The Adventure of the Pharaoh's Curse (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) (9 page)

“But why did the Museum accept a forgery?” I asked.

“According to the manifest, the sphinx was donated to the Museum by a wealthy Greek aristocrat. The name is listed as Baron Adonis Schwartz, but I suspect that to be a pseudonym. The certificate of authenticity purporting to be from Griffiths is an obvious forgery, though that fact is likely not apparent to anyone who is not an expert on graphology. I believe, Watson, that I see a hint of the hand of our old friend Archie Stamford in the distinctive slant of the ash grapheme. Mr. Brundage, who was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, took the sphinx at face value and installed it in the entryway to the gallery.”

By the flush of his cheeks, it appeared Brundage at least had the good graces to feel some shame at his actions which inadvertently led to both the plunder of his museum and the death of an inspector.

“But you said that there were two men involved?” I noted.

“Indeed, Watson. The entire business took a cool hand, but it was still too risky for Parker to move about the Museum at night. He would enter the building every night before closing, and conceal himself in the Sphinx during the period of time between closing and the first rounding of the guards. He would then be passed the stolen treasures by his accomplice. This job was made much easier when Mr. Morrison vanished and Mr. Bedford was too terrorized to return to work. That was the reason for the introduced scarabs, to accentuate the possibility that the Museum was haunted by the curse of a long-dead Pharaoh. Unfortunately for Inspector Patterson, the thieves did not account for the possibility that the gallery would be occupied two evenings ago. While his accomplice was forced to hurriedly pick the lock and hide within Mr. Brundage’s ‘improved’ sarcophagus, Parker must have climbed from the Sphinx, slipped up behind Patterson, and did him in.”

“So who was his accomplice, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade breathlessly.

“A cold-blooded scoundrel who has greatly deserved punishment, but has slipped from the touch of the law many times in the past, as he rose from crime to crime. Still, I think he must have spent at least one stint in Newgate, where he became acquainted with the other players in this drama. But this time he will join Parker in the dock upon a capital charge. That would be Mr. Quincy Seraphim, also known to us as Mr. James Windibank.”

§

The supposed guard made a break for it, but was swiftly corralled by a pair of Lestrade’s stalwart constables. The man’s brow was drenched with moisture, and his lips had turned stark white, making his face take on a ghastly appearance. Windibank, as I will now call him, looked numbed and dazed, as if he was about to collapse if not held up by the men gripping his upper arms. His head was sunk upon his breast, like one who was utterly defeated.
Never, certainly, have I seen a plainer confession of guilt upon a human countenance.

While the Director and Mr. Brundage had slunk off in silent shame at the shared incompetence that allowed such nefarious events to occur in their Museum, the reinstated Mr. Bedford smiled broadly at this exciting beginning to the night’s shift. I remained behind with Lestrade and his trio of large, able-bodied policemen in order to interrogate both Holmes and his pair of prisoners.

“How did you know it was Seraphim, Holmes?” I asked. “I thought for certain it would be Edward Rucastle.”

Holmes sniffed. “Really, Watson, it was quite elementary. I suspected it as soon as Lestrade described Mr. Seraphim as ‘retiring and shy’ in the same breath that it was noted that Seraphim was a former sergeant of the Army. As an old campaigner, Watson, how many sergeants do you know that can be described as ‘shy’?”

“None, Holmes.”

“Exactly. And once I finally laid eyes upon him I became certain. Mr. Windibank here has always been fond of a disguise. In this case, he used one very similar to the one that he once employed for his transformation into Mr. Hosmer Angel. There was a new wig, different glasses, some lifts in his shoes, and a different tone to his voice, all of which would have been sufficient to fool most people. Fortunately, I am not most people. His choice of sobriquet was also rather unoriginal. His fatal mistake, however, was when he quoted from Balzac. Then I knew my man.”

