The Scroll of the Dead (20 page)

‘What is he doing?’ I asked, as I realised that he was rowing away from the shore, back to the island.

H
olmes did not reply to my question, but stared with furrowed brows out onto the lake.

‘What is he doing?’ I repeated, as Melmoth’s boat began to gain momentum, retreating from the shore.

‘I am not sure, Watson. His plans are in disarray and therefore he is not thinking logically. We shall have to follow him to find out.’

Within moments Holmes and I had dragged one of the remaining green rowing boats from under the jetty and were headed out into the lake, once more following in the wake of our adversary, Sebastian Melmoth. In the distance the silhouette of Grebe Isle shimmered strangely. Streaks of black smoke rose like dark fingers into the afternoon sky. At the heart of the dense rolling clouds, one could glimpse bright yellow flashes of flame – the heart of the inferno. It was clear that Grebe House was being consumed by the fire and no doubt the contagion would soon spread to the outbuildings and beyond, even to the water’s edge. The island now held no benefits as a haven or bolt hole for Melmoth. I said as much to Holmes.

He nodded. ‘He knows full well that he has no real means of escape, so I fear he is about to make some grand symbolic gesture.’

I stared ahead of us at the dark outline of Melmoth’s boat and then realised that it was stationary. Having reached the centre of the lake, he had ceased rowing.

He was waiting for us.

Slowly with gentle, even strokes of the oars, Holmes brought our boat within a few yards of Melmoth’s. At our approach, he stood up shakily and turned to face us. His features were drawn and haggard. Gone was the silky smooth countenance, and certainly there was no trace of the beatific, triumphant smile I had seen earlier that day; they had been replaced by a mask of frustrated anger and incipient madness. However, the eyes, now hooded, still flashed with arrogance and disdain. In one hand he clutched the leather bag containing the Scroll of the Dead and in the other he held his pistol. Fresh blood glistened on the sleeve of his coat from the wound that Holmes had inflicted upon him, but as Melmoth gazed at us over that short stretch of water, this did not seem to concern him.

‘Come no further, gentlemen,’ he cried, his voice strangely flat and unemotional. ‘Pray please keep your distance, and then we can keep this meeting... amicable.’ He pointed his gun directly at my friend.

‘I believe that the time has arrived when it would be most prudent and sensible to apply cold hard reason to your thinking, Melmoth,’ said Holmes, standing in the prow of our boat. ‘Give yourself up now without any trouble and hand me the Scroll of the Dead. To act otherwise would be pointless.’

Melmoth smiled darkly and considered Holmes’ words. ‘Cold, hard reason. Yes, that was always your strength, Sherlock Holmes – and your weakness. Reason shuts out the improbable, the impossible. It is fine for solving crimes but so restrictive in solving life’s greater mysteries. Reason does not allow one to dream dreams and to search beyond the known.
However, I must admit that I should have heeded the warnings that I was given concerning your involvement in this affair. I really should have left you alone. But the idea so appealed to me, you see. To have the greatest champion of law and order working for me without knowing it was such a delicious concept, I just could not resist it. Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective, would solve the mystery for me: the malefactor in this case. The inversion was so attractive. My little fancy however, was my undoing: with your brilliant detective brain you discovered my deception. As a result my plans, my dreams, my aspirations are as ashes in the grate because of your damned “cold, hard reason”. And because of you the only person I’ve ever loved is lying at the bottom of this accursed lake.’

‘He lies there because of you,’ Holmes replied simply. ‘In playing the game of murder, death is often the forfeit one has to pay.’

‘Oh, I intend to pay the forfeit. But first I have another duty to perform.’ With a sudden movement, he swung his left arm in a circular motion with all his might and then released the leather bag. It flew high in the air and then dropped with a soft splash into the lake. It sank immediately.

He gave a coarse, bitter laugh before addressing us once more. ‘I am consigning the Scroll of the Dead back to the hidden darkness where it belongs,’ he crowed.

A selfish gesture,’ observed Holmes with remarkable restraint.

‘Oh, certainly, but I feel I am allowed some selfishness at this moment – a moment when I am at last ready to set forth on the greatest adventure of them all.’

With slow deliberation, he placed the barrel of the pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed across the silent waters of the lake.

P
awnbroker Archie Woodcock smiled to himself as the young woman entered his shop. She had been vacillating on the pavement outside for some ten minutes. He had begun to take bets with himself as to whether she would pluck up sufficient courage to enter. Now here she was standing before his counter. He had seen her type before. A middle-class lady who, for whatever reason, had fallen on hard times. They hated the idea of having to resort to a pawnbroker in order to secure necessary funds. It was not just the loss of an item, but also a symbol of their slide into poverty. Inevitably, whatever they pawned had great sentimental value, be it a ring, a necklace, a silver photograph frame, or some other personal trinket. Archie Woodcock wondered what item this pretty young lady in the shabby green velvet dress would offer him.

‘Now then, my dear, how can I help you?’ he enquired in his most ingratiating voice, leaning on the counter.

‘You have a gun in the window,’ came the firm, confident reply. ‘I should like to buy it.’

