The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part VII

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The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part VII Page 46

by David Marcum


  A linen-wrapped, shambling, mummy from an ancient Egyptian tomb was standing over the bent form of Miss Aldebourne, strangling her with both hands!

  It was the most frightened I had been since those early years on the battlefields of Afghanistan. Every fiber of my being urged me to flee. I knew Death, and I was looking at a spectre of it now.

  The mummy looked over at me as I pushed my way into the room. He then let go of Miss Aldebourne and her body crumpled to the floor. Like a horror from beyond the grave, the mummy began lumbering directly towards me!

  After a few seconds of shock, feeling returned to my limbs and reason to my brain. I reached for my pistol, which Holmes had demanded that I bring. I patted my empty pocket. I hit it again, and then all the others I owned.

  My pistol was missing. It must have fallen out during my run through the House.

  By this time, the mummy was upon me. I raised an arm to strike him, but he hit me in stomach first. I doubled over and he struck me in the back on the head, knocking me to my knees and stunning me.

  I heard footsteps and saw one of the workers run up, robes flapping. One, two, and then a third gunshot rang out, right over my head. The mummy grunted and then fell headlong to the floor.

  I crouched with my arms crossed over my aching head, awaiting a shot to my head from the worker, or further assault from the mouldering mummy. After a breathless moment, I looked up.

  A swarthy fellow with white teeth grinned down at me. “Is the Doctor Sahib well?”

  I recognized the voice, even if the disguise had baffled me. It was the worker who had bumped into me during the opening of the sarcophagus. I sat back on the floor and stared up at my long-time colleague. “Are you serious? Sherlock Holmes, I presume.”

  He bowed. “At your service.”

  “Now, I realize what happened to my missing service pistol. You lifted it when you bumped into me.”

  Holmes then stepped quickly over to the fallen Miss Aldebourne. I pushed myself up and joined him. She had passed out, but after a few minutes of administering to her, she recovered. Meanwhile, Holmes had moved over to the mummy.

  After a minute more with the young lady, I walked over to the obviously deceased figure. There were three spreading scarlet bloodstains in the wrapping on the chest. Holmes was unwrapping the head.

  “So tell me, Miss Aldebourne,” Holmes called over to the young lady, “did this monster from an ancient crypt say anything to you when he attacked you? Perhaps in the Queen’s English language, rather than babbling in an ancient Egyptian tongue?”

  “Yes,” she rasped. She cleared her throat. “Yes, he did. He kept demanding that I give him the key to the vault. I have no idea what he meant. He just said ‘key’ over and over, but then he was choking me, and I simply don’t remember anything else.”

  “Well, the key to it all, indeed. That is all we need, now isn’t it.”

  With that statement, Sherlock Holmes approached the girl, reached out, and unhooked her left ear ring, saying, “This scarab is the key.”

  Turning it over, he stuck his darkened thumbs into a crevice that ran across the back of the carapace and broke the beetle in half. A shiny brass key was revealed hidden inside.

  “Ah, and now, we seek the ledger.”

  Two days later, we were in the sitting room at 221b Baker Street, talking with the very striking Miss Aldebourne, and the somewhat rodent-faced Inspector Lestrade. She was dressed in a black dress with a black lace veil, which only served to enhance her dark, almost Italian looks. It had been a difficult week for her, yet she seemed to be the stronger for it. I believe that knowing the truth, even the grim reality of death, was still better than not knowing the fate of her father.

  For Lestrade, as usual, there was little to do to aid his appearance. Even his suit was wrinkled and stained, like he had been crawling through tunnels underground.

  “So,” Lestrade continued, “you insist that you knew nothing about the identity of the murderer, just that he was the mummy, and that the mummy was behind the crimes. This is why you went undercover as a worker at Weymouth House and worked to unravel the mystery of Dr. Aldebourne’s disappearance.”

