A short silence followed Mr Verity’s narrative. Mrs Hudson, I saw, was rubbing her chin, apparently deep in thought, while our host dabbed at his brow with his crisp linen handkerchief. Dr Watson shivered, then poured himself another sherry. Outside, the dark clouds had thickened, and the flanks of the moor that rose above the town seemed to brood in their shadow.
‘I confess, Mrs Hudson,’ Mr Verity went on, ‘that my immediate thought was to open the grave. A man was missing, the grave had been turned – I’d have set about it with a shovel there and then had the rector not restrained me. But the rector, I fear, is a very upright fellow of rigid views, who sees it as his mission to stamp out the old superstitions that linger in this place. He insisted that no action should be taken without the proper permissions, and certainly not until the matter had been placed in the hands of the police.
‘I daresay he was right, of course, but I confess such restraint went against the grain. I felt certain something dreadful had occurred, and that no time was to be lost. It took more than a day for an inspector of police to make his way from Hexham, and although we continued the search for Crummoch throughout that time, no further traces were found. And the inspector, when he came, was a most unprepossessing individual, a rather weasel-ish man named Robinson who clearly thought himself a bit cleverer than we were. I urged him to pursue the search by exhuming Baldwick’s remains, but this suggestion was greeted with the most supercilious disdain. I was made to feel little better than a superstitious old crank, the victim of pranksters who knew the old stories and were having a bit of fun at my expense.
‘And I’m afraid Inspector Robinson also made the mistake of pursuing his investigations in the public bar of the Grapes. That’s the rather rough tavern at the foot of the hill. It’s barely respectable, not at all like the Angel, and the fellows who drink there don’t usually care for outsiders. They want to be left to their own devices, and they were quick to persuade Inspector Robinson that Archie Crummoch was simply a crazed old man given to sudden disappearances, someone who thought nothing of taking himself off over the moors for days, even weeks, at a time.
‘I’m sorry to say, Mrs Hudson, that the inspector seemed more than happy to take their opinion above mine, and after a couple of days he announced his investigation was at an end and that he was returning to Hexham. Needless to say, there has been no sign of Crummoch since then, and unless we pursue our own inquiries I feel certain the whole incident will remain a mystery.’
He straightened and I saw his eyes drift to the window.
‘Old Crummoch was an honest fellow and he never hurt a fly. He loved it up on the fells. But the moors are treacherous and unforgiving at this time of year,’ he added, his voice growing quiet with sadness, ‘and I’m afraid, Mrs Hudson, that they tend to keep their secrets.’
‘So what do you think of all that?’ Dr Watson asked as we stepped out again onto the Alston cobbles. Quite suddenly the dark clouds had parted, and a shaft of pale sunlight touched our faces. Above the town the open moor had turned to amber.
‘Very interesting, sir. Very interesting indeed. Mr Baldwick’s behaviour is intriguing, is it not?’
‘Sounds like the fellow was simply a lunatic, Mrs Hudson. But what about those boots? That’s the part of the story that worries me. A chap’s gone missing and there’s blood in his boots. Sounds like foul play to me.’
‘Indeed, sir. But I have a suspicion that Mr Baldwick and the boots are not unconnected. What do you think he was up to, Flotsam?’
‘Well, ma’am, we know Mr Baldwick travelled to the Holy Land. It seems to me that he might have discovered where the Lazarus Testament was hidden. Might he not have stumbled upon the same information as Lord Beaumaris? And I think he came here looking for it, ma’am. That would explain all the digging, you see. Perhaps it was not finding it that drove him mad.’
‘Thank you, Flotsam.’ She considered for a moment. ‘Now, tell me, sir, what steps do you intend to take next?’
The question seemed to disconcert the good doctor.
‘Well, I daresay we should talk to this Inspector Robinson… Dash it, Mrs Hudson, it’s too bad of Holmes, disappearing like this! It was the same with that Baskerville business, if you remember. Barely a sniff of him for weeks. A bit thoughtless, I call it. Never seems to occur to him that it’s confoundedly hard for a fellow to write up his cases in an interesting way when he takes himself off for weeks at a time!’
