Mrs Hudson and the Lazarus Testament

by Mrs Hudson

  The housekeeper pursed her lips.

  ‘I think we can assume that his presence here is part of a plan to recover the Lazarus Testament, sir. Presumably his plan is to locate the document discreetly, without alerting the Summersbys to his search.’

  ‘Spade in hand and wearing a cape like Mr Baldwick’s, ma’am?’ I suggested.

  ‘Precisely, Flotsam. He cannot easily search by day without attracting notice. So he goes about his business at night, assisted somewhat by the superstitious natures of Alston’s poachers, who give him a wide berth. The good news, of course, is that Pauncefoot has shown no sign of leaving Broomheath, which means he is still looking. It is when he quits his position here that we have reason to be anxious.’

  Dr Watson nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see what you mean, Mrs Hudson. So all in all, you think we’re probably better off letting him stay at the Hall where we can keep on eye on him? Yes, I can see that… Even so, I might have a word with the station master here and ask him to alert us if Pauncefoot buys a ticket out.’

  ‘But, Mrs Hudson,’ I wondered, putting into words the question that most bothered me, ‘where is the Viscount in all this? Is he just leaving the whole thing to Pauncefoot? Or is he planning to take a hand in the search himself? Isn’t it worrying, not knowing what he’s up to?’

  Dr Watson clattered down his tea cup. ‘Good lord! You don’t think perhaps he’s dead after all? Perhaps his ring really was found by a stranger who just happened to look a bit like Pauncefoot?’

  Mrs Hudson shook her head but I thought she looked troubled.

  ‘That whole business of the ring and the body is all too neat, sir. If you wanted to persuade people you were drowned, it would not be difficult to wait until an unrecognisable corpse was discovered and then to arrange for an accomplice to place something of yours close to it, suggesting the body is yours.’ Her frown deepened. ‘I was sure in my own mind that it was Pauncefoot who handed in that ring. And sure it was Pauncefoot who Mr Swan saw in London. Could he really have been here up here all the time?’

  ‘There is one other thing, Mrs Hudson,’ Dr Watson put in. ‘Mr Verity was telling me that he met a birdwatcher on the moors the last time he drove over to Allendale. A dishevelled chap, he said. And it occurs to me that someone posing as an ornithologist would get to wander the moors unquestioned and spy on anything he wanted. Could that perhaps be the Viscount?’

  ‘Who can say, sir? Now, if you will excuse me, I am eager to visit the shops here before they close. Will you accompany me, Flotsam? Why, whatever’s the matter? You look very serious.’

  ‘It’s nothing, ma’am,’ I reassured her, scrambling to my feet. But I was not being entirely truthful. Dr Watson’s words had set me thinking about the hooded figure I’d seen in the shadows of Baker Street. A figment of my imagination? Or the vanished peer, keeping watch? Perhaps the latter… After all, I was not so foolish as to let myself imagine that the shade of Lazarus himself might really be standing guard over his last testament…

  No, that was nonsense. I was safe with Mrs Hudson, and we were going shopping. Even if the Viscount was out there, watching us, there was nothing to fear. If I shivered a little as I followed the housekeeper out of the parlour and into the dark corridor beyond, it was merely the cold of the evening seeping in from the street.

  *

  If any sight was guaranteed to raise my spirits, it was the scene that greeted us in the little shop opposite the Angel Inn. Part drapery, part haberdashery, and in all other parts a purveyor of general goods, it was a cosy and welcoming place, its small counter dwarfed by the boxes stacked high around its walls, its displays presenting in tempting fashion everything from lengths of Indian silk to patent remedies against the hiccoughs. It was to this place that the townsfolk of Alston repaired for all manner of commonplace items and, as Mrs Hudson informed me, for all manner of gossip.

  ‘Mrs Thimbly is something of a local oracle, it appears, Flotsam, to be consulted on every matter of importance in Alston and its surroundings. I spent a considerable part of yesterday afternoon winning her confidence, even though doing so involved the purchase of a rather garish length of purple ribbon and one or two secrets concerning Dr Watson’s rakish past.’

  ‘Goodness, ma’am! I didn’t know Dr Watson had a rakish past!’

