Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Part 32

"Now then, Mrs H., what can I do for you today?" Herbert the fishmonger was as broad as he was tall, ruddy of complexion and smelled perpetually of his stock in trade. Mrs Hudson wondered how his wife put up with it. "Bit of cod? Hake? Some lovely haddock just come in."

"I might be in the market for a nice white-spotted char," she said, clutching her ever-present carpet bag.

Herbert rubbed his broad chin. "White-spotted char? Now there's a fish. Not seen that for a while. Shockingly expensive, that is. Your Mr Holmes developed what we might call a sophisticated palate?"

"He likes his luxuries, now and again," she said. "So you don't have any, as a rule?"

Herbert shook his head. "To be honest, not had anyone offer me any, nor ask for it. On account of the cost, like. Have you tried up Covent Garden?"

Herbert was the sixth fishmonger she had tried at Billingsgate, and every time it was the same answer. Not a piece of white-spotted char to be had, nor had there been for some time. How surprising, then, that Melvin Jacobs had managed to buy one from Billingsgate just yesterday. Or so he said.

"Covent Garden?" asked Mrs Hudson.

"Oh, aye, there's a very posh little place up there, does all kinds of fish you won't get here in Billingsgate. Very snooty. For the la-di-dah folk. Now, are you sure I can't tempt you with a piece of this hake?"

The shop in Covent Garden was indeed very la-di-dah. It went by the name of Highfield's, and as well as fish it sold pickled goods and dried meats of a most exotic nature: salamis and German sausage, olives and big beef tomatoes. The woman with the long nose who presided over the clean, bright counter regarded Mrs Hudson somewhat sniffily as she entered, heralded by a tinkling bell over the door.

"Do you sell white-spotted char?" asked Mrs Hudson pleasantly The woman waved her hand at the display of fish upon a bed of crushed ice. "We do. How many would you like?"

Mrs Hudson looked at the prices and blanched. Perhaps Mr Jacobs wasn't as dest.i.tute as Mr Holmes' intuition suggested, if he was buying fish at these prices. She said, "Did you sell one to a chap yesterday? Party by the name of Jacobs?"

"I couldn't say who I sold them to. He doesn't sound like one of our regular clientele, but we have many, many customers. Why would you want to know?"

Mrs Hudson made her excuses and left, pausing in the street. Why would Jacobs have travelled to Covent Garden for a piece of overpriced fish? The daylight was fading and she decided she'd better get back to Baker Street before the gentlemen did. One more errand, though... just around the corner were the offices of White Horse Transport and Travel, the operators of the pa.s.senger line which had taken Lady Morris to Paris and back.

Mrs Hudson presented herself at the travel desk and murmured to the clerk, "I do hope you can help. I work for Lady Morris and... well, she's had a lot on her plate recently. You might have heard..."

The clerk, a young man with sprouting sideburns, glanced from side to side. "Terrible business, yes. How can I help you?"

"Just for the purposes of organising her bills... as I said, the Lady has been most upset and has been unable to locate her pa.s.senger manifests for the outward and return journeys. It's for extra payments to the staff who attended her..."

"Of course," said the clerk, nodding, and swiftly located the doc.u.ments. "Do tell Lady Morris that all at White Horse wish her the speediest of recoveries from this shock."

Waiting for a cab to take her back to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson inspected the manifests. Just as she had thought. Now she had just to hope that one of those Baker Street Irregulars was hanging around up to no good in Marylebone.

"I must say, I thought Lady Morris might have been a tad more pleased at us returning her lost property," said Watson.

"I suppose that's the upper cla.s.ses for you," said Holmes. "Find it difficult to show their emotions."

"This is dashed good lamb stew, Mrs Hudson," said Watson, ladling another helping into his dish. "Dashed good."

"Very warming, is lamb stew," acknowledged Mrs Hudson as her tenants ate a hearty dinner. "However... all that business got me thinking. I was sure I had a good recipe for white-spotted char somewhere."

"Probably in that carpet bag you cart around all the time," said Watson. "Heaven knows what you keep in that thing."

"A mystery we shall never solve, Watson!" declared Holmes, dipping bread into his stew.

"I did find it, but..." said Mrs Hudson, and paused.

Holmes glanced up. "What? Out with it!"

"I went along to Billingsgate but there wasn't any white-spotted char at all. Hadn't been for some time. Not the sort of fish you find at Billingsgate. More likely to get it in the posh shops up at Covent Garden, such as Highfield's."

"I know it," nodded Holmes. "For those with very expensive tastes and the wallets to match." He paused. "But Lestrade said Jacobs had told the police he purchased the fish at Billingsgate."

Watson harrumphed. "But why lie about something like that?"

"Because he has something to hide!" said Holmes.

Mrs Hudson said nothing, and began to clear the plates so she could bring out the pudding. She had laid out the spotted d.i.c.k when the doorbell sounded. "I'll attend to it," she said.

A moment later Mrs Hudson ushered a ragged little scamp, his face streaked with dirt and his shoes flapping like wet fish, into the dining room. "A boy to see you, Mr Holmes."

