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

by Janacek, Craig

  I am not a nervous man, but the complete silence was oppressive. Neither outside nor within the walls was there a creak or murmur. It was as if the busy streets of London had faded into the mists of time. I felt that the museum was trapped under some shadow, something sinister and unnatural.

  Holmes lifted his lantern, which shot a tiny tunnel of vivid yellow light upon the mournful scene. Its rays were reflected back from a construction of rough-hewn stone that rose at a slope up towards the roof, which itself was lost in the shadows above our heads. This strange monument surely enclosed the disturbed remains of the Pharaoh himself, restless at being separated from the land to which he belonged. This gate of Death left a feeling of absolute horror in my mind.

  “It is a pyramid of fear!” I whispered.

  Holmes sighed. “Cut out the drama, Watson,” he said severely. “I note that it is a pyramid.”

  I gathered my wits and studied the structure. “But surely the dating is wrong?”

  “What do you mean, Watson?”

  “The construction of pyramid tombs fell out of favor after the Fifth Dynasty. They required too many resources to build, and were judged to be excessively vulnerable to tomb robbers.”

  Holmes looked at me curiously. “I never grasp your full abilities, Watson.”

  “I read it in a book once, Holmes,” I said, shrugging modestly.

  “Still, I believe that you are entirely correct. While I would like to credit the artifacts themselves as being authentic, though perhaps that should not be a given when dealing with the slippery Mr. Brundage, it is abundantly clear that the Keeper has freely indulged his imagination at this juncture. The stones that make up this pyramid are not Egyptian.”

  “How can you be certain, Holmes?”

  He stepped forward and placed his hand upon the wall of the structure. “Because no Egyptian pyramid was ever constructed from Cotswold limestone.”

  I looked more closely at the stones, and even I, who lack Holmes’ familiarity with the dirt and stone of England, realized the truth in his words.[82] “Yes, well, it is certainly a vivid effect.”

  The two of us entered the archway into the pyramid proper, which was lonely and eerie in the dim light. In the center of this singular chamber was a vertical mummy case with its horrible occupant, who stood, grim and stark, his black, shriveled face pointed towards the entry. The form was, of course, lifeless and inert, but it seemed as I gazed at it that there still lingered a small spark of vitality, some faint consciousness in its gaze. Four thousand years old, the horrid, black, withered thing seemed to reach out with its bony forearm and claw-like hand, ready to seize upon any who intruded upon its slumber. The facial features, though horribly discolored towards a deep indigo, were perfect, and the two little nut-like eyes still lurked in the depths of the black, hollow sockets like something unnatural and inhuman. The blotched skin was drawn tightly from bone to bone, and a tangled wrap of a black, coarse hair fell over the ears. Two thin teeth, like those of a rat, overlaid the shriveled lower lip. The gaunt ribs, with their parchment-like covering, were exposed, as was the sunken, leaden-hued abdomen, with the long slit where the embalmer had left his mark. Only the lower limbs were still wrapped round with coarse, yellow cerecloth and linen bandages. I think that, having experienced what I have in my life, I am as strong-nerved as any man could possibly be, but I admit that I was a bit shaken by this half-lit scene.

  Near the Pharaoh stood a giant statue of Osiris, ruler of the dead, divine judge, his body swathed in depictions of mummy wrappings, his arms crossed over his chest, his hands holding the twin scepters of his rule. The stone of his tall white crown and snowy alabaster shoulders shone pale in contrast to the flat black face and hands. Before him lay a horizontal case, which contained an intricately inscribed, yellow, curled roll of paper. The museum label explained that this deceptively plain papyrus scroll has come to be known as the ‘Book of the Dead,’ for the secret spells within promise to unlock an occult knowledge beyond that bestowed upon ordinary mortals.

  Holmes surveyed this grim tableau and then chuckled. “Well, if our friend Mr. Brundage was concerned about animating the spirit of his mummy, perhaps situating the incantations of revivification nearby was a poor choice, eh, Watson? If I ever permit you to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, which is admittedly unlikely, I foresee that you will enliven your pages with this account of the singular adventure of the Bloomsbury Lodger.”

