Mrs Hudson and the Lazarus Testament

By Martin Davies

A thrilling cosy mystery for Mrs Hudson, Baker Street’s best-kept secret.

A man is knocked down outside 221B Baker Street. His dying words speak of a man risen from the grave.

A Viscount has gone missing and there are rumours of a dead man haunting the moors and a country hall beset by ghostly lights and spectres. Sherlock Holmes’ housekeeper, the formidable Mrs Hudson, is faced with a mystery. Joined by her assistant Flotsam, they’re once again thrown into dark adventure full of gripping twists and murderous intrigue.

Together with Holmes and Dr. Watson they must race against the forces of darkness to uncover the truth behind the mysterious document known as the Lazarus Testament. Lives are on the line and the puzzle must be solved... But not before a slice of Dundee cake.

The third in the bestselling Sherlock Holmes & Mrs Hudson Mysteries, this is a dark but cosy crime novel that will transport readers to a world of foggy streets and snow-covered fells and Victorian London.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Canelo
• Release date: Dec 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781910859865

Martin Davies

Martin Davies grew up in north-west England. All his writing is done in cafes, on buses or on trains, and all his first drafts are written in longhand. He has travelled widely, including in the Middle East, India and Sicily. In addition to the Holmes & Hudson Mysteries, he is the author of four other novels, including The Conjurer’s Bird, which sold over 150,000 copies and was selected for the Richard & Judy Book Club and Havana Sleeping, which has been shortlisted for the 2015 CWA Historical Dagger award. He works as a consultant in the broadcasting industry.

Book preview

Chapter I

An Incident In Baker Street

Death came to Baker Street on a day when spring was in the air and the flower girls were weighed down by the weight of so many early daffodils; a day so bright after the darkness of winter that it made me forget the state of my street-splattered skirts and think instead of happier days to come, when the evenings would lengthen and the sun would finally vanquish the deep, foul-smelling mud through which the hansom cabs lumbered.

Indeed, had it not been for that day’s unusual mildness, I might never have noticed the man who, in the days that followed, so often occupied my thoughts. Had there been snow in the air once again, as there had been the day before, I would have been trudging homewards with collar up and eyes down, intent on nothing but a hasty escape from the elements. But a morning of sunshine had wrought a change in the city. Pale clerks stepping from their offices paused to look up at the clear sky and blink at it, while elderly gentlemen held their heads a little higher and noticed the pretty faces of the shop girls, and seemed to wonder if it might not almost be time to dispense with the extra layer of wool worn close to their skin. And I too found the sunlight uplifting. The light picked out the gleaming panes of every window and the shining brass-work of every front door, and turned my thoughts towards cherry blossom and magnolia.

And then, as I waited to cross the road, I noticed the man with the watch in his hand. He was a gentleman of some sixty years, well dressed in tweeds, with a trim figure and hair that had greyed only at the temples. He had paused beside me, on the edge of the kerb, and his repeated glances across the road suggested that we shared a destination: for his eye was clearly seeking out the blue front door behind which Mr Sherlock Holmes pursued his famous career and where, under the tutelage of his formidable housekeeper, Mrs Hudson, I was responsible for the polishing of the floors, the cleaning of the plate and the dusting of just about everything.

My curiosity was aroused by this coincidence and I looked at the gentleman more closely. Here, it seemed, was someone on whom the better weather had not had a calming effect. Judging by his air of agitation he appeared to be in a great hurry to cross the road, and he made repeated attempts to do so, frequently stepping a foot or so off the kerb, only to be driven back by the rush of carriages that persisted, almost without pause, in both directions. As each attempt was thwarted he would look down at the small silver watch he held in his hand in the way of a man late for an appointment, and at first I wondered whether his anxiety was simply that of a punctual man delayed. But his distress seemed too great for that, and I realised his urgency must stem from some inner perturbation, for when he looked down at the object in his hand, I saw that it was not the face of the watch he referred to so constantly. Instead, he would flip the timepiece over in his palm and study the back of it, before looking up again and searching wildly for a break in the traffic.

