Her gaze directed me to the floor, where the volume she’d been studying so intently still lay, looking very old and very valuable. Its aged, brown boards, however, were some distance away, resting on a small Louis XIV table.
‘He’ll never forgive me!’ Miss Peters whispered, her voice hushed in dread as she contemplated the destruction she’d caused. ‘Flottie, we must mend it before Rupert wants it next…’
I approached the book in some trepidation and turned its pages so that the title page faced upwards: Domestic and Funerary Ceramics of Mesopotamia and the Holy Land. At least that didn’t sound like a book Mr Spencer would be referring to very frequently. And I was relieved to see that the pages themselves did not seemed to have been creased or damaged by their fall.
‘The really annoying thing,’ Hetty went on, her spirits reviving, ‘is that it’s not at all a good book, Flottie. I was just looking at it when you came in and, believe me, it’s an absolute stinker. I mean, the author might have known a bit about old pots but did he really need to go on about them for quite so long? It’s simply the most convoluted and tedious thing I’ve read in my life. Worse than Browning. I bet no one’s ever read all of it, not even his mother. And she probably tried really hard to enjoy it. Mothers can be funny like that.’
‘I don’t think glue’s the answer,’ I told her gently, my scrutiny of the damage complete. ‘But there’s a bookbinder on Dover Street. If we can just put the book back on the shelf for now, I’m sure he’d be able to call discreetly and make the repairs.’
Miss Peters considered this carefully. ‘Well, I suppose we might get away with it. I could tell Reynolds he’s a new curate who’s calling to ask for money for fallen women. New curates always do that sort of thing. I think fallen women must be part of their training. Does this bookbinder look like a curate, do you think?’
Unable to answer that, I contented myself with assisting Miss Peters in returning the volume to its original position, the damage temporarily concealed. Only a minute or so later Rupert Spencer entered the room, followed by Reynolds with the tea tray.
‘Hello, Flotsam!’ he greeted me warmly. ‘What’s Hetty up to? Reynolds says she’s been asking for glue.’
‘Really!’ Miss Peters exclaimed. ‘Can nothing be a secret in this house?’ She drew herself up to her full height and favoured Mr Spencer with a look of frosty hauteur. ‘Besides, sometimes a young lady requires glue, doesn’t she, Flottie? It is one of the Mysteries of Our Sex. A true gentleman would not refer to it.’
And with this cryptic utterance, she smiled happily and took a seat by the tea things.
‘Milk or lemon, Flottie?’ she asked with great serenity.
It was while we were taking tea that I dared to bring up the subject of Viscount Wrexham. Mrs Hudson may have been taking no interest in his disappearance but I found it far more difficult to ignore such an intriguing mystery.
When I mentioned the Viscount’s name, Mr Spencer paused, an almost translucent ham sandwich half way to his lips.
‘Wrexham? He was the chap who vanished, wasn’t he? I read about it at the time, and you still see the posters up in places.’
‘Did you know him at all?’ I asked.
Mr Spencer shook his head. ‘Not really. I’d seen him around the place a few times. Getting on a bit now, but a striking fellow, like a figure from the Regency with all that long, flowing hair. But I’ve never spoken to him. My uncle came across him at Newmarket once or twice, I believe, but they moved in rather different circles.’
Rupert’s uncle, known as the Irascible Earl on account of his temper, was a pillar of polite society. It didn’t surprise me that he and the Viscount were not intimate.
‘They certainly organised quite a search when he first disappeared,’ Mr Spencer went on. ‘I suppose the establishment gets jumpy when it starts mislaying Viscounts. It gives the anarchists ideas.’
He smiled. Mr Spencer had very brown eyes and when he smiled they crinkled at the edges. ‘I remember exactly what my uncle said when he heard about him disappearing though. He gave that little growl that he gives when he thinks someone is trying to put something over on him, and said that, from what he knew of the fellow, there was probably more to it than met the eye.’
Shortly after that, the tea things were cleared away and Mr Spencer continued his explanations of the stars and the planetary system. But I took care to store away the earl’s remarks about the Viscount’s disappearance, determined to examine them more closely as soon as I had the chance.
