The Scroll of the Dead (19 page)

With one unified tug from all three of us, the tapestry finally came down to reveal the entrance to a tunnel. It was about three feet in height.

‘Sir George had this specially built. He had a terror of being trapped in the tomb,’ cried Phillips above the roar of the flames. ‘It’s perfectly safe. It leads to an outbuilding.’

‘I applaud his foresight,’ said Holmes, as he pushed Phillips down into the tunnel. I followed next and Holmes brought up the rear, just as the
sea of fire began to lap around the entrance. We had to crawl on our hands and knees, but at least for the first twenty yards or so we were able see our surroundings because of the faint yellow light radiating from the conflagration we had left behind at the mouth of the tunnel. Eventually as the secret passageway turned and twisted and then ascended slowly we slipped into complete darkness. It was indeed a strange experience, crawling on one’s hands and knees in a black void with the only sensations being the touch of the rough, damp floor and the disembodied sound of the laboured breathing of my companions; it was a claustrophobic one also, with the narrow walls and low ceiling somehow strangely tangible and oppressive in the pitch dark.

We moved like automatons in silence. Our progress was steady but slow. Smoke was already billowing up the passageway as though the fire were using it as a chimney. We increased our efforts but had to stop from time to time for Phillips to rest and build up energy for the next stage. In reality it only took us some two or three minutes to reach the other end but at the time, in that blindfold-thick, smoky blackness, it seemed like hours.

Eventually the passage flattened out again, and shortly we came upon a vertical shaft. A dim light filtered down from above, illuminating a wooden ladder fixed to the wall of the shaft. This time Holmes went first, and he clambered with alacrity up the ladder. Within moments he was hauling Phillips and myself through a trap door up into a large wooden outbuilding. Holmes and I rushed to the window and observed Felshaw and Melmoth approaching the jetty. Obviously, having disposed of us, or so they thought, in their arrogance they now saw no necessity to hurry from the scene. They strolled to the shore as if they were taking a constitutional in St James’s Park.

‘Quick Holmes. If we run after them...’

‘They are too far away,’ came the quick response. ‘They would be out on the lake before we reached them, and we have no boat in which to
pursue them!’ He banged the flat of his hand against the wall with frustration.

‘What about this, gentlemen?’ yelled Phillips, heaving a tarpaulin from a structure at the far end of the building. The tarpaulin fell away to reveal a strange-looking craft having the general outline of a large canoe.

‘What on earth is it?’ I exclaimed, as we both ran to examine it.

Phillips beamed. It was as though our dramatic adventure had shaken him from his malaise. ‘It is a life-sized replica of Queen Henntawy’s funeral barge.’

‘Thank you so much, Aunt Emilia,’ said Catriona Andrews, as she took the proffered cup of tea. ‘It is so kind of you to accommodate me for a few days while father is away on business. I am very grateful to you for taking me in when I arrived in such a distressed state, and without any luggage.’

‘Think nothing of it, my dear. I do urge you to see a doctor about the state of your nerves, however. You need a tonic or potion to help you relax.’

‘I assure you that I am feeling much better now, Aunt.’ Catriona attempted a weak smile as if to prove her assertion.

The old lady peered at her niece through a lorgnette. Examining the pale, drawn features and troubled eyes of the young woman, along with her crumpled and muddy clothing, she was far from being convinced that the girl was ‘feeling fine‘. However, she smiled sweetly and offered Catriona a muffin.

‘This building was Sir George’s workshop, and this boat was his pride and joy,’ John Phillips told us with renewed vigour. ‘It took him more than two years to build. He based its construction on the original plans found in Henntawy’s tomb.’

I studied the strange vessel. It was some nine or ten feet in length and four feet across at the widest point, with two decorative fan-like structures
at either end which curved over like the toe of a gigantic Persian slipper. It was not dissimilar in appearance to an Italian gondola, but I must confess that it appeared far less robust. Unlike the gondola, you could not step down into it because the deck was laid like a platform across the top of the boat.

‘Will it float?’ I asked.

‘It has not been tested. Sir George wanted to complete painting the requisite symbols on the barge before trying it out on the lake.’ Phillips indicated a half-completed frieze of golden images painted on the side. ‘However, the Egyptians had no difficulty in sailing such vessels.’