  I recognized that Holmes was making light of the situation to defuse the tension in the air and smiled gratefully. “So where is our spinning statue?”

  Holmes glanced around the other cases, which contained a magnificent collection of earthenware canopic jars, rings, precious stones, and dozens of similar objects. However, one circular case stood apart. It held only a three-foot high jet black statue of a cobra-crowned pharaoh. Although but half the size of true life and carved from the darkest basalt, its eyes shown with two polished moonstones that seemed to watch us in the darkness. The statue was not facing the mummy directly, but was instead oddly turned approximately fifteen degrees counter-clockwise.

  My friend closely studied the lock for a moment and then grunted. “Well, no signs of tampering, that is for certain. The hole is unscratched. Whoever is moving this statue must be in possession of a key.”

  But I was hardly listening to him. “Holmes,” I whispered. “The statue has moved!”

  “What?” exclaimed Holmes, clearly annoyed. “Not you too, Watson.” He glanced back at the statue and then paused. “That is strange, it has moved slightly.”

  I was about to respond, however, when I heard a faint sound, and felt a whiff of air and a light brushing past my elbow. It was so slight that I could scarcely be certain of it. Had something passed me in the darkness? I felt as if vague shapes swirled and swam in the unnerving gloom, each a warning of something beyond the learning of man, some unutterable dweller upon the shadowy entryway to that undiscovered country from which none have ever returned. A freezing horror threatened to take utter possession of me.

  §

  However, I was not able to dwell upon these fears for long, since Holmes’ sardonic voice suddenly muttered that we were about to be joined by a pair of men. As usual, his strikingly acute senses heard their approach long before it became obvious to me, though I doubted him not.[83] And eventually, I was able make out Mr. Brundage following behind an imperious white-haired gentleman, both holding lanterns that matched the one in Holmes’ hand.

  Brundage’s voice quavered slightly as he made the introductions. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, please allow me to introduce Sir Evan Lloyd Williams, distinguished Director and Principal Librarian of the British Museum.[84]

  Sir Williams was a severe looking man of about five and forty, his balding pate shining in the lantern light. He was dressed in a formal black dinner jacket over a bone white shirt. His fierce blue eyes gazed upon Holmes with what appeared to be considerable contempt. “Your name is familiar to me, sir,” he said, his bushy mustache quivering as he spoke. “I have read your analysis of the Chaldean roots traced in the Cornish branch of the Celtic language.[85] It is a masterpiece,” he proclaimed, and I saw Holmes’ chest puff out slightly. “A masterpiece of rank amateurism. It is so riddled with errors that they overwhelm the few areas of accuracy. I am afraid that philology is an exacting science that requires years of training. It cannot be learned over a weekend from glancing at a few minor tomes, like some cheap parlor trick.”

  Holmes’ grey eyes narrowed at this venomous attack, but when he spoke his voice was strangely mild. “Yes, well, I am sure you have your own interpretation of the data. Pray tell, Sir Williams, as Dr. Watson and I made our way over to this gallery, we passed through a small room containing some fine objects that I have seen before in the chambers of a Mr. Nathan Garrideb. A set of fine Syracusan coins, for example. And a cabinet of Neolithic flint tools arranged chronologically with the skulls of their one-time owners. Did his estate perhaps lea
ve them to the Museum?”[86]

  “Yes, there were a few items worthy of display, though nothing that compared to the scope of his imagination. Garrideb thought he was another Hans Sloane,”[87] sniffed Sir Williams, his lip curled in a sneer. “But in actuality, the old imbecile was a minor dilettante. These sorts of things are best left to the professionals.”

  Holmes bared his teeth in what some might mistake for a pained smile, and I knew to be a grimace of distaste. It was one of my friend’s most evident faults that he was impatient with less astute intellects than his own, and I feared he judged the Director to be squarely in this camp. Holmes promptly did away with his weak attempt at pleasantries. It was never a great skill of his, and the Director plainly had no interest in talking with Holmes. He sniffed at the air. “I have a few questions for your, Sir Williams.”

