Grebe House was situated some hundred yards from the shore in a saucer-like dip which, with the aid of the trees and a wild, neglected garden, made it virtually impossible to see from the shore of the lake. It looked starkly out of place in the lush green environment of the isle. Its blackened stone and ornate carvings reminded me of a small church in the city rather than a country house. There was a large, incongruous, wooden outbuilding attached to the side of the house.
Without a word, we made our way up the pebble path which led us to a substantial oak door. Holmes tried the handle, but the door did not budge. It was locked. ‘It appears that we shall have to make our visit very formal,’ he observed, tugging vigourously on the large bell. We heard distant clanging in the depths of the house, but it roused no response. Holmes persevered with the bell for nearly a minute and then resorted to hammering on the door.
We waited, listening intently, but the only sounds we could hear were the thrashing of the foliage in the breeze-blown trees and the occasional cry of a bird.
‘Perhaps there is no one in there,’ I said at length.
‘Oh, yes, Watson, there is someone in there. I am convinced of it. I just hope the fool has the sense to let us in,’ Holmes muttered impatiently. He pulled the bell again while I battered the door with my fist. At last we heard a sound from inside. It was muffled and faint at first and sounded like footsteps. They appeared to be approaching the door in a slow, slithery fashion and then suddenly they stopped. There was a brief silence which was followed by the grating noise of a key turning in the lock. Instinctively my fingers clutched the handle of my gun.
Slowly the oak door opened wide. Standing before us, holding a lighted candlestick in one trembling hand, was a young, dark-haired man. I recognised him from the photograph I had seen at The Elms. It was the person we had come to see: John Phillips, Sir George Faversham’s secretary. But it was a shock to observe the change that had been wrought on the appearance of his youthful features. There were premature streaks of grey in the hair which hung lankly around his gaunt, white, unshaven face. Lustreless eyes, dark-rimmed through lack of sleep, stared at us in a wild, furtive, haunted fashion. His mouth hung open, the lips moist with saliva. The fellow’s whole appearance, with stooped shoulders and shuffling gait, was that of an old man.
He stared at us for some moments, his mouth working silently as though he was on the verge of uttering something, but had either forgotten what it was that he was about to say or was unsure of how to phrase it. In fact it was Holmes who spoke first.
‘Mr Phillips, I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Doctor Watson. We have come here to help you.’
‘No!’ cried the young man suddenly with a snarling ferocity, his whole frame shaking now with a feverish animation and his eyes bulging in their sockets. ‘No! You must go. You are disturbing my important work.’ With a clumsy motion he attempted to close the door on us, but Holmes stepped forward, preventing him. Taking hold of the handle, my friend forced the door wide open and pressed forward so that Phillips, thus challenged, had no other recourse but to step back into the house.
‘You either see us now and we help you,’ my friend announced with cold authority, ‘or we shall have no alternative but to inform the authorities that you have stolen property on these premises and that you are indulging in unnatural and un-Christian practices with the dead.’
Phillips’s mouth gaped and he retreated further into the gloom of the hallway. ‘Oh, my God,’ he groaned, his eyes rolling wildly. In a daze, he staggered backwards, his free arm flailing, reaching out for some means of support. He found none. Still stumbling, he lost his balance and crashed to the floor in a swoon; the candlestick, released from his grasp, skated off into the darkness.
I rushed forward and knelt at his side, taking his wrist to test his pulse. It was feeble and sluggish. ‘This man is barely alive,’ I said as Holmes joined me at his side.
‘Is it exhaustion or are there other symptoms?’ he asked, kneeling down and cradling the young man’s head in his arms. He prised back the flaccid eyelids but only the blood-veined whites were visible.
With Holmes’ assistance, I removed Phillips’s jacket and examined his arms for signs of injections. I wondered whether his exhaustive state was due to drugs, but the skin was smooth and unblemished.
‘It is a type of exhaustion,’ I said at last. ‘Probably enhanced by nervous tension. His features and manic behaviour suggest that he is not a strong person, physically or mentally. If we get him somewhere warm and find a reviving drink – brandy perhaps – he should regain consciousness.’
