Mrs Hudson and the Lazarus Testament

by Mrs Hudson

  ‘But the windows, ma’am…!’

  ‘I’m just letting people know where to look for us in case anything happens, Flottie. We’ll send the bill to Sir Percival. Now, will you go first, or shall I?’

  I will never forget the sight that met my eyes as I tiptoed down the narrow steps into the cellar of the Home Barn. The lamp revealed a long, low chamber, no more than six feet wide, but running the whole length of the building above it. At first I thought it empty but for an old shovel and one of those huge wicker baskets that peat-cutters strap to their backs to carry home their sods. These items were lying untidily beneath the wooden steps and around them I could see nothing but bare stones and a dusting of old straw. But then, as I descended further, the rest of the cellar was illuminated and I saw before me a sight of the sort that treasure-seekers down the ages have yearned for.

  Positioned at the far end of the chamber, a little like skittles across an alley, stood an array of earthenware vessels – old jars or urns, stoppered and sealed, all of them about two or three feet tall, and all grey in the pale light. For a moment they looked a little absurd, like the wine flagons beneath some ancient Roman tavern, lined up for the attention of the cellarer. But as I grew closer and began to see in more detail the texture of their surfaces, the cracks and blemishes of unguessable age, I found myself moved by their simple, unadorned dignity. In their presence I felt a great solemnity begin to descend upon me, a sudden, awkward reverence that wiped away my smile and urged me to be still. I was standing face to face with the truly ancient, and something about them – something in their patience or their stillness – touched my soul with a sort of awe.

  Treading very softly, Mrs Hudson joined me where I’d halted.

  ‘I begin to understand Lord Beaumaris,’ she whispered. ‘Such things have a power of their own, don’t they, Flotsam? Perhaps his obsession was not altogether the ridiculous thing people have thought it.’

  ‘But which one contains the Lazarus Testament?’ I asked, also whispering, as if out of some barely understood respect.

  Mrs Hudson shook her head. ‘What was it Mr Baldwick said in his letter? Something about hiding it among other vessels that were old but of less rarity. But which the rare one is, I cannot guess. To the untrained eye, they all look remarkably similar. But I’m sure Mr Fallowell will know.’

  ‘So what now, ma’am? It doesn’t seem right for us to start opening any of them. It would feel like… Well, somehow wrong.’

  My companion placed her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘How right you are, Flotsam. I begin to wish the whole collection could have rested here undisturbed. But I’m afraid it’s too late for that now.’

  A thought occurred to me. ‘That basket under the steps. Do you think Mr Baldwick brought them here in that? If we wanted to move them to the Hall, ma’am, I think it would be just the thing…’

  Intent on investigating, I stepped away from our discoveries, leaving Mrs Hudson to contemplate them in silence.

  With the lantern still at the other end of the cellar, the space beneath the stairs was shrouded in gloom and my sober dress and coat must have merged into the darkness. It was that, I think, which saved me. That, and perhaps also the instinctive caution which made me shrink deeper into the darkness when I heard a footstep on the rungs above me.

  The Summersbys’ butler had returned a good deal quicker than we’d expected. I recognised his long legs and dignified carriage even before he had descended the steps and stepped forward into the light. But it was what I saw in his hand that made me freeze where I stood, with a cold sweat prickling my temples: a heavy, menacing revolver, its hammer cocked and ready to fire. And as Mrs Hudson turned to face him, I saw the butler slowly raise his hand.

  ‘Please stand aside, Mrs Hudson,’ I heard him say. ‘I congratulate you for your remarkable astuteness in getting here before me, but now the game is over. I have not come this far to be thwarted now.’

  Immediately it struck me that his voice seemed changed, richer and fuller than before, and certainly very full of confidence. But it seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the figure before him, for Mrs Hudson neither cowered nor quaked, she simply remained where she stood, very clearly in his path.

  ‘Really, sir!’ She shook her head. ‘Please put down that ridiculous object at once, I beg you. Without it you will be able to walk away from here a free man. But if you persist in waving guns at people, all this must end very badly indeed.’

  The revolver, however, didn’t waver for an instant, and when the butler replied his voice was as steady as before.

