Little did I know at the time that, while we waited and watched, we were also being watched. Somewhere in the shady recesses of the foyer, a tall blond-haired man with a plump white face and fiercely cruel eyes kept his own vigil while he smoked a series of Russian cigarettes. Like a Grand Master, he knew that, despite his protagonists’ ruses, he was still in charge of the board.
* * *
We had not long to wait. Some twenty minutes after our arrival, as the crush in the lobby began to thin out, a young woman in a state of some agitation entered the hotel and hurried to the reception desk. From my vantage point, it was easy for me to observe that her face was flushed, while her brown eyes were wide with concern, and a thin sheen of perspiration covered her brow.
It was Catriona Andrews.
The three us watched from our different viewpoints as she made some urgent request of the desk clerk, who at length consulted his guest ledger and imparted the information that she so desperately desired. She then hurried towards the hotel lift. As she disappeared behind the clanging metal doors, Holmes was on his feet and making his own urgent enquiries of the desk clerk. With a dramatic gesture of his arm he beckoned us to him.
‘201 is the room we require, gentlemen. We’ll take the stairs, and that will give our charming client time to make herself at home.’
Wearing a puzzled expression, Hardcastle mouthed the word ‘Client’ to me, but Holmes, intercepting his query, announced curtly, ‘Later, Inspector: full explanations later.’
I gave the policeman a sympathetic shrug.
Some moments later we stood in a brightly lighted corridor outside room 201. Holmes spoke to us in a whisper. ‘It is unlikely that you will need your firearm, Watson, but I would be obliged if you have it on show in order to impress upon our friends that we mean business. Similarly Hardcastle, have your handcuffs at the ready – you will certainly need them. Ready, gentlemen?’
We nodded gravely, whereupon Sherlock Holmes flung open the door of room 201.
The sight that met our eyes was indeed an extraordinary one. In the middle of the room were two figures: a man and a woman. They were holding each other in a close embrace. One of the figures was Catriona Andrews. The other was a man somewhat older than her. He was tall in stature with a waxy complexion and wispy grey hair.
At our sudden entrance they broke from each other’s arms and turned to stare at us with looks of total amazement on their faces. On realising that her treachery had been discovered, Miss Andrews placed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry of horror.
Holmes stepped forward and bowed. ‘Good evening. A touching scene indeed. Father and daughter reunited once more after the pain of separation. Let me introduce you, Inspector Hardcastle, to the happy couple over here: this is Miss Catriona Andrews, and this is her father, Sir Alistair, whom we had given up for lost.’
‘You devil!’ screamed the young woman. Within seconds her whole demeanour had changed. Having easily and quickly shaken off the emotions of shock and dismay, she took a step towards us, her body now consumed with fury and her face contorted with hate for my friend. She gave an unintelligible cry and flew at Holmes, her arms outstretched, her fingers curled like talons. Before he had a chance to defend himself, she was upon him, screaming, and clawing at his face. He fell back, helpless against such a ferocious attack from a woman. He seemed at a total loss as to how to react.
I rushed to the rescue and, with the help of her father, managed to pull the young woman away from my friend and restrain her. Incensed as she was, Miss Andrews possessed great strength, and it was some moments before we could release our hold of her safely. At first she struggled violently, ready to snap free and be at Holmes again, but her father begged her to be calm. He repeated his entreaties in a firm but soothing manner and eventually his daughter, recognising the futility of the situation, gradually controlled her anger. Her body relaxed and the ferocity gave way to tears. She fell sobbing into her father’s arms.
Holmes was very shaken by the sudden attack. Awkwardly, he dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. For a brief moment he had been jolted from his secure position of control and thrown into a situation that was totally unexpected. He stood now eyeing the crying girl strangely, his breath still emerging in irregular short bursts and his eyes flickering erratically, registering his total disquiet.
‘You all right, Mr Holmes?’ asked Hardcastle, placing a concerned hand on his shoulder.
