Mrs Hudson and the Lazarus Testament

by Mrs Hudson

  ‘But wasn’t he seen in Hexham the night old Crummoch died, ma’am?’

  ‘He was, Flottie. And by no means keeping a low profile. I imagine there will be no shortage of witnesses to his successes at dominoes. But a great many people have seen him on the moors at night with a spade in his hand, and in the eyes of the police nothing could be more damning. So I expect there will be a lot of questions in Hexham in the coming days about precise times and places. The thing is, Flotsam, whether or not it was Pauncefoot who committed the murder, we don’t really know why.’

  ‘Could Crummoch have known something about the Lazarus Testament, ma’am?’

  ‘I’d have thought that was a better reason to keep him alive, Flotsam.’

  ‘Then he saw something he shouldn’t have seen, ma’am. Out there at the chapel. Someone opening the grave, perhaps?’

  ‘And that brings us back to Pauncefoot, whose tiresome habit of digging at night has been widely noted. Yet to kill, Flottie… To take a human life, someone needs to be extraordinarily desperate or extraordinarily angry or else a little unhinged. Is that how the Summersbys’ butler strikes you, Flottie? And either he found a way of getting back from Hexham unobserved on the night of the murder, or…’

  ‘Or it was someone else, ma’am.’

  ‘Indeed. But is there anyone else who knows that the Lazarus Testament was brought to Broomheath?’

  ‘Viscount Wrexham, ma’am!’

  The housekeeper’s forehead creased into a frown.

  ‘If the Viscount knows, Flottie, it’s only because Anthony Baldwick wrote and told Lord Beaumaris. And Mr Baldwick told Mr Ibrahim also. I wonder how many other letters he wrote that night, Flotsam, and to whom?’ She paused and rested her hand on the box of documents that still lay on my bed. ‘Perhaps none, perhaps a dozen. Who knows? The answer to the question, my girl, if there is an answer to it, probably lies in Mr Baldwick’s interminable archives…’

  ‘I really must get up and help, ma’am.’

  But Mrs Hudson laid a restraining hand upon my shoulder.

  ‘There’s plenty here for you to be getting on with, young lady. And this afternoon, while I sort out dinner with Martha and Mildred, I rather thought you and Miss Peters might bring some fresh eyes to the business of looking for hiding places at Broomheath. I don’t like to denigrate the opposite sex, Flotsam, but I’ve generally found that men are a lot less cunning about hiding things than they think they are.’

  It was with those words still very much in my mind that I went looking for Miss Peters that afternoon. On arriving at Broomheath Hall, we had found Martha and Mildred hard at work in the servants’ hall, already grappling with that night’s dinner. Neither seemed to know Pauncefoot’s whereabouts, but the contessa, they assured us, was walking in the grounds.

  I found her in the little sunken garden at the rear of the house, and her face brightened when she saw me.

  ‘Ah, Flotsam! At last! I thought I’d been abandoned here for ever! Because, to be perfectly frank, looking for priceless ancient manuscripts isn’t quite as much fun as I’d thought. I mean, it’s so hard to know where to start! No one hides that sort of thing under a flower pot or up a tree, do they, Flottie? And even if I did start looking up trees I’d be bound to attract the attention of the Summersbys, who would know at once that I wasn’t an Italian countess, because Italian countesses surely don’t look up trees in person. They will always have dark and handsome gardeners to do that sort of thing for them.’

  She paused for breath, but before I could interrupt another thought had struck her.

  ‘Actually, Mr Summersby isn’t here, so that’s one piece of good news. He has taken himself off to the place everyone calls the Roman Camp, which I suppose I ought to know all about, but which sounds so incredibly dull that I really can’t make myself try. But Mrs Summersby is lurking in the house, so we can hardly search there, even though it’s much warmer. As for outside, well, Flottie, there’s quite a lot of outside at Broomheath, isn’t there?’

  ‘Mrs Hudson says we should be looking for somewhere warm and dry,’ I explained, ‘and big enough for quite a lot of old urns all at once. She thinks the only places big enough inside the house would be in the attics or the cellars, but Pauncefoot will presumably have searched those already. That’s assuming there are no boarded-up cellars or bricked-in rooms that he hasn’t found yet.’

