Mrs Hudson and the Lazarus Testament

by Martin Davies

  He blushed a little at this uncharacteristic show of dissent, but Mrs Hudson merely nodded solemnly.

  ‘Mr Rumbelow will explain everything, I’m sure, sir, but I believe his friend lives in a town called Alston in Cumberland. Rather a remote place, I understand.’

  ‘Well, really! It’s a bit much, isn’t it, Mrs Hudson? I spend half my life on trains visiting retired colonels at Holmes’s request, and now that there’s finally some sort of clue to investigate, he keeps it to himself and dispatches me into the wilds without even bothering to ask where! And to rub it in, he won’t give us a clue as to his own movements. Well, I tell you, Mrs Hudson, I’ve a good mind not to go!’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Mrs Hudson assured him, ‘no one could possibly blame you if you declined. And I’m sure Mr Rumbelow would not wish to put you out in any way. But it does appear that something a little peculiar might be going on, sir. And Alston… Tell me, Flotsam, have we heard that name in relation to something else? I feel sure someone has spoken of it.’

  But however diligently I searched my memory, I could not find anything to support her in this belief. I was as certain as I could be that I had never heard mention of the place except by Mr Rumbelow and Mrs Summersby. I felt sure that any other reference to it would have struck me most particularly.

  Dr Watson, however, appeared to take some comfort from her words.

  ‘Well, perhaps you’re right, Mrs Hudson. If there really is some funny business to sort out, then it may not be a wasted journey. And I like to think that it’s not beyond me to apply Holmes’s methods in his absence. It would serve him right if I were to solve a mystery without him for once! I’d rather like to write up a case where Holmes is not the hero!’

  Thus roused, Dr Watson’s good humour returned and he resolved to pay a call on Mr Rumbelow without delay, while Mrs Hudson and I promised to attend to his packing. But first the housekeeper insisted that I should seat myself at the kitchen table and apply myself to a large and rather intimidating volume called Osbert on Cartography, certain passages of which had been chosen by Rupert Spencer as further reading after my latest lesson.

  With so many mysteries in my head, I found it hard to concentrate. The examples of maps contained in the book seemed only to lead me into idle speculation about the location of the Lazarus Testament, and any mention of northern latitudes inevitably made me think of Mrs Summersby, surrounded by wild countryside, perhaps in danger from sinister forces. Mrs Hudson, however, kept me company, settling down beside me with her accounts, and soon an air of quiet application prevailed in the Baker Street kitchen.

  With time, the subject of Mr Osbert’s book began to grip me, and so engrossed had I become in my studies that a knock on the front door roused me with a start. Before I could recover myself, Mrs Hudson had pushed away her ledger and risen to her feet.

  ‘I shall go, Flottie. You continue.’ And it says something for Mr Osbert’s command of his subject that before she returned I was once again buried in his book.

  As a result, I didn’t notice the change in Mrs Hudson at first, and it was only when I reached a natural break in my reading that I looked up and noticed the frown on her face.

  ‘What is it, ma’am?’ I asked, concerned. ‘Who was that at the door?’

  ‘It was a telegram, Flotsam. A reply to my letter about Viscount Wrexham’s note. Here, take a look. As you see, I have my answer.’

  1828 STOP MY FATHER WAS THERE STOP COLONEL ABOMINABLY TREATED STOP POPULAR OPINION ALL FOR HIM STOP BUT JUDGE AN INDECISIVE FOOL STOP INSISTED COLONEL TRIED AGAIN STOP VERDICT AGAINST HIM SECOND TIME STOP EXHAUSTED STOP TRAVESTY STOP

  ‘But what does all this mean, ma’am? Is it about some old scandal? Does it mean the colonel was sent to prison?’

  ‘Oh, no, Flotsam,’ Mrs Hudson smiled. ‘On the contrary, I think we can be sure he spent the rest of his days in considerable comfort.’

  ‘And did he know where the Lazarus Testament was, ma’am?’

  At this Mrs Hudson tutted.

  ‘Really, Flotsam, surely you don’t still subscribe to the theory that the Viscount was jotting down his father’s actual words, do you? As Mr Holmes has pointed out repeatedly, he was far too clever for that. No, the Viscount was translating his father’s words, putting them into a form that had particular significance for him. And that is why Mr Holmes has been at something of a disadvantage in this case.’

  She favoured me with an affectionate pat on the head.

