The Scroll of the Dead (12 page)

‘A brandy nightcap for our guest, Watson, and one for myself too if you don’t mind.’ Holmes threw off his outer clothes and turned up the gas while I busied myself preparing the drinks. The noise of our activity brought the girl back to consciousness. She stirred dreamily at first and then, shaking off her fatigue, was on her feet and staring at my friend.

‘At last you’ve returned, Mr Holmes. What news? Oh, please tell me, what news?’

‘Calm yourself, Miss Andrews. Take the brandy from Watson. It will steady your nerves.’

The soft brown eyes turned in my direction, and with a slightly trembling hand she took the tumbler from me. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly.

‘That’s better,’ murmured Holmes as he sat opposite her. ‘Now, before I tell you my news, would you be kind enough to explain your presence here, and why you have decided to give my landlady a fright by bringing your luggage along with you?’

The girl took a sip of her nightcap before replying. On doing so, she looked at my friend with a steady gaze. Her features, having shaken off the softness of sleep, were once more set with a flinty determination. ‘I have given a great deal of thought to what you told me on my visit here yesterday. In my mind I ran over the events that led up to my father’s disappearance, and I am now completely convinced that you are correct in your supposition: he has been kidnapped because of his special knowledge regarding the Scroll. Therefore the obvious course of action is for us to travel to Egypt to pick up the trail there. That is why I am here, packed and ready to go.’

Holmes’ placid expression remained unmoved and he said nothing,
but I could not stop myself from interrupting at this point. ‘Surely you do not think we would allow you to accompany us on any such journey Miss Andrews,’ I cried. ‘There are dangers...’ I got no further in my protestations, for the young woman rounded on me, fierce indignation radiating from her eyes.

‘Allow!’ she retorted harshly. ‘Allow! We are not living in the Middle Ages now, Doctor Watson. It is not given to you, or any man, to say what I may or may not do. I am an independent citizen of a democratic country and I can and will do all I wish that is within the boundary of the law, Christian morals, and good manners. Perhaps I ought to consider whether I should “allow”
you
to accompany
me
to Egypt. Remember, I have a great knowledge of the country, its customs, and terrain. I thought that you would have enough good sense to realise what an invaluable companion I could be in this venture.’

‘I only meant...’ said I, taken aback at the vehemence of Miss Andrews’ tirade.

‘Like so many men, Doctor Watson, you speak before you consider.’

Holmes afforded himself a light chuckle. ‘Call off your dogs, Miss Andrews. I think we take your point. Certainly one cannot question your tenacity and determination but, pray tell me, why are you so convinced that our search leads us to Egypt?’

‘Where else? Setaph’s tomb lies there. The men who have kidnapped my father are after the Scroll of the Dead, are they not?’

Holmes nodded.

‘Then sooner or later they will go to Egypt. You said that you believed that these despicable creatures would hold on to father until they had Setaph’s magical Scroll in their hands.’ She paused a moment, the fire in her eyes flickering low. ‘Do you still hold that belief?’

‘I do.’

‘Then there is no point in searching for a needle in a haystack in
England when you know that the Nile basin is the final destination.’

‘Miss Andrews, what you say is admirably reasoned. Although I may not have secured the needle in that haystack to which you refer, I have gained more information which will help us to narrow down our field of investigation.’

He face brightened. ‘Then please tell me all. If you have information regarding my father’s whereabouts, then for pity’s sake let me know it.’

Holmes appeared touched by her emotional plea, and he rendered her a concise account, tactfully edited, of our pastoral sojourn to Norfolk. Her cheeks flushed with excitement and she sat forward in her chair like an eager child when her father was mentioned. She was a woman of many dramatic, shifting moods and humours and, chameleon-like, she had a predilection to slip in and out of them as her emotions dictated.

At least we know that he is still alive,’ she sighed wearily, slumping back in her chair, when Holmes had finished.

‘Yes... we do.’