  ‘Neither did Dr Watson. We shall just have to hope that he and Mrs Thimbly never compare notes.’

  The purpose of our visit that afternoon was the purchase of certain embroidery materials required by Mrs Hudson to assist Mrs Garth with a new sampler for her parlour. At such a late hour, we found the shop empty but for the shopkeeper and a well-built young girl in a shawl who appeared to be coming to the end of a very long list of purchases.

  ‘That’s everything, ma’am, but for the shaving soap and another jar of styptic powder. He says the brands you sent last time will do very well for him. And everything to go on the Hall account, if you please, ma’am.’

  To say that Mrs Hudson and I pricked up our ears when we heard this would not, anatomically speaking, be accurate, but it would certainly convey our quickening interest. We drew a little closer, and waited until the transactions of our fellow shopper were complete.

  ‘Ah, good evening, Mrs Hudson!’ Mrs Thimbly greeted her like an old friend. ‘This must be your young travelling companion. Flotsam, is it not? Mrs Hudson has been telling me all about you, Flotsam.’ And she gave me a smile so full of unspoken complicity that for a moment I was quite distracted, trying to imagine what wicked indiscretions Mrs Hudson might have ascribed to me.

  ‘This is Martha Trotter,’ the shopkeeper went on. ‘Her father farms a few acres over at Deep Bottom, and Martha works as a maid at Broomheath Hall. Mrs Hudson is up from London, Martha,’ she added proudly, as though such a metropolitan clientele reflected well upon her business. ‘She hopes to meet her second-cousin here. He is a footman on the other side of Allendale. They haven’t set eyes on each other for fifteen years.’

  The introductions having been made to her satisfaction, she departed to search for the items Mrs Hudson required. Mrs Hudson was, I noticed, unusually specific about shades and specifications, therefore securing for us at least a minute or two or Martha’s uninterrupted company.

  ‘Broomheath Hall?’ Mrs Hudson began. ‘How do you like it there?’

  ‘Very nice, ma’am.’ Martha bobbed politely.

  ‘They are kind to you there? I have been told they are very strict.’

  ‘Oh, no, ma’am! Mrs Summersby is always very friendly. Very condescending, she is. Dad says it’s her being an American and them not having any social higher-archery over there. But she’s always very kind to me.’

  ‘And the butler? His name is Pauncefoot, is it not?’

  The young girl blushed a little. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ve heard he’s a very mysterious character.’

  ‘Mysterious, ma’am? Oh, no, not at all. I thought he was very grand at first, ma’am, but really…’ She hesitated, clearly unsure how to proceed. ‘Well, he’s a terrible flirt, ma’am! And him older than my dad! Always teasing me, he is, and telling me I’m pretty. Mildred – she’s the girl that cooks, ma’am – she calls him my admirer!’

  From the manner of her blushing, it seemed that Martha did not find such badinage altogether unpleasant.

  ‘Gracious me!’ Mrs Hudson managed to sound suitably scandalised. ‘I confess I’m surprised. I’d heard he was a solitary fellow, much given to walking on the moors.’

  Martha considered this. ‘Well, ma’am, he does take a walk when he can. He calls it his constitutional. He sometimes asks me to go with him, but usually I have to stay back in case Mrs Summersby rings for something. Mildred gets very flustered by the bell, she does.’

  ‘Well, well. And what about all these stories of strange goings on? Have you seen any ghosts there, child?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that, ma’am. I sleep out, you see. But my dad says it’s an old poacher trick – telling
scary tales so as no one respectable dares go out after nightfall.’

  Mrs Hudson accepted this wisdom with a nod.

  ‘He sounds very wise, Martha. Now, don’t let me keep you from your errands. Do they bring you to Mrs Thimbly’s very often?’

  ‘Every week, ma’am. I likes it, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, you certainly have a long list to get through. Do you draw it up yourself?’

  ‘Oh, no, ma’am. Mr Pauncefoot makes the list, ma’am, him being the butler an’ all, and there being no housekeeper, just me and Mildred.’

  ‘I see. And no doubt Mr and Mrs Summersby ask for certain purchases too?’

  ‘I don’t think so, ma’am. Their things is sent up from London, you see. And sometimes even from America, too.’

