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

by Janacek, Craig

  “My role has always been a minor one.”

  “Perhaps, but who took a bullet for him off the Edgeware Road?[25] Who subdued Colonel Moran when he was about to strange Holmes?[26] Who carried Holmes away from the poisonous clouds of the Cornish Horror?[27] And who dragged him from the burning wreck of the Friesland, eh?[28] In any case, I don’t even mention the folks whose suffering you’ve alleviated and whose lives you’ve saved in the course of your original vocation.”

  “So what can I do for you, Inspector? Is someone ill?”

  “No, Doctor. I am fortunately not here in your professional capacity. But I do need your help. There have been some strange occurrences at the…”

  I laughed. “My help? I think not. It is Holmes that you require.”

  He signed heavily. “As you might know, Doctor, Mr. Holmes has refused several most princely offers from some of the greatest names in Europe to take up cases again, and on every occasion he has refused. Needless to say, any attempts from the C.I.D. have been rapidly rebuffed. He has made it clear that his retirement is definite and permanent.”[29]

  “And you believe that I may be able to induce him to alter his stance?” I laughed. “Holmes has never heeded my opinion before. Why should he change now?”

  “He will listen to this story, Doctor, for it is both fantastic and tragic. And I daresay that the tragedy part hits close to home this time.”

  I frowned. “I do not know to what you refer, Inspector. However, if your case is such a strong one, then I cannot fathom why you would need my presence?”

  “I’ve learned a thing or two from watching Mr. Holmes over the years, Doctor. You are the only one to whom he ever listened,” he said with tenacious persistence.

  “I am afraid that I cannot…”

  “It is but three hours to Eastbourne,” he interrupted, his tone pleading. “From there we can hire a coach to finish the last few miles to Fulworth.”[30]

  The look upon his face was so defeated that I could not but feel for the man. His condescending attitude over the years had rankled at times, but we had once coursed the moors of Devon together.[31] My heart was not as hard as that of Holmes. “Very well, Inspector. I will do what I can.”

  And so it happened that I found myself, after six years of quietude, once more flying along in the corner of a first-class carriage, en route to see Holmes, and ultimately to witness the onset of another adventure, one perhaps more thrilling than any we had experienced before.

  §

  Of course, I first rushed downstairs to explain the matter to my understanding wife. I then rapidly perused my overnight bag, ensuring that it was adequately stocked with all of the necessary accoutrements. My recollection of the journey is a pleasant one, for the weather was fine, the train swift, and my companion a reminder of exciting days past. During the ride, I repeatedly attempted to elucidate from Lestrade some details of the case that was so difficult and important that it required drawing Holmes away from his soothing retreat. However, the Inspector only shook his head and replied that it was too sad a tale to have to tell twice, and that he preferred to wait until we were in the presence of Holmes. I shrugged at this unusual reticence from the normally-loquacious Lestrade, but was well used to such treatment at the hands of Holmes, who often withheld facts until they could be presented for the most dramatic effect. Unable to hardly draw another word from Lestrade, I therefore settled myself down in the corner of the carriage, drew my hat down over my eyes, and sank into the deepest of thoughts.

  As I have previously documented, Holmes retired to the South Downs in 1904, shortly after the grotesque case of Professor Presbury and his wolf-hound Roy.[32] Although he was but five and fifty years of age, attacks of rheumatism, likely brought on by years of complete and utter disregard for his health, had taken their toll.[33] Furthermore, to his nimble mind, the criminal world had grown commonplace and sterile, lacking all traces of audacity and romance. There was little doubt that he was able to retire comfortably. While it was true that he never varied his fees, save when he chose to remit them entirely, that is not to say that he never raised the base level as the years passed and one century slipped into another. As Holmes’ fame spread, his paying clients increasingly came from the cream of London’s society and the great royal houses of Europe. I therefore have it on good confidence that Holmes comfortably draws an income of over nine hundred pounds a year, with his primary expenditure the maintenance of his bee-keeping apparatus.[34]

