The Scroll of the Dead (8 page)

‘Very well,’ she replied coolly, her stance remaining stiff and unyielding.

‘Did you accompany your father on the Henntawy expedition?’

A puzzled frown touched Miss Andrews’ brow. ‘No, but I know all about it, and I helped him prepare the exhibits for the British Museum. What has this to do with my father’s disappearance?’

‘Everything! Despite his immense knowledge of Egyptology, your father was never able to arrive at a comprehensible interpretation of the Henntawy papyrus.’

Ah, no. It drove him to distraction.’

‘He knew there was a missing key?’

Our visitor allowed her stern features to relax into a wry grin. ‘He had considered the possibility, yes, along with many others.’

‘Did he discuss the papyrus with Sir George Faversham, his partner on the expedition?’

‘No. They saw each other as rivals: both were determined to be the first to solve the riddle. Sir George was always claiming that he had succeeded and would send my father taunting telegrams. “Let the man gloat,” my father said. “If he really had the answer, he would not tell a soul and would be off to Egypt with the speed of the Devil to get his hands on the Scroll of the Dead.”’

‘Boasting leads to burglary and murder, eh, Watson?’

‘I’m sorry, Holmes. You have lost me.’

‘A newspaper report you read out to me only yesterday – when, if you recall, you were trying to rouse my spirits with what I wrongly surmised was a trivial piece of villainy. Sir George Faversham’s house was ransacked but nothing of value taken. You recall?’

‘Yes, yes I do – and he was murdered.’

‘Ah! So the canvas grows broader.’ The miscreants were no doubt hoping that Sir George would help them translate the key in order that they could interpret the Henntawy papyrus. When he was unable, or perhaps refused, to do so – they... eliminated him.’ He rubbed his hands vigourously ‘You see, Miss Andrews, there are certain unscrupulous individuals desperate to get their hands on Setaph’s Scroll of the Dead and they will go to any lengths – including murder – to obtain it. I am sure that the Henntawy papyrus your father was working on, containing the details of the Scroll’s whereabouts, was useless without the key – one prepared by Setaph himself. I believe that these people I speak of have obtained the key.’

At this juncture I interrupted. ‘If that is the case, why are they not seeking the location of the Scroll of the Dead?’

Ah, my dear Watson, because like myself, they underestimated the cunning of Setaph. The key also presents puzzles which need solving. Obviously they are not as taxing as the papyrus from the museum, but clever enough to baffle a simple and untutored mind.’

‘I think I see what you are implying, Mr Holmes. These villains, of whom you speak, need my father to interpret this key for them.’

‘That is how I read the mystery. That is why no ransom is required.’

‘If you are correct – what happens to my father when he has done their work for them?’

Holmes paused for a moment, stroking his chin. ‘My answer can only be a surmise; but knowing what I do about your father’s abductors, I believe they will hold on to him until they have Setaph’s Scroll of the
Dead in their grasp. Only then can they be sure your father has provided them with the correct information.’

Miss Andrews slumped back in the chair. I threw a concerned glance at Holmes.

‘By which time,’ he continued in a lighter tone, ‘Doctor Watson and I will have caught up with them.’

‘Do you really think so?’ Miss Andrews’ desperate question exactly mirrored the one I had framed in my own mind.

‘I think so,’ said Holmes. Our visitor missed the sense of ambiguity in his reply and smiled.

‘Please return my father to me safely, Mr Holmes.’ For a brief moment the mask of the confident modern woman slipped, revealing the frightened and vulnerable young girl beneath.

‘We shall do all in our power to bring about that happy event,’ I said cheerily.

‘I echo those sentiments,’ said Holmes without a flicker of warmth in his voice.

After Miss Andrews had gone, carrying with her Holmes’ assurance that he would contact her once there was any news of her father, I rounded on my friend, releasing some of my pent-up anger. ‘It is one thing to keep details from a client, Holmes, but quite another to keep me in the dark.’