  ‘I applaud your courage, Mrs Hudson. In happier circumstances I would shake your hand. But you have no cards to play. Your friends are running around in circles on the moor. You are alone, between a desperate man and his treasure. You must see that you can expect no assistance.’

  It is in moments of the greatest peril that we show our true mettle, and not for one moment did the housekeeper’s gaze dart in my direction. I cannot recall my precise thoughts as I stepped out from behind the stairs. Perhaps I was recalling all the times Mrs Hudson had been the one to rescue me from danger; perhaps I was simply hoping I was brave enough. Perhaps I was thinking of the revolver, or of that bald pate before me. More probably I was thinking of absolutely nothing at all. I only remember feeling the shaft of the spade very rough and heavy in my hands. Then I hit him hard, on the back of his head, and as he crumpled a strange question flashed into my mind. Sir? I asked myself. Sir? Why was Mrs Hudson calling him ‘Sir’?

  *

  To my great relief, he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even unconscious, but he was certainly very greatly dazed. Mrs Hudson spent some time making him comfortable where he lay, but even then there remained a glassy look in his eye and no sound from his lips but for a low, pained moan. As soon as she was satisfied that he would recover, my companion gestured towards the revolver, which had fallen a little way from the prone figure.

  ‘Flotsam, would you be so good as to bring me that? I don’t want the others to see it.’

  I watched her unload the weapon with surprising expertise, then slip both the gun and bullets inside the folds of her cloak.

  ‘There, I think everything is now as it should be,’ she concluded, and flashed me a warming smile. ‘Thank you, Flottie. Yours was a very effective way of cutting that argument short. One day I believe he will thank you for it. Let us hope that when the lawyers have finished picking over the Beaumaris estate there will be enough left for him to buy you a very large bunch of flowers.’

  ‘The Beaumaris estate?’ I repeated, bewildered. ‘You mean…?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. You have just assaulted a peer of the realm, Flottie. This is the much sought-after Viscount Wrexham himself. Or to be more correct, ever since the death of his father, the seventh Lord Beaumaris.’

  ‘But Mrs Hudson, ma’am, are you sure? He doesn’t look like the Viscount at all. In fact, he looks exactly like Pauncefoot!’

  ‘Have you ever seen Pauncefoot, Flottie? I mean the real Pauncefoot.’

  ‘Well, no, ma’am, but we’ve heard him described, haven’t we? Tall and bald and bearded.’

  ‘That’s right, Flotsam. And, if you remember, that was also the description of the man who found Viscount Wrexham’s ring on the banks of the Thames. But when the ring was handed in, this particular gentleman was already in post at Broomheath Hall. In other words, Flotsam, there were two tall, bald, bearded men at work in different places.’

  ‘But isn’t that a bit unlikely, ma’am? I mean, it’s rather an unusual appearance…’

  Mrs Hudson looked slightly exasperated. ‘Surely you see it is not a coincidence, Flotsam? On the contrary, the Viscount took great pains to make the resemblance as close as possible.’

  ‘You mean he deliberately disguised himself as his own valet? I see! But how can you be sure which one is the Viscount, ma’am?’

  ‘Oh, that's easy, Flottie. For one thing, this one was such a terrible b
utler. The real Pauncefoot would have done a much better job. This fellow might have fooled the Summersbys, but I’ve worked with one or two valets in my time, and believe me there isn’t one of them who wouldn’t have made a considerably better butler than he did.’

  I found myself recalling Pauncefoot’s confusion about the silver and his great relief at our assistance when an important guest was expected. His had been an imposing figure, but he hadn’t really done very much.

  ‘So you knew as soon as you met him, ma’am?’

  ‘Oh, I knew before then, Flottie. Don’t you remember when we bumped into Martha at Mrs Thimbly’s shop? If you recall, the items on her weekly shopping list included shaving soap and styptic powder.’

  I must have looked a little blank, because she paused to explain.

  ‘Styptic powder is commonly applied to shaving cuts, Flottie. It staunches the bleeding. Now, since Martha told us that the Summersbys’ personal purchases were sent from London, it must have been the bald and bearded butler who was consuming shaving supplies at such a surprising rate. Now, Flottie, he certainly wasn’t shaving his chin, was he?’

