The Adventure of the Pharaoh's Curse (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) (2 page)

“This is a most serious one, Mr. Holmes. I would not have come otherwise.”

“Well, at least I can offer you a cigar and some afternoon tea first.” With a ring of the bell to signal Martha, three steaming cups soon appeared. From a small pot, which appeared to be made of gold, with a great set of rubies set around the circumference, Holmes added a dash of honey to our cups. “This is from my own hives, of course,” he explained for the benefit of Lestrade as we sipped it cautiously. “It is mixed with a small amount of royal jelly, which provides it with some remarkable properties. It has done wonders for my knees, for example, which are now largely without pain, excepting only during the rain. Which is, of course, an unfortunately all too common occurrence.”

The splendor of the pot was in such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.

“Oh, yes, a small token from the Sultan. I am not proud that I once consulted for such a cruel despot, but sometimes international politics take precedent over niceties.” He reached for his cherry wood pipe, which he kept on top of a busby whose moldering bearskin had seen better days, and proceeded to slowly light it. When complete, he leaned languidly back in his chair in that familial attitude. “Now, Lestrade, let us hear about this little mystery of yours. If you must relate it, pray let me have all of the facts. The smallest point may be the most essential.”

“I will start at the beginning, Mr. Holmes, if you promise to hear me out till the end.”

Holmes shrugged. “If you insist. I suppose that my routine for the day has already been disrupted. What are a few more minutes?”

“The grotesque mystery in question is taking place at the British Museum,” explained Lestrade. I noted that Holmes smiled in acknowledgement of a place where he spent many a day at the onset of his career. “It began with the disappearance of several items of intrinsic value.”

Holmes pulled out his pocket watch and studied it. “Items vanish from museums across the globe every day. I fail to see how this is an event that concerns me.”

“First of all, Mr. Holmes, the honor of our nation is at stake!” cried Lestrade. “The Louvre and the Kaiser Friedrich Museum will be laughing at us if word of this gets out. Not to mention that every thief in the country will catch word that the Museum is easy pickings. It will be a free-for-all.”

Holmes shook his head. “I have done my bit for Queen and Country, Lestrade. Their honor now rests in younger hands. I am afraid that I cannot help you. I believe that there is a train from Eastbourne at half-past three that you might catch if you finish your tea.”

“You promised to hear me out, Mr. Holmes!” he cried in despair.

Holmes sighed and waved his hand. “Very well. Proceed.”

“Just last night…” stammered Lestrade, anxiously.

“You are as bad as Watson, Lestrade,”’ interrupted Holmes, tetchily. “Don’t tell it from the wrong-end! Pray give us the essential facts from the commencement.”

“Yes, well, the events in question began approximately a month ago,” stammered Lestrade.

“Give me a date, Lestrade. Approximations are of little use.”

Lestrade consulted his notebook. “Yes, well, it was on the 30th of September that the first item was noticed to have gone missing. This was a gold cup from the Backworth Hoard.”

“You say that the theft was noted on the 30th, interrupted Holmes. “Do they not check every item every day?”

“A cursory inspection is made, of course, Mr. Holmes. But the thief did not leave a bare spot on the velvet. Rather, they left something in its place that was a rough approximation of the cup’s shape and size.”

“Ah, so you suspect a forger?” I interjected.

Lestrade shook his head. “No, Doctor. The item left behind could never have been mistaken for the cup upon anything but the most general looking-over. In fact, it was a visitor to the museum who pointed it out to one of the curators, as they were confused why it was situated in the Ancient Britain gallery.”

Holmes’ eyes narrowed with seeming interest. “What was it?

“It was a scarab.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “A beetle?”

“Yes, Doctor, or at least a plaster amulet of one.”

A single bushy eyebrow twitched, signifying that Holmes’ interest had certainly been peaked, even if he endeavored to conceal it. “Peculiar. And these scarabs have now been left multiple times?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. The list of missing objects is growing by the day. Almost every morning it is noted that a new item has vanished. A Celtic torc from the Wolverton Hoard, a jewel encrusted ring from the Rhayader Treasure, a silver shield from the Cheshire Barrow, a horned helmet from the Backwater Bequest. I could go on. And in every instance, a scarab is left in its place.”

