That night the snow fell deep on London, choking the gutters and sealing off alleyways, muffling the hooves of horses and the grinding of factories, blotting out the view of Big Ben as if a curtain had fallen on it. But no amount of snow was enough to cool the temperatures in Baker Street as the four gentlemen responsible for the Malabar Rose considered what was to be done next. Sir John’s announcement had stunned us all but Mr Holmes and Inspector Lestrade were the first to recover. Mr Holmes was quickly on his feet, pacing his regular beat in front of the fireplace. His eyes gleamed with energy and it was clear he was not downcast.
‘A second chance, gentlemen,’ he mused. ‘And this time we have a real crime to investigate, with broken windows and physical evidence. Lestrade, who have you got on the case?’
‘I’m not sure, Mr Holmes. This would probably have gone to McAdam.’ Lestrade’s brain was clearly racing. ‘I can get down there straightaway to take over. You’re right, Mr Holmes, this gives us a chance. We know where we are with a common burglary. And at least we know the Malabar Rose cannot have gone very far.’
‘This man Phillimore. You must get a description from his wife, Lestrade. Then alert the ports. Close the doors on him!’
‘Of course, Mr Holmes. We can make life damned hot for him now. But what should we do about the Great Salmanazar?’
‘Keep him under house arrest for now. He was clearly involved. You may soon have sufficient grounds for a formal arrest.’
‘Let’s hope so, sir. Sir John, will you accompany me? I will need to rouse your household and question them about events last night.’
The two men left immediately, the one grim-faced but determined, the other still sadly downcast. After their departure, Mr Holmes continued his pacing.
‘A daring crime. And I am wholly to blame for its success. It is a fault of mine, Watson, that I sometimes forget the intellectual limitations of those around me. I had looked upon Sir John as an equal partner in this venture. It had never occurred to me that when he described himself as a simple soldier he was speaking the literal truth.’
Both Dr Watson and Mrs Hudson clearly felt this mea culpa unnecessary, for both began to protest, but the great detective silenced them with a stern glance.
‘The fault is mine,’ he insisted. ‘But now to make amends. Let’s see, Watson, what would you do now if you were in this fellow’s shoes?’
‘Make for the coast, Holmes. Show a clean pair of heels. I’d want to get out before the alarm was sounded.’
‘Precisely. Let’s see… There was a night train for France from Victoria but, given the late hour of the burglary, it is impossible that he could have caught that. What about the early trains to the channel ports?’
‘If you please, sir,’ Mrs Hudson cut in quietly, ‘I didn’t like to mention it earlier because I thought the other two gentlemen would make a lot of fuss, but I don’t think Mr Phillimore will be heading for the coast.’
‘You don’t?’ Mr Holmes looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You think he might lie low, wait for the outcry to die down? That would certainly be an option, and an astute one. But we must be prepared for both eventualities, Mrs Hudson, so tonight we must act on the assumption that he is heading for the Continent.’
‘And no doubt he would be, sir, but, you see, he doesn’t have the ruby.’
‘What?’ I have never seen Sherlock Holmes look more totally surprised. He paused in his pacing and fixed his gaze upon his housekeeper. ‘Explain yourself, Mrs Hudson,’ he demanded.
‘It’s as I say, sir. He doesn’t have the ruby. He has the case, but the ruby wasn’t in it.’
‘Eh? Not in it? But I thought…’ Dr Watson was clearly at a loss. ‘Then who in God’s name does have it?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘You, Mrs H?’
Yet Mr Holmes did not appear to share his astonishment. Instead a smile of genuine amusement was forming at his lips.
‘You are surprised, Watson? And of course so am I, I cannot deny it. Yet had you observed the recent unusual motions of Mrs Hudson’s carpet bag, your amazement might not be so great.’
‘Her carpet bag, Holmes?’
‘Come, my friend, you are familiar with the item I refer to. A large bag constructed out of carpet. You have one yourself.’
‘Of course, Holmes, I know what a carpet bag is! But what is unusual about Mrs Hudson’s?’
