by Mrs Hudson
‘Very good, Flotsam!’ Mrs Hudson gave an approving nod of her head. ‘That’s certainly quite possible. And that’s what we’re going to find out today.’
We reached Brown’s Hotel at a little before ten o’clock and paused by its smart front steps. There Mrs Hudson pulled out her own watch and began to study it intently.
‘Are we not going in, ma’am?’ I asked when she showed no sign of moving.
‘Oh, I don’t think so, Flottie,’ she replied, her eyes still on her timepiece. ‘I’m prepared to believe what Constable Dobson told us about the evidence of the hotel staff. In fact I stepped out earlier this morning to have another word with the constable, just to check a few details. Now, I think we can be on our way…’
She returned her watch to the depths from which it had come and looked about her.
‘It was at this precise time that Mr Swan set out from Brown’s to walk to King’s Cross Station. We know from the boy at the desk who gave him directions exactly which route he planned to take. The boy even provided him with a simple map, so I think we can assume that Mr Swan did not wander from the route by accident. And he told the boy that, although he was eager to walk, he was a little anxious about missing his train, so I think we can also assume that he wasn’t in the mood to indulge in any spur-of-the-moment detours. Now, how fast do we think a fit gentleman of sixty would walk?’
And with that we set off again, retracing the dead man’s steps towards King’s Cross. The streets were busy but not impossibly crowded, and despite the gusting wind it was good to be out. London was enjoying the first touches of spring and there seemed to be good humour in the air and brighter colours in the shop windows. It was as if the city was shaking itself from a long winter’s sleep.
From time to time we would adjust our pace at Mrs Hudson’s insistence.
‘He was worried about that train, Flottie, so would probably have speeded up a little as he went. And for this experiment I want to be sure we are walking at least as fast as he did.’
I was under strict instructions to keep my eyes open for anything resembling a watchmaker’s or a pawn shop, and occasionally we would pause and peer down side streets, to be sure of noticing any such shop that might have caught Mr Swan’s eye. These stops apart, it seemed to me that our pace was a brisk one and I was sure Mr Swan wouldn’t have walked so fast. More than once we had to step into the street to overtake slower walkers, gentlemen who themselves were walking fairly briskly to their places of business. And after every few minutes Mrs Hudson would again consult her watch.
Finally, when we were about two thirds of the way to the station, she held up her hand and called a halt.
‘I think this is far enough, Flottie. I don’t think Mr Swan came any further.’
‘How’s that, ma’am?’ I asked, still a little out of breath.
‘Because we know precisely what time he arrived in Baker Street, my girl. And if he’d gone on any longer in this direction, he wouldn’t have had time to walk all the way to Baker Street as well.’
She waited for a moment while I digested this, then gave a little shrug.
‘Of course, it would only be right to point out that he could have caught a cab to Baker Street. But you saw him arrive on foot, and if he’d taken a hansom, he’d have been dropped safely on our doorstep and would never have had to cross the road. So, Flottie, for now let’s assume he discovered something between here and Brown’s Hotel, something that made him change his mind about catching his train. And whatever it was, I don’t think it was the purchase of a watch, because we haven’t passed any place where he might have acquired such an item. I think we can be confident he had the second watch with him when he set out that morning.’
‘But might he not perhaps have changed his mind about walking from the hotel, ma’am? If he’d caught a cab from somewhere near Brown’s he would have arrived at the station with plenty of time to browse the pawn shops near King’s Cross.’
Mrs Hudson nodded. ‘You’re absolutely right, Flottie. Even though we know he was determined to walk, he could have done just that. Or he could have seen the watch in a shop window after he’d diverted to Baker Street. Or he could have simply found the watch lying in the gutter. But for now all these things strike me as less probable. Now tell me, Flotsam…’ She looked at me, her eyes twinkling. ‘Why might one man be in the habit of carrying another man’s watch?’
‘Because he’s been entrusted to deliver it somewhere, ma’am?’