  “Correct. You see, it was obvious from the beginning that something dire had happened to Professor Aldebourne. Someone as dedicated and focused as he on his research would never have left it, for any reason. He has done the same thing for decades. There would be no monetary pressure or form of stress that would push him away. He would never ‘go on holiday’ as it were, or abandon his work for any reason. Therefore, it was evident from the very first that he was deceased. We only needed to find the motive.

  “Furthermore, the professor left the day-to-day machinations of the historical institute to Cushman. He could suffer through the financial and administrative pressures, while Aldebourne focused on his research. It was Cushman who came up with the circus act of unwrapping mummies for rich patrons and giving them decorative baubles so they would further fund Weymouth House and its archaeological pursuits. I had to infiltrate the place as a worker in order to ascertain roles, to sense moods, and uncover motives. Cushman could have been the mastermind behind the mummy business, but I quickly ruled him out. Charlatan that he was, he was an honest clown doing what he felt was best for the institute. He was duped just as much as the public and risked losing his livelihood just as much as the professor.

  “However, the treasures are real. There is gold, silver, jewels, and things undreamt of which these explorers have recovered from the tombs of ancient pharaohs for decades. They are stored in a vault. Only Aldebourne had a set of keys to it. One he had hidden. The other he gave to his daughter. What was it you told me when you first arrived, dear? He said those scarab earrings were the gift of his eternal love. So they are. He gave you quite a gift!”

  “How in the world did you know there was a key inside?” she asked. “They were mine and even I didn’t know.”

  “You remember that I observed them when you visited me. You may not have ever studied them with the critical eye I used. I could see that one had been cut open before it was dried. Also, if you felt them and weighed them, one was slightly heavier than the other. It was obvious that something was hidden inside the one shell. The shell is of a certain size and this jewelry, an earring, of a certain usable weight range. Hence, the object had to be restricted to a specific utilitarian range. It was simple deduction that it would be something very important to the professor that needed to be hidden which could be passed on to his daughter, such as a key to a drawer or lockbox.”

  Lestrade harrumphed. “You make it sound simple. But that place had been searched high and low. How did you figure the key was was to a hidden drawer with a journal?”

  “A ledger. We knew there had to be treasure from all the years of explorations. That takes a lot of space. To prevent theft, we must store these treasures in a secret location, and then hide the location and record of these treasures from staff, visitors, or other prying eyes. There has to be an accounting of these excavations - hence a ledger. It was easy to deduce he would have a hidden drawer or cabinet in his office in which to secrete the ledger. I told you as much when I gave you the key.”

  “After you opened his desk that night in the museum.”

  “I assure you, Inspector, I did not take anything else from the drawer. I was witnessed by Dr. Watson, Miss Aldebourne, and Mr. Cushman. I knew the location prior to recovering the key, because I searched his offices while in disguise that week. I knew what I was looking for ahead of time, a hidden recess that was small enough to hold a journal. Hence I was able to focus my search until I found the hidden panel. Then it was merely a matter of recovering the key.”

  “Why did you wait, then? Why not call Miss Aldebourne as soon as you found the hidden drawer?”

  “My dear Inspector Lestrade, please remember that Professor Aldebourne
was still missing at that time. I realized early on that someone was playing a trick on people, from the news story. The only possible uses for the performance of the mummy were either to gain popularity for the museum, or to scare people away from it. The latter seemed to be the case. Thus, I ruled out the professor hiding and doing it himself to help save his museum.”

  “What? Really!” Miss Aldebourne said.

  “Exactly. But it was a possibility that had to be eliminated. So we were left with an adverse alternative. A criminal was utilizing the mummy trick to damage the reputation of Weymouth House as a cursed death-trap, to put pressure and fear on the staff in order to make them reveal the location of the hidden treasure.”

  Lestrade nodded sagely.

  “It also becomes evident now that the villain had enough inside knowledge of the House to know that they circulated treasure from the expeditions, that Aldebourne was the brains behind the institute, that they needed financial backing, and that Cushman did these invite-only mummy unwrapping parties. Hence, he was either a staff member or someone who had participated in the process. My infiltration of the House and observation of its operations eliminated the staff option. The staff members were all loyal both to the Professor and the concept of the House. In fact, he had worked with most of them for decades and brought many of them back from Egypt.”

