by Mrs Hudson
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.
Chapter XIV
The Arabian
My memory of the rescue is too blurred and too fragmentary to take much telling. I must have swooned before he reached me, but whether from relief or from exhaustion I cannot be sure. I have a dim recollection of the rider urging his mount into the bog and I remember fearing that he too might become trapped. Then a strong arm came round me and I was pulled upwards. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I heard a voice speaking in a language I didn’t understand, a voice deep and somehow soothing. I remember marvelling that one so old had such strength in his arms, and after that I remember nothing until I found myself lying across the front of his saddle like a sack of corn, as his horse made its way softly under the archway of the Angel Inn.
How the rider knew to rouse Mrs Hudson, I have no idea. Perhaps she was already awake and fretting at my absence, for she was fully clothed when I first remember seeing her, and the next morning I found traces of mud on her boots. When the light fell on her face, my rescuer spoke to her in English.
‘Madam,’ he said softly, setting me lightly on my feet, ‘we have met before. You were so courteous when I waited at the great house in London.’
‘I remember, sir. Mr Ibrahim, is it not? I see that I am greatly in your debt.’
‘It is my pleasure to be of service. Your little friend wandered from the path. Fortunately, I was there to hear her cries.’
I felt Mrs Hudson’s arm go round me and clasp me very tight.
My rescuer bowed again, as if preparing to depart. Even when very close to him and with the light of Mrs Hudson’s lamp to assist, I found it hard to guess his age. My confused fancy that he was the ancient guardian appointed to watch over the Lazarus Testament had vanished with my fit of fainting and seemed foolish to me as I stood in the reassuring shadow of the Angel. But nevertheless, his face seemed somehow timeless, shaped and altered by the years like driftwood by the ocean.
‘My pleasure,’ he repeated, and began to turn away.
‘It would be a terrible disgrace, sir, if I did not offer hospitality to one who has done us such a service. Perhaps you would take some tea against the cold? One who rides the moors so late is seeking something, and searching alone is not easy. Perhaps we can offer you our help in return.’
The man eyed the inn dubiously and I thought he would refuse, but at the last moment he seemed to change his mind.
‘Tea I can accept,’ he said softly. ‘And your assistance also. I am a stranger here, and friendless.’
And that is how we came to hear the tale of someone who was also, in his way, on the trail of the Lazarus Testament. The church clock was striking four o’clock in the morning when, slightly cleaner and swathed in blankets, I was permitted to perch by the fire in Mrs Garth’s front parlour and hear his story. Within a minute I was gripped, for his voice was rich for all its roughness and carried me far away from the chills of Alston to an antique land, as hot and dry as it was exoti
c.
‘My homeland is Arabia,’ he told us, ‘a poor land of many deserts. My people are not blessed with the riches of its neighbours. The merchants of Cairo or Damascus carry more gold in their pockets than many of my people will see in a lifetime. Perhaps one day God’s bounty will make my people rich also, but until then many young men must leave their ancient lands and seek their fortunes in Egypt or Syria or in the cities of the Maghreb. My nephew Abdullah was one such man. He was blessed with quick wits and a gift for study, and had he lived I feel sure he would have been a great man. To achieve his fortune, he travelled, in his fifteenth year, to Damascus…’
Tired as I was, I listened entranced as my rescuer described for us the great city of Syria, its covered markets and great mosques, its scholars and its holy men, a meeting place for people of every creed and colour. The fragrance of its courtyards drifted out to me as I listened, carrying me to secret places where fountains played and jasmine draped the archways.
To this ancient city, two years before, Lord Beaumaris had come. Then in his seventy-eighth year, his lordship’s search for the Lazarus Testament had taken him from one great city of the east to the next, from Alexandria to Isfahan and back again, each time prompted by new rumours or following clues that crumbled to nothing in the dry sands of the desert. Many scores of times he had conducted digs without success, from Ararat in the north to Aden in the south. Finally, it was to Damascus he returned. And this time, he announced, he would not fail. His information was unimpeachable. The Lazarus Testament would be his.
Precisely when young Abdullah had joined the Beaumaris retinue, his uncle was unsure. But he had proved a quick and able learner, deft and skilful in the field, and ravenous for knowledge. Lord Beaumaris had warmed to his enthusiasm and, little by little, Abdullah had become his favoured protégé and his most trusted lieutenant.
