Breakfast the next day was a most confusing affair. Martha and Mildred arrived at the usual time to discover several new faces at the breakfast table and an atmosphere decidedly strained. The Summersbys had been woken that morning by Mrs Hudson, who as well as bringing tea also brought the news that Pauncefoot the butler was in fact the seventh Lord Beaumaris, and had asked if he might join them at breakfast. And if that shock were not enough, the Summersbys were also informed that a number of other extra guests had spent the night at the Hall, that a collection of ancient ceramic vessels had been discovered beneath the Home Barn, and that Fred Arthurs, the local constable, was standing guard there with orders to allow no one to enter.
Perhaps a little stunned by all this, the Summersbys had accepted without demure the addition of Dr Watson, Mr Spencer and Mr Verity to the Hall’s guest list, although their enthusiasm for these new visitors did not appear very great when they finally greeted them in the dining room. As I laid out extra bacon, even chatty Mrs Summersby seemed a little taciturn and her husband had retreated into one of his most morose and brooding silences.
Perhaps the atmosphere around the breakfast table was not helped by Miss Peters’s absolute refusal to reveal to her host and hostess the deception she had practised on them.
‘Please, no!’ she had insisted. ‘That would simply be too, too mortifying! I should never be able to look them in the eye again, really I shouldn’t! I’d rather fling myself in the river right now!’
As Mr Spencer had appeared to give this offer serious consideration, she had then raised her chin defiantly.
‘Well, Rupert, you may expose me if you wish, but I shall deny everything and shall probably become quite hysterical. But, of course, if you want a terrible scene over breakfast, that is entirely up to you. I do think it would be very selfish of you, though, after everyone has had such a stressful night! I know my opinion counts for nothing so you must do exactly as you please, but if poor Mr Verity gets another one of his headaches as a result, there will only be you to blame.’
The upshot of this was that the contessa reappeared at breakfast her usual serene and effusive self, and if Dr Watson and Mr Spencer eyed her a trifle coldly, Viscount Wrexham cleared relished the situation and made up for their froideur by flirting with her scandalously and insisting on exchanging tales of Italy.
‘This discovery last night, Countess, will no doubt excite your friend in Naples. Professor Corelli, I think you said?’
‘But indeed, my lord, he will be, how do you say, green to the gills when he hears of it! I shall return to Napoli in triumph, like Caesar himself! And, my lord, no doubt a gentleman such as yourself will have come across the professor in your travels?’
‘Me? But of course! Dear old Professor Corelli! He’s really something of a legend, is he not?’
Through all this, Mr Verity, whose placid existence had ill-equipped him for any activity more disturbing than the occasional hand of whist, seemed inclined to shut his eyes, as if in prayer. If he heard Dr Watson start to grind his teeth, he gave no sign of it.
Even Mrs Hudson did not seem to be entirely at ease, for later that morning I came upon her folding the laundry with her brow furrowed in thought.
Precisely what was worrying her, I wasn’t sure, for with the cellar under guard and the Viscount identified and exposed, our business in Alston was drawing to a close. All that remained, tantalisingly, was to see the urns opened: then perhaps we might even hear, in his own words, the story of Lazarus himself!
With this momentous thought hanging over me, the morning passed with leaden footsteps and the afternoon brought nothing but a message from Mr Holmes saying that Sir Percival was delayed and would not now be able to reach Broomheath until the following day. This news was greeted with great dismay by the whole party, on whom the virtue of patience was beginning to take its toll. Dr Watson rolled his eyes and harrumphed and Mr Spencer looked anxious. Even Miss Peters’s spirits seemed a little affected by the news.
‘Really, Flottie,’ she complained, ‘it’s a bit much, isn’t it? A priceless treasure under our noses and we’re expected to wait for some dull old official before we can look at it! I mean, really! That sort of thing never happens in pirate stories, does it? They just crack open the doubloons, run for their boats and anyone who complains is marooned on a barrel of rum! If Rupert wasn’t so tediously law-abiding, he’d be down in that cellar putting us all out of our misery!’
Thankfully, Mrs Summersby’s spirits seemed to have revived since the morning and she received the news of this delay with something akin to her old sparkle.
