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

by Janacek, Craig

“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.”

  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 questionin
g 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.