The Scroll of the Dead (5 page)

‘Setaph’s Scroll of the Dead is one of the most sought after Egyptian relics of all. No one has seen it in modern times, but there is evidence from the ancient world that it exists.’

‘So this was not the document that was stolen?’ I asked.

Sir Charles shook his head. ‘When Henntawy’s sarcophagus was opened, it was found that her mummy was in a remarkable state of preservation and, secreted amongst the folds of the bandages, there was a papyrus. It was this that the thieves made away with last week.’

‘What are the contents of the papyrus?’ asked Holmes, whose face had remained immobile during Sir Charles’ discourse.

‘It is a strange document written in a peculiar cipher – Setaph’s own code. The hieroglyphics are perversions of those used at the period of the Twenty-first Dynasty and there are also additions of Setaph’s own invention. What we do know is that it was written by Setaph himself. He signed it and marked it with his personal insignia: a half-scarab. This papyrus would seem to give directions to the location of his own tomb.’

‘It is a kind of map, then?’ I asked

Sir Charles smiled at me. ‘In simple terms, Doctor, yes. It is clear that there are passages relating to Setaph’s philosophy and some dedications of allegiance to Pinneedjem and Henntawy. References to Osiris are also made, but the whole remains a mystery...’

‘Including the location of Setaph’s tomb,’ said Holmes.

‘Yes.’

‘So this could very well be the motive for stealing the document: to discover the hidden burial place.’

Sir Charles gave a shrug of the shoulder. ‘A fanciful theft if it was. Both the archaeologists who discovered the papyrus were unable to make any
real sense of it and since then, from time to time, it has been examined by qualified men, Egyptologists of note, who thought they had the key.’

‘When was it last scrutinised in such a way?’

‘Not for some time, I think. Ten years possibly. I could find out if you consider it to be important.’

‘It may be,’ said Holmes, thoughtfully. ‘Let us suppose for a moment that those responsible for the theft of the papyrus are able to interpret the messages within it, break the code of the map and, therefore, seek out the tomb of Setaph. What would they gain for their trouble?’

‘Very little in material wealth. Setaph was, after all, only a high priest. There will be a few gold items, various altar relics and ornaments, but little else in worldly goods.’ Here Sir Charles paused and, leaning over the desk, he lowered his voice almost to a whisper. ‘There will, of course,’ he said, ‘be Setaph’s magical Scroll of the Dead.’

‘W
e were only able to keep the Egyptian gallery closed for one day after the crime on the pretext of auditing part of the collection; any longer and I’m sure the newspaper reporters would have sniffed something in the wind.’

Sir Charles Pargetter was explaining this point as we stood on the threshold of the Egyptian gallery where some half a dozen visitors were strolling around, peering at the various exhibits. The room was divided into three sections, comprising a series of glass exhibition cases, several containing the brown and ragged bodies of ancient mummies, as well as those which displayed many beautiful carved objects and precious artefacts from that remarkable civilisation which flourished at the dawn of time. High above us, running in a frieze around the wall and softly illuminated by the new electric lighting, was a series of scenes from Ancient Egyptian life.

‘What was your concern about the story of the theft being printed in the newspapers?’ I asked.

‘No museum likes to admit that it has lost one of its treasures, Doctor.
It would deter potential benefactors, and any story like that would act as an advertisement to the criminal fraternity: come to the British Museum and steal – it is so easy.’

‘It was also in
our
best interests, as I explained,’ added the Scotland Yarder.

‘How did the men enter, Hardcastle?’

In response to my friend’s query, the policeman pointed at the roof of the chamber. Set into the curved ceiling were three large rectangular skylights which provided the main illumination of the room.

‘They forced one of them open and dropped down on a rope, and returned by the same route. On leaving, they carelessly dropped their rope and we found it coiled on the floor over by Henntawy’s case.’

Holmes peered up at the skylights and then back at Sir Charles. ‘Where is the case?’

‘This way gentlemen, please,’ replied the Egyptologist, leading us down the central aisle and stopping mid-way before a glass case which was situated on its own. ‘Queen Henntawy,’ he announced with a grand gesture.

