The Scroll of the Dead (4 page)

Holmes leaned forward a little, interested now. ‘What was that “one thing”?’

‘Some papyrus document – a scroll, I think.’

‘Ah, from the Egyptology room.’

‘That’s right. Full of those old mummies and dog-headed statues and the like.’

‘And,’ said Holmes ‘various gold trinkets and other very precious
objets d’art
which would have been far easier and more profitable to dispose of than a crumbling old document.’

‘Precisely Mr Holmes.’

‘Well, Watson, what does this suggest to you?’

‘A collector. The item to be added to his private collection, for his own personal viewing.’

My friend beamed. ‘A very determined collector.’

‘More determined than you’d think,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Determined enough to kill for the booty.’

‘Who?’

‘The night security guard.’

‘How?’

‘Shot in the head at point blank range.’

‘Really.’

‘With a Derringer pistol.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ I asked.

In answer, Hardcastle fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a dark velvet bag fastened with a draw-string at the top. Opening the bag, he allowed the contents to slip onto the small table by Holmes. It was a small silver Derringer pistol which sparkled in the firelight. ‘The murderer dropped it while making his escape.’

‘Careless of him,’ said Holmes, taking a long-stemmed clay pipe from the rack on the mantelpiece. Slipping the stem through the trigger guard, he lifted up the pistol to examine it. An expensive weapon... chased silver... a recent purchase...’ He murmured these comments more to himself than to us.

‘I remembered about your own system for checking fingerprints, Mr Holmes,’ said Hardcastle eagerly. ‘That’s how you managed to lay a trap for Fu Wong, but I reckon you won’t find any on that gun.’

‘Of course not. This fellow would have worn gloves.’ He sniffed the weapon, which had a finely-tooled brown leather grip, and then examined the barrel. ‘Fired just the once. Not the kind of firearm usually associated with burglary and the class of crib-crackers we’ve encountered before, eh, Watson?’

‘It’s a ladies’ gun,’ I sniffed.

‘But it does a man’s job.’ Holmes took it over to the window and, retrieving his lens from the bureau, scrutinised the Derringer closely. At length he returned to his chair. Slipping the pistol into the velvet bag, he handed it back to the inspector.

‘Anything, Mr Holmes?’

Holmes pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Very little. The owner is a youngish man with blond hair, has expensive tastes, is somewhat extravagant in nature, is arrogant, and extremely confident. And he is probably mentally unstable.’

The inspector’s eyes widened. ‘How on earth do you reach those conclusions?’

‘A fine blond hair caught in the trigger guard gives me the colouring and the age, and there is the faint aroma of gentlemen’s
eau de toilette
still lingering about the the leather grip. The owner obviously handled the weapon while his fingers were still moist with the perfume and it has soaked into the fine crevices of the tooled leather. For so persistent an aroma to remain, this particular fragrance could not have been purchased for less than fifty shillings a bottle, which indicates both the expensive taste and the extravagant nature. The fact that there was only one bullet in the gun suggests our young villain was supremely confident that only one bullet was required for the deed. That smacks of remarkable arrogance also. The probability that this fellow adorned himself with expensive
eau de toilette
before going out to commit a horrid crime implies that he views murder almost as a social event – which suggests to me a certain element of mental instability.’

‘Extraordinary,’ murmured Hardcastle. I was unsure whether he was referring to Holmes’ ability to fill in so many details about the murderer from a brief examination of his gun or to the character of the killer as my friend had described him.

‘Those few details may be of assistance as the case progresses, but at present they do not get us very far. I suspect that the real help will come from discovering more about the nature of the item that was stolen.’

Hardcastle appeared unconvinced. ‘As I said, Mr Holmes: it was just some old papyrus document covered with ancient writing.’

‘Hieroglyphics,’ I said.

The policeman’s face crumpled with distaste. ‘So I gather, Doctor. I must admit I’m much more at home with the theft of plate, stolen gems, or a straightforward shoot ‘em or stab ‘em murder case.’

