“I believe that the only way Holmes’ curiosity will be satisfied is if we show him what was brought back. And indeed he may be the right man—the only man—who can solve the problem that has been vexing us so sorely. I almost showed him the thing earlier, but held back in deference to you. You two are my partners in this and I thought it best to ask you first. What say you? We can benefit here from Holmes’ experience, or we can continue to flounder in the dark a while longer—perhaps a very long while longer.”
That truly put the cat among the pigeons, raising color in Grimshawe’s cheeks that might have almost been anger. The northerner punched the table, setting glasses and cutlery rattling, and seemed close to letting out a shout. He managed to stifle his anger, but only with a great degree of self-control.
“You had no right,” he said in a barely restrained whisper.
Northwich smiled. “Play the game, Grimshawe. This is my house—we brought the thing here so that it would be under my watch. Surely that gives me some leeway in deciding how it must be handled?”
“We have an agreement,” Richards said, soft and calm in contrast to Grimshawe.
“That we do, old friend,” Northwich replied. “And I have honored it—to a point. But I really believe that providence has brought Sherlock Holmes here for a reason. Will you hear me out?”
Both the men nodded, although Grimshawe still seemed reluctant to oblige.
Northwich smiled and turned to Holmes. “I’m sorry, Holmes,” he said, standing away from the table. “It seems we must have a confab before coming to a decision. Can I ask that you and Watson retire to the sitting room? You’ll find some fine brandy and more of my cheroots on the table—do help yourselves. This should not take long.”
Holmes and I did as we were bid and went through to the sitting room. I felt a distinct chill in the air compared to the warmth of the dining room, but there was a roaring fire in the grate, Northwich’s brandy was indeed particularly fine, and we had a plentiful supply of cheroots. Which was all just as well, for it seemed we might be waiting for some time. An argument raged next door. The walls were too thick for us to make out any words, but the tone of it was clear enough. Grimshawe wasn’t happy, Richards was keeping quiet, and Northwich was doing his best to make his case for Holmes’ involvement.
3
“It seems our presence here has caused a rift in the ranks,” Holmes said dryly after a while.
“They certainly are an earnest bunch,” I replied. “I wonder what has them so riled?”
“Grimshawe does not want us anywhere near their prize, at a guess,” Holmes replied. “But Richards is even more obviously the cautious man of the three. Grimshawe and Northwich have much to lose, but Richards will want the last word—despite appearances to the contrary, I believe he is the man in charge here.”
Whether Holmes was right or not, it was Northwich who eventually joined us for a smoke. We heard the other two men out in the hallway making preparations for leaving, aided by the ministrations of the tall, silent servant.
“We have come to an agreement,” Northwich said. “I am allowed to show you what was brought back from the East—on the condition that you give me your word not to speak about it outside this house. And after you’ve seen what there is to see, we have a proposition for you.”
Holmes took a long moment to reply. “I can make no promises of silence,” he said finally. “If there is a crime involved, I shall be compelled to do something about it.”
Northwich laughed. “I would expect no less, old chap. But I assure you, there is no crime here. Finish your smokes and I will show you.”
We heard the front door open and close again as we put out the cheroots. I was reluctant to leave the warmth of the fireside, but followed Northwich and Holmes out into the now empty hallway. The tall servant came on behind us, several paces back, and I was acutely aware that his presence would be blocking our escape should we need to flee.
Northwich opened a hefty oak door at the rear of the house, took a lantern from a wall sconce and lit it with a match. The yellow glow showed a steep set of stairs, going down. It seemed we were once again destined to descend into darkness.
3
I let Northwich and Holmes lead the way. The mute servant filled the doorway behind us, but showed no sign of coming down the steps. Northwich’s voice echoed and rang from below, indicating to me that we were coming out into a much wider space.
“You were right, Holmes, in one respect,” he said. “We brought something out of Persia. It carried an unfortunate disease with it on its journey—one that has caused no end of misery, for which we are truly sorry. It seems to have burned out in any case, for as you can see, we are completely unaffected. It was a tragedy—but it could not have been foreseen—and Richards has promised to do his best to make reparations to the victim’s families—I assure you of that.”
“You are making a lot of assurances for a man who has yet to tell me anything of substance,” Holmes said dryly.
“Then perhaps shedding some light on the matter might help.”
Northwich left our side and made a circumnavigation of a chamber, lighting sconce lamps as he went until finally the whole area was illuminated in flickering torchlight. We stood in what appeared to be a cellar of sorts, dug deep below the house and shored up with thick timber planking that gave it the impression of a mine-working. There was only one item of note in the room—but it was a large one.
We had finally found the cargo that had been leading us such a merry dance these past days. It sat dead center of the floor—a hefty sarcophagus, hewn out of some kind of marble by the look of it, and intricately carved, the detail of which could not be made out from our current vantage.
“Have you opened it?” Holmes asked.
“We were rather hoping you would give us a hand with that,” Northwich said, smiling. “It is proving rather tricky.”
“Well, he would not want to be disturbed, would he?” Holmes said. “It seems he was after the same respect in death that he demanded in life. I wonder if he has found more worlds to conquer?”
