The Scroll of the Dead (6 page)

‘Ill-gotten?’ I said.

‘Yes. This is the fee our friend Daventry was paid to admit the thieves to the museum and then to turn a blind eye while they went about their business.’

‘You mean to say he was in league with the criminals?’ gasped Sir Charles.

‘In a manner of speaking. A fellow’s debts have a habit of becoming well-known in certain circles. Those with a need to know can easily find out these things. In such circumstances, there is little difficulty in bribing a man who is desperate for money.’

‘Bribing?’

‘Yes, Inspector.’ Holmes pointed to the pile of sovereigns. ‘Daventry was offered this princely sum to aid in the theft of the Henntawy papyrus.’

‘So you’re saying they just walked in, took the papyrus, and walked out again, while Daventry held the door for them.’

‘Yes, in a manner of speaking. Very civilised, eh?’

‘But what about the rope and the footprints?’

‘False clues to lead you astray. The method of entry and exit was
rather too obviously presented to us. We were being led by the nose to believe that the crimes had been perpetrated by two experienced but common burglars. Think, man. How did they get up on the roof in the first place? Surely their presence there would have attracted the attention of other officers?’ Holmes glanced at Sir Charles for confirmation of this and received a hesitant nod of agreement. ‘Have your men been on the roof to check these things out, Hardcastle?’

‘I sent a couple of constables up there. But they found nothing.’

‘You did not go up yourself?’

‘Why no. I did not think there would be any point.’ The inspector looked perplexed.

‘In this instance you were correct. You would have found nothing there. The skylights can be opened from inside by using one of the long window poles designed for the purpose. I observed two in the Egyptology room. Then it is a simple task to drop a coil of rope under one such open skylight and leave a few false muddy footprints to create the impression that two men had dropped from the heavens, snatched a precious document, and ascended like dark angels.’

‘If this is so, why go to all the bother?’

Holmes smiled. ‘To muddy the waters – to help disguise the identity of the intruders. What we have here, gentlemen, is not a simple crime but the cunning theft of an object of antiquity with a cold-blooded murder as merely an unfortunate side-issue. The preposterous clues of the rope and the footprints were unnecessary if the only object of the operation was to steal the papyrus. But they were necessary to the perpetrators – they were part of their game, to enhance the excitement of the venture and to ridicule the authorities. I am convinced that these fellows fully intended to shoot the security guard before they set foot in the building. The murder was more or less gratuitous, adding an extra
frisson
of pleasure to their nocturnal exploits.’

‘If what you say is true, then we are dealing with madmen,’ retorted Sir Charles.

‘To some extent, I agree with you. What normal felons would leave behind their bribe of a hundred guineas, when they had murdered its recipient? As our antagonists saw it, they were merely carrying out the perverted rules of their contract with Daventry – paying for services rendered. It did not matter whether the fellow was dead or not. They had honoured their agreement. Rich men, then, and indeed, tainted with madness.’

Before Sir Charles could respond, Hardcastle thrust an indignant finger towards my friend’s face. ‘This is mere guesswork,’ he retorted.

Holmes shook his head. ‘Consider the evidence,’ he replied softly. ‘First: the obvious way in which clues were left to indicate the means of entry. It was too simplistic. The operation was carried out with such panache that these clues were preserved like clumsy signs in a children’s game. To an experienced investigator like myself, it is clear that they were planted. This was in order to further confuse the issues. A successful ruse, for three days later you are no wiser as to the culprits or the motive. Secondly: the object of the crime, the theft of an obscure papyrus, can really only be of interest to specialists, individuals – strange individuals – who desire the item desperately, for whatever purpose, and are prepared to kill for it. Thirdly: the fact that the security guard was shot in his own office indicates that in some way he was implicated in the crime. The only real need to kill him would arise if he had surprised the intruders while they were about their nefarious task. In that case there would have been a struggle resulting in a rather messy killing, which is not our villains’ style at all. Remember there was no struggle and only one bullet in the gun. Daventry died because he trusted the man who had bribed him. He was like a lamb to the slaughter: the killer, most likely just came up to the guard, little gun in hand, and fired so...’

Holmes demonstrated by placing two fingers at Jenkins’s temples. The young man groaned and dropped into his chair.

‘Quite clearly Daventry was “in” on the job, and that would make just one accomplice too many in this affair. I believe this to be the work of a brilliant but sadistic mind – someone who is obsessed and desperate enough to want the papyrus for himself. It will not be passed on to others. Why else would he kill a foolish and impoverished security guard? In order that there was no possibility however remote, that anyone would be able to trace him. Our villain is a cunning and dangerous creature.’

‘You have reverted to the singular, Mr Holmes. I thought you said there were two of them involved in this business,’ said Hardcastle smoothly.

‘I do not deny that there were two malefactors who perpetrated this audacious crime, but the conception and the purpose...’ He paused and turned his steely gaze on the inspector. ‘There is but one brain behind this affair and it is as perverted as it is clever.’

‘Who is this mastermind, then?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘You cannot blame Professor Moriarty this time.’

Holmes eyed the police inspector coldly. ‘One of your more astute observations, Hardcastle. Whoever we are dealing with has something of the professor’s ingenuity, daring and, I am afraid, cold-bloodedness. A man of great intelligence and a man to fear.’

‘T
he heavily notated racing calendar on the wall and the discarded copies of
The Racing Gazette
on the table informed me that Jenkins and Daventry were betting men and, as you well know, Watson, gambling men are rarely in pocket.’

I nodded with a smile.

My friend struck a match and applied it to his pipe. For a brief moment, dense grey clouds obliterated his face. It was now some hours since we had left the British Museum and we were back once more in our Baker Street rooms. The gas mantles had just been lit as the day began to fade. Holmes, wrapped in his blue dressing gown, was pleased with himself and in a communicative mood. ‘I do not think,’ said he, throwing his match to the back of the grate, ‘that it will be many days before this case is wrapped up.’

