If I had not already guessed how quickly the weather had turned, one glance at the two of them would have told me. Both looked pinched and pale, and Dr Watson was clapping his hands and stamping his feet rather grumpily.
‘Really, Flotsam,’ he puffed, ‘it’s damnably cold out there! We’ve been an hour in a freezing cab from Kennington, and I tell you I was within an inch of jumping out and taking refuge in a public house. I haven’t been able to feel the tips of my fingers since Vauxhall Bridge.’
‘Come now, Watson,’ Mr Holmes admonished him with a smile. ‘You are a sight too modest. Any man who can survive an Afghan winter as you have done can endure an hour or two of London in March! Even so, there is some small basis for your complaint. There is a decided chill in the air.’ He shrugged his cape from his shoulders with a flourish.
‘Please, sir,’ I piped up, ‘Mrs Hudson has left a veal pie and some hot brandy punch in the study for you. She said you’d be cold after spending all day crouching in that attic.’
Mr Holmes permitted himself another smile. ‘You hear that, Watson? The woman’s a gem! Is there anything else, Flotsam?’
‘Yes, sir. Sir Percival Grenville-Ffitch will be calling at eight o’clock, sir, on a matter of unparalleled international importance.’
‘Will he, indeed?’ Mr Holmes consulted his watch. ‘Well, Watson, we’ve just enough time to change our clothes and to sample Mrs Hudson’s punch. I daresay it will prove another trifling case of ministerial indiscretion, but a man of Sir Percy’s standing at least deserves a hearing. Any other messages, Flotsam?’
I hesitated, not sure how to explain. ‘Well, sir, there was a gentleman knocked down by a carriage earlier today, just outside our door. He was coming to see you, sir. Oh, sir, he was hurt terribly badly! But he did manage to say something before he died, sir. He said to tell you about a man risen from the grave. It seemed very important to him, sir.’
‘Dear me, Flotsam, how very unpleasant! But all too common nowadays, I fear. Unfortunately nothing will change until the pedestrians of London can be made to understand that a four-wheeler travelling at fifteen miles per hour is not a handcart that can be brought to a halt on a sixpence!’
‘But what about the message, Holmes?’ Watson asked, rubbing his moustache vigorously as if to warm it up. ‘Sounds a bit rum.’
‘A man risen from the grave?’ Mr Holmes shrugged. ‘That could signify any number of things, my friend. Remember, since you’ve taken to publishing those little reminiscences of yours, we’ve had a constant stream of religious cranks and evangelists at our door. And, I fear, without further relevant data, the precise meaning of this gentleman’s words will never be known to us. Even so, it sounds like an ugly episode…’ He handed me his hat and gloves, then patted me reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘Flotsam, perhaps Mrs Hudson would be so good as to find out if there’s anything to be done for the poor man’s family. I know Watson here will tell me we must do what we can for them in their distress. Now, Watson, lead on! That veal pie awaits!’
But while the gentlemen made their ablutions that evening, the first knock to disturb us was not Sir Percival’s, but instead a rather timid tap on the kitchen door which was quickly followed by the appearance of Mr Rumbelow the solicitor, a rotund and respectable gentleman whose professional dealings had more than once brought him into contact with our establishment, and who over many years of acquaintance had come to hold Mrs Hudson’s abilities in the highest regard. Indeed it had been through Mr Rumbelow’s intervention that we had first come into Mr Holmes’s service, something for which, ever since, the gentleman had seemed anxious to make amends.
‘Ah, Mrs Hudson!’ he began, blinking a little in the light. ‘What an evening! Quite winter again, I do believe. Ah, and young Flotsam too! Good evening, good evening. So warm in here! The most welcoming room in London, I always say. I trust I do not intrude at all, Mrs Hudson?’
‘Not at all, sir. Let me take your coat. You catch us at a quiet moment.’
Rubbing his hands and puffing contentedly, Mr Rumbelow sank into his accustomed chair by the hearth.
‘I hope I find you well, Mrs Hudson?’ he began, removing his spectacles, which had begun to steam up in the warmth. ‘Excellent! Excellent! Always in such good health! You are an example to us all.’
