“A client for the jailkeeper in Bow Street, you mean.” I held my ground.
“You, there, Haji! Kindly oblige a pair of infidels and join us in the light.”
For the space of thirty seconds the man in the shadows did not stir, although he continued to watch us like some beast on the edge of a campfire. Then, slowly and with queer dignity, he arose with a rustle and stepped into full view.
I tightened my hold on my trusty Penang Lawyer; for the man was a particularly wicked-looking specimen of Arab. Standing slightly above the medium height, he wore a coal-black beard only a shade darker than his burnished flesh, against which those startling eye-whites shone like scaled pearls, their nut-coloured irises glaring balefully. As if to put the fine point on his devilish countenance, the brigand displayed a vicious scar on either cheek, sunken with age and puckered at the edges, the less noticeable of the pair fully as long as a man’s hand is wide. The obvious conclusion, that his face had been transfixed by some savage blade, made me shudder, as if I had witnessed the event at firsthand.
The silken sash he had tied about his waist, red once but now faded like the scars, suggested the ideal girdle for a weapon—not now in evidence, but quite likely concealed somewhere upon his person. I daresay that in that sprawling city of four millions, there was not one who could inspire greater dread.
“A hundred thousand pardons, effendim. These ancient eyes are no longer what once they were. The low cur who owns them could not be certain he was in the presence of the great sahib detective until he was near enough to smell the breath of the camel.”
This fulsome speech, delivered in faultless English, was heavy with the guttural but not unmusical accent of the deserts and oases of popular romance. Of his age, at least, he spoke the truth. The folds and creases in his leathery hide were at the lowest estimate sixty years in the creation. I thought it probable the vain old fellow dyed his whiskers with lampblack.
“I am Sherlock Holmes—in the event there is more than one great sahib detective living on this street. This is Dr. Watson, upon whose discretion you may rely as surely as the Bank of England. Whom have I the honour of addressing?”
The fellow bowed whilst performing the pretty salaam gesture with his right hand. “Most certainly, respected one, the honour belongs to me. I am called Sheik Abdullah.”
“Sheik, if you will allow me the impertinence.” Holmes extended a hand and, to my surprise, grasped the Arab’s chin and gently turned his face to this side and that, exposing each of the man’s scars to the light. “The left is the more pronounced. Would you concur, Doctor, that this is the exit wound?”
“I would. Most tissue damage occurs on the way out.”
“Torn palate, Sheik?”
“Yes, effendim. And four back teeth for Allah.”
“The entry is as clean as an incision. The projectile, then, passed through on the instant, which is seldom the case with anything as long as a conventional spear or as clumsy as a sword or sabre. A javelin, perhaps. Somali?”
“Wonderful, respected sir! I was chief of bearers on safari. Savages attacked us for our goods. Through the grace of the Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him, I fought my way to safety. Alas, others were not so favoured.”
The oily obsequiousness of this response made me distrust the stranger all the more, for I had seen surprise, admiration, and suspicion succeed one another in his eyes as Holmes deduced the details of his injury. I found myself wondering if he was not himself the savage behind the attack he spoke of, injured by an accomplice in the heat of action.
“In any case, the affair is years in the past,” said Holmes. “The wounds are long healed. It can hardly be the reason for your visit.”
“It is not. I have come to consult you upon a matter of grave importance.”
“Then let us continue this conversation upstairs. A London street is not the marketplace in Cairo.”
“Is it wise, Holmes?” I could not help whispering. “We know nothing of this fellow’s reputation.”
Grim amusement stirred my friend’s spare features. “I might venture to say that were we to know very much more, we would think it even less wise.”
With this cryptic remark, he led the way up the well-trodden steps to the cluttered sitting-room whence so many adventures had been launched.