‘Simply this, Watson. If you remember, Mrs Hudson left Baker Street early on the morning after the disappearance of the Malabar Rose. And if you had been observing with any sort of rigour, you would have seen she was accompanied by Flotsam and that she carried with her a spacious carpet bag. Now such a bag is not the sort of item that a woman going about her daily routines of shopping and so forth would ordinarily carry. No, Watson, if someone steps out for an hour or two with a carpet bag on their arm, I would expect one of two things. If the bag is full at the beginning of its journey, the most likely thing is that it will return empty – it has been employed to transport some item to another location. If the bag is empty, I would usually expect to see it return full – it has been taken to collect and bring back some object that would not fit into an ordinary handbag.’
‘I see…’ Dr Watson spoke with no particular conviction.
‘But on the morning after the Great Salmanazar’s show,’ Mr Holmes continued, ‘Mrs Hudson left the house with a bag that bulged in a certain way, only to return with an apparently identical load. I was struck at the time by the peculiarity of it. Mrs Hudson is not the sort of woman to ferry an object around London for no purpose. One of the more likely explanations for her behaviour was that she had exchanged one object for another of the same shape and proportions. At the time, I felt no need to delve deeper into the matter, but of course I was not then aware that her interest in the Phillimores had led her in such an unlikely direction.’
As the great detective spoke, Mrs Hudson was nodding.
‘You are quite right, sir. You see, as soon as I visited Perch for the first time, I found myself wondering how the old toy-maker might be involved in a jewel robbery. And if you are not a believer in the efficacy of magic, there were not many options left.’
Dr Watson’s frown had deepened to crevasse-like proportions.
‘That’s all very well, Mrs H,’ he muttered. ‘But I understood you to say you actually have the ruby in your possession.’
‘I do, sir. When Flotsam and I went to the Satin Rooms the day after all the excitement I took with me the replica jewel case that Sir John had left us. And despite Mr Holmes’ insistence on a careful watch, I found the guards less attentive than they should have been.’ She turned her gaze to her employer. ‘That’s human nature, sir. I’ve seen it often. A cook who is vigilance itself when preparing an unfamiliar dish can become oddly careless when preparing a familiar one. I don’t believe the diligence of those officers would have wavered for an instant had they thought they were really guarding a ruby, sir. But when asked to stand guard over a room they believed to be completely empty… Well, let’s just say it wasn’t as difficult as it should have been to sneak into the Satin Rooms for a minute or two, and it was a moment’s work to swap the replica for the case I found there. That’s the one I brought away with me, sir.’ She pointed to the jewel case that still stood beside his chair.
‘But where is the ruby, Mrs Hudson?’ Dr Watson spluttered. ‘We must tell Sir John at once.’
Mrs Hudson might have appeared impassive as she considered this question, but from where I stood I could detect a slight stiffening of her jaw.
‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather not say.’
‘You’d rather not say…’ The doctor blinked, began to speak, then blinked again. ‘I say, Mrs H, we can’t have that. It’s really not on. Can’t just keep it, you know. And besides, we need to know where it is so that we can look after it properly.’
‘Is that right, Watson?’ Mr Holmes had been watching his friend with amusement. ‘Are you quite sure? I don’t wish to be rude, my friend, but the forces of the Crown have not done a particularly effective job of looking after it thus far. Mrs Hudson is no doubt reasoning that the fewer people who know where to find the Malabar Rose, the safer it is.’
‘But we could put it in safe hands! Get it into the vaults at the Bank of England!’
‘That’s true, sir,’ Mrs Hudson put in. ‘But if you do that, you’ll never see Mr Phillimore again. He’ll just slip away. Now, if you were to use the Malabar Rose as a lure…’
‘My word, Mrs Hudson!’ Dr Watson spoke with the air of a man seeing light after many dark months. ‘I get your drift. It’s just as Holmes said. Our best chance of catching these blighters is when they try to get it back.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Could we do that, Holmes?’ Dr Watson asked eagerly. ‘How would it work?’
‘It’s very simple, my dear Watson. Phillimore is out there somewhere, wondering where the gem has gone. If we could persuade him that it was being held in a certain place…’
‘Sir John Plaskett’s house, for instance, sir.’
‘Indeed yes, Mrs Hudson, that would do very nicely. If we could get word to him that the Malabar Rose was hidden in Sir John’s bedroom, let us say, then he would surely make another attempt on it.’
‘And we could be waiting, Holmes! Splendid!’ But then a cloud of doubt passed over Dr Watson’s face. ‘But how would we get word to him though? We don’t know where he is.’