Intrigued by this, I might perhaps have spoken to him had he remained there longer, but before I could think of uttering a word he had stepped forward once more and this time he made a desperate dash into the gap between two carriages. Had he continued forward, trusting to speed and luck, he might perhaps have achieved a safe passage to the other side, but in his fraught state it seemed all judgement had deserted him. With the oncoming horses almost upon him, he hesitated. Then, realising his danger, he tried to go on, but his feet slipped from under him on the treacherous cobbles, and before he could even cry out he had been struck by the thundering bulk of a carriage horse. The blow sent him tumbling headlong to the ground and under the wheels of a speeding victoria that was coming on apace from the other direction.

It was a hideous sight to behold, and for a fraction of a moment it seemed the street stood still, its clamour extinguished. Then the silence shattered, and amid the screams and the confusion and the shrieking of horses, I was the first to reach the fallen gentleman. I knew he could not live, for I had seen the whole weight of the carriage pass over him, his chest crushed beneath it. But when I reached him, although there was already blood on his lips, there was still a flutter of life in his frame, and I dropped to my knees beside him in the filth, intent on lifting his head clear of the mud. As I cradled him like that, with the crowd beginning to gather around us, he opened his eyes and gazed at me in confusion.

‘Elsie?’ he asked in a whisper, his eyes glazed and his breathing uncertain. ‘Is that you?’

‘Hush, sir,’ I replied, still supporting his head with one hand while with the other I tried to loosen his collar. ‘Elsie’s not here yet. I’m sure she’ll come soon, sir…’

‘I love her,’ he murmured. ‘But I never told her. I should have said so long ago…’

And with that his eyes closed and his breath seemed spent. Above me I could hear a policeman shouting for a doctor, and the voice of a coachman raised in panic: ‘He just ran out! He just ran out…’ Below me, the mud-stained face had turned grey.

Somewhere beneath my fingers I could still feel a very faint pulse, but I knew the end was coming. I had just begun to straighten, sure that his suffering was over, when his eyes opened again and this time they were clear and focused. I saw a movement of his hand and realised he was trying to beckon me closer. So little breath was left to him that he could barely speak, but when I placed my ear close to his lips the words were unmistakeable.

‘Tell… Mr Holmes…’ he gasped, ‘I have seen… a dead man…’ He paused and I could see a look of panic in his eyes as he gathered himself for one last effort. ‘I have seen a dead man risen from the grave…’

And with those words I felt the life go out of him, felt it in my hand behind his head and in my fingers on his neck, felt it even where my knees pressed against his side on the cobbles. Like a candle pinched out.

Before I allowed the sobs to rise in me, I reached down and gently closed his eyes.

---

I remember little of what happened next. I have a recollection of being lifted to my feet, and of hushed voices comforting me while a doctor arrived and told us what we already knew. Then, while I was still weeping into my handkerchief, I was aware of a policeman leading me towards a plain four-wheeler that had pulled up against the opposite kerb. I was dimly conscious of the fact that it was a very grand vehicle, but it bore no insignia or markings to indicate who sat inside. As I approached it, a door was opened and an elderly gentleman with enormous white whiskers leaned out of it.

‘Very good, constable,’ he nodded. ‘Come now, quickly, she’s beginning to shiver. That’s right. Good work.’

I found myself almost lifted into the carriage where I was immediately wrapped in a blanket that smelled of tobacco and sandalwood soap. It was not an unpleasant smell and, comforted by the warmth, I found myself taking notice of the gentleman who had come to my rescue.

Even in my befuddled state, his face looked familiar. He must have been seventy years or more in age, but his hair was still thick and grew in a great unruly white tangle. In conjunction with those luxuriant whiskers, the effect of so much hair was to make his head appear of enormous size, like a lion’s, and it seemed impossible that the small top hat on the seat beside him could ever be made to balance on such a great mane. His expression was stern but not unkind, and as I waited for him to speak he reached out a rather mottled hand and patted my fingers.

‘There now. Nasty business, but all over. You did everything you could. I saw it all from here. You were very brave. Now tell me, girl, do you have a name?’