I felt an uneasy prickle at the back of my neck as I gazed down on the remains of this young woman who had been alive more than 3000 years ago. The heavily-painted face was in a fantastic state of preservation, appearing mask-like with false ebony eyes placed in the empty sockets, locked in a dark, vacant stare. A heavy Medusa-like wig spilled out around her shrunken head. The length of her body was covered in rotting brown bandages.

‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ said Sir Charles, beaming.

‘I must admit,’ said Hardcastle seriously, ‘she’s not exactly my idea of a beauty.’

Holmes crouched down and slowly circled the case, stopping from time to time with his nose against the glass to scrutinise the mummy
within. At length he rose and pointed to a particularly ragged part of the body by the thigh. ‘Is this where the papyrus rested?’

Sir Charles’ mouth opened in surprise. ‘Why yes, Mr Holmes. How very astute of you.’

‘It is clear that those tears are fairly recent – the material shows traces of whiteness here – and it is only the glass on this side of the case that you have had to replace. The putty is quite fresh. Obviously our expert knew exactly where to look.’

‘Presumably,’ I observed quietly ‘it was the sound of the breaking glass that alerted the security guard, and he was murdered when he came to investigate.’

Sir Charles shook his head gravely. ‘Oh no, Doctor. He was killed in his office.’

‘What!’ I exclaimed, glancing at Holmes, who was equally shocked.

‘Why did you not tell me about this, Hardcastle?’ enquired my friend sharply.

The Scotland Yarder hesitated, bracing himself for Holmes’ wrath. ‘Well,’ he stammered, his face blanching, ‘I really didn’t consider it an important feature of the crime.’

Holmes closed his eyes in disgust and gave a derisory snort. ‘It not only provides us with further information concerning the perpetrators of the theft, it also indicates the means by which it was committed.’

We all fell silent at this declaration, until Sir Charles, eyes wide behind his spectacles, said, ‘Well, this is a most remarkable claim. Pray do expound.’

‘I should first like to examine the security guard’s office, if I may.’

‘Certainly,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Follow me.’

The room in question was a small, cluttered chamber filled by a stout wooden table on which stood a gas ring, a couple of mugs, and various
items of tea-making equipment. As we entered, a chubby young man, rubicund of visage, who was sitting back in a battered old carver chair with his feet on the table, reading
The Racing Gazette
, jumped to his feet and stood crookedly to attention.

‘Sorry, Sir Charles,’ he croaked in a gentle Cockney accent, the pouches of his rosy cheeks reverberating nervously at the shock of our sudden entrance. ‘I didn’t know you was comin‘, Sir. I’m on my tea-break now.’ Realising the newspaper was still in his hand, he quickly crumpled it up and attempted to hide it behind his back.

The Egyptologist gave a thin smile. ‘That’s all right, Jenkins. I’m not checking up on my staff today. These gentlemen are investigating the theft of Henntawy’s papyrus and Daventry’s murder, and they wish to examine the room where he died.’ At this point he broke off and turned to Holmes. Jenkins is the regular day guard for this wing of the museum,’ he explained. ‘We haven’t as yet got round to replacing Daventry. His duties are being shared by the other night staff at present.’

Holmes nodded and, stepping forward, addressed the young guard. ‘You found the body, Jenkins?’

‘Er, yes, sir. On Saturday mornin‘. I... I came on at eight in the mornin’ as usual. At first everything seemed as right as pie... until I got in here. I found him there, on the rug.’ He pointed and we all gazed at the floor space where, clearly, a rug had been laid. The faint rectangular outline was visible against the dark brown of the scuffed floorboards. ‘There wasn’t much blood – just a dark spot on the side of his head.’ The chubby cheeks paled momentarily and then the young man afforded himself a little affectionate grin. ‘Old Sammy – that’s Mr Daventry, like – old Sammy, he was a nice bloke. Him an’ me would often have a cuppa and a natter together in the mornin’ before he went off to his kip.’