Mrs Hudson and Mr Holmes exchanged glances.
‘My friend, there is one man in this teeming city who might know.’
‘You see, sir…’ Mrs Hudson took up the explanation seamlessly. ‘If the location of the ruby were mentioned in passing to the Great Salmanazar, might he not try to get word to his accomplice?’
‘But the Great Salmanazar is being held incommunicado in his hotel, Mrs Hudson. He won’t be able to contact his friend from there.’
‘Yes, sir. That’s why we must help him escape.’
It was nearly midnight and the city was already deep in snow when the council of war at Baker Street finally drew to a close. The idea was simple. Dr Watson would visit the Great Salmanazar the next day and, in his own inimitable manner, would mention that the Malabar Rose was safe in Sir John’s hands. Then, when our plans were laid, the police guards at Brown’s Hotel would be lured away, allowing the illusionist to abscond.
‘He will be too wary to lead us to Phillimore directly,’ Mrs Hudson explained. ‘You see, he’ll be half expecting to be followed. But he’ll find some discreet way of getting in touch with his partner in crime, you can be sure of that. And once he’s done that, well, you gentlemen are at liberty to seize him straightaway.’
‘And then, when Mr Phillimore comes calling on Sir John, we shall be ready to strike!’ declared Sherlock Holmes.
‘But should we not be telling Inspector Lestrade what we plan?’ Dr Watson asked rather anxiously. ‘He could easily arrange for the police guards to let the fellow escape.’
‘Lestrade and his men, Watson? I made the mistake of trusting them before. I have no intention of doing so again.’
‘Very well, Holmes. I’m sure you know best. But, Mrs Hudson, I do hope you’ve got that ruby hidden somewhere damnably safe!’
By the time the clocks struck twelve that night, the household in Baker Street was on its way to bed. I was the first to get there – on Mrs Hudson’s orders – and as I lay with the blankets pulled up to my nose, I could tell from the peace upstairs that Dr Watson and Mr Holmes had also brought their day to a close. Last to bed was Mrs Hudson. Instead of retiring straightaway, she took up another pile of laundry and began to fold it into neat piles. For half an hour by the kitchen fire, her face etched with thought, she lined up the edges of sheets, measured folds, divided and then sub-divided, all with Pythagorean exactitude. At the end of that time, she took up a copy of the Gazette and turned to the pages that listed sailings, then found the columns concerning departures to Canada from the south coast ports. Only after she had studied it for many minutes did she nod to herself and take up the lamp and retreat to her room. By one o’clock, the house was silent.
Silent, but not still. For on the kitchen floor, unnoticed by me as I slumbered, a shadow twitched. As if aware that, in the whole street, it alone was blessed with motion, it paused for a little time before moving again. This time the movement was very clear and determined: and the shadow grew and threatened to fill the room. At the same time, a very faint creak frayed the edge of the silence, as if weight was being lowered on to rusty metal. Slowly and softly, someone crept down the area stairs.
Had I woken then I would have seen the shadow transformed into a dark figure, its form still indistinct as it came close to the kitchen door – so close that it might have been listening, as if to see what stirred. Then, almost inaudibly, something began to scrape at the kitchen lock. A thin wire was slipped between the door and its frame, a connection was made, and with breathless care the inner bolt was worked slowly inwards until it slipped from its hold and the door swung open.
The figure didn’t hesitate, slipping into the kitchen shadows, then turning and pressing the door closed behind. Then silence, a pause to listen. No sound, only the hush of a sleeping house. Then more listening – intense, concentrated listening, as if there was a need to press beyond the silence, to go behind it, to the steady breathing of the hidden sleepers. At last, as if navigating on the extremes of its senses, the figure began to move. Skirting across the pool of street-light that filtered onto the kitchen floor, it crept with clear purpose to a small door in the corner of the room. A small, familiar door. My door.
When I awoke that night, there was a dark hand over my mouth. Weight pressed down on me, hot breath was on my cheek, an urgent whisper in my ear.
‘Flotsam! Flotsam!’ A small voice, a child’s voice. A voice on the edge of panic. ‘Sssh, Flotsam. It’s me. Blue. It’s me.’
‘Blue!’ I thought the word rather than spoke it, for his hand was still pressed on my mouth. I pushed it away angrily, and recovering my equilibrium gave him a furious push backwards with all my strength so that he stumbled backwards and hit the wall.