To my surprise, Holmes jumped to his feet and shook his head. ‘No. Leave him where he is. This is a splendid opportunity for us to examine these premises without hindrance.’
It was typical of Sherlock Holmes to place the considerations of the investigation before the welfare of a sick man – albeit a sadly misguided one. However, in this instance I saw his point. Phillips was in no real danger and his exhausted condition did provide us with such an opportunity. By the light from the open doorway, I spied a chaise longue at the far end of the hall. I suggested we move Phillips there so that at least he would be resting comfortably. Holmes agreed and we carried out the task.
Picking up the candlestick, he lit it again. ‘Obviously, there is no gas or electricity on the island, so this simple stick of wax will be our prime source of illumination. Let us explore.’
And so we began a tour of that weird, round house. While the sun shone outside the building, we moved around in almost pitch darkness inside. I managed to locate another candlestick to aid us. There were also the dull-coloured glowing spots of light from the occasional stained-glass window, but these were feeble aids in a house that somehow seemed to revel in its own interior blackness.
We discovered that all the rooms were on the ground floor: the staircase merely led to a gallery around the dome of the building. There was a simple kitchen, dining-room, sitting-room and three bedrooms, all of which were Spartan and provided nothing of special interest to our investigation. Then we came to what was obviously Sir George’s study. It was crammed with various Egyptian artefacts, including yet another brightly gilded sarcophagus set up on end on the back wall of the room. Holmes seemed particularly interested in this. Whipping out his lens he examined it closely.
‘You don’t think it contains Faversham’s body, do you?’ I asked.
‘I doubt it, Watson. However, it is interesting to note that this sarcophagus only dates back to the early Victorian period.’
‘What!’
‘It is a copy only a little better than those used in side shows to fool the gullible public. Here, take my candle.’
I did as he asked, and with both hands he began to prise the lid open. It swung wide with ease.
‘Modern hinges,’ Holmes observed with a wry smile, ‘so much more effective than those old Egyptian ones.’
What was revealed when the lid was opened was a great surprise to me: there was no base to the sarcophagus. It was, in all essentials, a door, a cunningly concealed door, which I could see, as I moved forward with the candlesticks, led to a descending flight of steps. ‘A hidden cellar!’ I exclaimed.
‘Au contraire, my dear Watson. The term cellar is far too mundane a description for what lies beneath our feet. This staircase surely leads down to Faversham’s secret tomb.’
I shuddered at these words.
‘Come, let us discover if my deduction is correct.’
Taking one of the candlesticks from me, Holmes led the way through the sarcophagus door and we began to descend the narrow stone staircase. The steps curved round in a spiral and were illuminated at intervals by flickering oil lamps set into recesses in the wall at shoulder height. Using a habit I had picked up from Holmes, I counted the steps; there were twenty-eight. As we descended, I could not rid myself of the impression that we were leaving behind the real world of rationality and sense and entering a strange, pagan one of dark menaces
and madness.
At the bottom of the staircase we found ourselves in a low-ceilinged chamber lit by four tall braziers, their rich vacillating flames and smoky tendrils casting eerie, dancing shadows onto the plaster walls. As Holmes had intimated, the chamber was indeed a replica of an Egyptian tomb. The walls were decorated with drawings, bright paintings, and tapestries from that mystic bygone age. At the far end of the tomb there appeared to be a small altar, holding a series of earthenware dishes containing various coloured liquids and, at the centre, a small golden casket. Hanging behind the altar was a large tapestry which covered the whole of the rear wall. It was blue in colour and featured images in bright yellow: a bird with a human head hovering over a mummy.
‘Like the Egyptians he studied and admired all his life, Sir George Faversham prepared for his own death in their fashion,’ observed Holmes soberly. ‘Note the wall paintings depicting characters important in the transitional stage between life and death. There is Anubis, the jackal-headed god; see also Osiris, god of the dead; and there is our old friend the ibis-headed scribe of the gods, Thoth.’