My friend gave a stern nod of the head. His face was deathly white apart from a series of thin red scratches around the neck where the girl’s nails had scored the flesh. Already blood was beginning to seep out of the deeper wounds. ‘I suggest you arrange transport to Scotland Yard for these two,’ he said to Hardcastle, his voice shaky at first and then resuming its natural authority, ‘and afterwards, if you care to call round to Baker Street for a nightcap, I will furnish you with details concerning their involvement in the murder of Sir George Faversham.’
Eleven
SHERLOCK HOLMES EXPLAINS
‘I will never understand women, Watson. They act without reason or logic. At all times their emotions, passionate and unthinking, rule their behaviour. Take the Andrews girl. One moment she is plotting some heinous crime with her father with heartless, clinical precision. However, on being discovered she flies into an unrestrained fury like a wild cat and then finally collapses in tears. Hah! Give me the cold, calculating, and controlled ruthlessness of Professor Moriarty any day. At least there was intellectual consideration behind all his actions! With women the unpredictable is all you are able to predict.’ Sherlock Holmes paced up and down in an agitated manner as he loosed this tirade against womankind in general and Miss Catriona Andrews in particular.
We were back once more in our sitting-room at Baker Street and I had dressed the wounds the girl had inflicted upon my friend. They were minor hurts, but Holmes was more than irritated by having to surrender to my ministrations. He saw the girl’s attack upon him as an affront to his dignity and perception. I knew that Holmes’ anger was caused not so much by the ‘emotional irrationality’ of Catriona Andrews but more by his own failure to anticipate her actions. He did not like being unprepared in his dealings with people, and he had been completely unnerved by her assault.
I did not respond to this outburst, knowing that my best course of action was to assume the role of a silent witness. At length I gave a weary sigh of boredom which stopped my friend in mid-sentence. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ I said gently, ‘do sit down and have a pipeful of shag to calm your nerves.‘
His eyes narrowed and he gave me a strange, accusative look; but he did as I suggested. For a time we both lapsed into silence; then, just as I was about to open up a discussion about the implications of the night’s events, there was a discreet tap at our door and Hardcastle entered. He drew up a chair by the fire and joined us in a smoke.
‘Now then, Mr Holmes, I would appreciate a full explanation of how Sir Alistair Andrews and his daughter are implicated in murder and the theft of that Egyptian papyrus. At present they are under arrest solely on your word, and if I am to keep my job I will need more than that.’
Holmes nodded and leaned back in his chair. ‘Of course, my dear fellow,’ he replied, in a voice which indicated that his equanimity was in the process of being restored. ‘There are four people mixed up in this affair, four greedy people who are determined to locate Setaph’s Scroll of the Dead. You have two of them in custody: Sir Alistair Andrews and his unscrupulous daughter. However, their full involvement in this business came some time after the theft of the Henntawy papyrus.’
‘So who broke into the Museum and made away with it then?’
‘Sebastian Melmoth and Tobias Felshaw.’
Hardcastle opened his mouth, as if he were about to question Holmes regarding the certainty of this assertion; and then shut it again as he thought better of it. He had learned, as I had, that it was foolish and pointless to question Holmes when
he was in mid-flow
‘You know Melmoth and his little aristocratic friend, Felshaw, of course?’
Hardcastle nodded. ‘Not personally, mind. We don’t exactly move in the same circles, but we are aware of the strange couple at the Yard. I know they get up to some funny business, but I must say I hadn’t pegged them for the type who would commit murder.’
‘They are exactly that type,’ replied Holmes coolly.
The inspector sucked on his pipe and frowned. ‘But there’s one little fly in your ointment: Melmoth is dead. He was killed in a shooting accident a few days ago.’
Holmes grinned. ‘Never believe all you hear about that scoundrel. Rumours of his death are much exaggerated. Take it from me, Inspector, Sebastian Melmoth is very much alive. Indeed, for Melmoth and his crony, death is not an issue. They intend to rise above that particular rite of passage. Hence their urgent desire to get their hands on the Scroll of the Dead. They believe that it will give them a kind of immortality.’
‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed the policeman.
‘Indeed, but Melmoth is convinced otherwise. Setaph’s scriptures are his holy grail and salvation. He is prepared to kill to own the Scroll. For several years he has been searching, experimenting, reaching out into the realms of darkness to discover the way to conquer death. Recently he acquired what he really believed was the answer to his unholy prayers: a document which he thought would unlock the secrets of Henntawy’s papyrus. Therefore, he became determined to get his clutches on it by fair means or foul. Inevitably, he chose the foul. With his acolyte, Felshaw, he stole the papyrus from the British Museum. The act of murder added zest to the exploit. He is that kind of man.’
Hardcastle inhaled noisily and shuddered. ‘I had heard he was odd.’
‘He is more than odd,’ I said. ‘He is evil.’
‘However,’ continued Holmes, ‘after some study, I am now convinced that this “key” is worthless. It is merely a devious piece of nonsense created by Setaph himself to fool and mislead those who would discover his secret. Or to be more precise, those who lacked the appropriate wisdom and insight he deemed necessary to share his secret.’
Hardcastle scratched his head. ‘Let me get this straight. You’re saying that this key as you call it, if it does exist, is a useless trick.’
‘Exactly It is a false trail set by Setaph for the unworthy.’
The policeman allowed himself a throaty chuckle. ‘He was a tricky so and so, this Setaph, wasn’t he?’
Holmes nodded. ‘Now this is how I see the chain of events following the theft. Once Melmoth had both the key and Henntawy’s papyrus in his possession, he believed it would be a simple matter to decipher the symbols and crack the code which would reveal the location of Setaph’s magical Scroll of the Dead. Such was his arrogance. Of course, he was wrong. He was as much in the dark as ever. Not realising that the key document was useless, he sought expert help. He approached Sir George Faversham, who refused to help him. Sir George was desperate to locate the Scroll of the Dead for himself in order to beat his rival Andrews to it and earn himself a large entry in the history books. He was hardly likely to assist those two scoundrels in their pursuit of his goal. We cannot be sure if Faversham’s death was premeditated or if it was the unpleasant outcome of the visit that Melmoth and Felshaw paid upon the old archaeologist. However, it is certainly clear to me that our two friends murdered Sir George Faversham and ransacked his house in order to make it appear as though a common burglary had occurred.’
‘If what you say is true, that’s two murders on their heads.’
‘At least.’ Holmes relit his pipe and beamed warmly. He was now in his element: explaining the complex details of a case to a captive audience. ‘Our two antagonists then approached Sir Alistair Andrews for assistance. Sir Alistair Andrews was already involved with Melmoth and his crony. He was far less scrupulous than his fellow archaeologist, and no doubt he agreed to help them on the understanding that, once they had gleaned the requisite information from the Scroll of the Dead, he would be allowed to claim credit for discovering it. However, he was obviously having difficulty in deciphering the code, and that is why, in desperation, they approached Faversham for help.’ It was Holmes’ turn to chuckle now. ‘And all the collected brainpower of Melmoth, Felshaw, Andrews, and his daughter still could not break the code set by a man over 2000 years ago. Of course, they were hindered somewhat by attempting to read the message by using the useless key, just as the wily Setaph had planned. His trickery reached over the centuries to block their malevolent plans. That’s when they brought me into the matter.’
‘They brought you in?’
‘In a manner of speaking. Melmoth must have been be aware of my monograph on codes, and realised that I was probably the only man capable of breaking the one set by Setaph. In this instance, he was right. Disregarding the fraudulent key, I discovered that the real message concerning the location of the Scroll of the Dead was coded within another code in Henntawy’s papyrus. I have come across this device only twice before, most notably in the case of the Vatican cameos. Interestingly enough, that was another instance where a priest proved to be skilful at deception.