Northwich started, then smiled. “I should have guessed that you would know already,” he said.
I, however, was still perplexed. “You know who is inside, Holmes?” I asked.
“I can make a fair stab at it,” Holmes replied. “The Greek gave it away—but so did the desire of these men to have it. Who else but Alexander himself would inspire such fervor?”
3
Northwich hadn’t allowed Holmes any closer inspection of the box.
“Not until we have come to an agreement,” he said. “And for that to happen, I suppose you will need to hear the story from the start. We’ll need some brandy and smokes for that, and a warmer atmosphere.”
We went back upstairs to sit by the fire, getting some brandy inside us to help fight the chill that had settled in me in the cellar after Holmes’ rather surprising announcement.
“Who else indeed but the great king?” Northwich had said, then continued up in the sitting room once we were settled. “We have been searching for him all of our adult lives—Richards, Grimshawe and I. A common obsession, if you like. At the university, we spent our time among dusty shelves, perusing rare tomes, and afterward, as our businesses spread across the globe, we put coins in people’s hands for any information that might point us to our prize.”
I settled back in the chair and got a smoke lit. Holmes sat, perched on the edge of his own seat, leaning forward like a hawk ready to pounce, his gaze never leaving Northwich’s face as the story unfolded.
“We finally found the map in Beirut—or rather, one of Grimshawe’s men did—and it led us straight to our goal: a temple long since abandoned by time in a rocky wasteland in Persia. Six months of digging, with Jake acting as foreman and working the locals till they dropped, and finally, one day in the late autumn, we broke through. All three of us were present for the discovery.
“At first we were disappointed, for th
ere were none of the expected funeral relics in the tomb—no gold, statuary or jewels to accompany him in the long sleep. There was just the sarcophagus that you have seen. And the damnable thing was that we could find no way of opening it without destroying the very thing we sought.
“It was not for want of trying, and I do believe that Grimshawe might have gone at it with a pickaxe had we not held him back. We spent long, cold nights under desert stars, trying to find the secret. In the end, time—and a need to attend to pressing business matters—meant that our best option was to return home and ship the bally thing over here.
“I believe you know enough of what came next to fill the rest in for yourselves.”
He stopped to light up a fresh cheroot and refill our glasses.
“As you have seen, the King has kept tight hold of his secrets. We would like to retain your services, Holmes. Open the dashed thing for us. There’s food and board for yourself and the Doctor for as long as it takes, and two hundred guineas on successful completion of the task.”
Holmes smiled grimly. “A fine price,” he said. “Fit for a king, indeed. But before I reply, I have one question on a subject that has not yet been broached.”
“Anything, old chap,” Northwich said. “Just name it.”
Holmes spoke quietly. “Tell me, sir—if the box has never been opened—where did the pieces of mummified linen that I have found come from?”
The color left Northwich’s cheeks. “That is something we have thought on ourselves,” he said finally. “It is part of the mystery of the box—part of what we would like you to help us uncover.”
Once again Holmes fell silent before finally speaking. “In that case, I accept, if Watson is willing. We shall open your box of secrets, but I should warn you—as Pandora before us found out to her cost, some boxes are better left closed.”
Chapter Nine
EF
The next morning Holmes went straight to work on a minute and painstaking examination of the box, a task that I watched over for an hour before realizing I was going to be little or no help at all. Holmes didn’t speak, merely poured all of his concentration into the task, as if he could force the sarcophagus open by sheer power of will. When I left he was on his hands and knees, crawling along the bottom right side. His clothing would be caked in dried earth and dust before he was finished, but Holmes paid little heed to such matters when on a case—about as little attention as he had paid to me that morning.
I took a walk into Sandport—some four miles each way, but a most pleasant stroll on quiet country roads in a crisp winter’s morning. I sent a telegram to Baker Street, informing Mrs. Hudson that we might be away for a while and instructing her where to send more clothing for both of us—if Holmes was going to be spending his time crawling on dirty cellar floors he would need it.
The only other item of note that morning was a strange conversation I had with an elderly gentleman in the Post Office queue. He asked me if I could furnish him with a light for his pipe. When I went outside after sending the telegram, he was waiting by the roadside, puffing hard on a rustic briar that looked almost as old as its smoker.
“Yer staying out at the Northwich place, ain’t ye?” he said.
“I am.”
“Then I should tell ye—ye’d best be on yer way. They say the wounded man has been seen in them woods these past months. He’ll have ye away with him if yer not careful.”
And that was that—a snippet of conversation, a momentary passing thought. But one that stayed with me all the way to the manor, and one that ensured that a chill seeped deep into my bones on the way back.
3
I arrived at the manor in time for luncheon—a rather splendid selection of cold meats, fresh bread and more of the excellent local ale. Holmes would not be drawn on any progress with the sarcophagus, beyond a muttered oath.
“We may be here some time, Watson. A skilled craftsman—or more likely, many such men—went to great pains to ensure that the box would stay closed.”