‘Indeed, sir. Now, I think you’re right to say you’ll need to have a word with the police inspector at some point, but from what we’ve been told it would seem his investigations have been cursory at best. In the meantime, sir, it occurs to me that the answer to all this mystery lies at Broomheath Hall. And Flotsam here has already met Mrs Summersby. Perhaps if the two of you were to call on her together, sir, you might find her more inclined to speak freely of the latest events on her doorstep?’
‘Why, yes, of course, Mrs Hudson. Broomheath! An excellent idea. And always delighted to have Flotsam along, as you know…’
And with that, our plan was formed. It was decided that Dr Watson and I should call that very afternoon.
The old hall stood alone, over a mile from Alston, and proved a striking building, its foundations laid in the days when prosperous landowners built for security, fearful of the lawlessness of the times and of the gangs of Border reivers who would raid for cattle and captives and any sort of portable plunder. In those days, farmhouses were fortified like castles, with thick walls and small windows, and much of that original character could still be perceived in the fine old dwelling that greeted us as our trap skirted a flank of barren moorland to reveal the hall below us. As we drew closer, however, we began to notice the later additions and improvements that had followed and which had turned Broomheath Hall into a comfortable modern dwelling. By the time Dr Watson pulled to a halt on the gravel sweep, it was clear to us both we were in the grounds of a neat but attractive country residence that wore with comfort its great antiquity.
The door was opened to us by a young girl in a rather grubby cook’s apron, who ushered us into a drawing room with hunting trophies on the walls and a fire blazing in the grate. Mrs Summersby joined us a few minutes later and laughed with delight on recognising me.
‘Why, Flotsam! Imagine seeing you here! Mr Verity told us that Sherlock Holmes was sending someone, but I must say I never expected it to be you!’
Very hastily, I introduced her to Dr Watson and explained that he was Mr Holmes’s closest colleague.
‘Delighted to meet you, Doctor.’ She held out her hand to him. ‘I’m afraid my husband is not here to welcome you. Flotsam has no doubt told you that he’s a fiend for Roman remains!’
Mrs Summersby, in a green day-dress that set off her pale skin, was looking every bit as beautiful as I remembered her, and Dr Watson was clearly impressed, mumbling a compliment and hoping rather incoherently that our visit was not inconvenient.
‘Not at all, Doctor. Visitors are a rare treat for me!’
‘I must say, Mrs Summersby, that this is a very remote spot. I’m surprised that a young lady such as yourself can be content in such a place. It must seem very lonely.’
‘Oh, not at all! I love your beautiful English countryside, and Broomheath Hall is the sort of building that the folks dream about back in Boston! So romantic! Sometimes I feel like a princess in a fairytale in this wonderful old house.’
‘But with no visitors, and nothing in the way of entertainment…’
‘I make my own, Doctor! I’m quite the bookworm, you know. A man in Charing Cross sends me five volumes a month. And there is sewing to do, and the house to manage, and it’s my job to look after my husband’s notes and diagrams. And when all that palls, I explore Broomheath! How could one possibly be bored in a mysterious old place like this?’
So bright was her smile that both Dr Watson and I found ourselves returning it. Then, remembering himself, Dr Watson pursed his lips.
‘But recent events, madam… The disappearance of this poor fellow Crummoch…’
Mrs Summersby’s pretty face fell into a frown.
‘That poor man! I understand he was a little deranged. The police inspector who called here seemed to think he had taken it into his head to leave Alston for a bit. Apparently it is not uncommon for him to disappear in this way.’
‘But his boots, madam! Those bloody boots of his!’ Dr Watson paused and flushed slightly at this unfortunate phrase. ‘I just meant to say, surely the police must fear the worst?’
‘Oh, Dr Watson!’ Mrs Summersby waved one delicate, gloved hand. ‘Those boots are a prank, surely? Everyone says so. You cannot seriously believe that an old man has been dragged underground by a malevolent spirit?’ She permitted herself the smallest of smiles. ‘My husband and I feel sure that Old Crummoch’s boots represent a rather unpleasant joke by someone who wants to scare his new Yankee neighbours.’
‘Well, I don’t deny it’s put the wind up me!’ Dr Watson grunted. ‘But what about all those mysterious lights on the moor that Verity has told me about. Seen any of those?’
