The Scroll of the Dead (13 page)

‘What were those pieces?’

‘I cannot remember the details of each item exactly. I have the full inventory in my files, but I do know that they were trivial artefacts – certainly by comparison to the mummy and precious items of jewellery.’

‘Was one piece a Canopic jar?’

Sir Charles’ eyes widened behind the pebble lens. ‘Why yes, I do believe it was. I remember it was a particular favourite of Sir George’s. He made a special request to keep it.’

By the time Sir Charles had imparted this piece of information, Holmes had leapt from his seat and was halfway through the door. ‘Thank you,’ he cried, cheerfully. ‘It is a confirmation I desperately needed.’

‘What was all that about?’ I asked in the cab as we returned to Baker Street.

‘In breaking the code, I realised that a Canopic jar is central to this puzzle.’

‘A Canopic jar?’

‘...contains the dried organs of the deceased wrapped in linen. Henntawy’s jar was a very interesting item: it was dog-headed and contained...’

When we alighted at Baker Street, Skoyles, who seemed to be in a devil of a hurry rushed by us, bumped awkwardly into Holmes, and without a word of apology ran off down the street. Rather than appearing annoyed at this incident, my friend smiled: ‘Good lad, that.’

Once in the hallway, Holmes held up a note in his gloved hand.

‘From Skoyles,’ I said, the dawn beginning to break.

‘A subtle and yet effective means of passing information. That lad will go far.’ Holmes scrutinised the note and gave a satisfied nod. ‘Now, the next stage of the game must be played carefully. There is much at stake.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Go upstairs. Assure Miss Andrews that our passage to Egypt is booked. Explain that I am still tying up the threads of another case before we depart. I’ll leave the details to you. After all, creative fiction is your department.’

‘What then?’ I asked.

Take tea with her and then invent a patient who requires your assistance.’

‘Holmes...’

And then,’ he said quickly, ignoring my ejaculation, ‘meet me in the snug bar of the The Prince Regent on Salisbury Street, near to the Conway Hotel, at eight o’clock sharp.’

‘I don’t suppose there is any point in asking why?’

Astute as ever, Watson. Eight o’clock sharp, remember.’ With that he slipped quietly out of the door and into Baker Street once more.

* * *

The Prince Regent was one of the less salubrious
rendezvous
in which I had waited for my friend. I arrived at fifteen minutes before the appointed hour to find the snug crammed with noisy drinkers, many of whom, judging by their abandoned demeanour, had been there some hours already. The air was so thick with tobacco smoke that it was almost impossible to see clearly across the room. With some difficulty, I made my way to the bar, squeezing past a knot of inebriated sailors who looked as though they were about to lose the power of standing upright at any minute. Eventually gaining a place at the counter, I managed to secure the barman’s attention. I was just about to order a drink when a fellow pushed in at the side of me and called out brusquely, ‘A pint of your best ale!’

I tugged the man’s sleeve. ‘You can get me the same, Hardcastle,’ I called in his ear.

The Scotland Yarder turned in surprise. ‘Doctor Watson! You’re here already. Where’s Mr Holmes?’

‘I am here,’ said a disembodied voice somewhere amidst the smoke-filled room. ‘No time for drinks, gentlemen. We have a lady to surprise and a villain to apprehend.’

‘What exactly is this all about, Mr Holmes?’ enquired Hardcastle in a peevish manner, once we were out in the street. ‘I had hoped to get home to the wife for a quiet supper together tonight.’

‘I am sorry if I am responsible for rocking the boat of domestic bliss, Inspector, but I thought you would like to be present when two of the culprits involved in the Museum theft were apprehended,’ replied my friend, with more than a hint of smugness in his voice.

Hardcastle tried to contain his surprise by coughing into his handkerchief. ‘That’s quick, even by your standards,’ he said gruffly.

‘You have your darbies with you?’

‘I have. And a warrant as requested. But who is it we’ll be nabbing?’