Nothing else of note happened during my visit until Reynolds came to show me out. To my surprise, at the front door he drew me discreetly to one side.
‘Ahem,’ he began, as if about to broach a subject of some importance. ‘I wondered, miss, if you would be so good as to give Mrs Hudson a message? Please tell her, if you would, that James, the footman, is extremely keen on Turkish Delight.’
And I confess that my journey home was not spent, as it should have been, rehearsing the order of the planets or the timings of the equinox, but wondering why on earth Mrs Hudson might want to hear about a young footman’s taste in confectionary…
*
Unfortunately my curiosity was not to be satisfied immediately, for on arriving in Baker Street I found the housekeeper absent on a visit to old Mr Pomfret, a long-standing friend of hers who had once been valet to Lord Ullswater. Mr Pomfret had retired from service after his lordship’s death in the Red Sea tragedy, and had opened a shop in Chelsea from which he sold fine spices to the kitchens of the gentry. He was now well into his eighties and left the commonplace transactions of the shop to his son, but Mrs Hudson would still visit him from time to time to order cardamoms and cloves, and to listen to the old man’s tales of exotic travels in Lord Ullswater’s service.
She returned from this visit in excellent spirits and received Reynolds’s message with a thoughtful nod of her head.
‘Turkish Delight, you say? Well, well. I must say I’m not greatly tempted by it myself. I shall suggest to Reynolds that he discourages the young man. Now, how were things at Bloomsbury Square?’
Resolving to return to the mysterious subject of James and his taste for Turkish Delight at a later date, I contented myself with repeating Mr Spencer’s remarks about Viscount Wrexham. Mrs Hudson listened to these without apparent interest, but she did allow the corner of one eyebrow to flicker a little above the horizontal when I told her of the earl’s verdict on the disappearance. She showed no interest in pursuing the subject, however, but instead began to busy herself around the kitchen while recounting one of Mr Pomfret’s stories about sandstorms in Samaria.
This tale was interrupted by the arrival of Constable Dobson, just off duty and eager for fruitcake. Mrs Hudson hastened to make him comfortable, with hot water for his feet, cake in large quantities and a generous portion of Cheshire cheese to accompany it. His tea was served extremely strong and in a pint pot. Constable Dobson was an enormous man who suffered greatly from bunions and we allowed him a few minutes of appreciative foot-soaking before we felt it right to engage him with questions.
The information he had for us about the previous day’s incident was enlightening but also disappointing, for it contained no mention of anyone called Elsie. The unfortunate gentleman, it seemed, was one Albert John Swan, an Englishman by birth who had for many years been resident in the colonies. Investigations by the police and the telegraphic assistance of the authorities in the Cape had established that Mr Swan’s early years were spent in service in the Home Counties before he decided to try his luck in South Africa. There, through hard work over many years, he had succeeded in making his fortune.
‘A very prosperous gentleman, by all accounts,’ Constable Dobson told us. ‘Seems he did well in the grocery business, providing little things from over here to homesick settlers. You know, Eccles cakes, Shrewsbury biscuits, Bakewell puddings, that sort of thing. Very lucrative, it was. By the time he retired last year it seems he had a fine home in
Cape Town and an estate in the country. But you know how it is, ma’am, I reckon home was still calling him, because when he retired he declared he was travelling back here for a lengthy stay.’
The constable shook his head and wriggled his toes. ‘It often happens like that in my experience, ma’am. You can’t beat home, can you? I said to my wife only this morning, “Bessie,” I said, “you can keep your Calcuttas and your Cape Towns. There ain’t nothing I’ve ever heard of in either place to make me happier than I am right here.”’
‘A sentiment that does you credit, Constable, I’m sure,’ Mrs Hudson told him gravely. ‘They say contentment is the most enviable of all talents. Now tell us a little about Mr Swan’s personal circumstances. Did he have a wife and family?’
‘No, ma’am. I’m told he was a widower. They say he married a rich woman – the daughter of Spotford, the ships’ biscuit tycoon – but his wife died last year. There’s a second cousin in Johannesburg who inherits the lot.’
Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow. ‘Caroline Spotford, the daughter of Sir Charles? I remember reading of her marriage many years ago.’ She gave me a meaningful look, then turned to other subjects. ‘Do we know when Mr Swan arrived in London, Constable? Had he been in the country long?’
‘Only a few days, ma’am. He had travelled here from Marseilles after spending the winter in the south of France. He arrived in London last Monday and checked into Brown’s Hotel. Which proves he wasn’t short of a bob or two. They say Brown’s is one of the best.’
‘A fine establishment, yes,’ Mrs Hudson confirmed, ‘though not entirely to be trusted with shellfish. So, did Mr Swan indicate to anyone what his plans here might be, Constable?’
‘Not really, ma’am. Although when he arrived he told the manager that he had some personal business in the north and would be spending a few days there. In fact yesterday was the day he planned to leave. His bags had been sent on to the station yesterday morning and he set off to follow them on foot, it being such a fine day.’
Mrs Hudson’s eyebrows met for a moment in a fleeting frown.
‘Do you have any idea which London station his bags were sent to, Constable?’ she asked.
‘To Kings Cross, I think it was, ma’am, though I can’t remember exactly where he was headed after that. The train ticket was in his wallet when he died but it wasn’t a place I’d particularly heard of.’
‘King’s Cross, you say?’ Mrs Hudson continued to look thoughtful. ‘For an active gentleman to walk from Brown’s to King’s Cross is not surprising. But for him to end up in Baker Street… Well, it represents a very considerable detour. Do you know what time his train was due to depart, Constable?’
‘I believe he was catching an eleven o’clock train, ma’am. He’d checked with the boy at reception to see if he had time to walk and still catch it.’
Mrs Hudson pursed her lips again. ‘Then by the time he arrived in Baker Street, he had already missed his train. Am I right, Flotsam?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I nodded, wondering if perhaps that was why he was looking at his watch so often.
In reply Mrs Hudson rose and moved slowly over to a pile of un-ironed linen that lay beside the sink. ‘It would seem that something must have happened to Mr Swan between Brown’s Hotel and the station to make him change his mind about catching that train. And whatever it was, it was sufficiently pressing to bring him, in a state of some agitation, to Mr Holmes’s front door.’
‘And what might that have been, do you think, ma’am?’ the constable asked, interested enough to lay down his cake for a moment.
In reply Mrs Hudson said nothing. She simply looked at me.
‘I can answer that, Constable,’ I said quietly. ‘You see, Mr Swan told me what he’d seen. He said he’d seen a dead man risen from the grave.’
For a fraction of a second, Constable Dobson looked disconcerted, but then the smile returned to his face and he nodded.
‘I daresay he did, young Flotsam. But we’ve got to remember them’s his last words. Folk say all sorts of things when their time is nearly up, what with strange lights and the like. Anyway…’ he paused to brush some substantial crumbs of fruitcake from his moustache, ‘…whatever it was that brought him here, we can’t deny that he stepped out under that carriage by mistake. No mystery there, I’m afraid. Mind you, there was one other thing I was going to ask about… I almost forgot.’
The constable began to fumble in the pockets of his uniform. ‘I have it here somewhere,’ he went on. ‘I’ve been asking house to house if anyone recognises it. Someone dropped it at the scene yesterday and it wasn’t noticed in the confusion. I only found it after the body’d been taken away. Ah! Here it is! A gentleman’s watch…’
I gasped when I saw it, for I recognised it at once.
‘But, Constable,’ I cried, ‘that’s his watch. Mr Swan’s. I saw it in his hand. He was checking it over and over again.’
‘Mr Swan’s, you say?’ Constable Dobson looked at me dubiously. ‘I don’t think so, miss. I fear you’re mistaken. Mr Swan’s watch was still in his waistcoat pocket when we found him. I noticed it particularly when we sorted his effects because it was keeping good time and I wondered how the wheel of the carriage had missed it. And looking at the thing rationally, miss,’ he added proudly, ‘it’s hardly likely that a gentleman would need to carry two watches, now is it?’
