The Scroll of the Dead (17 page)

‘It looks as if you will not have to swim after all,’ cried Holmes, breaking my reverie. He pointed ahead to where a little wooden jetty reached out into the lake. Beached on the shore by this rickety structure were three green rowing boats.

I looked out across the lake and there, virtually adjacent to the jetty I saw in the distance a dark shape rising out of the glistening water: Grebe Isle.

Flinty O’Toole was washing his hands by the pump when he sensed that he was being watched. A shadow fell across him. He glanced up and found himself facing a tall stranger with long blond hair. However, it was not the stranger’s appearance that brought a chill of fear to his spine. It was the gun the man was pointing at his heart.

F
or some moments we stared out at the little island, a dark curved silhouette rising from the waters like the back of some great sea creature. From the shore it was impossible to make out any detailed features and there was no sign of habitation – certainly there was no smoke rising from any hidden chimney. It looked innocent enough in the spring sunshine, but I wondered what strange and diabolical secrets it held.

Dismounting, Holmes and I tethered our horses to the uprights of the jetty; then we set about dragging one of the ancient rowing boats into the shallows. Once the craft was bobbing on the water, Holmes stepped aboard, retrieved the oars from the bottom of the boat, and positioned himself as oarsman. I gave the prow, which was facing the shore, a heave in order to propel it out into the lake before clambering aboard myself.

With some difficulty Sherlock Holmes manoeuvred the boat around in the direction of the island and then we set forth on our voyage. ‘I am rather rusty, I am afraid,’ my friend cried over the sound of the wind and the slap and splash of the oars. ‘I haven’t rowed since my university days.’
He tugged on both oars and after a time managed to build up a steady rhythm that sent the boat moving through the water on a reasonably steady course. A casual observer would have thought that he was a city gent out for a day’s fun in the country. Certainly his demeanour betrayed nothing of any darker purpose behind our nautical excursion.

Out on the lake, any warmth generated by the pale yellow sunshine we had enjoyed on the shore was dissipated, and the sharp wind that knifed its way across the waters cut through our clothing with a chilling force. I wrapped my coat more tightly around me to little effect and shivered as the wind buffeted our little vessel. The island was over half a mile out from the shore and it was indeed tiny. Holmes pulled mightily on the oars and we made good progress. As we drew nearer I finally caught sight of Grebe House through a screen of trees. It appeared to be a strange, circular building of mock Gothic design, with dark stained-glass windows glinting back at us like huge winking eyes.

‘What exactly is our plan of action?’ I called to my companion, who seemed completely absorbed in his task of rowing.

‘The situation is too serious for subterfuge,’ he replied. ‘We must remember that Faversham’s secretary, Phillips, is not a criminal. As I see the matter, he has no connection with the theft of the papyrus or any of the murders. He is merely a misguided man carrying out the instructions of an employer he undoubtedly loved and respected. We must face him with the truth – unpleasant though it may be. We need also to inform him that he is our bait for bigger fish.’

‘I just hope that Phillips has not performed some atrocity on the dead body of his master.’

‘It would be unfortunate, but whatever he has done, it would have been carried out as an act of devotion, not desecration. However, his state of mind may be disturbed, and it would be as well to have your pistol handy just in case he reacts violently to our intrusion.’

My hand closed around the butt of my old service revolver in my pocket. The feel of cold hard metal gave me a comforting reassurance.

Soon we were approaching the jetty of Grebe Isle, the twin to the one on shore. Holmes allowed the boat to glide forward at the last minute until it lodged itself with a crunch in the shingle. We secured it to one of the wooden uprights of the jetty and scrambled on to
terra firma
once more.

Grebe House was situated some hundred yards from the shore in a saucer-like dip which, with the aid of the trees and a wild, neglected garden, made it virtually impossible to see from the shore of the lake. It looked starkly out of place in the lush green environment of the isle. Its blackened stone and ornate carvings reminded me of a small church in the city rather than a country house. There was a large, incongruous, wooden outbuilding attached to the side of the house.

Without a word, we made our way up the pebble path which led us to a substantial oak door. Holmes tried the handle, but the door did not budge. It was locked. ‘It appears that we shall have to make our visit very formal,’ he observed, tugging vigourously on the large bell. We heard distant clanging in the depths of the house, but it roused no response. Holmes persevered with the bell for nearly a minute and then resorted to hammering on the door.

We waited, listening intently, but the only sounds we could hear were the thrashing of the foliage in the breeze-blown trees and the occasional cry of a bird.

‘Perhaps there is no one in there,’ I said at length.

‘Oh, yes, Watson, there is someone in there. I am convinced of it. I just hope the fool has the sense to let us in,’ Holmes muttered impatiently. He pulled the bell again while I battered the door with my fist. At last we heard a sound from inside. It was muffled and faint at first and sounded like footsteps. They appeared to be approaching the door in a slow, slithery fashion and then suddenly they stopped. There was a brief
silence which was followed by the grating noise of a key turning in the lock. Instinctively my fingers clutched the handle of my gun.

Slowly the oak door opened wide. Standing before us, holding a lighted candlestick in one trembling hand, was a young, dark-haired man. I recognised him from the photograph I had seen at The Elms. It was the person we had come to see: John Phillips, Sir George Faversham’s secretary. But it was a shock to observe the change that had been wrought on the appearance of his youthful features. There were premature streaks of grey in the hair which hung lankly around his gaunt, white, unshaven face. Lustreless eyes, dark-rimmed through lack of sleep, stared at us in a wild, furtive, haunted fashion. His mouth hung open, the lips moist with saliva. The fellow’s whole appearance, with stooped shoulders and shuffling gait, was that of an old man.

