by Mrs Hudson
It seems the two had been together when the crucial clue was found. In a caravanserai east of the Caspian they had run to earth a dying man, the grandson of a disgraced governor of Antioch, who claimed that he alone was privy to the secret. His grandfather had heard it from a condemned man, a renegade scholar turned spy, who had used it to bargain for his life. The condemned man’s grandfather had been told it, in turn, in a madrassa, or holy school, by his tutor who was mourning the death of an only son. In despair he confided that a secret entrusted to his family for generations must now die with him. Two hundred years before, he said, during times of great upheaval, his ancestor had been ordered by the sultan of the day to hide a valuable Christian relic somewhere safe from where it could be easily recovered when the dangers had passed. This ancestor had taken the sealed urn he was given to a certain dwelling in Damascus, on the street that was called Straight, where he had placed it in a stone casket and buried it in the cellar.
It was the naming of that house that had brought Lord Beaumaris and Abdullah to Damascus, certain that a great discovery awaited them. But others had got wind of their hopes, and to Lord Beaumaris’s consternation he found his situation in the city fraught with difficulty. The Turkish officials would certainly consider any significant discovery to be the property of the Sultan; and worse than that, there were unscrupulous parties who would not think twice before ransacking any site in which the Englishman showed an interest.
Faced with these obstacles, Beaumaris and Abdullah formed a plan. The old aristocrat set about applying for permission to conduct a major excavation on the outskirts of Damascus. The dig he proposed would be extensive and lengthy, and therefore it was only sensible for him to seek a house to rent for the duration of his stay. And, he had procured the lease of a house in Straight Street that would suit him very well indeed…
This cunning plan had one fatal drawback. Setting up the diversionary dig was an expensive business, and it was at precisely that time that his lordship’s funds ran out. His estates were mortgaged, his bank account empty. He was, effectively, bankrupt.
‘This English lord,’ Mr Ibrahim told us sadly, ‘even sent my nephew out to beg on his behalf. Abdullah came to me and asked for money, but what little I had I would not give him. I cannot believe it is God’s will that we should disturb the relics of the dead. But now I regret my decision. Perhaps if I had helped him, Abdullah would never have met the man called Anthony whose fate was so entwined with his.’
It was not clear from the old man’s tale exactly how Lord Beaumaris came to meet the man known in Damascus as Mr Anthony. He could only tell us that this man was an Englishman, a traveller with an interest in antiquities who for many months had been hanging around the fringes of archaeological circles in the Holy Land. He was known to have private, if limited, means, and to Lord Beaumaris even those must have seemed enviable. What agreement was reached between the two men is not clear, and it seems hard to believe his lordship would have shared his secret with a stranger, yet what is certain is that the lease for the house in Damascus was paid for by Mr Anthony and taken in his name.
And yet, despite the necessity of this unwelcome alliance, everything seemed to be going well for Lord Beaumaris and Abdullah. The decoy excavations had succeeded in capturing much attention, as frequent attempts to bribe his workers there confirmed. Meanwhile, hidden from view, the two friends were steadily excavating the cellar of the house in Straight Street. Abdullah did the digging, Lord Beaumaris supervised. It seems the ingratiating Mr Anthony was kept at arm’s length. Perhaps the two archaeologists believed him completely ignorant of their plans.
Finally, with only a tiny part of the cellar floor still undisturbed, Abdullah’s tool struck something solid. Some breathless moments later, the two men realised they were looking at the corner of an ancient urn. After a lifetime of searching, it seemed Lord Beaumaris had succeeded in his quest.
Given the circumstances, it seems incredible that the two confederates did not continue digging with even greater fervour. But, as Lord Beaumaris later explained to Abdullah’s uncle, the night was well advanced and the streets were falling silent, and both men were terrified of making any noise that might draw attention to their activities. In searching so diligently and for so long, they had learned patience. With quite remarkable restraint, they agreed to continue again the following day, when the streets would be loud and bustling.
