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

by Janacek, Craig

  “‘Sleeping’ would perhaps be a more accurate term, would it not?”

  “As you say, Mr. Holmes, though they deny it, of course. Neither man has been at the Museum for as long as Mr. Bedford. The first man, whose name is Edward Rucastle, has been at his post for eight years, coming there soon after finishing his schooling.”

  “Rucastle?” I asked. I glanced at Holmes. “Do you think it could be the same lad?”

  Holmes’ grey eyes gleamed. “The boy’s name was Edward, if I recall correctly. He is about six and twenty-years of age, Lestrade?”

  Lestrade nodded. “That sounds about right. Do you know him? He is a sour man, none too bright, and not very popular with his fellows. But for all the minor complaints, the Museum’s Director has had no serious reason to doubt his loyalty.”

  Holmes shook his head. “It may simply be a coincidence. We must converse with him at some point, Lestrade. Pray continue.”

  “The other man was only hired a few months ago. His name is Quincy Seraphim and he is a retired sergeant of the Army. Coldstream Guards, I believe. He is nearing fifty, with a quiet, unassuming manner.”

  “Surely he must be a prime suspect,” I exclaimed. “He had access, and if he started working there just before thefts began…”

  “Indeed, Watson. But he is perhaps too obvious a suspect. Would not a clever man wait some time before beginning his crime spree? Otherwise, he simply calls all of the attention to himself.”

  “Not if he is using the scarabs as a distraction,” I argued.

  Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “A valid point, Watson. Using them as a blind would be a clever tactic. But why murder poor Patterson in the Egyptian Gallery, which is a floor away and on the opposite side of the Great Court? No, no, we will undoubtedly need to question Mr. Seraphim, but I would not rush to condemn him.”

  “And there is another objection to your scenario, Doctor,” said Lestrade. “The Museum is well aware that the night guards it employs do not generally hail from the cream of society. They must have good references, of course, but it is a lonely and thankless job. The pay is not miserly, but it is hardly extravagant either. So the Museum has in place measures to ensure that no guard walks home with a pound of gold in his pocket. First, there are two guards for each section so that they watch each other. For a guard to be involved, they would likely need to be in collusion. And then in the morning, the entire lot of them must line up by the Montague Place entrance, where they are searched before being let out the door.”

  “One of them could offer the searcher some metallic arguments to overlook things,” I offered.

  “I think not, Doctor,” said Lestrade severely. “This is not left in private hands. An officer from the Yard does this duty, and even they are rotated regularly.”

  I was still unsatisfied. “Surely they could conceal the stolen objects somewhere in the museum and a confederate could then recover it during the day?”

  Holmes laughed aloud. “Excellent, Watson! It is a great aid to put yourself in the other fellow’s place and think of what you would do if you were so criminally inclined.”

  However, Lestrade was shaking his head. “We had the same thought, Doctor. But it seems that the Museum had taken steps to prevent that over thirty years ago. The Principal Librarian, Sir Edward Bond, long ago received an anonymous note. In it, some enterprising rouge carefully detailed forty-two different ways that the Museum was vulnerable to thieves. With the advice of the Yard, they acted upon this note and secured all of these former chinks in their armor. One such gap mentioned in the note was just as you suggest, Doctor, so all potential hiding spots have long since been sealed off.”

  “Odd that such a famous paleographer as Sir Edward would never be able to identify the anonymous writer of such a note,” said Holmes dryly. “But there is one other guard whose part in this drama has not yet come into focus. What has befallen the missing Mr. Andrew Morrison?”

  “Ah, that is a good question, Mr. Holmes,” replied Lestrade. “We don’t rightly know.”

  “You must be more precise, Lestrade. You said the man has gone missing, but failed to provide any of the necessary details to elucidate whether he is conspirator or victim.”