“Most curious.”

“That’s but the least of it, Mr. Holmes. The presence of these substituted objects immediately suggested to the inspector on the case that these thefts were somehow linked to the Museum’s Egyptian Collection.”

Holmes nodded. “It is a reasonable hypothesis, I suppose. But was there another detective on the case before you, Lestrade?”

“Yes, Patterson got it. Over the years, he has become the unofficial go-to man whenever the Yard comes across a crime that has something to do with art.”

Holmes sniffed. “Ah, well, perhaps it is just as well that they called you in, Lestrade. In our sole expedition together Patterson managed to bag only the small game, while allowing the prize to roam free, despite me leaving him all the necessary details in Pigeonhole M. So please recapitulate for me what Patterson has thus far discovered?”

“He found that the Museum’s night guards are divided into regular patrols. The building is so large that it requires multiple guards to cover its entire expanse. The Egyptian and Assyrian rooms have two men that regularly work it. One man, Mr. Dominic Bedford, has worked at the Museum for over twenty years. He has the reputation of being an honest man and his service record has been exemplary. He is due for retirement with full pension in less than a year.”

“Perhaps his pension is insufficient to cover his expenses and he has decided to supplement his income?” I offered.

Holmes considered this for a moment and then shook his head. “It is too early to form hypotheses, Watson. We are not yet in possession of all of the facts.” He looked back at Lestrade. “And the other guard?”

“The other guard, Mr. Andrew Morrison, has only been employed at the Museum for two months.”

“Well, there is your answer, Inspector,” I decided. “He is your most likely suspect. He sought employment solely for the purpose of gaining unimpeded entrance to the Museum.”

“Yes, that was Patterson’s conclusion as well, Doctor. He focused his efforts on investigating the background of Mr. Morrison and found some irregularities. But Morrison cannot be the culprit.”

“What leads you to assume that, Lestrade?” asked Holmes, who was, despite himself, beginning to look somewhat interested.

“The simple matter that Mr. Morrison has vanished.”

Holmes snorted in amusement. “And why do you not think that Mr. Morrison is even now spending his ill-gotten wealth somewhere upon the Riviera?”

“Because the thefts have continued, Mr. Holmes.”

“Most peculiar. The problem does present some features of interest. I will admit that the sequence does not appear logical. If Morrison was the thief, he would hardly draw notice to himself by vanishing in the midst of the investigation. And how would he continue to perform his burglaries? I presume that Patterson thus re-focused his efforts upon Mr. Bedford?”

“Yes, but Bedford cannot be the thief either. You see, six nights ago Mr. Bedford refused to report for work. He has not been back since. And yet, the thefts are still taking place. Why, just last night, while the streets surrounding the Museum were constantly patrolled by constables, half of the Lewis Chessman vanished.”

If Holmes was disturbed by this appalling news, he hid it well. “And what reason did Mr. Bedford provide to explain his absence from work?”

“He claimed that he saw one of the Egyptian statues moving on its own. He said that the Museum was cursed! He did not wish to vanish like Mr. Morrison.”

Holmes chuckled and shook his head. “Perhaps we should exhaust all natural explanations before we begin to invoke those from beyond the veil, Lestrade.”

Lestrade looked miserable. “Yes, Patterson thought the same.”

“So what was his next course of action?”

“Patterson decided that he would spend the night in the Museum. He wished to witness the statue for himself and determine if it was somehow linked to the thefts.”

Holmes nodded. “It would be a bizarre coincidence if it was not. So what did Patterson discover?”

Lestrade shook his head. ‘That’s just it, Mr. Holmes. In the morning, Patterson was dead.”

