The five of us went down into the cellar, and I was not surprised to see when I turned that the tall servant once again blocked the doorway above us as we descended.
If Holmes was in any way worried about being trapped in a hostile situation, he showed no signs of it. On our arrival in the cellar he immediately moved to stand over the sarcophagus, waiting until the rest of us were gathered around before starting.
“It was all rather simple, in the end,” he said, running his hands over the stone. “We have all looked at the carvings, but what none of us thought to consider was that the carvings themselves were the very key we were looking for. They tell a story, gentlemen—if you can remember your history lessons. All we have to do is follow the main plot points of the tale.”
He pointed toward the left end of the box. “We start over here, in the most distant past, with the face that launched a thousand ships—here we have Agamemnon and Menelaus setting out to war with Troy.”
He pressed down, and the patch of stone under his hand dropped down into its recess.
“Next we have the siege of Troy itself in all its glory.”
Another piece of stone dropped into its recess. And so it went on, through the deaths of Hector and Achilles, the Wooden Horse, and Aeneas’ escape from the burning city. When that was done, almost half the top of the box was in a recessed position.
“And now we come to the man himself. Alexander’s story too is writ here—from the death of his father …” Holmes pressed down, and another piece fell into the recess. “Through the battles of Issus and Gaugamela …” Another piece was recessed. “The conquest of Egypt … and his death, in Babylon.”
A final two pieces fell into place. There was a loud hiss, as of escaping air, and I smelled camphor and honey, so strong as to be cloying. With a grinding sound of stone on stone, the top quarter of the box shifted an inch to one side.
Holmes stepped away and bowed theatrically. He had succeeded—he had found the means to unlock the puzzle, and the lid of the sarcophagus was now exposed.
Alexander’s tomb was ready to be opened.
3
Holmes and I, however, were not allowed to be privy to the momentous event. If I expected Holmes to argue the case, I was to be disappointed, as Northwich shepherded us out of the cellar.
“I’m sure you will understand that it has to be the three of us alone—we have waited too long for this moment.”
“Oh, I understand,” Holmes said softly. “And I hope it was worth it. But he was interred so thoroughly for a reason. It might not be wise to pry too deeply.”
Northwich laughed.
“It is a bit late for any such qualms, old boy. I shall see you in the sitting room anon. Help yourself to more brandy—we will not be long.”
The last thing I heard before the cellar door closed was Grimshawe shouting, “Well? Is the bally thing there?”
Then Jake made sure, through elaborate waving of hands and a shooing gesture more suited to herding sheep, that we moved away from the cellar door and through into the sitting room.
I strained to listen, hoping to hear what might be taking place below.
Holmes seemed both amused and concerned. “We are best out of it, Watson,” he said. “They might think that the disease—contagion—whatever it may have been, is passed, but by now they have exposed the body and are rooting among the remains for whatever talisman it may be that they seek. Who knows what ills might yet lurk inside the sarcophagus, having slept there in the dark, waiting to be released?”
“You believe they are after something that was buried with Alexander, rather than the body itself?”
“Certainly, Watson. Don’t you? They would hardly have gone to such extremes merely for a mummified body—they would hardly have kept their activities so secret.”
I could see Holmes’ point, and it made me strain even harder to try to discern any sounds from below.
There were none forthcoming. After a time I gave up on trying to eavesdrop, poured a snifter and lit a smoke. Holmes seemed rather pleased with himself having solved the puzzle of the box, but he was far from relaxed, as if ready should either fight or flight be required. I resolved to take it easy on the brandy and held a watching brief.
After ten minutes the three men came up out of the cellar, and the night ended on a complete anti-climax as Grimshawe and Richards left without saying a word of goodbye. Northwich came into the sitting room, smiling broadly.
“You found it, then?” Holmes said softly.
Northwich did not reply at first, and when he did it was to change the subject.
“You shall have your money on your return to London, Holmes. The three of us would like to thank you for your service—and your continued discretion in this matter. Good night.”
And that was that. Northwich retired to bed, leaving Jake standing in the hallway, a none-too-subtle reminder that we should not attempt any visit to the cellar. Holmes and I finished our smokes and took ourselves upstairs to pack, before I fell into a restless sleep dreaming of desert skies and cold stars.
The next morning we started our trip back south, none the wiser as to the contents of the sarcophagus.
Chapter Ten
EF
We only broached the subject of the sarcophagus once in the weeks that followed, and only then because it had been preying on my mind.
“Why the mummification?” I asked. “I would have expected a more Greek burial for the Macedonian king.”
We were once again sitting beside the fire in the comfort of the Baker Street apartment, filled with a hearty supper and passing idle time before adjourning to our beds.
“Ah, but you are forgetting your history, Watson,” Holmes replied. “He was not just a Greek king—he was a Pharaoh, and a great admirer of all things Egyptian. I have no doubt that he would have looked on the line of rulers before him in that country, seen their tombs and edifices, and thought of himself as no less worthy of a grand final resting place—and an equal chance at immortality.”
