That afternoon the rain became sleet and the sleet became snow, and the wind turned so that it blew from the east. It was a day when the early darkness and the relentless, blustering flurries of snow combined to make the city strange and different. Familiar buildings blurred at the edges and the friendly faces of neighbours disappeared beneath scarves and mufflers. The cold played its games with minds as well as bodies, so while on market stalls the wares were being fumbled and dropped by icy hands, so straightforward thoughts became difficult and strangely clouded by snow. Housewives battling back from market took wrong turns on routes they’d known forever. Policemen on their regular patrols found themselves inexplicably down alleyways they didn’t recognise on beats that were not their own. The constable on duty in Baker Street thought more than once that he had spotted a small urchin lingering near our door, but each time, when he managed to battle across the road to grab him by the ear, the boy, if he had ever existed, had disappeared.
Down on the docks, Scraggs, who had taken the afternoon off, was watching a ship being unloaded. Great packing cases of unusual shapes and strange dimensions were being piled on the harbour side by men cursing as they slipped and strained in the snow. Each box was stamped with the same device: a crescent moon and three small stars. And overseeing the handling of each one was a short, dark-skinned man wrapped in an enormous cloak and with an astrakhan hat pulled low over his face. Describing him later, Scraggs could remember nothing but a neatly clipped moustache and an urgent pair of brown eyes that followed every inch of every movement of every case.
Elsewhere that afternoon, there were others braving the snow. In Randolph Place, a slim, angular man was hunched against the railings, watching the carriages pass by. He had turned up the collar of his coat against the snow and under one arm he carried a small, brown-paper parcel. Eventually, when the moment was right, he crossed the road and knocked on one of the smart red front doors. This door was opened by a butler of very advanced years who ran a careful eye over his visitor’s clothes while he listened to his request. Apparently satisfied by what he saw and heard, he beckoned the man inside and indicated that he should wait in the hallway. It was not a particularly inviting room, with cold marble floors and very little furniture to make it welcoming, only a stand for coats, a small table in the classical style and a low chest, no more than three feet long and a couple of feet high, the sort that may once have contained the personal effects of a military man on foreign service. As the stranger look around him, a small pool of water began to gather at his feet.
The butler was away for no more than a minute before he returned with an answer to the man’s inquiry. But to his surprise he found the front door open and the hall empty but for the marks of the stranger’s feet retreating to the door. Before calling for a maid and a mop, the butler looked both up and down the street, but the snow confused the view and it was hard to tell amongst the hurrying crowds which direction the stranger had taken.
In Mr Holmes’ study, the haphazard snow and the growling wind were kept very firmly in their places. Mr Godwin Branchester stood with his back to a roaring fire and eyed his audience carefully. The curtains had been closed to shut out the weather and the warm glow of the lamps softened the austerity of the great man’s features. He was, as Mr Holmes had predicted, a tall man and broad with it, so that his presence dominated the room. He stood straight despite his limp, and his mane of white hair made his figure even more imposing. When he spoke, his voice was gruff and business-like.
‘You will understand, gentlemen,’ he began, ‘that it is highly unusual for Her Majesty’s Government to seek assistance in this way.’
‘Of course, sir.’ At Mr Branchester’s insistence, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson had remained seated. Mr Holmes was studying his guest carefully. ‘But equally it is highly unusual for Her Majesty’s Government to find itself in possession of a ruby such as the Malabar Rose.’
Mr Branchester, his air of authority a little dented, allowed himself to smile. ‘My word, sir, you are every bit as sharp as I have been led to believe. So you have divined that it is of the Malabar Rose that I wish to speak?’
Mr Holmes waved the compliment away but allowed himself to look ever so slightly pleased. ‘It is not a difficult deduction to make, sir. A jewel beyond price is as much a burden as a blessing.’
‘Well, you are right enough, Mr Holmes. The Maharajah’s gift comes with certain conditions. One is that it should be put on display before the end of this year so that London society might admire it. I don’t mind admitting that this is causing unease at the very highest levels. The very highest levels, you understand.’ He paused for a moment to allow the significance of this remark to sink in. Although Sherlock Holmes appeared unimpressed and continued to examine the bowl of his pipe, Dr Watson sat a little straighter in his chair.
