The Scroll of the Dead (18 page)

‘Like the Egyptians he studied and admired all his life, Sir George Faversham prepared for his own death in their fashion,’ observed Holmes soberly. ‘Note the wall paintings depicting characters important in the
transitional stage between life and death. There is Anubis, the jackal-headed god; see also Osiris, god of the dead; and there is our old friend the ibis-headed scribe of the gods, Thoth.’

I could not concentrate fully on Holmes’ words, for my attention was caught by the structure placed in the centre of the tomb. It was a large, stone, open casket, decorated around the side with carvings of animal and birds and stacks of corn. Inside the casket lay the body of a naked man. He seemed to be packed, like some dead animal, in what at first glance appeared to be moss, but which, on closer inspection, I saw was a bed of fine green crystals.

Holmes held his candle over the corpse. ‘Sir George Faversham,’ he said softly. As the flame flickered erratically, throwing small shifting shadows into the casket, it appeared as though the body was moving, stirring uneasily as if waking from a deep sleep. I shuddered at the concept of this rebirth.

‘He has been treated to the embalmer’s art,’ said my friend in a voice strained with emotion. ‘The body is packed in natron salt to purify and preserve it, and then,’ he pointed to the vivid scars etched across the stomach area, ‘the intestines are removed – as is the case here. The brain is usually removed last by a vicious process of pulling it down portion by portion through the broken sinus.’

‘Great heavens, it’s revolting!’

‘By the appearance of the skull it would appear that Sir George has so far escaped that indignity.’

‘But how on earth could anyone rationalise this barbaric treatment with the idea of conquering death? The removal of the entrails and the brain – how could a man function after having been butchered like that? It is beyond logic.’

‘Magic
is
beyond logic, Watson. Obviously, Setaph failed in his task to bring the dead to life, but I think he believed that he could preserve the
spirit of that person – the
ba
as the Egyptians termed it, represented there on the large tapestry as the bird with the human head. So preserved, the
ba
could then find another form of existence – another host perhaps. To ensure that this transition could be brought about, the traditional embalming ceremony was a necessary procedure.’

‘So Phillips has done all this?’

‘Yes, I have.’

We both spun round at this statement to see the gaunt figure and pallid features of John Phillips standing at the foot of the stairs. With faltering, uneasy steps he came towards us and gazed down at the body of his master in the casket, his hands clinging onto the sides as though for support.

‘I begged him to see sense,’ he said. ‘I begged him to acknowledge that Setaph’s words were the writings of a bitter man who had failed in his quest to conquer death. I told him that the Scroll of the Dead was just a desperate rigmarole of mumbo jumbo, an arcane camouflage to cover up Setaph’s failure.’ Phillips shook his head vigourously. ‘But no, Sir George would not listen. He really believed that whatever was done to the body, the earthly shell, held no consequence as long as the spirit survived. This could then inhabit some other shell and rise as though from a dream to a new life.’

Tears were now rolling down the young man’s face and his frame shuddered with emotion. Holmes and I remained silent, allowing Phillips the opportunity to release himself of the awful burden under which he was suffering.

‘He made me promise to carry out the ceremony exactly as laid down by Setaph in his accursed Scroll. What could I do? I loved him. These were his beliefs and I could not betray his trust... I could not break my promise, even though I knew I was desecrating his body. Even though... At least he died in hope...’

I felt only sympathy for this young man who had been driven by his
devotion and love for his misguided master to carry out the most awful acts of sacrilege on the body of the man he cared for most in the world. The selfless courage to accede to Sir George’s requests was remarkable, and it was no wonder that the fellow was now a broken man.

‘I... I am glad you have arrived, gentlemen,’ he continued. ‘Your presence now prevents me from going further with this monstrous ceremony. I welcome your constraint.’ He gave a nervous little giggle and then with the sleeve of his coat wiped a thin trail of saliva from his chin. ‘Do with me what you will.’

‘Where is the Scroll of the Dead?’ asked Holmes briskly.