  “Yes, well, we are uncertain of that. As I noted, Mr. Holmes, on the twenty-fourth of October Mr. Morrison was on duty in the Egyptian and Assyrian Galleries. Mr. Bedford was still working on that night and the two of them passed each other regularly. Bedford claims that Morrison was acting entirely normally. He was last seen at nine o’clock in the morning. But when it was time for the guard line-up, Morrison never appeared. The Director immediately called in the Yard, and Patterson had a squad of constables hurriedly sweep the place, but they found no sign of him. Finally they had to open the doors to the public. But to this day, no one has ever seen Mr. Morrison alive again.”

  “Hmmm,” Holmes pondered this information. “And his particulars? You said there were irregularities?”

  “Well, Mr. Holmes, Patterson sent a man round to Morrison’s residence. This proved to be a boarding-house on Godalming Road. He had been residing there since late August, just a few days before he obtained the job at the Museum, and he lived quietly and paid his bills regularly. He never returned for his items, which were admittedly few in number and of little value. But the odd part was that on the ledger, he noted his previous address as being a place on Rotherhithe Street. But when Patterson’s man called there, they had no recollection of him.”

  “So it was a fake address?” I asked.

  Lestrade shook his head. “Not exactly, Doctor. His name was in their book as well, but even though it has been a span of only two months, no one could recall the man. It is as if he had slipped entirely from their memory.”

  “A handy trick, that, if you are up to no good,” observed Holmes.

  “The landlady at Godalming Road noted that Morrison’s identity papers said that he had been born in Richmond. So Patterson sent a man round there too.”

  Holmes nodded approvingly. “I must say that Patterson’s methods are to be commended. He was most thorough in this case.”

  “Ah, I see it now,” I exclaimed. “Let me guess, Inspector. He found that Morrison had never been born in Richmond?”

  “On the contrary, Doctor,” Lestrade replied. “The records were quite clear. Morrison had been born on 18 December 1854. He also died there on 6 January 1905.”

  Holmes chuckled dryly. “So, your Mr. Morrison assumed the identity of a dead man. Very clever, indeed. While it is possible that this was done for some benign reason, I think we must accept the strong likelihood that this was done explicitly for the purpose of infiltrating the Museum.”

  “But Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade protested. “Morrison vanished six days before the murder of Inspector Patterson, and the thefts have continued up through last night.”

  “Yes, that does present a difficulty. As of now, I am not yet in possession of all of the facts with which to further an explanation of Mr. Morrison’s precise role. However, there is another question that we must ask ourselves. Surely the British Museum has gold from Greece, Persia, and many other distant lands. Why are only the treasures of Ancient Britain vanishing? It would be impossible to sell such unique objects on the open market, and no fence wants stuff of the sort that you can neither melt nor sell. The gold objects are one thing, but the Lewis Chessman? Worthless! Except perhaps to a few exceptionally rich collectors of limited scruples.”

  “Well, the rumors going round the Museum is that it is revenge,” said Lestrade cautiously.

  “Revenge upon whom?”

  “Revenge upon the nation of Britain.”

  “For what action?”

  “For committing the ransacking of the Pharaoh’s tomb.”

  Holmes laughed heartily. “Let them believe that, Lestrade. But it does raise another interesting question. There is no earthly reason why those scarabs were substituted for the treasures. You said that they were plaster, did you not?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, what of it?”

  “Not stone or faience?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “So why does the ghost of a four thousand year old mummy need to leave behind a modern copy?”

  With that cryptic pronouncement, Holmes refused to say another word about the matter until he was on the scene of the action. He briefly glanced at the list of missing objects and then buried himself in a selection of the evening papers. Lestrade and I were left hoping that the gleam in Holmes’ eyes suggested that his hand was already upon some clue.

  §

  We arrived at Victoria Station just as it was the light was fading to dusk. A thick fog had descended and caused the lines of London’s dark, shapeless buildings to take on a dull neutral tint. On the streets the men were out in force with their long poles lighting the lamps, which gave off their soft, parchment-colored light. At the curb, Lestrade hailed a hansom cab and ordered the driver to take us to the Museum.

  “Belay that, my good man,” countermanded Holmes. “The Alpha Inn.”