‘Very honoured, I’m sure, sir,’ he muttered. ‘At Her Majesty’s service. Try to do our best, and all that.’
Mr Holmes waited for his friend to subside before speaking.
‘Tell me, sir, with all the resources available to you, I am surprised that you require any special help from us. This is a police matter, surely?’
The gentleman nodded his great maned head in agreement.
‘I must admit, sir, if I had my way that would be the case. I’d have the stone in the vaults of the Bank of England quicker than the eye can see and that would be an end of it. But the Maharajah has stipulated a viewing and, worse, he demands it should be in the suite of rooms he keeps at the Blenheim Hotel. The Maharajah himself of course has remained in Madras, but we have no choice but comply with his instructions. Her Majesty insists upon it.’
Mr Holmes scratched his chin with the stem of his pipe. ‘I agree that arrangement creates certain difficulties, but nothing that a cordon of moderately alert policeman can’t solve. Where is the stone now? Is it safe?’
‘I have made certain of that, Mr Holmes. I have placed Sir John Plaskett in charge of it and I have asked him to call here within the hour to brief you on the steps he has taken.’
‘The Hero of Ishtabad?’ Mr Holmes allowed a smile to appear at the corners of his mouth. ‘It is to be hoped that a military brain is appropriate for this problem.’
‘I certainly hope so, Mr Holmes. There is one other aspect to the situation that I wish to share with you, the aspect that has panicked the Home Secretary and unnerved our police force. Have you ever heard, sir, of an illusionist who calls himself the Great Salmanazar?’
‘An illusionist? I think not. Hardly my line, I fear. What about you, Watson?’
‘Eh? Oh, no, Holmes. Not really my sort of thing either. Though I did know a chap in the army who could make a rupee disappear into his elbow. Never was sure how he did it, you know.’
Mr Holmes turned to his guest and smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid, sir, that prestidigitation is not an art much studied in this house.’
‘Well, Mr Holmes, they say the Great Salmanazar is a master of his craft. He first showed up half a dozen years ago, in Budapest. It isn’t clear where he came from before that. He might be Persian by the look of him, but I’ve heard him called an Arab, a Farsi, a Berber… We’ve made inquiries, of course, but we know no more of him now than when he first appeared.’
From where I stood in the linen room, I could see Mr Branchester rub his jaw ruefully, as if amazed by this failure of British intelligence.
‘Anyway, from his first show in Hungary, he has moved on to conquer Europe. Vienna, St Petersburg, Paris, Madrid, Berlin . . . He has appeared across the continent, always for one night only, always playing to audiences containing the cream of society and never failing to enchant and baffle them. Now, in a week’s time, he is booked to perform at the Regal Theatre in Piccadilly.’
Mr Holmes nodded in immediate understanding. ‘And the Regal Theatre is, of course, only a dozen yards from the Blenheim Hotel.’
Godwin Branchester nodded meaningfully. ‘The two events are scheduled for very same night. You have heard of the Godolphin Blue, Mr Holmes?’
‘Of course. The sapphire stolen in Milan last September.’
‘And the Von Metzen diamonds?’
‘Disappeared in Berlin two years ago.’
‘And the Lafayette necklace?’
‘Vanished from the vaults of a Paris bank some time in May of last year.’
‘Correct on all counts, Mr Holmes. Each of those thefts has something in common, and it is that which is playing on the nerves of Lord Shastonbury and is fraying the tempers of our senior policemen. You see, each of those thefts coincided exactly in time and location with performances by the Great Salmanazar.’
In the silence that followed these words, Mr Holmes put down his pipe and looked slowly across at Dr Watson, who in turn tugged at his moustache and looked perturbed. In the darkness of the linen room, I looked across at Mrs Hudson who for the first time that evening had stopped polishing the silver. In response to my gaze she raised one eyebrow fleetingly and then returned to her work.
Back in the warmly lit study, Godwin Branchester was continuing.