With faltering movements, as though in a trance, Phillips made his way to the far end of the chamber where the altar stood. From the small golden casket there he pulled out a series of ragged yellow documents and held them out to us with shaking hands, tears welling in his eyes. ‘Behold, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘here is the cause of this calamity. Here is the Scroll of the Dead.’

‘Splendid,’ cried a voice behind us. ‘I arrive at a most opportune moment.’

At the sound of this new, yet familiar, voice, I turned to face the pale, malevolent features of Sebastian Melmoth. He stood at the bottom of the staircase with a gun in his hand and a wide grin on his face.

M
elmoth moved further into the chamber and, as he did so, his accomplice, Tobias Felshaw, emerged from the shadows of the staircase behind him. Felshaw, a thin, arrogant smile grazing his lips, was clutching a small leather bag in one hand and a gun in the other.

‘Well, gentlemen, this is all rather cosy,’ announced Melmoth expansively, in unctuous tones. His apparent pleasant behaviour only thinly disguised his true nature.

‘“Journeys end in lovers meeting”, eh, Mr Holmes? And yet you do not seem surprised to see me.’

‘Indeed, I am not surprised,’ my friend responded evenly. ‘However, I had expected you earlier.’

Melmoth’s grin broadened. ‘I assure you that I did intend to be here earlier, but you know how unreliable those special trains can be. Still, it would seem that the timing of our arrival has been most opportune. Mr Phillips, I observe that you hold in your hand the
raison d’être
for my visit.’ Suddenly the smile vanished and the features darkened. ‘Now, sir, if you would be so kind as to pass me the Scroll of the Dead.’

Phillips, his mind further addled by the sudden arrival of these two strangers, stood still, staring blankly at the intruders. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in a quiet voice.

‘I am afraid, sir, that we have not the time, nor have I the inclination, for such niceties.’ The eyes glittered with menace. ‘Now hand over the Scroll.’

Phillips still did not move. It was clear to me that his failure to comply with Melmoth’s demands was prompted more by a sense of bewilderment than defiance.

‘The Scroll,’ reiterated our adversary, intense irritation showing clearly in his voice.

‘Why?’ asked Phillips.

‘Because I have a gun and you do not,’ snapped Melmoth, suddenly firing his pistol in anger, the bullet just missing Phillips’s head. The sound of the shot filled the low chamber, reverberating like theatrical thunder. Felshaw moved forward and snatched the papyrus documents from the dazed secretary’s limp grasp and placed them in the leather bag. He then pushed Phillips down to the floor and struck him a cowardly blow with the butt of his pistol. The young man stumbled back against the altar with a cry of pain, but he retained consciousness.

‘You devil!’ I cried, stepping forward in an effort to aid the injured man.

‘Stop where you are!’ barked Melmoth, cocking his pistol and aiming it at me. ‘Do not be foolish, Doctor. This is no time for futile heroics.’

‘Foolish!’ I cried out in anger. ‘You are the one who is foolish, Melmoth. You are the one who is prepared to kill and injure innocent people as you so desire just to get your hands on a few faded leaves of useless papyrus.’

‘I assure you that these “few faded leaves”, as you call them, are beyond price. They open a dark door to a new life – a life that is not circumscribed by death.’

‘You really
are
a fool, Melmoth, if you believe that. Look at Sir George
Faversham.’ I pointed to the corpse in the stone casket. ‘There is no life there. He is just a dead man whose body has been mutilated in the course of Setaph’s ceremonies.’

Melmoth had not registered fully the presence of the grim figure in the casket and, on seeing it properly for the first time, his face blanched. Felshaw, too, seemed unnerved at the sight of the scarred and bloodied cadaver, and took a step back.

‘The intestines have been removed,’ I continued. ‘How can there be rebirth when vital organs are missing? This corpse will never rise up and enjoy a new life.’

‘Of course not,’ Melmoth replied at length, his composure restored. ‘The full process has not been carried out. His
ba
has not been saved. And now, of course, it never will be. It is for others to reap the benefit of Setaph’s secret.’

