Northwich took a gulp of brandy that would have floored a horse—but at least it brought some color to his cheeks. That, and a deep draw from the cheroot, was enough to get him started again. “Very well, then—the beginning it is. It will actually be something of a relief to get it off my chest.
“I believe we told you already: our search began back when we were students together. It was Richards who started us going. One night over a drink he told us a tale that his granddad had heard from a friend of a friend—a shaggy-dog story, if truth be told, but one that caught and ignited our imaginations. He told us of a trek in the Persian desert in search of gold—that found a massive temple in the mountains instead. Of course the story was embellished with hints of treasure and jewels and an underground complex containing more wealth than the world could imagine. You can imagine how such a tale would set the hearts racing in three youngsters who had been raised under bleak northern skies!
“We egged each other on in search of the bally thing—poring through dusty tomes, talking endlessly to sailors in dockside bars and missionaries who had walked distant lands. We built up a positively huge library of our own—fragments of stories, letters, eyewitness accounts of anything even remotely strange in Persia or the surrounding countries.
“We were in our late twenties when we first heard of the talisman—or, rather, the amulet. It came, as most stories did, through someone who had it from someone who heard it told by an old man in a souk in Tunisia. The tale told how Alexander did not truly become “The Great” until he found something in Egypt that brought him his heart’s desire. He found a thing of high magic that ensured his name would live forever.”
Holmes’ raucous guffaw broke Northwich’s flow, and the businessman stopped to take another cheroot from me, and a sip of his brandy.
“You asked for the whole story, Holmes,” he said. “Please save any ridicule you might have until I have finished.
“The story of the talisman intrigued Grimshawe in particular, and he devoted much of his energy in tracking down any history or myth of its origin. Sadly, most of those tales are lost now with him, but I have heard him talk often of ancient Egypt—the time of the great pharaohs whom Alexander wished to emulate, of indomitable will poured into a thing of power that would ensure such will would resonate through the ages. For that is what the talisman purports to be—a device to channel the will, to ensure that any desired outcome comes to pass.”
“A magical wish-granting machine?” Holmes said, laughing. “Whatever next?”
Northwich did not, as I would have expected, take umbrage.
“I wish now that we had an iota of your cynicism, Holmes,” he said. “It might have prevented us running headlong into disaster—or at least slowed our progress.
“The tale truly begins with the finding of the map in Beirut; it set us directly on the path to the temple. The map itself cost Grimshawe a pretty penny indeed to procure, and Richards was of a mind to ignore it all together, for it would not be the first wild-goose chase we had undertaken, and our collective finances were suffering by that stage. But Grimshawe was adamant—for not only was there a map, but the scrap of linen on which it was drawn also made mention of the talisman—our first written indication that the thing and the tomb of Alexander might indeed be linked.
“We ploughed almost everything we had into that expedition, selling off land, businesses, and majority shareholdings in dashed profitable companies. I even had to let the family servants go, and since then I have made do with Jake—a man of my father’s household who has since served me most faithfully, with little reward to show for it. Grimshawe liquidated several mines, Richards sold off three boats, and we almost ran ourselves into penury during the course of the long, dusty dig there in the rocky desert.
“I cannot explain the exhilaration—or indeed the relief—that flowed through the three of us the day we uncovered the doorway to the tomb itself. I have spoke already, back at the manor, of our disappointment when we discovered there was no treasure trove, no associated funerary finery. There was just an empty temple and the sarcophagus. Whether it had been plundered in centuries past, or whether the sleeper within intended it that way, we may never know. Matters were not improved any when, to a man, the workforce came down sick, and we were forced to abandon the dig. All we were left with, for all our effort, all our expense, was the sarcophagus.
“We were obviously delighted to find him—but, equally obviously, we all knew that our finances were in a perilous state, and that we must return to the old country if we were to avoid ending up in the workhouse. We arranged to have the box shipped back home as quietly as possible, and we three returned as swiftly as we were able to in order to salvage what we could of our finances.
“You know the next part of the story, and I am all too aware of the misery that was caused on the cargo vessels. In our defense, we can only say that we could not have known. The sickness seems to have passed, and I assure you that the box will never again leave the manor cellar. Richards has already made reparations to the remaining crew we could track down, and has men even now looking for others. We are men of our word, Holmes. We have not deceived you in any part of this business.
“But we have now arrived at the spot where I meant to start in the first place—and now that we are here, I need to trouble you for more brandy and a fresh smoke. This next part will be hard to tell, for I have taken a grievous loss this day already, and I fear it is not yet over.”
3
Holmes had retreated into his shell of deep thought, so I did the duties again, pouring a brandy for both Northwich and myself, Holmes not having touched as much of a drop from his own glass. I passed over a fresh cheroot—Northwich did not need any help lighting this one—and seconds later we were back into the story. I was already visualizing the depths of the manor cellar as Northwich continued.
