by Mrs Hudson
‘Please, sir, there’s a lady called for you.’ From the look on her face, I gathered that she felt this event reflected rather badly on Dr Watson’s morals. ‘A foreign lady, sir. I’ve put her in the parlour, if that’s convenient. She says her name is Summersby.’
Dr Watson blinked in surprise.
‘What remarkable timing! Now, Mr Spencer, you can take yourself off for a wash after your journey. Leave this to me and Flotsam. We’ll arrange everything!’
We found our visitor reading a letter by the fire, a small frown marring the usual serenity of her face.
‘Dr Watson! Flotsam!’ she trilled when we entered. ‘How pleased I am to see you both! I have just received a slightly surprising letter and I really felt I needed to ask your opinion of it.’
Dr Watson bowed and mumbled something about endeavouring to be of service.
‘It comes from Sir Bulstrode Peveril,’ she went on, ‘a gentleman we were lucky enough to meet when we were visiting the South of France. He writes to say that an Italian contessa, a close friend of an acquaintance of his, is touring the antiquities in this area, and he feels sure we would like to meet her. She has a passion for archaeology, he says, and is very well connected in antiquarian circles. He says she may be able to assist my husband with some important introductions, and suggests we invite her to stay. Tell me, Dr Watson, would that be wise?’
Dr Watson examined the proffered letter for a few moments.
‘It’s from Sir Bulstrode, all right, and a very charming letter,’ he concluded, ‘and Sir Bulstrode is a gentleman who moves in the very best circles. The Countess Flavia of Mirandola, eh? Never heard of her myself, but if Sir Bulstrode recommends her you can be sure she’s highly respectable.’
‘Then you think it’s all right?’ Mrs Summersby seemed a little distressed. ‘I rather thought you’d advise against it. You see, after what you said yesterday about people trying to get into the house, well, I’m a little anxious about inviting someone I don’t know. I hoped you would help me write a reply…’
‘Your caution does you credit, Mrs Summersby, but someone recommended by Sir Bulstrode Peveril is certainly above suspicion.’
Our visitor continued to look a little put out, however.
‘But I really don’t think we’re in any fit state to entertain, Doctor. My husband is not a sociable man, and he’s so busy at present. And apart from Pauncefoot, our entire staff consists of two young girls who live out. And Sir Bulstrode indicates that the Countess will be arriving tomorrow night! I think perhaps it really would better if we were to explain to Sir Bulstrode…’
Dr Watson returned the letter to her with a reassuring smile.
‘On the contrary, Mrs Summersby, Sir Bulstrode goes to great pains to stress that the countess is travelling alone and very simply, and would not expect grand entertaining. Sounds like an eccentric old bird, doesn’t she? And given that she is so close by, I’m sure Sir Bulstrode would consider it most odd if you did not take advantage of his introduction. The countess appears to be a very well connected woman.’
Mrs Summersby looked pensive and seemed far from reassured, but she did manage a brave smile.
‘Well, Doctor, if you really think so… We must do what’s right, mustn’t we? And of course if we were just a little better prepared we would welcome such an introduction with open arms… And perhaps the contessa will not wish to stay for very long…’
I waited for Doctor Watson to seize the moment, then decided that perhaps waiting was unwise.
‘Please, ma’am,’ I piped up, ‘if you’re worried about entertaining, Mrs Hudson and I would be happy to help. She’s been a housekeeper in all sorts of grand households, so the visit of an Italian countess wouldn’t worry her at all.’
‘That’s a capital suggestion, Flotsam!’ Dr Watson looked as pleased as if he’d thought of it himself. ‘I’m sure Pauncefoot would be delighted to have the assistance of a woman like Mrs Hudson. And of course, madam, I’d feel greatly reassured if she and Flotsam were with you in Broomheath. Such a remote spot! With your permission, Mrs Summersby, I shall most certainly put it to her.’
But our hostess still seemed a little bewildered by the morning’s rapid developments.
‘Oh, no, Doctor. We couldn’t possibly… No, it would be too great an imposition… We couldn’t possibly cause so much trouble…’
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ the good doctor declared gallantly. ‘You’ll be delighted, won’t you, Flotsam? And as you say, ma’am, you are hardly equipped to look after visitors without some extra help. It would surely look most peculiar to set two country girls to wait upon the countess when you have one of the most sought after housekeepers in the country at your disposal!’
