The Scroll of the Dead (15 page)

‘Now he is dead, perhaps we shall never know.’

‘As Melmoth would no doubt observe, the dead can tell us many things. Tomorrow we will visit Faversham’s house in Kent in search of the truth.’

While Holmes and I were engaged in this conversation, Sir Alistair Andrews was lying on a bed of hard sacking in a cell in Scotland Yard. He had not yet been charged, but he knew that imprisonment and disgrace lay before him. His dream of fame and recognition as one of the world’s greatest archaeologists had flaked into ashes within a matter of hours. He stared up at the barred window through which pale moonlight filtered, the only illumination the cell enjoyed. Tears moistened his eyes. And yet he was angry. Angry that he had been such a fool. Such a stupid, gullible fool! The anger grew within his breast like fire in a furnace. It burned inside him with a feverish intensity. He shifted his position on the bed as the discomfort grew, but there was no relief from it. He was wracked with self-loathing. He rolled over onto his back as his breathing grew more laboured. The pain grew. His chest felt so tight, it was as though it were being crushed by a great weight. And his heart... his heart pounded and pounded like an engine out of control, the vibrations reverberating in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. It seemed as if his heart was about to explode. He just managed to cry out for help before losing consciousness.

Sir George Faversham had lived at The Elms, a large house on the outskirts of Lee in Kent. Holmes had hired a dog cart from French and Barnard’s, and he drove the seventeen or so miles himself. ‘It is so much easier to spot if you are being followed in one of these these things than on a crowded train,’ he explained. Most of our journey was spent in silence. It was a warm, bright day and it was fascinating to observe the changes of surroundings on our journey. Passing over the sluggish, leaden Thames,
we left behind the heart of the great, grey city, encircled it seemed by a ring of smoking miasma, and drove through the rough, red-bricked wilderness of the outskirts before reaching the belt of pleasant suburban villas. It was not long then before we were cantering down leafy lanes where the crippling hand of man had not yet made its mark. Our journey to Lee caused us to touch on three English counties, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. It was a delightful drive.

On the outskirts of Lee, Holmes reined the horse in to the side of the road to consult a map. Sir George Faversham’s house, The Elms, lay at the north side of the town. Holmes stabbed at the map with a gloved finger. ‘There we are, Watson, less than two miles away. We take the next road on the left.’ So saying, he dropped the map at his feet and we set off again.

‘I have not been able to glean much detail about Faversham apart from what Sir Charles could tell me,’ announced Holmes as we trotted along in the bright sunshine. ‘Apparently he was a bachelor who favoured a very private life. “Secretive and reclusive” were Sir Charles’ words. He lived at The Elms with his secretary, John Phillips, and just one manservant, Dawson. The house is now up for sale. I contacted the land agent yesterday and arranged this visit. Dawson is expecting us and will show us around the property.’

‘What about Phillips?’

Holmes gave a shrug of the shoulder. ‘I have no notion as to his whereabouts. Most likely he is seeking another position. He may have already obtained one. Dawson will no doubt be able to furnish us with details.’

Following this brief interchange, Holmes lapsed into silence once more until we arrived at our destination.

The same bright sunshine that had favoured our sojourn to Kent filtered through the grimy windows of the prison infirmary. Pale yellow light,
diminished by its journey through the gloomy ward, fell gently on the grey face of Sir Alistair Andrews, bathing it in a delicate amber hue. His daughter, Catriona, sat by his bed holding his hand, the blue veins rigid and clearly visible through the translucent skin. It was cold. It was colder to her than ice. It was colder than the fear that she now felt. It was colder than the hate that she was nurturing within her bosom. Her stare was fixed somewhere in the distance while her eyes brimmed with tears.

There was a rustling noise behind her and a nurse came forward and took her arm. ‘Come along, my dear, I am afraid you must go back now.’ She looked over her shoulder at the uniformed officer who stood some six feet away. He took a step forward as the nurse gently raised the girl to her feet. Catriona Andrews leaned forward and placed a kiss on her father’s white forehead and then she was led away, first by the nurse and then by the officer, who took charge of her as they reached the door of the ward. For a moment the girl hesitated and turned again to gaze back at her father’s bed. She was just in time to see the nurse pull the sheet up over his face.