I could not concentrate fully on Holmes’ words, for my attention was caught by the structure placed in the centre of the tomb. It was a large, stone, open casket, decorated around the side with carvings of animal and birds and stacks of corn. Inside the casket lay the body of a naked man. He seemed to be packed, like some dead animal, in what at first glance appeared to be moss, but which, on closer inspection, I saw was a bed of fine green crystals.
Holmes held his candle over the corpse. ‘Sir George Faversham,’ he said softly. As the flame flickered erratically, throwing small shifting shadows into the casket, it appeared as though the body was moving, stirring uneasily as if waking from a deep sleep. I shuddered at the concept of this rebirth.
‘He has been treated to the embalmer’s art,’ said my friend in a voice strained with emotion. ‘The body is packed in natron salt to purify and preserve it, and then,’ he pointed to the vivid scars etched across the stomach area, ‘the intestines are removed – as is the case here. The brain is usually removed last by a vicious process of pulling it down portion by portion through the broken sinus.’
‘Great heavens, it’s revolting!’
‘By the appearance of the skull it would appear that Sir George has so far escaped that indignity.’
‘But how on earth could anyone rationalise this barbaric treatment with the idea of conquering death? The removal of the entrails and the brain – how could a man function after having been butchered like that? It is beyond logic.’
‘Magic is beyond logic, Watson. Obviously, Setaph failed in his task to bring the dead to life, but I think he believed that he could preserve the spirit of that person – the ba as the Egyptians termed it, represented there on the large tapestry as the bird with the human head. So preserved, the ba could then find another form of existence – another host perhaps. To ensure that this transition could be brought about, the traditional embalming ceremony was a necessary procedure.’
‘So Phillips has done all this?’
‘Yes, I have.’
We both spun round at this statement to see the gaunt figure and pallid features of John Phillips standing at the foot of the stairs. With faltering, uneasy steps he came towards us and gazed down at the body of his master in the casket, his hands clinging onto the sides as though for support.
‘I begged him to see sense,’ he said. ‘I begged him to acknowledge that Setaph’s words were the writings of a bitter man who had failed in his quest to conquer death. I told him that the Scroll of the Dead was just a desperate rigmarole of mumbo jumbo, an arcane camouflage to cover up Setaph’s failure.’ Phillips shook his head vigourously. ‘But no, Sir George would not listen. He really believed that whatever was done to the body, the earthly shell, held no consequence as long as the spirit survived. This could then inhabit some other shell and rise as though from a dream to a new life.’
Tears were now rolling down the young man’s face and his frame shuddered with emotion. Holmes and I remained silent, allowing Phillips the opportunity to release himself of the awful burden under which he was suffering.
‘He made me promise to carry out the ceremony exactly as laid down by Setaph in his accursed Scroll. What could I do? I loved him. These were his beliefs and I could not betray his trust... I could not break my promise, even though I knew I was desecrating his body. Even though... At least he died in hope...’
I felt only sympathy for this young man who had been driven by his devotion and love for his misguided master to carry out the most awful acts of sacrilege on the body of the man he cared for most in the world. The selfless courage to accede to Sir George’s requests was remarkable, and it was no wonder that the fellow was now a broken man.
‘I... I am glad you have arrived, gentlemen,’ he continued. ‘Your presence now prevents me from going further with this monstrous ceremony. I welcome your constraint.’ He gave a nervous little giggle and then with the sleeve of his coat wiped a thin trail of saliva from his chin. ‘Do with me what you will.’
‘Where is the Scroll of the Dead?’ asked Holmes briskly.
With faltering movements, as though in a trance, Phillips made his way to the far end of the chamber where the altar stood. From the small golden casket there he pulled out a series of ragged yellow documents and held them out to us with shaking hands, tears welling in his eyes. ‘Behold, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘here is the cause of this calamity. Here is the Scroll of the Dead.’
