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

by Janacek, Craig

  “None, Holmes.”

  “Exactly. And once I finally laid eyes upon him I became certain. Mr. Windibank here has always been fond of a disguise. In this case, he used one very similar to the one that he once employed for his transformation into Mr. Hosmer Angel. There was a new wig, different glasses, some lifts in his shoes, and a different tone to his voice, all of which would have been sufficient to fool most people. Fortunately, I am not most people. His choice of sobriquet was also rather unoriginal.[120] His fatal mistake, however, was when he quoted from Balzac. Then I knew my man.”

  By the end of this speech, Windibank appeared to have regained some measure of bitter composure. He turned to Holmes with a chilly sneer. “You’ve got nothing on me, Mr. Holmes. You are correct that I spent a short time in Newgate, and that has forced me to find jobs under an assumed name, for no one wants to hire a known criminal. But I have been an honest employee since I started here at the Museum.”

  Holmes laughed. “I doubt that there is an honest bone in your body, Mr. Windibank. And many a man has been hanged on far slighter evidence than we have on you. If Parker here refuses to squeal, there is always our friend Beppo. I believe that he will be happy to identify you as the man with whom he contracted.”

  “Beppo, the sculptor!”[121] I exclaimed.

  “None other, Watson. Who else in London do you think would be capable of carving such a magnificent statue, while simultaneously keeping quiet about it? Not some respectable artist, to be certain! That is who I tracked down at the masonry yard in Stepney. I spent a few hours this afternoon upon Saffron Hill[122] and at Goldini’s Restaurant[123] before someone was willing to admit that they knew of Beppo’s whereabouts. I learned that he had been generously taken back by his former manager. Unfortunately, Beppo is not long for this world. I doubt that he shall live another month. He has contracted chalicosis.”

  “Stonecutter’s Disease!”

  “Indeed, Watson, the long years of inhaling stone dust have ravaged his lungs. His face was an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. So he has little to fear as far as retribution should he talk to us.” He turned back to the villain. “I think that was the full chain of events, Mr. Windibank, or would you care to try to contradict me again?”

  Windibank suddenly dropped the defiant attitude which had characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild beast gleamed in his dark eyes, distorting his once handsome features. “You will regret this, Holmes,” he snarled.

  “That may prove to be a difficult task, Mr. Windibank, for your neck is forfeited,” said Holmes. “There is a four-wheeler waiting to convey you to Bow Street. You will not be walking the streets of London again, I think.”

  As the constables led the furious pair away, Lestrade shook his head in wonderment. “I’ve always said, Mr. Holmes, that we at the Yard are damned proud of you. But this one may be your crowning achievement. We cannot thank you enough for catching a pair of police-killers.”[124]

  Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had pleased him. “Say no more of it, Lestrade. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest which you have effected. And now, Watson, I think that something nutritious would not be out of place. I can recall a place in Westminster where the port is rather above mediocrity.”

  §

  Holmes and I were soon seated in Simpson’s, at a small table in the front window where we could look down at the rushing stream of life through the Strand and wonder at how greatly the kaleidoscope had changed in appearance since we first began our association so many years prior.

  “I fear, Watson,” said Holmes, “that you will not improve any reputation that I may still retain by adding the Case of the Sphinx’s Riddle to your annals, should your collection remain open. I have been lethargic in mind and wanting in that mixture of imagination and reality which formed the basis of my art.”

  “Not at all, Holmes,” I replied slowly, still processing all that had transpired earlier. “It was but a temporary eclipse of your powers. So it was nothing more than an astonishing coincidence that Edward Rucastle happened to be working at the Museum?”

  “My dear fellow, as I believe I once said, ‘life is infinitely more extraordinary than anything which the mind of man could conceive. The strange happenstances, the delightful chain of events leading to the most outrageous results can make all fiction, with its traditionalisms and foreseen finishes most stale, flat, and unprofitable.’[125] Or, as one of your crude fellow scribblers might have said: ‘Truth is stranger than fiction’”[126]

  “So Windibank hired the thugs who maimed his predecessor?”

  “I believe that we can take that as a forgone conclusion.”