The Elms was a grand structure. As we passed down a curved, lush, tree-lined drive, the house, as if by magic, suddenly swung into view. It stood before a large circular lawn, the borders of which were crammed with the bright hues of spring flowers. The building itself was of precise Georgian proportions, the smooth honey-coloured stone glowing in the morning sun. There was a clipped tracery of ivy around the main door, but apart from that the front of the building was unblemished.

As Holmes drew up beside the front portico, the large door opened and a short, grey-headed man emerged to greet us. His shoulders were stooped and he gazed out at us from large rheumy eyes. ‘Good day gentlemen,’ he said, almost bowing. ‘You are Mr Holmes and Mr Watson, I take it.’

‘Indeed!’ cried Holmes, jumping down from the cart and shaking the
man’s hand. ‘And you must be Dawson.’

The man nodded deferentially. ‘Please come in, gentlemen, I have been expecting you. You would, perhaps, care for some refreshment after your journey before I show you around the building.’

‘Most kind,’ said Holmes.

We entered the impressive hall with its shiny parquet floor and bright chandeliers. There were many artefacts denoting Sir George’s fascination with Egypt placed around the spacious chamber: vivid masks of vibrant hues, various items of jewellery, an ancient map of the Nile basin displayed over the fireplace, and a large, brightly coloured sarcophagus standing on end at the foot of the broad staircase. However, to my surprise there were no signs of the recent burglary.

Holmes made this observation. Dawson appeared slightly unnerved at our knowledge of the crime – as though it placed some blight on his master’s house. ‘The blackguards were obviously common ruffians,’ he replied. ‘Apart from making a mess of a few rooms, they took very little with them. Thankfully, most of Sir George’s collection remains intact.’ He moved forward and placed a hand gently on the sarcophagus, stroking it as though it were a living animal. ‘Of course you will appreciate, gentlemen, that Sir George’s effects, his collection of Egyptian items, are not included in the sale of the house. They are to be removed to the British Museum in due course.’

‘I fully appreciate that point,’ returned Holmes, ‘but having a fascination for Egypt and its history myself, I wonder if I can prevail upon you to include a tour of Sir George’s fascinating collection as we view the house.’

‘I do not see why not, sir. Now if you’ll come this way and take a seat in the drawing room, I’ll see to the tea.’

We took tea, and in our role as potential buyers we chatted to Dawson about the house and grounds and the nature of the local area. However,
Holmes, eager to start the tour, ignored the tea and quickly prompted our guide to start showing us around. It was an impressive building, one of the most attractive houses I had seen, and very large for a man with no wife or family.

‘Sir George adored the space and freedom that The Elms gave him,’ Dawson explained. ‘He wasn’t a gregarious man and he felt he could lose himself in the house if he wished, despite the fact that usually there was only myself and Mr Phillips, Sir George’s secretary, on the premises.’

At one point on our tour we were shown what Dawson called the Egyptian Gallery, a long, dimly-lighted room which contained the nucleus of the Faversham collection. Holmes spent a great deal of time scrutinising the items closely, while I engaged Dawson in conversation to keep the fellow occupied. There were one or two empty cases, and other evidence of the recent break-in, but to my untutored eyes the collection appeared to be more or less intact. In my own examination of the items on display, I saw nothing that could be regarded as significant to our investigation, and certainly there was no sign of a dog-headed Canopic jar. From his bleak expression, it was clear that Holmes was similarly disappointed with his examination. He gave me a dismal shake of the head as we left the gallery, indicating that his search had been fruitless.

‘What is this room?’ queried Holmes some moments later, as we were being led back downstairs to the drawing-room. He stopped and pointed to a heavy green tapestry draped across a recess on the corridor wall. Before Dawson could respond to the question, my friend stepped forward and pulled back the tapestry to reveal a door. He tried the handle: it was locked.

