, Flottie. Nothing to be done about it tonight.’
‘Yes, that’s true, sir. I just want Mrs Hudson to know as soon as possible. Please, sir, let’s keep moving!’
‘You don’t feel we should have offered to help Miss Phillimore pack her books, Flottie?’
‘No, sir. She’ll manage very well without us. And besides, sir, she was rather scantily dressed.’
‘Eh?’ Dr Watson looked momentarily nonplussed. ‘Ah! Yes. See what you mean. A bit indelicate to linger, perhaps. Still, we mustn’t blame the young lady for her unfortunate circumstances. Great strength of character… Admirable fortitude… Very thick dressing-gown… Nothing improper… Tragic tale… Fine woman… Ah! There’s a cab!’
So saying, he darted into the street, his arm raised enthusiastically, and a minute later we were on our way back to Baker Street.
For all my haste, it was late by the time we reached home. The heavy snowfall of the day before had been broken up by the busy traffic into a ghastly, syrupy slush, which the night air was now freezing into black and unforgiving ice. Our horse was properly shod for such weather, but many were not and progress through the busy streets was slow. It was about midnight when I bade goodnight to Dr Watson and slipped downstairs to the glowing sanctuary of the kitchen.
To my surprise, not only was Mrs Hudson still awake, she was busily at work icing the fruitcake that had gone uneaten on Christmas Day. By the time I arrived, the rich darkness of the cake was already enclosed in a thick crust of royal icing sugar, and Mrs Hudson was at work decorating the surface with swirls and patterns that were as elegant and detailed as marble friezes.
She welcomed me with a nod of the head and a raised eyebrow.
‘Now, young Flotsam, if you are going to start attending music halls in Stepney with older gentlemen, I shall have to start worrying about you.’
‘But, ma’am,’ I stammered, ‘how could you know… ?’
She nodded again, this time at Mr Rumbelow’s note, which I had left lying open on the kitchen table.
‘Oh, I see! Of course the note was really for you, ma’am, but I thought you’d want to talk to Miss Fontaine before she moved on to another theatre and we lost her address. And you weren’t here, you see, so when Dr Watson offered to take me…’
Mrs Hudson dusted her hands against each other briskly.
‘You did quite right, Flotsam. Though I’m a little surprised at Dr Watson for taking you to such a show. I imagine he expected something rather different.’
‘Oh, he did, ma’am. You should have seen his face when Miss Fontaine started taking off her clothes! And although I’m calling her that, it isn’t her real name at all. Guess who she really is, ma’am!’
Mrs Hudson was unknotting her apron. ‘Go on, Flottie.’
‘She’s Maud Phillimore, ma’am. James Phillimore’s sister!’
Rather than throw up her hands or whistle or make some other gesture of surprise at this revelation, as I had secretly hoped she might, Mr Hudson merely nodded serenely.
‘Is she indeed? That’s very good work, Flotsam. Very good work indeed. And she will no doubt have told you about her brother’s peculiar talents?’
‘So you know that already…’ I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that my discovery had been anticipated, but in no more than a moment my excitement returned. ‘You see, ma’am, that’s how he was able to vanish from the cellar! And I know all about his past, too. His mother ran away to go on the stage. Do you think that’s what he’s done?’
‘I do, Flotsam, at least in a manner of speaking.’ She checked her icing with a damp finger, then straightened and smiled at me properly. ‘You’ve done very well tonight, Flottie, you really have. You have clearly learned a lot about our Mr Phillimore’s past that I know nothing about. I suggest we make ourselves a hot drink and swap tales. But first, what do you think of my icing?’
I studied the fruitcake carefully. ‘It’s beautiful, ma’am. But I thought you didn’t approve of iced fruitcake?’
‘Oh, well, Flottie, there’s a time and a place for everything. Now, you change into your night things while I boil the kettle and then we’ll settle ourselves down in front of the fire and see what’s what.’
After following her instructions, I was soon nursing a steaming cup of lemon and honey, and telling Mrs Hudson all about my outing to Stepney. For the most part she listened in silence, though when I described Dr Watson’s response to the antics of Fidelma Fontaine, our eyes met and she allowed herself a little chuckle. When I told her how I’d discovered that James Phillimore had once been a child contortionist, I got excited all over again, only to remember that Mrs Hudson had already arrived at the same conclusion.
‘But how could you know that, ma’am?’ I asked. ‘After all, it’s hardly a very likely thing.’
‘No indeed, Flottie. Though I had begun to suspect some days ago, when I saw the mention of a contortionist on that poster. That is why I sought advice from Sir Phillip Westacott, the notable anatomist. You see, Mr Holmes was right. Mr Phillimore did not simply disappear. And his mother-in-law was adamant he had not slipped passed her. So he simply must have found some other way out of the house. And as the back windows and locks were all secured, that coal chute really was the only way he could have done it without being seen. And once you realise that, then it must follow that Phillimore is able to fold himself into very small spaces. And, of course, after that all sorts of things made sense.’
‘Like what, ma’am?’
‘Oh, like how the Great Salmanazar was able to pull off his little act of escapology,’ she said carelessly, with a little wave of her hand. ‘And how the Malabar Rose disappeared.’
