The Adventure of the Pharaoh's Curse (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) (7 page)

“But the statue is in a glass case!” cried Mr. Brundage, perhaps upset at Holmes’ characterization of the limits of his intelligence. “What sort of forces could penetrate that?”

“The kind that only a set of hyper-acute senses might be able to detect,” said Holmes smiling. “Vibrations.”

The Director snorted with derision. “You are mad, Mr. Holmes. If this statue moved because of nearby vibrations, it would happen during the day, when the throngs of people are passing through this gallery, not in the dead of night.”

“I did not say that the vibrations were nearby. In fact, during the day the closer vibrations of the public’s footfalls serve as a sort of interference wave, and prevent the status from turning. It is their very absence after hours that allows the distant vibrations to produce the nocturnal movements. I have examined the statue myself and….”

“That’s impossible,” interjected Brundage. “Only I have the key.”

Holmes shook his head. “It is a rather simple lock, Mr. Brundage. It took me but a few seconds to open it. As I was saying, I examined the statue this morning and found that it has a convex base. There is a subtle lump at the bottom which makes it more susceptible to vibrations than the others in the gallery whose bases are perfectly flat. The differential friction of the serpentine stone of the statue and the glass shelf upon which it sits creates the movements which some have attributed to the presence of a ghostly life-force.”

“But where are the vibrations coming from, Holmes?” I asked.

“I told you last night, Watson, that the answer hails from another place and time. The other ‘place’ was strictly literal, while another ‘time’ was perhaps metaphorical. For the vibrations are caused by rumblings of trains passing through the modern tube station beneath our feet.”

“You must be joking, Mr. Holmes,” scoffed the Director.

“I never jest, Sir Williams. As Mr. Bedford clearly described, the statue does not continuously rotate. I timed the intervals between the movements and compared them to the timing of the trains entering and exiting the station. They match perfectly.”

“That is a fine piece of deduction, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade anxiously. “But I don’t see how that tells us who is robbing the Museum and killed Patterson?”

“I was getting to that, Lestrade,” said Holmes, piqued by the interruption. “While I was visiting the British Museum Station, I had a pleasant conversation with the Station Master. Mr. Jack Bullinger was a wealth of information about the goings-on of his small domain. Did you know that the station is reputed to the haunted by the ghost of a daughter of an Egyptian Pharaoh?”

Lestrade stared at Holmes as if he required a trip to Bedlam. “But Mr. Holmes, you’ve always said that you don’t believe in the Pharaoh’s curse?” said he, weakly.

As if he hadn’t heard Lestrade, Holmes continued. “According to Mr. Bullinger, the ghost first appeared when her mummy was accidentally destroyed during an unwrapping process by the Museum’s Egyptologists.”

Brundage grunted and shrugged his shoulders. “It happens sometimes. The wrappings on a mummy can be quite pasted together. There are always more where those came from.”

“Yes, well, late on certain nights, the Princess’s ghost appears, dressed in an impressive loincloth and headdress, and she wails and screams so loudly that the noise carries down the tunnels to the adjoining stations.” He turned to me. “What do you make of that, Watson?”

Having studied my friend’s methods over the span of so many years, I was sufficiently conversant so as to attempt to replicate them. I considered how this information would have furthered Holmes’s deductions. “Perhaps the cries are not from a ghost, but rather made by some natural process?” I ventured.

Holmes wore an amused smile at this brilliant deduction of mine. “Capital, Watson! You are scintillating this morning. And you haven’t even had your coffee yet, I see. That is exactly the first solution which occurred to me. A sudden change in air pressure could create such an effect. I then turned my attention back to this gallery. Was the connection between the mummies herein and the Underground station purely a coincidence? I took another stroll around this room and noted an anomaly. If you will follow me, gentlemen?”