But Mrs Summersby, in her pretty way, laughed away all rumours of supernatural activity at Broomheath, refusing to give them any credence at all.
‘I’m sure the mysterious lamps are simply those of poachers, Doctor. As for the sightings of Mr Baldwick’s ghost, well, one man in a cape looks very much like another. My husband thinks they are badger-baiters, and threatens to go out one night to see them off with his gun! I’m terribly afraid, Doctor, that you’ve come all this way on something of a wild goose chase.’
Dr Watson, however, for as long as he was sitting opposite her at the tea table, seemed quite content to have made the long journey.
‘I believe your husband is interested in antiquities, madam. Does he spend every day up at the Wall?’
‘Oh, no, Doctor. Perhaps he will when the days grow longer. But for now he is making a study of the Roman Camp a little west of here, across the river. You will have passed it on the train. He is carrying out some small digs there, and in other places. Scratching around, he calls it, which sounds very American the way he says it.’
Dr Watson cleared his throat.
‘It is only fair I should warn you, Mrs Summersby, that we have our own theory about these sightings. You see, it seems that some sort of ancient artefact might be concealed somewhere around here, and that some unscrupulous fellows are out to find it. I’d ask you and your husband to be very careful, and I daresay it would be prudent to keep your doors firmly locked at night.’
But instead of appearing alarmed at this warning, Mrs Summersby merely opened her eyes very wide.
‘An ancient artefact! Why, that’s just what our visit needs to make it perfect! Just like something out of a dusty old English novel! What sort of thing is it, Doctor? Would I recognise it? Perhaps we can help you find it!’
‘Well I’m sure we’d be delighted…’ Dr Watson began, before remembering himself. ‘But of course it wouldn’t be fair to involve you in any way. As I say, these are dangerous men. They are looking for some sort of old manuscript, and that’s all we know. I suggest that you take great care about admitting strangers.’
‘Why, of course, Doctor. Thank you so much for alerting us.’
In reply, Dr Watson seemed on the brink of further gallantries but was cut short by the return of Mr Summersby, still muddy from his activities on the moors. Perhaps it was wrong of me to have an idea of what an amateur antiquarian should look like, but I confess that Mr Summersby was not what I’d expected. He proved to be an unusually large man, ox-like in construction: broad where his wife was slight and dainty, unsmiling where she was full of laughter. To me, he looked more like a prize-fighter than an archaeologist, but without any of the secret kindness that sometimes lurks in the face of a man who fights for his living. He was very silent too. After grunting a greeting to Dr Watson and myself, he said very little, speaking only when his wife addressed him directly. If I was a little surprised that the vivacious Mrs Summersby had chosen such a sullen husband, it also struck me that perhaps in some ways their opposite qualities might make them a suitable pairing.
It was not until Mrs Summersby rang for the maid to show us out that Dr Watson asked the question I had been bursting to ask since our arrival.
‘Almost forgot, madam. There was one other thing. We’re trying to track down someone who might have come to Alston a little before you did. A man called Pauncefoot. We know he took a job in service somewhere, and we think it might have been around here. Probably not any more though. We think he might be dead.’
Mrs Summersby’s face clouded with genuine astonishment.
‘Pauncefoot? Dead? But that’s absurd, Doctor. He brought us our breakfasts this very morning. Today is his afternoon off, or you could see for yourself. Why on earth are you looking for him?’
It was Dr Watson’s turn to look thunderstruck.
‘What? Pauncefoot here? At Broomheath?’ My companion was clearly as startled as I was. ‘My word! But that’s remarkable news, isn’t it, Flotsam? As for why we’re looking for him, madam, I assure you it is nothing that should worry you. We simply wish to ask him some questions about one of his former employers. Would you happen to know when he will be back?’
‘Not till after dusk, I’m afraid, Doctor. Pauncefoot likes to spend his free time tramping over the moors. We’ve always felt it was a very wholesome way for a butler to spend his leisure hours. But, of course, if you were to call again tomorrow…’
The light was fading when Dr Watson and I, having said our goodbyes, once again clambered onto Mr Verity’s trap. In such treacherous light, Dr Watson had eyes only for the narrow road ahead, but I was free to look around, at the rising flanks of the moors that crowded upon us. As we left Broomheath Hall behind us, I felt sure I noticed a movement below the skyline. Was that a solitary figure descending towards the Hall? I felt sure it was, not least because the profile I glimpsed against the pale bracken was a striking one: with a luxuriant beard below its face and a smooth, bald pate above it.