And it proves that you were right in your guesswork about Setaph’s Scroll.’

‘I know I am only a mere man, Miss Andrews, but as a consulting detective whose methodology is deductive reasoning, I can assure you that I never guess.’

‘I apologise. Your plans are now for Egypt?’

There was a long pause as Holmes stared past the girl at the flickering flames of the fire, his brow contracted as though he were caught in a trance. And then, suddenly, he broke from his reverie and addressed the girl briskly. ‘Indeed, as you so rightly surmised: Egypt is our destination. Tomorrow we make our arrangements. The sooner we set foot on the desert sand, the sooner this case will be brought to a conclusion and we shall be able to return your father to you.’

‘Mr Holmes, I must go with you. I... I insist upon it!’

‘Miss Andrews, I fully intend that you should accompany Watson and myself. As you pointed out to my dear friend, your specialised knowledge could be of particular use to us in our search.’

‘I am so relieved,’ she sighed.

Holmes smiled politely, but avoided my glance.

‘I should also like to see the papers you found in the cottage. I may be able to help you decipher them.’

‘All in good time,’ replied Holmes, briskly. ‘For the present, I will ring for Mrs Hudson, our housekeeper, and she will see that you are comfortable for the night. In the meantime, I intend to pore over a few maps with an ounce of shag; and Watson, you had better get a good night’s rest. I want you banging on the door of Cook’s at nine in the morning to obtain our tickets of passage for Egypt.’

M
y head had barely touched the pillow before the refreshing vapours of sleep wrapped themselves around me. It was a deep, untroubled sleep without dreams. However, at some point, sweet, melancholic sounds seemed to filter through the mist of unconsciousness. Although faint, muffled even, they were persistent, willing me to take notice. Slowly, reluctantly, my tired brain teased and then roused me into wakefulness. I lay for some moments in the velvet darkness of my bedroom, still drugged by slumbers; and yet I was still aware of the sounds. It took me but a few moments, as reality forced itself upon my fatigued mind, before I comprehended what I was hearing. It was music: lilting, wistful music played on a violin.

Now fully awake, the explanation was simple: Holmes was keeping a melodic vigil. The music drifted like some mournful cry from our sitting-room below. On other occasions I would have turned on my side and surrendered my tired frame to sleep once again, but that night something pushed me into grabbing my dressing gown and slipping down to our sitting-room.

I entered quietly. The room was dimly lighted and Holmes was silhouetted against the window blind, his back towards me, his Stradivarius held delicately under his chin, the bow moving with slow, masterful ease across the strings.

As I closed the door behind me, the music stopped. Holmes froze. ‘I hope my nocturnal recital has not kept you awake, old fellow,’ he said softly, with genuine concern in his voice.

‘Not at all.’

He spun around to face me with a broad grin. ‘Good. A little Brahms is not only good for the soul, it is a lubricant to the thought processes. It helps one come to terms with realities, eventualities... the facts.’ For a moment his face darkened, his brow furrowed, and I was no longer there: he was talking to himself. And then, as the sun emerged from behind a grey cloud, he flashed me another broad grin, placed his violin on the table, and bade me take my old chair by the fire.

‘All is far from what it appears to be in this affair, Watson,’ he said, sitting opposite me and leaning forward to stir the fading fire so that the embers glowed bright again for a moment, throwing his sharp features into amber relief. ‘These are shifting sands. Indeed, they have shifted again this very day. We are surrounded by deceit and deceivers. Tricksters. From Setaph to...’

‘I would like to hear.’

‘For your account, no doubt.’

‘So that you can share your burden,’ I replied evenly.

‘Oh, Watson, you are a good fellow. I sometimes undervalue your qualities.’

‘Indeed, you do.’

Holmes gave a mirthless chuckle and murmured quietly, ‘I am lost without my Boswell.’

He sat still for a moment, for all the world like a mannequin at
Madame Tussaud’s; then, rubbing his hands together with a kind of sardonic glee, he sat back in his chair and began to tell me the remarkable truth concerning the Scroll of the Dead and those concerned with its discovery.