But the next day brought a summons for Lord Beaumaris to attend the governor’s palace. Such formalities were not uncommon and the elderly peer knew he might be detained for some hours, so it was agreed that Abdullah would continue the excavation alone, until the urn could be lifted. It was a large object and awkward to manoeuvre. Both men agreed that they would open it together.
It was not till many hours later that the terrible events of that day were known to Lord Beaumaris. On returning to his house, he found it apparently empty, until he entered the cellar and found the body of Abdullah lying crumpled in one of the holes he had dug. The young man had been pierced through the temple with one of his own chisels. To Lord Beaumaris, overwhelmed with horror though he was, the motive for the attack was clear: the excavations were empty, the precious urn gone.
While our visitor told his story, the streets outside the Angel Inn lay still. Inside, in the warmth of Mrs Garth’s parlour, Mrs Hudson and I sat in silence, our faces flushed by the firelight. When he came to the episode of his nephew’s death, I saw the old man’s eyes grow dim with tears.
‘I cannot tell you how I grieved,’ he told us, ‘for Abdullah was special to me. I held him on the first day of his life. I saw his first steps. When the news of his murder reached me, I left my home and travelled the long road to Syria, the pain of my loss like hot coals inside me. In Damascus, I met the English lord and saw at once his grief and pain were as great as my own. Indeed, he seemed broken by his loss, without purpose, without health, without hope. I could see in his eyes that he would not live many months more.
‘He told me much about Abdullah and about the circumstances of his murder. He was certain the criminal must be one of a handful of villains who had in the past made threats against them. He gave me their names, and for three months I tracked these individuals from town to town across the Levant. One by one I came to look them in the eye. I am an old man, I know, but grief makes me strong. When I held their faces close to mine, I could see the fear in their eyes. Yet I could see no guilt. These, I knew, were not the men I sought.
‘Finally, I returned to Syria, to the house of Lord Beaumaris. But on arriving there I discovered that the English lord had returned to his own country. He had left me a simple note. Your nephew’s murderer is fled to England, he told me. I shall ensure justice is done. That is all he wrote. I think he feared my anger, feared that my thirst for vengeance would bring me to the gallows in this land of yours.’ The old man sighed. ‘But he was wrong. I felt inside me, not hatred, but an age-old sorrow, and perhaps weariness too, for I would never rest until the fugitive had been brought to justice.’
With those words he fell silent, and Mrs Hudson let him pursue his own thoughts for a few moments.
‘And so you still seek your nephew’s murderer, sir?’ she asked at last.
He nodded slowly, as if his head weighed heavily upon his shoulders.
‘I do. It is this that has brought me here.’
He looked around at Mrs Garth’s homely bric-a-brac, as if in wonder at the strangeness of it all. Then, with a shake of his head, he resumed his tale.
‘Shortly after my return to Damascus I received word that Lord Beaumaris was dead. He had sent me no further message about the identity of my nephew’s murderer. That is when I began my own inquiries. One name remained on the list the English lord had given me. The name was Anthony, and I tried to find out more. Those who had known him in Damascus told me there was something in his eyes, a strange light, which caused cautious men to shun him. Then I received a letter from England. I carry it with me still.
It had been posted months earlier, and since then it had followed me from city to city in my travels. It was simply signed Anthony.’
It proved a remarkable document, written throughout in a scrawl that was by now familiar to me but which in parts was barely legible. The writing sloped erratically across the page: desperation made manifest in ink.
Alston, Cumberland
To the man I have wronged
Sir, I do not know if this will ever reach you. I believe you to be the guardian of the man I have slain. Believe me, I beg of you, by all heaven’s saints, I did not intend to take his life. I cannot expect forgiveness, I know. An eye for an eye, that is the way in your country. Perhaps it is the only way.
Why did he die? Because the fates had decreed he stood between me and the thing I most desired, the key to all fame and all fortune – even, they say, to everlasting life! Only think of it! Just think! Imagine a man insignificant in every way, one who has always been a meagre, mean-faced attendant at the table of others’ greatness, tasting glory only in their crumbs. And there before me, an object to raise me above them all! With one blow, respect and greatness would be mine! I would reveal to the world a treasure beyond price!
