by Ron Weighell
‘It has taken some effort to get anyone to speak. I have never known a man so feared. They refer to him only as “The Old One”, and sometimes by a phrase that means “His Own Father”. He is held in awe by rich and poor alike. No one will admit to being his enemy, nor claim to be his friend. No one can say where he comes from, or what his purpose is, but when he walks abroad all step aside.’
‘It sounds,’ I observed, ‘as if we have crossed swords with the Egyptian Moriarty.’
Holmes’s dusty, bearded face twisted into a wry smile.
‘I fear, Watson, that these are altogether darker waters, and this “Old One” is a more evil and dangerous kind of fish. This much I have learnt. They have walked this Avenue of Sphinxes with the Stelé already, and await a propitious time according to the stars before going on by boat to their final destination. Did the papyrus reveal where that might be, Dr Bhey?’
‘Not directly, Mr Holmes, but I think it must be Edfu. Nectanebo built a Naos, a shrine, there, and the temple in which it stands is dedicated to the God Horus, who is carved on the Stelé.’
‘Very good, Dr Bhey. Now you must both be on your guard. Watch the Nile, and be ready to follow them at a moment’s notice. Expect me by your side when you least expect it!’
I need hardly say how buoyed up I was by the appearance of Holmes, and the knowledge that he would be there, unseen, working on our behalf. We also knew where to focus our energies. Within an hour we had hired one of the small sailing boats called felukahs, stocked it with basic food stuffs, and were waiting for the sign that the last stage of our pursuit was underway.
It was a long, tiresome wait under the blazing sun. An awning was stretched over the deck, but even in the shade we grew hot and tired. On the second morning another boatman ran up and spoke urgently to one of our crew. He in turn whispered to Bhey, who turned to me with an excited smile. ‘That man has seen a large and beautiful boat pull out downstream. He ran to tell us immediately.’
‘This must be Holmes’s work, I am sure,’ I cried. ‘We would have missed them!’
In minutes we were on the Nile, a light breeze rippling the felukah’s sails. The boatman and his brother rowed with their massive counter-weighted oars to supplement our propulsion. It proved an epic journey. At times the Nile was kind, and we could sail before a strong wind. More often, the crew had to tack wildly to catch breaths of breeze, or pull into the shallows where the boat could be punted through the reeds. When they grew tired they chanted an ancient song, perhaps as old as the Pharoahs.
When darkness came, a surprising chill fell on the Nile. We snatched a few hours of sleep and went on at first light. Ahead of us we could now make out a sail, and through my small spy glass I saw a large and magnificent boat under full sail. Grander than a felukah, it had about it something of the ancient Egyptian barge, and much of the sleek, modem yacht. We would clearly struggle just to continue to keep it in sight.
So our Nile journey, which might have been in other circumstances idyllic, passed in toil and worry. Once I glimpsed on the river bank a boy who looked like our spy. Was our enemy watching our every move?
Just up river from Edfu, we pulled in and tied up among the reeds. At our request the boatman walked on, and returned before long with the news that the great vessel was moored at the village. Darkness was already falling at the end of our third day on the Nile. We arranged to watch the vessel in turn, and await our chance to claim the Stelé.
Dawn brought purposeful movement among the crew of the great boat by Edfu. We knew that the time to make our move was approaching. Once the ritual was completed, the Stelé might disappear for ever into the maze of Cairo streets, or the desolation of some desert hideaway. I wondered how, and when, Holmes would make his move.
Bhey was intimately familiar with the layout of Edfu Temple, and felt that he could get us there without attracting too much attention. By swapping clothes with the boatmen, we might approach the temple unchallenged. Once there, we would have to improvise.
We covered the journey from the river to the temple without mishap, and walked along the Cyclopean outer wall to the main gates. There we had expected to find opposition, but the towering pylons stood deserted.
As we moved out of the shadow of the wall, a familiar figure came into sight, and rounded the far wall of the temple complex. It was the street urchin who had plagued us since our arrival, and whose intentions looked far from innocent. Once he was out of sight we entered the courtyard and made for the temple entrance, guarded only by great falcons of stone.
