The following morning dawned bright, and for all the chill in the air, the moors above the town lay touched with gold, looking calm and oddly benign in the sunlight. We were up early, and before I had even breakfasted Mrs Hudson had already left for Broomheath Hall, to begin preparations for the arrival of the Countess Flavia, the Summersby’s unexpected and not particularly welcome guest. My instructions were to follow on later in the morning, when Dr Watson, having made the purchases stipulated in Mr Holmes’s telegram, would drive me out to Broomheath in Mr Verity’s trap. Before that I was to assist Mr Spencer in the Baldwick Archive.
This task proved considerably less amusing on a golden winter’s morning than it had the evening before. Sequestered in the gloom of the little cottage room, surrounded by pamphlets that seemed both pointless and pompous, the slightly carefree hilarity that had previously made the work bearable somehow deserted us. Mr Baldwick’s prose was leaden, his subjects mostly tedious and his sense of humour non-existent. Once, after I had excused myself for a few moments, I returned to find Mr Spencer sitting with his head in his hands in front of an unpublished paper entitled Was Pontius Pilate British?
After that, we agreed to avoid the pamphlets for a little, concentrating instead on the boxes of loose papers and jottings. The crate assigned to me contained a muddled collection of old notebooks and unpublished writings, and I confess there were moments trying to decipher Mr Baldwick’s rather mean, self-pitying musings when I wondered if a morning blacking fireplaces in Baker Street might not have been greatly preferable.
Considerably more exciting was the prospect of the Countess Flavia’s arrival at Broomheath Hall, and when Dr Watson called to collect me I joined him on the trap with undisguised enthusiasm.
‘Lovely morning for a drive, eh, Flotsam?’ he declared with fervour. ‘But only if you’re wrapped up warm of course. Perhaps if I were to place this rug over your knees… It being such a nice day, I thought I’d take a stroll on the moors myself this morning. I’ve a mind to go and see the ruined chapel where they buried Anthony Baldwick. That’s where old Crummoch disappeared, if you remember. Can’t help thinking I’d prefer to have a look at the place when the sun’s shining, don’t you know? Whoops! Almost hit that boulder…’
We were already on the moorland track which lead to Broomheath, and the way was undeniably bumpy, but Dr Watson was a good driver who set a sensible pace. As we drove, he entertained me with tales of his Afghan campaigns, spiced up by a rather racy anecdote about his visit as a very young man to Lahore. We were skirting a flank of high, rolling moorland, bleak and beautiful in the early spring sun, and Dr Watson’s gaze was directed towards this open expanse, when suddenly I saw his eyes narrow.
‘Look there, Flotsam!’ he urged. ‘Just there, near the top of that spur!’
My eyes ran along the ridge, searching the heather for the cause of his sudden interest. At first I saw nothing but the sparse emptiness of the fells, and I was just about to turn away when a movement caught my eye. Only a hundred yards away from us, low in the heather and hugging the contours to escape our gaze, a figure was lurking. He was dressed from head to toe in brown tweed which provided an almost perfect camouflage against the winter colours of the moor. No sooner had I picked him out than he dropped out of sight, behind a fold of rock and heather.
‘That fellow was watching us!’ Dr Watson declared. ‘I saw the sunlight flash on his binoculars.’
‘And did you see his face at all, sir?’
‘Too far away, Flotsam. But not for long! Listen, I’m going to try the old army bluff-and-double-back. We’ll keep driving, as though we haven’t noticed anything in particular, until we get round that spur and out of sight. Then I’ll leave you with the horse while I double back behind him. Even if I can’t lay hands on him, at least I might get a good look at the fellow!’
Without further exchange of words, the first part of this plan was put into action, and Dr Watson took to the moors. The first part only, I say, because of course I found myself incapable of staying meekly with the trap. Instead, seeing that our pony was perfectly content to graze the turf that fringed the road, I waited until Dr Watson was out of sight then hurried back on foot the way we’d come, to the point where I had first seen the stranger.
From there it was clear Dr Watson’s quarry would not be easy to catch. He must have known himself observed, for he had already taken flight and was moving rapidly along the foot of the spur, staying low and close to the heather, away from the road and towards the higher reaches of the fell. Seeing that his path was taking him further from the line being followed by Dr Watson, I set off myself, holding my skirts high above the heather, in a direction that would block our quarry’s line of escape.