  ‘You see, Flottie, Viscount Wrexham’s particular areas of expertise, acquired over a lifetime of debauchery, loose living and rather looser morals, are not those shared by Mr Holmes. For myself, however, having worked below stairs in some very fine houses, dissipation holds few mysteries. As soon as I saw the Viscount’s note, a good deal of its meaning was clear to me. But there was one part that confused me – the word Colonel. It didn’t fit with the rest. This, however …’ She indicated the telegram before us. ‘This explains my confusion.’

  I looked at her in astonishment. ‘Does that mean you know what the Viscount’s note means, ma’am?’

  ‘Not at all, Flotsam. But I do at least know what message the dying Lord Beaumaris whispered to his son. Six numbers, Flotsam … Six numbers … How can six numbers be translated into a particular place?’

  ‘Six numbers, ma’am?’ I looked down at the book still open under my nose. Was that it? With my newfound knowledge fresh before me, the answer was simple. ‘Do you mean degrees, minutes and seconds, ma’am?’

  Mrs Hudson had followed my gaze, and as she looked up from the book she was beaming at me.

  ‘Flotsam, what a wonder you are! Latitude and longitude! That’s the answer. That was what Lord Beaumaris whispered to his son. He told him the precise co-ordinates of the object he was seeking!’

  ‘But where, ma’am? Where was the Viscount told to look? Where will we find it?’

  ‘You know, Flotsam,’ Mrs Hudson replied, her satisfaction undimmed, ‘I have absolutely no idea. But we can soon find out. Mr Spencer has a set of those government maps.’

  She pulled pencil and paper from the table drawer and began to write.

  ‘Quickly, Flottie, take these numbers to Bloomsbury Square and ask him if he can discover the place they refer to. I have one or two things I need to do, but I will follow you as soon as I can. And, Flotsam…’

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  She put her arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze.

  ‘We make progress, do we not?’

  *

  The burst of bright weather had come to an end, and my route to Bloomsbury Square lay through streets made bleak by a cold and dreary afternoon. The skies seemed to reflect the grey of the pavements, and carriages creaked over the cobblestones as though the damp had crept into their joints and rendered every movement painful. But I moved light-footed through the mud, a sense of discovery buoying my spirits and Mrs Hudson’s strange set of numbers running through my brain. Fifty four, fifty one, sixteen. Two, twenty eight, twenty five… What did they mean? What place were they pointing to? Soon we would know! Soon I would be the first person to hear the answer to Viscount Wrexham’s riddle…

  I arrived at the great house in Bloomsbury Square and was admitted by Reynolds, who appeared a little startled by the urgency of my knocking.

  ‘Quickly!’ I blurted out rather rudely, as soon as the door was open. ‘I have a message from Mrs Hudson for Mr Spencer. It’s terribly important! Is he at home?’

  Reynolds reassured me with a stately nod of his head. ‘Mr Spencer is in the library, miss. His lordship is also at home, having returned this morning from an extended visit to the country.’

  ‘The Irascible Earl!’ I quailed slightly. ‘Oh, dear! Is he in the library too?’

  ‘I believe his lordship is upstairs, miss. You should therefore be quite safe in the library for a short while.’

  I admit I was relieved. Everybody, even Miss Peters, was a little intimidated by the Earl of Brabham,
and his presence inevitably reduced me to a trembling silence. But instead I was welcomed into the library by Mr Spencer, who greeted me with a friendly grin.

  ‘Hello, Flotsam,’ he smiled, laying his book to one side and advancing to meet me. ‘Hetty is out, I’m afraid, if it was her you were hoping to see. I believe she’s shopping for bonnets, and therefore cannot be expected back for a very long time. In her absence, should I ring for tea?’

  But I waved this offer aside while I tried to explain as coherently as I could that it was him I had come to see, and that we urgently required his assistance. As I was still a little out of breath, perhaps I was not very clear, for when I had finished he still looked a little mystified.

  ‘So these numbers, you say, represent the resting place of the Lazarus Testament?’

  ‘Yes, sir. At least that’s what Mrs Hudson thinks.’

  ‘And who are we to question that, eh, Flotsam? Come, let us place her note here while I look for the appropriate maps…’

  While Mr Spencer browsed the shelves, Mrs Hudson’s scrap of paper was propped on a rather grand lectern, from where the mysterious numbers looked out at me, their secret still obscure.

