I took them over to the curtainless window where the grey light filtering through the smears afforded me enough illumination to examine the papers. They did not really make sense to me, but I could see that they contained a variety of Egyptian hieroglyphics. As I gazed at them in complete puzzlement, the full import of Holmes’ implications came forcefully to me.
‘They are not idle scribblings, but a systematic working out of images – hieroglyphics. The sheets provide incontrovertible proof that Sir Alistair Andrews has been here and that he has been working on Setaph’s key,’ he announced with glee. ‘Each one of them possesses his little idiosyncratic signature of Thoth in the corner.’
I observed the crude sketch of the ibis-headed god, identical to the one Miss Andrews had shown us on her father’s letter.
Suddenly Holmes’ mood changed and he smacked his hand down on the chair. ‘I’ve been slow, Watson. Painfully slow. If we had arrived yesterday, judging by the state of that stew, we would have caught our birds in their new nest. But now they have flown.’
‘What about Sir Alistair? You don’t think they have killed him, do you?’
My friend shook his head. ‘They cannot afford to be rid of him until the Scroll of the Dead is in their hands. He could quite easily have tricked them with his translation. They are too clever, too cautious, to risk that. Oh no, they will keep him close to them until their diabolical quest is at an end. That is our one consolation. Hallo, what have we here?’
Holmes leaned over the armchair and from down the side of the ancient cushion he pulled out a small slip of paper. He joined me by the window to examine it. At first glance, the paper appeared to be another sheet of Sir Alistair’s notes, but on closer examination, I could see that the designs were obviously not Egyptian.
‘What have we here?’ repeated Holmes slowly, more to himself than to me. He pondered some minutes, turning the paper in different directions until he let out a whoop of joy.
‘Of course! of course!’ he cried. ‘The gods have indeed been helpful to us – or at least Sir Alistair has!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at it, Watson. Cunning little designs.’ I looked over my friend’s shoulder at the paper. There were several crude, simplistic sketches on it.
‘What do you make of it, Watson?’
‘Not much – aimless scribbles,’ I replied.
‘Scribbles I grant you. But they hold a message. Tell me what you see.’
‘Well, there appears to be a little house. One of the windows has been blacked out; then there is a set of stairs and some kind of jug and what looks like a coffin.’
‘Not an ordinary coffin...’
‘No, no. You’re right. It is an Egyptian coffin: a sarcophagus.’
Holmes held out his hand, waiting for more. I had no more to give.
‘I see – or rather I don’t see,’ I said. ‘Obviously you believe that these drawings have some significance.’
‘I believe they do – and we can soon find out.’
‘How?’
Holmes chuckled. ‘Follow me. If I have this right, the cryptic little note was left by Melmoth’s hostage in case anyone should discover this bolthole.’
By now Holmes was bounding up the stairs with myself close on his heels. On the narrow landing he stopped and consulted the drawing again. Two bedrooms only upstairs. See, the window at the top left in the sketch is the one blacked out, so it must be this bedroom.’ He darted off into the room on the left and rushed to the window with a cry of delight. ‘Our jug,’ he exclaimed, and from the window sill he snatched a grubby willow pattern water jug which resembled the child-like sketch on the paper. He turned it upside down in expectation that something would fall out. Nothing did. A flicker of consternation crossed his brow and hesitantly he slipped his hand inside the jug. ‘Ah!’ he cried, in triumph, ‘there is something in here, pressed tightly against the inner wall.’
Still with his hand inside the jug, he moved to the fireplace and smashed the ornament down on the blackleaded mantelpiece. There was an explosion of china, with little blue shards flying off in all directions. With another cry of satisfaction, he pulled out two sheets of paper from the debris and examined them carefully. ‘Treasure trove indeed, Watson.’
‘What are they?’
‘Rough copies. But very precious rough copies. I believe one is a copy of the key to the Henntawy papyrus and the other is a copy of the papyrus itself.’
He handed them to me, and although I could determine that they represented a series of Egyptian designs, with crude representations of figures, animals, and symbols, the sense was impenetrable.