  ‘His head! Of course! Viscount Wrexham was famous for his long, flowing locks, wasn’t he, ma’am? It was the one thing about him that everyone remarked on. So if he wanted to alter his appearance…’

  Mrs Hudson reached out and gave the dazed peer’s pate a little rub.

  ‘Very stubbly, you see. Of course, I don’t suppose the Viscount had any such plan when he first decided to disappear. He just knew that he needed to escape the public gaze if he was to be free to seek out the Lazarus Testament. And of course he knew the loyal Pauncefoot would help him to hide. Then, when they saw from Mr Verity’s advertisement that a butler was being sought for the very place the Viscount most wished to be, well, his way forward became obvious. He would impersonate Pauncefoot and take up the post himself.’ Mrs Hudson shook her head a little sadly. ‘It is surprising how many peers believe they could pass themselves off as butlers, Flottie. Most misguided! Although I’ve met one or two who might have made quite passable footmen.’

  At this point the gentleman in question gave a groan.

  ‘The urn…’ he muttered. ‘Lazarus…’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. All’s well,’ Mrs Hudson reassured him. ‘Just rest for now, sir. You’ve taken a nasty bump on the head.’

  ‘So what happened to the real Pauncefoot, ma’am?’ I asked as the Viscount subsided with a sigh.

  ‘He’s lurking in London at the Viscount’s expense, Flottie, and sending regular postal orders to his ageing mother. Miss Blenkinsop told us that Pauncefoot had grown up on the South Downs, so I asked Mr Rumbelow to track down any family he might have there. Old Mrs Pauncefoot’s extravagance with new hats suggested some additional source of income, and when Mr Rumbelow confronted her she revealed that Pauncefoot is in fact living above a slightly seedy pub not far from the old Woolwich Arsenal.’

  ‘Goodness, ma’am! With all the excitement here I’d almost forgotten about Miss Blenkinsop! And about poor Mr Swan! But that’s where all this began.’ I paused for moment as a thought occurred to me. ‘Come to think of it, ma’am, I still don’t really see why they pretended Pauncefoot was dead.’

  Mrs Hudson leaned forward and loosened the fallen gentleman’s collar a little more. Around us the lantern was casting long shadows, and somewhere near us the ancient text of Lazarus himself rested quietly in the darkness.

  ‘That was all because of Mr Swan, Flottie. Really, the Viscount was terribly unlucky. Mr Swan was in the South of France at the same time as the Summersbys, and we know from Miss Blenkinsop that it was there – quite by chance – that he heard about Bob Pauncefoot’s new post. It isn’t hard to imagine the charming and excitable Mrs Summersby telling people about the genuine English butler waiting for them at Broomheath Hall, is it, Flottie?’

  ‘I see, ma’am! So Mr Swan wrote to Pauncefoot here at Broomheath, and the Viscount received the letter. And, of course, Mr Swan was suggesting he should visit, which would have meant the end of the Viscount’s disguise.’

  Mrs Hudson nodded. ‘So the Viscount wrote back saying that Pauncefoot was dead, Flottie. He must have thought that would put an end to the matter. He even enclosed that watch for good measure. But there was no putting off Mr Swan. If he hadn’t happened to catch a glimpse of the real Bob Pauncefoot on that fateful morning in London, he’d have arrived here anyway, insisting that the Summersbys show him their butler’s grave!’

  I had a great many further questions to put to Mrs Hudson but, before I could ask them, the heavy hush of the cellar was disturbed by the sound of voices above us. Hearing them, the housekeeper leaned close to me, and there was real urgency in her whisper.

  ‘Remember, Flottie, no mention of the revolver, nor of your excellent work with the shovel. The gentleman slipped on the steps and banged his head, that’s all. It would be a terrible shame to see such a flamboyant career end with criminal charges. The Viscount will have problems enough as it is…’

  I nodded hastily. Above us the voices were becoming clearer. I could hear Dr Watson’s low rumble and Mr Spencer’s lighter baritone and then, raised above both with clarion confidence, a familiar female voice.

  ‘Frankly,’ it was asserting loftily, ‘I’m surprised you two think this is the right time for so much fussing. It was a very small pond, wasn’t it, Mr Verity, and we hardly fell in it at all. Really we just sort of wallowed around at the edge for a bit. Now, are we looking for rogue butlers or aren’t we? I’m sure I saw someone come in here…’

  Miss Peters’s further musings were cut short by Dr Watson.

