Mrs Hudson and the Lazarus Testament

by Mrs Hudson

  ‘Yes, please, sir.’ The thought of being present at such an event filled me with utter horror. But the thought of not being present was even worse.

  ‘Midnight then, Watson. We meet at the chapel.’ He knocked his pipe against a stone, then rose from the heather. ‘Bring the spades and a good storm lantern, and see if Rupert Spencer and Mrs Hudson will join us. The more witnesses the better. Now, if you will forgive me, I have a report to write for Sir Percival Grenville-Ffitch. Sir Percival is threatening to flood the county with troops if there is no sign of progress soon. An illegal exhumation will be just the thing to keep him occupied for a day or two!’

  We said our goodbyes, and half an hour after first discovering him, Dr Watson and I watched Sherlock Holmes strike out across the moor, his long strides quickly carrying him out of sight behind a spur of grey rock. Then, as we made our way back over the heather, a cloud moved over the sun and a chill breath of wind accompanied it. To my great relief, our pony was still cropping the turf where we had left him.

  *

  If Mrs Hudson noticed my slightly tardy arrival at Broomheath Hall, she showed no sign of it. I stepped into the servants’ hall to find her seated calmly at the table with Martha and Mabel, the two young girls who acted as cook and maid for the Summersbys. A large pile of cutlery lay in front of them and Mrs Hudson appeared to be explaining to them the difference between the various knives, forks and spoons. The faces of all three brightened when I entered.

  ‘Ah, Flotsam,’ Mrs Hudson greeted me. ‘Just the person! You can continue here. These two young ladies are very quick learners. We’ve already covered bed-making, laundry, bathrooms and napkins, and we’re about to move on to polishing. But first I should like to have a little chat with Mr Pauncefoot. He has been busy all morning with deliveries – I took the precaution of ordering in quite a substantial quantity of supplies – and I have barely spoken a word to him yet. However, it is high time he and I did a little planning…’

  I had fully expected Pauncefoot to resent our intrusion, as our presence at the Hall must surely hinder him in his searches for the Lazarus Testament; but to my surprise, when he emerged in his shirt sleeves from the pantry-cellar, he greeted my companion very warmly.

  ‘If I may say so, Mrs Hudson, it is a great pleasure to welcome such a distinguished professional to Broomheath. I believe your assistance will prove most beneficial. The two girls here at present are honest enough, and perfectly willing, but they have never seen service in a proper establishment. I fear the correct entertainment of a countess would prove quite beyond them.’

  Mrs Hudson ran an appraising glance around the servants’ hall. ‘Thank you, Mr Pauncefoot. I daresay we can bring some helpful experience to the situation. Now tell me, what are your arrangements for the silver?’

  ‘Arrangements, Mrs Hudson?’ He looked a little awkward and shook his head as if in sorrow. ‘I fear formal arrangements have not been necessary until now. The Summersbys live very simply. But I will of course be very happy to adopt whatever system you think most fit.’

  The housekeeper nodded briskly. ‘Yes, I understand. Very well. As for dinner, I have a menu in mind, and the various comestibles delivered this afternoon should all be of excellent quality. Let us hope the kitchen is capable of preparing them! And while I see to that, perhaps you would consider the wine, Mr Pauncefoot?’

  This was a subject that seemed to cheer the butler considerably and, while Mrs Hudson took charge of affairs, he retired with a bow to the wine cellar in order to consider his options.

  By mid-afternoon, the atmosphere in the servants’ hall had been transformed. Martha and I were bustling in all directions with Mrs Hudson’s instructions ringing in our ears, while Mildred, the young girl employed as a cook, was being given an emergency introduction to culinary arts hitherto quite unknown to her.

  ‘And Flottie,’ Mrs Hudson warned, ‘the countess is travelling without a maid, so you will have to dress her. I’m sure you will cope admirably. Meanwhile, Mr Pauncefoot will no doubt be grateful for some help with the table settings. I will be through to check things presently…’

  For all Mrs Hudson’s confidence, I was rather daunted by the prospect of acting as lady’s maid to an Italian countess, and as the hour of her arrival drew closer, I had become distinctly nervous. Even so, I could see at a glance that Broomheath Hall was nearly ready for her. Previously I had always felt that the house was not truly lived in, that the Summersbys were merely occupying the space within its walls. Yet somehow, in the course of a few hours, Mrs Hudson had changed all that. It was as if the spirit of the old house had come alive again and was smiling in anticipation of guests.