‘What are you doing here? How dare you?’ My fury was fuelled by the shock. ‘If you think you can get more out of me, well, you’re wrong. You took it all already. A job, you said! And to think I believed you! I know what you were doing at the Regal Theatre that night!’
I made no attempt to lower my voice. I was too angry for that. Anger shot through me with all the pain that comes from trusting and being deceived.
‘Sssh, Flotsam,’ he begged again. ‘Please. If they catch me, it’ll be the Scrubs for me.’ In the darkness I could see him reach inside his thin, tatty coat to bring out a small canvas bag. ‘Look, I’ve brought it back. What you lent me. Every penny of it. Here, count.’
He threw the bag onto the bed as if not daring to come any closer. It landed on the nest of blankets with a metallic clink.
For a moment I just looked at it, too shocked and surprised to think clearly. But then, as it had landed so close to my hand, it seemed obvious to reach out for it. In silence I emptied its contents onto the blanket.
There was enough light from the kitchen for me to know beyond doubt that he was as good as his word. Three gold sovereigns, clean and pure and perfect. My lost savings restored. Restored by a thief. A cheat. A liar. I looked up uncomprehendingly. He must have seen by the sagging of my shoulders that my anger had gone, for now he dared to come forward and perch himself on the foot of my bed.
‘I’ve been trying to get it back to yer. Honest. But there’s always coppers an’ ’tectives an’ all sorts round here. So it’s took me some time. But it’s all there, it is.’
‘Yes, Blue, it’s all there.’ I looked down, overwhelmed, suddenly full of guilt for all the anger I’d been carrying with me. ‘But I don’t understand. I gave you this to settle your debts, so you could make a clean start. But that was lies. There was no job where you said. And Mrs Hudson saw you picking pockets at the theatre.’
‘She did not!’ Suddenly his small face was full of fire. ‘I wasn’t picking pockets. I wasn’t. I was putting stuff into pockets, I was. Playin’ cards, that’s what they were gettin’. Nothin’ wrong with that, is there? No law ’gainst givin’ folks stuff, is there?’
In the dim light I could sense rather than see that he was flushed with indignation.
‘No, that’s true,’ I agreed. ‘But…’ I paused. ‘Perhaps you should just tell me everything.’
And this time he did, I was sure of that. If only because there seemed no reason to lie now.
‘What I said, ’bout a clean start, it was the honest truth, it was. I knew that I needed to buy myself out. But I never had the money. I used to just sort of dream that someone ’ud give me money out of the blue – just give it, honest-like, so I could get away. An’ I knew just what I’d do if I had it.’
‘What would you do?’
‘You heard of a place called New Zealand? Everyone says it’s the place to go. There’s chances out there for someone like me.’
At first I thought he was lying again. This tiny, Thames-eel of a boy who knew nothing but London, to be dreaming of a land so strange and so far away – it seemed impossible to believe. But then the faint light from the street fell for a moment on his face and I saw those amazing blue eyes lit up with something pure and wonderful. They were the eyes of a visionary, a dreamer grasping for his dream.
‘What sort of chances, Blue? I’ve heard it’s hard over there.’
‘I don’t mind hard. And I’m quick and I learn fast. Faster ’n anyone. Oh, not book stuff. But how to do things. Mend things. An’ I can sell. Can sell anyone anythin’. I just ain’t got nothin’ to sell.’ His eyes drifted back to me. ‘So I’ve been savin’. For the boat. But it takes so long to save, ’cos all I steal I have to give most of it back to the gang. So I just lies awake at night an’ dream.’
When he paused, I didn’t speak. I felt too moved by the feeling in his voice.
‘When I saw you, Flottie, that night when you grabbed my hand, I sort o’ felt like you weren’t the same as the others. Dunno why. Just knew you was different. And then yer goes and gives me that money. No one’s ever done that. Not ever. Made me feel all funny, it did. So I took it to old Monk, the gang-master, and I told him I was quits, that he’d never see me again. An’ he never will.’
‘And the theatre, Blue? What was that all about?’
‘That was the job I told you about. Didn’t like to tell you what it was, ’cos I thought you’d not like it much, so I made something up. But this thin guy come up to a mate o’ mine in the street, told him there was three guineas for him and his mates if we does some work for him and never tells no one. Three guineas, Flottie. Think of it! An’ easy work too. So I took the money an’ did the work, then come straight here to give you back what’s yours.’
