by Mrs Hudson
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!’
Chapter XIX
The Lazarus Testament
One glance up the tracks showed us he was right. At the very moment the three combatants tumbled out of view, a locomotive had burst from the mist at the far end of the valley and was heading towards us at full steam. It was clearly not a scheduled service, for it pulled behind it only one carriage and it travelled at such a speed that its smoke seemed black with urgency.
Even at first glance it was clear from its tremendous velocity that the driver had no intention of stopping at Kirkhaugh station. Perhaps our exertions that night had made us all dull-witted, perhaps we were simply bewildered by the rapidity of its approach, but for a few seconds we simply watched in awe, unaware of the implications. Then understanding came upon us with a rush.
‘By Hades!’ the viscount exclaimed. ‘The basket!’
‘The urn!’ I gasped.
‘The pots!’ Mr Verity added for good measure. ’The basket! The urn! The Lazarus Testament!’
For as we stared in horror, a single obstacle stood in the path of the oncoming locomotive. The great peat-basket that contained the whole collection of ancient ceramic pieces remained carefully positioned where Mr Summersby had placed it, precisely and perfectly in the way of the oncoming train.
‘Stop!’ I shouted desperately and began to wave my arms, imagining the terrible carnage that must follow if the train hit those ancient vessels. But even as I gesticulated I knew it was useless. We were too far away to attract the driver’s attention and too far away to reach the precious basket before its contents were destroyed forever.
‘Great God! It’s going to smash the lot!’ The viscount was also gesturing, a look of utter horror in his eyes. ‘Stop!’ he yelled. ‘For goodness’ sake, stop!’
But in our rush of despair w
e had forgotten that there remained one person who could reach Mr Summersby’s basket before the train hit it. Miss Peters had disappeared from the embankment immediately after Mr Summersby’s charge, presumably with the idea of assisting her companions. Whether our shouts had alerted her to the danger, or whether it was the sound of the train that brought her scrambling back, I couldn’t be sure, but now she reappeared on the side of the track, her gaze jumping from the basket to the train and back again.
‘The basket, Hetty!’ I begged. ‘Move the basket!’
We were all shouting now, even Mrs Hudson, as Miss Peters scampered onto the line and took hold of those great leather straps. With rising horror, I saw the huge locomotive come into focus behind her, still at full steam, looming darkly and horribly over her slight figure. And for all her efforts it was clear the weight of the basket was too much for her. Three times she attempted to heave it from away from the line, tugging and pulling with all her strength, trying to topple it from its perilous position. But nothing she attempted moved it even an inch, and now the train was very close indeed, its brakes suddenly screaming.
‘Get clear, Hetty!’ I implored. ‘Give it up!’ Only seconds remained, I knew, and in despair I braced myself for the crash.
But instead of leaping away, Miss Peters released her grip on the basket and seemed instead to be peering inside, examining its contents.
‘Jump!’ we cried. ‘Hetty! Please!’
I don’t know if she could even hear us. The train was now only yards away, its momentum still barely checked. Twenty seconds, I thought. Fifteen. Ten. Jump, Hetty! Jump!
Just when her destruction seemed inevitable Miss Peters appeared to make a decision. Her hands darted out and selected just one of the dozen urns that peeped from the top of the basket. With a great heave, she raised it clear of the others and, part clutching it, part staggering beneath its weight, fell back from the basket and away from the quivering track.
The train must have missed her by no more than inches, for while she was still falling backwards the front of the locomotive struck the basket firmly in its centre. I remember the moment of impact with complete clarity – the sickening crack of those ancient jars as they exploded into fragments, the cloud of dust that billowed up from the tracks and, worse, the dreadful knowledge that the entire contents of the basket had been reduced in that moment to a thousand tiny pieces, or else lay utterly pulverised beneath the iron wheels.
I was dimly aware of activity in the locomotive, of a driver shouting, his voice drowned by the shriek of metal on metal as the train shuddered to a halt only a dozen yards from where we stood. The first figure to emerge from it was none other than Sir Percival Grenville-Ffitch himself, looking this way and that in alarm.
‘What the…? Eh? Mrs Hudson? Good lord!’ he spluttered as he struggled to make sense of what he saw. ‘Whatever are you doing here? As for us, we’ve come to secure the Lazarus Testament…’
But to our shame none of our party paid him any attention. We were already dashing towards the fallen figure of Miss Peters. As I hurried past the stationary carriage I glimpsed the nervous face of Mr Fallowell, the timid expert in Aramaic, looking down on us, accompanied, it seemed, by a great number of uniformed policemen, still unaware that their arrival had created the very havoc they’d been sent to prevent.
I think Mrs Hudson was the first to reach Miss Peters, although I was close behind her, and to my great joy I saw at once that she was alive and apparently uninjured, sitting upright and coughing in the dust with the urn she had rescued hugged tightly to her breast. The strange turban she had insisted on wearing was beginning to unravel and a loose end of fabric hung down between her eyes like a stray lock of hair in Paisley print.
‘You see, Flottie!’ she beamed when she saw me. ‘I just knew it was going to be me who rescued the Lazarus Testament! Haven’t I been telling you that for ages? And see, I have!’ She broke off to cough a little more.