  And Mrs Hudson’s helpers rose to the occasion too. While one of us was sweeping the stairs, another would be polishing door handles or opening the door to a delivery of eggs, while someone else would be outside beating carpets. Pauncefoot, who had quickly surrendered himself entirely to Mrs Hudson’s authority, appeared to be simultaneously decanting claret and arranging candelabra, while occasionally also checking the countess’s bedroom for specks of dust. The effect of so much activity was to make Broomheath once more breathe a welcome, and I found myself humming cheerfully as I worked.

  With so much to do, there was little time to worry, but when the hour finally arrived and we heard the sweep of the trap upon the gravel outside, I found myself almost overwhelmed by nerves. After so much hard work, such sterling efforts by all concerned, the prospect of my ruining the countess’s welcome through some terrible error seemed almost too much to bear, and when Mrs Hudson signalled with a nod that I should follow Pauncefoot into the hall to greet our guest, I believe my legs were actually trembling.

  I heard the contessa before I saw her. Pauncefoot had flung open the great doors in welcome and had advanced to assist her from the trap. Outside, thick clouds had made the afternoon murky, but rising from the gloom I heard musical laughter and a voice bubbling with excitement.

  ‘Bellissima! Bellissima!’ it trilled. ‘Such walls! Such stones! Like the great bastions of Livorno, no? But so English too! Already I am happy to have accepted your so kind invitation!’

  And with that conversational flourish, delivered in an Italian accent as robust as it was exotic, Miss Hetty Peters strode up the steps of Broomheath Hall.

  *

  I fear I can provide only a very limited account of the welcome given by the Summersbys to the Contessa Flavia. Such was my state of shock that I cannot be sure who said what, or what politenesses were exchanged, although I do remember that Pauncefoot at one point, seeing me dumbfounded, had to pinch my arm to prompt me into some particular action.

  Only when I heard the contessa announce that she would like to rest for a little was I reminded of my duties.

  ‘This preety girl is to help me, yes? Eccellente! Now I go and when I have rest, then I hope you will be so kind as to tell me all your archaeological adventures here. Archaeology! It is my passion! But first, I dress.’

  On hearing this cue, I scurried about my business, and Miss Peters joined me in her smart guest bedroom only a few minutes later, he face radiant and her accent quite forgotten.

  ‘Oh, Flottie!’ she enthused. ‘Isn’t this just too wonderful? You and I together like this! I really feared I was going to have the most frightfully grim and lonely time here. But of course I didn’t mind, because it would be worth it just to show Rupert that he can’t leave me out of things, and can’t leave me sitting in London with no one to dance with. After all, Flottie, Rupert may be a very average dancer but he’s so much better looking than anyone else that it never seems to matter. And anyway, if I’d stayed in town I would have simply had to go to the Fearnleys’ ball, and the Fearnleys would have expected me to wear my new duck-egg gown because I’ve been going on about it for weeks, and of course it would be a terrible waste of all that French stitching if Rupert wasn’t there to see me in it! I just can’t tell you how beautiful it is, Flottie! I know people go on and on about the Mona
Lisa and the Taj Mahal by moonlight and things, but I honestly don’t think there can be anything more beautiful in the whole world than one of Madame Lafitte’s silk gowns.’

  She paused for breath, but only for a fraction of an instant.

  ‘Anyway, now Rupert will jolly well see what happens when he treats me so cruelly. He said in his letter that he was cooped up in a library all day. Well, for all I care he can stay there till he’s as dusty as the books, while I’m tucked up all nice and warm in a lovely house, looking for treasure! It’s true, isn’t it, Flottie, that I’m in a much better position to find things out than he is? And how very dim of him not to think of something like this himself! Though he probably thinks it’s manly to do something very boring in a good cause. Why is it, Flottie, that men always think suffering is noble when mostly it’s just really, really stupid?’