  Although he had considered both the valleys of Surrey[35] and the moors of the Cornish peninsula,[36] Holmes eventually settled upon the Downs for reasons he has so-far neglected to share. I thought that perhaps it was because the tranquil beauty of the place was a perfect counterpart to his intrinsic grim humor. His estate was magnificently situated so as to command a view of the Channel, and what was once a small farm had principally been allowed to turn fallow. Only one small clearing near his villa was maintained in order to serve as the lair of his arthropod companions. Excepting myself, I was unaware that Holmes had any particular friends who might call upon him. Here amid his books, he lived what I thought must be a lonely life, but it seemed to suit Holmes’ simple wants and eccentric needs.

  Much to our surprise, Holmes was not at home when Lestrade and I arrived. We were met by his old housekeeper Martha, who looked exceptionally flustered at the appearance of unexpected guests.[37] My explanation of pressing matters which precluded the sending of a telegraph announcement fell upon deaf ears.

  “I am sorry, sirs, but he is out walking,” said the housekeeper tersely. “Do you wish to wait?” She motioned diffidently to the sofa in the sitting room. “Mr. Holmes doesn’t much encourage visitors.”

  While I myself had stopped in many times before, I still could hardly reconcile the tidy status of Holmes’ current accommodations with his Bohemian habits from the days that we shared a flat in Baker Street. Every item was neatly in its place, with nary a reeking chemical experiment or bullet hole in sight. I recognized some scientific charts which, along with some books, appeared to be the only objects that had travelled with him from 221B. Although Holmes would have denied it, I always suspected that Holmes had a considerable artistic side to his nature, and this tendency had finally manifested itself with a line of well-chosen modern water-colors and some very choice etchings that were hung neatly on the walls.

  Fortunately, Lestrade and I had not a long delay to our mission, for I soon heard rustling on the soft gravel walk which could only come from the distinctive loping gait belonging to my friend. Before he could even come into view, the high, somewhat strident tones of his precise voice called out, “I was wondering who you would bring for support, Lestrade. My first hypothesis was the Home Secretary, and I half suspected you might try to enlist the Premier himself.”

  “How did you know it was me, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked.

  Holmes’ eager, clear-cut face appeared from around the corner, but the paleness to which I had grown accustomed over our long acquaintance in the fogs of Baker Street had vanished under a healthy glow of the countryside. He threw his loose-limbed figure into the chair opposite us and let out a dry chuckle that was as near a thing to a laugh as ever passed his lips. “When I spot in my pathway a boot-print with the left foot twisted inwards,[38] and suddenly smell the distinctive 4711 Eau de Cologne, surely it can only mean that the celebrated Inspector Lestrade has honored me with another visit, however futile his errand.[39] I must admit, however, that this dragooning of Watson is a novel tactic of which I much approve. It has been far too long since his previous week-end visit.” He turned to me. “My dear Watson, I am delighted to find you on my step.”

  “It is good to see you too, Holmes,” said I, shaking him warmly by the hand.

  “And, Lestrade, by my calculations, it has been three months, one week, and five days since you last attempted to coax me back to London with some seemingly ‘impossible’ case. You might think that after a span of six years that you would hav
e learned that my answer has not varied. Fortunately, you always seem to manage to solve them in the end, even if it takes you far longer than it really should. For example, you handled the Porter Murder with less than your usual, that’s to say, you handled it fairly well. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

  “It was Tooley.”

  “Of course it was Tooley, Holmes said acerbically.[40] “That much was plain from a simple reading of the agony columns of the Daily Telegraph.”

  “And where have you been, Holmes?” I asked, hoping to spare the poor Inspector any further brunt of Holmes’ ill-concealed scorn.

  “If you must know, Watson, I was engaged on my daily excursion. It is a delightful day, so I strolled out to enjoy the superb air. The sea air, the sunshine, what else does a man require? We walked along the cliff path which, as you know leads, via a steep descent, down to the beach. But as the tide was in, we did not descend, and simply skirted the cliffs.”