‘My!’ she exclaimed. ‘You English are so patient! Back home we’d be at work on those pots just as soon as we got hold of them! But if waiting is the thing, I suppose we must just wait…’
As Constable Arthurs could not be expected to remain on duty indefinitely, and as it was too late in the day to summon a replacement from Hexham, it was agreed that Mr Spencer, Mr Verity and Dr Watson would watch in pairs, swapping in and out at various points throughout the night. Mrs Hudson was most insistent on this, absolutely refusing to allow anyone to stand watch alone, yet when Mrs Summersby offered the services of her husband as an extra guard, she declined on the grounds that Sir Percival Grenville-Ffitch himself had specified who might keep watch. When I asked Mrs Hudson if it wouldn’t be easier just to lock up the Viscount so everyone could get a good night’s sleep, she looked slightly scandalised.
‘One cannot just lock up peers of the realm, Flotsam. It is not considered hospitable.’
‘But he did threaten you with a gun, ma’am. I’m sure that’s reason enough!’
‘I rather think that madness has passed now,’ she replied, ‘and I don’t expect we’ll see that sort of behaviour from him again. He strikes me as the sort of gentleman who knows when his hand has been played. And besides, we might yet have need of his assistance.’
‘His assistance, ma’am?’
Mrs Hudson looked grave.
‘You seem to be forgetting, Flottie, that although we have secured the urn containing the Lazarus Testament, there remains one crime unsolved. The Viscount might be disarmed, but somewhere out there the murderer of Archie Crummoch remains at large. That is why I don’t want the gentlemen watching alone. There is still danger out there, Flotsam, and we must not drop our guard for an instant.’
And with that ominous warning, she turned her attention to matching the linen, an occupation that seemed to absorb her completely.
By four o’clock in the afternoon the light was fading and the shadow of the fells was falling over Broomheath Hall. After my conversation with Mrs Hudson, it was with some trepidation that I faced the prospect of nightfall, and when the honest face of Constable Arthurs appeared at the kitchen window to take his leave, his departure seemed to signal the end of all the day’s bright certainties. He was relieved by Mr Spencer and Mr Verity, who seemed quite resigned to missing dinner for the sake of a long and chilly vigil.
Under Mrs Hudson’s watchful eye, Mildred produced another fine meal that evening, but in truth it was little appreciated. Dr Watson appeared distracted and Miss Peters unusually subdued. Even Viscount Wrexham was more restless than I had ever seen him. To the relief of them all, the party broke up early, Mrs Summersby rising to announce that she thought everyone would benefit from an early night.
This suggestion went down well with her guests but it was not one I welcomed, for sleep was very far from my mind. Even when the dinner was cleared and the kitchen scrubbed clean I would have stayed downstairs keeping watch had it not been for Mrs Hudson’s stern insistence that I rest. This, however, was easier to suggest than to achieve, and the significance of every creaking stair or groaning floorboard was amplified by my fretfulness.
In the end, out of pure desperation, I sought distraction in the pile of papers from the Baldwick Archive. To my surprise, however, instead of lulling me to sleep as they had done the previous night, the section of the papers that I chanced upon proved rather more interesting than any I had yet discovered. They dealt with Mr Baldwick’s visit to America, and my attention was quickly caught by the mention of a familiar name.
April 10th, Philadelphia
My visit to Mr Fazackerly was most successful. Put to him my plans re Sodom and Gomorrah. Impressed on him the scale and ambition of my plans. The Cities of the Plain – unseen since Lot – no greater archaeological prize! Explained to him my calculations, without of course revealing their result. Assured him that location of site a mere formality. Offered him a portion of the profit – and named my price. Fazackerly clearly struck by my vision. Promised to consider, but gleam in his eye betrayed his eagerness. Have written to my new friends to thank them for their assistance. Much moved by their support and solicitude. Will not accept a penny from them, but shall reward them when my fortune is made. As I took my leave of him, Fazackerly suggested possible introductions to notable figures in the field. Dalrymple, Le Blanc and Beaumaris were the names he mentioned.
Was this, then, how the fatal meeting between Anthony Baldwick and Lord Beaumaris had come about? In this casual encounter on a foreign shore?
After that, references to Mr Baldwick’s ambitions in the Holy Land followed at regular intervals, and I began to see that the writer was setting great store in the prospect of assistance from the English peer.
May 17th, Boston
Visited Thomson, the museum curator, to answer reported criticisms of my Sodom theory. Laid the evidence before him and intimated that Beaumaris and Le Blanc likely to take an interest. Thomson impressed by mention of Beaumaris and seemed more inclined to listen. To my surprise, not acquainted with Mrs Kidd, despite her position in society. Makes me think less of the man – possibly not the well-connected figure I’d been led to believe.