Perhaps it was because it was late and I was tired, but there was something in his tale that brought a lump to my throat. I suddenly felt small and humbled.
We talked for a long time that night. I learned that he was only a little short of the total he needed for his boat fare. He had no idea how he’d raise the remainder, but somehow he left me believing that he’d find a way. In return for his confidences, I told him why there were always so many policemen around the house and ended up telling him the whole story of James Phillimore: how his wife was looking for him and how Mr Rumbelow was holding a reward of £30 for anyone who found him, how Mr Holmes was setting a trap for him, how Mrs Hudson had somehow managed to snatch the Malabar Rose from his grasp.
But that was not the end of that night’s talk, for when Blue came to leave I noticed a reluctance in him to step out into the night. At first I thought it might be the cold that deterred him, and I tried to persuade him to take my winter coat. But it was soon clear there was something quite different on his mind. Eventually he reached into his pocket again and drew something out in his closed palm.
‘That first time you spoke to me, Flottie. You asked me if my name was John.’
‘You reminded me of someone, that’s all.’
‘And you said about a picture.’
‘That boy I knew had a picture,’ I explained.
‘Pictures have writing, don’t they? To tell yer who they are.’
‘Some pictures do.’
‘I reckon you can read, Flottie.’ He was looking at me appraisingly.
‘Yes, Blue.’
‘Can you read this?’
He opened his palm and showed me, resting in it, a slim oval locket. It was too dark to see the detail but when I took it from him he struck a match, and by that dancing light I could see it plainly.
‘You open it there,’ Blue whispered. ‘See? You pushes that…’
The locket sprang open, revealing the portrait inside. A young woman smiling, indescribably lovely. The softness of that face, the smiling eyes with their mixture of love and laughter… I remembered her so clearly. And had any doubts remained, the words on the back, engraved in sloping letters, would have dispelled each one.
To John, my loving husband
For always and forever my life, my love
Your wife for always,
Sarah
Before I could read it aloud, the match flickered out.
‘What’s it say, Flot?’ Blue was trying not to let his eagerness show. ‘I’ve never had anyone to ask before, you see. Does it say her name?’
‘Her name’s Sarah. I think she’s your mother,’ I told him. ‘The locket was her gift to your father. He was called John. It says she really loved him.’ I couldn’t hide the catch in my voice. ‘And, Blue, you and I, we’ve met before.’
The day that followed the heavy snowfall dawned grey and uninviting. The snow clouds hung low over the city and the smoke from London’s chimneys, trapped by the dark canopy above them, filled the air with a grey drizzle of soot. The streets that day were a bad place to be. Traffic struggled and tempers flared. The drifted snow was quickly churned by scrabbling hooves, and the pristine whiteness of midnight was churned into the filthy slush of dawn.
Dr Watson, attempting an early morning walk in a mauve and green necktie, was quickly beaten back by the dirt and the confusion.
‘How is it, Mrs Hudson, that we can run an empire that spans the globe, but we can’t manage to keep a path open between Baker Street and Hyde Park on a snowy morning?’
‘No doubt the situation will improve, sir. Indeed, I trust it does, for Flottie and I have a call to make this morning. And indeed, you yourself will be calling on the Great Salmanazar this morning, will you not?’
Dr Watson appeared gloomy at the prospect. ‘That’s right, Mrs Hudson. Must play my part. And I don’t mind. It’s just that I was very keen to fit in a walk in the park this morning.’
‘In this weather, sir?’
Dr Watson looked suddenly nonchalant. ‘Oh, what’s a bit of snow? Can’t let it get in the way of a good walk, can we? Tell me, Mrs Hudson, what do you think of this necktie?’
‘A very colourful garment, sir.’
‘You think so?’ Dr Watson sounded doubtful. ‘I’m not sure myself. I might go and change it for something with a bit more character…’
And with that, Dr Watson pottered back to his room, humming in rather a carefree manner.
‘Now, Flotsam,’ Mrs Hudson continued when he’d gone, ‘as I said, we have a call to make. An urgent one. The future happiness of any number of people is at stake. Who knows, it might even affect the colour of Dr Watson’s neckwear. So less of your yawning and on with your coat. I’ve known cats in creameries yawn less than that.’