He went straight back to it after only a mouthful of ale and two slices of bread, not even pausing for a smoke. I knew then that my job in this place was going to be one of ensuring Holmes’ physical rather his mental health, for he was apt to ignore the former in favor of the latter when a puzzle took firm hold of him. I have seen him brought low by fatigue and consequent sickness even as that great brain continued to rush headlong toward a solution. I resolved to keep a close eye on my friend over the coming days.
I had the servant, Jake, carry an armchair down to the cellar for me and what with that, a flagon of the local ale, and more of Northwich’s fine cheroots, I made myself comfortable while watching Holmes work.
He spent the rest of that first day carefully going over every square inch of the box. I had taken a look at it myself, but to my eye the carvings, while marvelously intricate and detailed work of great craftsmanship, were no more than depictions of stories from either the siege of Troy or from Alexander’s own life. The carvings were interwoven with more fragments of Greek text that seemed to have been taken at random from the works of Homer, which did not point me any closer to a solution to the puzzle. There was no sign on the sarcophagus of any seam where there might be a lid, nor of any apparatus that might be used to force an opening.
Holmes did not speak that whole afternoon, although he muttered to himself under his breath in agitation on several occasions.
That evening, while Northwich regaled us with, admittedly amusing, tales of his escapades in a series of foreign ports, Holmes sat quietly, lost in thought. Later, after the house had fallen quiet around us, I walked past his room to see the flickering light of the fire and smelled, faint but unmistakable, his favorite Egyptian pipe tobacco. I knew my old friend well enough to be able to visualize him sitting by the fire, pipe hanging from his lips, lost in thought as he mulled over this latest conundrum.
Holmes did not seem particularly rested the next morning, but allowed me to mollycoddle him into finishing his porridge and at least attempting some pieces of toast before he descended again down into the cellar.
3
So began a routine that would last the better part of a week. Our luggage arrived from London on the second day, and Jake proved most able in ensuring we maintained fresh laundered clothes—which was just as well, for Holmes still insisted on spending much of his time crawling around the cellar.
On the third day Holmes requested tracing paper, which Jake again managed to provide, albeit after a wait of several hours. I was finally able to provide some help as we made a series of rubbings that eventually took in the whole surface of the box. That same day Holmes also called for help in turning the sarcophagus on its side. It proved to be no mean feat, and one that took the four of us to accomplish, only to find the bottom to be no more than a featureless slab of marble that refused to yield to any of Holmes’ attempts to find a hidden switch or lock.
For twenty-four of the following thirty hours Holmes perused the rubbings, laying them out on the floor of Northwich’s sitting room in squares that he constantly arranged and rearranged as if attempting to solve an enormous puzzle.
Although Holmes would never admit it, I believe the breakthrough occurred more by accident than design. We were down in the cellar again—I was in the armchair smoking, and Holmes was bent over the sarcophagus, lost in the minutiae of the carvings, and so rapt in attention that he was startled when Northwich arrived and spoke at the doorway. Holmes’ left hand slipped and he pressed down, with all his weight, on a section of the sarcophagus. With a grind of stone on stone a section some nine inches on a side went down into a recess, then sat there, once again still. Holmes pressed it again to no avail, then tried pressing on other parts of the top of the box. Several areas proved to be capable of being depressed—some at the same time—but I for one could see no rhyme or reason in it, and by the time Holmes stepped back minutes later, the top of the sarcophagus was once again smooth.
Without a word Holmes le
ft us in the cellar.
We found him upstairs by the drawing room fire, smoking his pipe and lost in thought, a position he maintained for several hours. Northwich and I played several leisurely rounds of brag, and I was almost ten shillings up on the session when Holmes stood and, again without speaking, headed again for the cellar.
By the time we arrived, he had pushed three consecutive pieces of the surface down into their recesses. He looked up to where we stood in the doorway and smiled.
“Well, Northwich—you had better contact your partners. I believe I have the means to open this lock.”
3
The other two men arrived in carriages just after midnight, but no one in the household seemed in any hurry to head for bed. Indeed, the three men seemed more in the mood for another argument. Grimshawe was particularly vehement.
“Tell us the answer, Holmes. That is our agreement. Tell us now.”
Holmes merely smiled. “And rob myself of the glory of the revelation to come? I think not. I shall take you down to the cellar, and I shall open the sarcophagus for you. That is how I envision our agreement will unfold. If you would like to disagree with me, then Watson and I can be on our way this very instant, and good night to you.”
Holmes stood and walked toward the door, smiling broadly. He was enjoying himself immensely, and I could not help but be amused by his performance. The other three gentlemen were less than happy, but Holmes had them over a barrel, and they knew it.
“Blast it, Holmes. Are you always this intransigent?” Northwich asked.
Holmes smiled again. “You should think yourselves lucky,” he replied. “I could have chosen to be content with finding the answer and decided not to relay it to you for fear it might cause more mischief.” His smile faded. “Indeed, I am still not entirely sure we are on a proper course of action—but I am as intrigued as you are to see what is inside, so let us have at it before I change my mind.”
Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle Page 14