With that, she rose quite calmly from her seat and began to look for something in the drawer of the kitchen table.
‘How the ruby disappeared, ma’am? I don’t understand. There was nowhere to hide in that room, ma’am. The only thing in there was the marble column where the stone was displayed, and that was solid. He couldn’t have hidden in there, ma’am.’
She found the piece of paper she was looking for and returned to the fire.
‘Far from it, Flottie. He most definitely wasn’t anywhere near the Malabar Rose when it disappeared. In fact he was suspended above a packed audience at the theatre next door at the time.’
‘Ma’am?’ I was completely confused by then. But Mrs Hudson was unrolling a large, scrolled piece of paper.
‘Here, look at this, Flottie. I borrowed this from old Lord Boothroyd when I visited him this evening. He is one of the last of the Gallivanting Grandees who made such a splash in the ’60s. They never missed a show, no matter what or where, and Lord Boothroyd never missed a pretty face, especially when it came to filling his country house at weekends. Nobody knows more about the different acts that have appeared in London over the last 30 years than he does. I’ve spent a fascinating evening listening to him – acrobats, dancers, Chinese tumblers, he’s seen them all.’ Mrs Hudson paused to sip at her drink. ‘The only problem was that I was looking for someone called Phillimore, and that name didn’t seem to ring any bells with his lordship. He knew all about contortionists. Boneless Boris the Birmingham Bender and Articulated Anders the Artful Austrian were his favourites, but nobody he mentioned had a name like Phillimore. It was only when we went through the old playbills that we had a piece of luck.’
I looked at the paper she had spread in front of me. It was a little yellowed and brittle with age, but otherwise it was like other playbills, the headlines full of names I didn’t recognise, all in very large print.
‘His lordship had mentioned the name “Folding Freddie” a couple of times before we found this particular playbill. He remembers him well – a small boy who used to hide in tiny boxes so he could burst out at comical moments and shout “Are you goin’ to kiss ’er?” Very popular, he was. But it wasn’t until we came to this bill that we made the link. It’s the very first billing of his career.’
Mrs Hudson’s finger guided my eye to the tiny print right at the bottom of the paper. At first I wasn’t sure which line she meant, and I peered at Abe Hammond’s Performing Seals and Kitty Keats, Child Poet before I found the line I was looking for: Folding Freddie Phillimore, the Infant Surprise.
‘So that’s how you knew! And it means we know exactly how he came to disappear in Ealing!’ I paused, suddenly struck by a thought. ‘But we don’t know why, ma’am. That still doesn’t make sense.’
‘Doesn’t it, Flotsam?’ The housekeeper chuckled to herself. ‘Here, have a look at this.’
She tapped her finger on the playbill, about half way up the list. ‘Polly Perkins, the Clapham Canary,’ I read.
‘Polly Perkins, ma’am? That’s the girl he was in love with later on.’
Mrs Hudson nodded. ‘Lord Boothroyd remembered Miss Perkins very well, Flottie. She began as a tot, singing popular songs, but according to his lordship she grew into a very attractive young woman. He doesn’t know what happened to her, though. One day she was on her way to the top, the next she dropped out of sight. He supposed she must have married someone respectable and settled down.’
‘And did she, ma’am?’
Mrs Hudson chuckled. ‘Lord Boothroyd has a remarkable collection of old papers about the stage, Flottie. Eventually we dug out this.’
She showed me a picture of a young girl in an old-fashioned white dress. She must have been about eleven or twelve, but her dark hair was trimmed into tight little ringlets of the sort that had been fashionable then. Underneath was printed the legend ‘Polly Perkins, Popular Songbird’. Mrs Hudson was eyeing the picture with evident satisfaction.
‘Does she remind you of anyone, Flottie?’
I looked again, thinking of the young girls I’d known, trying to match them to the picture before me. Then, quite abruptly, those childish features seemed to rearrange themselves in front of me: an adult nose, full lips, cheekbones where there had been girlish fat. And a pair of passionate dark eyes, flashing from under locks of dark hair.
I looked up, my face full of wonder.
‘Why, Miss Hudson, not… ?’
‘Of course, Flotsam,’ she confirmed with a small smile of satisfaction. ‘And I think there can be no doubt now that James Phillimore is a man who needs watching.’
That night was the first for some time when I did not think of the boy with blue eyes. For now the hurt I felt was crowded out by a sense that pieces of a puzzle were beginning to fit together. The thought filled me with a restless excitement, so that when I lay in bed that night it was with images in my mind of stage tricks and exotic dancers, and of love amongst the stage lights.
Perhaps this mental turmoil is why I didn’t notice anything strange about the shadows cast onto the kitchen floor by the street lamp outside. Had I been studying the patterns of light visible from where I lay in bed, I must surely have seen a long, slim shadow that fell into the room from the road outside as it passed to and fro across our window. Backwards and forwards it paced, like a restless shade undecided in its hauntings. But that night my eyes were heavy, and I didn’t see the dark figure creep down the area steps and very silently try the latch on the kitchen door. No sense of foreboding disturbed my slumber, no shiver stirred my sleep. Not even a vague sense of relief that, for once in my life, I had remembered to bolt down the latch of the kitchen door, to keep the night at bay.