Mrs Hudson and the Lazarus Testament

by Martin Davies

  ‘I see…’ Dr Watson murmured. ‘Always makes me sad to hear of that sort of thing. Got on rather well with my old man myself, you see, though I can’t deny he had his share of strange habits. He used to hiss quite loudly whenever a parson walked past. So Lord Beaumaris and the Viscount fell out, did they?’

  ‘They did, Doctor,’ our visitor confirmed, twisting one end of his moustache with just the tiniest suggestion of impatience. ‘Although perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they were simply men of very different tastes.’

  ‘Viscount Wrexham… Let me see…’ Dr Watson scratched his head. ‘Didn’t I read he was a bit of a gambler? You know, a high-roller, a turf-traipser, a Newmarket nobby, whatever it is they call them nowadays.’

  Again our visitor nodded.

  ‘That would be to state the case mildly, Doctor. From his youth onwards the Viscount was pre-eminent in sporting circles, and also, I should say, in all the other pastimes that are so often associated with the turf – a string of mistresses of dubious reputation, half a dozen breach of promise suits, and countless rumours of drunkenness and debauchery on a lavish scale. He filled Hawthornden with hangers-on of all kinds – tip-touts, race-readers, work-watchers, gin-skimmers, horse-doctors, and every sort of dubious character – not to mention an ever-changing array of young ladies whose morals were not, at a guess, of the finest. From the age of eleven it’s said he never missed a day at Ascot or Newmarket, and his Derby Day parties were infamous. When a filly of his triumphed over the Prince of Wales’s horse on Derby Day, it’s said the Viscount celebrated by dressing his latest mistress in the Royal Colours and cavorting with her in front of all his guests on the grand staircase at Hawthornden.’

  ‘Outrageous!’ Dr Watson declared fervently, his brow furrowed as if trying very hard to imagine the scene. He was prevented from further musings on the subject, however, by the impatient tapping of Mr Holmes’s pipe upon the mantelpiece.

  ‘This is no doubt fascinating to students of the turf, Mr de Lacey, but I’m sure you have not ventured out on such a cold night simply to indulge in society tittle-tattle. Perhaps your time would be better spent if you told us a little about the circumstances of his disappearance.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Holmes,’ his guest went on. ‘But I fear there is little to tell.’

  Mr de Lacey pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket and offered its contents to his hosts.

  ‘Viscount Wrexham was in Ireland examining bloodstock,’ he went on, ‘when word reached him that his father was dying in London. It seems he returned immediately on hearing the news. Perhaps he had some fondness for the old man after all. Or perhaps he travelled in anticipation of inheriting the title. It’s hard to say.’

  Our visitor took another long draw on his cigarette and then leaned back, slowly exhaling the smoke towards the ceiling, before resuming his narrative.

  ‘He arrived at his father’s house in Randolph Square to find Lord Beaumaris barely conscious, but witnesses at the bedside say the old man was able to say a few words to him. We know that the Viscount then left the house. He said nothing as to his destination, merely stepped out into the square. And from that moment, the trail is lost. We don’t know where he went or what he did. His valet reports that he never returned to his rooms in the Albany. Neither his social acquaintances nor his turf associates ever heard from him again. You will have seen the posters all over London, Mr Holmes, and his picture in the papers. You’ll be aware that he was a distinctive looking man, famous for wearing his hair down to his shoulders. In his youth, of course, it was blond; latterly it was grey, but just as long, and just as distinctive. Yet even so, no witnesses have come forward. Nothing certain was heard of him until his ring was found in the Thames mud. It’s as if he simply vanished into the ether.’

  In the long silence that followed these words, I could see Sherlock Holmes standing very still, his arm against the mantelpiece, apparently absorbed in the study of his pipe. This almost trance-like state clearly unnerved our visitor. I saw him glance across at Dr Watson who stirred himself out of his chair and began to recharge the glasses, helping both himself and Mr de Lacey liberally to the contents of the decanter.

  ‘So, what do you say, Holmes?’ he asked as he went about the business. ‘Baffling, eh? The fellow’s simply disappeared. For all your genius I can’t see what can be done about it. We could advertise for witnesses, of course, but I daresay the police have already tried that. What do you think?’