This logic was unarguable, and Mrs Summersby had little choice but to concede the point.
‘Well, perhaps for a night or two, just until the countess moves on,’ she decided. ‘And we couldn’t possibly ask you to stay overnight, Flotsam. No, that would be too much, I couldn’t hear of it. But perhaps the father of one of the girls might bring the two of you back to Alston when he collects his daughter… Yes, I think perhaps my husband couldn’t object to that…’
For all our urgings, Mrs Summersby would not relent on this, and in truth we did not press the point too forcefully, feeling that by establishing a foothold in Broomheath Hall for the greater part of the day we had achieved something of which Mr Holmes would greatly approve. Yet the arrangements did not seem to raise Mrs Summersby’s spirits in quite the way they had raised my own.
‘Oh, dear, Flotsam,’ she murmured to me as she took her leave of the Angel. ‘I do hope my husband won’t be too unhappy with all this. He really is so shy. But a studious Italian countess cannot disturb him very much, can she?’
Perhaps it was the little smile with which she favoured me, but as she drove away, instead of any feeling of triumph, I felt a pang of guilt for imposing upon the good nature of one so trusting.
*
The rest of the day passed quickly. Dr Watson left almost at once to catch a train to Hexham, where he planned to interview Inspector Robinson about the disappearance of Archie Crummoch; and Mr Spencer expressed a desire to begin work at once in the Baldwick Archive. With no sign of Mrs Hudson, and no clear plan of my own, I decided to accompany him.
The Baldwick Archive, it turned out, was nothing more than a single cottage room containing a collection of tea crates of various sizes, all packed, apparently at random, with papers of every sort: pamphlets, letters, diaries, drawings, memoranda – even, I discovered, some old receipts for gentlemen’s undergarments from one of London’s cheaper department stores. These crates had been pushed on top of one another into a large cupboard, and those that would not fit were piled three or four high along one wall. Amid this chaos, Mr Verity had somehow managed to fit two small tables and four very uncomfortable straight-backed chairs. Surveying the scene for the first time Mr Spencer paused, then let out a very long sigh.
‘I suppose we just take things one crate at a time, Flotsam. Why don’t you take this seat here, the one by the window? Let us start with a pile each and do nothing but sort them out. Anything that seems even vaguely relevant to this case – anything about archaeology or the Bible or about Alston, for instance – simply pile up in this corner here. Anything that seems utterly irrelevant, toss over there. So, let me see…’ He fished out a pamphlet from the nearest box. ‘Thoughts on the Huddlestone Mermaid and Other Maritime Mysteries. Not relevant, surely? Seducing the Muse – A Writer’s Thoughts on Writing. I’m not reading that, not even if you pay me. Fairies – Fact or Fiction? Oh my word, Flotsam, I feel this might be a very long day indeed!’
And yet, strangely, the time flew by. As the pile of discarded papers and pamphlets grew ever bigger, Mr Spencer and I seemed seized by a peculiar and ruthless determination, one that was made bearable by increasing quantities of laughter. I think the cause of this must have been Mr Baldwick’s very painful earnestness. Otherwi
se it is hard to explain why, when Mr Spencer announced A Short Paper on the Grocery Trade in Tooting, I almost fell off my chair from laughing; nor why, when I countered with Road Signs of Lisbon, I swear that tears ran down my companion’s cheeks. At lunchtime, we arranged for sandwiches to be sent from the Angel. We ignored tea time altogether. By seven o’clock, when we finally called a halt, we had examined the contents of five crates. A further thirty three remained. We had found nothing of any interest. And yet I felt strangely elated.
On returning to the Angel in search of dinner, we happened upon Dr Watson just descending from the station trap, weary and rather discouraged after his afternoon in Hexham. However the fine smell of grouse emanating from Mrs Garth’s kitchen seemed to raise his spirits, and we agreed that we should eat together in the snug at eight o’clock to share accounts of the day. Of Mrs Hudson, there was no sign.
In the end, she did not return till after ten, by which time the gentlemen had enjoyed a bottle of Mrs Garth’s best claret and were already talking of retiring. She entered the snug briskly, bringing with her a distinct smell of cheap tobacco smoke; and when Dr Watson asked her how she had spent her evening, she allowed a flicker of amusement to play around her lips.
