The Adventure of the Pharaoh's Curse (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) (8 page)

I watched as he hailed a passing cab and leapt aboard. The streets were crowded on the way back to the hotel, but in the event that Holmes concluded his investigations early, I did not wish to miss any potential messages sent to me there. Therefore, I spent the remainder of the morning and early afternoon at a desk jotting down notes while they were still fresh in my mind, in the hopes that they might someday be worthy of publication. This quickly passed the time and before I knew it, I looked at the clock and realized that I must proceed with haste back to the Museum, skipping my tea in the process. I sprang into a hansom and drove to the Bloomsbury, half-afraid that I might be too late to hear the dénouement of this singular mystery.

When I arrived minutes before the appointed hour, the main doors were due to remain open for a short time longer, and the galleries were still filled with crowds of assorted people. Fashionable ladies, chattering mindlessly behind gloved hands, inadvertently mingled with plodding laborers and stylishly, if modestly, attired clerks. Even a poorly-herded gaggle of children scampered amidst the ancient rubble. After some effort, I finally located Sherlock Holmes standing alone under the pyramid by the silent effigy of the long-deceased Pharaoh.

Unfortunately, Holmes’ afternoon errand did not appear to have been a successful one. The expression on this face was haggard, his shoulders rounded, and he seemed to me as if he had aged ten years in a day. He leaned heavily upon his walking stick. I worried that the immense strains of this investigation and the miasmas of London were worsening his rheumatism and breaking down his once-iron vigor.

“Ah, Watson, splendid,” said he with some animation, upon spying my approach. “I am glad that you are a shade early for our appointment. You have often accused me of withholding from you key facts so as to produce an astonishing effect. To rectify this balance I would like to inform you of my activities of this afternoon and allow you to draw your own conclusions before the other members of this drama appear.”

“Thank you, Holmes. I would greatly appreciate that.”

“My first destination was to Stepney, where amidst the reeking outcasts of Europe I visited the work yard of Gelder and Co.”

“The source of the Napoleonic busts?” I exclaimed. “Is that where you suspect the scarabs were sculpted?”

He smiled and nodded. “Very good, Watson. I then proceeded directly back to the Museum.”

I frowned. “But you have already thoroughly searched this gallery, and those containing the treasures of Ancient Britain. Did you overlook something?”

“No, no. My powers are not failing to such an extent. However, I was earlier guilty of leaping to a conclusion, when I had yet to perform an adequate reconnaissance of the area. The answer, or the inspiration, I should more properly say, actually lies in the nearby galleries of Ancient Greece. Finally, a few minutes’ glance through the acquisition manifests of the Museum confirmed my suspicions.”

“Greece!” I protested. “Nothing about this case points to anything to do with Greece!”

Holmes smiled at my outburst, but any further explanations would have to wait, as we were joined by Inspector Lestrade, Sir Evan Lloyd Williams, Mr. Walter Brundage, and three men dressed as guards: Edward Rucastle, the erstwhile Dominic Bedford, and a new man who could only be Quincy Seraphim. The latter was some fifty years in age, about five foot, nine inches in height, and once sturdily built, but now trending to portliness. The fellows’ complexion was sallow, but with thick black hair and bushy side-whiskers and moustache. He wore thick glasses which accentuated his dull grey eyes. His manner was nervous and shy, that of a man more accustomed to spending long hours with the relics of the past than with the living of today.

Holmes glanced at Lestrade, who returned a significant look. I deduced from this that Lestrade had, at Holmes’ suggestion, drawn a cordon of constables about the Museum. “Ah, gentlemen, thank you for coming,” said Holmes.

“Inspector Lestrade, I must protest,” exclaimed Sir Williams. “I do not know why we must continue to march to the whimsical commands of a failing mind. I for one have little faith…”

“And what of the faith of the British public?” interjected Holmes. “Can you explain why you delayed three weeks before calling in the assistance of Scotland Yard?” he asked acerbically.

The Director spluttered in rage, but had no ready answer to this charge of incompetence.

