The Adventure of the Pharaoh's Curse (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) (6 page)

Holmes’ spine stiffened and he turned the full force of his gaze upon the man. “You can answer my questions now, Sir Williams, or you can answer them later. Perhaps we will call upon your home a bit later this evening? I am certain that your lovely wife will be happy to receive us. Or did you have plans to be out?”

It was difficult to tell for certain by the dim lantern-light, but I thought I detected that all color had drained from the man’s face. Walter Brundage, for his part, was following this exchange with trepidation, but also great interest. “What do you wish to know?” Sir Williams finally croaked.

Holmes smiled like a cat that had just caught his mouse. “First of all, you have had quite a turn-over in your guards as of late. Both Mr. Morrison of this gallery, and Mr. Seraphim of the Ancient Britain rooms, are rather new, are they not?”

Sir Williams recovered his composure and managed a nonchalant shrug. “They are a rough lot, Mr. Holmes. Turn-over happens on a regular basis.”

“And in these particular cases?” Holmes inquired. “What became of their predecessors?”

The man shrugged. “I believe that the man before Seraphim was beaten by thugs down in Limehouse and crippled for life. He got some small pension from us, but was unfit for further work. And the man before Morrison died of some disease. Tetanus, I believe.”

“Very good,” nodded Holmes. “We have heard much about the guards. But there is one other group that has access to the Museum after hours, I think: the cleaners. When do the floors get swept?”

“Daily, of course.”

“Come now, Sir Williams. Confabulations do not become a knight of the realm. You see, I know that you are not having the Museum scrubbed daily, even if your ledgers suggest otherwise. I have already inspected the floors of this room. It has not rained in London for three days, and yet, the distinctive prints of several pairs of muddy Wellingtons are plain. What gentleman wears such boots when there is no chance of a shower?”

Sir Williams appeared distressed by this accusation, though Holmes expressed it more delicately than was his usual wont. “Yes, well, it is as you say, sir. The cleaners come every four days.”

Holmes smiled at this confession. “Excellent. You have been most helpful, Sir Williams. I have no further questions for you at the moment, but please be ready to return to the Museum should I need to summon you. That way I will not be forced to pay a social visit to your home.”

The man scurried away in a most undignified manner, Brundage trailing along behind him.

Holmes laughed as we watched them leave. “What do you make of that, Watson?”

I shook my head. “I admit that I am mystified by the whole matter. I hesitate to cast doubts upon a man of such rank, but his hostility was plain. Could Sir Williams be stealing from his own museum?”

“Yes, he does make an attractive candidate, Watson. Unfortunately, I think his hostility derives from pure snobbery. He is a feckless fool, and a shining example of someone being promoted because of his connections and not due to his ability. Sadly, his predecessor was no better, as the old fraud had little knowledge of graphology, but an unerring sense of self-promotion. For his own part, Sir Evan Lloyd Williams’ scholarship is burdened with critical errors, where he twists facts to fits his theories and not the other way round.”

“I don’t understand how you got him to answer you, when he plainly had no such desire?”

“It was evident that Sir Williams is engaged in activities with a lady, or perhaps ladies, belonging to the world’s oldest profession. He had a trace of a cheap rouge stain on his collar, and he reeked of a perfume that can be had for less than a shilling.”

“It could have come from his wife?”

“Tut, tut, Watson! The wife of a knight does not freshen herself with a one-shilling scent.” 

“Perhaps he is not married?”

Holmes sighed. “He was wearing a wedding ring, Watson.”

“Well, other men have engaged in such activities and not been overly concerned. Why did he fear exposure so much?”

Holmes chuckled. “Because Sir Williams is known as one of the leading scholars of the so-called Biblical Authenticity movement. To be caught
in flagrante delicto
would expose him as an enormous hypocrite. Of course I do not care a farthing what the man does in his private time. I am no Milverton. The connection was a simple matter and not one of which I am overly proud. But as they say, ‘desperate times….’ Ah, I think I spot the approach of Lestrade.”