‘All will be revealed in due course. Now, gentleman, we are about to enter the Conway Hotel. We shall spilt up and seat ourselves discreetly in the lobby. Read a newspaper or examine a menu, anything to blend into the background. Keep your eye on the reception desk and watch for my signal to move.’

The Conway was a modest hotel situated within half a mile of Charing Cross Station. Because of its close proximity to the railway, it was popular with visiting businessmen and theatricals. I had considered taking a room here myself when I first returned from India, but the rates had proved too expensive for a fellow with an income of but eleven shillings and sixpence a day.

We entered separately. The lobby was quite busy and there were very few seats available. I positioned myself by a pillar and picked up a copy of
The Westminster Gazette
, while Hardcastle seated himself behind a potted palm. Holmes sat at the writing desk apparently composing a letter. He was enjoying the moment, the subterfuge, and using us, the Scotland Yarder and myself, as puppets in his grand plan. Of course, I had some inkling of what was afoot, but certainly not the full details or ramifications of Holmes’ plot. I comforted myself with this thought, for I knew that Hardcastle was completely in the dark. Holmes delighted in keeping the official police ignorant of events until the moment when he could surprise them with his brilliance.

Little did I know at the time that, while we waited and watched, we were also being watched. Somewhere in the shady recesses of the foyer, a tall blond-haired man with a plump white face and fiercely cruel eyes kept his own vigil while he smoked a series of Russian cigarettes. Like a Grand Master, he knew that, despite his protagonists’ ruses, he was still in charge of the board.

* * *

We had not long to wait. Some twenty minutes after our arrival, as the crush in the lobby began to thin out, a young woman in a state of some agitation entered the hotel and hurried to the reception desk. From my vantage point, it was easy for me to observe that her face was flushed, while her brown eyes were wide with concern, and a thin sheen of perspiration covered her brow.

It was Catriona Andrews.

The three us watched from our different viewpoints as she made some urgent request of the desk clerk, who at length consulted his guest ledger and imparted the information that she so desperately desired. She then hurried towards the hotel lift. As she disappeared behind the clanging metal doors, Holmes was on his feet and making his own urgent enquiries of the desk clerk. With a dramatic gesture of his arm he beckoned us to him.

‘201 is the room we require, gentlemen. We’ll take the stairs, and that will give our charming client time to make herself at home.’

Wearing a puzzled expression, Hardcastle mouthed the word ‘Client’ to me, but Holmes, intercepting his query, announced curtly, ‘Later, Inspector: full explanations later.’

I gave the policeman a sympathetic shrug.

Some moments later we stood in a brightly lighted corridor outside room 201. Holmes spoke to us in a whisper. ‘It is unlikely that you will need your firearm, Watson, but I would be obliged if you have it on show in order to impress upon our friends that we mean business. Similarly Hardcastle, have your handcuffs at the ready – you will certainly need them. Ready, gentlemen?’

We nodded gravely, whereupon Sherlock Holmes flung open the door of room 201.

The sight that met our eyes was indeed an extraordinary one. In the middle of the room were two figures: a man and a woman. They were
holding each other in a close embrace. One of the figures was Catriona Andrews. The other was a man somewhat older than her. He was tall in stature with a waxy complexion and wispy grey hair.

At our sudden entrance they broke from each other’s arms and turned to stare at us with looks of total amazement on their faces. On realising that her treachery had been discovered, Miss Andrews placed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry of horror.

Holmes stepped forward and bowed. ‘Good evening. A touching scene indeed. Father and daughter reunited once more after the pain of separation. Let me introduce you, Inspector Hardcastle, to the happy couple over here: this is Miss Catriona Andrews, and this is her father, Sir Alistair, whom we had given up for lost.’