By the end of this speech, Windibank appeared to have regained some measure of bitter composure. He turned to Holmes with a chilly sneer. “You’ve got nothing on me, Mr. Holmes. You are correct that I spent a short time in Newgate, and that has forced me to find jobs under an assumed name, for no one wants to hire a known criminal. But I have been an honest employee since I started here at the Museum.”

Holmes laughed. “I doubt that there is an honest bone in your body, Mr. Windibank. And many a man has been hanged on far slighter evidence than we have on you. If Parker here refuses to squeal, there is always our friend Beppo. I believe that he will be happy to identify you as the man with whom he contracted.”

“Beppo, the sculptor!” I exclaimed.

“None other, Watson. Who else in London do you think would be capable of carving such a magnificent statue, while simultaneously keeping quiet about it? Not some respectable artist, to be certain! That is who I tracked down at the masonry yard in Stepney. I spent a few hours this afternoon upon Saffron Hill and at Goldini’s Restaurant before someone was willing to admit that they knew of Beppo’s whereabouts. I learned that he had been generously taken back by his former manager. Unfortunately, Beppo is not long for this world. I doubt that he shall live another month. He has contracted chalicosis.”

“Stonecutter’s Disease!”

“Indeed, Watson, the long years of inhaling stone dust have ravaged his lungs. His face was an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. So he has little to fear as far as retribution should he talk to us.” He turned back to the villain. “I think that was the full chain of events, Mr. Windibank, or would you care to try to contradict me again?”

Windibank suddenly dropped the defiant attitude which had characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild beast gleamed in his dark eyes, distorting his once handsome features. “You will regret this, Holmes,” he snarled.

“That may prove to be a difficult task, Mr. Windibank, for your neck is forfeited,” said Holmes. “There is a four-wheeler waiting to convey you to Bow Street. You will not be walking the streets of London again, I think.”

As the constables led the furious pair away, Lestrade shook his head in wonderment. “I’ve always said, Mr. Holmes, that we at the Yard are damned proud of you. But this one may be your crowning achievement. We cannot thank you enough for catching a pair of police-killers.”

Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had pleased him. “Say no more of it, Lestrade. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest which you have effected. And now, Watson, I think that something nutritious would not be out of place. I can recall a place in Westminster where the port is rather above mediocrity.”

§

Holmes and I were soon seated in Simpson’s, at a small table in the front window where we could look down at the rushing stream of life through the Strand and wonder at how greatly the kaleidoscope had changed in appearance since we first began our association so many years prior.

“I fear, Watson,” said Holmes, “that you will not improve any reputation that I may still retain by adding the Case of the Sphinx’s Riddle to your annals, should your collection remain open. I have been lethargic in mind and wanting in that mixture of imagination and reality which formed the basis of my art.”

“Not at all, Holmes,” I replied slowly, still processing all that had transpired earlier. “It was but a temporary eclipse of your powers. So it was nothing more than an astonishing coincidence that Edward Rucastle happened to be working at the Museum?”

“My dear fellow, as I believe I once said, ‘life is infinitely more extraordinary than anything which the mind of man could conceive. The strange happenstances, the delightful chain of events leading to the most outrageous results can make all fiction, with its traditionalisms and foreseen finishes most stale, flat, and unprofitable.’ Or, as one of your crude fellow scribblers might have said: ‘Truth is stranger than fiction’”

“So Windibank hired the thugs who maimed his predecessor?”

“I believe that we can take that as a forgone conclusion.”

“And what of Mr. Morrison?” I asked.

Holmes shook his head. “An unraveled thread, I am afraid, Watson. Life, unlike fiction, is often messy. Not everything has an answer. Mr. Windibank and Parker have little incentive to disclose this answer to us, for whatever their defense, I am afraid that they are destined for a date with the hangman. Either Morrison was an innocent bystander, and he was done away with in some incredibly clever fashion, or he was a third accomplice. If the latter, we may never learn his identity, for there is a curious honor among thieves.”

