by Mrs Hudson
Very hastily, I introduced her to Dr Watson and explained that he was Mr Holmes’s closest colleague.
‘Delighted to meet you, Doctor.’ She held out her hand to him. ‘I’m afraid my husband is not here to welcome you. Flotsam has no doubt told you that he’s a fiend for Roman remains!’
Mrs Summersby, in a green day-dress that set off her pale skin, was looking every bit as beautiful as I remembered her, and Dr Watson was clearly impressed, mumbling a compliment and hoping rather incoherently that our visit was not inconvenient.
‘Not at all, Doctor. Visitors are a rare treat for me!’
‘I must say, Mrs Summersby, that this is a very remote spot. I’m surprised that a young lady such as yourself can be content in such a place. It must seem very lonely.’
‘Oh, not at all! I love your beautiful English countryside, and Broomheath Hall is the sort of building that the folks dream about back in Boston! So romantic! Sometimes I feel like a princess in a fairytale in this wonderful old house.’
‘But with no visitors, and nothing in the way of entertainment…’
‘I make my own, Doctor! I’m quite the bookworm, you know. A man in Charing Cross sends me five volumes a month. And there is sewing to do, and the house to manage, and it’s my job to look after my husband’s notes and diagrams. And when all that palls, I explore Broomheath! How could one possibly be bored in a mysterious old place like this?’
So bright was her smile that both Dr Watson and I found ourselves returning it. Then, remembering himself, Dr Watson pursed his lips.
‘But recent events, madam… The disappearance of this poor fellow Crummoch…’
Mrs Summersby’s pretty face fell into a frown.
‘That poor man! I understand he was a little deranged. The police inspector who called here seemed to think he had taken it into his head to leave Alston for a bit. Apparently it is not uncommon for him to disappear in this way.’
‘But his boots, madam! Those bloody boots of his!’ Dr Watson paused and flushed slightly at this unfortunate phrase. ‘I just meant to say, surely the police must fear the worst?’
‘Oh, Dr Watson!’ Mrs Summersby waved one delicate, gloved hand. ‘Those boots are a prank, surely? Everyone says so. You cannot seriously believe that an old man has been dragged underground by a malevolent spirit?’ She permitted herself the smallest of smiles. ‘My husband and I feel sure that Old Crummoch’s boots represent a rather unpleasant joke by someone who wants to scare his new Yankee neighbours.’
‘Well, I don’t deny it’s put the wind up me!’ Dr Watson grunted. ‘But what about all those mysterious lights on the moor that Verity has told me about. Seen any of those?’
But Mrs Summersby, in her pretty way, laughed away all rumours of supernatural activity at Broomheath, refusing to give them any credence at all.
‘I’m sure the mysterious lamps are simply those of poachers, Doctor. As for the sightings of Mr Baldwick’s ghost, well, one man in a cape looks very much like another. My husband thinks they are badger-baiters, and threatens to go out one night to see them off with his gun! I’m terribly afraid, Doctor, that you’ve come all this way on something of a wild goose chase.’
Dr Watson, however, for as long as he was sitting opposite her at the tea table, seemed quite content to have made the long journey.
‘I believe your husband is interested in antiquities, madam. Does he spend every day up at the Wall?’
‘Oh, no, Doctor. Perhaps he will when the days grow longer. But for now he is making a study of the Roman Camp a little west of here, across the river. You will have passed it on the train. He is carrying out some small digs there, and in other places. Scratching around, he calls it, which sounds very American the way he says it.’
Dr Watson cleared his throat.
‘It is only fair I should warn you, Mrs Summersby, that we have our own theory about these sightings. You see, it seems that some sort of ancient artefact might be concealed somewhere around here, and that some unscrupulous fellows are out to find it. I’d ask you and your husband to be very careful, and I daresay it would be prudent to keep your doors firmly locked at night.’
But instead of appearing alarmed at this warning, Mrs Summersby merely opened her eyes very wide.
‘An ancient artefact! Why, that’s just what our visit needs to make it perfect! Just like something out of a dusty old English novel! What sort of thing is it, Doctor? Would I recognise it? Perhaps we can help you find it!’