‘Don’t you see?’ cried Holmes, his voice high with excitement. ‘Sir Alistair has left this behind in order to help in tracking him down... and his kidnappers. He has left behind as much information as his captors possess.’
‘But how could he have known that anyone would come looking for him here?’
Holmes smiled to himself the way he always did when his understanding of the situation was greater than mine. ‘Let’s say it was the act of a drowning man grasping at straws. However, he would have known that his strong-willed daughter would not have simply stayed at home doing nothing, while he was being held prisoner somewhere. He knew she would set some hounds on his trail.’ He waved the two sheets of paper in the air. And just in case...’
‘But why leave the key and not the solution?’
Holmes shrugged. ‘Perhaps because he has not revealed all the details to Melmoth and young Felshaw. For as long as he is useful to them, his life is safe. It would be foolish to leave the full solution where it was possible they might stumble over it. And, of course, he may not have solved the puzzles of either the key or the stolen papyrus.’
‘That makes sense,’ I agreed, ‘but it does not help us much, as we still have to solve the puzzles also.’
Surprisingly, Holmes grinned broadly. ‘To the author of a trifling monograph upon the subject of secret writings in which I analysed one hundred and sixty separate ciphers, this ancient riddle-me-ree should not prove too challenging.’ My look of disbelief, prompted by this arrogant statement, caused Holmes to burst out in one of his rare fits of laughter. ‘Have a little faith,’ he cried at last, stifling his guffaws.
‘I think we shall need a little more than faith,’ said I.
Some time later, after Holmes had searched the cottage for further clues to ensure that he had not overlooked anything else of significance, we began our return to the waiting pony and trap. We were in the thickest part of the wood, where we had to push ourselves with some effort through the foliage, when, without warning, Holmes pushed me to the ground into a patch of tall, wet grass. He landed beside me and, before I had chance to react, he had clamped his fingers across my mouth to stifle any utterance I might make. ‘Gamekeeper,’ he whispered in my ear, and released his grip.
I followed the line of his gaze and saw a thickset fellow in country tweeds some fifty yards away from us. He was carrying a twin-barrelled shot gun.
‘I don’t think he has seen us, but he certainly seems to be looking for something or someone. We had best stay put unless he comes too close, and then we shall have to make a run for it,’ said Holmes.
Despite our stealth, in all probability we had been spotted outside Alfred’s cottage, and the gamekeeper was now trying to pick up our trail. He had been standing motionless like an animal for a while, sensing the air; then he turned in our direction and began walking towards us. As he drew nearer I could see that he was a red-faced brute of a man with two small, mean eyes set under a shaggy blond brow. He shifted his gun to his shoulder and aimed it at a nearby tree, and then swung it round in a semi-circle as though he was looking for a target. He moved nearer, his heavy boots crunching the covering of dry bracken and twigs on the woodland floor as he did so. My heart began to race. I felt sure that at any time he would discover us and blast us both to kingdom come. He certainly did not look the sort of fellow who
would bother to question our presence on the estate: in his eyes we were trespassers, and therefore fair game. Instinctively my hand reached for my gun, although I reminded myself that it would be wholly inappropriate for me to to use it unless we were faced with the direst consequences. Once again Holmes and I had placed ourselves on the wrong side of the law, and therefore we were the miscreants in the matter.
I pushed myself down as flat as I could into the long grass, while still keeping an eye on the gamekeeper’s progress. Suddenly the air was rent with a strange animal noise – a high-pitched rasping cry. It came from far to our left, cutting sharply through the sound of the rustling leaves. This stopped our gamekeeper in his tracks and he froze like some rustic statue. He waited a few moments and then the cry came again. This time he turned and hared off in the direction of the sound.
‘There are two of them,’ said Holmes at length, after our adversary had disappeared from sight. ‘That was a calling signal from his partner. Opportune for us. Another minute and I believe we would have made the very unpleasant acquaintance of the man and his gun.’
‘The sooner we are away from here the better,’ I said, clambering to my feet and brushing myself down.
