The Adventure of the Pharaoh's Curse (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) (4 page)

I was sufficiently familiar with my friend’s methods to be able to follow his reasoning. I observed that the peculiar blue clay on his boots might signify to Holmes that the man trod in some particular district of town, and noted that the red inflammation on the left side of Bedford’s neck provided the data for Holmes’ deduction of the man’s free-time habits. However, the man’s eyes grew larger and larger as Holmes’ narration went on. “You are a wizard, Mr. Holmes,” he whispered in amazement. “How could you know all that?”

“It is my business to know things, Mr. Bedford. That is my trade, or at least was. Just as I know that your tale of a cursed statue is ridiculous. Don’t tell me you honestly believe such nonsense.”

The man only shook his head. “I am very sorry, Mr. Holmes. But I saw what I saw, and you can’t tell me otherwise. There is a black statue in the gallery, about yea high,” he held out his hands about three feet apart. “It sits in a glass case, where no one can touch it, and no breeze could make it stir. But it moves, I tell you. It is some form of dark magic, I am sure of that. I will swear to it in a court of law, or before the King himself, if need be.” His voice vibrated with terror.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Holmes mildly.

But the man’s excitement could not be contained. “And then there was the murdered inspector, the thin red band encircling his throat, and his purple-colored face screwed up into a horrible contorted mask. I will never forget it. It’s devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!” cried Bedford, his voice rising with a mad, unreasoning terror. “It is not of this world. Something has come into that museum which is beyond the ken of reason.”

Holmes shook his head. “I am not prepared to admit the possibility of diabolical intrusions into the affairs of men.”

“Denying the power of the Father of Evil does not lessen Him, Mr. Holmes. No one in their right mind would go near that crypt at night, and only the foolhardy would approach it by day. No, it’s more than a man’s nerves can stand.” He reached for his glass and rapidly drained it.

Lestrade vainly attempted to get some additional words out of Mr. Bedford, but the man mutely shook his head. Holmes could tell that Bedford would say no more that night and motioned Lestrade and I towards the door. He glanced at me and his lips curled up in a crooked grin. “It will not be the first time we have ventured into a haunted crypt, eh, Watson? And this one has been nicely set up for us in the heart of London. We don’t have to first trudge three miles through the Berkshire grass-lands. Shall we see what awaits us at the British Museum?”

§

We regained our cab, which swept us along Great Russell Street before turning on Great Orme Street, a narrow thoroughfare lined with high, thin, yellow-brick edifices. There was hardly a corner of London that did not remind me of some adventure that Holmes and I had coursed together. Holmes gestured to one house in particular. “Recall, Watson, the house of Mrs. Warren, and over there, the high red house with stone facings, where the unlamented Gorgiano met his grisly fate.”

I smiled at the sight of the locale of one of his great deductions, but it was rapidly passed by our speeding cab. We soon approached the front steps of the Museum, whose sight still filled me with respectful admiration for this mighty center of learning. The original design, imitating that of a Greek temple was handsome, but in the half-century since it was completed, the soot-riddled air of London had unfortunately turned it a deep, distressing greyish-black. I hoped the new Government might see fit to have it thoroughly scrubbed back to its former glory.

My eyebrows rose when we passed by the front entrance, but Lestrade explained that the building was shut tight for the night, and only the rear doors were still accessible. The cab turned at Montague Street, and I thought to glance over at Holmes. His heavily-lidded eyes appeared deep in thought at the sight of his old rooms. Finally turning again along the northeast side of the Museum, we reached our goal.

At the sight of Lestrade descending from the cab, a uniformed guard held open the door. When we entered the back foyer, a man of about fifty years of age threw aside a journal and sprang up to meet us. He was stout and approaching corpulence, with a face filled with drooping rolls of skin. Wispy tufts of hair swept over his pate, while narrowed eyes squinted from behind thick spectacles. His suit was rumpled and his cravat loosely knotted. He held out a hand, which possessed a somewhat limp grasp, but his manner was affable.