June 5th, New York
Great developments! Mr Kidd out of town but waited upon Mrs Kidd at their apartments. To find acceptance with such a woman, so cultivated, so refined, so elevated in American society, is a great joy to me – and sorry contrast with pride and contempt of British aristocracy. To my great surprise and joy, Mrs K intimated she had connections related to Beaumaris by marriage and would attempt to arrange introduction. So condescending! So generous and kind-hearted! No more was said of our small business transaction, but understood from her smile that debt now settled and creditor would not now be approaching Mr K. Has been my honour to be of assistance to such a one – a small price to pay for her friendship, especially as it offers so much in return.
June 30th, New York
No reply to Mrs K from Beaumaris. Aristocratic aloofness? English disdain? Comfort myself that correspondence may take time to find him in his desert camp. Meanwhile, my frustration is growing. Sodom scheme does not prosper as I had hoped. I find the people here less open to new ideas than I had imagined. Ignorance! I shall show them all! Only Mrs K proves the exception. Admire her more each day. So brave in her predicament! Called yesterday and found her in tears. The youthful indiscretion she confided in me still haunts. I consider it my great good fortune to be able to assist her. The new banker’s draft should be enough to remove the danger for good. She has invited me to join them in the Hamptons should Mr K’s business allow time for their annual visit. Optimistic things will be sorted with Beaumaris by then.
And so on! I read long into the night, tracing the failure of Mr Baldwick’s plans to raise finance in America for his archaeological schemes, and his growing certainty that Lord Beaumaris’s support was vital in achieving what he desired in the Holy Land. But strangely it was not these entries that eventually led me to sit bolt upright, blinking at my own stupidity. It was a much shorter note, scribbled quite hastily, one of the last Mr Baldwick made in America. By the time I read it my candle was burning very low, and perhaps by then weariness had slowed by brain, because it was not until that moment that understanding dawned.
September 2nd, New York
A most distressing night. I am lost, desolate! I will not be consoled. Truly this is a society of hypocrites, their evil greater for their pretended belief in democracy, in merit. That an angel should be cast out by their cruel hands and sneering pride! I scorn this place and shall shake its dust from my feet forever!
And in truth there is nothing to keep me here. She came to me tonight – so good, angelic in truth, to spare a thought for one such as me at such a moment! But already their things were packed, and they embark this very evening for Europe. There, she says, they will lead a humble life, set apart from those who would use her youthful folly to shame her name forever. For there is no way to escape disgrace if she stays, she tells me. Her blackmailer plans to expose her this very week and she has despaired of further attempts to purchase his silence. Not all her private fortune, nor all the sums I have made over to her, have been enough.
It is, I suppose, some comfort that her husband stands by her. For all his taciturnity it seems a good heart beats in that great frame. She tells me that he does not blame her, but shares her belief that ruin is certain if they do not fly at once. Of course I waived all consideration in this crisis. She owes me nothing, I assured her, for although the loss to me in money is considerable, kindness and friendship have no price – and when my great discovery is made I shall be a rich man. Yes, when my greatness is established, as I know one day it shall be, they shall be the first to benefit from my fortune…
Long before reading this entry I had formed my own suspicions about the kind-hearted Mrs Kidd and the mysterious indiscretion that seemed to require such a constant stream of funds to keep quiet. In none of the diary entries did the help she offered Mr Baldwick ever seem to materialise, nor did her introductions lead to any genuine advancement. Long before that entry for September I had been wondering if perhaps at some point the writer would find that both the Kidds and his money had disappeared from his life. But Europe! France! A well-built, taciturn husband and a charming, clever wife! Without a moment’s hesitation I slipped from my bed and went in search of Mrs Hudson.
Even though the hands of the kitchen clock were a little short of four o’clock in the morning, I found Mrs Hudson still downstairs and still fully dressed, ironing linen by the kitchen range, with the air of one who intended to stay up all night. There was, I thought, a faint unease in her face, but the thoughts weighing on her mind were quickly put aside when I burst upon her, panting for breath.
‘Why, Flotsam!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever is the matter at this hour?’
‘Look, ma’am! Here! In Mr Baldwick’s papers! I wondered… Well, see for yourself!’
She took the papers from me without further questioning and settled at the kitchen table to peruse them. Sitting beside her, I could see that her concentration was fierce, and from time to time her eyebrow flickered meaningfully.