‘You may find this surprising, sir, but I have spent the last five hours in the public bar of the Grapes. And what a lot I’ve learned! But perhaps, while I take off my gloves, you might tell me how you yourselves have spent the day?’
And so, as Mrs Hudson settled herself, Mr Spencer and I told her all about our efforts in the Baldwick Archive and Dr Watson shared again the dismal story of his interview with Inspector Robinson.
‘To be frank, Mrs Hudson, the fellow is little more than a mealy-mouthed idler. It’s clear that he has no appetite for investigations that take him too far away from his own hearth, and he is adamant that there is no reason for further enquiry into Archie Crummoch’s disappearance. Those fellows at the Grapes have convinced him that Crummoch was a half-crazed old man given to wandering, and Robinson seems to think he’s probably just fallen down a mine shaft out on the moors.’
‘And the boots, sir? How does Inspector Robinson explain those?’
‘He considers them a hoax or a prank. Really, Mrs Hudson, if they’d found Archie Crummoch lying with a dagger in his heart, I think Mr Robinson would have discovered an innocent explanation for it, if by doing so he could save himself some small degree of exertion!’
Mrs Hudson had joined us by the fire and for a moment or two her eyes remained fixed on the hearth.
‘I see. Then we shall clearly get no help from that quarter. But one thing I do know, sir, is that the men at the Grapes were not telling our police inspector the whole truth.’
I sensed a quickening of interest in that small room and all three of us leaned forward a little.
‘Is that so, Mrs H?’ Dr Watson seemed eager to be persuaded. ‘What makes you think so?’
‘Simply this, sir.’ She settled herself a little more comfortably into her armchair. ‘The clientele of the Grapes are a bunch of utter rogues. Poachers to a man, though not above a little sheep rustling in season. Suspicious of outsiders, suspicious of the police and for much of the time suspicious of each other. For them, lying to Inspector Robinson would have been almost a point of principle.’
‘But were they not suspicious of you, ma’am?’ I asked. I found it hard to imagine the stern and forbidding housekeeper of Baker Street mingling comfortably with such company.
‘Not for very long, Flotsam,’ Mrs Hudson assured me. ‘You see, there is a dusty old piano in the public bar of the Grapes, so I went along and played it. Oh, I know, Flottie, you had no idea that I played, and why should you? After all, it is hardly the sort of accomplishment that a good housekeeper flaunts. And I’m certainly no expert. But I can bang out a fair Lost Chord and a passable Maud, both of which proved very popular, particularly with the baritone section. And in my experience there’s nothing like a sing-song to form a bond. There was a ruffian there whose Pretty Little Sarah left scarcely a dry eye. After that his companions were only too happy to answer my questions.’
‘And they confessed to misleading the inspector, Mrs H?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. You see, most of them are doing very nicely from the Broomheath Hall estate, where there are plenty of birds and no one to stop them from trapping and netting as they please. That’s why they’re glad that Crummoch is gone. He knew their tricks, and from that little cottage of his he could see what they were up to. Now they can pilfer and poach from the estate with impunity. So the last thing they want is a party of policemen marching around the moors. They told Inspector Robinson exactly what he wanted to hear – anything that would send him happily back to Hexham. But after a couple of sentimental ballads and a pint or two of bitter-and-mild, it was a different story.’
As Mrs Hudson spoke, a raw and wild gust of wind buffeted the window of the snug, stirring the curtain and reminding us all of the darkness that lay outside.
‘It turns out there were two or three men at the Grapes who saw Archie Crummoch heading up to the moors on the night he disappeared, but no one saw him come down again – which surprised them, for they are used to watching the tracks by night without being seen. As for Crummoch taking himself off somewhere, it’s true he was prone to that, but there was one piece of information they didn’t share with the inspector. Apparently, you see, however far he roamed, he’d always be back in his cottage on rent day. It seems the old squire gave him the lease of the cottage for as long as he lived in it – all he had to do to retain possession was present himself there on rent day. Now, it’s been years since anyone bothered to check, but Archie Crummoch never took that chance. In forty years the only rent days he’d ever missed were those when he was ill with the fever down at Mr Verity’s house. But this time rent day fell three days after they found his boots, and there was no sign of him at the cottage. After that there wasn’t a man at the Grapes who didn’t think Archie Crummoch was dead. And for all their rough ways, I think they are afraid.’