‘But there are so many unanswered questions.’

‘I can answer them.’

‘Really,’ I said gruffly, trying to restrain the note of incredulity in my voice.

‘There is no great mystery, Watson.’

‘Then who is the culprit? Who is the thief?’

Holmes beamed. ‘Consider the problem objectively and logically. A document has been stolen. Other, more valuable artefacts were ignored in favour of this crumbling and indecipherable papyrus. Therefore, the scroll was purloined for its singular contents rather than for its intrinsic value.’

‘Well, yes, I can see that; but, really, all it contained was some obscure writings about the location of Setaph’s tomb.’

‘And his Scroll of the Dead.’

‘But what use is that? Experts have tried to solve the riddle and discover the whereabouts of this Scroll of the Dead and failed. What chance has anyone else?’

Sherlock Holmes emitted a faint groan. ‘Watson, Watson,’ he said with some passion, ‘extend the boundaries of thought. Don’t always remain with the possible or the probable. Consider also the unlikely, the improbable – and the obvious.’

‘The obvious,’ I echoed, shaking my head. ‘I’m afraid you have lost me.’

‘The Henntawy papyrus contains a code. A code is merely a means of presenting information in a hidden form. In order to avail yourself of this information, what do you need?’

‘The key.’

‘Exactly As we have been told, Setaph was a shrewd and cunning man. He was fully aware of the dangers of common grave robbers ransacking Henntawy’s tomb and finding the papyrus giving details of his own resting place and the location of his magic Scroll. So, in order to protect his secret and provide a puzzle that only the inspired seeker of life beyond death could solve, he created his own code. But for that code there had to be a key and he placed the key, probably on another simple document, elsewhere, ready to be discovered by the chosen one – the special one who is able to utilise his “secrets of immortality”.’

‘And you think that our thief has come into possession of the key to Setaph’s message?’

‘I do; and therefore this papyrus which has been languishing in the British Museum for years now assumes great importance to him. It is essential that he possess it.’

‘I suppose all this is possible.’

‘Aha, now you have moved your thinking beyond the limitations of the available data.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but I still do not know how such a key could be obtained.’

‘I frequently read of Egyptian antiquities turning up in trinket shops in the city. Smuggled goods that are bought and sold by unscrupulous dealers, most of whom would not be able to tell Egyptian icons from those of the Aztec civilisation. It is a trade in ancient curiosities which has existed for centuries.’

‘And so you think some sort of document containing the key to Henntawy’s scroll found its way into one of these shops you mention, and was picked up by someone who knew its real value?’

He nodded. ‘It is a possibility. One with which we can play to see where it leads us.’

‘It seems a somewhat fantastic conclusion.’

‘Nonsense: it fits all known facts. If our thief is the man I take him to be he will have employed agents to keep a watch on such places in case anything juicy turned up... anything bearing Setaph’s mark: the half scarab.’

‘Can you be sure?’

‘Not yet; but my supposition is not only possible, but most probable.’

‘So the Scroll of the Dead is the real prize.’

‘Bravo, Watson.’

‘But how can this fellow sell it on the open market without giving the
game away as to how it came into his possession?’

Holmes eyed me seriously his features set in a firm and concentrated expression. ‘He does not mean to sell it. He means to use it.’

There was a moment’s pause while the import of Holmes’ remark sank in; and then the hairs on the back of my neck bristled. ‘You mean he believes that this Scroll will give him power over death?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why the man must be insane.’

‘In all probability he is.’

‘Good grief! You speak as though you know his identity.’

‘I do.’

‘You do!’ I cried in utter astonishment.

Holmes puffed on his pipe, eyeing me with some amusement.

‘Holmes,’ I said, ‘don’t be so infuriating. Who is he?’

‘Sebastian Melmoth.’

‘What?’

‘You remember him?’

‘Of course I remember him But surely you cannot think that he, strange and immoral though he obviously is, would stoop to theft and murder?’

‘With the kind of obsession he harbours, I am sure there is nothing to which he would not stoop. Remember the blond hair I extracted from the Derringer trigger guard and the smell on the weapon of that pungent cologne? The same, I am sure, that the fellow was doused in when he came here. You see, Watson, since his macabre declarations in this room about a year ago, I have kept my eye on that malevolent young man.’

‘How?’

‘Through the gossip columns and through my own agency. I know that he has been searching for something – something he desires desperately. No doubt because of his researches into death, he would for some time have known of Setaph’s coded papyrus lodged in the British
Museum and has been investigating the likelihood of obtaining a key document in order to break the code and expose its precious secret. Now I believe he has that key.’

‘If what you say is true, then he will be off to Egypt without delay in an attempt to get his hands on the Scroll of the Dead.’

Holmes gave a thin smile. ‘That is if he has managed to break the code and thereby solve the riddle of the scroll. Having the key is one thing – but using it is another. Such matters require knowledge and understanding of the the Ancient Egyptian mind and civilisation.’

‘What do you intend to do?’

‘We shall call on Mr Melmoth first thing in the morning, and I will confront him with what I know. His reactions will be most interesting to observe. It is a meeting I shall relish.’

It was a bright May morning, with a pale blue sky and thin, ragged clouds scudding across the heavens, as Holmes and I approached Sebastian Melmoth’s town house in Curzon Street. I was extremely apprehensive about our visit on two counts. Firstly, it seemed to me that there was just too much supposition in Holmes’ theory to render it certain and I feared that he might, for the first time in his life, be making a very big mistake. Secondly, I did not relish placing myself in the company of Melmoth again; I felt rather like a child frightened of the dark – knowing that the fear is irrational and yet that it is there and all too real.