Wordlessly, and with (it seemed to me) a disregard for invitation that ran counter to the humility he sought to express, Sheik Abdullah embarked upon a self-guided tour of the many curious items which were placed carelessly upon exhibit in our homely parlour. His interest in certain things at the expense of others was odd. The Danish dagger that had featured prominently in the Blackwell murder case received only cursory attention, whilst the shabby Persian slipper where Holmes kept his coarse tobacco became an object of some five minutes’ close scrutiny. He studied the weave of the hanging basket chair at length, but ignored completely the Borgia ring, for which Holmes had declined a princely offer from the British Museum. Throughout, the detective retained his bemused expression. He suggested a libation. A request for plain water followed.
Our singular guest accepted the glass with effusive gratitude, then went through the elaborate ritual of thanks to the powers of Mohammedism before imbibing. Holmes watched, evidently appreciating the performance.
“Now that you’ve partaken of our hospitality, Sir Richard, perhaps you will provide an explanation for this show of false colours.”
The man in Arabian garb choked, coughed, and lowered the glass, using the loose sleeve of his robe to sponge the drops from his beard. He stared at Holmes. Then his face broke into a sinister smile.
“I see that I am not misled as to your abilities,” said he, in a deep voice in which there was now no trace of the Orient. “Pray, tell me where I betrayed myself. In another time and place, the answer may save my life.”
“I suspected the truth when I examined your scars. They are more famous than you realise, having spent so much time in the far reaches of Empire and beyond. When I accurately assigned them to a Somali javelin and saw your reaction, I was emboldened further, but withheld certainty until you committed the blunder of accepting and drinking from a vessel with your left hand. No Muslim worthy of his faith would do that.”
“Blast!” He glared at the offending hand. “I’ve been away too long from the Koran. I should have known, when my girdle refused to tie in the old place, that I would be rusty as well as fat. Because I no longer trust the public journals, I assumed your press notices were exaggerations. I beg you to accept the apologies of a retired officer, if not precisely a gentleman.”
Impatient and disgruntled, I interposed myself. “I confess I’m at sea, Holmes. What is the name of this fellow, of whose famous scars I was ignorant only moments ago?”
“Really, Watson, it amazes me when fellow members of a guild fail to recognise one another. An old adventurer-journalist such as yourself must be aware of Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton, author of The Arabian Nights and discoverer of the source of the River Nile.”
“Flattering, but inaccurate upon both counts,” protested the other. “The Nile is John Speke’s, may his troubled soul find rest, and I merely translated the text of the thousand-nights-and-a-night: The authors are dust these seven hundred years. I shall admit to Lake Tanganyika, and two volumes chronicling my experiences during a pilgrimage to Mecca, among other trifles. My disguise upon that occasion was superior, or I should not be here to boast of it.”
As he spoke, our guest removed his hood, exposing gray hair cropped close to his skull and a band of unstained skin at the hairline. It was a remarkable head, with advanced frontal development, fierce brows, and those unique scars, which were even more pronounced without the distraction of a disguise.
“Great Scott!” I exclaimed. “I’ve followed each installment of the Nights as it has appeared. Astounding.” I grasped the hand he’d extended, only to break the grip when a fresh and disturbing association presented itself. “But, did you not tra
nslate also—” I left off, blushing to pronounce the disreputable title.
“The Kama Sutra. I may as well own to that as well. It cost me a club membership.”
“There are no forbidden frontiers to an explorer,” Holmes said. “Now, Sir Richard, there is the siphon, and there the basket chair you admired. Make free with both and tell us the reason for your fancy dress.”
Burton declined the whisky, explaining that as long as he wore Muslim garments he would not blaspheme the faith, but curled himself into the chair in the same extra-Occidental fashion that my friend was wont to adopt. The old adventurer was exceptionally supple for a man nearing his threescore and ten.
“You will find, Holmes, as you continue to acquire notoriety, that people do not always conduct themselves in your presence as they would under most circumstances. It’s an intolerable nuisance, as it slows the process of character judgement. An incognito visit seemed the best way to save time. As things turned out, I was right. You are indeed the man for the job I have in mind.”