‘But my dear young lady…’ A voice spoke from behind me and I looked up to see Sherlock Holmes emerging from the bushes with Mr Spencer behind him. From the marks on their faces it was clear that their encounter with Mr Summersby had not been a comfortable one. ‘There is, I fear, only a small chance that the pot you have saved is the one that contains the Lazarus Testament,’ the detective continued. ‘Although your efforts have been valiant, I fear they may yet prove futile.’
But Miss Peters scarcely seemed to hear this doubting voice. ‘Rupert!’ she shrieked. ‘What has that brute done to you?’
‘Just a scratch, Hetty,’ Mr Spencer replied and I saw that a trickle of blood was escaping from his gashed forehead. ‘I think I caught the edge of Mr Summersby’s boot at some point. And I’m afraid to say he got away from us. We hung on to him for as long as we could, but he’s built like a bear. In the end he escaped by plunging into the river. It’s running pretty fast at the moment and I thought it would be the end of him but he made it across, and neither Mr Holmes nor I cared to follow him!’
‘I hardly think it matters,’ Mr Holmes assured him. ‘He will surely not get far by daylight. And it was the contents of that basket that really concerned us.’
‘But just look what has become of them!’ I wailed, pointing to the debris scattered over the track. The viscount was already sifting through it disconsolately with the toe of his boot, as if in search of anything that might resemble the remains of an ancient parchment. As he did so, Mr Fallowell and Sir Percival hurried up to us.
‘Oh, dear! Oh, dear!’ the smaller man lamented, surveying the scene. ‘Mr Verity has explained to us what has happened. I fear our arrival has not proved propitious. And it is I who must take the blame! It was I who urged Sir Percival to bring reinforcements by special train. With so many villains around, it seemed a sensible precaution.’
‘Villains?’ The viscount looked up with a smile. ‘How right you are! These archaeologists. You just can’t trust them.’
‘And who, pray, is this?’ Sir Percival inquired, eyeing the bald peer with some suspicion.
‘This, sir, is Viscount Wrexham. Or, to be more accurate, the seventh Lord Beaumaris,’ Mrs Hudson explained. ‘You will recall that you asked Mr Holmes to solve the mystery of his disappearance.’
‘The viscount? Him?’ Sir Percival sounded incredulous. ‘Good God, man! What has happened to your hair? You’ve aged twenty years! Mind you, we thought you were dead.’
Behind me, Dr Watson was clearing his throat, his eyes still bleary.
‘But tell us, Holmes, how did you come to appear like that, just when you were needed? You should have seen it, Sir Percival! It was the most remarkable thing. Dashed if I can tell how he managed it!’
The great detective dismissed these plaudits with a wave of his hand. ‘Ah, Watson! Once again I must disappoint you. The explanation is very simple. I came up from London ahead of Sir Percival and had planned to spend the night at Haltwhistle. But I found I could not rest, so in the early hours of this morning I set off to walk to Alston. It was not difficult. I knew I simply had to follow the rails. And it was purely by chance that I heard the shouts of Mr Spencer and Miss Peters as they sought a place to cross the river. Happily, with the knowledge acquired during my brief career as a bird-watcher, I was able to suggest a place where it might be forded. Our arrival in Mr Summersby’s path was completely fortuitous.’
Dr Watson, however, was not to be talked out of his admiration. ‘Well, I still say it was the most remarkable thing. I only wish, after all your efforts, that the outcome was a happier one.’
‘But it is a happy one!’ Miss Peters declared indignantly. ‘And I keep telling you so. Really! After practically losing my head under that train, not to mention doing all sorts of damage to my nails, I do think a little gratitude would be in order! If it wasn’t for me, your silly old testament would have been a lot of very choky dust like the rest of those pots. And, do you know, I almost think you’d have deserved it!’
‘But, Hetty,’ I asked, �
�I know you were terribly brave, but how could you possibly hope to choose the right one from among so many?’
‘Well–’ she began, but was silenced by a strangled cry from Mr Fallowell.
‘The urn!’ he mouthed, pointing at Miss Peters’s chest. ‘The urn! It’s a miracle!’ And without another word he flung himself to his knees beside her and began to run his figures down the vessel’s smooth curves.
‘But surely, Mr Fallowell,’ Sir Percival protested, ‘you don’t mean to tell us that the very urn we’re after is the only one to have survived?’
‘I certainly do!’ the little man retorted, his eyes still full of wonder. ‘It’s a miracle!’
‘No, it isn’t!’ Miss Peters put in crossly, but the scholar was not to be silenced.
‘See here!’ he went on, pointing. ‘See the way the lip turns downwards? So characteristic of that precise period! And so rare! There cannot be more than a dozen complete specimens anywhere in the world! This must be the one!’
‘Well, of course!’ Miss Peters agreed, apparently a little mollified. ‘And honestly, Mr Fallowell, if you’d seen the other pots you’d have known it was this one straightaway. They all had rounded lips, you see, so of course they couldn’t be the right one, could they? They just weren’t nearly old enough.’
She turned to the rest of her audience with an air of utter nonchalance.
‘Probably late medieval. Not rare at all, you see,’ she explained, dismissing them with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders. ‘I don’t know why Mr Baldwick thought he could hide this one among them. To anyone with even the slightest knowledge about Mesopotamian funerary ceramics the difference is glaringly obvious.’
I confess this pronouncement was met with a rather stunned silence.
‘But, Hetty,’ Mr Spencer asked, blinking a little, ‘you must forgive us for being just a little surprised at your grasp of the subject. It isn’t an area of expertise for which you’re generally known…’
