by David Marcum
“I... yes. Yes. You are correct. My father is missing. He would never... He was in the middle of cataloguing a massive new collection. Plus, as I alluded to earlier, the institute was beginning a very important funding drive. I went to the police, but they said he probably decided to totter off to a pub for a few days. Take a holiday, to escape the pressure. Why would he leave? He loves what he does! I... I feared the worst because of all the stories circulating.
“Those gruesome mummies. Have you ever seen one up close? So shriveled and hideous. They are my least favorite part of his work. I grew up in his store rooms and display halls, often sleeping on musty stacks of books. His work is an obsession, which is fine. I love him for it. I always wanted to be by his side. But those mummies always scared me. They gave me nightmares at night. Now people have seen one moving. Seen one walking, like I always feared... imagined they did in my dreams. It is horrific! A nightmare come true! But no one will listen. The police laughed and said I was being hysterical. It is why I sought you out. My father means so very much... Thank you.”
She almost collapsed back into her seat.
“Quite right.” Holmes took several more deep puffs, creating a rather voluminous wreath of smoke about his head before returning to his own seat.
“Now, if you will submit to some more questions regarding your dear father, whom I had hoped to meet some day in order to discuss his explorations in Egypt and adventures in the rescuing of antiquities, we will proceed. Please do not mind Dr. Watson’s scribbling. He likes to keep notes of these perusals of mine.”
She nodded.
We spent the rest of the morning speaking with the rather comely Miss Aldebourne. As always, I listened in awe to Sherlock Holmes. His surprising breadth of knowledge shone as he expounded on the newborn science of archaeology, discussed Professor Hawthorne’s papers and travels, his speeches and theories. His daughter offered up intimate details of their life together, of his triumphs and discoveries, his failures and worries. It always intrigued me that Holmes had a singular ability to elicit responses from people while simultaneously insulting and commending them.
Abruptly, Sherlock Holmes vanished for the next week.
I fretted about. I visited Baker Street often. I talked with Mrs. Hudson, but she had no idea where he had gone. I accidentally upset Miss Aldebourne again by inquiring with her on the fourth day if she had any idea where Holmes was, and thus alerting her to the fact that he was missing. She assumed that he had decided to either flee the case outright and be done with her madness, or that something much worse had happened, and Holmes had disappeared just as had her father.
“All is lost! My father will never be found! The museum will close!” she wailed. Uttering assurances, I left her quickly, kicking myself on the walk home for ever having bothered her.
I secretly began to fear Holmes had succumbed to the doldrums that afflict him and vanished into the depths of the city as he so often does. So I decided to stay over for the next several days in my old rooms and hunt through the stacks and bundles of papers that clutter every shelf and corner for any clue as to Holmes’s whereabouts. His chaotic housekeeping was that singular anomaly that most visibly afflicted his character. Alas, though I spent many long moments reliving old cases as I unearthed forgotten tokens, I discovered nothing about his current absence.
On the evening of the seventh day, one of the urchin boys who inhabit the poorer streets of our city knocked at the door at 221b Baker Street. Holmes liked to employ these unfortunates from time to time, and indeed the young lad had a message from my vanished friend.
Through all his lectures on graphology, I at once could divine that this letter, written in strong, distinctive strokes, came from the hand of Sherlock Holmes.
Come at once to Weymouth House. Urgent that you attend the mummy unwrapping tonight. Bring money to donate, yours eyes to observe, and your revolver to serve. Keep near Miss Aldebourne.
I took a hansom cabriolet to the historical institute. It was drawn by a fine roan horse and, listening to the clomp of the hooves on the cobblestones, I pondered where Holmes had been during the intervening days.
Weymouth House was a strong, sturdy building that was designed along staid Classical lines, as the structure predated the current overwrought architectural fad of Gothic Revival. It looked to be the perfect storehouse for antiquities.
I was led through several rooms packed with tables and shelves filled almost to overflowing with statues, carvings, chests, vases, papyri, jewelry, paintings, and other artifacts. Though the doorman moved everyone swiftly along, I saw enough to spark a deeper interest and knew I would return to peruse these shelves at leisure.
I was brought into a chamber full of other guests and introduced. Most of the crowd were businessmen and their wives, amongst whom I discovered several colleagues from the medical profession. Here and there throughout the room were true gentry, those grand old representatives of ancient nobility, who stood their ground like lions. There were also a few politicians who slunk around, laughing too loudly like hyenas, some retired military officers, a sea captain, several professors, explorers, and assorted foreign dignitaries who help on expeditions. It was an interesting and lively crowd and I circulated for some time, getting acquainted with the lot. Miss Aldebourne was there, of course, and we spoke, though I tried to keep a distance and be casual. All were here for the event, which was a fundraising brainchild of Mr. Cushway, the director of the House.
I kept an eye out for Sherlock Holmes. Knowing he was alive had lifted a burden of apprehension that had been on me throughout the week. However, I did not see him as the evening wore on, and we had refreshments and made small-talk.