Dr Watson and I returned to Broomheath Hall the following day but this time we did not call at the front door. Instead of borrowing Mr Verity’s trap, we took the little train from Alston as far as Kirkhaugh, the first stop, a remote station used only by farmers and sportsmen and by visitors to Broomheath Hall, which lay about half a mile away down a rough track. We were determined that our visit should be an unofficial one, catching Pauncefoot alone, and not a formal interview in the Summersby’s imposing sitting room.
The walk to the hall was a lonely one. Only once did we see another living creature, when Dr Watson exclaimed and pointed, but by the time I had turned to look there was nothing to see.
‘Probably just a deer, Flotsam,’ he decided. ‘Looked a bit like a man in a cape for a moment. Just there, behind that outcrop of rock on the skyline. But these empty landscapes play tricks on you. I remember once in Afghanistan…’
He chattered on, but after that we both kept a keener lookout. Even so, we saw no other sign of life until we reached the hall, not even a stray sheep grazing the moor.
By arriving on foot we were able to approach the rear of the house unseen. Dr Watson rapped briskly at the servants’ door with his walking stick and after a short pause the door was opened by the butler, an imposing figure, as bald and as bearded as the descriptions of him had suggested. He was dressed in his shirt sleeves, with a tea cloth over his shoulder.
‘Yes?’ he asked, his manner rather curt. ‘Can I be of assistance, sir?’
‘Indeed!’ replied Dr Watson, ‘I’m sure you can. My name is Dr John Watson and I am an associate of Mr Sherlock Holmes. Robert Inigo Pauncefoot, we have come to ask about your watch.’
Of one thing there could be no doubt: Mrs Summersby’s butler knew how to keep his head. A flicker of surprise passed over his face at Dr Watson’s question but he betrayed not one jot of fear or anxiety.
‘My watch, sir? Very well. Perhaps you would be so good as to step inside?’
We were ushered into the butler’s room, a small but comfortable retreat with sporting prints on the walls, littered with all the usual paraphernalia of a superior male servant, from boot trees and silver polish to back copies of sporting periodicals.
‘I take it that you don’t deny being Viscount Wrexham’s former valet?’ Dr Watson asked. ‘Or that you were in his service at the time of his disappearance?’
‘Really, sir, I can see no reason why I should deny any such thing. I am proud to have been in the Viscount’s service. And, of course, when applying for my current post I furnished the London agency with full details of my former employment.’
He turned away for a moment to slip into his jacket and when he turned to face us he seemed the picture of a perfect servant.
‘So how do you come to be here at Broomheath, then?’ I could sense that Dr Watson was a little disconcerted by the fellow’s perfect composure, but he was not yet ready to cede the initiative.
‘I applied for the position shortly after the Viscount disappeared, sir.’
‘And why was that? What was the attraction of Broomheath Hall? Come, man, tell us the truth!’
The butler looked slightly offended.
‘Certainly, sir. It would not have occurred to me to do otherwise. You will appreciate, sir, that the Viscount’s sudden disappearance left me in an awkward position. The death of Lord Beaumaris occurred almost simultaneously and it was unclear how the estate stood. Not to put too fine a point upon it, sir, it was far from certain that my salary would be paid, and if so, by whom. It was imperative to find alternative employment.’
‘And you ask us to believe that you just happened to end up in Alston?’
Once again the butler looked a little pained by my companion’s tone.
‘It would be impertinent to make any such request, sir. But the truth is that this position was advertised at a very timely moment. And clearly, sir, the opportunity to move from the position of valet to that of butler is an advantageous one for someone who wishes to improve his prospects. I understood the Summersbys to be respectable employers, even if American, and although their establishment proves a rather unconventional one, I have hopes the post will lead to better things.’
Dr Watson looked unconvinced by this display of sang froid, and I could see he still felt his hand was a winning one.