"Ah, one of the Irregulars!" exclaimed the detective. "You have a tip-off for us, young man? You and your army of waifs have been keeping your ears to the ground on the hunt for t.i.tbits of nefarious deeds and dark doings?"

The boy said nothing until Mrs Hudson pinched him in the shoulder. "Ow! Ah, yes, sir. I brought the thing. Like you said." He held out two sheets of crumpled paper.

"The thing? Like I said?" Holmes frowned.

Another pinch from Mrs Hudson. "Ow! Earlier today, sir. You asked me to fetch you this from the..." He glanced at Mrs Hudson. "Oh yes, the White Star. I mean the White Horse."

"Must have been while you were cogitating, Holmes," said Watson.

Holmes took the papers from the boy. "Pa.s.senger manifests? I don't recall... Great Scott, Watson! These are from the journeys Lady Morris took to the Continent, and her return trip. And... dashed if Melvin Jacobs isn't listed as part of her itinerary! He's only Lady Morris's blasted footman!"

Holmes tossed the boy a sixpence and Mrs Hudson hurried the scamp from the house. When she returned, the great detective had already solved the mystery.

"Jacobs stole the jewels while he was in Paris with his employer, and at the docks had them inserted into a fish that he knew must be bound for Covent Garden, for fear all the servants would be searched following the discovery of the crime! Then he went to purchase the exact fish-which he had marked with a cross-to obtain his stolen booty."

"d.a.m.ned clever footman," observed Watson.

"The criminal mind is a fine example of the adage necessity is the mother of invention, Watson. We must away to Lestrade, and have him apprehend the villain immediately."

"You really are quite remarkable, Holmes," said Watson, wiping his mouth with his napkin and depositing it on the remains of his pudding.

"But why," wondered Mrs Hudson, "should Jacobs then hand the gems in himself?"

Holmes and Watson, however, had already gone, leaving her question hanging there above the dirty dishes, dishes that were not about to wash themselves.

It being a Sunday the next day, Mrs Hudson only worked the morning and had the rest of the day to herself. She prepared a hearty breakfast for Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, and gently enquired over the kippers if Inspector Lestrade had successfully apprehended the villain.

"He did indeed," said Holmes. "He has yet to confess to the crime, but the evidence stacked against him is insurmountable, I judge."

"Odd, though," said Watson, inspecting the bottom of his teacup. "Turns out that not only was he not dest.i.tute, he is not a Jew. Nor does he live in Aldgate."

Holmes glared at the doctor. "But his wife is suffering from typhus, as I deduced."

Mrs Hudson decided not to mention that it was Inspector Lestrade who had offered that information. Besides, she had somewhere to be.

On the pa.s.senger manifests Mrs Hudson had seen another name she recognised, that of Eliza Ramsbottom, listed as part of Lady Morris's retinue. Mrs Hudson, when she was younger and used to do for grand houses herself, had worked briefly with Eliza and kept in touch with her sporadically. She presented herself just after lunch at the tradesman's entrance of the tall townhouse in Mayfair which was the seat of the Morris family in town, where Eliza was indeed enjoying a brief repast in advance of her afternoon off "Martha Hudson! It's been months! What brings you here?"

In the kitchen they shared a pot of tea and brought each other up to date on their various doings. Mrs Hudson laid her carpet bag at her feet and said, "Paris! How exotic!"

Mrs Ramsbottom agreed, then cast a glance around the empty kitchen. "And somewhat dramatic, too. I don't suppose you'll have heard, but the mistress suffered a burglary while we were in France."

Mrs Hudson put her hand to her chest. "How awful."

"And that's not the worst of it. Yesterday they arrested Jacobs, the footman. Said he'd done the deed, stolen the jewels."

"What a scoundrel!"

Mrs Ramsbottom frowned. "Always seemed a decent type to me. Can't quite believe it. It's so out of character."

Mrs Hudson lowered her voice. "Gambling debts, do you think?"

Mrs Ramsbottom shook her head. "His wife's had a sudden illness, struck down with typhus while we were away. Soon as he came home Lady Morris gave him paid leave to look after her. She's good like that."

Mrs Ramsbottom bit her lip. There was more to this, Mrs Hudson was sure of it. She pressed gently, "Very generous. There aren't many employers who'd do that."

Another furtive glance around the kitchen, then Mrs Ramsbottom said, "That might be part of the problem. She's too generous, sometimes. Between you, me and these four walls, Martha, the finances here are in a bit of a pickle. The bills keep coming in and there doesn't seem to be enough to pay them."

"I thought I heard Lady Morris's son... what's he called?"

"George."

"That's it, George. Isn't he in business?"

Mrs Ramsbottom nodded. "Again, part of the problem. The mistress puts a lot of her own money into the young master's firm. He likes the idea of being a businessman, I think, but he doesn't really have a head for it. I think he lays out more than he brings in, on stock and suchlike. That's really why we were in Paris-he was on a buying trip, and overseeing the despatch of some produce."