  “‘We?’” I inquired, hopefully. “Were you accompanying someone on this walk?”[41]

  Holmes snorted. “Merely a figure of speech, Watson. But look around you,” he gestured to the windows which opened out onto the view of the fields and the brilliant blue sky. “Why should I ever leave the salubrious airs and soothing life of my little Sussex home for the choking fumes and deep gloom of London?” He shook his head. “No, I have no desire to immerse myself back into the bustle of these feverish days.”

  “But, Mr. Holmes, only you can bring light to this darkness!” Lestrade interjected.

  Holmes sighed. “Really, Lestrade. I think you have been reading too much of Watson’s embellished tales. For the most part, the London criminal has been a dull fellow ever since the death of the unlamented Professor Moriarty. Yes, after my return from abroad we handled several cases not without interest, but for the most part, there was nothing that had not been done before.[42] However, I suppose you will not leave until I have at least heard you out and pointed you in the right direction to solve your trivial matter, eh?”

  “This is a most serious one, Mr. Holmes. I would not have come otherwise.”

  “Well, at least I can offer you a cigar and some afternoon tea first.” With a ring of the bell to signal Martha, three steaming cups soon appeared. From a small pot, which appeared to be made of gold, with a great set of rubies set around the circumference, Holmes added a dash of honey to our cups. “This is from my own hives, of course,” he explained for the benefit of Lestrade as we sipped it cautiously. “It is mixed with a small amount of royal jelly, which provides it with some remarkable properties. It has done wonders for my knees, for example, which are now largely without pain, excepting only during the rain. Which is, of course, an unfortunately all too common occurrence.”

  The splendor of the pot was in such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.

  “Oh, yes, a small token from the Sultan.[43] I am not proud that I once consulted for a cruel despot, but sometimes international politics take precedent over niceties.”[44] He reached for his cherry wood pipe, which he kept on top of a busby whose moldering bearskin had seen better days, and proceeded to slowly light it.[45] When complete, he leaned languidly back in his chair in that familial attitude. “Now, Lestrade, let us hear about this little mystery of yours. If you must relate it, pray let me have all of the facts. The smallest point may be the most essential.”

  “I will start at the beginning, Mr. Holmes, if you promise to hear me out till the end.”

  Holmes shrugged. “If you insist. I suppose that my routine for the day has already been disrupted. What are a few more minutes?”

  “The grotesque mystery in question is taking place at the British Museum,” explained Lestrade. I noted that Holmes smiled in acknowledgement of a place where he spent many a day at the onset of his career. “It began with the disappearance of several items of intrinsic value.”

  Holmes pulled out his pocket watch and studied it. “Items vanish from museums across the globe every day. I fail to see how this is an event that concerns me.”

  “First of all, Mr. Holmes, the honor of our nation is at stake!” cried Lestrade. “The Louvre[46] and the Kaiser Friedrich Museum[47] will be laughing at us if word of this gets out. Not to mention that every thief in the country will catch word that the Museum is easy pickings. It will be a free-for-all.”

  Holmes shook his head. “I have done my bit for Queen and Country, Lestrade. Their honor now rests in younger hands. I am afraid that I cannot help you. I believe that there is a train from Eastbourne at half-past three that you might catch if you finish your tea.”

  “You promised to hear me out, Mr. Holmes!” he cried in despair.

  Holmes sighed and waved his hand. “Very well. Proceed.”

  “Just last night…” stammered Lestrade, anxiously.

  “You are as bad as Watson, Lestrade,”’ interrupted Holmes, tetchily. “Don’t tell it from the wrong-end! Pray give us the essential facts from the commencement.”

  “Yes, well, the events in question began approximately a month ago,” stammered Lestrade.

  “Give me a date, Lestrade. Approximations are of little use.”

  Lestrade consulted his notebook. “Yes, well, it was on the 30th of September that the first item was noticed to have gone missing. This was a gold cup from the Backworth Hoard.”

  “You say that the theft was noted on the 30th, interrupted Holmes. “Do they not check every item every day?”