‘Our motley crew had to be very cunning and devious concerning the manner in which they secured my services. They knew that I would not respond kindly to an open request. Melmoth was shrewd enough to realise that I suspected him of the museum theft and the murder of the night watchman, so in order to prevent me from getting any closer to that particular truth, he organised his own death. He killed one of Felshaw’s estate workers, damaging his face so that the poor man was unrecognisable. Felshaw presented the world with the shocking news that Sebastian Melmoth had been involved in an unfortunate shooting accident and was dead, thus superficially blocking off one of my avenues of investigation. But they knew that while the world mourned his demise, I would not be fooled by this rather transparent ruse. They were sure that I would investigate and I was led, like an ass by the nose, to a cottage on the Felshaw estate in Norfolk, where sufficient clues were left for me to stumble upon, providing me with enough information to work on the code and Henntawy’s papyrus. This I did. I approached the puzzle not as an Egyptologist but as a detective; and I solved the mystery.’
‘You did?’ Hardcastle beamed, sitting forward in his chair eagerly. ‘You are a wonder, Mr Holmes, you really are. You say you know where this so-called Scroll of the Dead is located?’
Holmes gave him a brief smile. ‘At least, I know where it was,’ he replied quietly. ‘But let me finish my tale in order, my friend, before we come on to the whereabouts of the magic Scroll. Having kindly cracked the code for Melmoth and company, they needed to know my findings, so they presented me with another mystery. This is where Miss Catriona Andrews came into the picture. She gave me sufficient information to lead me to deduce that her missing father had been abducted, the implication being that he was being forced to work on the papyrus for Melmoth. In engaging me to find Sir Alistair, she had a strong, legitimate reason for staying close by my side. They hoped to convince me that they had already broken the code and that I would hare after them in order to apprehend them at the site of Setaph’s tomb somewhere in Egypt, when in reality they would be following me to learn of its location. Their grave error was assuming that the Scroll of the Dead was lodged somewhere in Egypt. It is not. It is in this country.’
‘This country!’ gasped the Scotland Yarder. ‘Where?’
Holmes shot him a frosty glance. ‘All in good time and proper order. They waited for me to make arrangements to travel to Egypt, receiving detailed reports of all my plans and movements from their spy in the camp, Miss Catriona Andrews. With the help of the Baker Street Irregulars, I soon located the hotel where the girl’s father was in waiting. I sent her a telegram this evening, purporting to come from him, requesting her to meet him at the hotel at eight this evening. I couched the message in suitably dramatic terms, stating that the matter was most urgent. And thus we were a
ble to nab two of our birds.’
‘What about Melmoth and Felshaw?’ I asked.
‘They are shrewd fellows. No doubt they are already aware of the situation.’
‘It’s rather a complicated affair, Mr Holmes, and while I can only applaud your detective work up to now, it seems it does not get us much further down the road of apprehending the murderers and restoring Henntawy’s papyrus to the British Museum.’
‘Patience was never one of your virtues, my friend,’ remarked Holmes languidly, stretching himself in the chair. ‘I believe that within forty-eight hours, the other two birds will be in our net and the manuscript safely restored to the museum.’
‘I am pleased to hear it. Then allow me return to an earlier question. Where is this blasted Scroll of the Dead?’
Twelve
A VISIT TO THE ELMS
Sherlock Holmes was enjoying himself too much simply to hand over the reins of the case to Hardcastle at this juncture. He had been happy enough to relate how he had reached his conclusions regarding the investigation so far, but he artfully deflected all the policeman’s questions regarding the location of Setaph’s Scroll of the Dead. I knew my friend believed that he had passed on sufficient information to enable the inspector to continue his own detective work without his assistance. As always, Holmes was determined to plough a solitary furrow. Once he had started an investigation, he became determined to be the one to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion.
‘As Ihave already intimated,’ Holmes announced firmly to silence the protesting inspector, ‘I believe that within forty-eight hours I will have the Scroll in my possession and Melmoth and Felshaw will have been apprehended.’
The Scroll of the Dead Page 10