Holmes sat up abruptly as if he had been galvanized, his pipe half-way to his lips. “What!?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, he was horribly strangled. And that is why we need you, Mr. Holmes. You are the one man in all of England, nay, in all of Europe, who could get to the bottom of this terrible matter. We are utterly powerless, and I fear that this is just the beginning. Would you let another man die because you failed to act? Would you fail to avenge poor Patterson?”

If Holmes had a weakness it was that he was accessible to flattery, and also, to be fair, to the invocation of justice. The two forces made him lay down his pipe with a sigh of resignation and push back his chair. “I know little of such matters.” He leaned back and with one of his long, thin arms, took down the great index volume which was labeled ‘C.’ Holmes laid it upon the table before him and his eyes moved slowly over the chronicle of old cases, a veritable mine of accumulated data from a lifetime of adventure.

“Let me see. Conk-Singleton forgery case,” he read. “Copper Beeches. That huge brute was a nasty customer. I have some memory that you made a chronicle of it, Watson, though I was unable to applaud you upon the result. Crispin, the cracksman. Crocodile, in the Westbourne. Noteworthy incident, that! Crooked Man, one of your more superficial tales, Watson. Crossbow Murders. Do you recall that tricky case, Watson? Crosby, the banker. What a terrible death, that. Cultists, in Wapping. Cuneiform, and its relation to Ogham inscriptions. Here we are! Good old index. You can’t beat it. Listen to this, Watson. Curses in Caribbean Voodooism, with a reference to Eckermann. And more relevant to today, Curses in Egyptian Mythology.” He turned over the pages with reluctance, and after a short perusal he set the great tome aside with a sneer of disdain.

“Bollocks, Lestrade, bollocks! What have we to do with mummies that cause stormy seas, or who magically strike down those who desecrate their final resting places? It’s it too fantastic. We detour into the realm of fairy tales and fiction. I have travelled from one side of the globe to the other, from Chicago to Khartoum, from Nassau to Lhassa, and I have seen many a strange sight, but I have never seen anything to make me believe in the existence of the supernatural.”

“But surely,” I said, “the curse might not necessarily be a mystical force? Perhaps there is a scientific explanation? I have read, for example, that some deadly mold could grow in the long-enclosed tomb only to be released when it was opened to the air. The ancient priests may have even deliberately placed the mold therein to punish future grave robbers.”

“Excellent, Watson! As you say, the idea of an actual curse cannot be seriously entertained. I think we have been down this road once before, have we not? Where your friend Mr. Ferguson saw vampires, we saw an all-too-human motive. I think the same principal will apply here. We need not invoke a realm beyond the senses.”

“So you will investigate this matter, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade, his tone hopeful.

“Yes, I suppose I must, if only to prove a point. If we start at once, we should be in London shortly after the Museum closes for the night.”

“I would join you, if you will have me,” I added.

“Are you sure that you wish to go, Watson? One man is missing and another is dead, so the task is certain to be a dangerous one.”

“Of course, Holmes. It’s been almost eight years since I was last shot.”

He gazed at me with a curious expression. “I must continuously guard myself from these little outbursts of your pawky humor, Watson. They are as unpredictable as the weather, I fear.”

“Shall we depart, then? Once more unto the breach.” I said smiling.

Holmes sighed. “Well, at least I can pay a visit to the Nevill’s on Northumberland Avenue to ease the rheumatism in my knees. The South Downs have many qualities, but medicinal baths are not one of them.”

§

Thus it was that on a bright fall afternoon Holmes and I found ourselves in the company of Inspector Lestrade seated a first-class carriage traveling nor-westward at fifty miles per hour while bound for Victoria Station. It was an ideal fall day, with a light blue sky dotted with gauzy white clouds. There was an invigorating nip in the air, which shook off years of accumulated rust from my limbs. It was not until we were well-started upon our journey, rushing along the reddening countryside, past several pretty little towns, that Holmes appeared to relax. His long, gaunt form was wrapped in a long, grey travelling cloak, and his head covered by a close-fitting ear-flapped cloth cap. The rack above us was stocked with our small travelling valises, in the event that the problem at the Museum precluded a return to our homes that same evening.