Sir, there lurks in me a devil of dark moods, an angry cur that lashes out at the achievements of others. It was this beast that made me strike, and now I am lost forever. I felt a black anger seize me as I saw another hold the great prize and, before I knew it, my hand was raised. Never fear, sir, I shall not live to see it washed clean. I cannot escape punishment. The hell in which I burn each day makes my life a torment to me. I can only pray my blood will atone for my sins. When you read this, I shall have paid for my crime with my life.
The Lazarus Testament is by me as I write, still in its ancient urn. I have never dared to break the seal lest the rumours be true and its touch imparts eternal life. For me, no curse could be greater. This very night I have written to Lord Beaumaris to tell him where I am. Once here, he may find it if he can. I smuggled the urn from Damascus in a shipment of old but unremarkable ceramics and it sits amongst them still, inconspicuous among the many. I know myself to be like that plain vessel – ignored amongst the mass of men, yet bearing inside me an undiscovered brilliance!
The works I leave behind me shall be my memorial. Those who read my writings shall be my witnesses, and shall prove themselves worthy of my gift.
With these words, my life is over. You may sleep in peace knowing this letter is the penultimate act of the miserable wretch known to you as
Anthony
Mrs Hudson nodded as she returned the letter to its owner.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘This note explains a great deal. And it was this, I assume, that brought you to Alston?’
My rescuer nodded. ‘Before I could rest, I wished to be sure this letter was not simply a device to elude justice. But I knew nothing of the man other than his name, so I determined to travel to the city of London to ask the assistance of your British officials. In London, however, I am only a poor Arab and the officials have no time for me. There are so many people, so many inquiries. After a while I began to despair, for London is expensive and I am not rich. Then I met by chance an Englishman known to me from the consulate in Baghdad. He was a kind man and he helped me. He said he’d heard a rumour that a very great man called Sir Percival was charged with finding the Lazarus Testament, and that he planned to consult Mr Sherlock Holmes.
‘This news gave me hope. Even in my country, Mr Sherlock Holmes is famous for his cleverness. So I go to the office of Sir Percival and ask to be allowed an audience. But he is so busy he cannot see me, although I wait many days. So then I come to the place called Baker Street. I watch, hoping for a chance to approach Mr Sherlock Holmes and beg him for his help. But he too is busy, and always in the company of others. So one day I knock at his door and you invite me inside and are kind to me, but the great detective does not come. I know a little of your English manners so I do not wait too long. Instead I decide I will write to Mr Holmes, and the next day I travel to this town of Alston.’
‘And you did write, but you did not sign the letter. Is that right, sir?’
The old man bowed courteously. ‘I was afraid Mr Holmes would not read the letter of one such as I, a dirty black, as I am called in London. And I know that here in Alston also such a one as me will arouse suspicion. So I leave the train before I reach the town. I ask and find where I may sleep, from where I may hire a horse. The people there are rough but not unkind. They believe me to be Spanish, as if to them all people of dark skin are Spaniards. And now, at night, when I will not be noticed, I ride the moors and visit the villages. I study the graves, looking for the name of the man I seek. But I do not find it. And my hosts, who ask on my behalf, tell me that no Mr Anthony is known here.’
With these words our guest fell silent, his tale complete. I think the telling of it had helped him in some way, for when I looked at that weathered face, it seemed to me a certain heaviness was gone from his eyes. Perhaps it was a weight of loneliness that had lifted from him, for he seemed to me now less stern, less pained, than I had thought him earlier.
The silence was broken by the chimes of the church clock, and it raised our visitor from his reverie.
‘It is time for me to go,’ he said. ‘My hosts rise early. I must be back before daybreak.’
But Mrs Hudson raised her hand.