He began to rub the lenses with his handkerchief while searching for words to continue.
‘Mrs Hudson, I confess that this is not entirely a social visit. I was passing, you see, and it happens I have a little matter that I wish to lay before you. Nothing serious, you understand. No, it could hardly be called that. Indeed I hardly like to trouble you with it. But your advice would be very welcome. Oh, yes, very welcome indeed.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Mrs Hudson eased herself into the chair next to mine. ‘If there is anything at all that Flotsam and I can do to help…’
Mr Rumbelow beamed at both of us in turn.
‘You see, Mrs Hudson, I have received letters from a fellow attorney, an individual I know from my school days who now has a country practice in the north of England. He is aware that I am acquainted with Mr Holmes and has asked me to assist him with an introduction. It seems that he has been handling the lease of a house in his neighbourhood and the situation is causing him a great deal of anxiety.’
Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on, sir. I imagine it is something beyond the usual business of contracts and curtilages that is troubling him.’
‘Indeed so, Mrs Hudson, indeed so. It seems the new tenants – a young American couple, I believe – have been subject to certain disturbances… Noises in the night, and that sort of thing. Well, I can’t say I’m particularly surprised at that. In old houses a few creaks and groans are to be expected. But my friend Verity appears to be taking the whole issue very seriously. I’ve always thought him rather a dry old stick, even as a young man. Never one for youthful frolics. But now he’s behaving very strangely. The tenants are currently in London and he is insisting they consult Mr Holmes about the matter. If you will forgive a colloquial expression, Mrs Hudson, it is as if something has put the wind up him.’
My companion appeared to enjoy the colloquialism very much, for her eyebrow twitched a fraction. But she quickly composed herself and her reply was seriousness itself.
‘So how can Flotsam and I advise you, sir?’ she asked.
‘Well, Mrs Hudson, you know Mr Holmes better than anybody. Do you think he would be very annoyed to be bothered with something so trivial?’
The housekeeper and I exchanged glances.
‘It has to be said, sir, that Mr Holmes can be rather short with callers he considers frivolous. And if this were to be another caller claiming to be haunted…’
Mr Rumbelow grimaced and returned his spectacles to his nose forlornly. ‘Quite so. Quite so. You confirm my fears. And yet Verity is extremely insistent, and it is difficult for me to refuse him his request. After all, we once learned the bassoon together.’
Mrs Hudson rose, her manner purposeful, and I saw that the hands of the kitchen clock were but a few minutes short of eight o’clock. ‘If you cannot persuade them otherwise, Mr Rumbelow, then I suppose the couple in question must take their chance with Mr Holmes. But if he is made to understand that he is seeing them purely to oblige you, then I’m sure he might be persuaded to remain civil for at least a few minutes. Don’t you think so, Flottie?’
Our confidence seemed to raise Mr Rumbelow’s spirits, for he stood up looking much relieved.
‘Once again I am in your debt, Mrs Hudson. You have taken a weight off my mind. After all,’ he concluded, allowing Mrs Hudson to help him back into his coat, ‘for all that I value an old friend like Verity, I wouldn’t much care to be the one putting to Mr Holmes his theory that a dead man is haunting the moors…’
Chapter II
The Missing Viscount
To my great surprise, Sir Percival Grenville-Ffitch did not return to Baker Street at eight o’clock as he had promised. Instead
when I scurried to answer the door that evening, I was greeted by the sight of a slim young gentleman in evening dress with a neatly waxed moustache and a rather impatient look on his face. He wore his coat draped over his shoulders and had used the brass head of his cane to rap upon the door. When I opened to him, he greeted me with a rather sardonic lift of the eyebrow, as if to say that after waiting so long he was surprised to have been answered at all.
‘St John de Lacey,’ he announced, airily, ‘for Mr Sherlock Holmes. Please take up my card and tell Mr Holmes that I have come as Sir Percival’s representative. He has been detained at the Admiralty by the First Sea Lord. A little business in the Balkans. I don’t suppose it will amount to much.’ The young man began to pull off his gloves, working each finger loose in turn in a way that suggested the task was rather more important to him than the delivery of Sir Percival’s apologies. ‘To tell the truth, Sir Percy was intending to postpone his visit and call in person tomorrow, but I assured him I was quite capable of acting in his stead. Now, do please show me up, there’s a good girl. I’m supposed to be meeting a young lady from the opera and I have no intention of keeping her waiting.’