  “Yes, so Brundage tells me,” said the Director, while the man beside him shrank further into the shadows. “But I am afraid that is impossible. The matter is very delicate, Mr. Holmes,” he intoned. “Consider the reputation of the museum. I can hardly justify speaking before…”

  “Have no fear, Sir Williams. I can assure you that Dr. Watson is the very soul of discretion.”

  The Director faced round to study me. “Is he? Would your other clients agree, Mr. Holmes? The ones whose private lives have been laid bare in his tawdry tales? I think not.”

  Holmes’ spine stiffened and he turned the full force of his gaze upon the man. “You can answer my questions now, Sir Williams, or you can answer them later. Perhaps we will call upon your home a bit later this evening? I am certain that your lovely wife will be happy to receive us. Or did you have plans to be out?”

  It was difficult to tell for certain by the dim lantern-light, but I thought I detected that all color had drained from the man’s face. Walter Brundage, for his part, was following this exchange with trepidation, but also great interest. “What do you wish to know?” Sir Williams finally croaked.

  Holmes smiled like a cat that had just caught his mouse. “First of all, you have had quite a turn-over in your guards as of late. Both Mr. Morrison of this gallery, and Mr. Seraphim of the Ancient Britain rooms, are rather new, are they not?”

  Sir Williams recovered his composure and managed a nonchalant shrug. “They are a rough lot, Mr. Holmes. Turn-over happens on a regular basis.”

  “And in these particular cases?” Holmes inquired. “What became of their predecessors?”

  The man shrugged. “I believe that the man before Seraphim was beaten by thugs down in Limehouse[88] and crippled for life. He got some small pension from us, but was unfit for further work. And the man before Morrison died of some disease. Tetanus, I believe.”

  “Very good,” nodded Holmes. “We have heard much about the guards. But there is one other group that has access to the Museum after hours, I think: the cleaners. When do the floors get swept?”

  “Daily, of course.”

  “Come now, Sir Williams. Confabulations do not become a knight of the realm.[89] You see, I know that you are not having the Museum scrubbed daily, even if your ledgers suggest otherwise. I have already inspected the floors of this room. It has not rained in London for three days, and yet, the distinctive prints of several pairs of muddy Wellingtons are plain.[90] What gentleman wears such boots when there is no chance of a shower?”

  Sir Williams appeared distressed by this accusation, though Holmes expressed it more delicately than was his usual wont. “Yes, well, it is as you say, sir. The cleaners come every four days.”

  Holmes smiled at this confession. “Excellent. You have been most helpful, Sir Williams. I have no further questions for you at the moment, but please be ready to return to the Museum should I need to summon you. That way I will not be forced to pay a social visit to your home.”

  The man scurried away in a most undignified manner, Brundage trailing along behind him.

  Holmes laughed as we watched them leave. “What do you make of that, Watson?”

  I shook my head. “I admit that I am mystified by the whole matter. I hesitate to cast doubts upon a man of such rank, but his hostility was plain. Could Sir Williams be stealing from his own museum?”

  “Yes, he does make an attractive candidate, Watson. Unfortunately, I think his hostility derives from pure snobbery. He is a feckless fool, and a shining example of someone being promoted because of his connections and not due to his ability. Sadly, his predecessor was no better, as the old fraud had little knowledge of graphology, but an unerring sense of self-promotion.[91] For his own part, Sir Evan Lloyd Williams’ scholarship is burdened with critical errors, where he twists facts to fits his theories and not the other way round.”

  “I don’t understand how you got him to answer you, when he plainly had no such desire?”

  “It was evident that Sir Williams is engaged in activities with a lady, or perhaps ladies, belonging to the world’s oldest profession. He had a trace of a cheap rouge stain on his collar, and he reeked of a perfume that can be had for less than a shilling.”[92]

  “It could have come from his wife?”

  “Tut, tut, Watson! The wife of a knight does not freshen herself with a one-shilling scent.”

  “Perhaps he is not married?”

