It was quite some time before Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson could bring themselves to accept that the Great Salmanazar had truly disappeared. Every dustbin had to be searched, every drainpipe tested to see if it might have offered a means of escape. A single metal door was discovered sunk into one of the blind brick walls, presumably a rear entrance to one of the grand buildings around us. But the door was rusted fast and had clearly not been opened for years. Finally we searched the cobbled floor of the alley for drain covers that might lead to the sewers. To Mr Holmes’ delight, one was found near the corner around which the Great Salmanazar had disappeared. However it took the combined efforts of Mr Spencer and Dr Watson to lift it, and when the latter was prevailed upon to peer inside he reported that there was nothing to be seen but darkness and nothing to be heard but dripping water and perhaps the scurrying footsteps of a rat.
‘Damned smart piece of work if he made it down there,’ Watson grunted. ‘And ruby or no ruby, I’m dashed if I’m going down there after him.’
‘Very well, my friend.’ Mr Holmes’ face was a ghastly white in the gaslight. ‘I daresay that the solution to the conundrum will present itself to me presently. But first there is a great deal to be done. We must alert Lestrade to this fellow’s escape. We’ll soon have every policeman in the city looking for him. I’m sure he can’t get far. And we must get to Sir John’s house as quickly as we can, for the magician managed to send his message and we can expect his accomplice to make an attempt on the ruby at any time. We must be there to welcome him.’
‘Of course, Holmes.’ Dr Watson brightened. ‘We can still save our skins, can’t we? After all, if we can lay hold of this chap Phillimore, and if we can persuade Mrs Hudson to hand over the Malabar Rose, then I daresay the Home Secretary will be pleased enough, eh? Do you fancy coming with us, Mr Spencer? We could do with a strong chap like you.’
Mr Spencer looked at Miss Peters and raised an eyebrow.
‘I’d be delighted to join you, Dr Watson, but first I think I should take Miss Peters home.’ Miss Peters spluttered at this, but Mr Spencer carried on regardless. ‘I’m sure Hetty would agree that a young lady whose dress is torn quite so much as hers would be likely to attract the wrong sort of attention during a secret vigil.’
With these words he looked rather pointedly at her ankles. Miss Peters looked down, gasped, and stepped smartly behind me so that my skirts shielded her from his gaze.
With Hetty apparently rendered speechless, Mr Spencer grinned at me and Scraggs. ‘What about you two? Are you joining the vigil at Sir John’s?’
‘Not me,’ said Scraggs hastily. ‘I’ve got a job to do for Mrs Hudson. In fact, I should be off now. Don’t know what I’m doing lazing around here. Come with me, Flot?’
It was tempting to say yes, but I was remembering Mrs Hudson’s last words to me. I had promised that if things went awry, I would return to Baker Street and lock myself in. And now, with the Great Salmanazar having vanished into the night, it seemed prudent to live up to my promise.
For all the crowds that spilled on to the streets, for all the revelry and ribaldry in the air that night, my journey home felt a long and lonely one. The more desperate I became to reach my destination, the slower my progress seemed to become. As I left the crowded streets near the Haymarket and Piccadilly Circus, I began to quicken my pace, and in the emptier streets around Savile Row, I was on the brink of breaking into a run. The ruby was unguarded, I reasoned, the Great Salmanazar had escaped, and Mrs Hudson’s plans were in disarray. It was up to me to guard the rooms in Baker Street, up to me to see that the Malabar Rose, whatever its hiding place, remained safe until morning. As my heart raced at the thought, the first snow of the New Year began to drift gently to my feet.
The further I travelled from Trafalgar Square, the sparser the crowds became, until, as I entered Baker Street, the only traffic passing me was the occasional hansom cab, and the pavements ahead of me were empty but for one or two well-wrapped revellers hurrying to their beds. The snow must have started earlier here, for already a layer as thin and crisp as white crepe paper had settled over the cobbles. With no one around to observe me, I ran the last hundred yards as fast as I could, still struggling to contain the anxiety that was welling up inside me.
My first sight of home calmed me, however, and leaning against the rails I took a moment to regain my composure and recover my breath. I could see from the unbroken snow that nobody had set foot upon the stone steps up to the front door, nor the iron steps down to the basement area, since the snow had started to fall. How long ago was that? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? The knowledge reassured me, and when I took out my latch key and descended the area stairs, I had even began to laugh at myself for worrying so much and with so little provocation.