Finally, Mr. Cushway arrived with fanfare. Trumpets sounded and gongs clanged. A man yelled out some verses in a foreign tongue - whether Arabic or some ancient, dead language, I knew not. Four large Egyptians with robes and headwraps carried Mr. Cushway into the room on a chair between poles. A seeming legion of their countrymen then marched into the room supporting a giant, wooden sarcophagus. It was banded in precious metals, painted with fantastic creatures and figures, and glittered with jewels and gems. The crowd parted and fell back as this precession stamped into the middle of the room with their sandaled feet. With a loud, ominous boom, they lowered the massive container of the dead to the floor.
Cushway arose, spread his arms, and intoned deeply:
“Oh, Ra, you giver of all life,
Prince of Everlastingness.
The earth rejoices when it sees your golden rays.
People who have been long dead
Come forward with cries of joy
To behold your beauty every day.
You go forth each day over heaven and earth.
Oh, Ra, God of Life, you Lord of Love,
All men live when you shine.
“Since the dawn of time,” he continued, “when the sun first rose on mankind, we have stood preeminent. Civilization arose in the river valleys of the Holy Land. Mighty Babylon in the valley of the Euphrates. Then there was Egypt, flowing for eternity along the banks of the Nile. Writing! Music! Mathematics! Architecture! All the achievements of civilization came from these ancient societies and lifted mankind in glory above the animal kingdom. All these ancient civilizations, like Greece, like Rome, built up knowledge and power and wealth, and dominated the world in their time. Like the torch handed down by Prometheus, this knowledge has been given from people to people, from city to city, from Babylon to Cairo to Athens to London.
“But, whether by the smiting by God from a Flood, or by barbarian invaders, or just by the vaguery of all-powerful Time wearing them down, all these civilizations faltered and crumbled, and the torch of knowledge dimmed and almost went out. Civilization would have been forgotten to all, and all the accumulated knowledge lost, had it not been for our modern intrepid explorers. Those who were b
rave enough to break down the doors of ruined temples, enter the dark of crypts, and dig up entire cities buried beneath the dust of Time. Explorers who have recovered texts and techniques and returned from foreign deserts and mausoleums to our shores with the knowledge of the ages.
“Ever since my first digs in Egypt with Maspero, amongst scholars and pyramidologists, I have been steadfastly unearthing the ancient history of mankind and bringing it home to England. With the discoveries at Deir el Medina, Sakkara, and in the Valley of the Kings, we have recovered astounding lost artifacts from ancient Egypt. Some of these are gathered here in the rooms before you, and others are being displayed in newly built museums around the world. We must continue this heroic work and uncover all the mysteries of the past. It is for this reason I asked you all here tonight. Because, sadly, we cannot do it alone. We need your help!
“The work is brutal and backbreaking. We travel deep into jungles, or far out across the wastelands and deserts. We venture into the wild, dangerous, unexplored corners of the Earth. We have to carry supplies, hire teams of workers, build them shelter and feed them, and then put in months and months of grueling work moving mountains of rock and dirt.”
Cushway looked old and exhausted. He stared down at the floor for a long time.
“We dig and we dig. For what? Crumbling wood? Dried bits of paper? Broken statuary? No. For glory? Perhaps. For gold treasures? Yes!” He stabbed his forefinger into the air and broke into a smile.
Everyone laughed.
“No, we uncover the past for knowledge. We need to know where we have been so that we will know where we need to go. We need to know how people lived in the past. How they spoke, what they wore, where they traveled. How they waged war and died. We need to know what they built and what they tore down. We need to know, to learn the lessons of the past, so that we do not repeat the same mistakes.”
People in the crowd began clapping. Cushway looked reinvigorated again. He was standing like a champion atop a hill.
“This is why I invited you here tonight. We need your help. I want you to see first-hand what we do, what we discover. I want you to become explorers of the past with me!”
Cushway walked over to the sarcophagus and put his hand on the gilded lid. “I want you all to experience what it is like to stare into the face of one of our ancestors who lived and breathed thousands of years ago. But not just any man. A king among kings. A man who ruled his entire world. A man so mighty he built an empire and raised up pyramids to the height of mountains. Do you want to see the face of the mighty Pharaoh?”
The room echoed with enthusiastic support as the crowd surged forward together around the sarcophagus.
“Now, now, dear fellows. Patience.” Cushway made elaborate brushing motions as he circled the massive coffin and shooed people away from it.
“You see, I must be cautious. First, if anyone is in any way faint or squeamish at the site of death - ladies, I speak mainly to you, but also to anyone elderly or infirm of heart - please remove yourselves from this room at once. We are about to unwrap a man dead for more centuries than England has even existed!” He clapped his hands loudly and yelled, “Jenkins! Please show them to the refreshments set up in the library.”
There were mumblings and, after a few moments, a few men and the majority of the women left the room. A few intrepid ladies stayed, including Miss Aldebourne. I took note of those leaving, assessing ailments in case my consultation was necessary later.
As the last elderly couple was moving away, Miss Aldebourne leaned close to me and said, “I have seen this charlatan’s tricks so many times, it is boring. I am going to go get some wine. Enjoy the show. I’ll join you after the unveiling.” She walked off quickly, following the couple.