I had no plan to conceal myself. On the contrary, by making my presence apparent, I hoped to divert the stranger back into the doctor’s path. However, after a few dozen yards, I realised that the contours of the moor were coming between me and the fugitive and so, after I had hurried a hundred yards or more from the road, I had to alter course. I found myself clambering straight up a heathery slope.
This manoeuvre brought me to the top of a low ridge and, to my astonishment, there below me was the stranger himself, only forty yards away, making good speed up a shallow gully. I must have let out a cry on seeing him, for he changed direction, darting away from me until, for the first time, his figure was caught against the skyline.
In an instant he was gone again, dropping out of sight into some hidden hollow. Dr Watson must have seen him too, for I heard him shout and a moment later he too rose into view, cheeks puffed out and panting hard, but still going well. The two of us were converging rapidly on the place where our man had disappeared and in half a minute or so our paths had joined. With great caution, and perhaps a little trepidation, we approached the high lip of the hollow where the stranger had vanished.
The sight that met our eyes on cresting that ridge left me quite speechless. Even Dr Watson seemed lost for words, and I fear that, in truth, we simply stood and gaped at the figure below us. For instead of cowering from his pursuers, our quarry had settled himself comfortably on a tussock of heather and was in the process of lighting a pipe. The expression on his face was one of pure amusement.
‘I congratulate you, Watson,’ he announced. ‘All those walks in Hyde Park are clearly keeping you in fine physical condition. For a moment I thought you would be upon me before I reached this spot.’
‘Holmes!’ Watson spluttered. ‘But how on earth…? We had no idea…! How in the name of heaven do you come to be here?’
‘I understand your mystification, my friend. But all in good time. First, I beg you, come down from that foolish vantage point where you can be seen for twenty miles or more. Down here you will be out of sight and out of the wind. When the sun shines there’s not a better place to rest anywhere on the moor. I find it an excellent place for lying low, and I would be more than a little peeved should you draw the attention of the whole world to it.’
‘You mean to say you led us here deliberately, Holmes?’
‘Obviously, Watson.’ The detective clicked his tongue, as if disappointed by the question. ‘I’ve been eager to speak to you for the last couple of days, but I had no desire for our meeting to take place in public. So when, just now, it became clear you had finally noticed me and intended to give chase, it seemed prudent to make for somewhere suitably discreet.’
‘But, sir,’ I asked in wonder, while Dr Watson was still standing open-mouthed, ‘however do you come to be here in the first place?’
He raised an eyebrow in my direction, his enjoyment of the situation evident from the smile playing over his lips.
‘There is no mystery about that, Flotsam. That letter I received in London, remember? It was anonymous but very informative. It suggested that Lord Beaumaris had been heading to this area when he died. It also suggested that the late Anthony Baldwick was the person he was following. There was enough detail in the letter to persuade me that it was worth taking a look.’
Dr Watson still looked a little stunned. ‘You must have been pretty taken aback when I arrived, eh, Holmes! For all your powers, I don’t suppose you saw that coming!’
‘On the contrary, my friend. I rather expected it.’ Mr Holmes paused to draw on his pipe. ‘After all, if my anonymous informant was telling the truth about Lord Beaumaris’s destination, then the Viscount’s horseracing code, once you had filled in the co-ordinates, would inevitably lead you to the same spot. And if for any reason you failed to decipher the Viscount’s note, well, there surely can’t be many lawyers in this country who go by the name of Verity and who wear the same old-school tie as Mr Rumbelow. I was not many minutes in Alston before I realised the connection.’
‘You’ve got to admit that was a remarkable coincidence, eh, Holmes? Like something out of a novel!’
In reply, Mr Holmes merely raised one eyebrow.
‘Possibly, Watson. But as I have observed before, when a number of disparate events are linked only by their apparent peculiarity, more often than not they prove to be parts of the same puzzle. So come, take a seat on this excellent heather – Flotsam, you can sit here beside me – and then, Watson, perhaps you would be good enough to let me hear your report!’
This the doctor attempted to do, telling Mr Holmes everything from the Earl of Brabham’s explanation of the Viscount’s message to our encounter with Pauncefoot; from our interviews with Mrs Summersby to the impending arrival of the Italian countess.