  Lestrade thumped the arm of the chair. “You make it seem logical. I had terrified, crying women telling me about a walking mummy. This was anything but routine.” He sighed. “Very well, Mr. Holmes. So how did you figure it was Sir Bradshaw?”

  “I did not know which one of the supporters it was, only that it was one. The person had to have frequent access to the institute, had to have been at one of the mummy fund-raisers, and had to have enough resources to be already hooked in the antiquities trade and want to gain a whole lot more. Hence he had money. These aristocratic collectors are all the same. They are just as obsessive about owning objects as Professor Aldebourne was about discovering them. My only regret is that we were unable to capture him alive and divine a motive behind his obsession. I would have liked to question him. Alas, he had already murdered and was attempting to murder my friend and Miss Aldebourne. Steps had to be taken.”

  Lestrade slapped his hands on his thighs. “Very well. I suppose that is it. Miss Aldebourne, if you will accompany me. I believe we have a vault to open. Sure you won’t accompany us, Mr. Holmes?”

  He smiled and looked at me. “No. For me, the thrill is in the hunt. The chase is over. The gleam of gold is cold and barren and holds no interest for the likes of me.”

  “Well,” Miss Aldebourne said in parting, “if you ever do find money lacking and need a job, Mr. Holmes, we could always use another porter down at the museum.”

  The Adventure of the Haunted Room

  by Mike Chinn

  In 1890, as winter lost its grip and all the signs were for an early spring, I took it upon myself to call at Baker Street and my friend Sherlock Holmes. I had seen little of him of late, and from what I understood, there had been little to challenge his extraordinary brain. I was concerned boredom might drive my friend back to old, destructive habits. As Mrs. Hudson took my hat and coat, she gave me a mischievous smile, remarking that I must be psychic.

  Her words alarmed me, but she shook her head - no doubt aware of the channels down which my thoughts had instantly run.

  “He has been pacing the floor, Doctor, ignoring all of my entreaties. I imagine it has something to do with the telegram he received shortly after breakfast.”

  “A telegram? Work of some description?”

  The good woman could not answer me, of course. I ascended on the instant, knocking on the door. There was no response - although I could indeed hear restless pacing coming from the other side.

  I opened the door and stepped through. Holmes, bundled into his dressing gown, a slip of paper crushed in his left hand, marched past me, giving every indication he was oblivious to my presence. His brows were drawn down, shadowed eyes fixed on a point only he could see.

  “Holmes-” I began.

  “Shut the door, Watson,” said he, gaze still focused elsewhere. He raised the slip of paper, the telegram, by its colour, and waved it. “This is too absurd.”

  I closed the door behind me and stepped further into the room. Holmes completed another circuit before abruptly throwing himself into an armchair. The paper fluttered from his grasp. I retrieved it from the carpet.

  “Read it, my dear fellow,” said Holmes. “Read it. No doubt you will find its contents as exasperating as I.”

  “You?” I smiled, seating myself opposite him. “Exasperated?”

  “Perhaps I chose my words poorly.” Holmes finally looked at me full on. I was pleased to see there was a spark of humour within his eyes. Whatever the telegram contained, it had ignited his interest in some way. “Certainly, as it stands, the message is vexatious, affording me nothing.”

  It was terse, to be sure. I read it aloud. “Mr. Holmes: Will consult three p.m. I am haunted. Mrs. V. Trecoming.” I smiled. “Mrs. Trecoming is a woman of few words.”

  “Indeed.” Holmes reached for his pipe and began filling it. “And what are we to make of it? ‘I am haunted.’ Ha!”

  “She certainly has a melodramatic turn of phrase. She feels guilty of something? Perhaps she is being blackmailed?”

