If Holmes was disturbed by this appalling news, he hid it well. “And what reason did Mr. Bedford provide to explain his absence from work?”
“He claimed that he saw one of the Egyptian statues moving on its own. He said that the Museum was cursed! He did not wish to vanish like Mr. Morrison.”
Holmes chuckled and shook his head. “Perhaps we should exhaust all natural explanations before we begin to invoke those from beyond the veil, Lestrade.”
Lestrade looked miserable. “Yes, Patterson thought the same.”
“So what was his next course of action?”
“Patterson decided that he would spend the night in the Museum. He wished to witness the statue for himself and determine if it was somehow linked to the thefts.”
Holmes nodded. “It would be a bizarre coincidence if it was not. So what did Patterson discover?”
Lestrade shook his head. ‘That’s just it, Mr. Holmes. In the morning, Patterson was dead.”
Holmes sat up abruptly as if he had been galvanized, his pipe half-way to his lips. “What!?” he exclaimed.
“Yes, he was horribly strangled. And that is why we need you, Mr. Holmes. You are the one man in all of England, nay, in all of Europe, who could get to the bottom of this terrible matter. We are utterly powerless, and I fear that this is just the beginning. Would you let another man die because you failed to act? Would you fail to avenge poor Patterson?”
If Holmes had a weakness it was that he was accessible to flattery, and also, to be fair, to the invocation of justice. The two forces made him lay down his pipe with a sigh of resignation and push back his chair. “I know little of such matters.” He leaned back and with one of his long, thin arms, took down the great index volume which was labeled ‘C.’[51] Holmes laid it upon the table before him and his eyes moved slowly over the chronicle of old cases, a veritable mine of accumulated data from a lifetime of adventure.
“Let me see. Conk-Singleton forgery case,”[52] he read. “Copper Beeches. That huge brute was a nasty customer. I have some memory that you made a chronicle of it, Watson, though I was unable to applaud you upon the result. Crispin, the cracksman. Crocodile, in the Westbourne. Noteworthy incident, that! Crooked Man, one of your more superficial tales, Watson. Crossbow Murders. Do you recall that tricky case, Watson?[53] Crosby, the banker. What a terrible death, that. Cultists, in Wapping.[54] Cuneiform, and its relation to Ogham inscriptions.[55] Here we are! Good old index. You can’t beat it. Listen to this, Watson. Curses in Caribbean Voodooism, with a reference to Eckermann.[56] And more relevant to today, Curses in Egyptian Mythology.” He turned over the pages with reluctance, and after a short perusal he set the great tome aside with a sneer of disdain.
“Bollocks, Lestrade, bollocks! What have we to do with mummies that cause stormy seas, or who magically strike down those who desecrate their final resting places? It’s it too fantastic. We detour into the realm of fairy tales and fiction. I have travelled from one side of the globe to the other, from Chicago[57] to Khartoum,[58] from Nassau[59] to Lhassa, and I have seen many a strange sight, but I have never seen anything to make me believe in the existence of the supernatural.”
“But surely,” I said, “the curse might not necessarily be a mystical force? Perhaps there is a scientific explanation? I have read, for example, that some deadly mold could grow in the long-enclosed tomb only to be released when it was opened to the air.[60] The ancient priests may have even deliberately placed the mold therein to punish future grave robbers.”
“Excellent, Watson! As you say, the idea of an actual curse cannot be seriously entertained. I think we have been down this road once before, have we not? Where your friend Mr. Ferguson saw vampires, we saw an all too human motive.[61] I think the same principal will apply here. We need not invoke a realm beyond the senses.”
“So you will investigate this matter, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade, his tone hopeful.
“Yes, I suppose I must, if only to prove a point. If we start at once, we should be in London shortly after the Museum closes for the night.”
“I would join you, if you will have me,” I added.
“Are you sure that you wish to go, Watson? One man is missing and another is dead, so the task is certain to be a dangerous one.”
“Of course, Holmes. It’s been almost eight years since I was last shot.”
He gazed at me with a curious expression. “I must continuously guard myself from these little outbursts of your pawky humor, Watson. They are as unpredictable as the weather, I fear.”
“Shall we depart, then? Once more unto the breach.”[62] I said smiling.
Holmes sighed. “Well, at least I can pay a visit to the Nevill’s on Northumberland Avenue to ease the rheumatism in my knees.[63] The South Downs have many qualities, but medicinal baths are not one of them.”
§
Thus it was that on a bright fall afternoon Holmes and I found ourselves in the company of Inspector Lestrade seated a first-class carriage traveling nor-westward at fifty miles per hour while bound for Victoria Station. It was an ideal fall day, with a light blue sky dotted with gauzy white clouds. There was an invigorating nip in the air, which shook off years of accumulated rust from my limbs. It was not until we were well-started upon our journey, rushing along the reddening countryside, past several pretty little towns, that Holmes appeared to relax. His long, gaunt form was wrapped in a long, grey travelling cloak, and his head covered by a close-fitting ear-flapped cloth cap. The rack above us was stocked with our small travelling valises, in the event that the problem at the Museum precluded a return to our homes that same evening.
We had the carriage to ourselves, so Holmes finally set aside his walking stick, and proceeded to light his old, oily black clay pipe. “Well, Lestrade,” said he, when finished with this task. “We have a clear run here of two hours with which you can fill in the remaining details of your investigation.”
“What would you like to know, Mr. Holmes?”
“First of all, how many items in total have been stolen?”
Lestrade consulted his official notebook. “Since the thirtieth of September, there have been twenty-nine items that have been noted as missing. The collection is enormous, so it is possible that other small objects have been overlooked.”
“Still, we have roughly twenty-nine items in thirty-two days. That is suggestive, don’t you think, Lestrade?”
“Is it, Mr. Holmes? I hadn’t remarked that it was particularly noticeable.”
“Oh, yes. I would be much obliged if you would provide me with a list of the objects and the days that they were reported missing.”
“I thought you might need that, Mr. Holmes, and had a duplicate account drawn up.” Lestrade extracted a piece of paper and handed it over to Holmes.
My friend merely tucked it into his breast pocket and then continued his questioning. “First of all, there are other players in this case that have yet to be mentioned, are there not? What of the guards in the Ancient Britain Galleries, under whose very noses the treasures have vanished? In my experience, most night guards are elderly, uneducated, and given to excess consumption of spirits.”
Lestrade nodded as if he anticipated this question. “There are two guards assigned to the Britain Galleries, as well as the adjoining rooms along the eastern side of the second floor. They are required to make rounds of this section of the museum several times during the night. But during the other hours they can often be found resting in small cubicles.”
“‘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 recal
l 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.[64] 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.[65] “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.[66] 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.[67] 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?”
“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?”
The Adventure of the Pharaoh's Curse (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) Page 10