by David Marcum
“Gwen!” pleaded Mrs. Trecoming, “Deny him, I implore you!”
Once more her sister’s silence was an eloquent response.
Holmes rested his hands on the window ledge. “The image was projected upon this window, the light beam cropped so that it perfectly matches the dimensions of the frame. That the quality of the image is poor would not matter. Cast against the glass, already transparent, its very defects added to the otherworldly aspects.”
“Would no one see the light of the projector itself?” I wondered.
“Aimed through a chink in the curtains, most likely,” replied my friend. “Only someone looking directly across - such as from this room - would see it. Miss Westgate’s tale of an apparition, and her well-publicised reluctance to enter thereafter, would be a subtle deterrent to anyone - no matter how cool and logical their brain in less stressful times.”
“Oh, Gwen! What have I done to deserve such wickedness?”
Miss Westgate favoured her sister with a momentary, desultory glance. “You’ve always had the luck of it,” said she. “You have the better looks. You married well. Why shouldn’t I be blessed, just once? I met Mr. Grantford Sparks quite by chance, but when he told me of his work, I thought he’d been sent by a rectifying Providence. I promised to be his once you had fled this house and he had bought it for himself.”
“At a significantly reduced price,” said Holmes. “You saw how the people of this neighbourhood did their best to avoid the house. Mrs. Trecoming would never have been able to realise its true value with tales of its strange nature circulating. No one,” he added with a twinkle, “wants to live in a haunted house - save for those haunting it.”
The police were summoned and took Miss Westgate into custody. Homes and I joined them as they knocked upon the door of No. 184. The sole occupant - a Mr. Grantford Sparks, previously of Bath - was apprehended as he attempted escape via a rear window. As Holmes had predicted, in a cramped room facing Mrs. Trecoming’s house, was a complex device of hand-turned spools, lenses to focus an electric arc lamp, and strips of flimsy celluloid. The police impounded the machine with a view of returning it to the Friese-Green studios from where it was most likely taken.
Mrs. Trecoming repeated her desire to stay at No. 187. Once the deceit had been uncovered, that redoubtable woman was all the more determined to remain.
Holmes and I returned to Baker Street in a cab. As it pulled away, I glanced back one last time at the small mullioned window.
“Watson,” said Holmes, lighting a cigarette, “should you at any time find a need to record this trivial adventure in your usual manner, I would take it amiss if you attempted to close it in some tawdry, sensational manner.”
“How do you mean?”
He drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. “‘As I glanced back,’” he said, as though quoting, “‘I thought I espied a faint, darkened shape gazing down at us from the window.’”
I smiled. “You know I would never do so.”
“You have done worse.” He threw back his head and laughed. After a moment, I could not help but join in.
The Pharaoh’s Curse
by Robert V. Stapleton
I had never before seen the eyes of my friend Sherlock Holmes sparkle with such rage. He was sitting beside the empty fireplace, staring directly into the face of a young woman in the chair opposite him. The moment I walked in through the door of his rooms in Baker Street, I was in no doubt about the depth of his feelings.
“Are you telling me, Miss Venton,” said Holmes, “that you want me to help you find a bag of old bones?”
Her bright blue eyes stared back at him, inflexible and unrepentant. “Hardly any old bones, Mr. Holmes. It’s more a matter of finding the mortal remains of a First Dynasty Egyptian king. Pharaoh Amkotep, no less.”
“It is as I said. A bag of old bones. I’m sorry, but I can do nothing to help you.”
I stepped forward, to try to bring peace between them. “Now, Holmes,” I said, “you can hardly turn the young woman away so abruptly when she’s come to seek your professional help.”
Without looking up at me, he waved vaguely in my direction. “This is my colleague, Dr. Watson. He wanders in here from time to time.”
She acknowledged my presence with a slight tilt of the head.
I smiled in return.
Holmes now turned his gaze fully on to me. “You deal with it, then, Watson. You know my methods. Although I hardly think you’ll need them in this case. Without having any other facts to go on, I should say the matter is perfectly straightforward.”
He turned away, picked up his violin, and began to pluck a tune, pizzicato, on the strings.
I dropped my evening paper onto the table, pulled up a straight-backed chair, and sat down facing the young lady. “I’m sorry for my friend’s rudeness,” I said. “Am I to understand that your name is Venton?”
“That’s right. Beatrice Venton.”
“Then, Miss Venton, perhaps you’d like to tell me your story.”
She gave Holmes one more poisonous look, and turned to face me. “Very well, Dr. Watson. But I don’t think anyone can help me now. Mr. Holmes was my very last hope.”
“Sometimes it can help simply to share a problem with somebody else.”
She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. “Very well.” She took a deep breath. “You might have heard of Dr. Seymour Venton.”
“The famous Egyptologist? Of course.”
She looked up at me. “He’s my father. He has spent much of the last fifteen years searching for, and unearthing, the relics of people who lived in Ancient Egypt. Especially their mummified remains.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“For the last five years, I have been my father’s constant companion and co-worker in Egypt.”