"What line is he in?" said Mrs Hudson, taking a sip of her tea.

"Luxury comestibles," said Mrs Ramsbottom. "Very posh food -too rich for the palates of the likes of you and me. He imports it from all over the world, sells it at very upmarket outlets."

"Like Highfield's in Covent Garden?" said Mrs Hudson, peering over the rim of her cup.

"Yes, though I'm surprised you go there, Martha Hudson. Are you going up in the world?"

Mrs Hudson smiled. "I pick up the odd t.i.tbit from there, on occasion."

The bell rang and Mrs Ramsbottom sighed. "Strictly speaking I'm off duty but that's her ladyship. I'd better have a look. It's been lovely catching up, Martha."

"I'll see myself out, don't you worry," said Mrs Hudson. She waited a moment until she was sure Mrs Ramsbottom had ascended the stairs, then took up her carpet bag and followed.

From below stairs she emerged into a wide hallway, with a sweeping staircase leading up to the bedrooms. She had a fairly solid idea of what had been going on, now all she needed was some hard evidence. The bedrooms? Perhaps the study first, the door of which lay open to her right. She softly pushed the door and then became aware of a shadow falling over her.

"I've been listening to you, you meddling old bat."

She turned sharply. There was a young man with an ugly disposition, scowling at her. George Morris, she guessed. "It's not polite to eavesdrop," she said stoutly.

He advanced on her, scowling. "It's not polite to shove your nose into what doesn't concern you. And now I'm going to have to make sure you don't shove it any further into my business."

But Mrs Hudson was not about to let him take another step. Before he could close the gap she hefted her carpet bag, swung it wide and fetched him a solid blow to the side of the head with it, knocking him clean out.

The contents of Mrs Hudson's carpet bag would always remain a mystery, but she was prepared to reveal one or two secrets-one, a length of rope, which she had used to tie the unconscious form of George Morris to an upright chair in the study, and two, a long handkerchief with which she had securely gagged him. She had just finished the knots when he came groggily awake and glared at her.

"Now," she said. "Let me see if I've got this right. You took your mother and her retinue to Paris for a short holiday while you conducted business. Did you always intend to steal her jewels, or was it an opportunist act? No matter, that's what you did, and made your way to the docks where companies you did business with were preparing shipments of produce-including a despatch of white-spotted char-for transportation to England. You forced the gems into the mouth of one fish and marked it with a cross so you could find it easily when it had been transferred to its destination in Covent Garden. You intended to sell the jewels to prop up your ailing business, or provide money for gambling, carousing... yes?"

George Morris simply continued to cast her devilish looks. Mrs Hudson tapped her chin. "The only thing I can't work out is, how did Melvin Jacobs come to get the fish? Was he in league with you? If so, why hand them in to the police?"

"Perhaps I can answer that," said another voice, regal and proud. Mrs Hudson turned to see Lady Morris sweep into the room like the figurehead of a grand ship.

Mrs Hudson faltered. "You know? But I thought..."

Lady Morris sighed. "You are a very intelligent and persistent woman, Mrs Hudson. You are the landlady of Mr Holmes, who returned my jewels yesterday, correct?"

Mrs Hudson nodded. "He said you were not particularly pleased to... ah. I think I understand."

Lady Morris smiled sadly. "It was all my idea, I am afraid. I planned to report the jewels stolen and claim on my insurance policies. Then we would sell them on the black market for further gain. Money is... well. Not in abundance, at the moment. I fear I might have to let some of my staff go, but they are all such lovely, hardworking people."

"Mr Jacobs?"

Lady Morris nodded. "He overheard, I think, George dealing with his connections in Paris, organising to visit his supplier at the docks. Jacobs is very loyal and I believe he must have followed George and seen everything, but came to the same conclusion as you, Mrs Hudson-that my son was stealing from me. As soon as we returned to England he went directly to Highfield's, bought the blasted fish himself, and handed the jewels in to the police."

"Insurance fraud, then," said Mrs Hudson.

"I suppose you are going to hand us in to the constabulary," said Lady Morris. "Melvin is too loyal to tell the truth, even with himself in jail. Oh, it is all such a terrible mess. We must be brought to justice. It is all that we deserve."

"But your staff... Eliza... Melvin Jacobs and his sick wife..." said Mrs Hudson. She rubbed her chin. "Mr Morris, do you have people in your companies in France who will swear blind that they saw two local ne'er-do-wells tampering with the fish? That they thought they were trying to steal them?"

George grunted, and Mrs Hudson remembered to remove his gag. He gasped for air and said, "Why yes, of course. I pay them enough. Why?"

Mrs Hudson smiled. "You'll have to pay back the insurance money, of course, but I think we can navigate a way through this mess without too much difficulty."

Mrs Hudson saw Inspector Lestrade out of 221b Baker Street and returned to the parlour to clear away the tea-tray. She said casually, "Good news?"

"Indeed Mrs Hudson, the mystery is solved!" said Watson.