  54 51 16

  02 28 25

  ‘Right, here we go!’ Mr Spencer heaved a huge volume onto the table in front of me. ‘It’s a map of the extreme north of England. A very special one, drawn up as part of a government survey. It comes in ten parts, but from a first glance at the numbers, I think this is the one we want. So, where shall we start…?’

  He peered at the numbers again.

  ‘That first line, they should be the northings, so we’ll take them first. Let me see… Fifty four degrees puts us in the north of England… Fifty one minutes… Sixteen seconds… See, Flotsam, we end up on a line that runs from the Solway Firth to the River Wear.’

  He paused and examined the next three numbers.

  ‘It isn’t explicit from Mrs Hudson’s note, but I think we can assume these next numbers must be west of the meridian. Otherwise they’d be landing us somewhere in the North Sea. So, if we find the line of two degrees west…’

  He turned the great heavy leaves until he found the page he was looking for.

  ‘Here we are, Flotsam. Now we move across to twenty eight minutes… and then twenty five seconds… And now we simply find where the two lines cross. Here. This is the place. According to Mrs Hudson, this is where we should be looking for the Lazarus Testament…’

  I peered at the point where his finger had come to rest. From the dark brown colours it seemed to be a place of hills and mountains.

  ‘Just here, Flotsam. See? A place called Broomheath Hall, near Alston in Cumberland. Does that mean anything to you? It looks a fairly remote sort of place to me…’

  But I didn’t reply. I simply wasn’t able to. My mind was racing. Broomheath Hall! Broomheath Hall! I thought of Mrs Summersby and of the strange goings on that were terrifying Mr Verity… And now, the Lazarus Testament! There, in exactly that place! What did it all mean, I asked myself. What did it mean?

  ‘Mrs Hudson, sir.’

  Reynolds’s cool tones shook me from my confusion, and there in the doorway stood the housekeeper herself, steady and calm and reassuringly ordinary.

  ‘Your timing is perfect, Mrs Hudson,’ Mr Spencer greeted her. ‘Come and see. We have located your treasure!’

  ‘And ma’am,’ I gasped, still wide-eyed with bewilderment, ‘you’ll never, ever guess where!’

  ‘Won’t I, Flotsam?’ she smiled, approaching the atlas. ‘I think you may be wrong about that. You see, on my way here, just as I was crossing Bedford Square to be precise, the thing that has been bothering me for so long suddenly became clear.’

  ‘And what was that, Mrs Hudson?’ Mr Spencer asked, bemused.

  ‘Something I should have seen a good deal sooner, sir. Flottie, do you remember when we visited Constable Dawson and asked him about Mr Swan’s destination on the day of his death? He made a stab at recalling where Mr Swan’s train ticket was made out for. Alnwick, he thought, or perhaps North Allerton. And he was so nearly right! That is why all this talk of Alston has been fretting me. Broomheath Hall, near Alston…’ she continued calmly, following Mr Spencer’s finger to the crucial point on the map, ‘Yes, that makes sense. And so, Flottie, the two lines meet! Alston is where Lord Beaumaris was heading, and it’s where Mr Swan was heading, too. And do you know, I find myself quite curious to pay the place a little visit myself…’

  *

  I must still have been reeling from the shock and surprise, for I passed the next ten minutes or so in something of a daze while Mrs Hudson explained to Rupert Spencer about the reports of peculiar events near Broomheath Hall.

  ‘Of course, sir, there was no reason then to connect any of those things with the Lazarus Testament. But now there’s every reason, and I’d very much like to hear a little more about Mr Verity’s strange happenings.’

  Mr Spencer rubbed his chin pensively.

  ‘But there is still one thing you haven’t explained to me, Mrs Hudson. How on earth did you manage to arrive at these co-ordinates? I can’t imagine what mechanism you used to tease them out of Viscount Wrexham’s note.’

  Mrs Hudson looked at him. ‘Really, sir, you surprise me. A young gentleman like yourself. Of course, the word Colonel was confusing, but luckily I knew someone who could help me with that.’

  ‘One of those cipher experts, Mrs Hudson?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir. I’m not sure they could have helped. They seem rather to have missed the point. No, I turned to someone much closer to home. I asked your uncle.’

  ‘My uncle?’ I had never seen Mr Spencer more astonished. ‘You mean, my uncle? The one upstairs? Lord Brabham? Him?’

  ‘Of course, sir. And here he is now. You can ask him about it yourself.’