I felt this remark could not be allowed to pass, so as we readied ourselves for the rigours of the streets outside, I explained to Mrs Hudson about my nocturnal visitor. She listened with great attention and when I told her about the return of my savings she vowed to improve the locks on the kitchen door. When I described how Blue’s locket had proved that he really was the helpless child who had once clung so close to me, for some reason the telling of the story made me cry. Mrs Hudson said very little but allowed the tears to flow, diverting me deftly into a tearoom off Paul Street so that when at last the sobs ran out of strength, I was faced with a steaming bowl of hot milk and a hearty plate of cinnamon toast.
While the toast was being demolished with an appetite surprising in one so watery-eyed, Mrs Hudson explained by way of a diversion that we were on our way to see Lola Del Fuego.
‘And a very different sort of interview it will be this time,’ she declared menacingly and, as it proved, entirely correctly. For the Lola that we found at the Blenheim Hotel had none of the sheen or the freshness that I remembered from our first interview. She still possessed an imperious beauty, though now there were dark circles under her eyes and a hollowness in her cheeks, as if anxiety had pinched them tight. At first she refused to see us but relented even before her message of refusal had reached us. When we were shown into her rooms, she flew at us in a grand Iberian passion.
‘Ah, so it is you!’ she raged. ‘You, who since your visit to me all things go wrong! I am here like a bird in a cage. Your police say, no, I cannot leave. Cannot walk in the streets. Cannot send letter to man I will marry. I know nothing what goes on, only you lose your silly ruby and you think, ‘Ah! Lola is foreigner, she has not friends here as she does in Spain. We say she steals stone. Then all his happy.’’
Her eyes flashed venomously. ‘But is not true. I dance while ruby is lost. I dance. Many, many people see. So soon I go from here, and then you will see what happens, all you who treat me like so.’
Mrs Hudson showed no sign of flinching in the face of this storm. She simply waited until the tirade had run its course, returning the dancer’s gaze with unruffled composure. Then, when the accusations had run out, she began slowly to unbutton her coat, as if readying herself for a long interview.
‘Now then, Polly Perkins,’ she began sternly, ‘I think we might all get on a little better in plain English, don’t you?’
On hearing these words, the dancer paled as if all the passion and defiance had drained from her. Even so, she mustered her strength for one last, brave stand.
‘Poll-ee? Who is this Poll-ee? Is not my name. I am Lola Conchita Santa-Maria De La Cruz, and I speak the Spanish of Castile.’
‘No, you are Polly Perkins and you speak the English of Clapham Junction. Judging by your accent, you have never been to Castile, or indeed any other part of Spain, in your entire life. Now, my girl, I’ve no time for charades. If you don’t give up this ridiculous pretence at once, I’m afraid you’re going to find yourself in a great deal of trouble.’
For a moment the younger woman hesitated, and I watched a succession of emotions play across her features – surprise, anger, fear . . . At the end of them all, came a sudden and unexpected surrender, and I watched a tense, watery smile appear on her lips. When she spoke, it was with the undisguised accent of south London.
‘So, you’ve found out about me. I can’t say I mind. I need someone to talk to more than I’ve ever needed anything in my life, and that’s the truth.’ Her lips trembled a little. ‘It’s driving me mad, being kept here with no idea what’s going on! If I don’t find out, I shall go insane, I know I shall.’
She turned and beckoned us deeper into her suite of rooms, still struggling to control her emotions. ‘I’m sorry. I must stay calm. And you’re both cold. Come here, by the fire.’
As we divested ourselves of our outside coats and began to warm our hands, Lola – Miss Perkins – was watching us with a curious expression.
‘I’ve heard of you,’ she said after a pause. ‘My cousin was in service. She said you helped her when she dropped some sort of old pot.’
‘The Hardwick vase? I recall her name was Thompson.’
‘Yes, she was from the other side of the family.’
‘I remember her well. I hear she is doing very nicely as a seamstress in Barnstaple now. And I believe Lord Hardwick is no longer trying to have her thrown into chains. Now . . .’ She fixed the dancer with her most reproving stare. ‘Now, your beau, James Phillimore, is making a great deal of trouble. The way he’s going, he’s likely to end up behind bars for a very, very long time.’