Holmes turned to the guard we had met at the Alpha Inn. “Mr. Bedford, I wish to personally thank you for agreeing to return. I can assure you that after tonight there will be no more talk of curses in the museum.”

“Are you going to perform an exorcism, Mr. Holmes?” asked the man solemnly.

“Of a sort,” said Holmes nodding. He faced round to look at Mr. Seraphim in his questioning way. “Good evening, Mr. Seraphim. I trust that you enjoyed your night off?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the man, his voice proving to be very deep and husky.

“I understand that you are relatively new to the job, are you not? Do you enjoy it?”

“Indeed, sir. It is quiet and retiring. It allows me time to think. For thought is the key to all treasures, and thus I have soared above this world.”

Holmes’ eyes kindled and a spring flush sprang into his thin cheeks. For an instant the curtain had lifted upon his intense, passionate nature, but for an instant only. When I glanced again his face had resumed that Pharaonic serenity which had made so many regard him as a machine rather than a man. He turned and again addressed the entire assembly. “To understand how these items are vanishing from the Museum, one must reconsider the sequence of events. From studying your manifests, Mr. Brundage, I see that your mummy, and its grave goods, arrived from Cairo at the end of August. From the messages sent by the Museum’s representative, Mr. Griffith, you had already conceived the notion for the new design of the gallery and had already ordered a set of properly-shaped blocks of Cotswold stones to form your nouveau pyramid.”

Brundage appeared tense. “Yes, what of it? I’ve never asserted that the pyramid was authentic. It sets the ambiance for the rest of the items, which I do guarantee to be genuine.”

“So you say, Mr. Brundage, however, if your Pharaoh’s mummy has been in place since early September, why did it wait until the end of the month to begin it’s revenge upon the people of Britain by making their ancient treasures vanish?”

“I, I cannot say,” he stammered.

“And why does the Pharaoh take nights off?”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Brundage.

“An inspection of the list of missing items provided by Inspector Lestrade makes it plain that items do not vanish every night. If the supernatural is in effect then I would not expect such laziness.”

“What are you driving at, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade.

“I wondered if there was some pattern to the days when no items were taken. And I soon spotted it, for it was deceptively simple. A nine day pattern, neatly coinciding with the dates that a guard might have a night off.” Holmes began to stroll in the direction of the Egyptian Gallery. I followed him with excited interest, for I was becoming convinced that every one of his words and actions were directed towards a definite end. “I postulate to you, gentlemen, that the imitation of these thefts has nothing to do with the arrival of your mummy. Instead everything was predicated upon someone else making an appearance in the museum. It is quite evident from the start that there are two men – more, perhaps, but at least two – who are involved in the plot.” He turned to addressed Sir Williams. “They must have been aided by a confederate inside the Museum. As there were two guards who have only recently come into your service, Mr. Morrison and Mr. Seraphim, they are the obvious suspects.”

“But, Mr. Holmes,” protested Lestrade, “we’ve already established that the guards cannot possibly remove any objects from the Museum.”

“I concur, Lestrade. The objects cannot be removed by the guards, nor does it seem possible that anyone is entering and leaving the Museum at night. I spent some time in the other galleries today and can confirm that there is no evidence of external intrusions.”

“Are you suggesting another secret tunnel, Mr. Holmes?” sneered Sir Williams.

Holmes paused at the entrance to the gallery. He turned to the man and smiled ruthlessly. “Tell me, Sir Williams, how tenuous is the position of a Director who not only allows his Museum to be plundered, but who proudly displays fraudulent imitations?”

“How dare you, sir!” exclaimed the Director. “Do you wish for me to file a charge of libel? Every item has been carefully authenticated by one of our specialists. There are no fakes in this museum!”

“And if there were, would they have any value?” asked Holmes, mildly. Though his tone and manner suggested extreme nonchalance, I knew Holmes far too well. He was feigning this attitude, and was about to perform another of his famous conjuring tricks.

“Of course not!”