‘Well I’m sure we’d be delighted…’ Dr Watson began, before remembering himself. ‘But of course it wouldn’t be fair to involve you in any way. As I say, these are dangerous men. They are looking for some sort of old manuscript, and that’s all we know. I suggest that you take great care about admitting strangers.’
‘Why, of course, Doctor. Thank you so much for alerting us.’
In reply, Dr Watson seemed on the brink of further gallantries but was cut short by the return of Mr Summersby, still muddy from his activities on the moors. Perhaps it was wrong of me to have an idea of what an amateur antiquarian should look like, but I confess that Mr Summersby was not what I’d expected. He proved to be an unusually large man, ox-like in construction: broad where his wife was slight and dainty, unsmiling where she was full of laughter. To me, he looked more like a prize-fighter than an archaeologist, but without any of the secret kindness that sometimes lurks in the face of a man who fights for his living. He was very silent too. After grunting a greeting to Dr Watson and myself, he said very little, speaking only when his wife addressed him directly. If I was a little surprised that the vivacious Mrs Summersby had chosen such a sullen husband, it also struck me that perhaps in some ways their opposite qualities might make them a suitable pairing.
It was not until Mrs Summersby rang for the maid to show us out that Dr Watson asked the question I had been bursting to ask since our arrival.
‘Almost forgot, madam. There was one other thing. We’re trying to track down someone who might have come to Alston a little before you did. A man called Pauncefoot. We know he took a job in service somewhere, and we think it might have been around here. Probably not any more though. We think he might be dead.’
Mrs Summersby’s face clouded with genuine astonishment.
‘Pauncefoot? Dead? But that’s absurd, Doctor. He brought us our breakfasts this very morning. Today is his afternoon off, or you could see for yourself. Why on earth are you looking for him?’
It was Dr Watson’s turn to look thunderstruck.
‘What? Pauncefoot here? At Broomheath?’ My companion was clearly as startled as I was. ‘My word! But that’s remarkable news, isn’t it, Flotsam? As for why we’re looking for him, madam, I assure you it is nothing that should worry you. We simply wish to ask him some questions about one of his former employers. Would you happen to know when he will be back?’
‘Not till after dusk, I’m afraid, Doctor. Pauncefoot likes to spend his free time tramping over the moors. We’ve always felt it was a very wholesome way for a butler to spend his leisure hours. But, of course, if you were to call again tomorrow…’
The light was fading when Dr Watson and I, having said our goodbyes, once again clambered onto Mr Verity’s trap. In such treacherous light, Dr Watson had eyes only for the narrow road ahead, but I was free to look around, at the rising flanks of the moors that crowded upon us. As we left Broomheath Hall behind us, I felt sure I noticed a movement below the skyline. Was that a solitary figure descending towards the Hall? I felt sure it was, not least because the profile I glimpsed against the pale bracken was a striking one: with a luxuriant beard below its face and a smooth, bald pate above it.
*
Dr Watson and I returned to Broomheath Hall the following day but this time we did not call at the front door. Instead of borrowing Mr Verity’s trap, we took the little train from Alston as far as Kirkhaugh, the first stop, a remote station used only by farmers and sportsmen and by visitors to Broomheath Hall, which lay
about half a mile away down a rough track. We were determined that our visit should be an unofficial one, catching Pauncefoot alone, and not a formal interview in the Summersby’s imposing sitting room.
The walk to the hall was a lonely one. Only once did we see another living creature, when Dr Watson exclaimed and pointed, but by the time I had turned to look there was nothing to see.
‘Probably just a deer, Flotsam,’ he decided. ‘Looked a bit like a man in a cape for a moment. Just there, behind that outcrop of rock on the skyline. But these empty landscapes play tricks on you. I remember once in Afghanistan…’
He chattered on, but after that we both kept a keener lookout. Even so, we saw no other sign of life until we reached the hall, not even a stray sheep grazing the moor.