Holmes’ eyes sparkled mischievously. ‘And it has taken you approximately forty-eight hours to discover that you are out of your depth in the matter. Ah, don’t deny it, Inspector. The deterioration of the cordite in the gun-barrel tells me that it is some two to three days since it was fired; and, quite honestly, old chap, the depth of the furrows on your brow speaks of a weary problem, one that has been with you for several days and not one that has been thrust upon you overnight. It is Monday morning now. I would estimate that the robbery took place on Friday night. Am I correct?’

Hardcastle nodded dumbly.

‘But there has been no mention in the press of the crime,’ said I.

‘We managed to keep it out of the papers,’ Hardcastle replied. ‘We needed the time to check up on the various dealers who handle this kind of specialised merchandise before the press got wind of it.’

‘“Dusty” Morrison and his ilk?’

The inspector nodded. ‘That’s right, Mr Holmes. We followed up all the known leads both in and out of the Rogues’ Gallery, but we hit a brick wall with all of ‘em.’

‘How valuable is this document?’ I asked.

Hardcastle shrugged. ‘They can’t really put a price on it. To you or me, Doctor, it would be pretty worthless, but to a connoisseur of these
kinds of things, it’s priceless.’ Suddenly the policeman strained forward, his face twisting into a pained grimace as though he were suffering from acute toothache. ‘To be honest with you, this is beyond me, Mr Holmes. I do hope you can see your way to shedding some light on the matter.’

‘Delighted to, Hardcastle,’ said Holmes, throwing me a sidelong glance. ‘You know I’m always happy to assist the official force whenever I am able.’

The policeman beamed and his body visibly relaxed. ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘I have a cab waiting. If you’d be so good, we can go round to the British Museum now. Sir Charles Pargetter, the Curator of the Egyptology section, can explain to you all about this blasted papyrus.’

‘Excellent,’ cried Holmes, flinging off his dressing gown. ‘Are you game, Watson?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then, my dear fellow, collect your coat, hat, and stick and we shall accompany our friend here to the British Museum!’

‘O
f course, I was once an habitué of this noble building. When I first arrived in London, making my way in the world, I had rooms round in Montague Street, and I often came here to study in the reading room, which also had the additional benefits of being warm and free.’ So announced Sherlock Holmes as, together with Inspector Hardcastle, we passed through the great gates of the museum and approached the eight massive ionic columns which stand, as sentinels, before its entrance.

Once inside, Hardcastle took the lead and led us towards the office of Sir Charles Pargetter. To reach it, we had to pass beyond the public area of the museum. At this point, a heavily-moustached member of the security staff checked the policeman’s credentials thoroughly before allowing us to progress further. We then moved down a series of hushed, narrow, dimly-lighted corridors until, at last, we came to a door which bore the name of the man whom we were there to meet.

Hardcastle knocked loudly. There was a brief pause, and then a strident voice, tinged with irritation, called out, ‘Enter.’

We found ourselves in a bright, airy room with one large curtainless
window which looked out on the north-west wing of the museum. The room itself was crammed with bookcases, all overflowing, and the floor was littered with various documents and note-books. Sir Charles was standing behind a large oak desk, leaning forward, scrutinising an ancient map through a magnifying glass. He failed to look up at our entrance, but continued to gaze, mesmerised, at the map.

With deliberation, Holmes slammed the door shut. This broke the man’s concentration and, uttering a grunt of irritation, he glanced up at us. He was a small man, Pickwickian in appearance, with bright blue eyes shining behind a pair of wire-framed spectacles. He was bald-headed, but the hair at the side of his head, sandy in colour but peppered with grey stuck out in confusion as though it were bursting free of his scalp.

‘Ah, Inspector Horncastle,’ he said, his eyes narrowing as he took in his other two visitors.

‘Hardcastle, sir,’ corrected the Inspector.

‘Quite.’ Sir Charles waved his magnifying glass in our direction. ‘Don’t tell me you have apprehended the culprits at last?’

Hardcastle, who was unable to catch the tinge of irony in this remark, looked somewhat dismayed. ‘No, sir. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and his associate, Doctor Watson.’

