Mrs Hudson and the Lazarus Testament

by Martin Davies

  ‘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 s
omething…’

  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 c
hase, 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.