Holmes tapped the hull. ‘Papyrus construction?’

‘Indeed,’ said our companion, who by now had regained most of his composure and actually seemed to be enjoying himself.

‘Well, Watson,’ said Holmes evenly, ‘are you game for a little trip on the lake?’

It was with comparative ease that Holmes and I lifted the craft from the stocks on which it rested and carried it towards the large double doors at the rear of the workshop. The lightness of the boat increased my unspoken misgivings about its reliability on water. These thoughts were caught by Holmes. ‘Well, it
is
made out of paper,’ he observed with a wry grin.

Collecting two spoon-shaped paddles from a rack on the wall, Phillips rushed ahead of us and threw open the double doors through which we progressed into the sunshine once more. As we headed towards the jetty we caught sight of Melmoth and Felshaw in their rowing boat some fifty yards from the island. They appeared to be deep in animated conversation, while Felshaw struggled with the oars. They were oblivious of our actions.

‘We may yet give our friends the surprise of their lives,’ grinned my friend.

Then came the launching procedure. With some temerity Holmes and
Phillips, each grasping one of the fan-like appendages at either end of this strange craft, lowered it into the water. For a moment it rocked and bobbed uncertainly, knocking against the struts of the jetty and then, miraculously, it stabilised.

‘These paddles propel the vessel along and we handle them as we would do with an ordinary canoe,’ explained Phillips, ‘but because of the barge’s construction we have to kneel on the deck, resting on our haunches in order to manipulate them.’

It was quickly agreed that Phillips and I would man the paddles, while Holmes, a better shot than I, would stand in the prow ready to use his gun if the occasion arose. One by one we boarded this untried craft. As we did so, water momentarily spilled over the deck and the whole boat bobbed unnervingly as it settled deeper into the water. It had the erratic buoyancy of a cork. Once aboard there was only a three or four inch gap between the level of the water as it slapped around the sides, and the level of the deck.

I settled back on my haunches and grasped my paddle in readiness.

‘
Bon voyage
,’ cried Phillips, and struck the water with his paddle. I followed suit. The boat rocked and then with surprising smoothness shot forward in the water. I found to my great surprise that it was remarkably easy to manoeuvre, and within moments I felt a growing confidence in our voyage, so much so that I afforded myself a glance back at the island. I saw that the flames had already reached the ground floor of that strange round house: the windows, once dark, now blazed yellow with the fiery contagion. It would not be long before the building surrendered to the fire and the Egyptian treasures and mysteries housed there would be lost for all time. Sadly I turned away and shook these thoughts from my mind. At present there were more pressing matters.

I was not the only one to observe this fiery destruction. However, Melmoth had turned also to witness his handiwork. He was too far
away as yet for me to distinguish his features clearly but I could see from his stiffened body and upraised hand that he had observed us following in his wake.

Holmes gave a barking laugh. ‘I came very close, Mr Melmoth, and I am going to come even closer still,’ he announced cheerfully.

Melmoth was yelling something at Felshaw, who was in command of the oars. At first the young baronet froze as he stared, no doubt in great surprise, in our direction, and then he galvanised himself into action, pulling on the oars with all his might. It was clear to me that, despite his Herculean struggles, he was far from being accomplished in the art of rowing. The vessel jerked erratically, dragged about by the uneven strokes of the oars. I estimated that our antagonists were only some four to five hundred yards from the mainland, but we were fast approaching them.

‘I think the best plan is for us to reach the shore before our friends, and then we can provide a very nice welcoming party for them,’ said Holmes.

‘It is possible,’ cried Phillips. ‘The speed of this vessel is amazing. Sir George would have been so proud.’

By now we were quite close to Melmoth’s boat. I could see him hunched in the stern, his face clouded with wrath, his arm outstretched, aiming a revolver at us.

‘Pull away,’ cried Holmes, ‘don’t get too close.’

As he spoke, a bullet whistled past my ear.

Felshaw, dropping his oars momentarily, joined his companion and fired also.

This time one of the bullets hit the side of the boat. There was a dull thud and the whole craft dipped momentarily and them righted itself. I leaned over the side and observed a scorched hole the size of a sovereign. It was on the waterline, and as the boat rocked to and fro so the aperture dipped beneath the waves, allowing water to spill into the hull. ‘Any more
shots like that and we may not make the shore,’ I yelled. I had only just uttered these words when another volley of shots rang out. Luckily they hit the water, wide of their mark.