‘Splendid,’ cried a voice behind us. ‘I arrive at a most opportune moment.’
At the sound of this new, yet familiar, voice, I turned to face the pale, malevolent features of Sebastian Melmoth. He stood at the bottom of the staircase with a gun in his hand and a wide grin on his face.
Fifteen
THE CHASE
Melmoth moved further into the chamber and, as he did so, his accomplice, Tobias Felshaw, emerged from the shadows of the staircase behind him. Felshaw, a thin, arrogant smile grazing his lips, was clutching a small leather bag in one hand and a gun in the other.
‘Well, gentlemen, this is all rather cosy,’ announced Melmoth expansively, in unctuous tones. His apparent pleasant behaviour only thinly disguised his true nature.
‘“Journeys end in lovers meeting”, eh, Mr Holmes? And yet you do not seem surprised to see me.’
‘Indeed, I am not surprised,’ my friend responded evenly. ‘However, I had expected you earlier.’
Melmoth’s grin broadened. ‘I assure you that I did intend to be here earlier, but you know how unreliable those special trains can be. Still, it would seem that the timing of our arrival has been most opportune. Mr Phillips, I observe that you hold in your hand the raison d’être for my visit.’ Suddenly the smile vanished and the features darkened. ‘Now, sir, if you would be so kind as to pass me the Scroll of the Dead.’
Phillips, his mind further addled by the sudden arrival of these two strangers, stood still, staring blankly at the intruders. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in a quiet voice.
‘I am afraid, sir, that we have not the time, nor have I the inclination, for such niceties.’ The eyes glittered with menace. ‘Now hand over the Scroll.’
Phillips still did not move. It was clear to me that his failure to comply with Melmoth’s demands was prompted more by a sense of bewilderment than defiance.
‘The Scroll,’ reiterated our adversary, intense irritation showing clearly in his voice.
‘Why?’ asked Phillips.
‘Because I have a gun and you do not,’ snapped Melmoth, suddenly firing his pistol in anger, the bullet just missing Phillips’s head. The sound of the shot filled the low chamber, reverberating like theatrical thunder. Felshaw moved forward and snatched the papyrus documents from the dazed secretary’s limp grasp and placed them in the leather bag. He then pushed Phillips down to the floor and struck him a cowardly blow with the butt of his pistol. The young man stumbled back against t
he altar with a cry of pain, but he retained consciousness.
‘You devil!’ I cried, stepping forward in an effort to aid the injured man.
‘Stop where you are!’ barked Melmoth, cocking his pistol and aiming it at me. ‘Do not be foolish, Doctor. This is no time for futile heroics.’
‘Foolish!’ I cried out in anger. ‘You are the one who is foolish, Melmoth. You are the one who is prepared to kill and injure innocent people as you so desire just to get your hands on a few faded leaves of useless papyrus.’
‘I assure you that these “few faded leaves”, as you call them, are beyond price. They open a dark door to a new life – a life that is not circumscribed by death.’
‘You really are a fool, Melmoth, if you believe that. Look at Sir George Faversham.’ I pointed to the corpse in the stone casket. ‘There is no life there. He is just a dead man whose body has been mutilated in the course of Setaph’s ceremonies.’
Melmoth had not registered fully the presence of the grim figure in the casket and, on seeing it properly for the first time, his face blanched. Felshaw, too, seemed unnerved at the sight of the scarred and bloodied cadaver, and took a step back.
‘The intestines have been removed,’ I continued. ‘How can there be rebirth when vital organs are missing? This corpse will never rise up and enjoy a new life.’
‘Of course not,’ Melmoth replied at length, his composure restored. ‘The full process has not been carried out. His ba has not been saved. And now, of course, it never will be. It is for others to reap the benefit of Setaph’s secret.’
‘Watson is right,’ interjected Holmes quietly. ‘Look at the mutilation. Are you prepared to risk that? Is your belief in this ancient document so strong that you will undergo such butchery in search of an uncertain truth?’
The Scroll of the Dead Page 13