‘The Summersbys…’ she breathed at last. ‘Well, well! The pieces fit perfectly. Only yesterday I received a reply from Mr Bertram Peeves, recently of Washington, saying that he had never heard of them, and Mr Peeves is the sort of person who knows a great many people. But, of course, America is a large continent, Flottie, so such a telegram was hardly conclusive.’
‘You already had suspicions of the Summersbys, ma’am? Even before this?’
She pursed her lips, as if pondering her answer. ‘Well, Flotsam, Mrs Summersby strikes me as a much shrewder individual than those about her realise. She contrived to captivate Sir Bulstrode Peveril, for instance, and to win a place for herself in polite society in the South of France, with neither money nor a prepossessing husband to help her. And yet, when confronted with a dubious Italian countess, she appears completely taken in. Why is that?’
‘Perhaps she hasn’t met many Italians, ma’am?’
‘There are plenty of Italians in New York, Flottie. No, for some reason she chose to avoid a fuss. It’s as if she was deliberately trying to avoid the attention that would have accompanied the countess’s exposure. In fact, she’s being working very hard at avoiding attention, hasn’t she, Flotsam? Look how anxious she was that Mr Verity should not summon Sherlock Holmes to Alston. Look how reluctant she was to entertain guests at Broomheath Hall. And then there’s Mr Verity’s evidence…’
‘Mr Verity, ma’am?’
‘Right at the beginning, if you remember, he reported lights moving around inside the house at night. But there were many more reports of lights outside, and it was those tales of ghosts and spirits, and all the reports of the butler’s nocturnal expeditions, that tended to capture our attention. But what if the Summersbys knew about Pauncefoot’s jaunts and took advantage of his absence to search the house at night? I don’t think it ever occurred to him that the Summersbys might be playing the same game he was. I’m afraid he dismissed Mrs Summersby as a rather empty-headed American. And that, of course, is exactly what she intended.’
I paused to consider things in this new light. ‘But, ma’am, we can’t be sure that the Summersbys are really the same people as Mr and Mrs Kidd.’
‘Well, Flotsam, we know from his papers that Mr Baldwick had vowed to repay Mrs Kidd for the kindness he felt she had shown him – even after she had parted him from his money. Don’t you think he might have written to her in the South of France and told her that he had some great treasure in his possession?’
I nodded. From what I had read in his diaries that sounded like exactly the sort of thing Mr Baldwick would have done, especially once he had reached Broomheath and had grown so desperate.
‘And then, of course, there is Crummoch. Mr Holmes says his skull was completely caved in by a blow from a spade. Well, Flottie, you know a little about hitting people with spades. To kill with one blow – and in particular to smash a skull so completely – would take unusual strength.
‘And so,’ she went on, rising to her feet and reaching for a storm lantern, ‘as far as I’m concerned Sir Percival and his army of policemen cannot arrive a moment too soon. It was bad enough waiting until today, but another night in this old house worries me. If the Summersbys really are Mr Baldwick’s American friends, they will not be sitting on their hands tonight. Until today they, like the rest of us, had no precise idea where to find the Lazarus Testament, but now they know exactly where it is. Come, girl. Dr Watson joined Mr Spencer on watch almost an hour ago. I think it would be wise to pay them a visit…’
The night was so still it seemed nothing could be awry with the world. As we stepped out into the darkness, the hall showed no lights at its windows and its grounds lay silent. There was so little wind that a light ground mist hung in small patches over the lawns, clinging to the dips and gullies and thickening ominously over the boggy fringe of the moor.
The only light other than ours came from the narrow windows of the Great Barn where, much to our relief, a lamp was burning just as it should. However, as we rounded the corner of the building, we found the doors of the barn hanging open, and instinctively we exchanged glances.
‘Dr Watson?’ I called as we approached. ‘Mr Spencer?’
But there was no reply, and when we stepped inside, the barn seemed empty. Apart from the absence of our sentries, however, nothing seemed amiss. Dr Watson’s lantern was burning brightly by the wheels of the old cart, and nothing seemed disturbed. Only when we drew closer did we perceive that the wagon’s position had altered, that it had been rolled forward a little, sufficient to allow the trapdoor to be raised.
‘Dr Watson?’ I called again, louder this time and with genuine alarm in my voice, and this time a reply came in the form of a muffled grunt that seemed to come from inside the cart. Peering over its boards, we were greeted by the sight of Dr Watson, curled up on a bed of sacking, eyes closed and a happy smile on his face.
