by Mrs Hudson
To my surprise, this news was greeted by Mrs Hudson with quiet satisfaction. Far from despairing as another door closed in our faces, she seemed to take unusual comfort in this further proof of the problem’s impenetrability.
‘No Smith, no Pauncefoot…’ she murmured when Scraggs had left us. ‘Really, Flotsam, this grows more interesting by the day.’
And no Colonel Middleton either, it seemed, for the noises reaching Baker Street from Warminster were growing less and less encouraging. The following day, the gentlemen were back, disgruntled and weary, and in lower spirits than I had ever seen them. The Prince Leopold had proved a serviceable enough inn but nothing about it had suggested any connection to the Lazarus Testament. Neither the overt inquiries of the police nor the covert observations of Dr Watson and Sir Percival had succeeded in establishing any path for further investigation. No Colonel Middletons were known in the area. Teddington meant nothing to the people there, and Andover was known to them only as the place where the vicar had found his wife. The word tyrant simply made them think of Napoleon.
So the expedition returned, disconsolate. Sir Percival, it was understood, was expecting an extremely uncomfortable reception in Whitehall. Inspector Mapperley was grown so morose he barely spoke. That night Mr Holmes took up his violin and filled the house with another haunting melody.
Mrs Hudson, hearing it, shuddered a little, and sent me out to call on Mr Trelawney, the caretaker at the Albany, to ask him for a description of Viscount Wrexham’s valet.
*
Next morning, spring returned to the streets of London, filling them with a brightness and a freshness and a promise of warmth that could not help but lift my spirits. I had already run an errand to Covent Garden and another to Regent Street, and Mrs Hudson and I were at work washing up the breakfast things, when we heard a tentative tapping on the kitchen door. There, at the foot of the area steps, stood a woman of about sixty years of age, tidily but discreetly clad in mourning. From the manner of her dress, she might have been the widow of a shopkeeper but there was a pleasant brightness in her smile that belied the melancholy of her clothing.
‘Mrs Hudson?’ she asked, stepping cautiously inside and holding out her hand. ‘Mr Rumbelow sent me. My name is Elsie.’
Miss Elsie Blenkinsop turned out to be a woman of irrepressible good spirits, who, it seemed, had never allowed the reverses and the disappointments of her existence to alter her fundamental belief that life was as good as you made it, and that however bad things were, a person still had a lot to be thankful for. She perched on the edge of one of our kitchen chairs as lightly as a sparrow and filled the room with a warm breeze of good humour. And yet, her eyes were often full of tears, too, for the cause of her visit was a sad one. She lived in Brighton, she said, and she had seen Mrs Hudson’s advertisement in a local newspaper.
‘It came as a terrible shock to me,’ she told us, ‘because till then I’d no idea there was anything wrong with Bertie. I’d… I’d… Well, I’d been hoping that he might visit me…’
‘You were in touch with Mr Swan, then?’ Mrs Hudson asked gently.
‘No… Well, not for many years… It cut me up something terrible it did, once upon a time, his going away… Still, you have to make the best of these things don’t you? And I always knew he was doing what was right for him…’
Slowly and with great kindness, Mrs Hudson drew from her the full story.
Albert Swan and Elsie Blenkinsop, it emerged, had known each other as children. They were born in adjoining cottages in a village under the Downs and had been playmates from their earliest days. And they had been happy days, according to Miss Blenkinsop. The two of them were joined in their games by Bob, another child of the village, and the three of them were considered inseparable.
‘Oh, what days we had!’ Miss Blenkinsop sighed. ‘Climbing trees and pinching apples, fishing in the stream with hooks we made from old nails…’ She paused, as if to view again that sunny landscape. ‘I thought life would always be like that,’ she reflected.
But as the three children grew, they quickly found the world had other ideas. Elsie was found a place in service as scullery maid at the local manor, and Bob followed her there a few weeks later as boot boy. Albert, whose father had ambitions for him, was put to work as an errand boy with the local seed merchant.