  As the cab set off for this destination, Lestrade’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Do you fancy a pint, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I fancy a word with Mr. Dominic Bedford.”

  “And you expect to find him at the Alpha Inn?”

  “I cannot say with absolute certainty, of course, however, I think the likelihood is very high.”

  “Why so, Holmes?” I asked.

  “As we strode through the passenger foyer at the station, I noted that it was shortly after half past five o’clock. Unless the hours of the Museum have been altered since I retired to the Downs, I know that this is very near the time when the night watchmen congregate at the Inn to share a small beer before starting their duties.”

  “But Mr. Bedford has refused to report for work,” I protested.

  “True, Watson, but the habits of many years do not change overnight. He is well used to the company of his fellows, and may still seek them out, even if he does not join them afterwards on their trek to the Museum’s doors.”

  A few minutes later we found ourselves in Bloomsbury, at that small public house on the corner of Oxford Street and Coptic Street. Although a score of years had passed since we first crossed that threshold looking for the origin of a singular goose, the same white-aproned landlord, his face even ruddier and more weathered, continued to stand guard behind the bar.

  “Good evening, Mr. Windigate,” Holmes called. “I trust you are well? Is Mr. Bedford a guest of the house this evening?”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes,” said that man, clearly recognizing my famous friend. “He is indeed. You see the stout and swarthy fellow in the corner, nursing a beer? The one with the grizzled hair and whiskers?”

  “Indeed!” replied Holmes with a triumphant glance in Lestrade’s direction. “Well, prosperity to your house, sir,” he said, sliding a pair of shillings across the bar.

  When we approached the indicated table, the older man looked up at us with unfriendly brown eyes. However, when he recognized Lestrade, his manner changed to one of servility. “What can I do for you, Inspector?”

  “This here is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his companion, Dr. Watson. They have some questions for you.”

  “I’ve answered plenty of questions. I’ve got no more information for you.”

  Holmes slid into the seat opposite Bedford and turned the full force of his gaze upon the man. “Come now, Mr. Bedford. You are a man of the world, are you not? You have seen some near sixty years in your day, and you have fiddled at many a music hall in Shadwell.”

  I was sufficiently familiar with my friend’s methods to be able to follow his reasoning. I observed that the peculiar blue clay on his boots might signify to Holmes that the man trod in some particular district of town, and noted that the red inflammation on the left side of Bedford’s neck provided the data for Holmes’ deduction of the man’s free-time habits. However, the man’s eyes grew larger and larger as Holmes’ narration went on. “You are a wizard, Mr. Holmes,” he whispered in amazement. “How could you know all that?”

  “It is my business to know things, Mr. Bedford. That is my trade, or at least was. Just as I know that your tale of a cursed statue is ridiculous. Don’t tell me you honestly believe such nonsense.”

  The man only shook his head. “I am very sorry, Mr. Holmes. But I saw what I saw, and you can’t tell me otherwise. There is a black statue in the gallery, about yea high,” he held out his hands about three feet apart. “It sits in a glass case, where no one can touch it, and no breeze could make it stir. But it moves, I tell you. It is some form of dark magic, I am sure of that. I will swear to it in a court of law, or before the King himself, if need be.” His voice vibrated with terror.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Holmes mildly.

  But the man’s excitement could not be contained. “And then there was the murdered inspector, the thin red band encircling his throat, and his purple-colored face screwed up into a horrible contorted mask. I will never forget it. It’s devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!” cried Bedford, his voice rising with a mad, unreasoning terror. “It is not of this world. Something has come into that museum which is beyond the ken of reason.”

  Holmes shook his head. “I am not prepared to admit the possibility of diabolical intrusions into the affairs of men.”

  “Denying the power of the Father of Evil does not lessen Him, Mr. Holmes. No one in their right mind would go near that crypt at night, and only the foolhardy would approach it by day. No, it’s more than a man’s nerves can stand.” He reached for his glass and rapidly drained it.