‘You devil!’ screamed the young woman. Within seconds her whole demeanour had changed. Having easily and quickly shaken off the emotions of shock and dismay, she took a step towards us, her body now consumed with fury and her face contorted with hate for my friend. She gave an unintelligible cry and flew at Holmes, her arms outstretched, her fingers curled like talons. Before he had a chance to defend himself, she was upon him, screaming, and clawing at his face. He fell back, helpless against such a ferocious attack from a woman. He seemed at a total loss as to how to react.

I rushed to the rescue and, with the help of her father, managed to pull the young woman away from my friend and restrain her. Incensed as she was, Miss Andrews possessed great strength, and it was some moments before we could release our hold of her safely. At first she struggled violently, ready to snap free and be at Holmes again, but her father begged her to be calm. He repeated his entreaties in a firm but soothing manner and eventually his daughter, recognising the futility of the situation, gradually controlled her anger. Her body relaxed and the ferocity gave way to tears. She fell sobbing into her father’s arms.

Holmes was very shaken by the sudden attack. Awkwardly, he dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. For a brief moment he had been jolted from his secure position of control and thrown into a situation that was totally unexpected. He stood now eyeing the crying girl strangely, his breath still emerging in irregular short bursts and his eyes flickering erratically, registering his total disquiet.

‘You all right, Mr Holmes?’ asked Hardcastle, placing a concerned hand on his shoulder.

My friend gave a stern nod of the head. His face was deathly white apart from a series of thin red scratches around the neck where the girl’s nails had scored the flesh. Already blood was beginning to seep out of the deeper wounds. ‘I suggest you arrange transport to Scotland Yard for these two,’ he said to Hardcastle, his voice shaky at first and then resuming its natural authority, ‘and afterwards, if you care to call round to Baker Street for a nightcap, I will furnish you with details concerning their involvement in the murder of Sir George Faversham.’

‘I
will never understand women, Watson. They act without reason or logic. At all times their emotions, passionate and unthinking, rule their behaviour. Take the Andrews girl. One moment she is plotting some heinous crime with her father with heartless, clinical precision. However, on being discovered she flies into an unrestrained fury like a wild cat and then finally collapses in tears. Hah! Give me the cold, calculating, and controlled ruthlessness of Professor Moriarty any day. At least there was intellectual consideration behind
all
his actions! With women the unpredictable is all you are able to predict.’ Sherlock Holmes paced up and down in an agitated manner as he loosed this tirade against womankind in general and Miss Catriona Andrews in particular.

We were back once more in our sitting-room at Baker Street and I had dressed the wounds the girl had inflicted upon my friend. They were minor hurts, but Holmes was more than irritated by having to surrender to my ministrations. He saw the girl’s attack upon him as an affront to his dignity and perception. I knew that Holmes’ anger was caused not so much by the ‘emotional irrationality’ of Catriona Andrews but more by
his own failure to anticipate her actions. He did not like being unprepared in his dealings with people, and he had been completely unnerved by her assault.

I did not respond to this outburst, knowing that my best course of action was to assume the role of a silent witness. At length I gave a weary sigh of boredom which stopped my friend in mid-sentence. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ I said gently, ‘do sit down and have a pipeful of shag to calm your nerves.‘

His eyes narrowed and he gave me a strange, accusative look; but he did as I suggested. For a time we both lapsed into silence; then, just as I was about to open up a discussion about the implications of the night’s events, there was a discreet tap at our door and Hardcastle entered. He drew up a chair by the fire and joined us in a smoke.

‘Now then, Mr Holmes, I would appreciate a full explanation of how Sir Alistair Andrews and his daughter are implicated in murder and the theft of that Egyptian papyrus. At present they are under arrest solely on your word, and if I am to keep my job I will need more than that.’

Holmes nodded and leaned back in his chair. ‘Of course, my dear fellow,’ he replied, in a voice which indicated that his equanimity was in the process of being restored. ‘There are four people mixed up in this affair, four greedy people who are determined to locate Setaph’s Scroll of the Dead. You have two of them in custody: Sir Alistair Andrews and his unscrupulous daughter. However, their full involvement in this business came some time after the theft of the Henntawy papyrus.’