‘We must return fire,’ cried Holmes. Kneeling down, he steadied his gun and fired. The bullet struck Felshaw in the right shoulder. He gave a wild cry of agony, and clutching the wound fell sideways, tipping the rowing boat violently. With an inarticulate cry of fury, Melmoth fired two desperate shots at us. The reports echoed over the choppy waters of the lake but the bullets flew past us without harm. Melmoth’s next shot was more accurate. The bullet ripped through the side of the hull. At first the damage did not seem serious, but then it became obvious that we were slowing down and the barge had become more difficult to manoeuvre. Then I noticed that we had started to list slowly, while water gradually began to cover the deck.

By now Felshaw had managed to pull himself to his feet and, while clutching his shoulder, he fired at us once more, calling out some oath at the same time. The wind whipped his words away but the bullet caught Phillips in the leg. He gave a howl of pain and fell forward onto the deck and then began to slide overboard. Quickly slapping my oar down, I grabbed his coat and hauled him firmly to the centre of the deck, where he lay face down in a daze.

Holmes returned fire once more. This time it was Melmoth who was wounded when a bullet caught him in the left arm. He emitted an agonised bleat and staggered back, falling over the seat and hitting his head on the prow of the boat. In a desperate attempt to reach his friend, Felshaw overbalanced and toppled into the water. Within seconds he was floundering, thrashing wildly, his mouth agape in frenzied cries. It was clear that he could not swim. Like a drunken man, Melmoth pulled himself to his feet, obviously still somewhat stunned, and reached out from the side of the boat. He stretched his right arm towards his
companion, but the fellow was so frightened that he could not respond. Snatching up an oar. Melmoth proffered this as a means of pulling Felshaw back onto the boat. It was within a few feet of him but now Felshaw was completely hysterical, screaming in panic and desperation. His arms flailed frantically as his head disappeared briefly under the murky waters.

As we watched this grotesque pantomime, our boat had begun to sink. The hull was slowly filling up with water and already the deck was slipping beneath the waves.

However, Sebastian Melmoth had lost all interest in us; his whole attention was focused on his drowning companion. He cried to him, waving the oar ever nearer the desperate man, instructing him to take hold of it, but Felshaw was now incapable of acting rationally. Total panic had frozen his mental capacities and all he could do was thrash about in the water, howling like a frightened child. Once again Felshaw’s head, his mouth agape in terror, sank beneath the surface of the lake. This time it did not reappear.

Melmoth gave a roar of despair and jumped overboard in a wild attempt to reach his companion, but Felshaw failed to resurface. Melmoth splashed around in desperation, calling out his friend’s name. There was no answer. The cold, placid depths of Ullswater had claimed a victim.

Now our deck was virtually submerged and I paddled furiously for the shore. Water lapped around Phillips’ head as he lay face down on the deck and this returned him to consciousness. He sat up and shook his head to clear his brain, and although his face was pinched with the pain of his wound, he bravely reached for his paddle to resume his duties. But it was too late, for as he did so the main body of the boat dropped below the water level and began to turn on its side.

‘Jump for it,’ yelled Holmes, and he leapt into the water as the prow began to disappear into the lake. Grabbing hold of Phillips’ arm, I pulled him with me into the icy waves. The freezing water was a jolt to my
system and I gasped for breath. Briefly my head slipped under water, but I held on to my charge and very soon Holmes came to my aid. Between us we helped Phillips make it to the shore some fifty yards away.

Minutes later we staggered onto the shingle, dragging our companion with us. Despite the cold, and our clothes being heavy with water, Holmes and I were none the worse for our swim. I turned my attention to Phillips. The young man was still conscious but appeared badly dazed. We hauled him up into a sitting position and I examined his injured leg. It was little more than a flesh wound and there would be no permanent damage. Once this fact was established, I joined Holmes, who had walked back to the water’s edge. He was staring out onto the lake at the little rowing boat. Melmoth had finally abandoned his search for his drowned confederate and was climbing back on board. He stood for some moments staring back at us and then began to row the boat.