We ordered a bottle of the famous Warre’s vintage of which Holmes had spoken, and once our glasses were poured, I offered a toast to the successful conclusion of a challenging case.

Holmes, however, failed to match my cheer. He appeared distracted, his nervous fingers twirling the meerschaum pipe from which many unsavory odors had emanated over the years. I watched as his bushy eyebrows twitched ever so slightly, which always signified some internal disappointment and irritation.

“What is it, Holmes? You should be happy to have had one last chance to exercise your gifts. You have brought a pair of desperate men to justice.”

He shook his head. “I cannot exactly say, Watson. There is no data to support this, but every instinct that I possess cries out that this case was far too simple.”

“Simple!” I cried. “Surely you jest, Holmes! A man concealing himself in a hollow Sphinx, thereby eluding Scotland Yard for weeks?”

“It is hardly difficult to fool Lestrade and company, Watson. I fear they have learned little of my techniques.”

“But surely it was a unique case in the annals of crime?”

Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps. However, it brings to mind the devious artifice of Jonas Oldcastle, does it not?”

“The Norwood Builder? I suppose there are some elements that are similar,” I conceded. “But what does that prove?”

“Perhaps nothing….” However, anything further Holmes might have planned to say was interrupted when the
maître d’hôtel
appeared at our table. He bowed slightly and handed a slip of paper to my friend. “A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes took it from the man and carelessly glanced at the paper. He then straightened in his seat and crumpled it in his fist. He frowned and looked up at me. “Did you tell anyone that we were dining here, Watson?”

“No.”

“Are you certain? No one? Lestrade? Your wife?”

I shook my head. “No one.”

Holmes broke eye contact with me and proceeded to stare intently at the other occupants of the restaurant. I tried to follow his gaze, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. After a few minutes, he abandoned this pursuit and looked down at the telegram again.

“What do you fear, Holmes?” I asked breathlessly.

“I do not know for certain, Watson. But look for yourself.” He smoothed the paper out upon the table and pushed it over to me. I stared down at the curious inscription, which ran thus:

N1 § P1 C1 Pa8 W13 § P1 C2 Pa2 W65 § P1 C1 Pa1 W72 § P1 C1 Pa18 W1 § P2 C1 Pa9 W63 § P1 C1 Pa1 W56 § P2 C4 Pa29 W72 § – MORTLOCK

“Who, then, is Mortlock?” I asked.

“Mortlock, Watson, is a
nom-de-plume
, of course. You must recall our ally of sorts, that shifty and evasive personality who attempted to aid us in the affair at Birlstone?”

“Porlock?”

“Yes, of course. Do you not see, Watson? That particular name was obviously chosen for two reasons. First, because of its final rhyme with that latter half my own given name. And second, because the initial syllable would convey the message that that individual so-called could be induced to provide information if properly recompensed.”

“I admit that I am not following you, Holmes. Do you believe that Porlock has resurfaced after all these years?”

Holmes shook his head violently. “No, no, Watson. I think that the name used herein is a message beyond what is encoded in this cryptic combination of letters, numbers, and symbols. Recall your days at Winchester, Watson. What does the Latin root
‘mort’
denote?”

I finally understood what he was trying to tell me, and the thought chilled me to the bones. “It means ‘death’ of course.”

“Exactly, Watson. Exactly. But whose death?”

“Surely we can determine that by deciphering the message itself?”

“Yes, Watson, but how?”

“Is this not the same book cipher that Porlock once employed?”

“Not at all. Look at it, Watson. Porlock’s code did not use so many letters, nor these funny symbols. We must apply all of our reason to the problem of what method is herein being employed.”

I studied it for a moment. “Well, it seems to be to be quite simple.”

Holmes’ right eyebrow rose in surprise. “Oh? You have broken it?”

“Almost, Holmes, almost. Surely the symbol is nothing more than a break, and the ‘W’ stands for ‘word.’”