Lestrade and one other man soon appeared out of the darkness. As he stepped into the circle of yellow light thrown by our lantern, I saw that the inspector was leading a short and prodigiously stout man, no more than two inches above five feet. His head was enormous, with an unsmiling face, and a great heavy chin which rolled down in fold upon fold over his throat, and which made him appear much older than his six and twenty years. The man’s protuberant eyes bulged at the sight of Holmes.

“You are Mr. Edward Rucastle, are you not?” Holmes asked.

“I am,” the man answered sullenly, a shadow passing over his face.

“And your father was named Jephro?”

Lestrade spluttered in indignation. “How could you possibly know that, Mr. Holmes?”

“I know it because I was once acquainted with Mr. Rucastle’s father.” He turned to the guard. “Do you deny it?”

“I deny nothing!” said the man, angrily. “Do you deny mangling him, Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Do you deny turning him into a broken invalid?” His cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled, and the veins stood out at his temples with a great passion.

Holmes’ eyebrows rose. “As I recall, it was your father’s hound that was responsible for his injuries, Mr. Rucastle, not I.”

“Oh, yes,” he spluttered. “I’ve read the account of your lackey. It’s quite the fiction. But I had the truth from my father’s lips.”

“If by ‘lackey,’ you are referring to Dr. Watson, then you should be thanking him, not insulting him. It was only due to his careful attention that your father survived that terrible wound.”

“So he says. From what I hear, he almost finished the job that you began. Only the arrival of the country surgeon saved my father’s life.”

“Yes, well, what is true for you is true for you, and what is true for me is true for me.
But what matters to me, Mr. Rucastle, is not what you believe, but what sort of man you have become?”

“I don’t need to answer to you. I have been an honest employee of the Museum for eight years. No man can say otherwise. Unless I am under arrest, I wish to return to my job.”

“Hold, Mr. Rucastle,” interjected Lestrade. “Mr. Holmes may not have an official role here, but I do. You better answer to me, or you will find yourself sleeping in a warm bunk at Bow Street.”

“What do you want to know?” he replied sullenly.

Lestrade looked to Holmes for guidance, who nodded. “I only wish to know if you have anything new to add to your prior statements to Inspector Patterson,” said Holmes, as placidity as he was capable. “Sometimes upon further reflection, fresh thoughts come to light.”

“I don’t know anything about it. I walk my rounds, just like I always have. Nobody, excepting only Seraphim and I, enters our galleries at night. I can’t explain where those things vanish to, nor how those little beetles appear. I would tell you if I did.”

Holmes studied him. “I believe you, Mr. Rucastle. I have no further questions for you. But where is your counterpart?”

“It happens to be Mr. Seraphim’s night off, Mr. Holmes,” interjected Lestrade.

“Oh, indeed?” Holmes said mildly. He turned to Rucastle. “And how often do the guards get the night off?”

“Every nine nights,” he answered sullenly.

Holmes smiled, as if at some internal joke. “Yes, I thought as much.”

Rucastle frowned, as if Holmes was treating him like a fool, but he turned and silently went back in the direction that he came. When the man was out of earshot, Lestrade looked at Holmes, who had turned and was again studying the slowly spinning statue. Lestrade glanced over at me, wondering if he should break my friend’s concentration. After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, he finally cleared his throat.

“Have you come to a conclusion, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes tore his gaze from the statue and looked over at the inspector with a peculiar smile upon his face. “I have some notions, Lestrade, but nothing definitive as of yet.”

“Can you explain the statue? I fear that this may be beyond the realm of man.”

“Of a sort, Lestrade. Of a sort. I do think that the answer to this piece of the puzzle hails from another place and time.”

“Ancient Egypt?” I said.

“The curse?” said Lestrade, simultaneously.

“Perhaps,” he replied cryptically.

“So what is our next course of action, Holmes?” I asked.

He pulled his watch from his pocket and consulted it. “The hour is getting late. I think a light supper at the Café Royal followed by some rest. How do you feel about the Northumberland Hotel, Watson?”

“But what about the thefts, Mr. Holmes?” cried Lestrade.