  Lestrade vainly attempted to get some additional words out of Mr. Bedford, but the man mutely shook his head. Holmes could tell that Bedford would say no more that night and motioned Lestrade and I towards the door. He glanced at me and his lips curled up in a crooked grin. “It will not be the first time we have ventured into a haunted crypt, eh, Watson? And this one has been nicely set up for us in the heart of London. We don’t have to first trudge three miles through the Berkshire grass-lands. Shall we see what awaits us at the British Museum?”

  §

  We regained our cab, which swept us along Great Russell Street before turning on Great Orme Street, a narrow thoroughfare lined with high, thin, yellow-brick edifices. There was hardly a corner of London that did not remind me of some adventure that Holmes and I had coursed together. Holmes gestured to one house in particular. “Recall, Watson, the house of Mrs. Warren, and over there, the high red house with stone facings, where the unlamented Gorgiano met his grisly fate.”

  I smiled at the sight of the locale of one of his great deductions, but it was rapidly passed by our speeding cab. We soon approached the front steps of the Museum, whose sight still filled me with respectful admiration for this mighty center of learning. The original design, imitating that of a Greek temple was handsome, but in the half-century since it was completed, the soot-riddled air of London had unfortunately turned it a deep, distressing greyish-black. I hoped the new Government might see fit to have it thoroughly scrubbed back to its former glory.

  My eyebrows rose when we passed by the front entrance, but Lestrade explained that the building was shut tight for the night, and only the rear doors were still accessible. The cab turned at Montague Street, and I thought to glance over at Holmes. His heavily-lidded eyes appeared deep in thought at the sight of his old rooms. Finally turning again along the northeast side of the Museum, we reached our goal.

  At the sight of Lestrade descending from the cab, a uniformed guard held open the door. When we entered the back foyer, a man of about fifty years of age threw aside a journal and sprang up to meet us. He was stout and approaching corpulence, with a face filled with drooping rolls of skin. Wispy tufts of hair swept over his pate, while narrowed eyes squinted from behind thick spectacles. His suit was rumpled and his cravat loosely knotted. He held out a hand, which possessed a somewhat limp grasp, but his manner was affable.

  With a ra
ise of his bushy eyebrows I detected that this man recognized my still-famous friend. “Ah, Mr. Holmes, it is a great pleasure,” said he, excitably. “Inspector Lestrade had given us hope that you might soon be making an appearance upon the scene, but I hardly dared believe it would be tonight.”

  “Mr. Holmes, allow me to introduce Mr. Walter Brundage, the Keeper of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities at the Museum,” said Lestrade.

  As he led us to his office, Brundage smiled broadly. “I am also a great admirer of yours, Mr. Holmes. And this must be Dr. Watson. We are indebted to you, sir. I have read every story you have written. You know, I am myself a detective of sorts.”

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, yes?”

  “Indeed, early in my career I was assigned to investigate why papyrus scrolls from our excavation sites, and supposedly guarded by our local agents, kept appearing in the collections of antiquity dealers across Europe. We were being forced to buy our own scrolls at inflated rates! It was quite a scandal.”

  “And did you find the source of the leaks?” I inquired politely.

  “It was the local guards, of course. They are always loyal to those who pay them the most, which was not us, I am afraid. That is why I think you should more closely study the guards here. It is one of them. I am certain of it.”

  Holmes had listened to this unsolicited advice with uncharacteristic patience. “And you have other talents, as well, Mr. Brundage, do you not? I have heard tales of looters rewarded, customs officials bribed, and antiquities smuggled in diplomatic pouches.”

  Brundage laughed merrily. “Guilty as charged, Mr. Holmes. Of course, amassing the finest collection of Egyptian antiquities in the world is not a simple task. We are constantly racing the French, the Germans, even the Americans, for each new piece that is pulled from the ground. Every tactic needs to be employed, no matter what the legality. Of course, it’s not like the locals miss it. Every item is far better off in our nice museum than lying neglected, or worse, purposefully defaced, in some sandy defile.”