The Adventure of the Pharaoh's Curse (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) (5 page)

“Yes, Watson, I appreciate your point,” Holmes interrupted.

“And yet, surely there are things that science has yet to explain? What about the madness of Isadora Persano? Here we have Mr. Brundage, an educated man of science, who clearly believes that the spirit of the Pharaoh haunts this edifice.”

Holmes shook his head. “Any given man is clearly capable of holding two contradictory thoughts simultaneously, Watson. Simply because Mr. Brundage has been trained in the scientific method does not preclude him from also believing in the imaginary. No, I am afraid that no ghosts are needed at this particular juncture. We shall not listen to such fancies.”

“Do you have an alternate hypothesis?”

“I have told you repeatedly, Watson, that it is a mistake to hypothesize in advance of the facts. Nevertheless, at the moment, I have devised seven separate explanations. For example, Walter Brundage is an admitted thief. The public applauds him because he steals from the natives of Egypt and Persia, however, this can be a slippery slope for any man. Perhaps he favors the turf, and his debts have grown too large for his modest income? Might he be forced to supplement it from the treasures of the museum? He would not steal from his own gallery, of course, but it would not be very difficult for him to obtain a set of keys from his counterpart in charge of the Britain Galleries.”

“In that case, why leave the scarabs?” I protested. “Why draw attention to the Egyptian galleries?”

Holmes shrugged. “It might be a smokescreen. He creates the legend of a cursed statue to distract us from his true intentions of plundering the British treasures.”

“Surely it would have been more prudent to send the cloud of suspicion to one of the other galleries? The one containing the sculptures of Greece, for instance?”

“Yes, Watson, but his access was more limited. That would require him stealing two sets of keys.”

“And the murder of Inspector Patterson? Why would Brundage commit such a foul deed?”

Holmes shook his head. “I doubt it was his intention. Perhaps Patterson began to suspect him? The cruel mind of a murderer can be difficult to fathom, but Brundage might have felt that it was his only alternative.”

Any further thoughts, however, fled as we crossed the threshold into the Egyptian Gallery. While both of us had visited during the day, when it was brightly lit and thronged with the general public, the room took on an entirely different character in the pale gloom of the night. It had also been fully remodeled to accommodate the new collection amassed by Mr. Brundage. The moon was shining fitfully though the high windows, and illuminated a giant marble sphinx towering above us. I had never seen it before, but it recalled to my mind the colossal human-headed winged lions that guarded the entrance to the nearby Assyrian Chambers.

Holmes paused and sniffed cautiously at the air, though I noted nothing unusual. My eyes ran along the lines of mummies and the endless array of polished cases, some of wood and some of stone. The walls and ceilings were thickly covered with a thousand strange relics from throughout the Land of the Pharaohs. In the entire chamber there was scarce an article, from the shriveled ear of wheat to the pigment-box of the painter, which had not held its own against four thousand years. Here were the flotsam and jetsam washed up by the great ocean of time from that far-off empire. From stately Thebes, from lordly Luxor, from the great temples of Heliopolis, from a hundred rifled tombs, these relics had been brought.

I glanced round at the long-silent figures that flickered vaguely up through the shadow. Tall, angular figures bearing weapons stalked in an uncouth frieze round the gallery. Above were a myriad of animal-headed statues, with viper-crowned, almond-eyed monarchs, and strange beetle-like deities cut out the blue lapis lazuli. Horus and Isis and Osiris peered down from every niche and shelf, while across the ceiling a true son of the old Nile, a great, hanging-jawed mummified crocodile was slung in a double noose.

I am not a nervous man, but the complete silence was oppressive. Neither outside nor within the walls was there a creak or murmur. It was as if the busy streets of London had faded into the mists of time. I felt that the museum was trapped under some shadow, something sinister and unnatural.

Holmes lifted his lantern, which shot a tiny tunnel of vivid yellow light upon the mournful scene. Its rays were reflected back from a construction of rough-hewn stone that rose at a slope up towards the roof, which itself was lost in the shadows above our heads. This strange monument surely enclosed the disturbed remains of the Pharaoh himself, restless at being separated from the land to which he belonged. This gate of Death left a feeling of absolute horror in my mind.