  She paused to take another breath and this time I was waiting for it.

  ‘But, Hetty,’ I put in, ‘how do you come to be here at all? What has happened to the real contessa?’

  She gave a little gurgle of pleasure.

  ‘Why, Flottie, my angel, didn’t I say? I made her up.’

  I looked at her in astonishment. ‘What? You mean there is no Countess Flavia?’

  ‘Well, I suppose there must be one somewhere…’

  ‘But Sir Bulstrode Peveril has vouched for her. I saw his letter!’

  Miss Peters nodded a little sadly.

  ‘Dear Sir Bulstrode! He’s such a very kind and good man. When I told him that an old friend of my uncle’s needed an introduction to the Summersbys, he was a bit dubious at first. But he’s known me since I was a tiny girl and is ever so fond of me, and really I only have to pout a little and plead for a bit and he always gives in. It used to be rag-dolls and lollipops, now it’s introductions. I felt quite guilty about it for a moment or two, until I realised that of course it was really me he was recommending to the Summersbys, and he’d have been very happy to do that if I’d asked him to. Only somehow I don’t think even nice, trusting Sir Bulstrode was going to quite believe that I’d developed a burning passion for the archaeology of the Roman Empire.’

  ‘But how did you even know that Sir Bulstrode was acquainted with the Summersbys?’ I asked, still mystified.

  ‘Oh, it seems that Mrs Summersby mentioned it to Mr Rumbelow when she went to his office. And when I told Mr Rumbelow how afraid I was that Rupert might be mixing in doubtful company, he was only too delighted to reassure me that the Summersbys were acquaintances of Sir Bulstrode. Well, after that it all seemed simple! Sir Bulstrode used to dangle me on his knee, you know. Not that I remember it, of course, but he speaks of it very warmly. Oh, what a wonderful view!’

  The setting sun had burst through the clouds and was touching the high fells with an orange flame. For a moment we watched in silence, until the clouds closed again and left the great flank of the moor wrapped in night.

  ‘There’s something so excitingly brooding about these moors, isn’t there, Flottie?’ Miss Peters went on, her voice a little hushed. ‘You feel sure that a strong-jawed Mr Rochester must be about to ride across them at any moment. And this is such a lovely room! I do hope my visit hasn’t put anyone to too much trouble.’

  ‘Well,’ I confessed, ‘we have been rather busy. There was a lot of dusting to do, and the prospect of feeding a countess caused all sorts of consternation in the kitchen. When I last looked, Mildred the cook was having hysterics over the blancmange…’

  I might have continued for some time with a catalogue of that day’s dramas, but Miss Peters looked immediately so very remorseful that my words trailed off.

  ‘But it’s wonderful to have you here,’ I concluded truthfully. ‘And having someone here to keep an eye on things must be a good thing, I’m sure. But you need to be careful. There’s danger here too. A man has disappeared. Mr Holmes and Mrs Hudson are sure he’s been murdered.’

  I was about to mention Mr Holmes’s scheme for that very night, but realised just in time that Miss Peters would insist on coming too, and I was not at all sure, when Mr Holmes had spoken of the need for witnesses, that he had envisaged anyone quite as talkative as Miss Peters.

  ‘Murder!’ she shuddered. ‘How appallingly gruesome. Do sit here next to me and tell me all about it…’

  To my utter astonishment, Miss Peters’s impersonation of an Italian countess with archaeological interests seemed to survive the evening; neither the Summersbys nor Pauncefoot seemed inclined to question Sir Bulstrode’s recommendation and, after a period of initial exuberance, Miss Peters’s Italian accent settled down into something a little less outrageous. Even so, it seemed to me inevitable that she would come to grief when the conversation turned to archaeology, for I was sure a serious enthusiast must see through her pretence in an instant.

  But Miss Peters proved very deft at avoiding any traps. Indeed, she seemed in her element, asking her monosyllabic host all sorts of things about his work and filling his silences with such generous amounts of charm and enthusiasm that for the most part she avoided any questions about her own experience. And when Mrs Summersby did make polite inquiries, the contessa embarked upon a sequence of rather racy anecdotes about an Italian antiquarian called Corelli and his work in Pompeii, all of which, I rather suspected, were entirely invented.