Holmes, seated in his favourite armchair, lit his pipe and said nothing. I noted with interest that he had selected the old black clay he preferred when in a contemplative humour.
Burton continued. “I am at present only a temporary resident of London. My leave expires next month, when I return to my post at the British Consulate in Trieste. Meanwhile I am engaged in a number of projects, one of which is the translation of documents which came into my hands in 1860, when I was on the Ivory Coast. That is to say, I was so engaged, until four weeks ago; but I shall come to that. How much do you know, Holmes, about ancient culture in Egypt?”
“Rather less than I do about modern criminal enterprise in Brixton. Do the subjects intersect?”
“Possibly, although I’m uncertain about Brixton. The document is a transcription in Second Century Aramaic from a hieroglyphic scroll that was burned in the great fire that consumed Alexandria. I translated just enough of it into English to form the conclusion that it provides explicit directions to the tomb of a Pharaoh who ruled during the Eighteenth Dynasty.”
At this point, Holmes, to my chagrin and Burton’s astonishment, yawned.
“Forgive me, Sir Richard, but unless the Pharaoh was done to death I confess little interest in the affair thus far. The good doctor can enlighten you upon the futility of instructing me in anything not related to the science of deduction.”
“Just so,” said our guest; but it was plain he regretted denying himself the reinforcement of strong spirits. “As to the nature of the king’s demise, I am without illumination. He expired before his twentieth year, but beyond that I know nothing save that he was a son of Akhenaton, the Sun King. The boy’s name was Tutankhamen—King Tut, if you find the diminutive less challenging to pronounce.”
“They ring no bells, either of them.”
“Nor should they. They do not appear on any of the royal lists which have come down to us. For that matter, the extent to which he was stricken from history emboldens me to hope that his burial vault is undefiled. It will come as no surprise to you that grave-robbing was not invented by Burke and Hare. To date, archaeologists digging in the Valley of the Kings have failed to unearth a single tomb that was not stripped of its treasures centuries before Christ. Mummies, yes. Pottery, certainly. Ancient writings invaluable to historians. But not one scrap of the gold and precious gems that were buried with the monarchs to comfort them in the Hereafter.”
“Perhaps they weren’t there to begin with. Pilfering servants were not invented in our age either.”
“I reject the premise. They could not all have been criminals.”
The detective’s lids drooped further—a sure sign that his interest was awakened at last. “Pray continue. But please confine your narrative to the present century. What has become of the document?”
“I knew you would surmise it was missing. No other circumstance would have driven me to leave off the task before it was complete. It was stolen, Holmes; spirited away by my assistant while I was out, under my wife’s very nose. I am as certain that James Patterson is the thief as I am that polygamy is the instinctive law of nature.”
The name of the man he suspected shocked me so deeply that I overlooked his inflammatory last phrase. “Not the son of Colonel Henry Patterson!”
“The same, Doctor. No acorn ever rolled farther from the oak than the offspring of the hero of Roarke’s Drift. More fool I, knowing the little bounder’s reputation; but mine is scarcely better, and I thought if some stalwart had lent me a hand up when it counted, I might have found a better billet in my decrepitude than a third-rate consulate in the Adriatic. I’ve paid dearly for my charity. The day after tomorrow marks a month since he walked out on me, with King Tut under his coat.”
With the economy of language typical of his writing style, our prospective client described those events which had brought him to our door.
Immediately upon renting the house he shared with his wife, Isabel, Burton had unpacked a trunk he’d kept in storage nearly thirty years, containing papers he’d collected and almost forgotten. The importance of the Tutankhamen manuscript was instantly apparent, and he’d engaged young Patterson to perform errands which would otherwise distract him from his work. Colonel Patterson had disinherited his son upon learning that he’d stolen from him to repay gambling debts, then gotten himself barred from every club in London as a card and billiards cheat. On evidence supplied by his father, James had spent a month in Reading Gaol for petty theft. When he came to Burton with his tale of woe, he was living in Spitalfields with a woman of unsavoury reputation. A man of less than sterling credits himself—Burton’s outspoken nature and boundless curiosity about matters best left unexamined preceded him everywhere he went in society—the explorer agreed to take young Patterson on in consideration for room and board and a small wage.