* * *

Inspector Hardcastle was not pleased with Sherlock Holmes. He wore a sullen, ill-tempered look and his mouth was turned down in an angry grimace. ‘You should have kept me informed,’ he growled, as he sat opposite us in our Baker Street rooms two days after our adventure in the Lake District. However, it was clear to me that the Scotland Yarder’s bluster was merely a thin disguise for a fit of personal pique at not being involved in the action, thus robbing him of the opportunity of claiming some of the credit for the effective outcome of the case. Indeed, for Sherlock Holmes the investigation had reached a reasonably successful conclusion. The Cumberland police had managed to fish the two bodies out of the lake and then dispatch them to the morgue at Scotland Yard: so, as Holmes had predicted, Hardcastle had his two villains and the hangman had been spared two jobs. On Holmes’ advice, the police had searched Melmoth’s town house and found Henntawy’s papyrus stolen from the British Museum, and this had now been returned to a delighted Sir Charles Pargetter.

‘But you lost the Scroll of the Dead,’ moaned the policeman.

‘Not exactly,’ said Holmes. ‘I know where it is located – at the bottom of Ullswater – but I appreciate that it is irretrievable.’

‘Exactly, Mr Holmes. Irretrievable is the word.’

‘A fact which, I must admit, pleases me.’

‘What!’ cried Hardcastle, a flush of indignation colouring his cheeks.

‘It was an evil piece of work, written by an evil man; a mendacious document, designed to fool those misguided and corrupt souls who wish to cheat death. It is best left in the black mud at the bottom of the lake.’

‘That’s as maybe, Mr Holmes...’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, Hardcastle, don’t look so miserable. You have your men and the purloined papyrus has been recovered.’

For a moment, the policeman stared fiercely at my friend; then his
features softened and he managed to give Holmes a brief smile. ‘In some ways I suppose you’re right,’ he said with a sigh of resignation. ‘And I must admit that I do owe you a debt of gratitude for your efforts...’

‘It’s very nice of you to say so,’ cried Holmes, rubbing his hands together. ‘Watson and I are always ready to spring to the aid of Scotland Yard.’

‘Unfortunately,’ said the policeman, his features darkening again, ‘I cannot close the case just yet. There is one piece of the puzzle missing.’

‘Oh?’

‘Miss Catriona Andrews.’

It was early that evening when I received the summons. Holmes and I had just finished one of Mrs Hudson’s special meals and were relaxing by the fire. Our landlady always felt it incumbent upon her to provide us with a sumptuous repast when we had been away from Baker Street for more than a day. It was as though she did not trust us to eat properly once we were out of her purview. Holmes, as always, ate sparingly, but I consumed the meal with relish.

‘We must go away more often,’ I joked, throwing my napkin down and easing my chair away from the table.

‘I do not think that you can afford to put on more weight, old fellow. I need you lithe and fit. A week of Mrs Hudson’s treats would soon have you waddling, rather than racing, after villains.’

As we finished the last of the wine, the conversation turned to our recent adventure and its consequences. ‘It is rather sad,’ observed my friend, ‘when two essentially decent people like Sir Alistair and his daughter go to the bad. They have been corrupted by their own selfish greed, that vicious mole of nature. “His virtues else, be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo, Shall in the general censure take corruption from that particular fault”.’

‘Do you think Hardcastle will catch up with the Andrews girl?’

‘Oh, yes. She is not a practised criminal. There are no permanent bolt holes for her. I am sure that within a month, if not sooner, she will be back in police custody. That is a fairly bleak prospect for her, I am afraid.’

‘I believe you feel sorry for the girl,’ I said.

Holmes pursed his lips and sighed. ‘I believe I do, Watson, I believe I do.’

At that moment there was a gentle tap at the door and Mrs Hudson entered. ‘There’s a message for you, Doctor Watson. A young messenger delivered it just now.’

‘For me?’ I said with some surprise, taking the note and reading it. ‘Ah, it’s from Thurston, my billiards partner. He wants me to join him at the club tonight for what he calls rather cryptically “a very special game”.’

‘I should go Watson: it will help you relax after the strains and labours of our last few days. And a trip to the club will help tremendously in walking off the effects of Mrs Hudson’s splendid spread.’

Our landlady gave a chuckle and began clearing the table.

‘I think you are right, Holmes, about helping me to relax at least. I shall go.’

Leaving Holmes poring over some old case notes, I set off for my club at eight, unaware at the time that my departure was being observed.

The evening was pleasantly warm, so I followed Holmes’ suggestion and walked to the club. Some twenty minutes later I checked in and made enquiries about Thurston. The porter informed me that my friend had not been seen at the club for several days. However, there was a message for me from another gentleman who was not a member. He handed me a sealed envelope which bore my name, written in a long, fluid hand. It was handwriting that I recognised instantly. The message was from Sherlock Holmes!

* * *

The clock had just struck a quarter-past-eight when the door of the sitting room of 221B Baker Street opened silently and a shadowy figure stood on the threshold of the room. Sherlock Holmes had the gas burning low and was reading a sheaf of papers with the aid of an oil lamp placed on a nearby table.

The figure, a vague dark silhouette, stood some moments observing the detective, who, wrapped up in his reading, had apparently failed to notice the arrival of his stealthy visitor.

And then without looking up from his studies he spoke softly, addressing the intruder. ‘Close the door, my dear, and take a seat by the fire.’

With slow, deliberate movements Catriona Andrews did as she was bidden.

Holmes dropped his papers and turned to stare at the white-faced woman who sat on the edge of the chair opposite him. ‘I have been expecting you,’ he said quietly. ‘I observed you this afternoon from my window. You passed by the door some three times. Your intention to call was clear, but you obviously decided that it would be better made under the cloak of darkness – and when I was alone. That message for Watson was patently a false one designed...’