“Pish,” I said. “Stuff and nonsense. Dead is dead—we have both seen enough corpses to be all too aware of that fact.”
“That we have, Watson,” Holmes replied sadly. “But there will always be those who wonder—those seeking an advantage over the rest of us mere mortals. I fear the three we met in that cellar are three such men. They went to inordinate lengths for their prize. I only hope they are happy now that they have it in their grasp.”
“And you still do not know what they were after?”
Holmes shook his head. “I have not enough facts at hand to make an accurate guess. But I will say one thing, Watson—I do not think we are quite done with those three yet.”
Holmes’ prediction was proved accurate several weeks after that conversation. We started to see stories in the Thunderer concerning one or the other of the trio. Grimshawe’s South African mines threw up a new diamond field bigger than any ever before found, Richards’ exploration team struck oil in the Gulf of Mexico, and Northwich made a deal with several Asian governments that meant he would become the largest importer of hardwoods to the Commonwealth. These three items alone meant that the men were once more thrust into the higher echelons of society, and when they all arrived in London soon after the headlines, they proceeded to cut a swath through society parties that became the talk of the town.
“It will not be long now, Watson,” Holmes said after I had remarked on Northwich’s latest mention in the society pages. “These things have a rhythm to them all their own, and this particular dance will shortly come to an end.”
3
Two days later Northwich’s tall servant, Jake, arrived on our doorstep just after dawn.
He still did not speak, neither to Mrs. Hudson nor to me when she called me down to join her; merely handed me a sheet of paper. There were several lines of crabbed, hurried writing.
“Come quickly, Holmes. We are in need of you again. We offer another two hundred guineas for a swift resolutio
n.”
It was signed simply, ‘Northwich’. The headed notepaper had Grimshawe’s name on it, and gave an address in Islington. Five minutes later Holmes and I hailed a carriage and headed for the house.
3
We arrived to find both Richards and Northwich on the doorstep. They looked pale and wan and, more than that, in a state of funk the likes of which I had rarely seen away from a battlefield.
“He’s inside,” Northwich said, his voice dull and lifeless. The man was in shock, and so too was his companion.
“We didn’t do it,” Richards added. “And we need you to prove it.”
Holmes did not stop to ask questions. He strode into the house, and I followed at his heels.
Grimshawe lay on a rug in a gentleman’s study—or rather, his body lay there, still seeping blood in a puddle that had only recently stopped widening. The man’s head, lips pulled back in a grimace, eyes bulging in a frightful stare, looked out at us from the fireplace, where it had been placed on top of a small pyramid of fresh coal. Blood ran in rivulets down the flanks of the pyramid, like lava from a volcano. The room itself had been ransacked, with papers, pens, ink and envelopes strewn in all corners. A quick examination of the body showed that the head had been torn from the torso, and with some force at that, leaving only tatters of muscle and sinew around the neck wound.
I remarked on that fact to Holmes, but he was already on his hands and knees in an examination of the rug and flooring surrounding the body, and I knew better than to interrupt.
Inspector Lestrade arrived in the room even as I stood away from the body.
“I’d like you two to leave—right now,” he said with no preliminary pleasantries. “We have those two out on the pavement bang to rights on this one—we don’t need any amateurs getting in the way.”
He did it deliberately—I am sure of that—and he achieved the desired effect. Holmes rose from the ground, putting something in his left pocket on the side away from where Lestrade could see.
“I am finished here in any case,” Holmes said. “But I can tell you now, Lestrade, the two men outside did not kill their friend. Ask your pathologist to examine the wound—and tell him to obtain a second opinion if that will help—I’m sure Watson would oblige.”
Lestrade appeared to be stumped for an answer to that, and Holmes swept out of the room before he came up with one. I followed Holmes out.
“Holmes is right,” I said to Lestrade in passing. “Neither of those two men are strong enough for this.”
Lestrade merely grunted. “We’ll see,” he said, but he was already far less sure of himself than he had been on his entrance mere minutes before.
I went back out into the thin sunshine just in time to see Northwich and Richards being loaded into the back of a police carriage and locked inside. Northwich called out just before the vehicle rattled away.
“Two hundred guineas, Holmes. Persuade them they are wrong, and the money’s yours.”
3
There was little to be served by hanging around the scene of the crime—not while a constant stream of policemen went in and out and generally cluttered up the street. Holmes walked away, heading back in the direction of Baker Street, and I followed, although I did not relish making our way all the way back on foot.
It appeared Holmes was of the same mind. He came to a halt at the Angel and we waited in a short queue at the rank for a carriage. It was only then that I had a chance to ask a question.
“Why did they not flee?” I asked. “Northwich and Richards could have run—with their money and resources they would be out of the country and well beyond Lestrade’s reach by now.”
“Perhaps because they are indeed innocent?” Holmes replied; then, after a pause, “Or perhaps they believe there is no point in running. It may well be that they are safer behind bars than they are out in the city.”
He would say no more, and the import of his words only came back to me later—when it was much too late.
Chapter Eleven
EF
Holmes did not show me what he had hidden in his pocket until we had returned to Baker Street.