‘My dear fellow, calm down. Please don’t blame me if events, and therefore my mental processes, move faster than I had anticipated.’

‘How can I be of any use if you do not confide in me?’

‘But you know all, Watson. What is there to confide?’

‘You talked of villains – in the plural. Who are they? With Melmoth dead...’

‘Ah, well, confide I will, but explain the obvious I will not. If I do, however will you learn?’

‘Holmes...’ I began.

‘For goodness’ sake, do not look so crestfallen. I know you are a man of action, and tonight there will be some action in which I shall require your assistance.’

‘What action?’

‘We are going to burgle Melmoth’s house,’ Sherlock Holmes announced grandly, before lighting his pipe and settling back in his chair.

I
t was not the first time that Sherlock Holmes had involved me in breaking the law. However, the adventure my friend offered on this occasion seemed to me to be outrageous.

‘Burgle Melmoth’s house,’ I repeated with some scorn. ‘You cannot expect me to take your suggestion seriously.’

‘I do not jest about such matters, my friend. Forget your sensibilities for a moment and consider what an unmitigated scoundrel this Melmoth is – and I choose my verb carefully.’

‘You believe the man is still alive?’

Holmes did not answer me directly, but pointed the stem of his pipe in my direction and said, ‘With or without your help, I intend to enter his house tonight and find out, for certain, who lies in his coffin.’

I shuddered. ‘Great heavens, Holmes, not only is the whole affair dangerous and against the law, it is also positively ghoulish.’

Holmes grinned. ‘What better reasons are there for doing it?’

* * *

The lugubrious chimes of Big Ben striking midnight vibrated in the distance as Holmes and I left the warmth of our sitting-room and emerged into the coolness of the night. Despite my reservations concerning this venture, Holmes knew that I could not refuse his entreaty for me to join him. Much to my dismay the contents of my medical bag had been removed and replaced with a jemmy a dark lantern, a chisel, and my service revolver.

Sometime in the late afternoon my friend had left Baker Street dressed as respectable, grey-haired, short-sighted clergyman to conduct a full reconnaissance of Melmoth’s premises. ‘No one is suspicious of a bumbling cleric even though he peers at houses in an unusual fashion,’ grinned Holmes on his return, as he released himself from his disguise.

The thoroughfares of the great city were all but deserted. We passed a few late night revellers, and the occasional hansom clip-clopped its way past us, no doubt on its way back to the depot, but otherwise we owned the darkened streets. We walked briskly in silence, my mind astir with worries and apprehensions, while Holmes’ face remained taut and exultant with anticipation.

Within fifteen minutes we were close to our destination. We paused in the shadows opposite the house we had visited together that morning, now presenting a blank, dark face to us. None of the windows were lighted and there were no signs of occupancy.

‘There is a small garden at the rear of the house. By scaling the wall surrounding it, we shall then be able enter the premises by means of one of the downstairs windows.’ Holmes spoke quickly and in a matter of fact tone, as though he were choosing items from a menu.

I began to feel very uneasy. ‘What if we are caught?’ I asked in a harsh whisper.

‘That eventuality is not within my purview,’ came the curt reply.

We crossed the road and moved to the side of the house. A solitary
gas lamp emitting a meagre glow stood sentry at the top of the narrow lane which ran behind Melmoth’s villa. Holmes led me down the lane beyond the feeble gleam of the lamp, and then we stopped by an old, rustic brick wall some ten feet high. ‘Now I’ll give you a hand up, and when you have secured a hold on the top of the wall I’ll pass your bag up to you.’

I sighed heavily. ‘Are you sure this is really necessary?’

‘Of course it is. Now let’s be about our business.’

Having neither the litheness nor the athletic ability of my youth, it took me some time to establish firm foot and hand holds to enable me to clamber to the top of the wall, retrieve my medical bag from Holmes’ outstretched hand, and then reach the comparative safety of
terra firma
on the other side. Holmes had no such difficulty He scaled the wall with ease, and I was still catching my breath from my exertions when he jumped nimbly to the ground and joined me. Advancing towards the house, he lit the bull’s-eye lantern. Its narrow beam traced the outline of the building. There was one door to the left, probably leading to the kitchen or the cellars, a centrally-placed short flight of steps up to the main back door, and a veranda which led to a large bow window to the right of it.