  Mrs Hudson nodded again. ‘Yes, of course. They would be.’

  ‘Well, if that’s all, ma’am… Thank you, ma’am…’ Martha bobbed again by way of leave-taking, before scurrying from the shop.

  On Mrs Thimbly’s return, Mrs Hudson seemed less inclined to chat but, even so, no polite retreat was possible until recipes for lavender jelly had been exchanged and the shopkeeper had revealed which local butcher could be best trusted for a good piece of tripe. When we finally regained the street, Mrs Hudson chuckled to herself.

  ‘Well, Flotsam, I found all that extremely interesting. I think I begin to see the light.’

  ‘Do you, ma’am?’ I asked doubtfully, aware that I seemed to have learned very little of any significance, other than Mrs Thimbly’s special recipe for dumplings.

  ‘Well, Flottie, let’s just say that our meeting with Martha has made me think it’s time I paid a little visit to Broomheath Hall. And, Flottie, I need to write to Mr Rumbelow at once. I am going to recommend he spends a few days in the South Downs. It is beautiful there in spring. I think he will find a short stay there very beneficial.’

  That evening Dr Watson visited us in Mrs Garth’s parlour, and between us we passed a happy evening. I crept into my bed that night full of happy and optimistic thoughts. And yet, although I fell asleep straightaway, there came a moment in the night when I stirred and found my body tense and my mind alert, charged with an overwhelming certainty that there was something I needed to do. I lay for a moment, confused by my strange surroundings, trying to bring my thoughts into focus. And then I heard something – the sound of horse’s hooves – and I knew what it was that had roused me. The sound came from the street, I realised: hooves falling softly, as if the rider was loath to wake the town.

  I slipped from under the blankets and reached for my shawl. The room I’d been given looked out over the rear of the inn but I remembered a window on the half-landing from which it was possible to see the road…

  The door of my room creaked a little as I opened it but the sound made little impression on the heavy silence of the sleeping inn. When I reached the window, the scene below me was lit only by moonlight. I couldn’t be sure of the hour but I knew it was the very dead of night, and Alston slept. Not a single window showed a light, not a curtain twitched, not one shutter stood open. The only moving thing was the horseman, picking his way down the hill, his face and form concealed by the folds of his cloak. But as he reached the Angel Inn and came to the point in the road directly below me, it was as if he felt the weight of my gaze fastened upon him. Slowly – so slowly – he turned his head and looked directly at my window. And as he looked his hood fell back a little and I saw his face: ancient, worn, wearied as if by infinite time; eyes dark, a proud nose, skin brown and deeply lined. It was a face of the desert, weathered by wind and sand, and scarred by suffering. Our eyes met. Then, with that same deliberation, he raised his hand in greeting. And before I could move or shrink away he had passed me and was gone, sliding back into the shadows.

  A stranger, certainly. The watcher in Baker Street? I couldn’t be sure. But of one thing I had no doubt: this solitary rider was not Viscount Wrexham, nor anyone like him. Whatever had brought him to Alston, whatever he sought, his road had been a long one. And it had begun in a land very different from my own.

  Chapter XII

  The Watcher

  I woke the following morning to discover that Mrs Hudson had risen early and had already left the house. The message entrusted to Mrs Garth proved a little cryptic as to her intentions.

  ‘Now, let me see, Flotsam. What was it she said? Something about wanting to practise the piano. At least I think that’s what she said, though it sounds a bit peculiar, doesn’t it, dear? I mean, why should she need to? I told her that the rector has a very fine instrument but she just smiled and said she was setting her sights somewhat lower, and would I tell you to meet the gentleman off the ten o’clock train?’

  ‘The gentleman?’ I looked at her a little blankly.

  ‘Yes, dear. He wired yesterday about a room. When I mentioned it to Mrs Hudson this morning she said you were acquainted with him. A Mr Spencer, is it? Yes, I think that was his name…’

  And so it proved, for when the train pulled in that morning, Rupert Spencer was the first passenger out of it, his bag in his hand, a travel coat over his shoulder and a spring in his step.

  ‘Hello, Flotsam!’ he greeted me brightly. ‘Well, here I am. I understand you have work for me?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure we do, sir. But to be honest, sir, I didn’t even know you were coming this morning.’