  Very slowly, the pipe was lowered and the detective’s eyes were raised.

  ‘What do I think, Watson? What do I think? I think we are still waiting for our guest here to come to the real purpose of his visit.’ Turning to Mr de Lacey, he went on. ‘Really, sir, you surely cannot expect us to act upon the half story. Are you prepared to tell us the rest, or shall we bid you good evening and say no more about the matter? The choice is entirely yours.’ And he began to replace his pipe on the mantelpiece in such a way that suggested the interview was drawing to a close.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, but I fail to understand you. I have explained to you the circumstances surrounding the Viscount’s disappearance, and of course the police reports will furnish you with more details. If there is anything further I can do to be of assistance, you have only to ask.’

  Mr Holmes bowed stiffly. ‘If that is all you have to say, our business is at an end. If however, you are prepared to answer some obvious questions, then I may yet agree to act on your behalf.’

  ‘What questions are those, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘Why is the disappearance of the Viscount of such national importance? Why is a man of Sir Percival’s stature concerned with it? Why is Whitehall abuzz over the death of an obscure and bankrupt Viscount whose interests have never extended beyond the gratification of his own appetites? Sir, you have told us what you want us to do, but you have not told us why. There is clearly a great deal more to this affair than you are prepared to share with us.’

  Mr de Lacey rose to his feet then, his face pale and his eyes glittering with indignation.

  ‘Mr Holmes, you must see that this matter concerns some very important people. If I were able to say more I would have done so. As it is, you must realise that I represent Her Majesty’s government and I am acting on the authority of the Home Secretary himself. There are clearly things that men of such standing know which cannot be spoken of to all and sundry. I would ask you to respect that, sir, and to accept my assurances that no information relevant to your task shall be withheld. You are requested to assist us by establishing the Viscount’s final movements. The reasons for this request do not concern you. Do I make myself clear?’

  Mr Holmes faced this barrage without flinching, his expression unchanged, and when his visitor had finished speaking, his lips curved into a dry, humourless smile.

  ‘Yes, Mr de Lacey. You make yourself clear. Now if you will excuse us, Dr Watson and I are busy men who do not lack for clients; clients who are prepared to place in us their complete confidence. Good evening to you, sir.’

  And with that, to my astonishment, the interview was ended. All that was left was for me to show Mr de Lacey to the door. He left the study stiff and silent, his face white with indignation, and said nothing to me as I helped him into his coat and handed him his things. It was only after he had stepped, rigid and angry, into the night that I realised something had fallen from his coat pocket and was lying almost hidden in the corner of the hall. On investigation, I found it to be a book, and as I ran out to return it to its owner, I couldn’t help but notice the title. I confess it surprised me greatly. Mr St John de Lacey had seemed to me the sort of modish gentleman whose personal interests were unlikely to extend far beyond fine claret and Cuban cigars. I would certainly never have expected him to have an interest in theological writing, and still less in a learned and rather dense-looking volume entitled grandly The Miracles Explained.

  Chapter III

  The Man With Two Watches

&nbs
p; The following day I rose early. Mrs Hudson had always said I was resilient and after a good night’s sleep the horror of the accident I’d witnessed had already begun to subside a little. My sympathy for its victim, however, was, if anything, even greater than before, and I was determined to do what I could to convey to the absent Elsie the dying man’s last words.

  On emerging into the kitchen, I was greeted by the sight of Mrs Hudson seated at the table, examining the household accounts. She and I had sat up late the night before, talking through the events of the day until the warmth of the fire and the housekeeper’s soothing words had combined to lull me into sleep; but there was no sign of a late night in Mrs Hudson’s face as she greeted me that morning and her voice rang out with its accustomed energy.

  ‘Ah, Flotsam,’ she began. ‘Your timing is perfect. I need you to run an errand for me. Mr Tenderly the butcher has two pounds of the best Old Spot sausages waiting for us at Smithfields. Straight from the Stope Abbey estate, he tells me, and not a better sausage in the land. And sausages aside, you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve already had a word with Constable Dobson. He’s going to drop by when he comes off duty to tell us what he knows about the poor gentleman who died yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, ma’am!’ I replied, greatly cheered by the prospect of her assistance. ‘And tell me, ma’am, do you think Constable Dobson will know anything about that other matter? About Viscount Wrexham disappearing, I mean?’