Holmes led the way up the steps and nodded in the direction of the bay window. ‘That will be our point of entry,’ he whispered, thrusting the lantern into my hands. A steady beam now, while I get to work with the chisel.’

With the skill of a practised burglar, my companion slipped the chisel into the lower edge of the sash window. I saw him stoop and strain with quick deliberate motions until with a splintering crack it jerked open.

Without delay we climbed through into the house and stood like statues in the gloom, our senses alert to catch the slightest sound or movement. There was nothing: the silence of the house hissed in my ear.

After some moments, Holmes leaned close to me and spoke softly. ‘No doubt the coffin will be laid out in one of the rooms on the ground floor – probably the morning-room. Come.’ Grasping my sleeve, he tugged me gently, guiding me through the darkness towards the door. He had a remarkable facility, carefully cultivated, for seeing in the dark, and with the aid of the beam from his lantern he was able with cat-like proficiency to manoeuvre our way with ease. Within seconds we were standing in the hallway. A pale luminescence filtered through the fanlight above the front door and threw streaky, shifting shadows down the walls. Again we halted and listened. The stillness was broken gently by the muted ticking of a grandfather clock which stood at the far end of the hall. Holmes swung the beam of the dark lantern, exploring the surroundings. On the hall table, below a garishly ornate mirror, stood a huge bowl of white orchids, pale and ghostly in the gloom: a floral tribute to the dead, no doubt.

There were several doors leading off from the hallway and we tried two, peering over the thresholds as the pale finger of illumination exposed the interiors. They were the music-room and the sitting-room. Our third attempt brought us to the chamber for which we had been searching. To call it a morning-room would be a cruel misnomer. Even in the dim light afforded us by the lantern, I could see that the room was normally a gloomy one. The drapes were black velvet edged with gold and the wallpaper was strange and dismal. It featured a weird set of patterns, engravings almost, picturing a series of grinning, repulsive faces, demonic and gargoyle-like. The sickly-sweet smell of incense, evocative of the east, permeated the air with a thick, cloying aroma that was almost suffocating in its intensity. The luxuriant carpet and furniture appeared to be in various shades of grey, black, or dark brown and, hanging over the mantelpiece, was a portrait of the owner of the house. The oil painting was in the high Gothic style, showing Sebastian Melmoth standing in the
moonlight with a ruined castle battlement in the background. His pale face glared out at us with spectral animosity as though the painting were alive and he was aware that we were intruding upon his private quarters. The eyes glittered, animated by hate as the beam of light passed over the face. It was an unnerving apparition.

However, all these observations took but a matter of seconds, for the real interest of this apartment was the dark oak casket resting on trestles in the centre of the room.

Holmes swung the beam of the lantern on to the lid, illuminating a small silver plate, engraved with the legend:
Sebastian Melmoth Hic reviviscere 1866-1896.

My friend gave a snort of disgust. ‘Come Watson, help me with the lid.’

‘But surely, Holmes...’

‘This is the
raison d’être
of our visit. A closed coffin is no proof. It could easily be empty.’

It was not empty. Despite all the bloodshed and the grisly injuries I had witnessed during my time in Afghanistan, I could not prevent my gorge from rising at the sight we witnessed as the lid was removed from the coffin. Perhaps, I pondered later, it was the incongruity of it that shocked my system. Despite being informed that Melmoth had been killed in a shooting accident, I was unprepared for the horrific extent of his wound. The mutilated corpse lay in the coffin with his wounds clearly on view. The upper half of his chest had been blown away and he had no face to speak of – just a mask of gory, dark red tissue which glistened in the light. Even the head had been shaved of its blond locks, further enhancing its ghoulish appearance.