‘Well, let me put things to you another way, Pauncefoot. The Viscount disappeared in early October. You replied to the agency’s advertisement towards the end of that month. I telegraphed them last night and received a reply this morning. They tell me you provided an excellent testimonial from Viscount Wrexham himself. So tell me this: if the Viscount had disappeared three weeks earlier, how was he able to provide you with a letter of reference at the end of October?’
Dr Watson delivered the question with the air of a cross-examining counsel sensing a witness at his mercy. Unfortunately, instead of crumbling under this interrogation, the butler appeared utterly unmoved.
‘I understand your confusion, sir. Perhaps it would help if I explained that I had already informed the Viscount of my intention to seek a new position before his unfortunate disappearance. He was good enough to provide me with a written testimonial at that time. I am confident that an examination of the date on the document would support this.’
‘I see.’ Dr Watson was beginning to look a little crestfallen at his inability to pin the witness down. ‘And you just decided to leave, did you? Weren’t you happy with the Viscount?’
‘Most content, sir. But I had been his valet for many years. If I wished to advance myself, a change was inevitable.’
‘And I suppose you’ll expect me to believe you’ve never heard of the Lazarus Testament, either?’
The butler’s face was innocence itself.
‘The Lazarus Testament? I fear I am not familiar with anything by that name.’
‘But confound it, Pauncefoot,’ Dr Watson exploded. ‘This is preposterous! What about all this pretending to be dead then?’
‘Dead, sir?’
‘Yes, dead! Your old friend Albert Swan wrote to you to propose a visit, and he received a reply telling him you’d died of a fever!’
‘A fever, sir? I can assure you that was not the case. I have been in excellent health for many years. And I received no letter from Mr Swan. May I ask who told him such a wicked lie?’
Dr Watson turned a little pale and, if it is possible for a gentleman to gnash his teeth, I believe he gnashed them then.
‘Well, we don’t know that for certain yet. But someone did. Dammit, they sent him this!’
And with that Dr Watson pulled from his pocket the silver fob-watch we had obtained from the Marylebone police, an object he brandished under the butler’s nose.
‘I suppose you’ll deny this is yours, will you?’
‘On the contrary, sir,’ Pauncefoot replied, taking it from Dr Watson and studying it closely. ‘I was given this watch as a young man and kept it for many years. You will observe my initials on the back. I was most upset when it was lost.’
‘Lost, Pauncefoot? Lost? When was that?’
The butler considered for a moment. ‘Three or four months before I left London, sir. I believe the chain must have broken.’
‘So how do you explain the fact that the watch was found on your old friend Swan when he was knocked down by a carriage?’
‘I can offer no explanation, sir. I confess myself mystified.’ He seemed to notice a mark on his cuff and began to examine it. ‘Is Mr Swan not able to explain it, sir?’
‘Mr Swan is dead, Pauncefoot.’
The butler clicked his tongue sympathetically.
‘I am very sorry to hear that, sir. As you say, we were old friends.’ But from where I was standing, watching him closely, the emotion that flickered across his face seemed closer to relief than to loss.
‘And what if I told you, Pauncefoot, that we believe Mr Swan saw you in London on the day of his death?’
The butler raised an eyebrow. ‘Most unlikely, sir. Of course, you have not been good enough to inform me on what day Mr Swan met with his end, but as Mrs Summersby will no doubt confirm, since taking up my post here last November I have travelled no further than Hexham, where from time to time I visit a god-daughter of mine.’
Dr Watson glanced across at me. The conversation was not unfolding as we had planned and I could see he was struggling to control his frustration.
‘So tell me, Pauncefoot, am I to understand that you have had no contact whatsoever with the Viscount since his disappearance?’
‘I regret to say I have not, sir.’
‘And do you have any theory about what has become of him?’
‘It is not my place to theorise, sir. But I am hopeful that some day the Viscount will reappear with his fortunes restored. He is not one to allow life’s trials to triumph over him, sir.’
‘But what about his ring, Pauncefoot?’
‘His ring, sir?’
‘Someone handed it in to a police station saying they’d found it on the banks of the Thames. In fact, the person who handed it in bore a remarkable resemblance to you! The constable on duty remembers it most clearly.’