  “A cursory inspection is made, of course, Mr. Holmes. But the thief did not leave a bare spot on the velvet. Rather, they left something in its place that was a rough approximation of the cup’s shape and size.”

  “Ah, so you suspect a forger?” I interjected.

  Lestrade shook his head. “No, Doctor. The item left behind could never have been mistaken for the cup upon anything but the most general looking-over. In fact, it was a visitor to the museum who pointed it out to one of the curators, as they were confused why it was situated in the Ancient Britain gallery.”

  Holmes’ eyes narrowed with seeming interest. “What was it?

  “It was a scarab.”

  “What?” I exclaimed. “A beetle?”

  “Yes, Doctor, or at least a plaster amulet of one.”

  A single bushy eyebrow twitched, signifying that Holmes’ interest had certainly been peaked, even if he endeavored to conceal it. “Peculiar. And these scarabs have now been left multiple times?”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. The list of missing objects is growing by the day. Almost every morning it is noted that a new item has vanished. A Celtic torc from the Wolverton Hoard, a jewel encrusted ring from the Rhayader Treasure, a silver shield from the Cheshire Barrow, a horned helmet from the Backwater Bequest.[48] I could go on. And in every instance, a scarab is left in its place.”

  “Most curious.”

  “That’s but the least of it, Mr. Holmes. The presence of these substituted objects immediately suggested to the inspector on the case that these thefts were somehow linked to the Museum’s Egyptian Collection.”

  Holmes nodded. “It is a reasonable hypothesis, I suppose. But was there another detective on the case before you, Lestrade?”

  “Yes, Patterson got it. Over the years, he has become the unofficial go-to man whenever the Yard comes across a crime that has something to do with art.”[49]

  Holmes sniffed. “Ah, well, perhaps it is just as well that they called you in, Lestrade. In our sole expedition together Patterson managed to bag only the small game, while allowing the prize to roam free, despite me leaving him all the necessary details in Pigeonhole M.[50] So please recapitulate for me what Patterson has thus far discovered?”

  “He found that the Museum’s night guards are divided into regular patrols. The building is so large that it requires multiple guards to cover its entire expanse. The Egyptian and Assyrian rooms have two men that regularly work it. One man, Mr. Dominic Bedford, has worked at the Museum for ov
er twenty years. He has the reputation of being an honest man and his service record has been exemplary. He is due for retirement with full pension in less than a year.”

  “Perhaps his pension is insufficient to cover his expenses and he has decided to supplement his income?” I offered.

  Holmes considered this for a moment and then shook his head. “It is too early to form hypotheses, Watson. We are not yet in possession of all of the facts.” He looked back at Lestrade. “And the other guard?”

  “The other guard, Mr. Andrew Morrison, has only been employed at the Museum for two months.”

  “Well, there is your answer, Inspector,” I decided. “He is your most likely suspect. He sought employment solely for the purpose of gaining unimpeded entrance to the Museum.”

  “Yes, that was Patterson’s conclusion as well, Doctor. He focused his efforts on investigating the background of Mr. Morrison and found some irregularities. But Morrison cannot be the culprit.”

  “What leads you to assume that, Lestrade?” asked Holmes, who was, despite himself, beginning to look somewhat interested.

  “The simple matter that Mr. Morrison has vanished.”

  Holmes snorted in amusement. “And why do you not think that Mr. Morrison is even now spending his ill-gotten wealth somewhere upon the Riviera?”

  “Because the thefts have continued, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Most peculiar. The problem does present some features of interest. I will admit that the sequence does not appear logical. If Morrison was the thief, he would hardly draw notice to himself by vanishing in the midst of the investigation. And how would he continue to perform his burglaries? I presume that Patterson thus re-focused his efforts upon Mr. Bedford?”

  “Yes, but Bedford cannot be the thief either. You see, six nights ago Mr. Bedford refused to report for work. He has not been back since. And yet, the thefts are still taking place. Why, just last night, while the streets surrounding the Museum were constantly patrolled by constables, half of the Lewis Chessman vanished.”