  “And what of Mr. Morrison?” I asked.

  Holmes shook his head. “An unraveled thread, I am afraid, Watson. Life, unlike fiction, is often messy. Not everything has an answer. Mr. Windibank and Parker have little incentive to disclose this answer to us, for whatever their defense, I am afraid that they are destined for a date with the hangman. Either Morrison was an innocent bystander, and he was done away with in some incredibly clever fashion, or he was a third accomplice. If the latter, we may never learn his identity, for there is a curious honor among thieves.”

  We ordered a bottle of the famous Warre’s vintage of which Holmes had spoken, and once our glasses were poured, I offered a toast to the successful conclusion of a challenging case.

  Holmes, however, failed to match my cheer. He appeared distracted, his nervous fingers twirling the meerschaum pipe from which many unsavory odors had emanated over the years. I watched as his bushy eyebrows twitched ever so slightly, which always signified some internal disappointment and irritation.

  “What is it, Holmes? You should be happy to have had one last chance to exercise your gifts. You have brought a pair of desperate men to justice.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot exactly say, Watson. There is no data to support this, but every instinct that I possess cries out that this case was far too simple.”

  “Simple!” I cried. “Surely you jest, Holmes! A man concealing himself in a hollow Sphinx, thereby eluding Scotland Yard for weeks?”

  “It is hardly difficult to fool Lestrade and company, Watson. I fear they have learned little of my techniques.”

  “But surely it was a unique case in the annals of crime?”

  Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps. However, it brings to mind the devious artifice of Jonas Oldcastle, does it not?”

  “The Norwood Builder? I suppose there are some elements that are similar,” I conceded. “But what does that prove?”

  “Perhaps nothing….” However, anything further Holmes might have planned to say was interrupted when the maître d’hôtel appeared at our table. He bowed slightly and handed a slip of paper to my friend. “A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes took it from the man and carelessly glanced at the paper. He then straightened in his seat and crumpled it in his fist. He frowned and looked up at me. “Did you tell anyone that we were dining here, Watson?”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain? No one? Lestrade? Your wife?”

  I shook my head. “No one.”

  Holmes broke eye contact with me and proceeded to stare intently at the other occupants of the restaurant. I tried to follow his gaze, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. After a few minutes, he abandoned this pursuit and looked down at the telegram again.

  “What do you fear, Holmes?” I asked breathlessly.

  “I do not know for certain, Watson. But look for yourself.” He smoothed the paper out upon the table and pushed it over to me. I stared down at the curious inscription, which ran thus:

  N1 § P1 C1 Pa8 W13 § P1 C2 Pa2 W65 § P1 C1 Pa1 W72 § P1 C1 Pa18 W1 § P2 C1 Pa9 W63 § P1 C1 Pa1 W56 § P2 C4 Pa29 W72 § – MORTLOCK

  “Who, then, is Mortlock?” I asked.

  “Mortlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, of cou
rse. You must recall our ally of sorts, that shifty and evasive personality who attempted to aid us in the affair at Birlstone?”[127]

  “Porlock?”

  “Yes, of course. Do you not see, Watson? That particular name was obviously chosen for two reasons. First, because of its final rhyme with that latter half my own given name. And second, because the initial syllable would convey the message that that individual so-called could be induced to provide information if properly recompensed.”

  “I admit that I am not following you, Holmes. Do you believe that Porlock has resurfaced after all these years?”

  Holmes shook his head violently. “No, no, Watson. I think that the name used herein is a message beyond what is encoded in this cryptic combination of letters, numbers, and symbols. Recall your days at Winchester, Watson. What does the Latin root ‘mort’ denote?”

  I finally understood what he was trying to tell me, and the thought chilled me to the bones. “It means ‘death’ of course.”

  “Exactly, Watson. Exactly. But whose death?”

  “Surely we can determine that by deciphering the message itself?”

  “Yes, Watson, but how?”

  “Is this not the same book cipher that Porlock once employed?”

  “Not at all. Look at it, Watson. Porlock’s code did not use so many letters, nor these funny symbols. We must apply all of our reason to the problem of what method is herein being employed.”