But it was laughter that soon died on my lips, for on descending the iron staircase I found the kitchen door not quite shut, the latch not flush in place. Surely Mrs Hudson would not have left it ajar in that way? She had been anxious that the place should be properly guarded… I wished then that I’d made less noise on the stairs, that I’d jangled my key chain less carelessly, for if any intruder had been waiting in the shadowy kitchen, they must surely now be aware of my arrival.
For a tiny part of a moment I was tempted to step away, to turn back into town to seek out Scraggs or Rupert Spencer and ask them to accompany me. But I had promised Mrs Hudson I would stand guard, and that was what I intended to do. So I steadied myself against the iron stairs, then with my key between my fingers and my heart in my mouth, I swung open the kitchen door and peered into the darkness.
Apart from the streetlight behind me, the only light in the room came from the dying embers of the kitchen fire. Shadows lurked in each corner, but they were familiar shadows, friendly companions in a place I knew so well. I listened for any sound of movement but there was nothing – nothing strange or unusual, nothing to make me nervous or on edge. And when I stepped forward and lit the oil lamps, everything seemed as it should be: as neat and as pristine as Mrs Hudson always left it. Even so, I had already learned that appearances could be deceptive, and armed with a lamp I proceeded to search every corner of the room. When that failed to show me any sign of intrusion, I moved onto the pantry, the cold room, then Mrs Hudson’s bedroom and finally my own. Emboldened by the unsullied sense of order that prevailed around me, I moved on to the rooms upstairs. My nervousness was now replaced with ruthless efficiency and I determined to make sure that I was alone in the house and that our defences remained unbreached.
Only when every room had been scoured for signs of disturbance did I allow myself to relax. I made sure to check that all the doors were firmly bolted and then I built up the fire and made myself a cup of hot milk, the drinking of which was accompanied by a warm sense of satisfaction. I was properly on duty and everything was in order. The bolts were drawn and I was impregnable. Let anyone try to carry off the ruby now! Then, putting all thoughts of the Great Salmanazar out of my head, I settled down to wait for Mrs Hudson.
But I waited and waited. In truth I think I had expected her return to follow shortly after mine, so I wasn’t really prepared for so long a vigil. The clock outside struck two, but still she had not appeared. Nor was there any sign of Dr Watson or Mr Holmes, and I realised that any noise from the street outside had long since ceased. With the celebrating crowds dispersed, the roads around Baker Street seemed quieter than usual. I began to realise how tired I was, and when the clock struck the next quarter it roused me from the edge of sleep and made me blink. From then on I struggled grimly to stay awake, while my body betrayed me by slumping comfortably in front of the fire, and my thoughts began to drift into slumber. I let my head fall back onto a cushion and I noticed dully that the oil lamp on the kitchen table was burning low. I knew I must refill it, but the lamp was a long way away and in a moment I would move and see to it, but for now the fire threw a softer light than the lamp and I would rest a moment and watch the shapes in the embers for a few minutes more…
When I next stirred, the kitchen lay in darkness. The oil lamp was out and the fire had burned so low that the only light was a smudge of orange in front of me. It would be wrong to say that I awoke, for my body remained asleep, so heavy in its slumber that to move anything but one sleepy eye would have been impossible. But something in my consciousness had flickered into waking and one small part of my brain told me that the shadows had changed. Something had moved.
It is hard now to explain my reaction to what I saw that night, hard to convey the utter weariness that seemed to weigh on every limb or the paralysis that gripped my thoughts almost as tightly as my body. In one corner of the kitchen, not far from where I dozed, there was a small, low wooden chest that we used for kitchen linen. It was no more than two feet across and less than that in height, and in my search of the kitchen it had never occurred to me look inside something so small. But now, as I looked, another movement in the shadow caught my eye, and the lid of the box began to lift as if raised by an invisible hand.
I should have screamed or jumped to my feet, but I simply could not – it was as if fear like an opiate had numbed my senses, giving me no choice but to watch. From inside the box a dark arm appeared. It was followed by another, easing the lid upwards until it fell open, revealing narrow shoulders and a head too dark in the half-light to be blessed with features. Slowly, like a shade emerging from the underworld, the dark figure emerged from its box.
At no point had it made the slightest sound, and only when it turned and stepped out into the kitchen did I hear its footfall on the stone flags. That sound, tiny as it was, broke the spell that bound me and suddenly I found my feet, rushing as fast as I could for the kitchen door, for the street that lay beyond. I had surprise in my favour, for as soon as I moved I heard a gasp of astonishment behind me. But my own precautions proved my downfall, for when I reached the door I found the bolts pushed firmly home and as I struggled to release them, the dark figure was upon me. His arms went around me and he lifted me bodily back into the kitchen. As he did so, the light from outside fell on his features and I saw for the first time the face of James Phillimore, the disappearing man.