Dr Watson cleared his throat a little uncomfortably.
‘Afraid, Mrs H? Not of ghosts, surely? They can’t really believe those old superstitions?’
‘I don’t think they do, sir. And that’s why they’re so scared. You see, if Archie Crummoch wasn’t taken by an evil spirit then it was someone mortal who made him disappear. And that’s why, when they talk of Crummoch’s fate, there is always a moment when they look around the room, studying each other’s faces. They think they know the moors. But not one of them can explain the evil that lurks there now.’
It was an uncomfortable thought, and in the silence that followed I don’t think I was the only one aware of the angry wind outside. Dr Watson shifted a little in his chair then cleared his throat.
‘So if Archie Crummoch’s dead, Mrs H, do we have any idea who killed him? And even if we did, would that help us find this blasted Lazarus document?’
Mrs Hudson smiled and leaned forward to warm her hands at the fire.
‘There is no certain link between the two, sir. And yet it would be a strange coincidence if all the peculiar and unpleasant goings-on around Broomheath were not in some way linked. And the gentlemen at the Grapes were at least able to tell me one person who did not kill Archibald Crummoch.’
‘They did? And who was that?’
‘Mrs Summersby’s butler. He may not be a familiar figure here in Alston, but those who frequent the moors know him well enough. His wanderings up there are common knowledge, and more than one of them have seen him set off from Broomheath at dusk carrying a spade. But he wasn’t on the moors the evening Crummoch disappeared, because the landlord of the Grapes saw him that night in a Hexham tavern.’
‘Visiting his god-daughter, ma’am?’ I asked, remembering what Pauncefoot had said at our interview.
‘I suspect his god-daughter is a convenient fiction, Flotsam.’
‘My word!’ Dr Watson exclaimed. ‘Perhaps he was meeting
up with Viscount Wrexham? That would explain it!’
But Mrs Hudson simply smiled.
‘I think we can be sure, sir, that his visit had no such purpose. From what I heard at the Grapes, he spent the greater part of the evening drinking hard liquor and playing dominoes for money, with great success, before retiring to the rooms of a young lady known as Slip-Lace Polly with whom he had struck up a friendship. He was seen returning on the milk train the following morning. Now tell me…’ She looked around questioningly. ‘What about today’s telegrams?’
‘Telegrams, Mrs H?’ Dr Watson looked bewildered.
‘On the tray in the hallway, sir. Don’t tell me that you didn’t notice them? Why, they might be vital. There’s one for you, sir, and there’s one for Flotsam.’
‘For me, ma’am?’
‘Indeed. In fact, it has been quite a day for telegrams. I have received rather an interesting one myself. But perhaps…’ She seemed to sense my eagerness. ‘Perhaps you would like to read yours first?’
And of course she was right. It was the first telegram I had ever received, and it turned out to be from Hetty Peters. Its contents, although cryptic, suggested that Mr Spencer was by no means forgiven for deserting her in London.
RUPERT UTTER BEAST DOES NOT DESERVE MY HELP STOP HAVE PLAN TO MAKE HIM SORRY STOP AM CERTAIN CAN COUNT ON YOU STOP TELL HIM BEAST FROM ME STOP BLUE BONNET SIMPLY GORGEOUS STOP WALTERS BOY QUITE OVERWHELMED STOP REMEMBER AM RELYING ON YOU STOP VERY FONDLY
HETTY
Mrs Hudson’s telegram was from Mr Rumbelow, and communicated rather more, with much greater economy.
URGENT NEWS SOUTH AFRICA STOP SWAN EFFECTS ARRIVED STOP LETTER RE DEATH PAUNCEFOOT SENT DECEMBER STOP SIGNED WREXHAM STOP QUOTE I ENCLOSE WATCH OF MY DEVOTED SERVANT UNQUOTE SIGNATURE BELIEVED GENUINE STOP
RUMBELOW
‘But that’s remarkable news, ma’am!’ I exclaimed, waving the telegram excitedly. ‘It proves that it was Viscount Wrexham who sent Pauncefoot’s watch to Mr Swan. So it was the Viscount who was pretending Pauncefoot was dead. And Pauncefoot must have been lying to us too, because he didn’t lose his watch at all. Not unless Viscount Wrexham stole it from him. And why would the Viscount do that?’