‘There can be doubting the connection, Mr Holmes, and I assure you it doesn’t stop there. Everywhere this Salmanazar has gone, it has been the same. Jewels stolen, bullion disappeared. In Prague it was the Templar Crucifix, in Lisbon the Isabella figurine. And now he’s in London, Mr Holmes, and so is the Malabar Rose. We are relying on you to make sure that the paths of the two do not cross.’
It was clear from the great many questions that followed that both Mr Holmes and Dr Watson were aware of the responsibility being placed on their shoulders. They asked everything you could imagine about the history and habits of the Great Salmanazar, but Mr Branchester could add little to what he had already told them. It appeared the man really was a mystery. Eventually their discussion was interrupted by a further knock at the door, and I found myself once again announcing one of the nation’s great men.
‘Major General Sir John Plaskett, sir. And Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.’
The new arrivals could not have been more different in appearance. Sir John was short and solid, filling out the red and gold of his dress uniform like a particularly proud fighting cock. He had a bald pate, swirling grey whiskers and a moustache that ended at both ends with a magnificent flourish. Lestrade on the other hand was a tall, slightly lugubrious man, with small features and a smooth chin, slight in both stature and in impact. When I retreated from the room the necessary introductions were being made, and by the time I was safely ensconced in the linen room, Sir John was addressing his audience in robust, booming tones.
‘This has not been a conventional operation, gentlemen. If there is one lesson I have learned in the field, it is that a moving target is harder to hit. Makes sense, eh? As for the enemy, well, we’ve had intelligence for weeks now that a number of criminal gangs are interested in the Malabar Rose, and to make matters worse there is the threat of this man Salmanazar, a threat that is currently hard to quantify.’
With the arrival of Sir John, Godwin Branchester had finally accepted a seat, and now it was the Major General’s turn to stand before his listeners. As he spoke, he took short steps to and fro in front of the fire and emphasised his points with jabs of the finger as if he were addressing a group of trusted officers on the brink of battle.
‘The kernel of my plan can be expressed in seven words, gentlemen. They can’t steal what they can’t find. In the last twenty-four hours, with the help of Lestrade here, we have been putting that plan into action. That box, if you please, Inspector.’
From behind his chair, the policeman produced a velvet box, a cube about a foot square if not larger. Sir John took the object and held it in front of him.
‘When the ruby is displayed in the Blenheim Hotel, it will be in such a box as this. If I remove the lid, you will see that it is designed to act as both a case for the jewel and as a stand on which to display it.’ He levered the velvet lid of the box away and discarded it. Inside I could see that the velvet case had been shaped upwards to form a low pyramid, truncated at the top by a little hollow where the stone would sit. At a nod from Sir John, Lestrade produced a black pouch from his jacket and handed it across. Sir John emptied it into his hand and revealed to the audience a rose-red jewel, the size of a duck egg, nestling in his palm.
Dr Watson gasped at the sight of it and even Mr Holmes sat forward, but Sir John merely smiled and placed the object gently onto the velvet stand.
‘No, gentlemen. That is not the Malabar Rose. I took the precaution of having a dozen identical boxes made and eleven imitation rubies. This one is nothing more sophisticated than cleverly cut glass. By daylight you would not be fooled. But they will play their part well enough, for all that.’
‘I see.’ Mr Holmes pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘Eleven decoys.’
‘That’s right, Mr Holmes. Ten of which are currently being held under guard in different locations, each of them in a place where we might legitimately be expected to guard such a treasure. As of tonight, clumsy attempts have been made on three of these decoys. Each attempt has failed and the gangs responsible are in custody. The one I show you here is the eleventh. We have no plans to deploy it so you may keep both jewel case and jewel for your researches.’
‘And the twelfth, Sir John?’
At that question, the soldier stiffened. ‘The twelfth is the real gem, Mr Holmes. I fear I can tell you only that it is kept separate from its box and held somewhere where I can guarantee it will be safe. The box that goes with it I have retained in my own home and the two shall be brought together at the Blenheim Hotel on the night of the 26th, when the ruby goes on display. It is in the management of that occasion, and in determining the threat from this Salmanazar fellow, that we require your help.’
All eyes seemed to be on Mr Holmes, who was looking far from happy.