To my utter surprise, it was a kind face. I had imagined villainy, cunning, relentless determination. But pale as it was, and lined as if by years of disappointment, I sensed in it no malice, no pleasure in the task it contemplated. Before that night I had never imagined what he looked like, thinking of him only as the faceless clerk of Ealing, the man of whom his own wife had never bothered to own a portrait. Even in his crimes, he was strangely faceless. We knew about his socks and his ties, but nothing about the looks of the man who wore them; and in his appearances for the Great Salmanazar his role had always been to lurk unnoticed, his presence unguessed at by the stagehands around him. He had somehow stolen into the story of the Malabar Rose by stealth, leaving no trace behind him but his name.
But now, suddenly and shockingly, he was real, with strong arms forcing me back into my chair.
‘Not a word!’ he whispered urgently. ‘Any sound at all and I will gag you, I swear I will.’ Then he reached behind him for one of Mrs Hudson’s immaculately folded sheets and began to knot my hands together behind the back of the chair.
‘I know who you are!’ I told him fiercely, suddenly angry at his bullying. ‘You’re James Phillimore. We know all about you.’
He smiled, and even though his lips were pinched with anxiety it was not an unpleasant smile. ‘I’ve come to fame too late then. Look, I don’t want to hurt you but, by God, I swear I will if I have to. I haven’t come this far to fail now. Now tell me, where is the Malabar Rose?’
I met his eye without flinching. ‘It’s at Sir John’s house. Sir John Plaskett. He’s got it.’
‘Liar!’ he cried, and I glimpsed then something of the passion that gripped him. His breathing was unsteady, and there was a desperation in his voice that he fought to control. ‘I’ve been watching Sir John. Him and that policeman, they haven’t a clue where it is.’ He fixed me with eyes that flared with anger. ‘No, it’s that housekeeper who has it. She took it from the Blenheim Hotel. Oh, I’d be away and clear with the stone in my pocket by now if it wasn’t for her! Now where is it?’
He shook me then, but there something in the way he did it that made me suddenly sorry for him. He was angry, yes. I could see that. But not angry at me, not even angry at Mrs Hudson, angry at the fates that had thwarted him, and angry at his own helplessness. It was the choking, flailing desperation of a man who has reached for his dream but cannot quite catch hold of it.
I waited until he took his hands from my shoulders, then looked him in the eye and replied quite calmly.
‘I don’t know where it is. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t tell me.’
Something in my voice clearly convinced him, for he stepped away and began to look around him.
‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘I’ll start upstairs. You’re coming with me, though. I want to keep an eye on you.’
The ransacking of our rooms that followed was of an unimaginable scale. Working at a ferocious pace, he moved through Mr Holmes’ and Dr Watson’s rooms, turning out every drawer, emptying every chest. The neatly catalogued filing cabinets were toppled to the ground and every tray ripped from them and overturned. Nothing was spared. Soon the neat and tidy rooms were lost beneath a carpet of debris. When he failed to find anything resembling a ruby in any of the cabinets, he produced a knife and began to cut out the upholstery of chairs and to disembowel cushions, cutting the throats of pillows so that they bled white feathers into the air.
While he did all this, his forehead was beaded with sweat, but, strangest of all, he talked. At first he gave a muttered commentary on his searching, but soon it was clear his words were not intended for me but were a fiery, fractured monologue aimed at the Fates with whom he duelled.
‘Please,’ he muttered over and over. ‘Please, please let me find it. I swear it will be the last thing. I’ll go away. Away. Never ask anything more.’ He overturned a small cabinet full of letters written in invisible ink. ‘It isn’t for me. I was prepared to let her go, to let my life drain away in Ealing if it meant I didn’t pull her down. I asked nothing then. Nothing! And not once did I complain. Not once! But then you sent her back to me. I never asked for that! And she loved me. She loved me!’ He sliced through the leather arms of an armchair. ‘It’s for her. All this is for her. So she can have the things she deserves. Not for me. None of it for me.’
Suddenly he dropped to his knees amid the wreckage of the room and put both hands to his face.
‘Oh, God! Please show me where it is! I love her. I love her so.’
He remained in that position for some moments, weeping soundlessly, apparently oblivious to my presence. When he finally rose to his feet, there was a grim determination in his face.