Holmes led us out from under the pyramid and along the eastern wall, which was lined by a series of upright, lidded stone sarcophagi, each intricately carved with hieroglyphics. “We have here a fine set of mummy cases, most of which are remarkably intact despite their great age and the vast distance that they travelled to their new home. But this one is different, wouldn’t you say?” He stopped in front of one such funeral receptacle, its weathered brown granite marred by the presence of several steel rods, rivets and claps. “This one has been modified, enhanced by this clever set of levers which allow the lid to be easily opened. Is this your handiwork, Mr. Brundage?”

The man shrugged modestly. “Yes, well, before we built the pyramid, we needed something to amuse our patrons. They enjoy seeing the lid slowly raised, imagining the emergence of the horrid form within…”

“Indeed,” said Holmes drily. “But I see that you use it no longer? This side is clasped by a firm lock.”

Brundage hesitated for a moment. “That is correct, Mr. Holmes. Despite the best efforts of the modern engineers who made the levers, the lid was never intended by its ancient makers to be opened once it was closed. Small cracks eventually began to appear in the marble, so we desisted. I put that lock on there to deter errant school boys from trying to open it when no one was looking.”

“And the key?”

“I don’t carry it with me. It must be around here somewhere. Likely in the desk drawer in my office.”

“No matter, for I do not require it. Like someone before me, it will be a simple matter to crack. Do you see the scratches, Lestrade?” he said, angling out the lock for inspection.

“Yes, I do,” replied Lestrade. “But I still cannot follow you, Mr. Holmes. Do you suspect that the thief is stashing their loot inside?”

“The thief is certainly utilizing it for something, Lestrade,” Holmes replied, as he took a set of picks from his pocket. “Look down, gentlemen. Do you see that fine layer of marble dust that has been so kindly left by the Museum’s infrequent cleaners? This morning I found a few similar grains upstairs near the case of the Chessmen.”

“But there is dust everywhere, Mr. Holmes!” protested Lestrade. “How could you have known to look for some speaks that are different?”

“I knew because I was expecting to find it.” Holmes stopped and turned to look at us, the opened lock now held freely in his hand. Done with it, he held it out for me to take. In spite of his aptitude for concealing his sentiments, I could easily see that Holmes was in a state of suppressed exhilaration, while I was giddy with that half-sporting, half-intellectual gratification which I unfailingly experienced when I accompanied Holmes during one of his successful investigations. “We know that none of guards could be responsible,” he continued. “The precautions that prevent them from removing any objects are too fastidious. Instead, I decided that the thief must be entering the Museum from outside each night. But how?”

“A tunnel!” I exclaimed. “A secret tunnel to the Underground Station! And when the lid is opened, a difference in air pressure creates the screams that are attributed to the Princess’ ghost!”

“Exactly, Watson!” He turned, and with his still-fearsome strength, threw open the stone lid upon its series of levers. “Gentlemen, I give you the entrance to the tunnel!”

But when the four of us peered eagerly inside, all we found was a thick layer of dust.

§

When Sir Williams had completed his strident exit in a fit of seemingly-justified indignation, Mr. Brundage trailing meekly behind him, Lestrade and I turned to Holmes with questioning looks. After his premature announcement, Holmes had carefully searched the inside of the sarcophagus, still hoping to find some hidden latch that might trigger the bottom portion to open into his conjectured tunnel. But after several futile minutes, Holmes was forced to admit defeat. He proceeded to slump against the side of the massive plinth that held the room’s guardian sphinx. Holmes sat for some time in silence with his head sunk forward, and his eyes bent upon the silent and empty sarcophagus. I imagined his thoughts bordered upon the morbid.

It had, of course, come as a great surprise to me to see that Holmes was wrong, for only a handful of times had I known him to fail. So accustomed was I to his invariable triumphs that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter my head. I worried that I must reject this case from my published records, for I always preferred to dwell upon his successes. I was greatly pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel any such slip. It was his specialty to be as precise as possible, but it was obvious that the years of inactivity during his retirement had slightly dulled his once razor-sharp mind. He was obviously embarrassed, while Lestrade simply raised his eyebrows in surprise at Holmes’ unexpected failure. Lestrade’s opinion had shifted over the almost three decades of his acquaintance with Holmes, from one of contemptuous skepticism to that of respectful awe. But I once again saw the pale light of doubt in the inspector’s eyes. I desperately hoped that this setback would not send Holmes into one of the fits of blackest depression to which he was often prey.