‘Sir!’ I cried reproachfully. ‘Wake up! You’ve fallen asleep!’
‘Not just now, Flotsam,’ he murmured happily. ‘Five more minutes… Still very dark…’
Exasperated, I began to shake his prone form with some vigour, but Mrs Hudson reached out and stopped me.
‘It’s no good, Flotsam. Look.’ And she held out to me a silver hip flask. ‘Drugged, I think. And listen!’
From somewhere below the trapdoor we heard a low moan.
I’m not sure what I expected to find as I followed Mrs Hudson down the steps into the cellar. I think I was frightened that we’d find a chaos of broken pottery, with our hosts still amongst it – for I knew they had blood on their hands, and even between us we could be no match for the brute strength of Mr Summersby.
But instead, when I stepped onto the cold floor of the cellar and looked about me, the light of Mrs Hudson’s lantern illuminated the groggy form of Rupert Spencer propped against the wall of an otherwise empty room. Where the rows of ancient vessels had stood, the floor was bare. No trace of them remained, no clue to indicate they had ever been there.
‘Gone,’ Mr Spencer muttered, attempting to point. ‘Very tired. Watched them go. Summersby. Flask. Drank something. Watched them. Pots. Gone.’
‘But why?’ I asked, still looking around me as Mrs Hudson went to his aid. ‘They only wanted the Lazarus Testament. Why would they take them all?’
But Mrs Hudson, having assured herself that Mr Spencer was in no immediate danger, was already hastening back up the wooden stairs. ‘Quickly, Flotsam, I want you to alert the others. The Summersbys cannot have gone far.’
‘I suppose they don’t know which is which, either,’ I decided, thinking aloud, ‘and didn’t think they’d have time to empty them all.’
‘Precisely, Flotsam. I expect they’ve found out enough about ancient documents to know that the urn containing the Lazarus Testament must be opened with some care. So they have simply taken them all, to somewhere they won’t be disturbed. Remember that huge peat-cutter’s basket that was here before? Well, it isn’t here now. They must have filled that and taken it off somewhere. Mr Summersby is just about big enough to lift it, I should think.’
‘But where would they go, ma’am?’
‘That’s what we must find out, Flotsam. I don’t think they came back to the Hall though, because I’m sure I’d have heard them. Could I ask you to raise the others? We’ll need their help if we’re to search the grounds…’
But raising the others did not prove easy, for it seemed Mrs Summersby was every bit as shrewd as Mrs Hudson had surmised. I roused Mr Verity by thumping very hard on his bedroom door, but when he tried to open it we discovered the door was locked and the key removed.
‘But I don’t understand,’ he kept repeating, ‘I know it was here on the inside earlier…’
Leaving him to try what he could to effect his own escape, I quickly found the situation to be the same for Miss Peters and Viscount Wrexham. Both were confined behind their heavy oak doors and no amount of hammering and shouting was likely to alter the fact, although very soon the whole east corridor was echoing to a cacophony of shouts and curses and heavy thumps, as chairs and other pieces of furniture were hammered against the locks to no avail. The confusion might have persisted all night had it not been ended startlingly by a loud explosion and the sight of Mr Verity stumbling into the corridor shrouded in smoke, waving in his hand an ancient-looking duelling pistol.
‘Good lord!’ he muttered. ‘Good lord! It was hanging on the wall. I never really expected it to be loaded!’
Or course where there is one duelling pistol there is generally a second, and in this case there turned out to be not just one brace on display, but two. This was enough for both the remaining rooms, although the sight of Mr Verity, eyes bulging somewhat, discharging pistols into the doors of Broomheath Hall was not an easy one to forget. Nor was the spectacle of Miss Peters emerging from her smoke-filled doorway dressed in riding boots, a baggy pair of chocolate-coloured men’s jodhpurs, a purple tweed hacking jacket and white silk gloves, with something resembling a Turkish turban wrapped around her head.
‘I was expecting something like this,’ she explained airily. ‘And after getting so terribly cold and wet last night I decided to gather up all the warmest things I could find. Though I did draw a line at the pair of long-johns behind the fishing tackle in the boot room that are so itchy they must be made out of llama hair or something…’
It was only after some persuasion that Mr Verity was prevailed upon to shoot out the lock of the Viscount’s bedroom. Indeed the honest solicitor might have refused altogether and was mumbling something about dangerous scoundrels when the roar of the peer himself decided things.
