The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part VII

by David Marcum

  “So who killed him? Surely not the British government.”

  “Certainly not. Your see, Elstrack had one important supporter. The Queen herself. No, the killer is nobody in the British government.”

  I was dumbfounded. “Are you saying it’s the Germans who’ve murdered him?”

  “I don’t think so. This man Powell is English, but he has a genuine love for Germany and for that island. For some reason, he is prepared to stop at nothing to see the island of Heligoland handed over to Germany.”

  I looked to Holmes. “So, what do we do now?”

  “We travel to where the answer must undoubtedly be found. Heligoland.”

  Mycroft stood up, abruptly. “I shall arrange to have a cruiser waiting for you both in Harwich. The afternoon train should get you there in time to sail this evening.”

  “You’d better go and pack some personal items then, Watson,” said Holmes. “Oh, and don’t forget to include your service revolver.”

  It was early on the second day after leaving Harwich when I staggered out onto the foredeck of the cruiser. We had been sailing east, but had now turned towards the southeast. The dawn was rising red and angry ahead of us. Silhouetted dark against the burning sky stood Sherlock Holmes. His arms were folded across his chest, his coat was billowing out in the gathering breeze, and his eyes were fixed on the sea ahead. He was standing like some conquering hero - perhaps like Washington crossing the Delaware. Full of purpose and intent. Seasickness might lay me low, but never Holmes.

  The First Officer joined us on deck, and pointed towards a hunk of land just visible above the horizon. “You’ll be pleased to know gentlemen that we are now within sight of Heligoland.”

  “I shall certainly be glad to set foot of dry land again,” I told him.

  “However,” he continued, “as you’ll have noticed, a storm is brewing. So we’ll approach the island from the far side. It’ll give us shelter from the roughest of the weather.”

  We stood watching carefully as we approached the island. We saw waves breaking in a cloud of spume against the foot of precipitous cliffs. A sea-stack rose in a tall column of red sandstone, with white seabirds flocking around its treacherous upper reaches.

  “Lange Anna,” said Holmes. “A landmark in this area.”

  “And there’s a lighthouse flashing farther south along the west coast.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  We sailed down the east coast of the island and dropped anchor not far from the Unterland, a low lying region of reclaimed land on the south and east of the island. Beyond this rose the red cliffs of the Oberland.

  The cruiser’s boat dropped us off on the lea-side of a breakwater. Which was just as well, since the seas were rising alarmingly now. The wind was strengthening and the sky was turning an inky black.

  “Have you brought your revolver with you, Watson?”

  “You’ve no need to worry over that score, Holmes,” I said.

  “Then let’s make our way into the town, and make enquiries about our man.”

  One of the locals directed us to the residence of the Lieutenant Governor. We knocked on the door, and a man opened to us.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am Dr. John Watson. We are here on official business, and we need to introduce ourselves to the Governor.

  “I’m sorry, but the Governor is away just at the moment. Visiting Berlin. I’m his secretary. Is there any way I can help you?”

  “We’re looking for a fugitive from the law,” said Holmes. “A man who goes by the name of Professor Powell.”

  “I know the man very well,” said the secretary. “I’m surprised to learn he’s done anything wrong. Perhaps you should call in at our local police station.”

  The police station was more like an ordinary house. The sergeant there seemed interested to learn that he had a villain on the island.

  “Yes, I know Professor Powell. And yes, he has only recently returned after a brief visit to England.”

  “Then perhaps we might have a word with the gentleman,” suggested Holmes.

  “Certainly. But first, I must give you this. It’s a telegram from London. It arrived this morning.”

  Holmes opened the telegram. “It is as I thought. The matter is now extremely urgent.”

  “Very well,” said the policeman. “Follow me.”

  The moment he opened his front door to us, Powell recognised who we were. “Ah, Mr. Holmes. And Dr. Watson. What a surprise to see you both here. Won’t you please come inside?”

  Powell led us in to a small front room, and then turned to face us. He raised one quizzical eyebrow. “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

  The darkening sky outside allowed very little daylight to filter in through the two narrow windows. The room was dark and gloomy.

  The policeman held up the papers we have given him a few minutes earlier. “These gentlemen have brought a warrant from Scotland Yard. For your arrest, sir.”

  “Is that so?” Powell now raised both eyebrows in feigned surprise.

  “For the murder of Lord Elstrack.”

  “I don’t know the man.”

  “Nonsense,” replied Holmes. “He was present at the unwrapping of that mummy in London only a few days ago. Now he is dead. Murdered.”

  “It’s true I have organised the unwrapping of several mummies over recent months. But this is the first time I’ve ever encountered any trouble. Anyway, you have absolutely no evidence to convict me of any wrongdoing. If the food they ate that evening was contaminated with strychnine, then somebody else must have introduced it to the food when I wasn’t looking. If one particular visitor was then greedy enough to eat more than his fair share of the food, then how am I to blame? I repeat, you have no proof of any unlawful activity on my part. If anything is to blame, then it’s the curse of the pharaoh. I did warn them about that.”