‘Please, sir, a moment longer if you will. In return for your story, let me tell you what we know. You see, I sincerely believe the man who killed your nephew is indeed dead by his own hand. Anthony was only one of his names. Here he was known as Anthony Baldwick, and he came here to hide from his pursuers.’ Mrs Hudson paused for a moment, as if wondering how best to reassure the old man beside her. ‘I can arrange for you to speak to Mr Verity, who was one of those who found his body. He can tell you something of the fellow’s last days. It would seem he did indeed write to Lord Beaumaris, because we know his lordship was bound for Broomheath Hall when he died. But the Lazarus Testament is still not found. I suppose it is still where Mr Baldwick hid it.’
Our visitor listened very carefully as she spoke.
‘Then I shall see this man you mention and hear his story. And then, perhaps, I shall go home – for the fate of your document does not concern me. I would only say to you that there are certain secrets hidden for a reason, and these it is better not to know.’ He rose to his feet with great dignity. ‘Home!’ he said again. ‘Even in a foreign tongue, how sweet that word can sound.’
That night was the last time I ever saw him. He turned and waved at me as he guided his mount beneath the archway. He had come to me in the night, in my hour of need, and then faded into the shadow. Like a dream, perhaps, or an hallucination born of fever. Or perhaps like a weary angel, recalled for one last act of mercy.
Chapter XV
The Missing Box
The next day, I overslept. Neither the crashing of Mrs Garth’s pans below me, nor the trundle of the market barrows outside, made the slightest ripple upon the smooth waters of my sleep. Only when Mrs Hudson hefted onto my bed a pile of papers so huge that they made the springs creak did I finally sit up and blink. Somewhere a clock was striking ten and my room was full of light.
‘Golly,’ I cried, and made to throw back the covers, only to be thwarted by Mrs Hudson seating herself firmly upon them.
‘A young lady does not say golly, Flotsam,’ she reproved me, ‘although I confess I have heard one or two say worse. These,’ she went on, pointing at the papers, ‘are some documents I’ve brought you from the Baldwick Archive. I’m expecting you to stay here in bed and rest a little until we’re sure you’ve recovered from last night’s adventures. And, in case you get impatient, I thought a little reading might help pass the time.’
I must have grimaced because she added quickly, ‘If you’re feeling quite well this afternoon, you can come with me to the Hall and help keep an eye on Miss Peters. I dread to think what she’s getting
up to, and presumably it cannot be very long before the Countess Flavia is unmasked. If you cannot persuade her to pack her bags before that happens, you might at least help keep her out of the way of the Summersbys for an hour or two. Not that your little escapade last night says a great deal for your judgement, young lady.’
I accepted this rebuke with a blush, then pretended to study the pile of papers she’d brought me.
‘How are things going at the Baldwick Archive, ma’am?’ I asked. ‘That’s where we’ve got to look, isn’t it? Mr Baldwick said so in his letter.’
‘Ah!’ Mrs Hudson nodded approvingly. ‘So you noticed that too? What were the exact words?’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling and recited a line we had both read the night before. ‘Those who read my writings shall be my witnesses, and shall prove themselves worthy of my gift.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I was rather reminded, Flottie, of those manufacturers of soap powder who promise that one box somewhere contains a golden sovereign. It would seem Mr Baldwick’s method of persuading people to read his writings is much the same.’
‘But, ma’am, if there really is some clue in his papers about where to find the urn, shouldn’t we all be down there looking as hard as we can?’
‘Patience, Flottie, patience.’ She pushed me gently back against the pillow and placed a hand on my forehead. ‘Dr Watson has joined Mr Spencer at the Archive and Mr Holmes is at Mr Verity’s house, so perhaps he will join them later. At the moment, though, Mr Holmes is extremely busy explaining last night’s events to all the relevant authorities. Telegrams have been flying to and fro all morning. The local coroner is on his way, as well as the High Sheriff, and I believe someone high up in the Home Office is coming from London. A different police inspector has been sent out from Hexham, and his men are guarding the grave now, and there’s talk of Scotland Yard. Your discovery last night changes everything, you see, Flottie. No more unobtrusive observations now. Mr Holmes says it is only a matter of time before Pauncefoot is charged with the murder.’