  And sure enough, the door had opened to admit Rupert’s uncle, the Irascible Earl. He was a short, impeccably dressed figure but his brow was marked by a deep frown that gave him an unmistakeably ferocious air, made worse by his habit of stroking his clipped moustache in a distinctly threatening manner.

  ‘Eh? Rupert?’ he grunted. ‘What’s going on? Reynolds said there were callers. At this hour? Pah! Blasted tea scavengers! Where are they skulking? Let’s get rid of ’em so I can have a scotch. Ah, Mrs Hudson!’

  To my surprise, on discovering his guest’s identity the earl’s spirits seemed to revive.

  ‘Didn’t know it was you, Mrs Hudson. You won’t mind me drinking some whisky. Always were a sensible woman. Reynolds! Bring the tray. Well, Rupert, don’t just stand there like a blasted stuffed trout! Introduce me to this young lady.’

  ‘This is Miss Flotsam, Uncle,’ Mr Spencer explained. ‘You’ve met her before.’

  ‘Have I? Really?’ He studied me through his eyeglass for a moment. ‘Ah, yes. I remember. Bright girl. Doesn’t chatter. How d’you do?’

  Then, without paying me any further attention, he turned back to Mrs Hudson.

  ‘Got your note this morning,’ he told her. ‘Been away. Sent you a telegram.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. And very helpful it was, too. Once you’d jogged my memory, I remember that I’d heard of the incident before. Old Lord Dunwich complained about it well into his dotage. Very cross, he was.’

  Mr Spencer coughed politely. ‘Uncle, Mrs Hudson has been telling us that you’ve helped to decode a message which has defied the greatest cipher experts in the country.’

  ‘Eh? What’s that? Code? Cipher? Nonsense, my boy! You’re babbling like an imbecile. Yes, that’s right, Reynolds, just leave it there, and pour one out for me. Then line up a spare beside it, there’s a good fellow.’

  ‘Perhaps if you showed your uncle this, sir, he will understand…’

  I watched Mrs Hudson pass Mr Spencer a copy of the Viscount’s original message, which he in turn passed to the earl.

  Andover

  Teddington

  Prince Leopold

  Tyrant

/>   ?

  Colonel Middleton

  ‘Eh? What’s this? Ah, I see! Some chap’s been jotting down the names of old Derby winners. Let’s see. Andover won it in 1854. I was at Epsom for that one. Kissed a damn pretty girl near the winning post. And Teddington won two or three years earlier. ’51, it must have been. I remember I had a bit on the runner-up. The others were a bit before my time, of course. Prince Leopold is easy though. 1816, the year after Waterloo. How am I doing so far, Mrs Hudson?’

  ‘Full marks so far, sir.’

  The Earl’s moustache trembled slightly in what might have been a smile and he returned to the list in front of him.

  ‘Now, Tyrant goes right back. 1801, perhaps? No, must have been ’02. Charles Bunbury’s filly won in ’01. And Middleton won it in ’25. But the other one’s a load of nonsense. Ludicrous! The chap who made this list must be an idiot, Rupert! The Colonel might have won the St Leger but he never won the Derby. I was making that clear to Mrs Hudson only this morning!’

  Sensing that Mr Spencer was still confused, Mrs Hudson intervened.

  ‘Perhaps I should explain, sir. You see, one doesn’t spend as many years in servants’ halls as I have without becoming familiar with the names of Derby winners, even very old ones. For a week or so every June the talk is of little else. So as soon as I saw the Viscount’s note, I recognised five of the names. But I was also fairly sure no horse called The Colonel had ever won the race. And the Viscount clearly had his doubts too, which is why he preceded it with a question mark.’

  Mr Spencer looked at her. ‘Bear with me a moment, Mrs Hudson. You are telling us that the Viscount was using the names of racehorses to represent the numbers his father whispered to him?’

  ‘Of course, sir. It must have seemed more discreet than writing down the figures, and probably easier for him to remember. But when he came to one of the numbers, his memory failed him. And for a good reason. You see, in 1828 the first running of the Derby ended in a dead-heat.’

  ‘Ah! And that confused him?’

  ‘Yes, sir. In the pressure of the moment he could recall the horses involved in the close finish – but he couldn’t remember which one ended up the winner. So all I had to do, sir, was to write to your uncle and ask if he could recall which year a horse called The Colonel had come close to winning the Derby. His reply this morning supplied the year – and filled in the one missing number.’