‘Excellent!’ his friend declared when everything had been laid before him. ‘An admirable report. Just tell me again about Mr Swan’s childhood in the Downs. It was there he became acquainted with Pauncefoot, was it?’ The great detective’s eyes seemed to cloud over for a moment. ‘Strange… You see, in the course of my vigil here, I have had the opportunity to observe Pauncefoot more than once. There is something about the way he holds a spade–’
‘But tell us, Holmes,’ Dr Watson broke in. ‘That letter you received. What exactly did it say?’
‘Well, I don’t carry it with me, Watson,’ his friend replied tersely. ‘But as well as linking Lord Beaumaris’s name with Broomheath Hall, it contained details about his lordship’s activities in Syria that convinced me the author was more than the usual time-waster. So I disguised myself as an ornithologist and took lodgings at one of the more remote farms, from where I have been able to observe the Hall most effectively.’
‘Can’t tell much just from looking, though, Holmes,’ Dr Watson suggested. ‘I’d have thought that you’d have been in Alston, asking questions.’
The great detective clicked his tongue impatiently.
‘Clearly, Watson, I have not remained rooted on this heath. I’ve been every bit as active as you suggest, and if you doubt the efficacy of my investigations, let me supply you with three pieces of information that may change your mind. Last night, before dinner, you wrote a letter to your London broker, a letter that you have not yet posted. After dinner, you smoked one of Mr Spencer’s cigarettes instead of your customary pipe. And this morning you purchased a small tin of peppermints from a shop near the Post Office. Am I correct?’
The doctor looked thunderstruck.
‘Good lord, Holmes! Have you been spying on me? I think that’s a bit much! But wait a moment… How could you know about the letter? It’s as you say, I did write it, but it’s gone no further than my jacket pocket. You couldn’t possibly have seen it!’
‘No, my friend.’ Mr Holmes drew contentedly on his pipe. ‘But I did see you, last night, on your way back into town on the station trap. You were filling your pipe and you had an evening newspaper under your arm.’
‘A newspaper? Why, yes, I did. I’d been reading it on the train. But I fail to see what you could have learned from that.’
‘Ah, Watson! It’s so simple. The leading item in last night’s paper was another story about this gold seam in Australia. Now, I remember your excitement when that story first broke. It took me all of ten minutes to persuade you that the day after such a headline was the very worst time to invest. It stands to reason that a second headline would reawaken that enthusiasm for the venture, and your instinct – unless I’m mistaken – was to turn to your broker without delay.’
Dr Watson nodded a little reluctantly.
‘Well, Holmes, now you’ve explained it, that’s all straightforward enough. I confess I did draft a note to my man in London. But how do you know that I didn’t send the letter? Must have been keeping an eye on the postman, I suppose?’
‘Oh, really, Watson! You must see that I have better things to be doing with my time than spying on postmen! Had you returned from Hexham in time to catch the last post, I’m sure you would have posted the letter. But instead you’ve had a night to sleep on it, and we both know that you are, at heart, a sensible man in these matters. So although you find it hard to read about fortunes being made in gold mines without feeling that perhaps you should be seizing your share, you also know that such ventures are highly speculative. By this morning, I imagine, more cautious counsels had prevailed.’
Dr Watson looked a little put out.
‘Well, I like to feel I can take a risk as well as the next man, Holmes. But I did decide to hold back for a day or two, just to see how things develop. Might not be as much gold there as everyone says. But what about those other things? The cigarette and the mints? You couldn’t have deduced those just from seeing my evening newspaper!’
‘Yet neither is a great mystery. What do you think, Flotsam?’
I confess I flushed at this unwonted attention, but luckily I had already applied myself to the problem.
‘Well, sir, you said that you saw Dr Watson filling his pipe. And last night he’d run out of his favourite tobacco, which is why he accepted one of Mr Spencer’s cigarettes. So if you’d seen him emptying his pouch, sir…’
‘Of course. Excellent work.’ Mr Holmes seemed genuinely delighted. ‘I happen to know that Dr Watson is most particular about his pipe tobacco, Flotsam, and the tobacconist, of course, would have been closed for business until this morning. And those peppermints…?’
‘I suppose the tobacconist sells peppermints, sir?’
‘Very good, Flotsam! He sells them in small tins that he stacks temptingly on the counter – just the sort of temptation to which my friend here routinely yields. He has at least a dozen half-empty tins of peppermints in his bedroom at Baker Street, is that not true, Watson?’