‘They call me Flotsam, sir.’

‘Very good. And do you have an address, Flotsam? My driver will take you home at once.’

I indicated the blue front door visible through the carriage window.

‘I live just there, sir,’ I told him, ‘and I ought to be getting back. Mrs Hudson will be expecting me. I’m supposed to be dusting.’

The gentleman seemed to take a moment to digest this information.

‘But those are the rooms of Sherlock Holmes, are they not?’

‘Yes, sir. And Dr Watson’s.’

‘Well, well,’ he smiled. ‘Something of a coincidence. Now come, child, take my arm while I help you down those area steps.’

And that is how Sir Percival Grenville-Ffitch, KG, KCB, KCMG, renowned statesman and confidant of princes, came to enter our house in Baker Street, not through the front door as he had planned, but directly into Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, and on a piece of business quite different from the one that had brought him hastening to Baker Street that morning, directly from the Palace.

---

I have seldom seen Mrs Hudson flustered, and if the unannounced appearance in her kitchen of one of the greatest men in the realm in any way surprised her, she certainly gave no sign of it. She simply nodded politely in the direction of Sir Percival, then turned her full attention to me, her hands and her forearms still white with flour from the morning’s baking.

‘Goodness, Flotsam,’ she exclaimed, bustling across the kitchen, dusting her hands against her apron. ‘I’ve never seen you so pale. No, don’t talk now. Come, let me get you into this chair…’

For the better part of a minute she took no notice at all of our visitor while she busied herself about me, chafing my hands and feeling my forehead until she had satisfied herself I was in no immediate danger. Only then did she turn to our guest.

‘I perceive that we are in your debt, sir,’ she began. ‘If you would take a seat at the table here, perhaps I might offer you some refreshment? I can promise you a very fine glass of Madeira.’

Sir Percival replied with a rather curt bow.

‘I fear not, madam. Your young charge’s plight has already diverted me from business of the most pressing nature. I am sure she will be able to give you a full account of events in due course. Now, if you will excuse me…’

But instead of completing his sentence and turning to go, he seemed to halt in utter astonishment.

‘Good lord!’ he exclaimed, his tone quite changed, his eyes on the object now cradled in Mrs Hudson’s hands. ‘By Jove! That’s a bottle of the Morley Madeira! Why, I believe there are only a dozen cases left in the country! And most of those are in Lord Grimsby’s cellars, behind enormous padlocks. Only the other day I tried to get hold of some for the visit of the Papal Nuncio and was told it was unobtainable at any price…’

And as if overwhelmed by the vision before him, Sir Percival sank down into the chair Mrs Hudson held out for him.

‘Yes, sir, it is rather rare nowadays. Fortunately his lordship is good enough to send me a bottle or two every now and then, as a token of his regard. I was once able to assist his lordship in a small matter concerning his favourite niece, an Austrian dancing master and a missing pastry cook with expensive tastes.’

Sir Percival frowned, as if struggling to recall something. ‘Let me see, madam… Did I hear that your name is Hudson? Why, of course! You were housekeeper to the Fosdykes during that business with the French governess and the Mexican revolutionary! I remember young Fosdyke once hinting that you were the only person who really knew the whole truth of that affair…’

Rather than blush, Mrs Hudson merely pursed her lips and shook her head.

‘I’m afraid discretion was never young Mr Fosdyke’s strong suit, sir. His father, of course, was a very discreet man. Now, if you would allow me to pour you a small glass… The knack with the Morley is never to decant.’

It says a great deal for the unique qualities of the Morley Madeira that Sir Percival allowed himself to put aside affairs of state for a full five minutes while he enjoyed the glass Mrs Hudson placed in front of him. During that time he chatted with surprising animation about the Fosdykes and their circle, and seemed to quite forget the peculiarity of his circumstances. It was only when Mrs Hudson cleared her throat and looked rather pointedly in my direction that he rose hastily to his feet.

‘My apologies, madam. This young lady requires your attention. And given the unfortunate events she has witnessed, it is really unforgivable that I should be forgetting myself in this way. Besides, I am not in Baker Street by coincidence. I have urgent business with Mr Sherlock Holmes. I have come to request an interview at his earliest convenience.’