By arriving on foot we were able to approach the rear of the house unseen. Dr Watson rapped briskly at the servants’ door with his walking stick and after a short pause the door was opened by the butler, an imposing figure, as bald and as bearded as the descriptions of him had suggested. He was dressed in his shirt sleeves, with a tea cloth over his shoulder.
‘Yes?’ he asked, his manner rather curt. ‘Can I be of assistance, sir?’
‘Indeed!’ replied Dr Watson, ‘I’m sure you can. My name is Dr John Watson and I am an associate of Mr Sherlock Holmes. Robert Inigo Pauncefoot, we have come to ask about your watch.’
Of one thing there could be no doubt: Mrs Summersby’s butler knew how to keep his head. A flicker of surprise passed over his face at Dr Watson’s question but he betrayed not one jot of fear or anxiety.
‘My watch, sir? Very well. Perhaps you would be so good as to step inside?’
We were ushered into the butler’s room, a small but comfortable retreat with sporting prints on the walls, littered with all the usual paraphernalia of a superior male servant, from boot trees and silver polish to back copies of sporting periodicals.
‘I take it that you don’t deny being Viscount Wrexham’s former valet?’ Dr Watson asked. ‘Or that you were in his service at the time of his disappearance?’
‘Really, sir, I can see no reason why I should deny any such thing. I am proud to have been in the Viscount’s service. And, of course, when applying for my current post I furnished the London agency with full details of my former employment.’
He turned away for a moment to slip into his jacket and when he turned to face us he seemed the picture of a perfect servant.
‘So how do you come to be here at Broomheath, then?’ I could sense that Dr Watson was a little disconcerted by the fellow’s perfect composure, but he was not yet ready to cede the initiative.
‘I applied for the position shortly after the Viscount disappeared, sir.’
‘And why was that? What was the attraction of Broomheath Hall? Come, man, tell us the truth!’
The butler looked slightly offended.
‘Certainly, sir. It would not have occurred to me to do otherwise. You will appreciate, sir, that the Viscount’s sudden disappearance left me in an awkward position. The death of Lord Beaumaris occurred almost simultaneously and it was unclear how the estate stood. Not to put too fine a point upon it, sir, it was far from certain that my salary would be paid, and if so, by whom. It was imperative to find alternative employment.’
‘And you ask us to believe that you just happened to end up in Alston?’
Once again the butler looked a little pained by my companion’s tone.
‘It would be impertinent to make any such request, sir. But the truth is that this position was advertised at a very timely moment. And clearly, sir, the opportunity to move from the position of valet to that of butler is an advantageous one for someone who wishes to improve his prospects. I understood the Summersbys to be respectable employers, even if American, and although their establishment proves a rather unconventional one, I have hopes the post will lead to better things.’
Dr Watson looked unconvinced by this display of sang froid, and I could see he still felt his hand was a winning one.
‘Well, let me put things to you another way, Pauncefoot. The Viscount disappeared in early October. You replied to the agency’s advertisement towards the end of that month. I telegraphed them last night and received a reply this morning. They tell me you provided an excellent testimonial from Viscount Wrexham himself. So tell me this: if the Viscount had disappeared three weeks earlier, how was he able to provide you with a letter of reference at the end of October?’
Dr Watson delivered the question with the air of a cross-examining counsel sensing a witness at his mercy. Unfortunately, instead of crumbling under this interrogation, the butler appeared utterly unmoved.
‘I understand your confusion, sir. Perhaps it would help if I explained that I had already informed the Viscount of my intention to seek a new position before his unfortunate disappearance. He was good enough to provide me with a written testimonial at that time. I am confident that an examination of the date on the document would support this.’
‘I see.’ Dr Watson was beginning to look a little crestfallen at his inability to pin the witness down. ‘And you just decided to leave, did you? Weren’t you happy with the Viscount?’
‘Most content, sir. But I had been his valet for many years. If I wished to advance myself, a change was inevitable.’
‘And I suppose you’ll expect me to believe you’ve never heard of the Lazarus Testament, either?’
The butler’s face was innocence itself.
‘The Lazarus Testament? I fear I am not familiar with anything by that name.’
‘But confound it, Pauncefoot,’ Dr Watson exploded. ‘This is preposterous! What about all this pretending to be dead then?’