He stared at us for some moments, his mouth working silently as though he was on the verge of uttering something, but had either forgotten what it was that he was about to say or was unsure of how to phrase it. In fact it was Holmes who spoke first.

‘Mr Phillips, I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Doctor Watson. We have come here to help you.’

‘No!’ cried the young man suddenly with a snarling ferocity, his whole frame shaking now with a feverish animation and his eyes bulging in their sockets. ‘No! You must go. You are disturbing my important work.’ With a clumsy motion he attempted to close the door on us, but Holmes stepped forward, preventing him. Taking hold of the handle, my friend forced the door wide open and pressed forward so that Phillips, thus challenged, had no other recourse but to step back into the house.

‘You either see us now and we help you,’ my friend announced with cold authority, ‘or we shall have no alternative but to inform the authorities that you have stolen property on these premises and that you are indulging in unnatural and un-Christian practices with the dead.’

Phillips’s mouth gaped and he retreated further into the gloom of the hallway. ‘Oh, my God,’ he groaned, his eyes rolling wildly. In a daze, he staggered backwards, his free arm flailing, reaching out for some means of support. He found none. Still stumbling, he lost his balance and crashed to the floor in a swoon; the candlestick, released from his grasp, skated off into the darkness.

I rushed forward and knelt at his side, taking his wrist to test his pulse. It was feeble and sluggish. ‘This man is barely alive,’ I said as Holmes joined me at his side.

‘Is it exhaustion or are there other symptoms?’ he asked, kneeling down and cradling the young man’s head in his arms. He prised back the flaccid eyelids but only the blood-veined whites were visible.

With Holmes’ assistance, I removed Phillips’s jacket and examined his arms for signs of injections. I wondered whether his exhaustive state was due to drugs, but the skin was smooth and unblemished.

‘It is a type of exhaustion,’ I said at last. ‘Probably enhanced by nervous tension. His features and manic behaviour suggest that he is not a strong person, physically or mentally. If we get him somewhere warm and find a reviving drink – brandy perhaps – he should regain consciousness.’

To my surprise, Holmes jumped to his feet and shook his head. ‘No. Leave him where he is. This is a splendid opportunity for us to examine these premises without hindrance.’

It was typical of Sherlock Holmes to place the considerations of the investigation before the welfare of a sick man – albeit a sadly misguided one. However, in this instance I saw his point. Phillips was in no real danger and his exhausted condition did provide us with such an opportunity. By the light from the open doorway, I spied a chaise longue at the far end of the hall. I suggested we move Phillips there so that at least he would be resting comfortably. Holmes agreed and we carried out the task.

Picking up the candlestick, he lit it again. ‘Obviously, there is no gas or electricity on the island, so this simple stick of wax will be our prime source of illumination. Let us explore.’

And so we began a tour of that weird, round house. While the sun shone outside the building, we moved around in almost pitch darkness inside. I managed to locate another candlestick to aid us. There were also the dull-coloured glowing spots of light from the occasional stained-glass window, but these were feeble aids in a house that somehow seemed to revel in its own interior blackness.

We discovered that all the rooms were on the ground floor: the staircase merely led to a gallery around the dome of the building. There was a simple kitchen, dining-room, sitting-room and three bedrooms, all of which were Spartan and provided nothing of special interest to our investigation. Then we came to what was obviously Sir George’s study. It was crammed with various Egyptian artefacts, including yet another brightly gilded sarcophagus set up on end on the back wall of the room. Holmes seemed particularly interested in this. Whipping out his lens he examined it closely.

‘You don’t think it contains Faversham’s body, do you?’ I asked.

‘I doubt it, Watson. However, it is interesting to note that this sarcophagus only dates back to the early Victorian period.’

‘What!’

‘It is a copy only a little better than those used in side shows to fool the gullible public. Here, take my candle.’

I did as he asked, and with both hands he began to prise the lid open. It swung wide with ease.

‘Modern hinges,’ Holmes observed with a wry smile, ‘so much more effective than those old Egyptian ones.’

What was revealed when the lid was opened was a great surprise to me: there was no base to the sarcophagus. It was, in all essentials, a
door, a cunningly concealed door, which I could see, as I moved forward with the candlesticks, led to a descending flight of steps. ‘A hidden cellar!’ I exclaimed.

‘
Au contraire
, my dear Watson. The term cellar is far too mundane a description for what lies beneath our feet. This staircase surely leads down to Faversham’s secret tomb.’

I shuddered at these words.

‘Come, let us discover if my deduction is correct.’

Taking one of the candlesticks from me, Holmes led the way through the sarcophagus door and we began to descend the narrow stone staircase. The steps curved round in a spiral and were illuminated at intervals by flickering oil lamps set into recesses in the wall at shoulder height. Using a habit I had picked up from Holmes, I counted the steps; there were twenty-eight. As we descended, I could not rid myself of the impression that we were leaving behind the real world of rationality and sense and entering a strange, pagan one of dark menaces and madness.

At the bottom of the staircase we found ourselves in a low-ceilinged chamber lit by four tall braziers, their rich vacillating flames and smoky tendrils casting eerie, dancing shadows onto the plaster walls. As Holmes had intimated, the chamber was indeed a replica of an Egyptian tomb. The walls were decorated with drawings, bright paintings, and tapestries from that mystic bygone age. At the far end of the tomb there appeared to be a small altar, holding a series of earthenware dishes containing various coloured liquids and, at the centre, a small golden casket. Hanging behind the altar was a large tapestry which covered the whole of the rear wall. It was blue in colour and featured images in bright yellow: a bird with a human head hovering over a mummy.