Inside the darkness of the temple I could see stone columns and hieroglyph-covered walls. The floor was gritty with wind-blown sand. All was still and silent.
Bhey led us to the very heart of the temple, where stood a great shrine of black granite. A small wooden boat of ancient construction had been placed in front of it, and propped up inside it was the Stelé. ‘The boat is for carrying ceremonial objects in procession,’ explained Bhey. ‘This one has stood here in the temple for two thousand years.’
‘Longer than that,’ said a voice; and someone stepped out of the darkness within the granite shrine.
I would not have been surprised to see Holmes, or even the urchin, but the figure who emerged was as remarkable as he was unexpected. He wore the garments and headgear of an ancient Egyptian King, and carried a staff that glittered with precious stones set in the eyes and body of a bronze serpent that coiled along its length. The effect was at once barbarous and exotic, and I knew at once that we were in the presence of the person called ‘The Old One’.
He was a dark-skinned, middle-aged man, whose eyes were great pools of glittering darkness in a face of awesome majesty. The voice, though, was reedy and faint. ‘There has always been a temple here. An aeon has passed since the solar boat was first brought to Thes-Heru. We are unlike your kind. Ours is a work of aeons.’
‘The Old One’ raised his staff, and out of the surrounding columns came a number of well-armed men. In a blink we were surrounded.
‘The temple must not be profaned with blood,’ he piped. ‘No blood, because of my hair, the Trees of Eternity. Let them be broken upon wheels, but not here; not here.’
We were led back out towards the entrance of the temple. As we walked I wondered if they planned to kill us in the outer courtyard, and prayed that Holmes would not delay his move any longer.
Out in the courtyard the sun had risen to blazing heat, and had begun to drive away the shadows. We were pushed across this burning space in the direction of a building that stood separate from the main temple.
Then came a sound like thunder. Into the courtyard galloped a host of mounted Arabs, led by a figure in flowing white robes and burnous, mounted on a magnificent white stallion. Under the flapping folds of the headgear I glimpsed the features of Sherlock Holmes.
Holding the prancing horse still with great difficulty, he fired off an ornate flintlock pistol, and the nearest of our captors fell like a pole-axed bull. A fusillade of shots followed, and we were in the middle of a pitched battle.
Holmes spurred his mount on and rode at full gallop into the temple. I ran after, and saw him disappear into the heart of the building. A few seconds later the horse, riderless and wild-eyed, came cantering through the forest of stone pillars and out of the entrance.
I searched the temple, but could see no one. I picked up the Stelé and returned outside, where the fight was still engaged in earnest. The henchmen of ‘The Old One’ were putting up stubborn resistance.
A shrill cry drew my attention to the top of the pylon gate, and there on the very edge were Holmes and ‘The Old One’ locked in a desperate struggle. Our exchange concerning Moriarty flashed into my mind, and I wondered if it was the fate of goodness eternally to confront devils on high places.
Holmes was armed with a long, curving sword, which he was using to parry blows from the snake-entwined staff. There was a clash of metal, and the staff fell down into the courtyard, embedding itself upright
in the ground. The Old One jumped at Holmes, a great cry rent the air, and his ornately bedecked form came plummeting down from the pylon, straight onto the staff, which burst up through his back, penetrated his heart, and jutted out of his chest, leaving him grotesquely pinned in mid-air.
The fighting ceased as everyone looked at the fallen figure. To my utter astonishment and horror, I saw that it was not a healthy man in the prime of life that hung on the spike, but a desiccated, withered husk of a thing, like a long-mummified corpse.
A great wailing began among his servitors. My attention was attracted by a movement, and I turned in time to see a gun pointing at my face. I heard the hammer cocked, and saw the finger on the trigger begin to squeeze.
A blur of limbs and dirty fabric flew across and hit the gunman as a flash blinded me.
I became aware of a rattling sound and a rocking motion. I opened my eyes, winced at the pain that stabbed in my temple, and looked around me. White robes stained with dust and blood swam into focus, and I was staring at the sunburnt features of Sherlock Holmes. All I could think of to say was ‘Where am I?’