  “Then why not say so? In the preceding sentence she is very much to the point. ‘Will consult three p.m.’ Concise and exact.” He lit his pipe and puffed a cloud of fumes into the air.

  “Surely you’re not suggesting she means she is actually haunted?”

  Holmes’s lips quirked around his pipe stem. “As I said, exasperating. It is approaching two-thirty. Shortly all will be made clear. I hope you are able to wait out the hour and discover the woman’s meaning.”

  “You know I will.” I took out my cigarettes, settling back to await Holmes’s visitor.

  Mrs. Trecoming was announced at three precisely. Mrs. Hudson led in the woman, proclaiming she would shortly be serving tea. I rose, offering Mrs. Trecoming my seat whilst taking a dining chair for myself. She accepted with a thin smile.

  She was a woman of delicate frame, appearing swamped by her fashionable attire. Her hat was festooned with the corpses of exotic birds, whilst the face below it was pallid without the need for cosmetics. Her violet eyes were wide and liquid, undershadowed by fatigue. Nevertheless, she carried herself with poise and dignity, although I noted how she leaned upon the handle of an unseasonal parasol.

  Holmes removed his pipe and gazed at her, eyes half-lidded. “Mrs. Trecoming, would you be so good as to first give me your full name, and your address. I ask purely in the interests of disclosure - for I see friend Watson has already taken out his notebook. It would not do if you were to appear in one of his fictions without proper accreditation.”

  I said nothing. Mrs. Trecoming turned to me said. “I am Mrs. Violet Trecoming of 187 Cherry Road, East Dulwich. And will I appear in a future tale?”

  “Most of Holmes’s cases remain unpublished,” said I. “For a variety of reasons. Should it come to it, your name will appear only with your express permission.”

  She inclined her head.

  Holmes continued. “Mrs. Trecoming, you say you are haunted. That is an emotive term - pray elaborate.”

  She glanced at us both, tentatively, before continuing. “It is the literal truth, Mr. Holmes. I believe that I - or rather my house - is the subject of some supernatural occurrence.” Her voice was clear, without hesitation, yet I fancied there was a hint of embarrassment, as though she was admitting to some mortifying secret.

  Holmes rested long fingers against his chin. “There is little room in my universe for the occult. I deal in facts, not fancies-”

  “Sir,” she interrupted, “I believe myself to be a rationa
l woman. I have no time for table-turners and others who argue for the earth-bound existence of the dead. And yet-” She paused to compose herself. “And yet, I find myself in a position where such a belief - one I am pleased to discover we find mutually abhorrent - may be the only answer.”

  Holmes spread his hands and sank back into his chair. “Then, please, tell me everything you can. Leave out nothing.”

  Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to enter with a tray of tea things. She placed it on the table and began to lay out cups, jugs, and pots. Impatiently, Holmes shooed her away and once again urged Mrs. Trecoming to proceed.

  “The house is a large one, quite new. My sister has recently come to live with me, and although perhaps it is a little too large for two, we are reluctant to look elsewhere.”

  “Just two of you?” commented Holmes. “Then you are a widow?”

  She nodded. “My dearest Hubert died two years ago from a heart condition. He held a position in the City, and bequeathed me money enough that I should be comfortable. Plus I have a small private income of my own. My sister, Miss Gwen Westgate, moved up from Bath to - as she saw it - look after me.”

  “There are no children?” I asked.

  “Although we bought the house on that assumption, Dr. Watson, we were not blessed.”

  “And this - haunting?” prompted Holmes.

  “It is difficult to explain - as tenuous as the shades themselves. Cherry Road is far from old, for as you know, the suburbs are only recently built upon the fields of Camberwell. It is my understanding that the dead are more attracted to the ancient and crumbling.”

  Holmes barked a laugh, and I was heartened that Mrs. Trecoming could attempt humour in the face of her obvious distress. As she spoke, I busied myself pouring tea and offering it around. Holmes refused, but Mrs. Trecoming accepted gratefully.

 

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