The housekeeper pursed her lips. ‘Perhaps it’s easier to think of it the other way around. When is it common for one man’s watch to be presented to someone else? And in what circumstances would that person treasure it so much that they would carry it with them routinely, wherever they went?’
With a shock, I grasped her meaning.
‘When it’s a keepsake, ma’am. If someone dies…’
Mrs Hudson nodded sombrely, there in the sunlit street, while the unnoticing crowds jostled around us.
‘And what were the gentleman’s last words, Flottie?’
There was no need for me to recall them. They rose to my lips instantly, heavy with portent.
‘I have seen a dead man risen from the grave.’
Mrs Hudson smiled then, and took my arm gently. ‘Come, Flottie,’ she said. ‘Let us be consoled by one thing. At least we know the dead man’s initials.’
*
Although there were chores aplenty waiting for us at home, we did not return directly to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson, perhaps deciding that I’d had rather too many horrors that week, whisked me off to the tearooms in the park, where I was fed cinnamon toast washed down with hot chocolate so thick it seemed a great effort to stir it. After that we took a turn around the pond and watched the ducks, while Mrs Hudson told me tales of her childhood in service. For a time I quite forgot about Mr Swan, and it was only when we had left the park behind us that my thoughts returned to the missing Elsie.
Mrs Hudson must have seen the shadow pass across my face for she gave my arm a squeeze.
‘I daresay, Flottie, you’ll be thinking we’re no closer to delivering Mr Swan’s last message. I’m afraid none of the things we’ve been speculating about today have helped with that. But I see no reason why a more traditional approach might not yield results. I thought this might be a good place to start.’
She fished a folded piece of paper from her bag and handed it to me for my inspection.
‘Acquaintances of the late Albert John Swan, once of Sussex, latterly of Cape Town, South Africa, are invited to make themselves known to Rumbelow & Rumbelow, Solicitors, at the address below.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that will be successful, Flotsam, but if you approve, I suggest you take it round to Mr Rumbelow’s offices straightaway. He will know the best publications in which to place it. Meanwhile, I shall go home and make a start on the fire irons. I’m not expecting the gentlemen home till the evening, so you’ve plenty of time. Now, off with you! And give Mr Rumbelow my regards.’
With those instructions ringing in my ears, I set off at a scamper towards the hushed and oak-panelled offices where Mr Rumbelow spent his days wrestling with all matters legal. There I was greeted by a gangly young man with pimples who informed me that he thought Mr Rumbelow was in conference but that he would inform the gentleman of my arrival. I settled down to wait on one of the leather chairs that smelled of wood smoke and old tweed, but before I’d even had time to study the portraits of three earlier and equally round-faced Rumbelows, the young man had retuned with his master’s compliments and his request that I should step into his office.
Mr Rumbelow’s inner sanctum had something of the atmosphere of a very fine gentleman’s club. There was a desk in it, it is true, and Mr Rumbelow invariably sat behind it, but somehow your eye always drifted to the soft leather armchairs and the ancient law books about the walls, or to the Regency decanters brimming with aged, amber sherry.
On this occasion, however, I notic
ed none of these things. I didn’t even take particular notice of Mr Rumbelow as he came forward to greet me, because seated opposite him, perched neatly and elegantly on the edge of her chair, was one of the prettiest women I had ever seen.
I saw at once that hers was not a classical beauty. She had none of the fine-boned prominence so admired by artists, nor any of that aristocratic refinement that has its roots in dress and grooming. Hers was simply an intense loveliness, a serenity of face and evenness of features that made me smile without knowing why and brought me stuttering to a standstill on the edge of Mr Rumbelow’s fine Persian carpet.
‘Ah, Flotsam,’ my host began, his voice warm with welcome. ‘Thank you for joining us. You are just the person we needed. This is Mrs Summersby. Mrs Summersby, this is the young lady I was telling you about. Mrs Summersby,’ he explained, ‘is renting Broomheath Hall in Cumberland through my old acquaintance George Verity. We were just discussing whether or not it would be advisable for her to consult Mr Holmes over the, er, happenings there.’