‘We are on a train heading for Alexandria, Watson.’
‘The Stelé!’ I cried.
‘Here, on the seat beside you.’ said Dr Bhey, as he checked the dressing on my head. ‘You are not badly hurt, but were it not for the street urchin who threw himself at the gunman, you would surely have been killed.’
‘The urchin! But he was a spy for . . .’
‘We will probably never know why he did it. He ran off before we could catch him.’
‘I am only sorry that I could be of no use to you in the fight,’ I said.
‘There was no more fighting after you fell, Watson. Once “The Old One” was killed his followers fled.’
‘And I think I know why,’ added Bhey. ‘There was a special significance in what you did to their leader. The temple was built to commemorate the killing of the evil Set by Horus. The name of the temple represents the way Set died. Edfu means to pierce.’
At Alexandria we made our farewells to Dr Bhey and began the race to London by negotiating passage on a tramp steamer bound for Naples. Our plan, to take whatever express trains we could get through Italy and France, suffered an immediate blow. Our arrival in Italy coincided with a holy festival, and whole families were on the move by train. We managed to bribe a driver to let us ride ‘on the plate’, and even took turns to shovel in the coal. The driver is probably still talking about the ‘mad English’ who worked so hard to get him the record for the journey! We made good time through France, but at Calais our race came to a disastrous standstill.
A storm in the channel had halted all boat travel. We spent a morning of frustration pacing the quay, and eventually found a French fisherman crazy enough to risk the crossing.
It did not take us long to doubt the wisdom of our decision. The tiny boat was tossed around like a cork by the massive waves. It seemed that the Stelé would end its days at the bottom of the Channel, for the fisherman began to talk of throwing our luggage overboard.
‘If it becomes necessary,’ Holmes told him, ‘you will go into the sea, but the luggage stays on board!’
He was wise enough to recognise determination when he saw it, and we heard no more of the matter.
The sight of Dover had never been more welcome than it was that day. Less than a hundred miles now stood between us and our destination, and an express was just leaving. We clambered on board just as it was pulling out of the station. We would reach London in plenty of time to deliver the Stelé to Wallis.
For the first time in many days we began to relax and talk. Holmes spoke of his admiration for the tribes who had helped him at Edfu.
‘They knew of, and feared, “The Old One”, but were prepared to put aside their own differences and fight together to put an end to him. It seems to me, Watson, that the Arab peoples, brought together in a common cause and led by a suitably charismatic leader, could be a military force to be reckoned with. I must mention the point to Mycroft.’
We had begun to discuss the more difficult matter of ‘The Old One’s’ end, and what we had witnessed in the courtyard at Edfu, when we realised that the train was drawing to a halt. The reason soon became all too clear. The storm that had caused such havoc in the Channel had blown down trees and blocked the line!
By frantic questioning we learned that trains were still running from a small country station five miles to the west. After a long, hot trudge we managed to hire a pony and trap. When we made it clear that we wished to reach the station as soon as possible, a mad gleam came into the farmer’s eye.
Within minutes I found myself wishing that we were back in the Channel. The man had clearly been waiting all his life for such an opportunity, and drove like a lunatic along the winding country lanes. Clinging for dear life until my knuckles were white, I pondered the Stelé’s first journey to England, the terrible episodes that had accompanied it, and wondered if Wallis had been right when he talked of a curse. Our own journey from Egypt had been plagued by disaster and danger. However, we survived the ride, and reached the station just in time to miss a London train. Another precious thirty minutes ticked away before we were able to settle down in a carriage and watch the last few miles slip by.
To my amazement, we pulled into London without further mishap, but it was after six o’clock in the evening, and the Stelé was due to be unveiled before the gathered dignitaries at seven.
A cab ride across London left us with but a few minutes before the unveiling. Holmes left me at the entrance to guard the Stelé and went to look for Dr Wallis. In minutes he was back, his face set hard.