“The two of you had only just left the cellar and Grimshawe was already straining and heaving at the lid of the box. He could barely shift it by himself—it took all three of us for that, and it was only with some effort that we were able to slide the topmost stone aside enough to peer inside.”
Northwich’s voice dropped to barely a whisper.
“He was there, gentlemen—wrapped in linen as fresh as the day he was interred—both thinner, and taller, than I had anticipated. The linen was ragged and torn in places, but surprisingly intact given the long centuries of his sleep. But it was something else that caught our eye—a clay tablet on a silver chain round his neck. Grimshawe lifted it away and held it up to the light. It might have only been the historical import of the occasion, but I tell you Holmes, I felt its baleful power even then, and might have fled had the others not been present.
“Grimshawe, of course, was delighted. We made a pact of brotherhood at that very moment, standing over the open casket. The three of us promised to share all that would come from that night, all for one and one for all if you like, and Grimshawe took the talisman away when he and Richards left, with a promise to test its efficacy at the first possible opportunity.
“That is where the two of you leave this story, for a while, and now we come to the nub of the matter—and the reason that poor Grimshawe’s head came to be so roughly parted from his body.
“He called us together in Chester four nights after we opened the tomb. He was as excited as I have ever seen him.
“’It works, gentlemen,’ were his first words. He waved a piece of paper in our faces. ‘I spoke the words as soon as I returned from the manor—and today I have this telegram. Diamonds—a veritable sea of diamonds. It bally well works!’
“Of course, after that, Richards and I had to try for ourselves. But to backtrack, for I see I have forgotten something—the ‘words’ I have just referred to are a translation of the cuneiform on the tablet itself—a prayer to Ra, I believe, and nothing you will not have seen for yourself in the British Museum. But in conjunction with this particular tablet, from this particular tomb, what we had w
as—as Holmes so succinctly put it—a magical wish-granting device.”
“Of course, I cannot prove that our resultant good fortune was due to the tablet—but three such ‘coincidences’ in rapid succession were enough to convince us that the magic did indeed work. As you are probably aware, the money has been rolling in ever since—we are, or rather, were, becoming as rich as Croesus in short order, and I was coming to believe that the life of luxury I have always desired was truly within my grasp.
“It all came crashing down last night.”
3
He paused again, and I became aware that everything had fallen silent around us. The flat quality of the light seeping in through the windows told me that a spring fog had rolled up from the Thames, blanketing the streets in a gray sheet, muffling the sounds of the city and lending a rather eerie backdrop to Northwich’s story.
“We had an evening out on the town last night, the three of us, and I will admit to having had rather more bubbly than was good for me. I sobered up fast when we returned to the Islington house and found Jake there waiting, for as far as I knew, he was back at the manor standing watch over the cellar. You have seen the man: he does not speak—a fine quality in a servant but a bit of a stumbling block when he has something to tell me. Fortunately he was taught to write, after a fashion, and the terse note he passed me on the townhouse doorstep was clearly understandable. There were just two words, but that, and the expression on Jake’s face, were more than enough to convince me that we were in trouble.
“’He walks.’
“I do not think any of us had to inquire as to what that meant. We locked the doors and windows and worked ourselves up into quite a lather over the next few hours, but after a time our nerves began to settle and we berated each other for our foolishness and superstition. Our calmness was helped no doubt by the liquor we were consuming in some quantity, and bolstered by the fact that the three of us felt we would be more than a match for any intruder that might attempt to harm us. The solid presence of Jake standing by the door also did much to calm my fraying nerves.
“Grimshawe left us in the parlor sometime after midnight to fetch some more cheroots from his study, and we thought nothing of it. Richards was telling me of a new scheme he had in mind to start a forestry operation in the Amazon when we heard the scream.
“That was all we heard—I swear on my mother’s grave—just a single scream, cut off all too quickly. It only took us three seconds at most to cross the hall and burst into the study.
“Poor Grimshawe lay there, just as you saw him, his papers and things strewn around as if a sudden wind had blown through. There was no sign of any intruder.
“Richards near took a faint when he saw what had been left for us in the fireplace, and in truth I felt like joining him, but we held ourselves together long enough to send Jake for you before we called for the police.
“The rest you know.”
Holmes finally looked up. “Not quite,” he said. “The talisman—amulet—whatever you like to call it. Do you still have it?”
“Richards has it. At his place in Chelsea—he says it is in a safe place, and …”
Holmes almost jumped out of his chair. “I very much doubt it,” he said. “Come, Watson. Chelsea it is. And let us pray we are not too late.”
Chapter Thirteen
EF
Despite the hour we had no trouble hailing a carriage and we were soon rattling south in thick fog toward an address in Chelsea that Northwich had provided. My service revolver felt reassuringly heavy in my coat pocket. Holmes had not yet shared what he thought we might encounter, but I have had enough reason over the years to trust the old pistol, and its very presence brought me a certain calm, despite the growing excitement. I am usually at my happiest in front of a warm fire with a smoke and a drink, but I must admit that when a case breaks and Holmes has his dander up, there is little like it for stirring the blood and reminding a man that he is alive.