‘Really, sir? How interesting. Of course, sir, one tends to find that, to many people, all tall, bald-headed men with beards look very much alike. It is a phenomenon I have often remarked upon.’
Dr Watson puffed out his cheeks.
‘So that’s your story, is it? You claim to know nothing of the Lazarus Testament, nothing of Viscount Wrexham’s whereabouts, nothing about him being dead, and you claim it is pure chance that you have ended up in Alston?’
The butler bowed respectfully. ‘That describes my position with admirable clarity, sir.’
‘Well, I must say I don’t believe a word of it, Pauncefoot! And I’ve a good mind to tell Mrs Summersby that you are not to be trusted. Come, Flotsam! Let us find a more profitable way to spend our day!’
And with that we left the field a defeated force, making the long trudge back to the station with morose faces and the suspicion that we had merely put an enemy on his guard.
We retreated to the cosy front parlour of the Angel, where a generously laid tea tray awaited us, with Mrs Hudson sitting beside it.
‘It cannot be coincidence that has brought him here, confound his impudence!’ Dr Watson insisted, when the tea had been poured and the sandwiches shared. ‘The fellow’s lying, I’m sure of it! But we can talk to Mrs Summersby and see to it that he is sent away with his tail between his legs, Mrs Hudson!’
The housekeeper pursed her lips.
‘I think we can assume that his presence here is part of a plan to recover the Lazarus Testament, sir. Presumably his plan is to locate the document discreetly, without alerting the Summersbys to his search.’
‘Spade in hand and wearing a cape like Mr Baldwick’s, ma’am?’ I suggested.
‘Precisely, Flotsam. He cannot easily search by day without attracting notice. So he goes about his business at night, assisted somewhat by the superstitious natures of Alston’s poachers, who give him a wide berth. The good news, of course, is that Pauncefoot has shown no sign of leaving Broomheath, which means he is still looking. It is when he quits his position here that we have reason to be anxious.’
Dr Watson nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see what you mean, Mrs Hudson. So all in all, you think we’re probably better off letting him stay at the Hall where we can keep on eye on him? Yes, I can see that… Even so, I might have a word with the station master here and ask him to alert us if Pauncefoot buys a ticket out.’
‘But, Mrs Hudson,’ I wondered, putting into words the question that most bothered me, ‘where is the Viscount in all this? Is he just leaving the whole thing to Pauncefoot? Or is he planning to take a hand in the search himself? Isn’t it worrying, not knowing what he’s up to?’
Dr Watson clattered down his tea cup. ‘Good lord! You don’t think perhaps he’s dead after all? Perhaps his ring really was found by a stranger who just happened to look a bit like Pauncefoot?’
Mrs Hudson shook her head but I thought she looked troubled.
‘That whole business of the ring and the body is all too neat, sir. If you wanted to persuade people you were drowned, it would not be difficult to wait until an unrecognisable corpse was discovered and then to arrange for an accomplice to place something of yours close to it, suggesting the body is yours.’ Her frown deepened. ‘I was sure in my own mind that it was Pauncefoot who handed in that ring. And sure it was Pauncefoot who Mr Swan saw in London. Could he really have been here up here all the time?’
‘There is one other thing, Mrs Hudson,’ Dr Watson put in. ‘Mr Verity was telling me that he met a birdwatcher on the moors the last time he drove over to Allendale. A dishevelled chap, he said. And it occurs to me that someone posing as an ornithologist would get to wander the moors unquestioned and spy on anything he wanted. Could that perhaps be the Viscount?’
‘Who can say, sir? Now, if you will excuse me, I am eager to visit the shops here before they close. Will you accompany me, Flotsam? Why, whatever’s the matter? You look very serious.’
‘It’s nothing, ma’am,’ I reassured her, scrambling to my feet. But I was not being entirely truthful. Dr Watson’s words had set me thinking about the hooded figure I’d seen in the shadows of Baker Street. A figment of my imagination? Or the vanished peer, keeping watch? Perhaps the latter… After all, I was not so foolish as to let myself imagine that the shade of Lazarus himself might really be standing guard over his last testament…
No, that was nonsense. I was safe with Mrs Hudson, and we were going shopping. Even if the Viscount was out there, watching us, there was nothing to fear. If I shivered a little as I followed the housekeeper out of the parlour and into the dark corridor beyond, it was merely the cold of the evening seeping in from the street.