‘But I’m so sure!’ I insisted, taking it from his hand. It had an unusual case, a silver so dull it was really a gun-metal grey.
‘And what’s more, miss,’ the constable went on in a kind voice, ‘there’s writing on the back. And they’re not Mr Swan’s initials, now are they? No, miss, much more likely some gent has dropped it in the mud while trying to help.’
Slowly I turned the timepiece in my hand, just as I had seen the dead man turn it the day before. Constable Dobson was right. They weren’t Mr Swan’s initials. They spelled something altogether different.
R.I.P.
I passed the object to Mrs Hudson, but not even the warmth and reassurance in her face could prevent a shudder running through me. Rest in peace, I thought. It seemed the business of Mr Swan and his last words was not going to be a simple one after all.
Chapter IV
An American Visitor
‘Mr Swan’s wife,’ Mrs Hudson announced, as we bustled out of the house the following morning, ‘was not a pleasant woman. I knew her a little when she was still Caroline Spotford, and she had a very bad reputation below stairs. She was once very spiteful towards a scullery maid of my acquaintance, and I can assure you it was not an isolated incident.’
It was another bright day, but cold and blustery. The housekeeper paused to tighten the strings of her bonnet against the wind.
‘That was many years ago, of course,’ she went on, ‘before her marriage. I don’t think I’ve heard her name mentioned since she and her father moved to South Africa in the wake of the Spanish weevil affair, but there’s one thing I’d be prepared to wager: that no one ever had reason to know her as Elsie.’
It was a little after nine o’clock and our destination, Mrs Hudson had informed me as she’d hurried me out of the house, was Brown’s Hotel. My companion was clearly in determined mood and we made our way there at the best pace the crowded pavements would allow. There had been little opportunity the previous evening for us to discuss Constable Dobson’s visit, for only a minute or two after he had taken his leave our two gentlemen had returned, triumphant, from their vigil in Kennington.
‘The case is closed, Mrs Hudson!’ Dr Watson had announced proudly, slapping his thigh with pleasure. ‘As soon as the fellow received the note Holmes had concocted, he set about trying to drown the cat. Of course, that proved everything. Fortunately we were suitably positioned to seize the blackguard and save the feline. It’s the smartest piece of work I’ve seen for a long time. Holmes, you are a genius!’
‘On the contrary, my friend. I did no more than apply simple logic. Once one had understoo
d that the jewel thefts were intended to divert attention from the missing pets, and not the other way round, the solution was obvious. Now, Mrs Hudson, there was some talk of cold partridge and burgundy. And please bring up the newspapers for the last three weeks, and the cards of all our callers. Watson and I have some work to do! We must decide which case should occupy our attention next.’
Mr Holmes’s enormous enthusiasm for that task had not flagged until after midnight, and until that hour his constant demands kept us both busy, running out for navvies’ tobacco or supplies of brown ale, or brewing large quantities of Turkish coffee, all of which were consumed enthusiastically while Dr Watson dozed in his armchair.
The following morning, however, the two gentlemen were required at Lambeth police station, and Mrs Hudson seized her opportunity with alacrity. No sooner had Dr Watson and Mr Holmes left the house than she was guiding me into my coat and up the area steps.
‘Come on, Flotsam,’ she urged, ‘we can talk as we go, and time is of the essence. We have a little experiment to perform.’
‘Will it help us find Mr Swan’s Elsie, ma’am?’ I asked hopefully.
‘I can’t honestly say for certain, Flottie. But it may help us understand a little more about Mr Swan’s last hours. Now, tell me, Flotsam, what do you think of Mr Swan’s two watches?’
I considered the problem as we hurried along, Mrs Hudson cutting out such a brisk pace that sometimes I had to skip a little to keep up with her.
‘Well, ma’am, perhaps he was afraid his own watch might not keep good time and he was anxious about missing his train?’
Mrs Hudson looked at me a little askance. ‘I suppose he might carry a spare watch in such circumstances, Flotsam. But generally speaking gentlemen don’t. They simply carry a reliable timepiece. And we know Mr Swan’s other watch kept good time, remember.’
Mrs Hudson and the Lazarus Testament Page 4