“It is a pyramid of fear!” I whispered.

Holmes sighed. “Cut out the drama, Watson,” he said severely. “I note that it is a pyramid.”

I gathered my wits and studied the structure. “But surely the dating is wrong?”

“What do you mean, Watson?”

“The construction of pyramid tombs fell out of favor after the Fifth Dynasty. They required too many resources to build, and were judged to be excessively vulnerable to tomb robbers.”

Holmes looked at me curiously. “I never grasp your full abilities, Watson.”

“I read it in a book once, Holmes,” I said, shrugging modestly.

“Still, I believe that you are entirely correct. While I would like to credit the artifacts themselves as being authentic, though perhaps that should not be a given when dealing with the slippery Mr. Brundage, it is abundantly clear that the Keeper has freely indulged his imagination at this juncture. The stones that make up this pyramid are not Egyptian.”

“How can you be certain, Holmes?”

He stepped forward and placed his hand upon the wall of the structure. “Because no Egyptian pyramid was ever constructed from Cotswold limestone.”

I looked more closely at the stones, and even I, who lack Holmes’ familiarity with the dirt and stone of England, realized the truth in his words. “Yes, well, it is certainly a vivid effect.”

The two of us entered the archway into the pyramid proper, which was lonely and eerie in the dim light. In the center of this singular chamber was a vertical mummy case with its horrible occupant, who stood, grim and stark, his black, shriveled face pointed towards the entry. The form was, of course, lifeless and inert, but it seemed as I gazed at it that there still lingered a small spark of vitality, some faint consciousness in its gaze. Four thousand years old, the horrid, black, withered thing seemed to reach out with its bony forearm and claw-like hand, ready to seize upon any who intruded upon its slumber. The facial features, though horribly discolored towards a deep indigo, were perfect, and the two little nut-like eyes still lurked in the depths of the black, hollow sockets like something unnatural and inhuman. The blotched skin was drawn tightly from bone to bone, and a tangled wrap of a black, coarse hair fell over the ears. Two thin teeth, like those of a rat, overlaid the shriveled lower lip. The gaunt ribs, with their parchment-like covering, were exposed, as was the sunken, leaden-hued abdomen, with the long slit where the embalmer had left his mark. Only the lower limbs were still wrapped round with coarse, yellow cerecloth and linen bandages. I think that, having experienced what I have in my life, I am as strong-nerved as any man could possibly be, but I admit that I was a bit shaken by this half-lit scene.

Near the Pharaoh stood a giant statue of Osiris, ruler of the dead, divine judge, his body swathed in depictions of mummy wrappings, his arms crossed over his chest, his hands holding the twin scepters of his rule. The stone of his tall white crown and snowy alabaster shoulders shone pale in contrast to the flat black face and hands. Before him lay a horizontal case, which contained an intricately inscribed, yellow, curled roll of paper. The museum label explained that this deceptively plain papyrus scroll has come to be known as the ‘Book of the Dead,’ for the secret spells within promise to unlock an occult knowledge beyond that bestowed upon ordinary mortals.

Holmes surveyed this grim tableau and then chuckled. “Well, if our friend Mr. Brundage was concerned about animating the spirit of his mummy, perhaps situating the incantations of revivification nearby was a poor choice, eh, Watson? If I ever permit you to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, which is admittedly unlikely, I foresee that you will enliven your pages with this account of the singular adventure of the Bloomsbury Lodger.”

I recognized that Holmes was making light of the situation to defuse the tension in the air and smiled gratefully. “So where is our spinning statue?”

Holmes glanced around the other cases, which contained a magnificent collection of earthenware
canopic
jars, rings, precious stones, and dozens of similar objects. However, one circular case stood apart. It held only a three-foot high jet black statue of a cobra-crowned pharaoh. Although but half the size of true life and carved from the darkest basalt, its eyes shown with two polished moonstones that seemed to watch us in the darkness. The statue was not facing the mummy directly, but was instead oddly turned approximately fifteen degrees counter-clockwise.