‘Well, I do like a peppermint, Holmes, and those little tins, you put them down somewhere and then you forget that you’ve got them…’
‘Just so. My point here is not to make you feel spied upon, my friend, but to show you that I am every bit as active in Alston as you would wish. In a relatively simple disguise I have been able to come and go, and to ask a great many questions, without arousing any suspicion. I have made only one error of judgement, and that was in missing last night’s music at the Grapes. I understand Mrs Hudson was in excellent form. The fellows setting snares under High Top this morning are still very full of it.’
‘So what now, Holmes?’ Dr Watson asked, ignoring this impressive display of local knowledge. ‘Have you a plan yet for getting to the bottom of this Lazarus business? Because, apart from keeping an eye on Pauncefoot, I can’t really see what’s to be done.’
‘Our next step is very clear, my friend, but it does not relate directly to the Lazarus Testament. While I’m prepared to exercise some patience in the pursuit of ancient scrolls, Watson, I cannot admit any such restraint when there’s murder afoot. An old man has disappeared, and judging from the blood found at the scene, has been horribly slain. We cannot allow such a matter to rest. No, Watson, we must act at once. You have those shovels? Excellent. Then tonight we shall meet on the moor. It will no doubt be a macabre business but we have no choice. It should have been done long before this. There may well be an outcry, but Sir Percival will stand by us. Yes, Watson, tonight you and I are going to exhume a corpse. Or, more likely, a pair of corpses, for I feel certain that we shall find more than one when we open Anthony Baldwick’s grave. What do you say, Flotsam? Care to join us for a spot of moon-lit disinterment?’
‘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.
I remember too the terrible cold; a cold moon, cold stars and frozen earth beneath the shovels. A frost was falling. I have seen graveyards in London crammed between slums, overgrown by weeds and strewn with waste; graveyards with broken headstones, dwarfed by high walls, lost beneath the smoke of factories. But that midnight on the moors, none of those terrible places of burial seemed as lonely or as lost as the grave where Anthony Baldwick lay. I promised myself that, when my time came, I would be laid to rest in warm earth, close to others, close to busy streets and jostling hansoms, somewhere where the world never slept; where I would never be so alone.
The grave was not deep – there was too little earth to allow for that. After the initial labour of breaking through the frosted ground, the gentlemen worked quickly, and it was not long before Mr Spencer’s spade struck something hard. Then they worked more carefully, scraping and poking. Only at that point was a lantern lit, so that the diggers could more clearly see the sorry object they unearthed.
Archibald Crummoch lay on his side in the black earth, without casket or wrapping of any sort, without even a blanket to cover his face. He wore – grotesquely – pin-striped pyjamas with an old overcoat pulled over them. Perhaps the cold had preserved him, because his body was little decayed. One grey-white hand seemed clenched in a fist. The back of his skull had been stove in as if by a terrible blow.
‘Something flat,’ Mr Holmes suggested. ‘A spade perhaps.’ They were some of the first words anyone had spoken.
‘What now?’ Dr Watson asked.
‘We can’t move him. Not over the moor by night. Tonight we’ll alert the authorities. It can be done properly tomorrow.’
‘So we’d better cover him again?’
‘I think so, Watson. A foot or so of earth should be enough.’
‘One moment, gentlemen.’ Rupert Spencer unbuttoned his overcoat and stripped it off, then laid it over the dead man’s face. None of us spoke. We watched while Dr Watson scraped some earth back into the grave, then we gathered up our things and turned away, leaving Archie Crummoch once again alone on the moor. A foot or so beneath him, the coffin of Anthony Baldwick lay undisturbed. That, at least, was some consolation.
It was half past one in the morning before I finally regained my room at the Angel. The town of Alston lay asleep outside, and the inn itself was silent. Mr Spencer and I had parted in the hallway, and the look in his eye as we said goodnight suggested that he felt every bit as unsettled by our adventure as I did. I would have given a great deal to be able to share the full story with Mrs Hudson before I slept, but when I passed her bedroom door I saw that her light was out, and when I pressed my ear to it I could hear the rise and fall of her breathing.
Alone in my room, I did not undress. There had been no ghosts in the ruined chapel that night, no ghouls or evil spirits. And yet I was strangely haunted by what I had seen there, and however hard I tried to blink it away I could not escape the image of Archie Crummoch’s body, twisted and mud-stained, the stars bright above him. So lonely. So cold. So lost.