If any sight was guaranteed to raise my spirits, it was the scene that greeted us in the little shop opposite the Angel Inn. Part drapery, part haberdashery, and in all other parts a purveyor of general goods, it was a cosy and welcoming place, its small counter dwarfed by the boxes stacked high around its walls, its displays presenting in tempting fashion everything from lengths of Indian silk to patent remedies against the hiccoughs. It was to this place that the townsfolk of Alston repaired for all manner of commonplace items and, as Mrs Hudson informed me, for all manner of gossip.
‘Mrs Thimbly is something of a local oracle, it appears, Flotsam, to be consulted on every matter of importance in Alston and its surroundings. I spent a considerable part of yesterday afternoon winning her confidence, even though doing so involved the purchase of a rather garish length of purple ribbon and one or two secrets concerning Dr Watson’s rakish past.’
‘Goodness, ma’am! I didn’t know Dr Watson had a rakish past!’
‘Neither did Dr Watson. We shall just have to hope that he and Mrs Thimbly never compare notes.’
The purpose of our visit that afternoon was the purchase of certain embroidery materials required by Mrs Hudson to assist Mrs Garth with a new sampler for her parlour. At such a late hour, we found the shop empty but for the shopkeeper and a well-built young girl in a shawl who appeared to be coming to the end of a very long list of purchases.
‘That’s everything, ma’am, but for the shaving soap and another jar of styptic powder. He says the brands you sent last time will do very well for him. And everything to go on the Hall account, if you please, ma’am.’
To say that Mrs Hudson and I pricked up our ears when we heard this would not, anatomically speaking, be accurate, but it would certainly convey our quickening interest. We drew a little closer, and waited until the transactions of our fellow shopper were complete.
‘Ah, good evening, Mrs Hudson!’ Mrs Thimbly greeted her like an old friend. ‘This must be your young travelling companion. Flotsam, is it not? Mrs Hudson has been telling me all about you, Flotsam.’ And she gave me a smile so full of unspoken complicity that for a moment I was quite distracted, trying to imagine what wicked indiscretions Mrs Hudson might have ascribed to me.
‘This is Martha Trotter,’ the shopkeeper went on. ‘Her father farms a few acres over at Deep Bottom, and Martha works as a maid at Broomheath Hall. Mrs Hudson is up from London, Martha,’ she added proudly, as though such a metropolitan clientele reflected well upon her business. ‘She hopes to meet her second-cousin here. He is a footman on the other side of Allendale. They haven’t set eyes on each other for fifteen years.’
The introductions having been made to her satisfaction, she departed to search for the items Mrs Hudson required. Mrs Hudson was, I noticed, unusually specific about shades and specifications, therefore securing for us at least a minute or two or Martha’s uninterrupted company.
‘Broomheath Hall?’ Mrs Hudson began. ‘How do you like it there?’
‘Very nice, ma’am.’ Martha bobbed politely.
‘They are kind to you there? I have been told they are very strict.’
‘Oh, no, ma’am! Mrs Summersby is always very friendly. Very condescending, she is. Dad says it’s her being an American and them not having any social higher-archery over there. But she’s always very kind to me.’
‘And the butler? His name is Pauncefoot, is it not?’
The young girl blushed a little. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I’ve heard he’s a very mysterious character.’
‘Mysterious, ma’am? Oh, no, not at all. I thought he was very grand at first, ma’am, but really…’ She hesitated, clearly unsure how to proceed. ‘Well, he’s a terrible flirt, ma’am! And him older than my dad! Always teasing me, he is, and telling me I’m pretty. Mildred – she’s the girl that cooks, ma’am – she calls him my admirer!’
From the manner of her blushing, it seemed that Martha did not find such badinage altogether unpleasant.
‘Gracious me!’ Mrs Hudson managed to sound suitably scandalised. ‘I confess I’m surprised. I’d heard he was a solitary fellow, much given to walking on the moors.’