‘You didn’t warn me to expect such a very fetching young lady, Mr Rumbelow,’ she said, and smiled at me. Her voice was low and attractive, and her distinctive accent made her seem to me exotic and a little mysterious. ‘Come, Flotsam,’ she continued, ‘sit next to me while I finish telling Mr Rumbelow about my predicament.’
As I settled into the chair closest to hers, I noticed how smooth and unlined her skin was, like the complexion of a china doll.
‘I do hope you understand, Mr Rumbelow,’ she was saying, ‘that it’s really only on Mr Verity’s insistence that I am here. My husband and I don’t want to be any trouble to anyone. To tell the truth, Mr Rumbelow,’ and here she raised her eyes to his a little shyly, ‘I’m a little embarrassed to be taking up so much of your valuable time.’
‘Not at all! Not at all!’ the solicitor countered gallantly. ‘Happy to be of assistance.’
‘You see, although events at Broomheath Hall since we moved in have been peculiar, well, we feel perhaps Mr Verity is unduly flustered. After all, what can possibly happen to us, here in England, in these modern times? We Americans enjoy your old English ghost stories, but that doesn’t mean we believe in the ghosts.’
Mr Rumbelow greeted this comment with a single, solemn nod, then began to rustle through the papers in front of him.
‘Now, let me see… Ah, yes. I understand from Verity that Broomheath Hall is rather a remote establishment. Tell me, Mrs Summersby, how did you come to choose such a place?’
‘It is certainly a long way from this great city of yours,’ she agreed, ‘but perhaps in our country we are more accustomed to great distances. And after all, Broomheath is less than a mile from Alston, which has the railway and is such a pretty little town, and of course we can send to London for all our little luxuries. The moors can be a little bleak, of course, but my husband’s great passion is for antiquities and he’s always wanted to make a serious study of your Hadrian’s Wall. When we read that Broomheath Hall was vacant, it seemed ideal. Such a distinguished house and so well placed. The wall runs quite near there, you know, and the railway makes it all very convenient.’
She turned to me and gave me a little smile that made me somehow complicit in their adventure.
‘Now,’ Mr Rumbelow went on, his eyes returning to the papers on his desk. ‘Verity says here that when you decided to take the house, it was already under a cloud…’
‘Yes, sir, it was. The unfortunate Mr Baldwick…’ She ran one gloved hand rather absently down the length of the other, as if instinctively smoothing out any creases. They were, I noticed, gloves of the very highest quality and they fitted her to perfection. ‘Mr Baldwick, the previous tenant, was a very unhappy gentleman. Have you heard of him?’
Mr Rumbelow and I shook our heads in perfect unison and she laughed prettily.
‘I fear few people have. I understand he was a gentleman with a great desire for fame but little in the way of talent to support his ambitions. He styled himself an archaeologist but it seems no one took him very seriously. Mr Verity says he had no particular training or expertise. By all accounts he was a very unstable character, given to moods of great bitterness and brooding.’
Mr Rumbelow looked a little embarrassed. ‘I understand that eventually…’
‘I fear so.’ His visitor dropped her lashes, then raised them to reveal eyes full of sadness. ‘During the months he spent at Broomheath it seems he slipped into insanity. They say he began to rage about being accursed, about being haunted by the ghosts of those he’d wronged, and about hiding from God’s vengeance. He had trunks full of self-published pamphlets which he slept with at the end of his bed. And the servants reported that he was always digging.’
‘Digging, madam?’
‘They would find him digging in the cellars or in the grounds of the estate, babbling about needing to find a hiding place; that the devil was on his heels. And as you know, eventually he took his own life, out on the moors.’
‘My word, Mrs Summersby!’ Mr Rumbelow shook his head. ‘Did you not find any of that off-putting? It is a disturbing tale.’
She laughed again. ‘Oh, it was worse than that, Mr Rumbelow! It seems there is a local legend that no suicide can rest in peace on those moors. There is much talk of the dead man returning to seek companions. But I guess over in Boston we don’t have too much time for all those old superstitions. Of course, we feel sorry for poor Mr Baldwick, but because of him we were able to take Broomheath at a much reduced rent, and the place suits us perfectly.’
