The Scroll of the Dead (10 page)

‘Which is?’

To test out a little theory of mine.’

I was well aware that it was useless to enquire what this theory was. I knew my friend of old and how he loved to surprise me in his theatrical manner by revealing at the eleventh hour some remarkable development in the investigation. He would explain it all at the time it suited him and not before, despite any pleas from me. If I had learned anything from my years with Sherlock Holmes, it was patience.

We continued our journey to Holden Hall, leaving all signs of habitation behind. We became enveloped in a green world of rustling, budding greenery, birdsong and animal calls – a natural world far removed from the greed and cruelty of mankind. I had slipped into a
reverie about man’s inhumanity to man when Holmes nudged my elbow and pointed. Through the trees, I observed in the distance a great house, with a large stretch of water beyond.

‘There lies our destination.’

‘The lake?’

My companion smiled. ‘Not quite. Alfred’s cottage. Remember our loquacious friend back at the inn informed us that his cottage was down by the lake. Now, in order to make our visit less public, we’ll slip over the wall yonder and follow the line of trees, using it as a screen, until we reach the water.’

‘What if we’re spotted – apprehended? There must be a game-keeper on patrol.’

‘I will think of something, never fear.’

‘We may not be given the opportunity to explain ourselves.’

‘You always look on the black side, Watson. You have your revolver with you, haven’t you? Good. Now do come on.’

Leaving the horse and trap off the road behind a thicket, we clambered over the low wall and entered the grounds of Holden Hall.

By now it was two in the afternoon and the early promise of a fine spring day was dwindling. Amorphous grey clouds were forming in the sky, gradually but relentlessly blocking out any trace of the pale eggshell blue. The breeze had also stiffened, rattling the branches above our heads, shaking the new green shoots wildly.

There was no given path and so we aimed ourselves in the direction of the lake and set off. After travelling some three hundred yards through the wood, the thick, green undergrowth pressing in on us from both sides, Holmes stopped and pulled an eyeglass from his coat. Then he passed it to me, indicating where I should look. I moved the eyeglass slowly across the terrain beyond the trees, scanning the grey choppy waters of the lake, then shifted my gaze to the greensward on shore and
up towards the bank of trees on the horizon. It was then that I observed it: a little cottage perched on the edge of the wood above the lake. It was a small, ramshackle building of honey-coloured stone. The garden appeared to be overgrown and the windows were bleared with dirt. ‘Alfred’s cottage,’ I whispered.

‘It must be. Observe how the wood curves around behind it. We can make our way to the rear of the building by continuing to use the trees as a screen,’ he said, pocketing his telescope. ‘Come along, Watson, the game’s afoot.’ And with this utterance, he was off at great speed through the undergrowth.

As we moved through the trees in line with the sweep of the lake, we heard a gunshot echo in the woods behind us. We dropped to the ground and listened. Moments later there was another sharp crack of gunfire.

‘There
is
a gamekeeper about,’ I whispered harshly.

And going about his appointed task, by the sound of it,’ remarked Holmes with a tight smile. ‘Those shots were a fair distance away. Provided we keep our senses alert, we should have no difficulty escaping his notice.’

We waited in silence for some little time but heard no further noise of gunfire, and so we recommenced our trek through the undergrowth. As we moved, I strained my ears to pick up any unusual sound, anything to signal that danger was near, but apart from the wind through the trees and the occasional animal noise, I heard nothing of significance.

Within ten minutes we had reached the section of the wood directly behind the cottage. The building appeared still and empty. There was no smoke spiralling from its drunken chimney pot and no sight nor sound to suggest that it was occupied.

‘I hope we are doing the right thing, Holmes. What if it belongs to some other estate worker?’

Holmes ignored my remark and motioned me to follow him out of the
wood, down towards the cottage. With some misgivings, I followed.

There was a low wall and some outbuildings at the rear of the property, and a pen which at one time had obviously contained chickens. Holmes instructed me to stay by the wall while he, crouching low, crept up to the window and peered over the sill. He turned to me and shook his head. ‘You stay there and keep out of sight,’ he hissed, ‘and I will take a look around the front.’

Before I had the opportunity to reply, my companion had disappeared down the side of the house. With a resigned shrug of the shoulders, I knelt down in the damp grass by the wall and waited. Time ticked by with no signs of movement in the house. A fine drizzle now began to fall and I tensed at every small noise: the creaking and rustle of the trees behind me, the unrecognisable cry of some woodland creature, and the wail of the wind as it swept around the corners of the cottage. The old cottage stared back at me blankly, the dirty windows and the begrimed door revealing none of its secrets.

After a time, impatience overcame all other considerations. I rose to my feet, intent on following Holmes around to the front of the cottage, when suddenly the rear door began to move. I dropped to my knees again and watched. At first the handle trembled indignantly and then started to turn with a rusty creak. I held my breath as the door juddered away from the warped frame and began to open, reluctantly, an inch at a time. Automatically, my hand reached into my coat pocket for my revolver as a dark figure, its face in shadow, was revealed in the doorway.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ came a voice, obviously addressing me. ‘Do come in.’

T
he dark figure emerged from the doorway into the daylight. It was Sherlock Holmes.

‘Come out, Watson,’ he said. ‘There is no further need to remain in hiding.’

My friend ushered me into the cottage, pushing the door back into its weather-warped frame so that it closed behind us. He must have read the concern in my face, for he patted me on the back reassuringly. ‘Don’t look so worried, Watson. There is no one here other than us.’

‘A wasted journey, then.’

‘On the contrary,’ beamed Holmes, ‘this place is a real treasure house. Come, let me show you.’

Taking my arm, he led me into a small kitchen. In the centre stood a rough wooden table on which lay a mouldy chunk of bread, three dirty tin plates, and some crockery. Over the grate hung a large greasy pot which contained the congealed dregs of some foul concoction.

‘Rather a lot of dirty dishes for one estate worker, don’t you think?’ Holmes said, pointedly.

‘A lazy estate worker. It is obvious that he has not washed up for some time.’

‘Not quite. Scrutiny of these plates reveals that they contain the remains of the same meal.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘On examining the debris here,’ he said, picking up what looked like the bones of a rabbit from one of the plates, ‘it seems clear that two people have partaken of this rabbit stew. Two plates, two mugs, and two sets of cutlery.’ He dropped the bone and it clattered noisily onto the plate.

‘Two people. But who?’

‘Come, Watson. Use your brain. Who has need to hide out here?’

‘I suppose you mean Melmoth. Alfred gets the coffin, and Melmoth inherits the cottage where he can lie low for a while.’

Holmes nodded. And...?’

‘It can’t be Tobias Felshaw. He was in London yesterday and he will be at the funeral today.’

‘Indeed. So who is the other character in this puzzle who remains missing?’

I thought for a moment, and then the answer came to me in a blinding flash. ‘You can’t mean Miss Andrews’ father, Sir Alistair?’ I cried.

‘Bull’s eye,’ he cried, rubbing his hands together with enthusiasm. ‘Good man. Yes, of course. An ideal place to hold him as a prisoner until they forced him to decipher Setaph’s key and then the stolen papyrus. There are two beds upstairs: both have been slept in, but one still has rope tied to its head, obviously where Sir Alistair was secured during the night. And then there is this...’

Again he took my arm and pulled me into the tiny front parlour of the cottage. The only furniture in the room was an ancient sofa and a threadbare armchair pulled up to the tiny fireplace. Holmes leaned over the side of this chair and scooped up a handful of crumpled papers which
had been lying on the floor by its side.

‘Look at these,’ he said, grinning and thrusting them in my hand.

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.’