‘No!’ The hair comb Miss Perkins was playing with snapped abruptly between her fingers. ‘That can’t be true!’ she pleaded. ‘He’s not a bad man! It’s that Salmanazar! It’s him who should be in the dock, not my Jimmy!’ She broke down in a fit of weeping and covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, Mrs Hudson! I love him so! I’ve always loved him! I can’t bear for anything to happen to him. I can’t bear for him to go to prison. I’d rather give him up altogether than have that happen!’
Mrs Hudson guided her gently into an armchair, but her voice was still stern. ‘It might yet come to that. Mr Phillimore has a wife, you know.’
Miss Perkins’ shoulders began to shake with even greater wretchedness. ‘I know,’ she whimpered. ‘But only because he was trying to forget me! She doesn’t love him as I do! She cannot! I know she cannot!’
Mrs Hudson eased herself into the chair opposite the stricken woman and signalled with an eyebrow for me to settle myself beside her.
‘Now then, Polly Perkins,’ she said softly, ‘I think the best thing you can do is to tell us everything right from the beginning…’
And that is how I heard for the second time how James Phillimore’s mother ran away from her home in the South Downs to return to the London stage, taking with her the young son who had been left in her charge on that fateful afternoon. With that desperate act began Mr Phillimore’s long journey from privileged country childhood to becoming, briefly and almost accidentally, the most wanted man in Britain.
The experience of his early years, after his mother’s return to the grubby stages of the East End, was not, however, entirely without parallels. Like him, Polly Perkins had been brought up in London’s seedier halls of entertainment and the two had been thrown together from an early age. Each had been there to watch the other’s first, infant steps into the limelight, and each had been there to support the other as they had grown into seasoned child performers. The boy contortionist and the girl singer were soon seen by those around them to be particular friends, and that friendship grew and became something fonder as they began to leave their childhood behind them.
But adulthood brought change, and Folding Freddie’s rather straightforward act did not translate to the adult stage, while his sweetheart’s voice grew everyday clearer and more beautiful. Yet that same voice cracked with emotion as Miss Perkins told us how Phillimore’s career had begun to crumble.
‘It never mattered to me that he wasn’t successful,’ she wailed. ‘I would have loved him if he’d been a dustman or a chimney-sweep. I just wanted him to be with me! But his pride wouldn’t allow it. He hated that I had money and he didn’t. He took to avoiding all his old friends, and he told his casual acquaintances that he was going to start a new life somewhere else. Then one day he just disappeared. He left me a note to say he loved me too much to hold me back, that one day I would forget him and would thank him for what he had done. But I couldn’t forget him! Not for a day. I went abroad and turned myself into Lola Del Fuego, but I never forgot him. All that time when there were counts and dukes and who knows what begging for my company, I could only think of how we used to laugh together, how he’d put his arms around me and make me feel I was the most special person in the world. By the time I went to Paris to perform with the Great Salmanazar, I’d almost forgotten what Jimmy looked like, but I still missed him. I missed him every day.’
She looked up at us then, and smiled bravely through the tears. Polly Perkins had given up some of Lola Del Fuego’s exotic veneer, but she seemed to me to have gained a beauty of a different sort: the sort of simple sweetness you glimpse sometimes amid crowds on busy streets and which makes you for a moment forget the greyness of the day around you.
‘I’ll always remember that day in Paris when he walked in,’ she told us with a faint glow rising to her cheeks. ‘I felt my heart miss a beat and I thought I was going to fall to the ground. After all that time, to have him suddenly walk into the room so completely unexpected! And I could see he felt the same. It was like we’d never stopped thinking of each other. From that moment, we knew we had to be together. Oh, we knew it was wrong! Don’t think that we didn’t. But the touch of his fingers made me feel like I was melting, and there was nothing I wouldn’t give up just to be with him.’
At that first meeting she learned that Phillimore was Salmanazar’s secret collaborator. He had been recruited by the illusionist because since his retirement he was no longer known in theatrical circles, and because he had not lost his simple talent for folding himself into tiny spaces. He was Salmanazar’s most jealously guarded secret, appearing only on the eve of performances and then disappearing again immediately afterwards, so that even the stagehands didn’t know how the magician was escaping from those tightly chained crates and those nailed-down coffins.