Holmes himself showed little sign of any nervous anticipation, but I noticed that, as I had my pistol, he had picked up his heaviest walking cane. He sat with his palm curled over the large wolf’s head that served both as the handle and as a bludgeon in times of need. I have seen the wolf with bloodied jaws before now, and would not be surprised to see it this night.
Northwich was once again showing signs of funk. He had gone quite pale, his hands shaking visibly, and the fact that he sipped constantly from a hip flask that smelled of strong liquor was not helping matters.
“I am sure everything will be fine,” he said, half a dozen times or more on the journey, as if trying to believe it. The man was not going to be any use if it came to action, but Holmes and I had seen enough of it ourselves to be ready for any eventuality. It was indeed excitement rather than trepidation that I felt as we pulled up outside a rather grand townhouse near the river in Chelsea.
3
The building—in fact the whole of the tall terrace—sat in darkness. Once the carriage rattled away, we were the only people on the street, and silence quickly fell in the blanketing cocoon provided by the fog.
“You are certain this is the place?” I asked.
Northwich’s face looked even paler now, his eyes wide with fear.
“Yes. Richards should be here. He told me he would wait here for my return, and he said …” his voice trailed away. “Are we too late?” he whispered.
“We will not find out standing here,” Holmes said, and walked up the six steps that led to the main entrance. The door lay in shadow, and it was only as we approached it that we saw it was open—only an inch or so, but that served to make it seem more sinister. I had a sinking feeling that Northwich might have been right in his assessment. We could well have arrived on the scene too late to prevent calamity.
The hallway beyond was awash in dark shadows. I put a hand to a gaslight fitting as we passed. It felt warm to the touch, as if only recently extinguished.
“Do you know where he keeps it?” Holmes whispered.
Northwich had hung back near the main door, as if ready to flee. “He has a safe in his study—at the end of the hall overlooking the rear garden. It will be there if it is anywhere,” the man said, but showed no signs of following us as Holmes and I made our way to the back of the building.
I took out my pistol, and Holmes had his cane gripped like a club as we pushed the study door open. Dim light came in from a tall window overlooking a plush garden, but all it lit was Richards’ dead, still body on the floor. His head sat on the desk, face down in a small pool of blood that looked black in the gloom.
Once again papers, books and writing materials were strewn around the room. A small iron safe had been torn with some force from a wall cabinet. It lay on the floor, its surface crumpled and buckled as if it had taken a sustained battering—but it had not been opened.
“We might yet retrieve something from this visit, Watson,” Holmes said—just as Northwich’s screams rang through the house.
3
Holmes was out in the hallway first. Over his shoulder I saw Northwich at the main door, wrestling with a tall figure that I took at first to be the mute servant, the two of them being silhouetted shadows, black against the grayness of the fog outside.
“Help me!” Northwich shouted. The other figure had his hands at the man’s neck, his grip tightening so that Northwich’s shout turned to a stifled moan of pain. Holmes strode forward and smote the attacker, hard, with the wolf’s head of his cane.
It had little effect. The attacker and Northwich staggered in an obscene parody of a waltz, framed in the doorway while Holmes rained blow after blow on the taller figure’s head and shoulders.
The attack on Northwich continued relentlessly.
“Stand back, Holmes; let me have a clear shot,” I shouted.
Holmes did as he was bid. I stepped forward and put two bullets in the attacker’s torso at close range. He flinched, stepped back, then came forward again, still intent on reaching Northwich who h
ad scuttled away into a corner.
As the figure came onward, it moved across a patch of light, and I was almost struck too immobile to fire. The tall man—if that indeed is what he was—was wrapped, head to toe, in linen that hung off him in torn and frayed patches. There was no face as such, just folds and hollows in the material that, in the shadows, gave one the impression of a mocking smile as it reached out for the cowering Northwich.
I fired again—two more in the chest and one in the head, and finally he turned aside, making with some haste for the open door.
“After him, Watson! Don’t let him get away.”
Holmes and I reached the outside pavement at the same time and looked both ways along the street, but the fog was too thick to see more than ten yards in any direction.
The attacker was gone, as quickly and silently as he had come.
Chapter Fourteen
EF
Northwich was still cowering in the corner when we went back inside, and wailed piteously as we came in the door, as if expecting a further assault.
“See if you can find him a stiffener, Watson,” Holmes said. “After you’ve seen to him, give me ten minutes, then raise the alarm.”
“Ten minutes?”
“Yes,” Holmes replied. “That should be long enough for me to open the safe, before Lestrade arrives and wonders what is inside.”
I did as Holmes asked. I found a brandy decanter and some glasses in the sitting room and helped Northwich get some of it inside him before heading out in search of a policeman. As luck would have it, I found two walking the beat only a street away.
It was almost half an hour before Lestrade arrived, and when I joined Holmes in the mess that was the study, it was to see the battered safe lying open on the floor beside the body, as if it had been burgled in the course of the murder.
Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle Page 16