  Mrs Hudson eyed me sternly. ‘Now, Flottie, that really doesn’t concern us. Even Mr Holmes has declined to act in the matter, and while I daresay Sir Percival will be back in due course, I think right now we’d do better to concentrate on the dusting.’

  ‘But, Mrs Hudson, ma’am, don’t you want to know what happened? It seems the Viscount just vanished into thin air.’

  She nodded absently, her head already back in her books.

  ‘A great many people vanish in this city, Flottie. This one just happens to be a Viscount. Now, about those sausages. There’s no time for dawdling, remember, because we’ve the beds to change and the floors to polish and you’re expected for a lesson at Bloomsbury Square at three o’clock sharp.’

  I hadn’t forgotten. Even the events of the previous day hadn’t put it out of my mind, for I always looked forward to my visits to Bloomsbury Square. They were part of Mrs Hudson’s dogged campaign to improve my education, and my tutor was none other than Mr Rupert Spencer, nephew of the Earl of Brabham and a young gentleman with a great knowledge of the modern sciences. It seems he had demonstrated this passion for experimentation at an early age by once attempting to mix mud pies on the floor of Mrs Hudson’s kitchen. The upshot of this had never been made completely clear to me, but it had certainly engendered in the young man a very healthy respect for Mrs Hudson. Whatever his own view on the subject, when she decreed that he should be the one to teach me the sciences, he had clearly felt it prudent to comply.

  Hence my weekly visits to Bloomsbury Square, calling at the front door like a lady, always in my best clothes, with my hair pinned up by Mrs Hudson with such surprising elegance that I would be left looking in the mirror in astonishment at the transformation she had wrought. In the course of these visits, as well as learning how to take tea in good company, I absorbed so much knowledge of subjects from natural history to navigation that Mrs Hudson prophesised from the very first that I would one day make a scholar.

  That day, my errand to Smithfields complete and a great deal of scrubbing and tidying successfully accomplished, I arrived in front of the big house in Bloomsbury Square as the clock was striking the hour. The door was opened to me by Reynolds, the butler, an old ally who greeted me with a wink.

  ‘Mr Spencer is not yet returned,’ he told me gravely, ushering me into the grand hallway, ‘but we expect him shortly. Miss Peters, however, is in the library, and is awaiting your arrival with some eagerness. Miss Peters, you should be warned, is in a state of high excitement.’

  This warning, however, was unnecessary, for before I could reply an excited shriek had rung out down the hallway.

  ‘Flottie!’ a voice cried and there could be no mistaking Miss Peters. ‘You angel! Just in time! I need you desperately!’

  Hetty Peters, it should be explained, was the Earl of Brabham’s ward and my chaperone during these weekly bouts of learning. It was a role she approached with a great deal of enthusiasm. ‘After all,’ she used to say, ‘two hours looking at Rupert’s profile is rather a treat, Flottie. Sometimes I think I might swoon with pleasure simply from looking at him, and swooning with pleasure when someone is droning on about beetles is really quite astonishing, don’t you think?’

  I recalled these words with a smile as Reynolds and I approached the library door.

  ‘The cause of Miss Peters’s excitement is something of a mystery, miss,’ Reynolds explained a little anxiously. ‘I can only tell you that twenty minutes ago Miss Peters rang and asked for glue.’

  ‘Glue?’ I replied, disconcerted.

  ‘Yes, miss, although she declined to inform me why she required it. I confess the request caused me some embarrassment. Nothing in my many years of service has ever indicated the correct way of serving adhesive paste on formal occasions. In the end I chose to present it in a jam pot. On a salver, of course. But I am far from convinced that a gravy boat would not have been more appropriate. The possibility of confusion during the enjoyment of the scones is most definitely a concern.’

  I reassured him that I would do my best to steer Miss Peters away from the glue when the tea was brought in, and then paused while he announced me.