‘But Jimmy soon came to know about Salmanazar’s other business,’ Miss Perkins confided. ‘He knew about all those famous thefts, but he never had nothing to do with them!’ Miss Perkins became defiant at the thought. ‘He knew how Salmanazar used his act to slip away, knew about all the big robberies, but he was paid to keep quiet. He never got involved in any of them, at least not until…’ She hesitated, looking anxiously up at Mrs Hudson. ‘At least not until this time.’
‘And what was different about this one, Polly?’ Mrs Hudson inquired, though I think both she and I already knew the answer.
‘Oh, Mrs Hudson! It was because of me!’ Her shoulders began to shake again and her rather lovely lips trembled. ‘We planned to escape together, to get away from his marriage and from Salmanazar and everything. Jimmy said his wife wouldn’t miss him if he left her enough money instead. He said if we were rich we could give her money to make it all right, and then we could go and live together somewhere abroad, where nobody would find us. We only wanted enough to get away, honestly we did!’
The thought of that shared dream brought more tears rolling down her cheeks, and we waited quietly until she was able to go on.
‘Jimmy knew that Salmanazar needed help to steal the Malabar Rose. The police were watching him now, you see, but none of them knew a thing about Jimmy. He could come and go as he pleased. So they struck a deal and planned it together. Salmanazar liked Jimmy. He offered to share the whole value of the ruby but Jimmy said he only needed enough to live a quiet life in Canada. He said too much money would make people notice him.’
She stifled another sob.
‘So you see, it’s my fault that Jimmy’s in trouble. But he never stole anything before this, Mrs Hudson! He never did!’
‘And he hasn’t stolen very much yet.’ It seemed to me that Mrs Hudson was speaking more to herself than to the woman before her. ‘There’s breaking and entering, of course. And an empty jewellery case stolen from Sir John Plaskett. And there’s the small matter of attempted arson with the aim of destroying criminal evidence. But at least he hasn’t got the Malabar Rose. I’m afraid if he succeeds in getting that, there’s little hope left for him at all…’
Miss Perkins’ pallor had become even more marked during this summary of her loved one’s position. ‘Oh, Mrs Hudson! What’s to be done?’
In reply, the housekeeper looked her firmly in the eye and spoke with unexpected urgency.
‘Listen carefully to this. Your future depends on it. You are in a very difficult position. There are some who might consider you an accessory to the Great Salmanazar’s crimes. You may need to make a very hasty escape if you are to avoid a spell in prison.’
‘Escape without Jimmy?’ She shook her head desperately. ‘No, I won’t! I would rather let them take me!’
‘And spend the rest of your youth stitching sacks in Holloway? What would your Jimmy say to that? No, here’s what you will do, my girl. When you receive word from me, you will slip out of here any way you can. The fire escape may be your best option. Then you’ll take the first train to Portsmouth. Take only the bare essentials with you, and on your arrival find somewhere cheap to spend the night. At four the following afternoon, go to the offices of the Meyer & Stallard Steam Company and wait at the rear door. The rear door, mind. Is that clear?’
‘The rear door, yes.’
‘Wait there until seven o’clock. If no one comes to find you before seven, go in and tell them your name. Your real name. There’ll be a ticket waiting for you. Use it to go to Canada, and don’t look back.’
‘Just go as I am? Leave everything behind? But, Mrs Hudson, I’ve worked so hard to make a little fortune for myself. Back in Paris I have a house and savings… If I run away as you suggest, I lose everything!’
‘If you do not, any chance you have of seeing James Phillimore again will be lost forever.’ Mrs Hudson spoke with such a note of authority in her voice that to contradict her would have taken the courage of a lion.
‘And Jimmy?’ Miss Perkins asked meekly.
‘Jimmy must take what comes. By the time you reach Canada you will know exactly what the future holds for him.’
Miss Perkins nodded meekly at that, and then asked the question that I was asking myself.
‘But, Mrs Hudson, why would you help me like this? You don’t even know me.’
However it was clear from the look in Mrs Hudson’s eye that she had no inclination to elucidate.
‘Oh, I have my reasons, young lady,’ she stated shortly. ‘You don’t need to know what they are. We may not meet again after today, so in parting I’ll leave you with some advice.’
‘Yes, Mrs Hudson?’
‘Simply this. If in the future your path leads you to domestic happiness, I recommend that you always pay very careful attention to your loved one’s socks. Now good day to you, Miss Perkins.’