‘He was always the golden one, was Bertie,’ Miss Blenkinsop remembered. ‘Bob was cleverer, perhaps, and everyone knew he’d do well for himself, but it was Bertie I preferred. He was strong and ever so cheerful and you always felt there was nothing he couldn’t do. He kissed me in the orchard one May Day and, you know, I thought I was the most blessed girl that ever lived.’
She laughed as she told us, but also dabbed at the corner of her eye with her handkerchief.
‘Of course, it couldn’t last. Bertie soon became a favourite with his boss and in the end got the chance to travel to South Africa. His boss knew someone there who could offer him a place. Oh, it was a great chance for him, no doubt about it, but I cried all night when he told me. He promised to write, and to be fair to him he kept his word for ten months or more. I still have the letters. But you know how these things go! We were only children really, and our lives were changing. First Bob left the village and went into service in a gentleman’s house in London, and then a little later Bertie’s letters stopped. I still wrote to him after that, but he’d moved lodgings and the letters all came back to me. A long time later I heard he’d done well for himself and married someone with money. And I was happy for him, I really was.’
Again she smiled at us, and Mrs Hudson reached out and touched her hand. ‘And you, Miss Blenkinsop? You never married?’
‘I’ve never had that happiness, Mrs Hudson. But I’ve had a full and useful life, and a happy one. I count myself a lucky woman.’
‘And recently you heard from Mr Swan again?’
Miss Blenkinsop nodded and gave a quick little smile. ‘Last summer, it was. Out of the blue, and after all those years! Quite knocked me back, it did! It was a lovely letter though. He said he wanted to apologise for losing touch and said how he blamed himself for it, and asked me to forgive him. Oh, and there was other stuff too. He said he was wealthy and a widower. And he told me that he was going to write to Bob too, and that he hoped to travel home at some point to see us both.’
Mrs Hudson nodded. ‘And that was the last you heard of him?’
‘Oh, no, Mrs Hudson! He wrote regularly after that, telling me about his plans.’ She blushed a little. ‘Very friendly letters, they were, and he was most definite about coming home. He said he’d always dreamed of seeing France, and he had a mind to take it in on his way back. He wrote to me from there, too. Very grand notepaper it was, from one of those fancy French hotels. And then, the next thing I know, your advertisement… Mr Rumbelow tells me he was hit by a carriage, ma’am?’
A tear rolled down her cheek and I found myself slipping from my seat to place an arm around her. As gently as I could, I told her about Mr Swan’s last moments and about his love for her. She cried in earnest then, and I think I joined her, and it was not until some time later, when tea and sponge cake had been served and Miss Blenkinsop’s smile restored, that any of us were in a fit state to return to the subject. Even then Mrs Hudson confined herself to a question about her childhood friend, Bob, and where he could be found.
‘Oh, Mrs Hudson!’ Miss Blenkinsop exclaimed, and her lips trembled. ‘Did I not tell you? Oh, I’m afraid my tale grows even sadder. You see, Bob is dead too.’ I saw her tears well up again, but she went on bravely. ‘Bertie wrote from the South of France and told me. He’d heard out there that Bob had found a new position. It was quite by chance that he heard about it. So he wrote to him at his new place, proposing to pay him a visit as soon as he got back to England. You can imagine his horror, ma’am, when he received a reply telling him that Bob had died of influenza within days of starting his new post. Bertie was terribly upset, I could tell. I think Bob
must have seemed like a long-lost brother to him. He said in his letter to me that he planned to cut short his stay in France and to visit the grave at the earliest opportunity. But given what happened, I don’t suppose he ever did…’
Miss Blenkinsop still looked tearful, but Mrs Hudson leaned forward with another question and there was a note of urgency in her voice.
‘Tell me,’ she urged, ‘was Bob’s name really “Robert”? And if so, what were his other initials? Could it be that his surname began with “P”?’
‘Why, yes, Mrs Hudson.’ Our visitor looked surprised. ‘It’s true his name was Robert. And his initials – well, we used to joke about them, although just now the joke doesn’t seem so funny. They were a bit sombre, you see. R.I.P, that’s what they were. And I truly hope that him and Bertie both rest in peace.’
And then, while Mrs Hudson and I were exchanging looks of triumph, Miss Blenkinsop went further.