‘Dead, sir?’
‘Yes, dead! Your old friend Albert Swan wrote to you to propose a visit, and he received a reply telling him you’d died of a fever!’
‘A fever, sir? I can assure you that was not the case. I have been in excellent health for many years. And I received no letter from Mr Swan. May I ask who told him such a wicked lie?’
Dr Watson turned a little pale and, if it is possible for a gentleman to gnash his teeth, I believe he gnashed them then.
‘Well, we don’t know that for certain yet. But someone did. Dammit, they sent him this!’
And with that Dr Watson pulled from his pocket the silver fob-watch we had obtained from the Marylebone police, an object he brandished under the butler’s nose.
‘I suppose you’ll deny this is yours, will you?’
‘On the contrary, sir,’ Pauncefoot replied, taking it from Dr Watson and studying it closely. ‘I was given this watch as a young man and kept it for many years. You will observe my initials on the back. I was most upset when it was lost.’
‘Lost, Pauncefoot? Lost? When was that?’
The butler considered for a moment. ‘Three or four months before I left London, sir. I believe the chain must have broken.’
‘So how do you explain the fact that the watch was found on your old friend Swan when he was knocked down by a carriage?’
‘I can offer no explanation, sir. I confess myself mystified.’ He seemed to notice a mark on his cuff and began to examine it. ‘Is Mr Swan not able to explain it, sir?’
‘Mr Swan is dead, Pauncefoot.’
The butler clicked his tongue sympathetically.
‘I am very sorry to hear that, sir. As you say, we were old friends.’ But from where I was standing, watching him closely, the emotion that flickered across his face seemed closer to relief than to loss.
‘And what if I told you, Pauncefoot, that we believe Mr Swan saw you in London on the day of his death?’
The butler raised an eyebrow. ‘Most unlikely, sir. Of course, you have not been good enough to inform me on what day Mr Swan met with his end, but as Mrs Summersby will no doubt confirm, since taking up my post here last November I have travelled no further than Hexham, where from time to time I visit a god-daughter of mine.’
Dr Watson glanced a
cross at me. The conversation was not unfolding as we had planned and I could see he was struggling to control his frustration.
‘So tell me, Pauncefoot, am I to understand that you have had no contact whatsoever with the Viscount since his disappearance?’
‘I regret to say I have not, sir.’
‘And do you have any theory about what has become of him?’
‘It is not my place to theorise, sir. But I am hopeful that some day the Viscount will reappear with his fortunes restored. He is not one to allow life’s trials to triumph over him, sir.’
‘But what about his ring, Pauncefoot?’
‘His ring, sir?’
‘Someone handed it in to a police station saying they’d found it on the banks of the Thames. In fact, the person who handed it in bore a remarkable resemblance to you! The constable on duty remembers it most clearly.’
‘Really, sir? How interesting. Of course, sir, one tends to find that, to many people, all tall, bald-headed men with beards look very much alike. It is a phenomenon I have often remarked upon.’
Dr Watson puffed out his cheeks.
‘So that’s your story, is it? You claim to know nothing of the Lazarus Testament, nothing of Viscount Wrexham’s whereabouts, nothing about him being dead, and you claim it is pure chance that you have ended up in Alston?’
The butler bowed respectfully. ‘That describes my position with admirable clarity, sir.’
‘Well, I must say I don’t believe a word of it, Pauncefoot! And I’ve a good mind to tell Mrs Summersby that you are not to be trusted. Come, Flotsam! Let us find a more profitable way to spend our day!’
And with that we left the field a defeated force, making the long trudge back to the station with morose faces and the suspicion that we had merely put an enemy on his guard.
*
We retreated to the cosy front parlour of the Angel, where a generously laid tea tray awaited us, with Mrs Hudson sitting beside it.
‘It cannot be coincidence that has brought him here, confound his impudence!’ Dr Watson insisted, when the tea had been poured and the sandwiches shared. ‘The fellow’s lying, I’m sure of it! But we can talk to Mrs Summersby and see to it that he is sent away with his tail between his legs, Mrs Hudson!’