Without interrupting his tune, Holmes said, “Hence your tanned skin, caused by constant exposure to the sun. And the scarab beetle ornament on a chain around your neck.”
“The scarab?” I hadn’t noticed that.
She gave a self-conscious smile, and held the necklace out so that I could see the fine workmanship of the scarab. “From the tomb of Pharaoh Ramses.”
I nodded. “Please continue, Miss Venton.”
She gazed into the unfocussed distance. “For a long time, we had been searching specifically for the remains of Pharaoh Amkotep. Trying to fill in the blank pages of the mysterious period of history covering his brief reign.”
“With no success?”
“Oh, we did indeed have success. Initially, at any rate. We worked hard to find the burial place. We scoured the archives, researched the history of ancient rulers, and dug in numerous locations. Then, we found him. Still in his sarcophagus, in a stone-lined tomb in the desert of the Upper Nile valley. But no sooner had we uncovered the remains than a band of grave-robbers came along one night and removed the mummified remains of our pharaoh. One of our Egyptian workers had betrayed us. We thought we would never see his remains again.”
“But?”
She abruptly turned her gaze onto me once more. “Dr. Watson, there is just a chance that the pharaoh has been brought to this country. For what reason, I have no idea.”
“Why do you say that?”
She became agitated. Then she stood up, stepped over to the window and looked outside. Not seeing the daily activities of Baker Street, but some horrible scene painted by her own imagination.
“We had a stroke of luck. We knew a man who worked at the docks in Alexandria. He told us of a cartel that specialised in exporting mummified remains. To places all over the world. It’s nothing new. There are reports of mummies being sent to the United States, to be used for a whole list of frivolous purposes. Some have even been fed into the paper mills. Can you believe it?”
“And
I suppose it’s all quite legal.”
“Legal, yes. But morally reprehensible. As far as I’m concerned, anyway. Well, our friend told us that some of the mummies were being exported to England. So we turned our search back to London, on the off chance, but the trail went cold. Now, all we have to go on is a name. Dackford.”
Holmes interrupted his playing. And looked up at her. “Dackford? Mr. Cornelius Dackford?”
“Have you heard of him, Mr. Holmes?”
“It’s a name whispered in hushed tones among the lower classes of society.” He stood up. A light had now entered his eyes. The light of a chase. “But I don’t know where he resides at the moment. Perhaps this is a case for the Baker Street Irregulars.”
Within ten minutes, the leader of the band of street urchins was standing in front of us. “What can we do for you, Mr. Holmes?”
“I want you to find somebody for me, Wiggins.”
“We’re good at that kind of thing, Mr. Holmes.”
“I know you are. So you should have no difficulty finding this individual.” He looked to Miss Venton. There was now a fragment of hope in her eyes as well. “I want to know the whereabouts of a man called Dackford. Cornelius Dackford. It seems he trades in exotic goods.”
“Usual rates, Mr. Holmes?”
“Usual rates. And double if you manage it by breakfast tomorrow morning.”
The following morning, we called on Mr. Dackford. He owned a warehouse down by the docks. It was a disreputable place, with water dripping from a broken pipe in one corner of the building, and rats scuttling around in dark holes and murky shadows. Not a suitable resting place for a ruler of ancient Egypt.
A man answered our knock. He was thin, balding, and had skin as yellow as parchment.
“Mr. Dackford?”
The man glared at us through narrowed eyes, and blew a cloud of tobacco smoke into our faces.
“Hmm,” mused Holmes. “I see you smoke a German brand of tobacco, Mr. Dackford.”
“Here. Who are you?”
“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” I replied, “and I am Dr. John Watson.”
“And the young lady?”
“Miss Beatrice Venton. The daughter of an eminent Egyptologist.”
Dackford cast his dark eyes suspiciously up and down the back lane.
“And what do you want with me?”
“We’re looking for the mummified remains of a pharaoh,” said Holmes. “Amkotep.”
“Doesn’t mean anything to me,” said Dackford, giving an exaggerated shrug. “Can’t tell one of them blighters from another. What does it matter, anyway? They’re all dead and gone.”
“It might matter if you were working for a gang of smugglers.”
Dackford looked offended. “Now listen, Mr. Holmes. Everything I do here is quite legal, whatever else you might think of it.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But the police might still be interested in some of your other activities. At the very least, they might want to search your premises here.”
“You can’t frighten me.”
“Then perhaps you can help us in our search.”
Dackford gave a non-committal sniff, and pointed to a wooden chest in the far corner of the room. “Have a look through that lot. They’re a load of charms and bracelets we’ve taken from some of them mummies. Nothing of much value. If you’re lucky, you might just find something to keep you happy.”
Whilst Holmes wandered around the storage area, his eyes scanning every inch of the place, I stood beside Miss Venton as she searched through the collection of trinkets.
Most of it was rubbish, but after several minutes she stood up again, holding a delicate fragment of cloth in her hands. “Look. This piece of fabric. There’s an ancient cartouche still visible on it.” She looked at me. “The name of Pharaoh Amkotep.”