  I studied it for a moment. “Well, it seems to be to be quite simple.”

  Holmes’ right eyebrow rose in surprise. “Oh? You have broken it?”

  “Almost, Holmes, almost. Surely the symbol is nothing more than a break, and the ‘W’ stands for ‘word.’”

  “I will accept that as a point of departure.”

  “Then the ‘Pa’ must be ‘page.’”

  Holmes shook his head. “There are difficulties, Watson. The printing of various editions of the same story can be quite numerous, and the paginations differ between them. Even if we were able to guess the name of the book, how are we to determine which edition to utilize?”

  “Paragraph!” I cried.

  “Good, Watson, good! No matter what font and spacing a printer uses, unless they deviate from the author’s master plan, the separation between paragraphs should remain intact.”

  “Then the next sign, ‘C1’ stands for ‘chapter the first,’ no doubt.”

  “Excellent, Watson. Your deduction of twenty years ago has finally proven correct, unless I am much deceived. But now we encounter further difficulties. If we know the chapter number, then what do we make of the ‘P’ symbol?”

  “That is obvious, Holmes,” I said triumphantly.

  “Is it?” he asked archly.

  “Of course, Holmes. It stands for ‘part.’”

  “Part! That is brilliant, Watson. Surely that allows us to narrow our search down to books which are divided into multiple parts, within which the chapter numbers are repeated. You can see that the first three words come from Chapter 1 of Part 1, while the fifth word can only be found in Chapter 1 of Part 2. Only a few authors would employ such an eccentric numbering strategy.”

  “But what about the ‘N1?’”

  “Unless I am very much mistaken, that is not a word, but rather the symbol that identifies for us the book itself.”

  “But there must be thousands of books that begin with the letter ‘N,’” I protested.

  “True enough, but you will note, Watson, that there is no second letter. So this is a book with only one word in the title. That should help considerably.”

  A long silence followed, during which we sat pondering this mystery. I finally spoke. “I am sorry, Holmes, but I cannot think of any novels with one word titles that start with ‘N.’ The closest I can come up with would be Dickens’ ‘Nicholas Nickelby.’”

  Holmes slumped back in his seat. “No, no, Watson, that will not do. You have one ‘N’ too many. We are undone, I fear. I was hoping that a man of letters such as yourself….” He stopped at stared at me, a wild look in his eyes. “Could it be…?” he cried.

  “What is it, Holmes?”

  When he opened his mouth, a laugh tinged with a hint of madness echoed forth. “I fear we were off target with our last conclusion, Watson. Mortlock is not trying to make this too difficult for us. His goal is to deliver a message, is it not? He would not have picked a book that was too obscure. He has it, and he imagined that we would have it too. In short, Watson, it is a very popular book.”

  “So you know it? I have not known you to read much popular fiction, save only the most sensational literature.”

  “Yes, I fear that I do. I once remarked that it was a work of superficial romanticism. Follow me, Watson.”

  He rose from his seat and shrugged on his great overcoat. With a wave of his hand, Holmes directed that the bill be sent to him. I hurried to keep up with him as he set off eastwards along the Strand, dodging cabs and omnibuses. At the first junction with Lancaster Place, I watched as Holmes stopped before a cheap newsstand. The front shelves were filled with the scent of freshly printed pages while, in the rear, moldered a forlorn assortment of dusty novels. Next to the structure, a boy was bawling out headlines of the latest edition of the evening paper.

  “Why, Mr. Holmes, I’ll be,” said the news-vendor. “It’s been a long time. What’ll it be tonight? The Evening Standard has a nice story about a bold robbery at St. Paul’s Cathedral. That’s right up your alley, I reckon.”

  “Not tonight, Carter,” Holmes said. “It’s a novel that I require. The first chronicle of a novice biographer, who applied to it a somewhat fantastic sobriquet.”

  The man shrugged. “Doubt I have something with so many fancy words, but it’s yours if I got it, Mr. Holmes.”

  He turned to me, an inscrutable look in his grey eyes. “You see the significance of the ‘N1’ now, do you not, Watson?”

  “Ah, yes. It is clear. The first novel by that writer.”

