THE IRREGULAR CASEBOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES (12 page)

Another day passed fruitlessly, and on the following morning he led us to Luxor Temple, then on to the Avenue of Sphinxes that runs to Karnak. The way passed through villages where the inhabitants looked at us with distrust, and even the children stayed clear. We followed the young spy at a safe distance until all habitation was left behind, and the sphinxes were the only surviving signs of human habitation in an area of wilderness.

How we lost him I do not know. One minute he was visible, the next he was gone. We stood in the pounding heat, wondering what to do next.

We heard a rasping chuckle, and saw an old Arab seated in the shadow of one of the sphinxes, drawing deep on a hookah. He beckoned to me and I shook my head. ‘No
baksheesh,’
I cried testily. The old man shrugged.

‘Then at least you could spare me some shag tobacco, Watson. Keep your voices down, gentlemen, sound carries here. Examine the carvings on the base of the sphinx while I talk.

‘I managed to hang on to the side of the train, and climbed up to the roof. I confess I was not expecting it to be so crowded. Whole families travel up there, you know. By the time I had sat there for a while and regained my composure, it occurred to me that fortune had smiled on us. I had the chance to disappear and conduct my researches “in mufti”. I traded some clothes with an old man, and for days I have been combing the back streets of Luxor, seeking information about our adversary, who now believes I am dead.

‘It has taken some effort to get anyone to speak. I have never known a man so feared. They refer to him only as “The Old One”, and sometimes by a phrase that means “His Own Father”. He is held in awe by rich and poor alike. No one will admit to being his enemy, nor claim to be his friend. No one can say where he comes from, or what his purpose is, but when he walks abroad all step aside.’

‘It sounds,’ I observed, ‘as if we have crossed swords with the Egyptian Moriarty.’

Holmes’s dusty, bearded face twisted into a wry smile.

‘I fear, Watson, that these are altogether darker waters, and this “Old One” is a more evil and dangerous kind of fish. This much I have learnt. They have walked this Avenue of Sphinxes with the Stelé already, and await a propitious time according to the stars before going on by boat to their final destination. Did the papyrus reveal where that might be, Dr Bhey?’

‘Not directly, Mr Holmes, but I think it must be Edfu. Nectanebo built a
Naos
, a shrine, there, and the temple in which it stands is dedicated to the God Horus, who is carved on the Stelé.’

‘Very good, Dr Bhey. Now you must both be on your guard. Watch the Nile, and be ready to follow them at a moment’s notice. Expect me by your side when you least expect it!’

I need hardly say how buoyed up I was by the appearance of Holmes, and the knowledge that he would be there, unseen, working on our behalf. We also knew where to focus our energies. Within an hour we had hired one of the small sailing boats called
felukahs
, stocked it with basic food stuffs, and were waiting for the sign that the last stage of our pursuit was underway.

It was a long, tiresome wait under the blazing sun. An awning was stretched over the deck, but even in the shade we grew hot and tired. On the second morning another boatman ran up and spoke urgently to one of our crew. He in turn whispered to Bhey, who turned to me with an excited smile. ‘That man has seen a large and beautiful boat pull out downstream. He ran to tell us immediately.’

‘This must be Holmes’s work, I am sure,’ I cried. ‘We would have missed them!’

In minutes we were on the Nile, a light breeze rippling the
felukah
’s sails. The boatman and his brother rowed with their massive counter-weighted oars to supplement our propulsion. It proved an epic journey. At times the Nile was kind, and we could sail before a strong wind. More often, the crew had to tack wildly to catch breaths of breeze, or pull into the shallows where the boat could be punted through the reeds. When they grew tired they chanted an ancient song, perhaps as old as the Pharoahs.

When darkness came, a surprising chill fell on the Nile. We snatched a few hours of sleep and went on at first light. Ahead of us we could now make out a sail, and through my small spy glass I saw a large and magnificent boat under full sail. Grander than a
felukah
, it had about it something of the ancient Egyptian barge, and much of the sleek, modem yacht. We would clearly struggle just to continue to keep it in sight.

So our Nile journey, which might have been in other circumstances idyllic, passed in toil and worry. Once I glimpsed on the river bank a boy who looked like our spy. Was our enemy watching our every move?

Just up river from Edfu, we pulled in and tied up among the reeds. At our request the boatman walked on, and returned before long with the news that the great vessel was moored at the village. Darkness was already falling at the end of our third day on the Nile. We arranged to watch the vessel in turn, and await our chance to claim the Stelé.

Dawn brought purposeful movement among the crew of the great boat by Edfu. We knew that the time to make our move was approaching. Once the ritual was completed, the Stelé might disappear for ever into the maze of Cairo streets, or the desolation of some desert hideaway. I wondered how, and when, Holmes would make his move.

Bhey was intimately familiar with the layout of Edfu Temple, and felt that he could get us there without attracting too much attention. By swapping clothes with the boatmen, we might approach the temple unchallenged. Once there, we would have to improvise.

We covered the journey from the river to the temple without mishap, and walked along the Cyclopean outer wall to the main gates. There we had expected to find opposition, but the towering pylons stood deserted.

As we moved out of the shadow of the wall, a familiar figure came into sight, and rounded the far wall of the temple complex. It was the street urchin who had plagued us since our arrival, and whose intentions looked far from innocent. Once he was out of sight we entered the courtyard and made for the temple entrance, guarded only by great falcons of stone.