Straight away, Burton realised he’d accepted one challenge too many. Daily the fellow vanished before his work was done, stayed out all night, and the next day could not be roused to begin his duties until late afternoon, whereupon the cycle would repeat itself.
“I had a brief period of hope,” said our guest, “when Patterson bought a Kodak camera out of his first week’s pay. I thought he was showing an interest in something constructive. However, the novelty of the purchase soon faded. The contraption languished on a shelf in my study while he continued his dissolute course.”
One day, Burton returned from the reading room of the British Museum to be told by Lady Isabel that his assistant had given notice and left. An inspection revealed that the Egyptian document was missing. Burton interrogated his wife, who swore that Patterson had come from the study empty-handed, gone up to his room to pack his meagre belongings, and gone out carrying only the worn portmanteau he had when he’d arrived.
She said she’d seen the papers spread out on the desk only a quarter-hour before. Moreover, she’d spent the intervening time writing letters in the little anteroom that separated the study from the stairs, with a view of both. Had he returned to the room, she could not have failed to see him.
“Is the manuscript fairly compact?” asked Holmes at this point in the narrative.
“Anything but. With my notes, which vanished along with it, it was as thick as a city directory. The original parchment is brittle and leaves a trail of brown flakes whenever it’s moved.”
“Then it’s unlikely he carried it out beneath his coat, as you indicated.”
“Impossible. That was just a figure of speech.”
“Is there a possibility he sneaked back in later? Or that some anonymous thief gained entry between the time Patterson departed and you arrived?”
“There is not. Isabel was in the anteroom the entire time. There is no other entrance to the study except the window, which has been nailed shut since we moved in.”
“Have you been in contact with Patterson?”
“As I suspected, he returned directly to the woman in Spitalfields. When I confronted him
there, he did not take the trouble to deny the theft. A police search of his quarters failed to uncover the papers, and no amount of threats on my part would persuade him to confess what he had done with them.”
“Did you try bribery?”
“Against all my principles, yes. He laughed at me. Ten years ago, I’d have struck the blighter, but my wife has had a domesticating influence. He has me over a barrel, Holmes. The authorities won’t jail him without evidence. The insolent creature as much as challenged me to take action. I’d call him out, Isabel or no Isabel, but killing him on the field of honour would not bring back the directions to Tut’s tomb.” Impotent rage coloured the old knight’s features through the artificial pigment.
“Do you think he intends to loot the tomb himself?”
“Hardly. He is not an archaeologist, and the work is heartbreaking even when one has the wherewithal to finance an expedition. He is as lazy as Ludlam’s dog and as poor as a leper. His only hope for profit would be to sell the manuscript, but since I’ve alerted the Royal Geographical Society to that possibility, his only recourse would be to ransom it back to me, for considerably more than I offered the first time. But four weeks have passed, and he has made no attempt to get in touch. Isabel suggested I consult you.”
“You have had him watched, no doubt.”
“He can’t take a step in any direction without being observed by private enquiry agents. The farthest he’s travelled is to the corner post office and back. The agents’ fees are ruinous, and I am a poor man. The situation cannot continue. The key to the greatest historical find in a generation lies in the hands of a common thief. You are my court of last resort.”
“I think of having a placard lettered to that effect.” Holmes pulled at his pipe. “I should like to visit your study, if you will have me.”
“Certainly, although I fail to see what the visit will achieve. My search was thorough, and the layout is as I described.”
“I do not think otherwise. However, as you well know, the source of the Nile remained invisible to those who lived next to it for ten thousand years. Identifying it required a stranger. Watson, be a good fellow and hail us a cab. Tutankhamen awaits.”
The Perils of Sherlock Holmes Page 2