She leaned forward a little as if to emphasise the point. I noticed that the hem of her dress, although of a gorgeous and rich fabric, had been mended with invisible stitching at some point in the past.
‘But strange incidents continue, I understand?’ Mr Rumbelow looked very anxious on her behalf.
‘Only little things.’ She reassured him with a flutter of her hand. ‘The townsfolk have spoken of Mr Baldwick’s ghost abroad after dark, haunting the moors. And Mr Verity himself is adamant he has seen lights moving in the house at night. One local farmer swore he had come across the spectre digging by the ruined chapel, but later we heard the man had been at the inn in Alston for most of the afternoon, so that was probably the liquor talking.’
‘Nothing else in the house itself?’
‘Oh, no, Mr Rumbelow. At least, nothing sinister. Our butler has been up once or twice in the night to investigate noises, but really I think perhaps events have just made us all a little jumpy. I’m sure things will settle down soon, once Mr Baldwick has been forgotten about.’
She paused and looked her host directly in the eyes.
‘Do you think, Mr Rumbelow, given that my husband and I are not at all upset or worried, that you might write to Mr Verity and say that it would be better to delay calling in Sherlock Holmes until there is something more definite to report? It seems such a drastic step, to trouble a famous detective over a few local rumours, and we’d hate to be seen as a pair of foolish Americans.’
Mr Rumbelow blushed a little under her gaze.
‘Why, indeed, Mrs Summersby. Indeed. I understand your position perfectly, and anything I can do to help… It sounds as though this Baldwick business has upset Verity. All that raving and digging – very unsettling. But I’m sure he’ll see that we can’t bother Mr Holmes with a few rumours started by fanciful locals. What do you say, Flotsam?’
I nodded earnestly, and Mrs Summersby reached out to pat my hand.
‘Then that’s decided!’ She rose from her chair, and Mr Rumbelow and I rose with her. ‘Thank you so much for your time, Mr Rumbelow. It’s a great comfort to know you are on our side. I’m sure you will be wonderfully good at calming Mr Verity. And my husband will get on very well if he’s allowed a little peace in which to pursue his studies. And now,’ she went on, casting a glance at Mr Rumbelow’s grandfather clock, ‘I am supposed to be meeting my husband in a few minutes’ time. He has been at the British Museum, studying awa
y, but tonight we are to dine with Sir Bulstrode Peveril. We met him in the South of France last year and struck up quite a friendship. A real English knight! I’m so looking forward to it! So I must say good day to you both. So lovely to meet you, Flotsam…’
And with that, Mrs Summersby was gone, ushered away by the pimply youth, leaving behind her a little silence and just the faintest trace of jasmine in the air.
Chapter V
The Lost Gospel
Sir Percival Grenville-Ffitch returned to Baker Street two days later, his visit preceded by the most courteous note. In it he apologised for Mr de Lacey’s abruptness and begged to be allowed to return in person. It was clear this missive caused Mr Holmes a great deal of satisfaction, for on reading it he allowed himself one of his broadest smiles and treated himself to a second pipe before bedtime.
Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, welcomed the news with no more than a shrug.
‘So, Flottie,’ she sighed, ‘perhaps we shall find out a little more about this Wrexham business after all. Though goodness knows, things are busy enough without the two gentlemen going off on another of their wild chases. Tell me, Flottie, how often do you read the Bible?’
I confess I looked at her in astonishment, for Mrs Hudson was not a religious woman and this sudden inquiry about my spiritual welfare seemed to bear no connection to anything that had gone before.
‘Oh, no matter,’ she chuckled on seeing my surprise. ‘I just wondered if you were up to scratch on your Bible stories, that’s all.’
Further discussion of the subject was interrupted by the arrival of Scraggs, the grocer’s boy, an old acquaintance of mine and someone entrusted by Mrs Hudson with all manner of important commissions.
‘Hello, Flot,’ he chirped, putting his head around the kitchen door, ‘I hear you’ve been playing Florence Nightingale to the fallen.’