Beside my bedside was a small Bible, left there by Mrs Garth. It was a small, inexpensive volume, but it reminded me of what Mr Verity had told us about Old Crummoch’s last night. He had escaped from Mr Verity’s house through a window. He hadn’t even paused to dress, taking nothing with him but an overcoat to cover his pyjamas. And a Bible. He had taken a Bible with him, a companion to face the fate that awaited him. They had found it by the freshly turned grave. They must have taken it away with them.
I have never been a church-goer. My early days at the orphanage did nothing to encourage it, and Mrs Hudson’s households had always been run on unusually secular lines. But that night, for reasons I don’t fully understand, I found myself wishing Archie Crummoch had been buried with his Bible.
I think my idea took a few minutes to take hold of me, and I am not proud of it. Writing from the distance of old age, I can barely credit the rashness and recklessness of my youth. Yet there is something in the impetuosity of the young girl I once was, something in her fearlessness and her determination, which I cannot help but admire. In her defence, I can only say that, alone in a silent bedroom, looking at Mrs Garth’s Bible, it did not seem such an absurd idea to venture outside again. It was no more than half an hour’s walk to the ruined chapel, it was a clear, bright night and the path was easy to follow. I could take the little brown Bible to Archie Crummoch, rest it on the soil that covered him, and be back in my room in no more than an hour. I had a warm coat and I would be walking fast: I would scarcely notice the cold. And there’d be no sleep for me were I to stay, restless in my room, thinking of that grave beneath the stars.
What could possibly go wrong?
No one heard me leave the Angel, and as I passed through the silent town no curtain stirred, no window showed a light. My enthusiasm for the task carried me along at a cracking pace and I was three quarters of the way to the ruined chapel before the loneliness of the moors began to press upon me once more. Even then I strode on, undeterred, and when I rounded a spur of hillside and saw the old chapel ahead of me in the moonlight it was as still and deserted as when we’d left it.
I’d thought of saying a few words over Archie Crummoch’s grave, some sort of prayer, perhaps, but when I stood there looking down, no words came. Instead I knelt and placed the small volume softly on the newly turned soil, and felt pleased that I’d come. This time when I turned away, I felt the old man was not entirely alone. Then, as I dropped down from the high top of the fells, in a section of my journey where the moor rose high above me on both sides, a bank of cloud passed across the moon and the silver ribbon of track was lost in shadow.
I don’t know if it was the sudden darkness that caused me to look around just then or whether a movement on the edge of my vision caught my eye. But it was then, just as the moonlight disappeared, that I noticed a light – a tiny flicker moving high above me on a flank of the heath. How far it was from where I stood I could hardly tell. Judging distance on those high fells was hard enough by daylight, and the sudden darkness had robbed me of perspective. Was it a small light quite near, perhaps only a hundred yards away? Or was it a great lantern made small by distance, somewhere on the far slopes that lay above the town?
For a full five seconds I stood still, torn by indecision, remembering the tales of Pauncefoot digging by night, searching for the hiding place of the Lazarus Testament. If the light really was close by, there would be no harm in venturing a little closer, just to see. If, upon investigation, it proved to be a great distance away, I would simply make a note of its direction and return safely to the path. And so, with some trepidation, I stepped from the familiar track and into the deep embracing darkness of the heather.
At first I moved tentatively, feeling my way with cautious feet, but the heather was low and I found I could make good progress. I tried to keep my eye on the flickering light as I advanced. If it had been moving before, now it seemed to be stationary. Surely it was only a short distance away? If I could advance another fifty yards without mishap, I might discover for myself the identity of its bearer…
Of course, at the very moment I had that thought, the heather tripped me and sent me stumbling to my knees. I was swiftly on my feet again but, when I looked around, the light was gone.
Had someone heard my gasp as I fell? Had the lantern been extinguished? Or had it merely passed out of sight behind one of the folds in the heath? Either way, I pushed on, instinctively, certain that I was near my goal. After a few more strides and another stumble, the ground beneath me began to rise steeply and I scrambled forward using hands and feet until I gained the summit of a ridge and looked around.
Sure enough, there was the light again, a little to my left and some distance away. The cautious part of me knew that this was the time to retrace my steps, to retreat with dignity, but my blood was up and the fever of the chase had me in its grasp. Instead I moved forward, tripping on the down-slope and falling once more, but up again instantly, my momentum barely broken.