Holmes finally sighed and slowly stood. “I have miscalculated badly, Lestrade. I must reconsider my position,” he said at last. He strode from the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks, and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long, thin hands.

No more was said until we were ensconced in a hansom rattling our way back to the hotel. I hoped that some rest might help restore his powers. “I am afraid that this blunder denotes the true zero-point of my lifetime, Watson. You have seen me miss my mark before, but never before has my instinct played me so false. It seemed a foregone conclusion when it first flashed across my mind in the Underground station, but the one disadvantage of a dynamic brain is that one can always imagine alternative reasons which might make the scent a false one. Perhaps our day has passed? Soon these streets will be filled with motor-cars,” he gestured out the window. “These hansom cabs will vanish like relics of a forgotten era. An era, unfortunately, to which you and I belong.”

I endeavored to think of something reassuring to tell him, but the growing aches in my shoulder and leg told of the same truth of which he bespoke. Holmes was right. We were getting old.

Finally he was roused from his melancholy ruminations by the sight out the window. “Cabby, where are we going?” he called up to the driver. I look out and noted that we were not, as I would have expected, travelling down St. Martin’s Lane.

“Sorry, sir, the Square is blocked on accounts of the protests. We needed to go down Kingsway and Aldwych instead and then here along the Embankment.”

“Ah, very good,” replied Holmes, sinking back morosely into his seat. But then he sprang forward. “Stop the horse, cabby!” he commanded.

“What is it, Holmes?”

However, I received no answer. Instead, Holmes had already jumped out of the cab and was striding down the Embankment back the way we had come. The driver was futilely calling after him. I paid the man and hurried to catch my friend. Fortunately, he had not gone far. Instead he stopped at a curious spot.

“Strange, Watson, how many times have we passed this way over the years, but never really registered it into our consciousness.”

“Indeed, Holmes,” I exclaimed. I stared up at the great red granite obelisk that pierced the sky. It was over twenty meters high, engraved on all sides with hieroglyphs. It was flanked on two sides by giant bronze sphinxes, their inscription-dimpled patinas darkened to a midnight black.

“If I recall correctly, this monument is known as Cleopatra’s Needle, though it actually has little to do with that great queen, whose age cannot wither her infinite variety.” Tell me, Watson, what do you see that is wrong with this tableau?”

I studied it for a minute. “The sphinxes appear to be looking backwards. They should be guarding the Needle, not gazing upon it.”

Holmes laughed softly to himself. “You are a conductor of light, Watson.”

“Have you had some inspiration, Holmes?”

“Oh, yes. Look over there, Watson,” he commanded, pointing towards Waterloo Bridge. “Do you recall that this is the locale of one of the greatest failures of my early years? For it was here that Mr. John Openshaw was decoyed and murdered by Captain James Calhoun and his two mates, minutes after I sent him away to his death. But, with age comes great wisdom. We shall not be defeated again, I think.”

“Back to the Museum then?”

“Not quite yet, Watson. There is still one piece of the puzzle that remains to be tracked down.”

“Where to then, Holmes?”

“No, my dear fellow. This is one task I must undertake on my own. There is no prospect of danger or I should not dream of stirring without you at my side.” He would say no more. By this point in our friendship I simply accepted his curiously secretive streak, which invariably led to the production of one those dramatic effects that he so clearly craved. I could attempt to guess at his exact plans, but often found that even I was often left in the dark. “I will be at the Museum by five o’clock,” he continued. “I will send a note to Lestrade and all of the other players to meet me there at that hour. I trust that by that time I will have cleared up the mess that I have made of this so far. Adieu.”