  ‘You know, Flottie, I don’t think there are. I looked very carefully last night, you see. I think I really must have tapped on every wall in the whole house, and I didn’t come across anything that sounded hollow or odd. It took ever so long and I got frightfully dusty. If I’d known how grim it was going to be, I’d never have started.’

  ‘But Hetty, how could you possibly have done that? Didn’t the Summersbys think it strange?’

  ‘Well obviously I waited till they were asleep, Flottie! And just in case they woke up and caught me, I made rather a song and dance about how I walk in my sleep. It seemed such an obvious thing to do. It means that at night I can go anywhere I like, and tap on all the panels I want, and always have quite an innocent explanation! Not that I’ll need one, of course, because if anyone catches me I shall simply look through them very dreamily and go back to bed. My cousin Clarissa used to sleep walk all the time when she was a child, you know. At least, that’s what her parents say, although I’ve always wondered if it’s something they just made up to explain the time she came to be found outside the bedroom of a captain of dragoons at three in the morning wearing nothing but a peignoir embroidered with very exquisite, pink silk lilies.’

  As I could think of no sensible reply to any of that, Miss Peters hurried on with barely a pause.

  ‘Now, if we’re looking for somewhere big and dry, Flottie, I suppose we should start with the outbuildings. If I was going to hide a big collection of ancient pots, I wouldn’t want to carry them too far. And nowhere too muddy or too smelly, either. Why make things less pleasant than they need to be?’

  In the course of our stroll that afternoon, Miss Peters and I quickly established that there were nine different outbuildings in the vicinity of Broomheath Hall, not counting a derelict glass-house so full of brambles that we deemed it impossible for anyone to have hidden anything there in recent times. Of those nine, the nearest to the house was the Home Barn, an enormous and ancient stone structure, and it was there we decided to begin.

  We entered cautiously, Miss Peters warning that there would definitely be spiders. Personally I was more worried that the Summersbys might observe us and consider our behaviour rather strange, but Miss Peters assured me that it had been mentioned at dinner that some of the barns were older than the house itself, so that it would be perfectly natural for a guest with such unbridled antiquarian passions as she possessed to investigate them at the earliest opportunity.

  And the barn did seem very old, its roof high and its beams open like the vaulting of a church. The only light came from three narrow windows, also vaguely church-like, which, from the way they cut through the patterns of the stonework, seemed to have been added at a later date. At some point the barn had fallen into disuse, for now it was empty but for a decrepit-looking farm cart and some discarded pieces of sacking. Its stone-flagged floor must once have been very fine indeed, like the floor of a medieval hall, for even now the stones lay smooth and even, and offered very little scope for the concealment of treasure. Even so, we examined each flag closely to see if there was any sign that any had recently been raised.

  This was a procedure that we repeated through various outbuildings. In many of them the floors were of beaten earth and these we examined carefully for any sign of disturbance. The last building we attempted to search was an ornamental belvedere positioned on the edge of the moor, a summer house that harked back to a different era, when Broomheath played host to house parties and when laughing young ladies and gentlemen would have picnicked there, or lingered in its shadows at dusk in the hope of a swift, illicit kiss.

&nb
sp; Now it was notable only for its neglect. Its windows were all shuttered but in one place the shutter had worked loose, revealing two cracked panes of glass. The door was shuttered too, held fast by a rusty padlock and chain. It gave the impression that no one had entered there for many years, but of that it was not possible to be certain.

  ‘Who keeps the key, do you think?’ Miss Peters whispered, her voice hushed in the presence of such dereliction.

  ‘I don’t know. Pauncefoot, I suppose. If not, the Summersbys.’

  ‘Oh, but we should find that out, Flottie. I’m sure mad Mr Baldwick would have found his way in here. But it’s getting late, and perhaps I ought to be going to dress for dinner. An Italian countess probably spends a very long time dressing for dinner, don’t you think? The funny thing is, Flottie, it’s much easier to impersonate an archaeologist than I expected. I thought the Summersbys were going to talk about nothing but bones and flints and dead centurions, but in fact they only talk about the weather, just like everyone else. Mrs Summersby must be frightfully bored, sitting around here all day. I mean, her husband is quite the most silent man I’ve ever met. And not in a good way, either, Flottie. I’m sure I can’t imagine how she came to marry him. Even Rupert is never quite such a dullard.’