“I was not greatly surprised to find this on the scene,” he said. “It appears to be a running motif in this case.”
He opened his hand to show me three short strips of the now-familiar linen in the palm of his hand. When we entered the apartment, he went straight to his work desk and studied the material under his large glass.
“It is as I thought,” he said. “More writing—Homer again, and more Trojan references. These are fragmented, but there is one line I recognize.” He traced a finger along one of the linen strips as he spoke.
“There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.”
“But what the blazes was this material doing there, Holmes?” I asked. “It’s a dashed long way from skin lesions and disease to ripping a man’s head off his body.”
“A long way indeed, Watson,” Holmes said softly. “But perhaps not as far as this linen has traveled. I must think.”
Mrs. Hudson arrived with a light luncheon tray soon afterward, but Holmes did not even take notice; he was once again lost in thought in his chair by the fire, the only movement the occasional puff on his favorite meerschaum. I left him to it and polished off most of what had been left on the tray before joining him by the fire. I sat there, sipping tea, smoking and trying to make some sense of the death in Islington.
3
Someone rapped hard on the street door at three in the afternoon.
“Be a good chap and show Lestrade up, will you Watson?” Holmes said, rousing himself. “I imagine he is rather vexed by now.”
It was indeed Lestrade. As Holmes had predicted, he was not in the best of moods when he sat down heavily in a fireside chair.
“Well, your men are out on bail,” he said. “The finest lawyers money can buy, an hour in the pokey, and they are free to spit on the law again. I hope you are satisfied, Holmes?”
“It has nothing whatsoever to do with me, Lestrade,” Holmes replied. “I merely pointed out that you had no proof of their wrongdoing. The fact that you could find none means that any recriminations here should be directed inward, rather than outward.”
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. “I know,” he said, suddenly looking as tired as I have ever seen him. “But this one has the brass in a fret. They want answers, and fast. Have you anything for me?”
Holmes laid out what we knew so far, pulling the story together for Lestrade up to the solving of the puzzle of the sarcophagus.
“After that, your guess is as good as mine,” Holmes said.
“I doubt that,” Lestrade replied. “But what about the big servant? Might he have the strength to do what was done to Grimshawe?”
“He might,” Holmes replied. “He seems devoted to Northwich, and would go to great lengths to protect his master. But I never saw any signs of antipathy between Northwich and the dead man—indeed, they appeared to be the best of friends.”
Lestrade smiled grimly. “Best friends murder each other every day, Holmes—you know that. I think we will bring the man in for questioning—Jake, you said?”
Holmes nodded. “Good luck with that, Lestrade. If the man is not a mute, he’s the nearest thing I’ve ever come across.”
It was only after Lestrade had gone that I realized Holmes had not mentioned the detail of the finding of the linen strips.
“I am not yet sure of their significance,” Holmes replied. “I need more facts. Never fear, Watson. Either Northwich or Richards—Northwich, most likely—will be calling on me soon enough. We will have more chances yet to arrive at the bottom of this.
3
Once again Holmes was proven right, although we had rather a longer wait on this occasion; it was after nightfall before we heard a carriage stop outside.
I opened the door to Northwich himself, and, as we had noted earlier, he seemed to be in a blue funk. He was alone—th
e carriage had already departed along Baker Street toward town—and he was wrapped and swaddled far more than was necessary against the weather, as if attempting to disguise his features.
Even a liberal dose of brandy failed to settle him; he seemed most anxious as he sat where Lestrade had been a few hours earlier.
“We did not do it, Holmes. You have my word of honor on that.”
“For whatever that may be worth?” Holmes said dryly, but Northwich was too agitated to notice the barb.
“And now your man in the Yard has pulled in poor Jake, whose only crime is his loyalty. They’ll get nothing out of him—I’ll tell you that now.”
“I already told Lestrade as much myself,” Holmes replied, getting a pipe lit.
I offered Northwich one of my Black Russian cheroots and I had to hold a match for him to light it, for his hands shook as if the cold had settled deep in them—although I do not think his problem was with the temperature in the warm room.
He seemed unsure of himself, a far cry from the confident man we had seen at his table back in his manor house.
Holmes prodded him gently. “You have come to tell me something, have you not?”
“I have come for your help, once again,” the man said quietly, almost a sob. “And yes—there are things to tell. Would it be possible for me to have more of that fine brandy—I will need a stiffener if you are to hear the whole thing.”
I did the duties, pouring a glass each for all of us, although Holmes’ drink sat untouched on the table by his chair as Northwich spoke.
Chapter Twelve
EF
“Our troubles really began immediately after we opened the casket,” he started, only for Holmes to interrupt him.
“Oh, they started a long time before that. If you wish to tell me the tale, you must tell me all of it—starting with the talisman, and why it is so important.”
Northwich jerked as if he’d been struck. “How do you know about the talisman? We …”
Holmes smiled. “So it is a talisman, then? Good. At last we are getting somewhere. Why don’t you start at the beginning—we have all night, after all. What first started you out on this quest of yours?”
Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle Page 15