‘Watson is right,’ interjected Holmes quietly. ‘Look at the mutilation. Are you prepared to risk that? Is your belief in this ancient document so strong that you will undergo such butchery in search of an uncertain truth?’

Melmoth gazed once more at the corpse in the casket. The sight seemed to both fascinate and horrify him, so much so that he failed to respond to my friend’s taunt.

‘If you really believe those yellowing scraps of papyrus can bring you a kind of immortality,’ continued Holmes, ‘then you are not merely foolish: you are mad.’

‘Madness is objective, my dear sir. How are we, mere mortals, qualified to judge who is mad or sane? We play with insignificant arbitrary measures which in a thousand years may prove the reverse of the current beliefs – and neither judgement is likely to be correct. True madness is genius, and that is the path which I follow. Death is not the end; it is merely a transition to something better, something more
wonderful. I am the ardent seeker of that age-old truth, one that the ancient sages knew but which has been lost to the modem world. However, Mr Holmes, I am sensible and realistic enough to realise that it would be foolish, reckless, to take risks needlessly. Let us say that we will experiment first before subjecting ourselves to this ultimate test. Others will be given the opportunity to pass through that magic door to the wonderful life after death before we indulge ourselves.’

‘More murders.’

‘Giving a new life is not murder, Mr Holmes, it is a blessing.’

Felshaw crossed to his friend and tugged at his sleeve. ‘Let’s go, Seb, don’t waste words on these worms. We have what we came for, let’s not delay.’

‘Words of wisdom as usual, my dear Toby What would I do without you?’ So saying, he planted a small kiss on Felshaw’s forehead. ‘Very well, gentlemen, we must take our leave of you. Please do not attempt to follow us. There will be little point. We have wrecked all the boats by the jetty apart from one and we shall avail ourselves of that vessel for our escape. Come, Toby.’

On reaching the bottom of the staircase, Melmoth turned to face us again, his eyes shining brightly. He addressed Holmes in a soft, almost whispered tone. ‘You came very close, Mr Holmes, very close. But not, I am afraid, close enough.’ With a wave of his hand he retreated up the stairs in a languid fashion as though, now in possession of Setaph’s scroll, the sense of desperation and urgency which had controlled his thoughts and actions for so long had dissolved, washed away by his triumph. The search for his own personal Holy Grail was over and the beatific grin which lit his features revealed clearly how he was savouring the moment. Felshaw followed him, moving backwards, his gun trained on us until he disappeared around the curve of the staircase. Whipping out my revolver, I made to follow after them but, as I did so, Felshaw threw down one of
the oil lamps which were used to illuminate the staircase. It crashed down into the tomb, smashing on the stone floor. The spill of oil and flames shot out like greedy yellow tendrils, immediately catching hold of some of the hanging tapestries. Within seconds they were alight and rippling with waving tongues of fire. Two more lamps were hurled down, adding to the growing conflagration.

In no time at all black, choking smoke began to build up in the cellar and fierce heat lapped around us as the fire spread. Soon the staircase exit was a bright curtain of impenetrable, searing orange flame. My heart sank. We were trapped in the blazing chamber.

Phillips staggered forward and gripped Holmes’ arm. ‘There is another way out,’ he cried, gagging on the smoke. ‘A secret way. Help me.’ He dragged Holmes to the rear wall of the tomb behind the altar and began tugging hard at the large tapestry which covered the whole of the wall and had been secured to the brickwork. Holmes joined him in his endeavours and I rushed forward to assist them.

I was conscious of the fire roaring and growing in power behind us. As I tugged with all my might at the tapestry, my forehead was awash with perspiration. The tomb now had the intensity of an oven and the voracious flames spat and crackled as they advanced upon us. I glanced back briefly and saw through the fiery haze the body of Sir George Faversham, lying in the open sarcophagus, beginning to darken and roast. I turned away: it was a sickening sight.