Dawson frowned and appeared flustered. ‘Oh, that is... er, was Sir George’s private study.’

‘A secret room, eh? Not easy to spot. I bet the burglars missed that. Well, we should like to see inside,’ said Holmes sternly. ‘If we are to
consider buying a property, we need to see all aspects of it, all of its chambers.’

Dawson hesitated. ‘No one was allowed in there, sir. Sir George kept it as a strictly private room.’

‘But he is no longer with us,’ I remarked softly.

Still the man hesitated. His loyalty to his master remained strong, even after death.

‘Come, sir, the room...!’ snapped my friend impatiently.

Slowly, with great reluctance, Dawson withdrew a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and we entered. It was a small, claustrophobic room, made all the more so by the heavy velvet curtains which were draped across the window, allowing only a thin shaft of light to invade the darkness and spot the carpet with a sharp strip of illumination. Holmes strode forward and, pulling the curtains apart, flooded the room with bright sunshine. As he did so, my heart skipped a beat for I observed, standing by a large document-cluttered desk, a dog-headed ornament – surely it was the Canopic jar we were seeking. Holmes had seen it too, and with a nod and a raised eyebrow indicated that I should distract Dawson while he examined the item. With my hand on the manservant’s arm, I drew him to the window and asked him to explain the location of the room in relation to the rest of the house. I kept feeding him with questions as best I could while at the same time keeping an eye on Holmes who, with great stealth, knelt down by the jar and raised the lid silently. His face looked stern as he peered inside. Then gingerly he placed his hand deep down into the jar. He withdrew it moments later and I could detect from his gloomy countenance that it was empty. Clearly the Scroll of the Dead was not there. Involuntarily, he gave a gasp of exasperation. Dawson instinctively turned at the sound to discover Sherlock Holmes examining the vast array of books on the shelf.

‘If you gentlemen have seen enough... I would be happy if we could leave this room now. I am really not at ease in breaking Sir George’s word, even though he is, as you say, no longer with us. I know it may seem foolish to you, gentlemen, but until his things have been packed away, I shall still continue to think of it as his private study.’

Holmes was about to concede to this entreaty when his eye fell upon something that caught his attention. It was a photograph on Sir George’s desk. He picked up the silver frame, examined it, and then passed it to me. The photograph featured two men standing by a rowing boat at the edge of a stretch of water with a bank of trees as a backdrop. The older man had his arm around the younger one’s shoulder in an avuncular fashion. Dawson stood by our side and, unbidden, explained the photograph. ‘That is Sir George with Mr Phillips, his secretary. The photograph was taken with Sir George’s own camera by one of the servants.’

‘But I thought you were the only member of the household staff,’ I said.

‘At The Elms, yes. But there is Bates, the housekeeper at Grebe House.’

Holmes eyes lit up with excitement. ‘Grebe House. Where is that?’

‘It is Sir George’s country retreat in the Lake District. It is situated on Grebe Isle, a small island on Ullswater. It suited Sir George’s love of solitude and privacy.’

Tell me,’ said Holmes, his sense of excitement barely concealed, ‘did your master keep various Egyptian artefacts up at Grebe House also?’

‘I have no doubt he did, sir. But I have never visited it. In fact, to my knowledge, apart from Bates, the housekeeper who used to tend the house in his absence, Mr Phillips was the only other soul to have been allowed on the island. Sir George had no children himself, you see, and he rather regarded Mr Phillips almost as his adopted son. They were very close. Even when Sir George was buried he...’

‘Where was he buried?’

‘Sir George wished the location of his resting place to be kept a secret.’

‘He was buried on the island, wasn’t he? He was buried on Grebe Island.’ Holmes stared fiercely at the retainer, willing him to reply to the statement.

At length, Dawson nodded dumbly. ‘Yes, sir, according to his final wishes. Mr Phillips accompanied the coffin up to Grebe House only a few days ago...’