‘Yes, R.I.P. That was his full name. They stood for Robert Inigo Pauncefoot.’
*
‘So let’s get this straight, Flottie,’ Mrs Hudson began when we returned to the kitchen after helping Miss Blenkinsop onto a bus bound for Victoria. ‘Viscount Wrexham disappeared last October. The following month, Robert Pauncefoot, his valet, takes up another appointment. We don’t know where, but Albert Swan knew, for he wrote to him there.’
I nodded. ‘What a shame he didn’t mention where Pauncefoot had gone in his letters to Elsie, ma’am.’
‘Indeed, Flotsam. Now, let’s see… Mr Swan is wintering in France when he receives a reply to his letter telling him Pauncefoot is dead. And if that letter was accompanied by the man’s watch, he would certainly not question the truth of such a claim. But who was that reply from?’
‘I suppose it was from Pauncefoot’s new employers, ma’am.’
‘Except, Flotsam, that Pauncefoot wasn’t dead, was he? For I’m sure Mr Swan caught sight of him that morning, on the way to the station. He was probably on his way to visit Pauncefoot’s grave at the time, so it’s hardly surprising he was a little rattled by it.’
‘If only Mr Swan’s things had not been sent back to South Africa, ma’am! If we could just see his papers…’
‘Yes, Flotsam. They would make interesting reading. I’d particularly like to know who wrote the letter about Pauncefoot’s death. Did they really think he was dead? Or were they part of the deception? Unfortunately, all Mr Swan’s things are likely to be in transit to the Cape for some time to come.’
‘And in the meantime, ma’am, I just don’t understand why anyone would make it up about Pauncefoot’s death. I mean, we’ve worked out why Viscount Wrexham might want to disappear, but no one was looking for Pauncefoot. Why pretend he’s dead?’
Mrs Hudson shook her head in mystification.
‘These are shifting sands, Flottie. It seems certain that the Viscount is up to something, but are we any closer to working out what? Or, for that matter, where?’
These were questions I never answered because just then the second significant event of the day occurred: the arrival of Mr Rumbelow, red-faced and in some disarray, a telegram in his hand.
‘Mrs Hudson!’ he exclaimed. ‘Thank goodness you are here! I wished to consult you… This telegram just in… From my friend Verity… Most urgent…’
Mrs Hudson and I put our heads together to peer at the scrap of paper placed before us. And what we saw was enough to assure us that, on this occasion at least, Mr Rumbelow’s agitation was entirely justified.
GRAVES OPENED IN ALSTON STOP GHOST OF SUICIDE WALKING STOP ANCIENT CURSE UNLEASHED STOP FOR GODS SAKE SEND HELP
VERITY
Chapter IX
The Viscount’s Question Mark
The kettle was bubbling on the stove and the spring sunlight was etching pale diamonds on the kitchen floor by the time Mr Rumbelow was recovered sufficiently to complete his sentences. Alarmed at the urgent tone of his friend’s message, and unable to find a hansom cab, he had come to us on foot, in a great hurry, and Mr Rumbelow was not a man built for speed over distance.
‘You must excuse me,’ he kept gasping. ‘Such an intrusion… So melodramatic… And, oh dear me, such a warm day for the time of year, is it not?’ And with that he would dab his forehead with his handkerchief, still perspiring slightly from his great haste.
But finally, refreshment having been administered and his breath restored, we were ready to discuss Mr Verity’s extraordinary telegram.
‘The thing is, Mrs Hudson,’ our visitor remarked, ‘I honestly don’t know what to make of it. Either a genuine emergency has occurred, or else my friend Verity is simply going mad. Either way, I think it is imperative that his plea is not ignored. Would Mr Holmes and Dr Watson be prepared to travel to Alston, do you think?’
Mrs Hudson looked grave. ‘I fear, sir, that both are committed to this case of Sir Percival’s.’
‘Then I must plead with them, Mrs Hudson! At the very least, if Dr Watson could be spared for a few days… As a medical man, he would be ideally placed to decide if Verity’s sanity should concern us. Do you think I should write to Mr Holmes at once, placing the situation before him and begging for his assistance?’