‘You would discuss racing, perhaps? Choose the best bets for the day?’ said Holmes.

Nervously, Jenkins crumpled the paper behind his back and glanced at Sir Charles. ‘Ye– Yes, sir.’

‘Don’t be nervous,’ continued Holmes. ‘Gambling is not against the law, despite it being a somewhat reckless pursuit. Indeed, I have a friend who fritters a fair deal of his income away on the fickleness of the turf.’

‘Well, it is true that we liked a flutter. We’d often have a bet together. I have a wife and a young ‘un on the way so I daren’t risk much, but old Sammy..’

‘He was a big gambler.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And a big loser.’

The brown eyes fixed in that apple-red face dimmed and shifted once more to Sir Charles.

Holmes carried on relentlessly. ‘In fact, Jenkins, I would suspect that your friend was up to his eyes in debt. Am I correct?’

Jenkins faltered once more.

‘Tell the truth, Jenkins,’ prompted Sir Charles as the guard stared dumbly at his feet. ‘Whatever Daventry did, it is no reflection on you.’

‘Well,’ said Jenkins, clearing his throat and coughing nervously as he began, ‘if the truth be known, old Sammy was in quite deep with the money lenders. It frightened me what he told me about their threats to him if he didn’t pay up. He always laughed it off, sayin’ that somethin’ would always turn up.’

And it did,’ said Holmes, grimly.

Just a minute, Mr Holmes. You’re not suggesting that his murder was committed by money-lender’s thugs, are you?’ asked Hardcastle, a note of incredulity in his voice.

Holmes gave a shake of the head. ‘Tell me, Jenkins, where did Daventry keep his private belongings?’

‘In his locker, sir. We each have one.’ He pointed to the corner of the room
where two tall rusty metal lockers leaned drunkenly against each other.

Holmes crossed to them. ‘Which was Daventry’s?’

Jenkins pointed again.

Holmes turned the handle. ‘It’s locked. Has this been opened since the murder?’ He addressed the question to Hardcastle and all heads turned in his direction.

The policeman shrugged with as much nonchalance as his obvious bewilderment and unease would allow. ‘We haven’t touched it at all. It’s not really relevant to the theft... or the murder.’

‘Where is the key?’ snapped Holmes.

‘I expect it’ll be down at the Yard with the rest of Daventry’s effects.’

‘Hah!’ Holmes snarled, and fumbled for a moment in his waistcoat pocket, before producing a small penknife. ‘In the absence of a key, this makeshift burgling kit will have to suffice.’

So saying, he inserted the small blade into the gap between the door and the side of the locker and applied some pressure on the lock. ‘A little knowledge... and a great deal more brute force... should win the day,’ he grunted as he worked at his task.

After less than a minute, there was a reverberating clang and the locker door sprang open. ‘
Voilá!
’ cried my friend.

‘What is all this, Mr Holmes?’ cried Hardcastle warily, unable to contain his bewilderment. ‘What tricks are you playing now?’

‘No tricks, I assure you, Inspector – and I will explain everything in just a moment.’

Holmes began rummaging around in the locker. Moments later he emitted a cry of triumph as he extricated a small brown parcel from its recesses. ‘Here,’ he cried, throwing it to Jenkins. ‘Unwrap that, my boy and feast your eyes on the contents.’

On receiving a nod of approval from Sir Charles, Jenkins set about his appointed task. With nervous fingers he began to pare away the brown
wrapping, slowly at first and then with feverish excitement as the last layer was exposed. Finally the contents of the parcel were revealed: a large brown leather purse. Holmes took it from the lad and spilled out the contents on to the table. An irregular pyramid of bright yellow coins glittered before us.

‘Blimey!’ cried Jenkins. ‘There’s a fortune here.’

‘Some would say so, lad.’ Holmes ran his long fingers through the pile, scooped up a few of the coins, and held them before the astonished faces of Sir Charles and Hardcastle. ‘There will be a hundred guineas here. Not bad for a night’s work. That’s if Daventry had lived to reap the benefit from his ill-gotten gains.’