I looked down at the material in her hands. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, Dr. Watson. I’ve spent years looking for these hieroglyphs. They’re branded into my memory.”
Holmes turned towards Dackford. “So, even if it isn’t here now, that mummy certainly has been here in the recent past.”
The man gave a sour look.
“To whom did you supply that mummy?”
“I don’t remember. And anyway, I often send them to auction. Sell them anonymous, like.”
“I only need a name.”
Dackford turned nasty. “Well that’s all you’re getting out of me.”
Holmes sniffed the air. “Tell me, Mr. Dackford,” he said. “Those German cigarettes. Did one of your clients supply them to you?”
Dackford’s eyes bulged in anger as he wrestled to control his temper.
“But there’s something more on this cloth,” said Miss Venton. “Along with the cartouche, there are other hieroglyphs.” She looked up at us with concern. “It’s not unknown to find them in such tombs, but it tells of a curse on anyone who disturbs his bones.”
Holmes shook his head. “A curse only has power over you if you believe that it has.”
But Dackford was interested now. “A curse, you say? I’ll be able to charge at least twice the going rate for something like that. Now, clear off, all of you. I’ve got work to do.”
As we left the warehouse, Miss Venton looked deflated.
“Cheer up,” I said. “At least we know that your lost pharaoh passed this way.”
“Yes,” she said, “but we’ve no idea where the trail leads from here.”
“Perhaps not,” said Holmes. “But the initial indications are suggestive.”
After we had escorted Miss Venton to her lodgings, Holmes and I took a cab to Oxford Street, and decided to walk the rest of the way. During those next few minutes, Holmes stopped at every newsstand and kiosk within sight, and collected a copy of every different newspaper edition he could find.
The moment we stepped through the door of his rooms in Baker Street, Holmes tossed the newspapers onto the carpet in front of the fireplace, cast aside his hat, coat, and cane, and knelt down amongst this array of newsprint. He divided them between us, and we began to search through them.
“What exactly are we looking for, Holmes,” I asked him.
He looked up at me as if I were stupid. “You know what unscrupulous people do with mummified remains, don’t you, Watson?”
I gave him a bland stare.
“You’ll be aware of an interest among the general public in viewing grotesque exhibits. The fairgrounds and amusements parks are full of them. Charlatans and tricksters make a great deal of money from catering to the morbid curiosity of the general public.”
“Of course. And the unwrapping of mummified remains has recently become one such ghoulish entertainment. Yes, I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never been to such an event.”
“Then perhaps you need to broaden your horizons,” said Holmes. “We’re looking for any report of an unwrapping occasion. It will probably appear as an advertisement, inviting those with a macabre taste to attend a scientific event, or some such poppy-cock.”
We searched.
Holmes was the one who found it. An invitation for members of the public to gather for an unrolling event. In was to take place in a basement room attached to a teaching hospital on the south bank of the Thames. Tickets to be purchased in advance from a certain Professor Tobias Powell. No address was given.
Holmes tossed the newspapers to one side, and began to search through his own collection of cuttings and documents. The storage system rapidly descended into chaos. Mrs. Hudson would once more be kept busy re-establishing order there.
“Here he is,” said Holmes. “Professor Tobias Powell. An entrepreneur who describes himself as a scientist, a dealer in the extraordinary, and a collector of the exotic.”
; “Perhaps we should have a word with this Professor Powell.”
“Well, you’ll certainly have to do that if you want to buy a ticket for that unrolling event. Fortunately, we now have an address.”
“I am indeed honoured to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” said Tobias Powell, as he ushered the three of us in to the study of his modest town-house.
I looked around the room. A vase of flowers stood on a side-table. It held a single red rose, a single white carnation, and several green leaves of lily of the valley. The sweet smell filled the room, and helped to cover the smell of tobacco-smoke that lingered in the air.
Powell turned to face us. “Won’t you please sit down, gentlemen and lady?”
We did so.
“Now, why would a great detective like you, Mr. Holmes, be interested in my humble affairs?”
“Merely helping out our client,” said Holmes. “Miss Venton here is trying to discover what happened to the mummified remains of a certain Egyptian pharaoh.”
“I’m not sure I can help.”
“But I understand,” said Holmes, ‘that you organise events at which mummified remains are unwrapped.”
“I have indeed organised such occasions in the past. And I make no secret of the fact. But we are very particular about whom we allow to such evenings. We advertise widely, but we select with extreme care.”
“Very wise,” said Holmes. “But we are looking for one particular mummy. The Pharaoh Amkotep.”
“I’m not an Egyptologist, Mr. Holmes. So I really cannot help you. But, if you would like to attend one of our sessions, then I’d be very pleased to add your name to our list. Perhaps you might like to attend the event we are holding on Thursday of this week.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Holmes. “But I shall be busy with other matters on that particular day. However, I think my friend, Dr. Watson, and my client, Miss Venton, would be happy to attend.”
“There is just one problem,” I told them. “I happen to be a married man. I can hardly escort Miss Venton there on my own. It just wouldn’t be right.”