With a raise of his bushy eyebrows I detected that this man recognized my still-famous friend. “Ah, Mr. Holmes, it is a great pleasure,” said he, excitably. “Inspector Lestrade had given us hope that you might soon be making an appearance upon the scene, but I hardly dared believe it would be tonight.”

“Mr. Holmes, allow me to introduce Mr. Walter Brundage, the Keeper of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities at the Museum,” said Lestrade.

As he led us to his office, Brundage smiled broadly. “I am also a great admirer of yours, Mr. Holmes. And this must be Dr. Watson. We are indebted to you, sir. I have read every story you have written. You know, I am myself a detective of sorts.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, yes?”

“Indeed, early in my career I was assigned to investigate why papyrus scrolls from our excavation sites, and supposedly guarded by our local agents, kept appearing in the collections of antiquity dealers across Europe. We were being forced to buy our own scrolls at inflated rates! It was quite a scandal.”

“And did you find the source of the leaks?” I inquired politely.

“It was the local guards, of course. They are always loyal to those who pay them the most, which was not us, I am afraid. That is why I think you should more closely study the guards here. It is one of them. I am certain of it.”

Holmes had listened to this unsolicited advice with uncharacteristic patience. “And you have other talents, as well, Mr. Brundage, do you not? I have heard tales of looters rewarded, customs officials bribed, and antiquities smuggled in diplomatic pouches.”

Brundage laughed merrily. “Guilty as charged, Mr. Holmes. Of course, amassing the finest collection of Egyptian antiquities in the world is not a simple task. We are constantly racing the French, the Germans, even the Americans, for each new piece that is pulled from the ground. Every tactic needs to be employed, no matter what the legality. Of course, it’s not like the locals miss it. Every item is far better off in our nice museum than lying neglected, or worse, purposefully defaced, in some sandy defile.”

“And what method did you use to acquire the effigy so feared by Mr. Bedford?” Holmes asked mildly.

“Nothing nefarious there, I am afraid. That was excavated, legal and above board, by our archeologist Griffith, from the Deir el-Bahri site near Luxor. It is part of a full tomb that he discovered, which belonged to a Pharaoh from the Eleventh Dynasty named Mentuhotep. Griffith sent the entire contents back to us: mummy, inner painted coffin, stone sarcophagus, and all of the varied trappings required to ensure the transition of Mentuhotep’s
Ka
, or life-force, from his earthly remains to the
Duat
, their version of the afterlife. Our exhibit of this magnificent find opened at the beginning of September.”

“And was the statue cursed?” I interjected.

“Of course,” Brundage smiled again. Many of the Egyptian royal coffins are carved with curses, you know. Mentuhotep’s says something to the effect of ‘Cursed be those who disturb the rest of a Pharaoh, the chosen of Amun-Ra. They that shall break the seal of this tomb will be judged by Anubis. I shall cast the fear of myself into him. Death shall come on swift wings. I shall seize his neck like a bird. An end will be made for him.’”

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “The curse has come true! Inspector Patterson was strangled.
His neck was seized
…”

Holmes stared intently at Brundage. “You are certain of the translation?”

The man snorted in derision. “I should say so. I need not remind you that the Rosetta Stone lies a few rooms from here. You can decipher it for yourself.”

“And yet, Bedford’s story of a moving statue is absurd.”

“Not all at, Mr. Holmes. I have seen it with my own eyes.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Oh, yes,” replied Brundage. “I will admit that I was a bit taken aback myself at first. It was perhaps six weeks past, when I noticed one morning that the statue had turned around in the night. I thought this was rather strange, because it is protected in a glass case and I am the only one who has a key. I put it back in order, but the next day I found that it had moved again. My first guess was that someone was playing an elaborate hoax or practical joke upon me – this was before any other thefts were first noted, mind you. My great success has fostered jealousy in the eyes of some of my rivals, though I refuse to cast aspersions. I thought that perhaps one of them had managed to filch my key ring for a time and produce a replicate.”