‘You will understand Sir John’s caution, Mr Holmes,’ Mr Branchester put in. ‘I myself am as much in the dark as you are.’
Dr Watson leaned forward and placed his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Come, Holmes. Think of England.’
The great detective looked at the hand on his sleeve as if he scarcely recognised it, and only after a full three seconds of consideration did he raise his head.
‘Very well, Sir John. I cannot be expected to work to my best if I am not in possession of every fact, but I shall assume that the ruby will be safe under your supervision until the night when it is put on display. In the meantime, Dr Watson and I will work with Lestrade here to make sure that every precaution is taken to keep it safe for the entire time it is in the Blenheim Hotel. Now, Sir John, how shall we contact you?’
‘During the day, you should try the regimental headquarters.’ Sir John reached into his pocket for a card. ‘Failing that, Mr Holmes, a message will always reach me if addressed to my home in Randolph Place.’
That night, I found it difficult to sleep. There were too many things lingering in my mind that were still not fully understood. Who was the Great Salmanazar, and how could he be stopped? What would happen if the Malabar Rose were stolen? And how might I catch a glimpse of the famous Lola Del Fuego? Tucked up in my little cupboard bed beside the kitchen, these thoughts chased each other through my mind. I heard the clock outside strike midnight, then the quarter, then the half, and through the crack of my door I could see how the gaslight from the street filtered onto the kitchen floor. The fall of snow had changed its usual patterns, making the light somehow softer, so that the kitchen seemed full of new shadows, perplexing and eerie in their strangeness.
I don’t know how long I had lain there looking at them when I suddenly became aware of a shadow that was shorter and clearer than the others. Something, perhaps a faint movement, must have drawn my attention to it and my attention, once caught, was unable to leave it alone. Now it seemed still, then it seemed to waver. Now it seemed no more than the branch of a tree caught at an awkward angle, next it seemed to have the form and substance of a human figure.
Puzzled now, and a little unnerved, I swung myself out of bed and crossed the kitchen to the window. Outside the street seemed still, motionless but for the gently falling snowflakes. But I had the impression that at the moment of my looking, something had just ceased to move. I scanned the view again, pausing on every pool of shadow, but nothing stirred, nothing disturbed the emptiness of the night. And then, just as I was turning away, too cold to sustain my lookout any longer, something definitely moved – a glimpse of a dark cap, the blur of a black coat. A shadow rearranged itself, then fell still again, as innocent as night.
Tiptoeing warily, almost afraid to breathe, I moved across the kitchen and began to dress. When I had squeezed on every layer I could, I moved again, still keeping to the shadow, this time towards the kitchen door where my big winter coat was hanging. The movement I had seen was in the patch of darkness near the area steps, so instead of going out that way I made my way up through the house to the main front door. I drew the bolts as quietly as possible and the door opened soundlessly. If the figure in the darkness was the person I thought, he would little expect an approach from this direction.
In the event, I had crept to within five or six yards of him before he heard me and, with a gasp of surprise and an oath, burst from cover. I was after him in a moment and I almost grasped him there and then, before he escaped into the open street. He was small, and swift as an elver, and in moments he was beyond my reach and running as if for his life. I gave chase but my chances of catching him seemed remote. The extra layers I had pulled on made me ungainly, and my skirts were soon damp and in my way. Had he held a straight line he must have escaped, but just as my breath was shortening a policeman’s whistle sounded from the street ahead of us and stopped the fugitive in his tracks.
Hearing me close behind him, he made a quick decision and sidestepped into a tiny alley that opened to the street just at the place where he had paused. I saw him disappear into its darkness and felt a little glow of triumph. The alleyway may have served to hide him from the policeman, but it was a path I knew and I knew it led only to a small courtyard. Without hesitating, I followed the figure into the darkness, slowing as I did so to catch my breath. When I reached the courtyard a minute or so later, I found him crouched in the farthest corner, staring back at me. The only light was from sky, but it was enough to be sure of my quarry. It was the boy with the blue eyes.
‘Where’s the peeler?’ he asked, peering behind me, expecting to see a dark uniform emerging from the darkness.