  Holmes narrowed his eyebrows, and glared at the man. “Whether it was the curse of the pharaoh, or not, I really don’t care, but how did you know it was strychnine poisoning?”

  “It was in the newspapers.”

  “But you had already left the country before the morning papers appeared. And anyway, Scotland Yard withheld the cause of death. Your own mouth condemns you, Powell.”

  “A slip of the tongue is no proof of guilt. All your evidence against me is purely circumstantial. And anyway, what motive would I possibly have for killing anyone?”

  “Mummies were not the only things you were exporting from Africa, were they, Powell?” Holmes shook the telegram in the man’s face. “I have discovered that you spent several years living and working in German East Africa. Your love for all things German comes from your time there. Amongst other things, you acted as a middle-man in the export of elephant ivory. I found traces of ivory at Dackford’s warehouse. I imagine he’s the one who oversees the practical side of your business. I even found him smoking the same German cigarettes you supply him with. When Britain takes over the administration of those African countries, you will be in a position to control of the entire ivory export trade. No wonder you wanted to get rid of anyone who stood in your way. There is your motive for murdering Lord Elstrack. Greed.”

  “But nothing of my trade is illegal, Mr. Holmes. You still have no proof that I killed anyone.”

  “Then come back with us, and present your case before a jury.”

  Powell’s eyes darted between the three of us.

  The police sergeant stepped forward. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to place you under arrest, Professor.”

  Powell turned his back on us, opened a drawer in the table, and turned again to face us again.

  “Look out, Holmes,” I cried. “He’s got a gun.”

  “Now, don’t be foolish, Professor,” said the pol
ice sergeant. “Put that down, and come with me.”

  Powell hurried towards the door, opened it and turned once more to face the three of us still in the room. “You should have kept your noses out of my business,” he yelled. “Now there is no going back. For any of us.”

  He raised the gun, fired a single shot into the ceiling above our heads and hurried out into the gathering storm.

  With my ears ringing from the sound of the gunshot, I ran towards the door. Holmes was already there, watching the dark figure scurry away along a rough track.

  “He’s making for the lighthouse,” said the police sergeant.

  “Then we must follow him,” said Holmes. “Watson, check your revolver.”

  “Powell’s right, isn’t he?” I said. “We have no proof that he is the killer.”

  “You think not?”

  “Well, we don’t even know how he managed to kill Lord Elstrack, without killing all the other people as well.”

  “You remember that evening at the unwrapping event?”

  “How can I forget it?”

  “When Powell collected his medical instruments, he also had with him a hypodermic needle. Now, why would he want one of those to treat a body that had been dead for nearly four thousand years?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “I believe,” said Holmes, ‘that the syringe was loaded with strychnine. Then, just as everyone else in the room was distracted by the gruesome sight of the pharaoh’s body, he plunged the needle into his Lordship’s arm. I am confident that a post-mortem examination will reveal a fresh puncture wound.”

  “The crafty fellow!”

  Rain was already sweeping across the island, soaking everything and everyone in its way. By the time we reached the foot of the lighthouse, we were already drenched. But no matter. We needed to find Powell.

  “There he is.” The policeman pointed towards the top of the lighthouse, and the veranda that ran around the outside of the lantern chamber.

  We looked up. I could see a figure, standing defiantly against the weather and those who were threatening his freedom.

  “Powell!” shouted Holmes. “Come down here, and give yourself up to the law.”

  “You come and get me, Mr. Holmes!” The voice carried strongly despite the wind.

  Holmes turned to our policeman friend. “You stay down here, Sergeant. I’m the one he wants to see.”

  “Be careful, Mr. Holmes.”

  The detective pushed open the door, stepped into the lighthouse, and began to climb the steps of the spiral staircase.

  I followed, but I must confess that it took me much longer to climb those stairs than it did Holmes.

  When I emerged into the lantern chamber, I could see the two men standing outside on the balcony. One was undoubtedly our murderer, and the other was my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Then the beam of the lighthouse turned on its regular cycle, and caught them both in its intense glare.

  When the beam had passed, I stepped outside. Now I could hear their conversation.

  “You have nowhere to go, Powell.”

  “I love this island, Mr. Holmes. I would do anything in my power to secure its future as a part of the German empire.”

  “And your own wealth, of course.”

  “Any why not?”

  “You stand accused of murder, Powell,” said Holmes. “You must face justice.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Holmes, I would rather die on this windswept island than be hanged in a stinking English prison.”

  “Then the alternative is in your hands, Powell.”

  “You mean, jump to my death? Perhaps. But I’d rather take you with me.”

  As I watched, Powell lifted his gun, and pointed it towards Holmes. Once more, they were both caught in the full glare of the revolving lighthouse beam. It blinded Powell for a moment, and he held his fire.

  “No, you don’t,” I shouted.

  Perhaps he hadn’t noticed me there, hidden as I was in the shadows. But Powell now turned towards me, and immediately fired his gun. He had no time to aim properly, so the bullet ricocheted off a steel strut and disappeared into the darkness. I already had my revolver in my hand. I took half-a-second longer to prepare myself. Then, aiming to disable rather than to kill, I squeezed the trigger.