  “Can you still not deduce the name?”

  “I am afraid not, Holmes. There are new writers appearing every day, it seems. I cannot possibly keep up with them all.”

  “Well, Watson, this tale might not have seen the light of day if we had not thwarted the Red Leech.”[128] He sighed and shook his head before turning back to the newsman. “Carter, give me a copy of ‘A Study in Scarlet.’”

  “What?” I cried. “Holmes, you cannot think that I had anything to do with this?”

  “Not at all, Watson. But it was sent by a man who knows far too much about me. He has studied my methods, as so carefully laid out by you in your tales.”

  “My dear Holmes, I certainly never intended….”

  He forestalled my protest. “It is no matter, Watson. It is, as they say, water under the bridge.”

  Holmes took the slim volume from the newsman Carter and tucked it under his arm. He then strode down towards the Thames and out onto Waterloo Bridge. He did not pause until he came to the streetlamp in very middle. He set the volume upon the top of the balustrade and flipped to the first chapter. “Now let us see what Chapter 1 has in store for us. Jot down the words, Watson.” He counted silently. “Paragraph eight, word thirteen, is ‘what.’ That is an auspicious beginning. Now let us try the next one. Paragraph ten, word fifteen, is ‘walks.’ – ‘What walks.’” Holmes’ eyes were gleaming with nervous anticipation and his fingers danced upon the page as he moved along. “The next word is ‘on.’ I think we are on the right track, Watson.” He continued until the phrase was complete. “What – walks – on – no – legs – at – midnight?”

  “You must be mistaken, Holmes. Certainly it is a different book. That phrase is gibberish.”

  “Is it, Watson?” he stared at me intently. “Do you not recall the lessons of your Greek master? What was the riddle of the Sphinx?”

  I considered this for a moment. “‘What is the creature that walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon and three in the evening?’
And the answer is ‘Man,’ of course.”

  “Do you see, Watson?” his voice was deadly serious. “Mortlock’s question is a progression of the Sphinx’s riddle. Morning, noon, evening. And now: ‘What walks on no legs at midnight?’ Midnight being the very end of the metaphorical day.”

  “What?”

  “A corpse.” He shook his head grimly. “These are much deeper waters that I had originally thought. I fear that once more the game is afoot.”

  I attempted to buoy his spirits. “You have always answered that call, Holmes. Why is it now cause for alarm?”

  “Because, Watson, this time I do not even know what game we are playing.”

  The two of us sat in silence for some minutes, the rough water rushing against the stones beneath us. We gazed out at the fog-shrouded sky over the vast murky River, a spiritual counterpart to one in a far-away dusty land, and our eyes strained to glimpse what mystery lay beyond the curtain.

  §

  THE ASSASSINATION OF SHERLOCK HOLMES will continue in…

  THE PROBLEM OF THREADNEEDLE STREET

  §

  Appendix: The Edge of the Unknown[129]

  That Sherlock Holmes is a committed skeptic of supernatural forces is a fact that cannot be refuted. As he says: “This Agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain. The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.”[130] And yet, one wonders if something strange and remarkable lurks in the shadows of Victorian London, in a place that Holmes is unable, or perhaps unwilling, to see?

  The Canonical adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, in which he is typically accompanied by his friend and biographer, Dr. John H. Watson, contain multiple examples of seemingly-supernatural events. Most of these are ultimately proven by Holmes to be mere shams or products of overactive imaginations. The spectral hound of the Baskervilles was nothing but a phosphorescently-painted dog.[131] The vampiric thirst of Mrs. Ferguson was but a valiant attempt to save her baby from poison.[132] The horrific visions of a devilish world were simply the product of a hallucinogenic root.[133] Even the simian transformation of Professor Presbury had a scientific explanation, despite the fact that the chemical formula utilized has yet to be successfully recreated.[134] Similarly, in The Adventure of the Pharaoh’s Curse, Holmes provides a plausible physical justification for the movement of the Pharaoh’s effigy. However, this is not quite the same thing as actually proving his theory, and some readers might perhaps be left wondering whether or not a supernatural explanation may still be possible.