Holmes shrugged. “Rome was not built in a day, Lestrade. If you have some patience, I fancy that we will get to the bottom of this soon enough.”

“And if more things vanish tonight while you sleep?”

“It is entirely possible, Lestrade, though your little list,” Holmes patted his pocket, “tells me some nights are free of mischief. As for tonight, I put the odds at approximately two to one. Of course, even if something does occur, I have high hopes of eventually recovering most of the items intact. Good night, Lestrade. I will wire the Yard when I am ready to proceed.”

With that, the two of us departed from the Museum. As we climbed aboard a hansom headed for Northumberland Avenue, Holmes laughed. “I do say, Watson, that as much as I initially resisted Lestrade’s entreaties, I am glad to be back in the game, albeit for a brief while. I scarcely admitted to myself how much I missed the thrill of the chase, and this has proven to be a unique problem.”

“Surely you must suspect Edward Rucastle? His presence in the Museum would otherwise be too monstrous a coincidence.”

“Indeed, Watson. I must acknowledge that I did not anticipate the presence of this figure from our past. The plot does thicken.”

“He clearly hates you, Holmes, for in his twisted mind, he blames you for the downfall of his villainous father. Perhaps this is an elaborate scheme to lure you to your doom?”

Holmes chuckled. “Yes, well I have been coursed by more skilled hunters than the half-witted son of a petty swindler. If Colonel Sebastian Moran could not bring me down, I will not lose much sleep worrying about poor Edward Rucastle.”

§

And yet, when I woke at half-past seven the following morning, the first glimmer of daylight appearing, it was clear that Holmes had gone all night without rest. I knew this was his wont when his mind was stimulated by a challenge, though it often pushed his constitution to its breaking point. The only sign of him in our adjoining rooms was a thick haze of pipe smoke in the air and a hurriedly scribbled note that contained one of Holmes’ laconic messages: ‘Come at once to the Museum, if convenient.’

I dressed and immediately set off to meet Holmes, forsaking my breakfast in my eagerness to hear what ratiocinations his great brain had solved during the small hours of the night. I emerged into a foggy morning light, which, by the time I arrived at my destination, was giving way to a thin watery sunshine. Despite the early hour, for the Museum had yet to open to the public, the door guard must have been alerted to allow me to pass unobstructed. I made my way back to the main Egyptian Gallery, as I was certain this was where I would find my friend.

Sure enough, Sherlock Holmes was standing under the facsimile pyramid, with a small crowd gathered about him. The room appeared much more prosaic in the clear light of day. The group included Inspector Lestrade, his face looking hopeful, Sir Evan Lloyd Williams, his expression a storm of thunderclouds, and Mr. Walter Brundage, whose appearance suggested that he had been roused long in advance of his usual waking time.

“Ah, Watson,” said Holmes, “excellent, you have arrived just in time. I fear I could not have delayed these impatient gentlemen for very much longer.”

“You have solved the case, Holmes?”

“Yes, I hope to show you how it was done,” said Holmes, smiling. “My train of reasoning began with this statue.” He indicated the now-motionless black effigy across from the Pharaoh’s mummy.

“Damn the statue, man!” erupted Sir Williams. “If you know who is stealing from my Museum, out with it now!”

Holmes turned to the man and said with a display of restrained civility, “I have my methods, sir. They have served me well over the years, as Inspector Lestrade will confirm, should you doubt me. I do not intend to vary them now. If you do not wish to remain, you may depart at any time.”

The Director appeared furious at being denied in his own realm, but he remained rooted to the floor.

“As I was saying, the solution to the mysterious spinning statue is a rather superficial one. I first discarded the possibility of a supernatural explanation, which is the default of a weak intellect and an overactive imagination. Furthermore, while at least one key to this case exists in the possession of Mr. Brundage, we know that it is not a human hand that is turning the statue. You see, Lestrade, both Dr. Watson and I were able to confirm the testimony of Mr. Bedford, the protesting night-guard. The statue does indeed move on its own. Therefore, having eliminated the impossible, whatever explanation remained must be the truth. The statue is being turned by external forces of an entirely natural kind.”