Holmes grinned. ‘Sentiments with which I heartily concur.’
Without further ado, we resumed our trek to the edge of the estate. We were much more cautious and apprehensive than we had been now that we had come into contact with the tangible danger that lay in wait for us in the wood. However, we had not gone more than 400 yards when we heard a voice call out to us, ‘Stop, you rascals, or I fire!’
I turned around on the instant and caught a glimpse through the greenery of another figure in tweeds carrying a twin-bore. He was taller and less broad than the first, but his demeanour was as threatening.
‘Keep going,’ hissed Holmes.
Before I had chance to respond, there was a loud explosion and the small branch above my head cracked and fell to the ground.
‘Heavens, he means to kill us,’ I gasped, stumbling forward.
‘We are vermin to him, no doubt,’ observed Holmes in a sharp whisper, ‘but that shot was too wide to be a serious threat. He’s just out to frighten us. Keep down and keep moving.’
I did as I was bidden.
Another shot rang out and I felt my hat fly from my head.
‘That was serious enough for me,’ I said, stumbling forward and picking up my hat. Part of the rim was missing and a large, charred scar ran along the band.
We struggled through the dense undergrowth, stumbling over fallen branches and being pulled by wayward brambles, until we emerged into a clearing and were able to increase our speed. In the distance, I could see the road beckoning. Our last lap. Glimpsing a path that appeared to lead to the edge of the estate, we headed down it at full pelt, but I was conscious that our pursuer was still doggedly on our tails. Glancing ahead I saw with horror that our way was blocked by the red-faced keeper, who must have raced ahead of us, using another track. At the sight of us, his florid features curled into a vicious grin.
‘Hold it there, gents,’ he cried with a sneer, levelling the gun at Holmes. Without thinking, I threw my hat with some force at his face. It caught him on the bridge of the nose and he staggered back in surprise. As he did so, Holmes leapt forward and placed a smart uppercut on his chin. The keeper fell backwards, cracking his head on the trunk of an oak tree. His eyes rolled, his jaw dropped, and he lost consciousness.
Holmes snatched up the rifle and turned to face our pursuer, who, on seeing the weapon, slowed down to a trot. He stopped altogether as Holmes shifted the rifle to his shoulder and took aim. My friend fired above the fellow’s head, the shot echoing like a phantom thunderclap in the air, sending a shower of leaves down upon our pursuer’s head. He promptly threw himself onto the ground in terror and then, as Holmes raised the rifle once more, he jumped to his feet and fled the way he had come. Holmes fired a final shot once more into the air as the keeper disappeared from our sight.
Red-face groaned loudly as he slowly regained consciousness.
‘Come, Watson, let us make ourselves scarce,’ cried Holmes cheerily throwing the gun down. So saying, he hared off towards the perimeter wall. With a thumping heart, I snatched up the remains of my hat and chased after him.
Nine
COMPLICATIONS
Within two hours of our exploits on the Felshaw estate, Holmes and I were ensconsed in a First Class carriage rattling our way back to London. Our adventure in the woods completely forgotten, my companion sat hunched by the window, poring over the documents he had rescued from the estate cottage, while thick columns of grey smoke rolled from the bowl of his pipe. He scribbled designs and words into his notepad constantly, while muttering occasionally to himself, but he made no attempt whatsoever to communicate with me. I settled back into my seat, resigned to a silent journey, and closed my eyes. Sleep soon overtook me.
When I awoke, night had fallen and the compartment was bathed in the amber glow of two gas mantles. Holmes was still sitting by the window, but now he was gazing out into the blackness of the night, his hawk-like features staring back at him from the darkened pane. The documents lay discarded in his lap. I consulted my watch. We were due to arrive in London in the next forty minutes or so.
‘Have you made any sense of the key?’ I asked Holmes tentatively.
He turned his gaze on me as though he had just realised that I was there in the compartment with him, so deep were his thoughts. ‘I believe so. There are several points which still remain shrouded but I hope that, supplied with a suitably ancient map of Egypt and having made certain enquiries, I shall be able to satisfy myself as to their meaning. As with all things appertaining to Setaph, nothing is quite what it seems.’