  ‘And yet he seems very devoted to her,’ I mused. ‘But then she is so very pretty and charming…’

  A small frown appeared on Miss Peters’s brow.

  ‘Well, you know, Flotsam, I’m really not sure I share all this admiration for Mrs Summersby. Rupert says it’s a hidden knowingness beneath the charm that makes such women alluring, but I’m not sure Mrs Summersby has any hidden knowingness. Not very knowledgeable knowingness, at any rate. I mean, she seems to know even less about Naples than I do, and how many people are there in the world you can say that about?’

  ‘Why, Hetty, I do believe you’re jealous!’

  Miss Peters coloured a little at this charge.

  ‘Not at all!’ she retorted. ‘Really, Flottie, how could you think such a thing? I simply don’t warm to Mrs Summersby as much as everyone else, that’s all. Now, I really am going to change, and then I’m going to write to Rupert. I’m still very cross with him, you see, and need to make sure I tell him so.’

  On returning to the servants’ hall, I found Pauncefoot still absent and the two girls so busy that I was able to give Mrs Hudson a full report on my afternoon’s activities. In return she told me that Rupert Spencer had sent a note up with the butcher’s boy.

  ‘It seems they are making no progress with Mr Baldwick’s papers, I’m afraid. Mr Spencer is still working through pamphlets and Dr Watson has found a box of manuscripts written by Mr Baldwick on a visit to America. According to Mr Spencer, he’s been making very slow headway through a document entitled Did the Romans Reach Philadelphia? She chuckled a little to herself. ‘I’m afraid it’s not entirely the doctor’s cup of tea.’

  ‘And do they have any news of Mr Holmes, ma’am?’

  ‘Apparently he has spent the afternoon in Alston, Flotsam, exchanging telegrams with Sir Percival Grenville-Ffitch. It seems Sir Percival feels that the Viscount, if still alive, is being given far too much rope. He is eager to obtain a special warrant allowing him to requisition Broomheath Hall on the grounds of national emergency. He seems to feel that two dozen policemen armed with crowbars and pickaxes would prove more effective in finding the document than any amount of waiting and watching.’

  ‘Well, ma’am, I suppose that way he could at least be sure that no one else would find it.’

  Mrs Hudson pursed her lips slightly. ‘Only if his men were successful. But he couldn’t requisition Broomheath Hall forever, Flottie, and if his men didn’t find it then every treasure hunter in Europe would descend on the place in their wake. The owner would be free to sell the estate to whoever bid the highest. No, Flottie, I fear Sir Percival’s plan may be a little rash. Take a look at this.’

  She handed me a telegram that I saw had arrived only an hour earlier. It was sent by Mr Rumbelow, but to my surprise it appeared to be purely personal in nature.

  EXCITING NEWS STOP MOTHER PAID VISIT TO WORTHING STOP RETURNED WITH NEW HAT STOP

  RUMBELOW

  ‘But what does this mean, ma’am?’ I cried, further confused by this strange communication. ‘I didn’t even now that Mr Rumbelow had a mother. He certainly never speaks of her.’

  Mrs Hudson’s eyes fluttered very slightly. ‘No, Flottie. More of that later, but now I hear footsteps. Let it never be said that we spend our time here gossiping…’

  And so we returned to our duties, and dinner that night passed off without incident. The food was excellent, the service commendable, the contessa outrageous. Mrs Summersby smiled, Mr Summersby sulked and Pauncefoot appeared his usual unfathomable self, continuing to treat Mrs Hudson and myself quite cordially, as if delighted by our company. If anything he was even more affable than before, and took more than usual care with the napkins. My only interesting discovery came during dinner, when I was hurrying down the narrow corridor between the servants’ hall and the dining room. I had passed that way umpteen times before but had never previously paid any attention to the large board on one wall, from which hung a collection of keys in various shapes and sizes. This time, with my afternoon expedition still prominent in my mind, I paused to examine it.