‘The Summersbys, you say? The Summersbys! They’ve got the blasted document? By Hades, I’m not having that! I tell you, I’d rather present the thing to the British Museum than have myself beaten to it by that simpering girl and her oafish husband! Dammit, man! Blow the lock! Blow the lock! I give you my word that for this night at least you can count on me!’
Finally, after all these lamentable delays, we were ready for duty. Mrs Hudson must have heard us coming, for she greeted us at the front door, accompanied by a yawning and dishevelled Mr Spencer who appeared to have recovered something of his wits, but who nevertheless was leaning a little unsteadily against the wall. Her first step was to instil some order into our activities, reining in both the Viscount, who wanted to take to the moors with bloodhounds, if he could find any, and Mr Verity, who wanted to search the house for powder with which to reload his duelling pistols.
‘We can’t be sure where the Summersbys are,’ the housekeeper admitted, ‘but I daresay our first step should be to search the grounds. I don’t think they can have any proper plan, as such. I think they’ve just seized the chance that presented itself. And now they’ve got the urns away, they’ll be impatient to examine them and find the Lazarus Testament itself. With only that to carry, they have a chance of slipping away across the moors…’
‘Very good!’ He said it rather sleepily and stifled a yawn. ‘Perhaps if Hetty and the Viscount and I form a party to go round the south side of the Hall…’
And so a plan was formed, and Mrs Hudson, Mr Verity and myself set off together in the other direction, approaching every barn or potting shed as quietly as we could, hoping to surprise the fugitives with their prize. But for all our care, we saw no sign of the Summersbys, and it seemed only a very short time before the two search parties met again, their rounds complete. However, I for one was not yet ready to give up.
‘There is one other place, ma’am,’ I pointed out. ‘The old belvedere out on the edge of the moor. It’s usually kept locked, but the Summersbys could easily have taken the key…’
And so we proceeded to the little summerhouse, our stealth and speed only slightly compromised by our numbers, but in good spirits and very determined. Even from a distance I thought I could detect a gleam of light from the derelict building and, as we approached, this grew more distinct. Its effect on my companions was noticeable for I could sense their growing excitement, and without any instruction they began to move forward more quietly. Even Miss Peters followed without a gasp or a squeak. Almost twenty yards before we reached the belvedere, Mrs Hudson brought us to a halt and signalled for us to wait while she and Mr Spencer advanced towards the gap in the shutters from which the light was escaping.
It was here, perhaps, that the housekeeper misjudged the discipline of her troops, for no sooner had she and Rupert Spencer reached the belvedere than Miss Peters made an impatient hissing sound and began to follow them.
‘Hetty!’ I remonstrated in an urgent whisper, only to see the Viscount also breaking ranks, declaring beneath his breath that he was damned if he’d stand around like a lemon while the Summersbys squeezed his juice. That left Mr Verity and me, and we at least had the good grace to exchange guilty glances before we tiptoed forwards to see for ourselves what awaited us in the belvedere.
One glimpse through the wooden boards was enough to show me that we had the Summersbys at our mercy. The huge peat-basket stood in the middle of the room, with the various urns still neatly arranged within it. To move them all in one go must have been an immense effort for there were a dozen or more heavy clay pots, each of them more than two feet high. Even with the thick leather shoulder straps to assist him, Mr Summersby must have tottered under such a weight.
He now stood near the door of the summerhouse, facing away from us, towards the moors. But for all his bulk, his was not the figure that dominated the scene. Closer to us, only a yard or so away, Mrs Summersby was pacing to and fro. The events of the night seemed to have wrought a change in her, or perhaps she had simply discarded a mask, for gone was the expression of light-hearted charm that had always characterised her, and in its place was the face of a strong and determined woman. She was no less handsome for the change: if anything, I thought, her beauty was enhanced by it. If there was menace in her face, it was the menace of a tiger – fierce, strong and utterly controlled.
She appeared to be counting off options on her fingers, remonstrating with her husband as she did so. ‘No, you great ox! Alston is out of the question. These people may be fools but they are not so stupid as to forget to guard the station. No, we must disappear without trace. Are the horses still in the place we arranged?’
From where I stood, behind most of my companions, my view of things was far from ideal, but another gap in the boards, a little to my right, seemed to hold out much better prospects. To reach it I had to clamber up a little and let one of the lower boards support my weight. From there I had an improved vantage point and was able to see the look of confidence on Mrs Summersby’s face as she spoke of their escape.