The study into which I ushered this elegant gentleman bore no resemblance at all to the disorderly workplace Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes had left behind them that morning. While I’d been sleeping, Mrs Hudson had wrought her magic. All their papers and experiments, their collections of peculiar and disturbing criminal artefacts, and all the general detritus left behind by two careless bachelors, had been tidied away. The shutters had been closed and the lamps lit, and the fire blazed a welcome. Its brightness was reflected in the shining leather of the armchairs, and the overall effect of the firelight was to wrap the room in a soft and confidential glow. It was a room to invite confidences, and one which had heard many strange secrets.
A little distance from the fire stood a tray of amber-filled decanters, and next to these stood Dr Watson, apparently contemplating the merits of a second glass of brandy-and-shrub. Mr Holmes, his face half in shadow, lounged against the mantelpiece, watching him with a smile, his pipe unlit in his hand. Both men, however, looked round in surprise when Mr de Lacey was announced. They had clearly been bracing themselves for the rather more commanding presence of Sir Percival and were disconcerted by this sleek replacement.
My curiosity was aroused too, and mindful of Mrs Hudson’s instructions that I should be close at hand if needed, I did not retreat far; in fact, no further than the small cupboard-room opposite Mr Holmes’s study, the room in which Mrs Hudson stored the silver. There, I thought, I could make myself useful with some polishing while simultaneously waiting to see if the gentlemen required anything further; a plan only slightly influenced by the fact that the door of Mr Holmes’s study tended to hang open a little, allowing someone who happened to be in the silver cupboard a very fair view into the heart of the room…
On taking up my position, I saw that our visitor was stretched in the larger of the two armchairs, drawing on a slender cigarette.
‘… So as Sir Percy’s personal assistant in this matter, I fear you will have to accept me as his replacement,’ he was concluding, his tone making it clear that any suggestion of humility in his words was for form’s sake only.
‘I am sure we will do our best to oblige both Sir Percival and yourself,’ Mr Holmes replied rather shortly. ‘Now, sir, perhaps you can explain to us the nature of your visit. The message we received suggested that it was a matter of considerable urgency.’
‘It certainly is, Mr Holmes. Whitehall’s all abuzz about this one. I was the envy of the Club when they heard I’d been assigned to it. Quite the biggest plum in the pie, as it were, and setting branches atremble at the very top of the tree. Happily, the commission I have for you is a simple one for me to explain. Whether you will find it so simple to perform remains to be seen.’
He paused for another drag on his cigarette and ran his eye over the detective appraisingly.
‘You will of course be aware of the sensational disappearance last year of Viscount Wrexham, the only offspring of the late Lord Beaumaris?’
Even from where I stood, I could see the detective’s eyes grow cold.
‘I am certainly aware of it, sir. Just as I am aware that the great brains of Scotland Yard, despite the failure of their own investigations, did not think fit to consult me in the matter. It is now nearly five months since the Viscount was seen alive. If your visit here is a belated request for assistance in the matter, I fear I must decline.’
A long plume of smoke was exhaled gently into the air between the detective and his companion.
‘You’re absolutely right, Mr Holmes. Those asses at the Yard have made an unholy mess of the thing. But what can we do?’ He favoured Mr Holmes with a weary shrug. ‘The public pays for them, and the public expects them to be of use occasionally. To be honest, if we’d thought it possible they could fail to find their man, we’d have called you in at once. But locating a Viscount of flamboyant character and striking looks who goes missing practically on the doorstep of the Reform Club…? Well, really, Mr Holmes, it should hardly have taken an expert in deduction to find the fellow, should it? One or two sharp-eyed bobbies should have been sufficient.’
Mr Holmes continued to eye him rather frostily.
‘Perhaps I wasn’t clear, Mr de Lacey. Five months ago I might have made a difference. But it is now rather late to begin such an investigation.’