My friend closely studied the lock for a moment and then grunted. “Well, no signs of tampering, that is for certain. The hole is unscratched. Whoever is moving this statue must be in possession of a key.”

But I was hardly listening to him. “Holmes,” I whispered. “The statue has moved!”

“What?” exclaimed Holmes, clearly annoyed. “Not you too, Watson.” He glanced back at the statue and then paused. “That is strange, it
has
moved slightly.”

I was about to respond, however, when I heard a faint sound, and felt a whiff of air and a light brushing past my elbow. It was so slight that I could scarcely be certain of it. Had something passed me in the darkness? I felt as if vague shapes swirled and swam in the unnerving gloom, each a warning of something beyond the learning of man, some unutterable dweller upon the shadowy entryway to that undiscovered country from which none have ever returned. A freezing horror threatened to take utter possession of me.

§

However, I was not able to dwell upon these fears for long, since Holmes’ sardonic voice suddenly muttered that we were about to be joined by a pair of men. As usual, his strikingly acute senses heard their approach long before it became obvious to me, though I doubted him not. And eventually, I was able make out Mr. Brundage following behind an imperious white-haired gentleman, both holding lanterns that matched the one in Holmes’ hand.

Brundage’s voice quavered slightly as he made the introductions. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, please allow me to introduce Sir Evan Lloyd Williams, distinguished Director and Principal Librarian of the British Museum.

Sir Williams was a severe looking man of about five and forty, his balding pate shining in the lantern light. He was dressed in a formal black dinner jacket over a bone white shirt. His fierce blue eyes gazed upon Holmes with what appeared to be considerable contempt. “Your name is familiar to me, sir,” he said, his bushy mustache quivering as he spoke. “I have read your analysis of the Chaldean roots traced in the Cornish branch of the Celtic language. It is a masterpiece,” he proclaimed, and I saw Holmes’ chest puff out slightly. “A masterpiece of rank amateurism. It is so riddled with errors that they overwhelm the few areas of accuracy. I am afraid that philology is an exacting science that requires years of training. It cannot be learned over a weekend from glancing at a few minor tomes, like some cheap parlor trick.”

Holmes’ grey eyes narrowed at this venomous attack, but when he spoke his voice was strangely mild. “Yes, well, I am sure you have your own interpretation of the data. Pray tell, Sir Williams, as Dr. Watson and I made our way over to this gallery, we passed through a small room containing some fine objects that I have seen before in the chambers of a Mr. Nathan Garrideb. A set of fine Syracusan coins, for example. And a cabinet of Neolithic flint tools arranged chronologically with the skulls of their one-time owners. Did his estate perhaps leave them to the Museum?”

“Yes, there were a few items worthy of display, though nothing that compared to the scope of his imagination. Garrideb thought he was another Hans Sloane,” sniffed Sir Williams, his lip curled in a sneer. “But in actuality, the old imbecile was a minor dilettante. These sorts of things are best left to the professionals.”

Holmes bared his teeth in what some might mistake for a pained smile, and I knew to be a grimace of distaste. It was one of my friend’s most evident faults that he was impatient with less astute intellects than his own, and I feared he judged the Director to be squarely in this camp. Holmes promptly did away with his weak attempt at pleasantries. It was never a great skill of his, and the Director plainly had no interest in talking with Holmes. He sniffed at the air. “I have a few questions for your, Sir Williams.”

“Yes, so Brundage tells me,” said the Director, while the man beside him shrank further into the shadows. “But I am afraid that is impossible. The matter is very delicate, Mr. Holmes,” he intoned. “Consider the reputation of the museum. I can hardly justify speaking before…”

“Have no fear, Sir Williams. I can assure you that Dr. Watson is the very soul of discretion.”

The Director faced round to study me. “Is he? Would your other clients agree, Mr. Holmes? The ones whose private lives have been laid bare in his tawdry tales? I think not.”