‘Very well,’ she went on. ‘I have our other papers here, so we’ll have no trouble at the ports. And now to the Lazarus Testament. We’ll smash all of these in turn until we find it…’
On my left, Mrs Hudson seemed to be whispering an instruction to Mr Spencer, but before he could act a terrible creaking noise interrupted her and, to my dismay, I felt the board I was peeping over begin to pull away from the wall. The nails were giving way beneath my weight and they were doing so with a hideous groan. I tried to jump off but I was too late: before I could escape, the whole board fell backwards, revealing to the Summersbys the startled faces of their pursuers.
Mrs Summersby cried out – in surprise, I think, rather than in fear. Mrs Hudson shouted something too, and I saw both Viscount Wrexham and Mr Spencer start immediately round the building towards the door. Then I heard Mrs Summersby’s voice again, loud and clear and urgent.
‘Quickly! Run! It is our only chance!’ she cried, and as I leapt to my feet I was in time to see Mr Summersby once again pull the enormous basket onto his shoulders.
‘Go!’ she cried again, and with a roar Mr Summersby launched himself through the doorway, the basket secure on his back.
His great momentum was the undoing of Mr Spencer and the Viscount, for as they rounded the corner they came directly into his path. The charging American ran through them as easily as a rampaging bull through barley. Both men were taken off their feet and as they tumbled backwards, Mr Summersby was past them, still running fast, his face towards the moor.
I think I heard Mrs Hudson shout again, but we were beyond instruction now, running past her towards our fallen friends, each of us lost completely in the thrill of the chase. As we reached him, Viscount Wrexham was already on his feet and looking around him into the darkness.
‘Which way did he go?’ he cried.
‘That way, sir!’ I waved my arm towards the stile that led to the moor, and the two of us set off together with Mr Spencer a yard or so behind and Mr Verity in his wake. Miss Peters, showing a commendable turn of foot in her borrowed riding boots, was closing on the panting solicitor, and in that order we set out into the darkness of the fells.
It proved a difficult and confusing chase. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that first light was approaching, but it seemed true that night that the darkest hour really did precede the dawn. Even with his burden on his back, the American proved hard to follow on the pitch-black moors, often vanishing from sight only to reappear, each time a little further off, a hunched silhouette against the paler sky. Behind him we floundered in the gloom. The terrain was rough and it was easy to trip and fall, but nevertheless we stuck to our chase, blundering forward with a will, certain that the weight on his back must soon begin to tell.
It quickly became apparent to me that Mr Summersby’s line of flight was not a straight one. By cutting this way and that he confused his pursuers and scattered them across the hillside until, gradually, we became separated in the dark. Quite early on I realised I’d lost sight of Mr Verity, and a little later, after stumbling over a tussock of heather, I found that only Viscount Wrexham was still by my side.
‘Quickly, girl! He’s heading north-west. If he continues that way he’ll come to the river and then we’ll have him, for it’s surely too full to cross.’
Too breathless to reply, I simply nodded and let the Viscount lead the way, reassured that Mr Summersby could not evade us much longer. At the same time I noticed that there was now a distinct light in the eastern sky. The night was nearly over and with it, surely, the thief’s last chance of concealment.
But I had reckoned without the mist. Only when the viscount and I reached the edge of the heath, where it fell away steeply to the river, did I realise that the mist we’d noticed at Broomheath was growing thicker with the advent of morning. Below us, the river valley was lost beneath an opaque shroud of fog, and somewhere in that grey cloud Mr Summersby had taken refuge.
‘Which way now, sir?’ I gasped, but the viscount could only pull off his deerstalker hat and rub his bald pate rather ruefully.
‘No idea!’ he grunted, still breathing hard, then favoured me with an approving look. ‘I’ll say one thing, young lady, you’re a game one! That was a fine chase. But all we can do now is hope for the best.’
‘On the contrary, sir,’ a voice contradicted him. ‘I think, if you would care to follow me, we still have a chance of overhauling the gentleman.’
‘Mrs Hudson!’ I turned and saw her coming up behind us with Mr Verity in tow and, behind them, to my astonishment, a very pale Dr Watson, still groggy and glassy-eyed from his sleeping draught. Unlike the rest of us, Mrs Hudson seemed remarkably unflustered. Indeed, for all the urgency she showed, she might simply have been stepping out to post a letter or to buy a box of eggs.