When I returned to my bedroom, my mind was in a whirl. It was as though I had been standing at a window watching a scene through thick net curtains, and now Sherlock Holmes, with his marvellous facility to expose the truth, had removed the curtains and cleared my view. As a result the scene was markedly different from the one I had perceived. Figures in my new landscape were revealed to possess different personas and motives. The implications of these revelations kept me awake for the rest of the night.

The next morning I breakfasted with Miss Andrews. Holmes was nowhere to be seen.

‘He was up and out bright and early,’ said Mrs Hudson in response to Miss Andrews’ concern at my friend’s absence. ‘That’s his way when he’s on a case, isn’t it, Doctor Watson?’

I nodded dumbly, swallowing a piece of toast.

‘He did tell me that he’d be back at noon. Now is there anything else I can get you, my dear? More toast or another egg, perhaps?’

Miss Andrews shook her head.

When our landlady had retreated to her quarters, Miss Andrews rose from the table with a cry of frustration. ‘Where has he gone? Why did he not tell us he had some business?’

I could not help but smile at the girl’s naivety. ‘Because that is the way he works. He is not given to confiding in people. He only lets others know what he wants them to know. I have worked with him for many years and yet he still keeps me in the dark until he considers the time right to illuminate my ignorance.’

My explanation did not erase the petulant look on her face. With a sigh of irritation, she strode to the window and gazed down into the street.

I glanced at my watch. ‘It is nearly nine,’ I announced. ‘Time I was on my way to Cook’s to book our passage. You will be safe here until my return. If you need anything, just ring for Mrs Hudson.’

The young woman parted the net curtain and leaned her forehead against the cool pane of glass. ‘I shall be a good little girl, Doctor, and wait patiently for your return,’ she said softly with neat sarcasm.

I have never felt comfortable when deceiving a woman, however essential the need. This occasion was no exception, despite Holmes’ assurance that indeed it was absolutely essential. I was fully aware, as I left our lodgings like a skulking criminal, that Miss Andrews’ gaze was on me. Dutifully, I hailed a cab and, acting out my charade, announced rather more loudly than I had intended that I wished to go to Cook’s Travel Agents in the Strand. As we pulled away, I observed Skoyles, one of the Baker Street Irregulars, loitering casually across the street. He gave me a cheery wave.

When the cab reached Oxford Street, I leaned out and called up to the driver, issuing a a new set of instructions. He twisted his face into a scowl. ‘Oh, so the ‘oliday’s orf then, eh?’

I nodded sheepishly.

Within half an hour, I had joined Holmes on the steps of the British Museum as arranged. Despite his sleepless night, he was fresh-faced. His eager, bright eyes shone with excitement and anticipation. I informed him of my breakfast conversation with Miss Andrews and he smiled broadly. ‘It is so pleasurable to be in command of the stick which muddies their waters,’ he cried, turning on his heel into the Museum.

Sir Charles Pargetter was surprised to see us so soon after our last encounter. ‘I am truly sorry to interrupt your work again,’ said my friend
earnestly, ‘but I do need further information before I can proceed any further with the matter of the stolen papyrus.’

The Egyptologist nodded and threw his hands out in an expansive gesture. ‘My dear fellow, I am happy to be of assistance. I will tell you anything you need to know, if it will lead to the return of this precious artefact.’

‘When the contents of the tomb discovered by George Faversham and Alistair Andrews were shipped to this country, did everything end up within the confines of the British Museum?’

‘Most of the collection – yes.’

‘But not all?’ There was a sharp eagerness in Holmes’ voice which caused Sir Charles to wrinkle his brow in a concerned fashion.

His response was carefully considered. ‘Several items remained in Egypt; but these were of no historic interest to us. Faversham requested a few pieces to be kept in his own possession on the understanding that should the Museum wish to exhibit them it could.’