“But you have ruled out that possibility?” asked Holmes.

“Indeed. I decided to investigate, so I set up Mr. Bedford to watch over this statue in particular. He was excused from his regular rounds, and sat in front of it all night. Can you imagine who he observed that was responsible for moving it?”

“Pray tell,” said Holmes.

“Absolutely nobody. No one approached the case. And when he watched, the statue was as still as a stone. But when he took his eyes off it for a moment and then looked back, he noticed that its position had actually shifted slightly. By the end of the night, it had completed a one hundred and eighty degree rotation.”

Lestrade sniffed in obvious disbelief. Brundage smiled at the inspector. “That was my opinion as well, gentlemen, let me assure you. I thought that Mr. Bedford had managed to stash a flask somewhere, despite our strict injunctions to the contrary, and had overindulged. So I finally decided that I must perform the task myself. It was hardly an easy matter, but armed with a good supply of coffee, I saw it through.”

“And what did you witness?”

“That Mr. Bedford was absolutely correct. There is no doubt that the statue moves on its own. It is almost impossible to see directly, like waiting for a pot to boil. But when you let your attention wander, and then look again, the progressive motion is clear.”

“Have you generated a hypothesis, Mr. Brundage?”

The keeper shrugged. “At first, I thought this particular effigy was nothing more than a rather large and fine example of an
ushabti
, one of the minions of the deceased. They are to be found scattered throughout every tomb in Egypt. But upon further inspection I am now convinced that it is in fact a small
Ka
statue. It is a receptacle, and permanent home, for the released soul of the Pharaoh after he departed from this earth. It can serve as an alternative vessel if the mummy is violated.”

“Are you suggesting that your museum is haunted?” asked Holmes, skeptically.

“I have requested for several of my associates to verify this occurrence, and it is completely reproducible. Therefore, having eliminated an external cause, I can only conclude that in fact we are witnessing a verifiable manifestation of the hidden spirit world that constantly surrounds us, but is just beyond the sight of insensitive eyes. It is not a difficult thing to believe if you have spent sufficient time in the Orient and have experienced other similar uncanny incidents. I invite you to see for yourself, Mr. Holmes.”

“I intend to,” Holmes replied, coming to his feet. “Lestrade, I would ask that you summon the guards from the Britain galleries, Mr. Rucastle and Mr. Seraphim. While you perform that task, Watson and I will now take a stroll round the premises. I do not recall any other question which I desire to ask of you at the moment, Mr. Brundage, but some may arise. May I ask you to remain on site for the next few hours?”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. Do you wish for me to accompany you?”

“No, no, I like to form my own impressions.”

“Very well. Here, Mr. Holmes. You may need this.” He held out a fire-proof lantern of the type carried by the guards at night. “And one more thing, I should tell you that Sir Evan Lloyd Williams, the Director and Principal Librarian of the Museum, is on his way here. The guard was instructed to notify him if you made an appearance.” Brundage paused for a moment, as if to consider his words. “He is, ah, most concerned that we get to the bottom of the matter as swiftly as possible, before the confidence of the public is lost.”

“Yes, I may have a question or two for him, as well,” said Holmes dryly.

§

Holmes’ unerring sense of direction led us directly to the series of rooms that contained the Museum’s famous exhibits, despite it being many years since his last visit. Notwithstanding his initial silence I could tell that Holmes was in a jocund mood. The glamour and mystery of the place, with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations, appealed to the imagination of my friend. As we made our way through a series of galleries, each filled with traces of some vanished race which had passed from this earth, Holmes finally laughed aloud. “Well, Watson, what do you make of all that nonsense?”

“I hardly know what to think, Holmes. You have demonstrated time and time again that what man fancies as supernatural in origin is, in fact, something all too prosaic. There are no vampires in Sussex, no spectral hound in Dartmoor, no miracles on Vere Street, no…”