  At that moment, a flash of lightning cut across the sky, and lit up the man’s face. I was horrified. In that instant, the face had changed. It no longer resembled Professor Powell. It was a different face. One I had seen before. One that had been haunting my dreams for the last few nights.

  Then, as I watched, Powell fell backwards over the balustrade, and plummeted to the ground.

  Holmes and I hurried down the steps, to discover what was left of our adversary. I knelt down beside him, and felt for a pulse. There was none. Then I examined the body. It wasn’t my bullet that had killed the man. It was the fifty-foot fall that had broken his neck.

  We both looked down at the face, now covered in blood.

  “You know, Holmes,” I said, “up there, lit by that flash of lightning, I thought I saw another face.”

  Holmes nodded. “So did I. And I wish I hadn’t. It was the face of the mummy. Black and shrivelled.”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe it was only the harsh shadows cast by the lightning flash. Just a figment of our imaginations.”

  “I hope you’re right, Watson.”

  The Heligoland-Zanzibar Treaty was signed on the first day of July 1890, and control of the island was handed over to Germany.

  An air of despondency settled over Baker Street. Had the pharaoh’s curse really been to blame? We had escaped from Heligoland with our lives. Our mission was now over, but with very little to show for it. The murderer, Powell, had escaped facing trial. The remains of the pharaoh had vanished as though into thin air. And we as a nation had lost Heligoland. Of all our cases, this was the most unsatisfactory. And I record the events with a heavy heart.

  Sherlock Holmes never referred to the matter again.

  Then, one morning in October, I received an unexpected parcel from Egypt. It was a gift from Miss Venton, as a way of thanking me for all the help I’d given her. I felt guilty that we had achieved so little. The parcel contained a stylus, retrieved from the burial chamber of Pharaoh Amkotep shortly before a sandstorm covered the tomb and returned it once more to the oblivion of the desert. The stylus had now been adapted to take a pen-nib. And it is with this pen that I have written, and now conclude, my story of the Pharaoh’s Curse.

  The Vampire of the Lyceum

  by Charles Veley and Anna Elliott

  In recent years, Abraham - or Bram, as he is more commonly known - Stoker has become almost a household name, forever associated with his tales of the supernatural and the macabre. What the general public does not know, however, is that Sherlock Holmes and I had met Mr. Stoker before his rise to fame, and that the extraordinary nature of the case upon which he engaged us - that of the Lyceum Vampire - contained within it the seeds of the story that would launch Mr. Stoker’s literary career.

  The case began on the 31st of October, 1890.

  A persistent tapping awakened Mary and me in our bedroom, just after dawn.

  We were in our home in Paddington, where we had been living for the two years that had followed our marriage. Awakening, I realized the tapping came from our bedroom door. From behind the door we heard the tremulous voice of our maid.

  “Oh, and I’m surely apologizing, sir,” she said, speaking through the keyhole, “but there’s a Mr. Stoker here to see you. He’s a great big forceful fellow and he won’t take no for an answer. He’s in considerable distress, and he needs you right away. I put him in your consulting room.”

  I dressed and came downstairs, opening the door to my consulting room with some annoyance at being disturbed at su
ch an early hour. But that feeling vanished immediately when I saw the desperation in the blue eyes of the new arrival seated on my consulting table, legs dangling, rocking back and forth. He was a burly fellow, a bear of a man, perhaps the same height as Holmes but with a far heavier frame. His thick reddish hair had been recently moistened and badly combed, probably with fingertips. From the wet droplets on my washstand, I knew just how recently.

  “You can trust me,” I said, entering the room. “What brings you here at this early hour?”

  He got down from the table and stepped forward to shake my hand in a warm, firm grasp. “I have come straight from the Lyceum Theatre. I am the house manager there. My name is Abraham Stoker. I need your help very badly, I fear, for I believe that either I am losing my mind or there are dark and supernatural forces within me or perhaps even without. I cannot be certain.”

  Then the effort of standing and speaking caused him to come over faint, apparently, for he staggered and spun around, his knees buckling beneath him like a collapsing jack-in-the-box. He hit the floor and lay still. I quickly got him upright, though with some difficulty, for he was, as I have said, a bulky fellow and to manoeuvre an inert and unconscious human frame is more difficult than one would imagine. I propped him against the wall and prepared brandy and water from my cabinet and sink. Soon he was awake again.

  He blinked and stared at me. “You see, I am quite overtaken - overmastered by whatever this fiend may be,” he said.

  “More likely fatigue,” I said. “You have been working yourself too freely, I would imagine.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Your have ink stains on the characteristic first and second fingertips and thumb of your right hand. So you have been writing recently. Your right elbow is worn and shiny from where you rest it while writing. You say you are the house manager, so there is the theatre activity to consider before and after the performance. You are no doubt responsible for closing up after all have departed. Perhaps that is when you do your writing. You have come straight from the Lyceum, so you have been there all night. Working two jobs, so to speak, and overextending yourself.”