“Well, now only the strong remain,” Cushway said amidst chuckles. “Second, we need your trust. You see, amidst all the ruined buildings and broken pottery, we also find treasures. Statues and jewelry made from pure gold and silver, priceless gemstones. All sorts of treasures.”
With a flourish he brought a golden necklace out of his pocket that trailed a full shimmering foot down before it ended in some sort of stylized bird with golden wings spread. The feathers were various types of colored gems, and it is eyes gleamed with rubies.
There were gasps throughout the room.
“We never know the value of things we dig out of the dirt until they are glittering in the air before our faces. Furthermore, as you know, mummies are wrapped from head to toe in linens that help preserve them from the ravages of Time. But, what you might not know is that within the layers of these linens, they secreted jewels and treasures to take with them into the afterlife. Every time we unwrap a mummy, we discover hidden treasures just like this!”
Cushway circled the sarcophagus again, the necklace held high, while the crowd gasped, pointed, and some reached out to touch the dangling object.
“So you see, we need your trust to protect these priceless treasures. We must protect this heritage from common thieves. This-” he shook the necklace vigorously “-this is nothing compared to the treasures we have already unearthed, and who knows what glories the future holds - perhaps some of which we will unwrap tonight, in the shroud of the pharaoh.
“Which brings me to my third and most important point. We need your help. We have to pay to travel, pay to dig, pay to clean, pay to house, pay to ship, pay to store, and pay to protect these treasures. We simply do not have enough money to do so. I-” he patted his sides “-am broke. I am always digging in the fields or back in the warehouses cleaning and cataloguing. I do not have time to have another career just to pay for this one. But with your help, we can continue. With your help, we can uncover every last item that has been lost to Time. In fact, everything we find inside this mummy tonight, every piece of jewelry, every small statue and prayer and gemstone, I will give to you for your support. So that you may go home and show your neighbors just how much you care. Show the world how much you have saved from the past. Well? Will you help us? Will you help us recover these treasures? Will you pledge to me, tonight, that you will help us save civilization from the ravages of Time?”
There were cheers of huzzah and pledges made all around the sarcophagus.
Director Cushway shook hands and patted shoulders and thanked the contributors, including me, when I gave him the money that Holmes had asked that I bring.
“And now the final moment has arrived. We reveal the Pharaoh!”
Cushway clapped his hands again and the Egyptian workmen surged forward, clamorously barging through the crowd. One of the clumsy louts slammed his shoulder into me on the way through the crowd and knocked me off balance. He helped steady me with strong hands as I stumbled, and breathed garlic at me with an accented, “Excuse, excuse!”
The workers began the arduous task of removing the massive lid. Levers were brought forth. They grunted and pried at the sarcophagus until finally, with a crack and then a long grating noise, the lid slid aside, revealing a second smaller, yet equally beautifully decorated coffin. After some ropes were applied, it was lifted out. When it was opened, the mummy was revealed.
The gasps and murmuring quickly fell to a complete silence of awe as the mummy was freed and placed on a table.
Miss Aldebourne wandered back through the crowd and sidled up beside me. She whispered, “Were you sold, Dr. Watson?”
I smiled weakly and nodded.
Cushman himself oversaw the careful unwrapping of the mummy. Oddly, no treasures fell out of the folds during the unwrapping. Cushman stopped several times, seeming almost confused and questioning the workers with sharp foreign words. But then he would smile at his patrons and continue.
“Something is not right,” Miss Aldebourne said in my ear. “I have seen this show too many times. The patron show jewels are missing.”
The linens were extremely long and it took much more
time than I ever imagined to finally get down through the layers to the mummy.
Cushman said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the Pharaoh!”
He unwrapped the head. When he did, I wished instantly that he had not.
Cushman cursed loudly and staggered back. Several of those closest gagged or shouted. One lady swooned.
The mummy was no withered pharaoh. Rather, it was revealed as the mottled and blackish-gray face of the missing Professor Aldebourne. A tight cord cut deep into his neck.
I grabbed at Miss Albebourne as she screamed and screamed again. She broke free and moved up to the table. Stark white, she looked her father full in the face. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She then turned away, shaking, and with a deep, ragged gasp of air that seemed to come from the very depths of hell, staggered away from the table.
I called her name but she broke into a run. Most of the crowd did as well. People fled from the mummy table in all directions.
I tried to examine the professor in more detail. It was obvious that he had been murdered. But, as I tugged at the linens around his shoulders to see if I could see any further wounds on his chest, Director Cushway came at me like a beast. He struck me in the shoulder and the side of the head, before pushing me violently away from the table.
“Leave him alone! Leave him alone!” he shouted. Then he sank to his knees and began sobbing, “Oh, dear lord! Oh!”
I turned rather uselessly through the chaos until I heard a scream. It came from the depths of the back rooms in the Weymouth - and it sounded like Miss Aldebourne.
I ran through several rooms, trying to find my way, when I heard her scream again. This time I could follow the sound more directly. I passed through two more rooms and ran down a long back corridor to a storage area.
There was a final strangled cry from one of the rooms, but it abruptly cut off. I pushed open the door and had the fright of my life. I swear now, writing this passage and thinking back on these events, that I lost several years on my life at the sight.