‘I’m afraid Mr Holmes is not at home today, sir, although we expect him back this evening.’

‘Very well. Pray inform him that I shall return at eight o’clock. And please be sure he understands that it concerns a matter of unparalleled national importance. International importance, even. It is absolutely vital that we are not interrupted.’

---

It was not until our visitor had left us that I was free to pour out to my companion the full story of what I had witnessed in Baker Street, and in doing so I found myself once more blinking back the tears. I was no stranger to death. No one who had ever called the dark backstreets of London their home could be unfamiliar with the sight and smell of the dead and the dying. But there was something in the terrible unexpectedness of the scene I had witnessed that left me badly shaken. That a gentleman so full of energy, so visibly wracked by strong emotion, should be suddenly and brutally undone by such a small misjudgement was hard to comprehend. And then there were his last words: his intimation of an undeclared love, and his perplexing message for Mr Holmes… These things made it no easier to put the horrible incident from my mind.

And Mrs Hudson, for all her famous fierceness and efficiency, did not make the mistake of making me try. Instead she let me talk, still wrapped in Sir Percival’s cashmere blanket, while she busied herself with the kitchen chores that my arrival had interrupted. There was something very soothing about her calmness as she moved around me, from one point to another, creating order and neatness wherever she went. For all her bulk, she moved lightly, and the strength in those great, floury forearms was perfectly complimented by the remarkable deftness of her fingers. When I told her of the dying gentleman’s message for Mr Holmes, the housekeeper paused in her progress and raised an eyebrow.

‘How very puzzling,’ she mused. ‘We shall certainly make sure that Mr Holmes is informed of it. But how easy it will be for him to discover the gentleman’s meaning is hard to say. Unless the poor man has shared his story with someone else, I fear it may now remain untold.’

I nodded forlornly. ‘And then there’s Elsie, ma’am. He told me he loved her. But he never told her of his feelings. I’d like her to know what he said, ma’am. I’d like her to know that he thought of her at the end.’

Mrs Hudson placed a reassuring hand upon mine. ‘Indeed, Flottie. We must try our best to find her and tell her. It is the least we can do. Constable Dobson may be able to tell us a bit more about the unfortunate gentleman. Tomorrow we shall catch him when he goes off duty and tempt him in for a slice of my rich Dundee. Now,’ she went on, producing a feather duster with a flourish, ‘I think you’d better have a little lie down. We need to keep you warm while the shock passes. And if I’m to get the gentlemen’s rooms ready for their return, I’ll need to look lively. After all, we have an important guest tonight, and whatever Mr Holmes might think, I don’t believe that Sir Percival Grenville-Ffitch will be at all amused to be offered a seat still covered with our gentlemen’s scientific investigations into the different textures of nail clippings.’

---

Mrs Hudson’s advice proved sound, for on lying down in my little cupboard-bed, I fell quickly into a soothing sleep. When I awoke, blinking and slightly disorientated, I found the kitchen transformed into an oasis of heat and light. In the streets outside, the warmth of the day had waned with the sinking sun, and the muffled faces of passers-by testified to the night’s sharp edge. There would be another frost. But in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen the fire was burning high and the smell of brandy punch crept from the stove and tiptoed softly to where I lay.

‘Strictly for the gentlemen,’ Mrs Hudson cautioned me sternly, ‘though perhaps a small sip later on will do you no harm after what you’ve been through today. Now, Flottie, your supper’s on the table and you need to get it down fast because Mr Holmes will be home any minute and Sir Percival will be calling soon after that. So if you don’t want to go hungry, you’d better jump to it.’

And jump I did, wiping the sleepy dust from my eyes and pulling on a clean apron in less time than it took Mrs Hudson to taste the punch and to tip some more coal on to the fire. And it was as well that I hurried, because even before the remnants of my supper had been cleared from the table we heard the sounds of the gentlemen’s return. It was only by darting up the stairs two at a time that I was there to greet them in the hallway.

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