‘As you see fit, sir,’ Mrs Hudson allowed, ‘but I understood that your interview with the young lady staying at Broomheath Hall had served to reassure you that Mr Verity’s concerns were unfounded?’
The solicitor rubbed his nose where his spectacles pinched them.
‘It had, Mrs Hudson, it had. Mrs Summersby seems a most composed and level-headed young lady. The idea of Mr Holmes travelling all the way to Alston on her account filled her with horror, didn’t it, Flotsam?’
‘Yes, sir. She didn’t seem at all alarmed by the events Mr Verity described.’
‘But now I fear I was wrong to ignore his entreaty. It is clear that he feels the want of my assistance most acutely. I would go myself without delay if my affairs here allowed it. But in the meantime, I shall definitely write to Mr Holmes…’
And with this intention still clearly at the forefront of his mind, Mr Rumbelow departed, leaving a very small frown on Mrs Hudson’s brow.
‘Graves opened in Alston,’ she mused, quoting from the telegram. ‘There’s something there I can’t quite put my finger on, Flottie…’
‘It does seem very sinister, doesn’t it, ma’am?’
‘And I feel there is something I ought to be grasping, Flottie, something which persists in eluding me…’
And for the rest of the day Mrs Hudson spoke little, but went about her duties with a face clouded by thought.
After a day of such excitements, I might have expected the pace of life to revert to a more gentle rhythm, but the following morning brought Mr Rumbelow’s letter. It happened that Mrs Hudson and I were both in the study, laying out the breakfast things, when Mr Holmes was opening his post. He did this seated in his armchair, smoking his first pipe of the day, and when we heard him utter a low exclamation, Mrs Hudson and I exchanged glances.
‘Something interesting, Holmes?’ Dr Watson asked, looking up from his newspaper.
‘Very possibly, Watson, very possibly.’ I saw he held a single sheet of paper in his hands and was scanning it intently. ‘It may be nothing, of course, but I believe I should look into it. It might perhaps prove rewarding.’
Mrs Hudson coughed discreetly. ‘Might it by any chance be from Mr Rumbelow, sir?’ she asked.
Mr Holmes looked up at her.
‘Not at all, Mrs Hudson. Mr Rumbelow’s communication is this one here.’ He fumbled amongst the other papers that had arrived that morning. ‘His would seem to be rather less germane to the matter in hand. Nevertheless, we must do what we can to assist him. Watson,’ he announced airily, ‘you must go and see Mr Rumbelow at once. He has a friend called Verity who appears to be suffering from delusions, and a diagnosis is required. Somewhere out of town – his letter doesn’t specify where, precisely, but it is unlikely to take you long, and I will be able t
o spare you for the next few days.’
‘Really, Holmes!’ Dr Watson protested. ‘I’m sure there’s any number of medical men Mr Rumbelow could approach, and I’m still up to my neck in this business of Sir Percival’s. I like to believe I may still be of some help with it,’ he finished rather stiffly.
‘I’m sure you may, Watson, but we cannot let down Mr Rumbelow. And besides, this other note I have received will take me out of town for a spell. It concerns the Lazarus Testament and it represents something a bit more solid than the Viscount’s peculiar note. Anonymous, I fear, and you know how I usually scorn such communications, but the writer appears well informed and we have little enough to go on just now. Yes, I shall make a point of investigating. Mrs Hudson, you should expect us both to be gone for a few days. I’m sure you will welcome a little peace and quiet in our absence.’
‘And if I need to contact you, Holmes?’ Watson asked.
‘Then you must wait, my friend. I shall be travelling incognito as I have no wish to advertise my presence. You must rely on me to contact you when the time is right. And now, to work!’
And with this rallying call, he leaned back in his armchair and, with evident satisfaction, drew deeply and languorously on his pipe.
It did not take long for Dr Watson to follow Mrs Hudson and myself down to the kitchen, his honest face betraying his distress.
‘Sorry to intrude, Mrs Hudson,’ he began, ‘but I wondered if you happened to know exactly where it is that Holmes is sending me? A fellow would like to have some idea of his movements, after all. I sometimes think Holmes forgets that other people may have affairs of their own they need to attend to…’