‘Our troubles are not yet over, Watson. I have just seen two men in the crowd who are known assassins. The diplomatic initiative is still in danger, even now. If it should fail through an outrage committed tonight, the matter of the Stelé will be trivial indeed.
‘I can deal with one of them, but you must apprehend the other. He is easily identifiable. Look for a man with a full red beard, and wearing a bright blue sash. Get him out of the building by any means. I will do the rest.’
I left the Stelé in a safe place and entered the great hall of the museum. An attempt was made to check my invitation, but I pushed past and made for the individual Holmes had described. He put up quite a struggle, but I had him under control by the time two police officers arrived.
To my absolute amazement they ignored the assassin and grabbed me! I explained that the man was a known killer, and was met with a gale of laughter. Then Sherlock Holmes stepped through the crowd and addressed the red-bearded man.
‘Please forgive Dr Watson, Count Metterling. As you can see, he has suffered a wound to the head, and the excitement of the occasion has proved too much for him. Calm down, old fellow, and take a seat. Dr Wallis, you may proceed with the unveiling.’
He nodded meaningfully at Wallis as he said this, and the old scholar brightened visibly. He crossed to a case shrouded in velvet, and nodded to young Dorothy Edney, who was standing by in a splendid party dress. She pulled aside the curtain to reveal the Metterling Stelé.
Mycroft appeared at our side accompanied by Crossland.
‘Well done, Sherlock,’ said Mycroft, ‘although you did rather cut things a little fine. It is good to know, however, that those hours spent with your conjuring set were not wasted.’
I was about to take Holmes to task over his method of diverting attention, when the Misses Farrell and Edney appeared at our side.
‘Congratulations Mr Holmes,’ said Miss Farrell; ‘and you too, Dr Watson. I do hope your head is not too badly hurt. One day you must tell us all about your adventure. I am sure it will make me quite envious. If only I were a man, as you so rightly pointed out, I might have been able to play a part. Ah, well, that is the lot of we women. And now, I must bid you both goodnight, for tomorrow I begin rehearsals for a new play at Drury Lane.’
‘Florence is an actress,’ explained her young friend pr
oudly.
Miss Farrell smiled, and transformed before our eyes into a young urchin. ‘You go to Sakhara,’ she cried in a high, cracked voice, ‘this horse good horse for you, Mister.’ Then with a wink she turned and was gone.
Holmes stood as though he was paralysed.
‘It was her!’ I gasped. ‘She was in Egypt before us; she was with us every step of the way!’
‘No, Watson, it is worse than that. She was ahead of us, for she was waiting in many of the places.’
‘She got back before us too,’ I added, ‘and she saved my life. What a woman, Holmes, what a woman!’
‘If I had not decided to be an Egyptologist,’ said Miss Edney, ‘I think I would like to be the first female consulting detective.’
I thought I saw Holmes shudder imperceptibly. ‘It will surely come, Holmes. Many things are changing.’
‘It seems so, Watson, but there is at least one place where everything can be relied on to remain the same.’
‘Do you mean the Diogenes Club, Holmes?’
‘I mean Violinland, Watson. A God of The Bow walks the earth in London tonight, and if we hurry we can make our obeisance in one place where we are sure to encounter no evil: The Temple of Music!
The Sect of the Salamander
‘FROM THE CALLOUSES on the hands alone,’ said Sherlock Holmes, ‘it is possible to identify no less than forty distinct forms of manual labour. Or perhaps I should say forty distinct types of strain or wear produced by hand-tools and ropes. The hands of a man who has served aboard a ship all his life show a very different kind of wear from those of a time-served carpenter. I say nothing of secondary evidence, such as the effects of salt water on texture of the skin in the one case, or minute splinters and sawdust traces in the other. The position, depth, and extent alone, Watson, tell an eloquent story. That unfortunate fellow had probably never been aboard a ship in his life, or held a tenon saw. The small hard node of skin on the right index finger is an example of the phenomenon known as “Goldsmith’s Segs”. The man was a goldsmith. Our custodians of the law have blundered again.’