At the mention of my friend’s name, Sir Charles threw down the magnifying glass, stepped from behind the desk, and grasped Holmes’ hand warmly. ‘Ah, Sherlock Holmes. You have come to our aid, I hope.’

‘I will do all I can.’

Sir Charles nodded thoughtfully as he shook my hand also. ‘Indeed, it is all that one can do in life. We are placed upon this Earth to perform a series of tasks, whatever they may be, lowly or exalted, and it is incumbent upon us all to perform them to the very best of our ability. Eh, Inspector?’

Hardcastle nodded and shifted his feet. He had no time for such
philosophical niceties; he was keen to get on with the business in hand. ‘Mr Holmes is here to find out more about the robbery,’ he said bluntly.

‘Indeed. How may I help?’

‘I need to know more of the nature of the stolen document before I can construct any theories which could form a basis for action,’ said Holmes.

‘I understand. Very well, find a seat gentlemen... you may have to move some of my papers to do so. That’s right. Good. Oh dear, there doesn’t seem to be a chair for you, Inspector.’

‘I’m quite happy to stand, sir,’ came the muted reply.

Now seated behind his desk, the little man was almost dwarfed by it. He removed his spectacles and cleaned them with an enormous blue handkerchief.

‘You must realise, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I am still in mourning for the loss of the papyrus. It was quite unique. Ah, but let me begin at the beginning.’ He replaced his glasses and leaned back in his chair. ‘In 1871, two British archaeologists, Sir George Faversham and Sir Alistair Andrews, discovered a tomb in Upper Egypt containing forty mummies. They lay scattered and in varying states of decay. Some, which had been moved from other tombs, were hidden down a secret vertical passageway. One mummy, in a makeshift sarcophagus, was discovered in a cunning shaft running at right angles to this passageway. Protection against grave robbers, you understand. This, it was discovered, was the mummy of Queen Henntawy.

‘She was only twenty-one or two when she died. We know that she was the wife of Pinneedjem I, the first king of the Twenty-first Dynasty. He was served by the high priest Setaph, who dabbled in the Black Arts and was indeed said to be a reincarnation of Osiris, God of the Dead. The story goes that Pinneedjem was so distraught by the death of his young wife that he begged Setaph to work his magic and bring her back to life. You must realise that the Ancient Egyptians believed in the
afterlife. Once death had overtaken them, they had to pass through the Underworld, a dark and dangerous region before they reached final bliss.’

‘In The Field of Reeds.’

‘Indeed, Mr Holmes, the equivalent of our heaven. The voyage to the afterlife was aided by the inclusion in the tomb of certain artefacts and necessities useful for the journey and for the “life” on the other side. Included with these items was the Scroll of the Dead, sheets of papyrus covered with magical texts and accompanying vignettes – spells, if you like – to help the dead pass through the dangers of the Underworld and reach The Field of Reeds safely.

‘Now, Pinneedjem did not want Henntawy to undertake that particular journey. He wanted her alive again: living and breathing, with him to enjoy the pleasures of this life. So he implored, and no doubt threatened, Setaph to create a new Scroll of the Dead containing spells that would, in effect, conquer death.’ Here Sir Toby paused and afforded himself a smile. ‘Not an easy task for any man. However, as I intimated previously, Setaph dabbled in the Black Arts and supposedly had Osiris on his side, so he was able to meet the demands made upon him. However, his Scroll of the Dead was never used, for when it was discovered by the Gods that he had learned the secret of everlasting life they forbade him to use it. He was commanded to destroy the Scroll, but instead he hid it, hoping no doubt to use it himself one day. Unfortunately for Setaph, death overtook him before he was able to avail himself of its powers. On his instructions, the temple priests buried him in a secret location with all his artefacts and papers, including the Scroll. Setaph was a cunning man and he fully believed that he had discovered the magic process that would transcend death. Although he had been forbidden by the Gods to use it, he was not going to let his fantastic secret die with him. So he left a remarkable trail for someone with the same ingenious imagination as himself to follow, to discover his own secret
tomb which contains the Scroll of the Dead. He recorded details of its whereabouts on a papyrus secreted on the mummified body of his Queen, Henntawy.