‘It’s as I thought,’ he said. ‘She’s hidden it downstairs.’
If I found the destruction of Mr Holmes’ study difficult to witness, the chaos now unleashed on Mrs Hudson’s kitchen filled me with despair. That place was my sanctuary, and to see it so defiled was to feel my whole life overturned. Worse even than that was the certainty in my own heart that this was where the Malabar Rose was hidden. At any moment he might discover it! Even now he was in the pantry, swiping food off the shelves to see what might be concealed behind. And while the crashing and the banging continued, I listened for the striking of the clock. It was after three now. Surely Mrs Hudson come home soon?
Finally, when every inch of the kitchen and the adjoining bedrooms had been devastated by his search, Phillimore came to stand before me.
‘That trapdoor there, where does it lead?’
‘There’s a little cellar.’
He looked at me for a moment. I was still tied to my chair. He had carried it with him as he moved me around the house so that in every room I had been tied down and there had been no chance of escape.
‘I can’t take you down there with me. So I’m afraid I must make you a little more secure.’
He had already tied me by my wrists but now he took another sheet and secured me by the ankles too. Then he placed a handkerchief in my mouth and tied a pillowcase tightly around it.
‘That should hold you,’ he said, and stooped to pull open the bolt that kept the trapdoor in place.
I had allowed myself to be gagged with no great struggle because I was sure the cellar was too obvious a place for Mrs Hudson to have hidden the Malabar Rose. Every moment he spent there was time when the true hiding place was safe. It was therefore with some satisfaction, bound and gagged as I was, that I watched James Phillimore take up the oil lamp and descend the ladder, leaving me alone and in near darkness.
My instinct as soon as he had gone was to see if there was anything I could do to loosen my bonds. My first attempts were aimed at working free my hands and feet, but in both cases I quickly found that the knots binding me were tight and would not easily give. However, before I could test them to any significant degree, I heard something. Not James Phillimore’s triumphant progress of destruction. Something quite different: an indistinct sound of scraping from one corner of the room. It was too dark to make out what had caused it, but just as I was beginning to believe that it had been something moving in the street outside, I heard it again – the creak of iron grinding slowly over iron.
Downstairs I could hear boxes crashing to the floor and being kicking open. But now my attention was entirely focused on one corner of the room. Despite the darkness, I could make out a movement there now, and my heart raced at the sight. Someone was unbolting the kitchen door. Not from the inside, but from the outside, with a wire, working it through the crack of the door. My rescuers, whoever they were, had arrived!
But their progress was clearly very slow. And there was very little time left: very soon James Phillimore would return to the kitchen. Already the bangs and thumps from below were diminishing in frequency, as if his search was drawing to a close. I waited motionless, hardly daring to breathe lest it should attract his attention, while the thin scraping noise continued.
Down in the cellar, I heard James Phillimore curse softly and then fall still. I imagined him looking around, surveying the chaos he had caused, uncertain what to try next. Meanwhile, above his head, the drawing of the bolts seemed to have hit some sort of difficulty, for although the top bolt was now undone, all movement of the lower bolt seemed to have ceased. I strained to detect any further movement, but all I could hear was a creak from below as Phillimore took hold of the ladder and began to place his weight on it. Then, just as he began to ascend, the bolt began to move again. But surely it was too late? I could hear Phillimore climbing the ladder. Any moment now his head would reappear…
Then, abruptly, with a loud metallic screech, the final bolt shot free and the kitchen door burst open and crashed back against the wall. Caught off balance, a small boy tumbled through it and caught hold of the kitchen table to steady himself.
‘Blue!’ I cried uselessly, for the word was completely smothered by my gag. Luckily, Blue ignored me. Three strides were enough to take him round the table to the mouth of the trapdoor and he reached it just as James Phillimore’s head poked into the room.
‘Wh… ?’ the older man began, taken aback by the sight of this unexpected boy looming over him. But Blue had clearly understood the fleeting nature of his advantage, and with a great firmness he slammed the trapdoor hard upon James Phillimore’s head.
His victim had only time to mutter a gasp of surprise before the door struck him and slammed shut. The sound of its slamming was followed a moment later by the soft thump of Phillimore’s body hitting the floor below.
‘Coo,’ my rescuer remarked, quickly placing himself on top of the trapdoor. Then he looked up at me, his blue eyes wild with surmise. ‘Blimey, Flottie,’ he exclaimed. ‘Who the bloomin’ heck was he?’