Martha considered this. ‘Well, ma’am, he does take a walk when he can. He calls it his constitutional. He sometimes asks me to go with him, but usually I have to stay back in case Mrs Summersby rings for something. Mildred gets very flustered by the bell, she does.’
‘Well, well. And what about all these stories of strange goings on? Have you seen any ghosts there, child?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that, ma’am. I sleep out, you see. But my dad says it’s an old poacher trick – telling scary tales so as no one respectable dares go out after nightfall.’
Mrs Hudson accepted this wisdom with a nod.
‘He sounds very wise, Martha. Now, don’t let me keep you from your errands. Do they bring you to Mrs Thimbly’s very often?’
‘Every week, ma’am. I likes it, ma’am.’
‘Well, you certainly have a long list to get through. Do you draw it up yourself?’
‘Oh, no, ma’am. Mr Pauncefoot makes the list, ma’am, him being the butler an’ all, and there being no housekeeper, just me and Mildred.’
‘I see. And no doubt Mr and Mrs Summersby ask for certain purchases too?’
‘I don’t think so, ma’am. Their things is sent up from London, you see. And sometimes even from America, too.’
Mrs Hudson nodded again. ‘Yes, of course. They would be.’
‘Well, if that’s all, ma’am… Thank you, ma’am…’ Martha bobbed again by way of leave-taking, before scurrying from the shop.
On Mrs Thimbly’s return, Mrs Hudson seemed less inclined to chat but, even so, no polite retreat was possible until recipes for lavender jelly had been exchanged and the shopkeeper had revealed which local butcher could be best trusted for a good piece of tripe. When we finally regained the street, Mrs Hudson chuckled to herself.
‘Well, Flotsam, I found all that extremely interesting. I think I begin to see the light.’
‘Do you, ma’am?’ I asked doubtfully, aware that I seemed to have learned very little of any significance, other than Mrs Thimbly’s special recipe for dumplings.
‘Well, Flottie, let’s just say that our meeting with Martha has made me think it’s time I paid a little visit to Broomheath Hall. And, Flottie, I need to write to Mr Rumbelow at once. I am going to recommend he spends a few days in the South Downs. It is beautiful there in spring. I think he will find a short stay there very beneficial.’
That evening Dr Watson visited us in Mrs Garth’s parlour, and between us we passed a happy evening. I crept into my bed that night full of happy and optimistic thoughts. And yet, although I fell asleep straightaway, there came a moment in the night when I stirred and found my body tense and my mind alert, charged with an overwhelming certainty that there was something I needed to do. I lay for a moment, confused by my strange surroundings, trying to bring my thoughts into focus. And then I heard something – the sound of horse’s hooves – and I knew what it was that had roused me. The sound came from the street, I realised: hooves falling softly, as if the rider was loath to wake the town.
I slipped from under the blankets and reached for my shawl. The room I’d been given looked out over the rear of the inn but I remembered a window on the half-landing from which it was possible to see the road…
The door of my room creaked a little as I opened it but the sound made little impression on the heavy silence of the sleeping inn. When I reached the window, the scene below me was lit only by moonlight. I couldn’t be sure of the hour but I knew it was the very dead of night, and Alston slept. Not a single window showed a light, not a curtain twitched, not one shutter stood open. The only moving thing was the horseman, picking his way down the hill, his face and form concealed by the folds of his cloak. But as he reached the Angel Inn and came to the point in the road directly below me, it was as if he felt the weight of my gaze fastened upon him. Slowly – so slowly – he turned his head and looked directly at my window. And as he looked his hood fell back a little and I saw his face: ancient, worn, wearied as if by infinite time; eyes dark, a proud nose, skin brown and deeply lined. It was a face of the desert, weathered by wind and sand, and scarred by suffering. Our eyes met. Then, with that same deliberation, he raised his hand in greeting. And before I could move or shrink away he had passed me and was gone, sliding back into the shadows.
A stranger, certainly. The watcher in Baker Street? I couldn’t be sure. But of one thing I had no doubt: this solitary rider was not Viscount Wrexham, nor anyone like him. Whatever had brought him to Alston, whatever he sought, his road had been a long one. And it had begun in a land very different from my own.