  ‘Look! A light!’ he cried, and above us four sets of feet advanced stealthily across the barn floor. Then a silence fell and we saw the top of Dr Watson’s tweed hat peeping over the edge of the trap door.

  ‘Who’s down there? Speak up!’ he demanded. ‘Whoever you are, come up at once. And I warn you, there are four of us up here carrying very stout sticks!’

  ‘Those won’t be necessary, sir,’ Mrs Hudson called back gravely. ‘But if you would like to come down, please do. There’s plenty of space. It’s just me, Flotsam, the new Lord Beaumaris and the Lazarus Testament. Do tread carefully on the steps. They are a little narrow…’

  *

  The explanations that followed went on long into the night. My principal memory of them is not of Dr Watson’s honest astonishment, nor of Mr Spencer’s generous congratulations – not even of Mr Verity’s chattering teeth – but of Miss Peters’s unbounded and heartfelt dismay.

  ‘You beasts!’ she kept exclaiming. ‘I was so sure it would be me who found it! You know how sometimes you just have a feeling about something? Well, that’s how I felt about this urn thing. And tonight, when I spotted Pauncefoot slipping out, I was certain. I really thought I was going to make a great discovery. How was I supposed to know that everyone else was following him too? Honestly, Flottie, it was busier than a Kensington church bazaar out there! I practically fell over Mr Verity in the darkness, which was probably a good thing because he ended up with terrible blisters and I really think he might still be limping around in circles if he hadn’t had me to help him. But I so wanted to find it for myself, Flottie. I really did!’

  The return to full consciousness of Viscount Wrexham was another memorable moment (I never could think of him as Lord Beaumaris), and I confess to a feeling of horrible nervousness as to how he might behave towards someone who had recently hit him with a spade. However it seemed the dashing peer had no clear memory of anything that had occurred since he’d served the burgundy at dinner. That being the case, he was considerably bemused to find himself lying with his head in Mrs Hudson’s lap in a place he didn’t recognise and in the presence of the object he had staked so much on finding for himself.

  Ever the sportsman, however, the pain of this discovery showed on his face only fitfully. It is said that never, in his long career on the turf, had the Viscount greeted outrageous f
ortune with anything other than a shrug and a smile, and when it became clear to him that his identity was discovered and the Lazarus Testament secured by his rivals he became at once the easy-mannered and debonair gentleman we had heard so much about.

  ‘By Hades, I shall certainly be glad to get rid of this!’ he exclaimed, fingering his beard rather ruefully. ‘I’m not sure any prize is worth such an infernal encumbrance. I can’t think why Pauncefoot puts up with it. And I’ll lay fifty to one against him ever finding a wife before he finds a razor! Now tell me…’ He looked around, one eyebrow raised. ‘Do you think there is any chance that my part in locating this thing might be recognised financially in any way? I only ask because my wretched father spent every penny of my inheritance searching for it. And you have to admit, in the end it was me who led you to it, wasn’t it?’

  ‘My word!’ Dr Watson snorted with great indignation. ‘I hardly think you can expect a reward, sir! You’ve led us all a merry dance, and the cost to the nation in searching for you when you went missing… Besides, we all know that if Mrs Hudson here hadn’t got to it first, you’d have carried the thing away and had it up for sale to some unscrupulous collector in no time!’

  ‘How very true, Dr Watson! I had planned to meet just such a one in Shoreditch in two days’ time. The sum he was prepared to pay was simply staggering.’ He looked across at Mrs Hudson. ‘How unfortunate that I slipped on that step,’ he added thoughtfully.

  For a moment his eyes travelled to where I sat beside her, and his hand seemed to move instinctively to the back of his head. ‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘it seems I have been very unlucky. Still, there’s no law against dropping out of sight for a while, and nothing to stop a gentleman becoming a butler if he fancies it. It fact, I’d recommend it. It seems to me the perfect solution to the problem of idleness amongst the upper classes. And I can’t even be accused of falsifying my references. I meant every word I said about myself in my letter of recommendation.’