  ‘Most certainly, when I tell him of the magnificence of the remains here – of your Great Wall and… and of all the other ancient remains here, then surely Signor Corelli will be in haste to abandon Italy for this town of Alston. Only I fear it is the pretty girls of Napoli that Signor Corelli admires, quite as much as its antiquities,’ she sighed, ‘so perhaps he will not come. And the Accademia, perhaps they will not let him. But, of course, Signor Summersby, I forget that when you publish the results of your work here, then there will be nothing left for my dear friend Corelli to discover! Your work will be, how do you say, the last word. Is it not so?’

  As always, Mr Summersby looked a little startled to be addressed directly and it was his wife who replied on his behalf.

  ‘My husband has more modest aims, Countess. A short paper, perhaps, if all goes well. Now, do tell us more about Naples. We came over by way of Marseilles and spent some time in the South of France. That’s where we met Sir Bulstrode, you know. But we had no time to visit Italy. Is it as beautiful as they say?’

  ‘Ah, Napoli!’ Miss Peters breathed, enraptured. ‘Its blossoms! Its vineyards! Its great mountains! It is the most beautiful place on Earth!’

  And the rest of the evening was given over to Miss Peters’s descriptions of an Italian landscape much populated by lithe young goatherds, innocent shepherdesses and handsome archaeologists, an Arcadia that appeared to beguile the teller every bit as much as it beguiled her audience.

  Mrs Hudson, who had not been present at her arrival, greeted the news of the countess’s true identity with a raised eyebrow and the trace of a smile.

  ‘Well, well, Flotsam. A very spirited young lady. Let’s hope she comes to no harm here.’

  *

  The Summersbys, it seemed, kept early hours. By ten o’clock the party had broken up for the night and I had escorted Miss Peters back to her room, where she celebrated her triumphant deception by jumping up and down on her bed in a French negligee so exquisitely fine it was hardly there at all. By the time I left her, Mrs Hudson and her well-marshalled forces had already turned much of the kitchen chaos into good order. When Mildred’s father arrived to collect us, at a little after eleven o’clock, the bulk of the work was done, and Mrs Hudson was happy to call a halt.

  ‘Time enough to finish off tomorrow,’ she declared. ‘The Summersbys’ demands are remarkably few, and I predict that the countess will be no trouble at all.’ She turned to me and added, below her breath so that only I could hear, ‘At least if she knows what’s good for her! And anyway, Flotsam, I believe you have an appointment to keep…’

  Mrs Hudson, to my surprise, had declined to join Mr Holmes’s nocturnal
expedition, arguing that it was a cold night and that she for one had plenty to do the following morning.

  ‘Which isn’t to say,’ she conceded, ‘that the job doesn’t need to be done. Mr Holmes is perfectly right about that. But whether it has to be done by night, this very evening, I’m not so sure. If Sir Percival were to use his influence with the Home Office, an official exhumation could surely be arranged in two or three days at most.’ She sighed. ‘But boys will be boys, Flotsam, and I daresay you will learn a great deal from watching them in action. Just make sure you wrap up warm.’

  ‘But, ma’am, don’t you want to be there too? Aren’t you just a little curious about what they might find?’

  But at this she turned away a little sadly.

  ‘I fear, Flotsam, that I already know exactly what they’ll find.’

  I have read many ghoulish tales in my time, many accounts of macabre goings-on in graveyards. Always the ingredients are much the same: swirling fog and flickering lanterns, a dread wind moaning between the graves, pale faces growing grim as the ghastly truth is uncovered. Very often a heroine swoons.

  But there was no fog that night by the ruined chapel, high up on the moor. No fog, not even any wind, and certainly no swooning. Just a terrible stillness and a sky so cloudless that the diggers could work without lanterns. Their hunched profiles made dark, awkward shapes against a backdrop of stars. Around us the silver moor stretched empty on every side. And I don’t remember feeling any fear, just terrible loneliness; as though we four were the only living souls left in the world. Mr Spencer took one spade from the start and refused to relinquish it. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson shared the other. Gradually all attempts at conversation were abandoned. The three men worked in silence.