  Of all the keys on that board, the largest and most noticeable was right in the middle, and its handwritten label clearly declared it to be the key to the belvedere. Hanging in such a place, I reflected, it would most certainly have been available to Mr Baldwick when he was looking for a hiding place. And, indeed, since then anyone at the Hall with a mind to look for keys would find it with the greatest of ease. I made a mental note to return to that ramshackle building the following day.

  But before I could put this plan into action, events had overtaken me. And, looking back, I realise that the starting point for those events was not a dramatic discovery or a startling revelation but something much simpler: the arrival the following morning at the Baldwick Archive of Mrs Meakins, a local widow, armed with a feather duster and a small stool for standing on.

  *

  That morning I had risen early, determined to put in a good share of work at the Archive before returning to Broomheath Hall. Mr Spencer, Dr Watson and I had all been at our posts for a full hour before Mrs Meakins made her appearance. Our painstaking examination of Mr Baldwick’s papers was progressing well, but nothing in either the turgid prose of his pamphlets or the bitter ranting of his diaries and notebooks had yet given any clue as to the whereabouts of the Lazarus Testament. Dr Watson had just finished a pamphlet about the goddess Diana which had caused him to blush a great deal when Mr Holmes himself made an appearance.

  I had not seen him since that night of digging out on the moors and it was clear to me at once that the guise of innocent birdwatcher had now been completely discarded. Here was Mr Holmes in all his London glory, his eyes bright with excitement and his movements full of that urgent, impatient energy I knew so well.

  ‘Good morning!’ he greeted us crisply. ‘I trust things go smoothly?’ He paused and appeared to study Dr Watson for a moment before continuing. ‘Mr Spencer, I should warn you to keep an eye on Watson’s work today, for he clearly has other things on his mind. What’s it to be, Watson? Urban Electric or the railways? I understand that Great Western shares are considered a safe investment.’

  Dr Watson blinked in amazement.

  ‘Good lord, Holmes! How on earth could you tell?’

  The great detective allowed himself a smile of amusement and then turned back to Mr Spencer.

  ‘You see, sir, Dr Watson’s share dealings are rarely as secret as he thinks. It’s obvious to me that he has made arrangements to sell the handful of shares he holds in Western & Oriental, and as a result has a small sum to invest. Is that not correct, Watson?’

  ‘Absolutely, Holmes! But how the deuce could you possibly know it? The Australian gold was one thing, but
this is quite another. I only decided to sell the Western & Oriental shares a couple of hours ago, and I wrote to my broker just before leaving the house. I’m prepared to swear no one could have caught sight of that letter as I wrote it!’

  ‘And I’m sure you are right, my friend. You did not seriously think my deductions were based on the tittle-tattle of servants? On the contrary, Watson, it took no more than one glance at you for your share dealings to become apparent to me.’

  Mr Spencer and I peered carefully at our companion, and even the doctor seemed to be studying his own person in search of a clue.

  ‘Think about it, Watson! Is that not your pipe I observe, peeping out of your coat pocket?’

  ‘Yes, Holmes, it is. But I can’t see…’

  ‘Of course not, Watson! But remember, my friend, you are a creature of habit, and it is invariably your custom to smoke a pipe after breakfast. When you have finished, it is equally your custom to leave your pipe on the mantelpiece, as you do not imagine you will smoke again until later in the day, when you have returned to your own hearth. So the fact that today you have chosen to bring your excellent briar with you tells me that something occurred this morning that has forced you to postpone your first pipe of the day.’

  ‘That’s very true, Holmes. But the rest of it – the letter, the shares. How could you possibly deduce all that?’

  Mr Holmes looked a trifle smug. ‘Very simply, my dear fellow. You have told me yourself that Mr Verity’s household runs like clockwork, so it was unlikely to be any domestic drama that upset your usual routine. But I have observed that the morning post is delivered at about the time you take breakfast, so it is a reasonable deduction that the postman was the bearer of some item of correspondence that struck you as so urgent that you felt you must forego your pipe and reply at once.’