  ‘Yes, Reynolds, of course it’s Flottie! Who else would it be? Now do tootle off and stop looking so anxious. Now that Flottie’s here everything will be right as rain, I promise.’

  To my surprise, I found Miss Peters kneeling rather prettily on the floor, examining an enormous and elderly-looking tome. On seeing me she leapt to her feet and welcomed me with a fond embrace.

  ‘But whatever is the matter?’ I asked, our greetings over. ‘Reynolds tells me you’ve been asking for glue.’

  ‘Well, to tell the truth, Flottie, I have. Although I rather think there are different kinds of glue, and I’ve no idea which sort I need. Reynolds asked me an awful lot of questions about it, but I couldn’t tell him why I needed it, I just couldn’t.’

  ‘But why ever not? What have you done?’

  Miss Peters sighed and looked despairing.

  ‘Well, Flottie, you know how much Rupert loves all these dusty old books of his…’ She indicated the walls of the room, which were lined almost to the ceiling with impressive-looking volumes of great age. ‘And you remember that he made me promise never to touch any of them ever again after the business with the magnifying glass?’

  I nodded very seriously.

  ‘Really, he was absolutely beastly about the whole thing,’ she went on, her voice still a little hurt. ‘After all, if that particular book was so precious he shouldn’t have left it lying around, should he? Besides, it was such an old book. It must have been terribly out of date. And of course the whole thing was simply an accident. Rupert must have known I didn’t mean to set it on fire.’

  For a moment she paused to reflect upon the injustice of it all, then brightened and carried on.

  ‘Anyway, Flottie, I’ve been very good and haven’t touched his books ever since. To be completely truthful, I haven’t really felt very tempted. But then last night, at the Strutherington’s ball, Rupert was being absolutely hateful. He spent hours and hours listening to old Mrs Strutherington going on about the time the Luddites smashed her grandfather’s mangle, even though we’ve all heard that story hundreds of times. Besides, I don’t believe it’s true anyway. I’m not sure there were any Luddites when mangles were invented, and even if there were, I’m sure they would have found much better things to smash. I mean, really, Flottie, if you wanted to turn back the whole tide of scientific progress, you wouldn’t start with mangles, would y
ou? You might as well smash top hats or French pastries.’

  She paused for breath and I took the opportunity of bringing her back to the Strutherington’s ball.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she went on, regaining her thread. ‘Well, Rupert was being so painfully dutiful, talking to the hosts and being all dull and polite, and the Bradshaw boys were terribly attentive to me all evening. One of them was flirting quite outrageously, although it’s difficult to be sure which one because they look so similar and have almost no personality at all. But when I told Rupert how handsome I thought they were, he just smiled and told me he thought they had too much time on their hands and ought to join the Indian Civil Service. Anyway, in the end one of the Bradshaw boys took me out onto the terrace and gave me a rose he’d pinched from one of the big displays, and do you know what Rupert said when I told him? He just said that the terrace must have been rather cold for that sort of thing, and why did I think the Bradshaw boy had chosen such a funny-coloured rose? And you know, Flottie, the annoying thing is that it was rather cold out there, and the rose he’d chosen was a rather gruesome apricot colour which clashed terribly with my gown…’

  ‘And Rupert’s books?’ I put in quickly, seizing my opportunity.

  ‘Well, Flottie, with Rupert being so horrible, I decided I was going to press the rose and keep it. After all, it would serve him right if I did fall in love with the Bradshaw boys, or one of them at least, although of course everyone knows they’re going to marry the Carstairs twins, because Mrs Carstairs has made up her mind and so the poor old Bradshaws simply don’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Hetty,’ I replied as calmly as I could, trying to keep a note of horror from my voice, ‘you didn’t decide to use one of Mr Spencer’s rare editions as a flower press, did you?’

  ‘Well, you know, Flottie, I did. They’re all jolly heavy and perfect for that sort of thing, and after he was so unfeeling about the rose it seemed somehow poetic. So I came down here and chose the biggest book I could find, but when I pulled it down it was much heavier than I expected, and… well, I dropped it, Flottie. Except I didn’t drop all of it. The cover somehow ended up staying in my hand…’