Inside the darkness of the temple I could see stone columns and hieroglyph-covered walls. The floor was gritty with wind-blown sand. All was still and silent.

Bhey led us to the very heart of the temple, where stood a great shrine of black granite. A small wooden boat of ancient construction had been placed in front of it, and propped up inside it was the Stelé. ‘The boat is for carrying ceremonial objects in procession,’ explained Bhey. ‘This one has stood here in the temple for two thousand years.’

‘Longer than that,’ said a voice; and someone stepped out of the darkness within the granite shrine.

I would not have been surprised to see Holmes, or even the urchin, but the figure who emerged was as remarkable as he was unexpected. He wore the garments and headgear of an ancient Egyptian King, and carried a staff that glittered with precious stones set in the eyes and body of a bronze serpent that coiled along its length. The effect was at once barbarous and exotic, and I knew at once that we were in the presence of the person called ‘The Old One’.

He was a dark-skinned, middle-aged man, whose eyes were great pools of glittering darkness in a face of awesome majesty. The voice, though, was reedy and faint. ‘There has always been a temple here. An aeon has passed since the solar boat was first brought to Thes-Heru. We are unlike your kind. Ours is a work of aeons.’

‘The Old One’ raised his staff, and out of the surrounding columns came a number of well-armed men. In a blink we were surrounded.

‘The temple must not be profaned with blood,’ he piped. ‘No blood, because of my hair, the Trees of Eternity. Let them be broken upon wheels, but not here; not here.’

We were led back out towards the entrance of the temple. As we walked I wondered if they planned to kill us in the outer courtyard, and prayed that Holmes would not delay his move any longer.

Out in the courtyard the sun had risen to blazing heat, and had begun to drive away the shadows. We were pushed across this burning space in the direction of a building that stood separate from the main temple.

Then came a sound like thunder. Into the courtyard galloped a host of mounted Arabs, led by a figure in flowing white robes and
burnous,
mounted on a magnificent white stallion. Under the flapping folds of the headgear I glimpsed the features of Sherlock Holmes.

Holding the prancing horse still with great difficulty, he fired off an ornate flintlock pistol, and the nearest of our captors fell like a pole-axed bull. A fusillade of shots followed, and we were in the middle of a pitched battle.

Holmes spurred his mount on and rode at full gallop into the temple. I ran after, and saw him disappear into the heart of the building. A few seconds later the horse, riderless and wild-eyed, came cantering through the forest of stone pillars and out of the entrance.

I searched the temple, but could see no one. I picked up the Stelé and returned outside, where the fight was still engaged in earnest. The henchmen of ‘The Old One’ were putting up stubborn resistance.

A shrill cry drew my attention to the top of the pylon gate, and there on the very edge were Holmes and ‘The Old One’ locked in a desperate struggle. Our exchange concerning Moriarty flashed into my mind, and I wondered if it was the fate of goodness eternally to confront devils on high places.

Holmes was armed with a long, curving sword, which he was using to parry blows from the snake-entwined staff. There was a clash of metal, and the staff fell down into the courtyard, embedding itself upright in the ground. The Old One jumped at Holmes, a great cry rent the air, and his ornately bedecked form came plummeting down from the pylon, straight onto the staff, which burst up through his back, penetrated his heart, and jutted out of his chest, leaving him grotesquely pinned in mid-air.

The fighting ceased as everyone looked at the fallen figure. To my utter astonishment and horror, I saw that it was not a healthy man in the prime of life that hung on the spike, but a desiccated, withered husk of a thing, like a long-mummified corpse.

A great wailing began among his servitors. My attention was attracted by a movement, and I turned in time to see a gun pointing at my face. I heard the hammer cocked, and saw the finger on the trigger begin to squeeze.

A blur of limbs and dirty fabric flew across and hit the gunman as a flash blinded me.

I became aware of a rattling sound and a rocking motion. I opened my eyes, winced at the pain that stabbed in my temple, and looked around me. White robes stained with dust and blood swam into focus, and I was staring at the sunburnt features of Sherlock Holmes. All I could think of to say was ‘Where am I?’

‘We are on a train heading for Alexandria, Watson.’

‘The Stelé!’ I cried.

‘Here, on the seat beside you.’ said Dr Bhey, as he checked the dressing on my head. ‘You are not badly hurt, but were it not for the street urchin who threw himself at the gunman, you would surely have been killed.’

‘The urchin! But he was a spy for . . .’

‘We will probably never know why he did it. He ran off before we could catch him.’

‘I am only sorry that I could be of no use to you in the fight,’ I said.

‘There was no more fighting after you fell, Watson. Once “The Old One” was killed his followers fled.’

‘And I think I know why,’ added Bhey. ‘There was a special significance in what you did to their leader. The temple was built to commemorate the killing of the evil Set by Horus. The name of the temple represents the way Set died. Edfu means to
pierce
.’

At Alexandria we made our farewells to Dr Bhey and began the race to London by negotiating passage on a tramp steamer bound for Naples. Our plan, to take whatever express trains we could get through Italy and France, suffered an immediate blow. Our arrival in Italy coincided with a holy festival, and whole families were on the move by train. We managed to bribe a driver to let us ride ‘on the plate’, and even took turns to shovel in the coal. The driver is probably still talking about the ‘mad English’ who worked so hard to get him the record for the journey! We made good time through France, but at Calais our race came to a disastrous standstill.