‘Don’t fancy it, eh?’ He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette. ‘I thought that might be the case. It appears the late Viscount’s disappearance is a pretty tricky conundrum after all.’
‘The late Viscount?’ The great detective’s eyes were suddenly alert again, ablaze with new interest. ‘He is dead?’
Mr de Lacey nodded, his eyes still meeting those of the detective.
‘We fear so, Mr Holmes. A few weeks ago a body was found on the banks of the Thames, just below Rotherhithe. Frightful sight, it was. Unrecognisable in its decay. Of course I took the precaution of keeping my distance, but the doctors say it must have been in the water for at least four months.’ Mr de Lacey shuddered. ‘All the clothes were gone, even the boots, but I’m told that’s not uncommon. Apparently there are resourceful folk out there who scavenge the river for their living. The police think the corpse probably came ashore months ago, and in a better state. It would have been stripped then and pushed back in. The better the quality of the garments, the greater likelihood that not a stitch would be left. And short of chancing upon a man in Rotherhithe with the Beaumaris crest on his undergarments, there’s not much we can do about it, is there?’
Mr Holmes looked at him carefully. ‘By what means, then, have you satisfied yourselves that the body is that of the Viscount?’
‘Well, Mr Holmes, we can’t be sure. But the measurements of the corpse fit the Viscount’s, the doctors say the age is right, and the teeth suggest a gentleman. And then a man came forward who’d found a ring in the mud, not very far from where the body washed up. I’m told by people who know these things that if the corpse-robbers had dropped it at the scene of their crime, since then it would have moved up and down the river with the tide to much the same degree as the corpse. So finding it where we did isn’t such a surprise. And there was no question about the ring. Undoubtedly the Viscount’s. He’d been wearing it the night he disappeared.’
‘I see.’ Mr Holmes’s eyes were suddenly expressionless again, closed and guarded. ‘So, Mr de Lacey, the Viscount disappeared but has – possibly – been found. I’m afraid I’m still unclear why you have come to seek out Dr Watson and myself.’
‘Mr Holmes…’ Now there was no mistaking the seriousness in the young man’s voice. ‘We are asking you to attempt the impossible – to follow a trail that must now be cold as the grave, to follow it into every corner, down every twist and turn of its route. The police were merely asked to find a missing person. You are being asked, for the sake of the nation, to trace every mo
vement of Viscount Wrexham from the last time he was seen until the moment he entered the river – what he did, who he spoke to, what he said to them. The facts I can lay before you are few, I fear. As I say, it appears an impossible task, and that is why we have come to you. The Home Secretary himself has vowed we have no other hope. And let me assure you, Mr Holmes, there is a great deal at stake. Far more than the death of the Viscount. We can do no more than beseech your assistance.’
For all Mr de Lacey’s languorous manners, it was a stirring appeal and I could see that the great detective was moved by it.
‘What do you say, Watson?’ he asked, turning to his friend, who had been listening intently, his brandy and shrub almost untouched.
‘Well, Holmes, if the Home Secretary has asked for you in person… Dash it, Holmes, if any man can do the impossible, you can! I say you should take the case.’
Sherlock Holmes turned back to his visitor, and even from my hiding place I was sure I could detect a gleam of pleasure in his eyes as he shrugged. ‘You see, Mr de Lacey, my friend here demands it. Now, tell us more about the Viscount. If I remember rightly, he went missing at around the time of his father’s death?’
‘Yes, Mr Holmes. Shortly before. His father, Lord Beaumaris had returned from overseas a few days earlier. A very sick man. He’d spent most of his life travelling in the Orient and of course his health was ruined by it.’
‘Came back to see his family, I daresay,’ Dr Watson put in. ‘I’ve seen it often. There’s nothing like dying to put people in mind of their loved ones.’
‘Possibly so, Dr Watson,’ Mr de Lacey conceded, ‘but his lordship was estranged from his son and had no other family. Prior to the time of his death, he and the Viscount had not spoken a word for over twenty years.’
Mrs Hudson and the Lazarus Testament Page 2