  Holmes sighed. “He was wearing a wedding ring, Watson.”

  “Well, other men have engaged in such activities and not been overly concerned. Why did he fear exposure so much?”

  Holmes chuckled. “Because Sir Williams is known as one of the leading scholars of the so-called Biblical Authenticity movement.[93] To be caught in flagrante delicto[94] would expose him as an enormous hypocrite. Of course I do not care a farthing what the man does in his private time. I am no Milverton.[95] The connection was a simple matter and not one of which I am overly proud. But as they say, ‘desperate times….’[96] Ah, I think I spot the approach of Lestrade.”

  Lestrade and one other man soon appeared out of the darkness. As he stepped into the circle of yellow light thrown by our lantern, I saw that the inspector was leading a short and prodigiously stout man, no more than two inches above five feet. His head was enormous, with an unsmiling face, and a great heavy chin which rolled down in fold upon fold over his throat, and which made him appear much older than his six and twenty years. The man’s protuberant eyes bulged at the sight of Holmes.

  “You are Mr. Edward Rucastle, are you not?” Holmes asked.

  “I am,” the man answered sullenly, a shadow passing over his face.

  “And your father was named Jephro?”

  Lestrade spluttered in indignation. “How could you possibly know that, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I know it because I was once acquainted with Mr. Rucastle’s father.” He turned to the guard. “Do you deny it?”

  “I deny nothing!” said the man, angrily. “Do you deny mangling him, Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Do you deny turning him into a broken invalid?” His cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled, and the veins stood out at his temples with a great passion.

  Holmes’ eyebrows rose. “As I recall, it was your father’s hound that was responsible for his injuries, Mr. Rucastle, not I.”

  “Oh, yes,” he spluttered. “I’ve read the account of your lackey. It’s quite the fiction. But I had the truth from my father’s lips.”

  “If by ‘lackey,’ you are referring to Dr. Watson, then you should be thanking him, not insulting him. It was only due to his careful attention that your father survived that terrible wound.”

  “So he says. From what I hear, he almost finished the job that you began. Only the arrival of the country surgeon saved my father’s life.”

  “Yes, well, what is true for you is true for you, and what is true for me is true for me. [97] But what matters to me, Mr. Rucastle, is not what you believe, but what sort of man you have become?”

  “I don’t need to answer to you. I have been an honest employee of the Museum for eight years. No man can say otherwise. Unless I am under arrest, I wish to return
to my job.”

  “Hold, Mr. Rucastle,” interjected Lestrade. “Mr. Holmes may not have an official role here, but I do. You better answer to me, or you will find yourself sleeping in a warm bunk at Bow Street.”

  “What do you want to know?” he replied sullenly.

  Lestrade looked to Holmes for guidance, who nodded. “I only wish to know if you have anything new to add to your prior statements to Inspector Patterson,” said Holmes, as placidity as he was capable. “Sometimes upon further reflection, fresh thoughts come to light.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. I walk my rounds, just like I always have. Nobody, excepting only Seraphim and I, enters our galleries at night. I can’t explain where those things vanish to, nor how those little beetles appear. I would tell you if I did.”

  Holmes studied him. “I believe you, Mr. Rucastle. I have no further questions for you. But where is your counterpart?”

  “It happens to be Mr. Seraphim’s night off, Mr. Holmes,” interjected Lestrade.

  “Oh, indeed?” Holmes said mildly. He turned to Rucastle. “And how often do the guards get the night off?”

  “Every nine nights,” he answered sullenly.

  Holmes smiled, as if at some internal joke. “Yes, I thought as much.”

  Rucastle frowned, as if Holmes was treating him like a fool, but he turned and silently went back in the direction that he came. When the man was out of earshot, Lestrade looked at Holmes, who had turned and was again studying the slowly spinning statue. Lestrade glanced over at me, wondering if he should break my friend’s concentration. After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, he finally cleared his throat.

  “Have you come to a conclusion, Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes tore his gaze from the statue and looked over at the inspector with a peculiar smile upon his face. “I have some notions, Lestrade, but nothing definitive as of yet.”