‘You mean you have broken the code already?’
‘Do not be so surprised.’
‘Well, I am. If prominent Egyptologists have failed over the years to interpret this document, and you have managed to do it in a matter of hours, it is more than surprising. It is remarkable.’
Holmes gave a grunt. ‘That is the over-emotive language of the writer, Watson. Indeed, Egyptologists have addressed the problem of Setaph’s code – but they have approached the problem from their perspective as Egyptologists, and not as I have done – with the objective, scientific approach of a code-breaker. Codes, whether written by ancient Egyptians or the man in the moon, have to follow certain set patterns, and it is the isolation of these patterns which is of paramount importance – not the culture or the nationality of the man who created the puzzle.’
‘So you know where the Scroll of the Dead lies?’
Holmes gave me a sly grin. ‘As I have already intimated, I believe I shall do so when I have consulted a map of Ancient Egypt and satisfied myself as to the accuracy of certain data which I possess.’ With this retort, Holmes closed his eyes and feigned sleep.
There was another surprise awaiting us on our return to Baker Street. On entering the hallway of 221B, I nearly fell over a large trunk placed there. As I steadied myself, Mrs Hudson, no doubt disturbed by the noise, appeared in the doorway of her room. ‘Oh, gentlemen, here you are at last.’ Her voice was anxious and her features furrowed with concern.
‘What is it, Mrs Hudson?’ asked Holmes in the softest of tones, as he cast a practiced eye over the trunk.
‘It’s that young lady – the one who was here yesterday. Miss Andrews...’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s here now... in your room... insisting on seeing you.’
‘This is her trunk, I take it?’
‘Indeed it is, Mr Holmes. I believe she has got it into her head that she is to stay here in this house. I don’t know what this is all about, Mr Holmes, but we simply do not have the room for another lodger...’
‘Miss Andrews lodge here?’ I gasped. ‘What can she be thinking of, Holmes?’
My friend could barely conceal the smile that was on his lips. ‘Please, don’t either
of you fret yourselves. I am sure this matter can be sorted out quite easily. However, Mrs Hudson, surely you can make up a bed for the young lady just for tonight?’ He consulted the hall clock. ‘It is not far from midnight, and it would be callous and imprudent to turn her out onto the streets at this hour. Don’t you agree, Watson?’
I failed to reply. I was too dumbfounded.
‘Good,’ chirped Holmes, taking both my silence and that of Mrs Hudson as acquiescence to his suggestion.
Our landlady gave one of her long, weary sighs. ‘Very well, Mr Holmes. One night and one night only.’
‘Indeed. Now then, Watson, let’s discover what this determined young lady has to say for herself
With that he bounded up the stairs towards our sitting room.
As it turned out, our visitor, Miss Catriona Andrews, initially had nothing to say for herself, because she was asleep. I entered the room just behind Holmes, and caught a glimpse of the girl, dressed in the same outfit that she had worn the day before, sitting in my chair by the fire, her head lolling forward on her chest. She was a striking young woman with strong features, and while not handsome in the accepted sense, there was something about the mouth and the eyes and her forthright demeanour that was very appealing. It was a puzzle to me that she had no gentleman friend to help share her burdens. It was clear that her dedication to her father was complete.
‘A brandy nightcap for our guest, Watson, and one for myself too if you don’t mind.’ Holmes threw off his outer clothes and turned up the gas while I busied myself preparing the drinks. The noise of our activity brought the girl back to consciousness. She stirred dreamily at first and then, shaking off her fatigue, was on her feet and staring at my friend.
‘At last you’ve returned, Mr Holmes. What news? Oh, please tell me, what news?’
‘Calm yourself, Miss Andrews. Take the brandy from Watson. It will steady your nerves.’
The soft brown eyes turned in my direction, and with a slightly trembling hand she took the tumbler from me. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly.
The Scroll of the Dead Page 8