‘He’s heading for the railway, you see,’ she explained. ‘He must have decided he’d no chance of finding his way in the dark to wherever it is they’ve hidden their horses. But Kirkhaugh station is about a mile away up the valley and if he can get there in time for the milk train he might yet escape us.’
‘But there’s a river between us and the railway line!’ Viscount Wrexham countered. ‘He’d have to go all the way back to Broomheath to find a crossing!’
Mrs Hudson nodded wisely. ‘That’s what I thought, sir. But Mr Verity here, who is a keen butterfly collector, tells me there’s a shepherds’ crossing a little downstream. Mr Summersby will know of it, of course, from his surveys of this area. But with the weight he has to carry, he can’t be far ahead of us.’
With Mr Verity’s help, we found the crossing fairly easily, despite the very dense fog. It consisted of some old planks laid from rock to rock, and offered a possible, if precarious, passage to anyone desperate to cross.
‘If he managed to get over this with that burden on his back, it was an impressive piece of work,’ Mr Verity mused as he wobbled uneasily in midstream. ‘Why, I’m not sure it’s even possible!’
‘And yet he has done it, I believe.’ Mrs Hudson had been the first to cross and was pointing to a mark in the mud near where she had alighted from the boards. ‘His footprint, I think. See how deep it goes? That means he is still ahead of us.’
From the river bank it was but a small scramble up to the little railway that led to Alston. The fog, which had been at its thickest as we crossed the river, seemed to thin rapidly as we left the water behind us and I realised with a shock that for the first time since we had set out I could see the detail of my companions’ faces. Morning had come and with it a very faint breeze to disperse the mist. Ahead of us, in the grey morning light, the railway stretched in a straight line towards Kirkhaugh.
‘Look!’ I cried, for there, perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead of us, was the bulky figure of Mr Summersby, his massive burden still on his shoulders. For him to have carried such a weight so far was a mighty achievement in itself, but to have done it through fog and mud, over heather and rocks, and all the time evading his pursuers, was almost magnificent. Yet it was clear his strength was almost spent, for we could see from the wobble in his gait that he was struggling to keep a straight course between the rails. Ahead of him, drawing him on, the outline of Kirkhaugh station was emerging from the mist.
‘Quickly’ the viscount shouted. ‘After him!’
But Mrs Hudson was pulling out her watch and shaking her head. ‘I’m afraid, sir, however fast we run we won’t be able to catch him before he reaches the platform. And if I remember the timetable correctly, the early train is likely to be coming in any moment now. From the progress he is making, I fear he’ll catch it.’
‘Then we must catch it too!’ the viscount declared and set off with renewed vigour. But for all his determination, I could see that Mrs Hudson was right. Mr Summersby’s lead was too great, and I began to think that his escape was inevitable.
The viscount had run only a few yards before a movement in the bushes a little further up the line captured our attention and brought him to a halt. As we watched, a gaunt figure scrambled into view between Mr Summersby and the station house.
‘Look!’ I yelled, suddenly excited. ‘Look, ma’am! It’s Mr Holmes! And he’s not alone!’
Sure enough, we saw the detective turn and offer his hand to someone behind him on the slope, and first Mr Spencer, then Miss Peters, emerged into view. Both looked bedraggled, but for all that a great wave of optimism swept over me.
Their sudden appearance had a powerful effect on Mr Summersby too. The American stopped in his tracks and for the first time since setting out from the belvedere seemed to hesitate. He turned briefly, as if contemplating retreat, but the sight of Mrs Hudson’s party spread out across the line behind him was enough to make up his mind. Very carefully he slipped the basket from his back and rested it between the rails, then turned to face Mr Holmes, rolling up his sleeves as he did so.
Strange to tell, for a moment my heart went out to the fugitive. As Mr Holmes and Mr Spencer advanced upon him, there was something splendid in his defiance. I saw Mr Holmes shout something, but Mr Summersby merely shook his head and then, with a roar that even we could hear, he threw himself upon his enemies.
Although too far away to intervene, we were close enough to appreciate the raw power of that charge as the big American caught both his opponents in his arms and hurled them backwards. How they withstood the impact of such a collision I will never know, but to their credit both Mr Holmes and Mr Spencer clung on to their assailant and, still locked together, the three combatants rolled in a tangled mass over the edge of the railway embankment and out of sight down towards the river.
‘Goodness!’ I gasped, but before I could move to assist them the viscount let out another cry.
‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look! A train!’