  He looked apologetic. ‘Of course. You must have been expecting me last night. In my defence, I set off almost as soon as I received Mrs Hudson’s telegram, but I missed a connection, and I’d only got as far as Haltwhistle station by nightfall. I came on here straight after breakfast.’

  ‘And what exactly did her telegram say, sir?’

  ‘Only that she needed someone to go through a lot of old papers and pamphlets. Does that sound likely?’

  With that, the light began to dawn.

  ‘That would be the Baldwick Archive, sir. Mr Baldwick was the tenant at Broomheath Hall. He went mad and dug a lot of holes. And he left behind an awful lot of pamphlets too, I’m afraid.’

  He grinned. ‘Then let’s hope they read well, Flotsam! Hetty sends her love, by the way. You can imagine how outraged she was when I told her I was coming up here! First she called me names for not bringing her with me, then she became all aloof and said she wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone much cleverer than me didn’t find the Lazarus Testament first. Then she told me she intended to wear that scandalous new Parisian dress to the Birtwhistles’ ball, and what a shame that I was going to miss it because she would probably have to dance all night with the ambassador’s nephew…’

  It being a bright morning, we decided to walk the short distance into Alston so that I could point out the sights and show Mr Spencer where the Baldwick papers were kept. As we walked, I gave him an account of all Mrs Hudson’s activities since our arrival in Alston, and confided in him my fears that Viscount Wrexham must be lurking somewhere, ready to pounce when the time was right. Only when I came to the horseman in the night did I hold back: somehow, in the golden, wintry sunlight of the day, my reaction to the face I’d glimpsed in the darkness seemed melodramatic and absurd. A stranger on horseback, nothing more. I would keep my silly fancies to myself.

  When eventually we reached the Angel Inn, we found Dr Watson waiting by the fire in the snug. He welcomed Mr Spencer with great enthusiasm and declared himself overjoyed at having an extra ally in the cause.

  ‘Just what we need!’ he pronounced, slapping the new arrival firmly on the back. ‘It had already crossed my mind that someone might need to rifle through Baldwick’s papers. The chap may have been unhinged, but we can’t disregard him. Shouldn’t surprise me if we found all sorts of answers in there, eh, Flotsam? Now, Mr Spencer, why not come and take a pew and I’ll tell you all about my plan. I’ve been doing a bit of thinking, you see!’

  I could tell from his exuberance that Dr Watson was feeling rather pleased with himself, and when Mr Spencer and I had settled down, he exp
anded upon his theme.

  ‘You see, I was out on the moors earlier, having a look around, don’t you know? And as I walked, I found myself wondering what Holmes would do if he were here. And do you know, it was like magic! I began to see the situation in an entirely different light! You see, the heart of this mystery is at Broomheath, if you get my drift. That’s where Viscount Wrexham’s clue led us, it’s where Pauncefoot is, and it’s where that mad archaeologist Baldwick ended up. It’s even where the old man, Archie Crummoch, disappeared, or pretty close to it. So if Holmes were here, do you think he’d be eating an excellent breakfast at Mr Verity’s house every morning? By no means! You know what he’d be doing? He’d be wracking his brains for some way of getting inside Broomheath Hall!’

  ‘But, sir, haven’t we been inside Broomheath Hall already?’ I asked him. ‘In fact we’ve been there twice.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Flotsam! As visitors. But that wouldn’t satisfy Holmes. You see, Mr Spencer, this Viscount chappie no doubt thinks he’s been very clever, installing his man at Broomheath. But if we can keep an eye on him, his hands are tied. Can’t get up to much if one of us is there, constantly ringing the bell for tea and scones and whatnot. And even if he did unearth this Lazarus thing, someone staying in the Hall would be the first to know about it.’

  ‘It certainly sounds like a good plan, Doctor. But how do we get ourselves invited?’

  Doctor Watson’s face fell.

  ‘Ah! There’s the rub. You see, Mrs Summersby has made it very clear that she and her husband have come here for a bit of solitude. If only I could think up some excuse for another interview…’

  But Dr Watson did not have to think very hard. We hadn’t spoken for another five minutes before we were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs Garth, who was fanning herself with her fingertips.