‘Back in the street. He didn’t see where we went.’ I stopped at the mouth of the alley, careful not to close too quickly.
‘Done nothin’ wrong, anyways. Why’re yer chasin’ me? Didn’t do nothin’ tonight. An’ I never took yer purse. Yer purse was in yer pocket all the time.’
‘I didn’t chase you about the purse,’ I told him.
‘What, then? Wasn’t doin’ no harm. Just standin’. It’s a public highway, ain’t it?’
‘What did you come for? Did you want to break in? I haven’t got that purse on me now, you know.’
‘I can see that,’ he spat back contemptuously, though how he could see, given the thickness of my coat and the many layers beneath it, wasn’t very clear to me. ‘I didn’t come for no purse. Told yer that.’
‘So why did you come?’ While I stayed by the mouth of the alley his chances of escape were slight, and I could see the prospect of the policeman beyond was still bothering him.
‘No reason. Now lemme go.’
I shook my head and waited. I could hear his breathing, as heavy as my own. Suddenly he shivered. His coat was a thin one, and ragged too.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.
‘What’s it to you?’ I could see he was angry with himself for getting caught.
‘What’s your name?’ I said again, louder this time.
‘They call me Blue.’
I thought about that for a moment. ‘Have they ever called you John?’ I asked.
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What d’yer mean?’
‘I knew someone once who looked like you.’
We carried on looking at each other. I tried again. ‘Did you recognise me? Is that why you followed me?’
‘Don’t know why I followed you. It’s cos… Cos when I saw you, I thought yer looked nice. Not like them ladies as shriek an’ shout as though they’ve been murdered, even though they’s got nothing in their purses that they couldn’t lose ten times over. But you didn’t shout, did yer?’ He looked as though that question had been worrying him. ‘Why didn’t you shout?’
‘I don’t know. I think because you reminded me of someone. This boy, he had eyes like yours. He was only very small then. In the orphanage. His parents had just died.’
‘Never had no parents,’ he retorted angrily.
‘Have you ever been in an orphanage?’
‘Mighter done. Don’t remember no girls there.’
‘When the boys reach three they get moved. This was before that. This boy, I think his name was John.’
‘Pah!’ He spat into the gutter. ‘No one’s ever called me John. I’ve always been Blue.’
I took a step forward.
‘John had a picture.’
‘Picture? What d’yer mean?’ He seemed tenser than ever and his eyes were darting around the courtyard, alighting on everything but my own.
‘A tiny one. A picture of his mother.’
He breathed out a sigh. ‘Never had no mother. You goin’ to lemme go?’
I stood aside so that I was no longer blocking his escape. ‘All right, Blue. The policeman will have gone by now.’ He straightened up and began to sidle around the wall of the courtyard towards the gap that had opened for him. ‘There’s one thing, though, before you go.’
‘What?’ His voice was suspicious again.
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘I’m goin’ home.’
‘And where’s home?’
‘What’s that to you?’
‘When you get there, are you just going to keep stealing until one day that policeman out there does catch you? Is that your plan?’
‘Plan? Pah!’ He spat again.
‘You could find work…’
‘Work? Here? For the likes of me? Pah! Yer jokin’!’
I looked at the blue eyes and saw the anger and the mistrust in them, and somehow I felt defeated by them. There was nothing I could do for this boy, whoever he was.
‘I’ll leave you then,’ I told him, and turned to walk away down the alley. But something inside me softened, and I turned back. ‘You know where I live, Blue. If you ever really need help, ask for me. My name’s Flotsam.’
It was after I had left the alley and turned into Baker Street that I heard his footsteps behind me.
‘Oi, Flotsam!’ He seemed to linger on the name. ‘Flotsam,’ he said again.
I turned and saw him standing in the snow at the mouth of the alley. ‘There was a bloke asking around. Offerin’ work. Just the other day.’
I waited. He seemed to be looking at me very closely, trying to remember something.
‘Well?’
He shrugged. ‘Well, I reckon I could go and look him up.’
I had made my way to my own front door before I turned again and looked back up the street. It was hard to see amid the snow and the shadows, but I think when I closed the door behind me, he was still there, watching.