“I was hoping you would say that, Sir Williams.” In a paroxysm of sudden energy, Holmes pivoted and raised his cane far above his head. With a demonical force that he had carefully masked behind a feeble manner, he swiftly brought the stick down upon the neck of the guardian sphinx. A loud thud made it evident that his cane was weighted with lead, turning it into a formidable weapon. As Sir Williams and Mr. Brundage made horrified cries, with frenzied eagerness Holmes struck the statue several more times. A series of cracks appeared in the marble, and the head splintered off from the body and fell heavily. I watched, astonished, as it scattered into fragmented shards upon the floor. The most amazing thing of all, however, was not Holmes’ act of wanton destruction, but the fact that the sphinx was plainly hollow. And from the collar of the shattered neck poked the wizened head of a dust-covered man.

§

At the sound, Mr. Seraphim gave a violent start and dropped his guard’s lantern, while the rest of the spectators raised their voices in confusion and protest. Once the general outcry had died down, Lestrade and a hastily-summoned uniformed constable hauled the thief from a cunningly hidden hatch set into the top of the statue. He was between thirty and forty years of age, with dark brown hair and whiskers, though he currently appeared like a cookie that had been sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar. His eyes gleamed with a deep malevolence and his huge powerful hands clenched spasmodically from within the pair of steel handcuffs in which they were enclosed. A supply of water, wrapped sandwiches, a dark lantern, and a squeeze bag filled with some sort of sealant were also retrieved from within the hollow cavity.

I have always had a quick eye for faces. “Why, it’s Parker!” I exclaimed.

Holmes laughed. “Yes, Watson,” said he, as he faced the astonished company. “When I heard that Inspector Patterson had been strangled, I immediately considered the possibility that a garrotter was involved. I am sorry that I once considered you to be harmless, Parker. I am afraid that your career is about to end on the gallows.”

“But how on earth did you realize that he was in the sphinx?”

“As I mentioned to you and Lestrade at the beginning, Watson, I found the idea of a curse to be absurd. And yet, I will admit that the observation of the spinning effigy with my own eyes gave me pause for a moment. However, once I determined scientifically how it was being moved, I then took as my starting hypothesis that there was nothing supernatural transpiring in the museum. While I have combatted some evils over the years, both small and great, there are none that can reach out from four millennia ago. If you recall my old axiom, Watson, you may deduce that, if there was no way out of the museum at night, then logically the thief must have still been within. But all of the possible hiding spots had long ago been sealed. So he therefore must have created his own. A chance encounter on the Embankment, plus a stroll through the Greek Galleries, prompted me to recall my Homer.”

“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”

“Exactly, Watson!”

“I was not aware that you had read it.”

“During my retirement, I have attempted to rectify certain of my limitations, perhaps at the expense of some room in my little brain attic. One such deficiency was the set of classics that I ignored during my university days. However, as this case proves, you never know what item of knowledge may come in handy someday. Like Ulysses before him, it was a bold stratagem,” Holmes continued. “Having obtained the item for the evening, Parker would climb into the Trojan Sphinx, and wait for the last morning rounds of the guards before the Museum opened for the day. He would then exit, apply a sealing paste to close his hatch, and blend in with the gathering crowds. After a suitable period of time, he would simply stroll out the front door with the object in his pocket.”

“But how did you know it was this statue in particular, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade.

“I have, as my friend Watson may have remarked once or twice, an abnormally acute set of senses. In this case, a faint but specific scent was apparent which seemed to center upon this statue. It may have been a small mistake on the part of Parker to utilize that particular substance as the base of his sealing paste, for I have spent much of the last three years surrounded by it as the fruit of my leisured ease.”

“What was it?” asked Lestrade.

“Beeswax, likely mixed with marble dust. An ingenious device, if not for the distinctive aroma. A survey of the Museum ledgers confirmed my suspicion. You see, Lestrade, this particular item,” he patted the side of the broken sphinx, “was added after the rest of the exhibit on the twenty-second of September. Shortly after its installation, the thefts began.”