I had heard stories of travellers lured to their doom by the Will O’ The Wisp, but this was no spirit flame and I had no fear of counting myself among their number. So I pressed on, faster and faster, while the light came and went in front of me. As I went I knew that retracing my steps would be far from simple, but the thought only made me more determined to succeed. I don’t know how many minutes had passed, nor how far I had travelled, when I lost sight of the lantern for the last time. To this day I do not know who I was following so blindly that night: Pauncefoot most probably, on one of his nocturnal expeditions, or perhaps a simple poacher checking his snares. There came a point, however, when I stood still and looked about me and accepted that my quarry was lost. And very quickly after that came the realisation I had very little idea in which direction the track to Alston lay.
Above me, the sky that had been so remarkably clear was now three quarters obscured by cloud; it was as though a thick, black blind was being drawn over the stars. Although my eyes were already growing accustomed to the darkness, I could make out no feature to guide me. I shudder to think how many circles I might have described in the hour that followed. I only know that the cold, which had been held at bay by my rapid motion, began to advance as my energy waned. First my fingers and then my toes began to lose sensation, and I realised I was both damp and shivering. Only then did the seriousness of my plight begin to dawn on me. I was lost on the moors on the bitterest of March nights, with no one likely to find me and no idea which way to go. And I was already beginning to succumb to the cold. Then, when I thought my predicament could become no worse, I stepped forward onto softer ground and felt my feet begin to sink beneath me.
Of course I struggled to step back. The urge was too instinctive to resist. But in the panic of the moment, my sudden twist made things worse and I over-balanced and fell backwards. For a moment I felt my hands pressing through the thin layer of sedge into the slime beneath it, but I righted myself instantly. By doing so, however, I threw my weight heavily onto my feet, and found myself planted more firmly than before. And then, as I forced myself to stand still and think, I felt myself beginning to sink.
If I had read many tales set in graveyards at the dead of night, I had probably read an equal number that featured a character trapped in sinking sand. Never once had I taken them seriously. They were, I knew, a literary device to punish the evil and unwary, or to try the resolve of readers by threatening their hero with a hideous demise. In such cases, I knew, an innocent protagonist was always rescued, albeit at the very last moment, their deliverance such a formality I had never paused to imagine the actual feelings of a character so caught: the prickling flush of panic as understanding dawns; the disbelief, then desperation; the frantic pleading with fate; the raw despair that follows. And finally the choking, nauseating horror as imagination takes over and begins to paint with slow, inexorable strokes every detail of the fate that awaits – the last gasp of air, slime filling your mouth, then your nose; your last desperate breath drawing in the mud…
That night I don’t think the idea of rescue ever seriously occurred to me. The possibility was too remote, too far-fetched. But that did not stop me shouting at the very top of my voice for help, shouting for as long as I had breath to do it.
‘Here!’ I cried. ‘I’m here! Help me! If there’s anyone out there, please help me!’
Even as I paused to refill my lungs I could hear my cries dying in the darkness. ‘Help!’ I tried again, determined above everything that while I still had life I would not go quietly.
It must have taken only a minute or two for me to sink almost to my waist in the mire, but at that point I felt the sinking motion begin to cease. It seemed I was no longer being drawn downwards with such terrible speed but was merely held fast, and for a time this knowledge gave me new hope. It seemed my fate was not, after all, to be the gruesome death I had imagined, and I redoubled my cries. Only as exhaustion began to take hold did I see that I had simply exchanged one dreadful fate for another, for the cold would surely succeed where the mud had failed. How long could I survive, shivering and wet, on such a cruel night? Could I stay alive till dawn, when perhaps some wildfowler or sportsman might hear my cries? Did my best hope lie in silence, in conserving my strength and energy?
I grappled with these questions for what seemed like hours, despairing and crying out by turns; and yet, when the clouds finally parted, the stars were bright in the night sky and the moon was still high. And by the light of that moon there was revealed to me the most impossible, the most remarkable sight. There, on a ridge above me, picked out in silhouette against the deep blue of the night sky, was a lone horseman, his cloak billowing behind him. As I watched, he turned and scanned the hollow where I struggled, then turned his horse and began to pick his way towards me, down the escarpment. As he drew nearer, the wind blew back his cloak and the moonlight fell on his face, revealing flowing white robes and the gnarled, ancient face I had seen once before by moonlight.