The Scroll of the Dead (16 page)

W
ithin minutes of this revelation, Holmes and I were in the dog cart, heading back to London. Dawson had been surprised by our rather sudden and swift departure, but Holmes had assured him that we had seen enough of the house for our purposes and were favourably impressed. ‘We will contact the land agent in due course regarding our decision,’ my friend had informed him as we left.

‘I do not feel proud for misleading the fellow,’ Holmes told me as we rattled down the drive, ‘but there are greater issues at stake here than a minor deception. I would have liked to warn him about Melmoth and Felshaw, for I am sure they will pick up our trail soon – if they have not already done so.’

‘But surely they don’t know what to look for. They are not aware that the Scroll of the Dead was secreted in the jar. Or are they?’

Holmes shook his head. ‘No. If they did know, they would be ahead of us now. However, what they are sure of is that
we
are on the right trail, and therefore they must follow in our footsteps. All they need to do is ask Dawson to recount what he told us and they will soon deduce
what our next move will be.’

‘Which is, I presume, to travel up to Grebe Isle.’

‘Of course,’ Holmes grinned. ‘That is our journey’s end and will, I predict, be the setting for the final scene in this grim drama.’

‘And what of Melmoth and Felshaw?’

‘We do not have to worry too much about those two dark birds of a feather at present. We certainly shall not lose them. Strange, is it not, Watson? We are in a unique situation: this time the criminals are chasing us rather than the other way around.’ My friend gave one of his strange little laughs and his eyes glittered with sardonic amusement. ‘However, there will come a time when we shall be forced to renew our acquaintance with the recently deceased Mr Sebastian Melmoth and his rather nasty accomplice, Tobias Felshaw. It is a moment I look forward to with relish.’

While we were entering the city of London in the early afternoon, Dawson opened the main door of The Elms to two unexpected visitors. They were strangers to him. One of the men stepped forward, pushing Dawson unceremoniously back into the hall, while the other closed the door behind them. The more dominant of the two men was tall, with a round, pale face framed by long blond hair. He moved close to Dawson so that their faces were within inches of each other. The manservant caught the sweet aroma of a rich eau de cologne.

‘I have certain questions to ask you,’ the man said smoothly, his lips parting in a grin. Dawson had no difficulty in sensing the real menace in his voice. ‘Answer them fully, correctly and without hesitation and...’ the man paused, pursing his lips; then, dropping his voice to a whisper, he added, ‘...and then we may let you live.’

By that evening Holmes and I had caught a sleeper train from Euston and were travelling north to Penrith, the nearest mainline station to Ullswater.
‘This is the last train until the morning, so with a bit of luck that should give us some eight hours’ start on our friends,’ he observed as we took our seats in an empty compartment.

‘Unless, of course, they hire a special.’

Holmes’ features darkened. ‘Unless of course they hire a special,’ he repeated glumly. It struck me that he had not contemplated such a possibility.

‘What do you think is waiting for us on Grebe Isle?’

‘It is hard to say. There are too many unknown aspects in this affair to be able to create a set of reliable logical suppositions. One thing is for certain, however: Sir George Faversham’s interest in the Scroll of the Dead went beyond the simple passions of a collector.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you note the books on the shelves in his study?’

‘I saw that he had a large collection...?’

‘The titles, man, did you not note the titles?’

‘I cannot say that I did.’

‘There was a whole section of learned and apocryphal tomes dealing with the mysteries of death and life after death. There were books on Spiritualism, vampirism, necromancy, reincarnation, and religious and philosophical tracts of many hues and persuasions, all dealing with the secret of death.’

I felt a chill hand clutch my heart as I glimpsed the unpleasant truth at which Holmes was hinting. ‘You think that Faversham wanted the Scroll of the Dead for the same reason as Melmoth: to use it to... to raise the dead!’

‘It would seem so. How such a brilliant archaeologist could be fooled into thinking that this ancient tract could really give him the secret of life over death – open the door to immortality – I do not know...’

‘Obsession. Once a person fixes his mind on a certain goal or object he can become clinically obsessed. The victim is then blinkered against
logic and sound reason; he sees only his goal. Melmoth has these characteristics too. Ironically, intelligent minds are more susceptible to the obsessive state.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’ Holmes nodded and gave me a smile. ‘Well, if we are correct about Faversham, it will explain why he kept his discovery of the Scroll of the Dead secret for so many years. It was not for its historical or its artistic qualities that he clasped it to his bosom. He saw it as a practical manual to escape the grave.’

‘But he is dead.’

‘But perhaps not yet in his grave. The Scroll was of no use to him while he was alive. But now...’

‘What are you saying?’

Holmes leaned forward, closed his eyes, and pressed his long fingers to the bridge of his nose. ‘I am not sure what I am saying, Watson, or to be more precise what I admit to saying – but the evidence seems to point in only one way.’

‘Which is?’

‘That Faversham entrusted his secretary, John Phillips, his “adopted” son, as Dawson termed him, to perform whatever ceremony the Scroll of the Dead dictates, using his corpse in order to raise him from the dead.’

‘Great heavens, it’s obscene!’ I cried.

Holmes sighed wearily. ‘Obscene and pathetic. Obsession, as you so astutely observed. Obsession without recourse to reason, logic, or morals. Wild, misdirected obsession.’ Holmes sat back and gazed out at the night sky sprinkled with stars, mere pin pricks in the heavens, and sighed. ‘It is one of those rare occasions, my friend, when I hope to goodness that my inferences are wrong.’

‘Come in here, gentlemen, and I will see what I can do for you.’

The stationmaster closed the door behind the two young men, shutting
out the noise of the busy station. He lit an oil lamp and consulted a large ledger, muttering to himself as he did so. ‘A special to Penrith, you say?’

The two gentlemen made no reply.

The stationmaster ran his finger down the various columns in the book. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, smiling, ‘I think that is possible. Yes, yes, that is certainly possible.’

I did not sleep very much that night. The sleeping quarters were cramped and cold and my mind was teeming with nightmare thoughts and images of coffins and reanimated corpses. As dawn was breaking, I dressed and stood in the corridor with an early morning pipe and watched a new day blossom over the northern countryside. Through the mist clouds seething in the gulleys and valleys, I caught glimpses of grey-sheeted water set against the backdrop of the undulating purple-tinted hills, dotted in their lower reaches with banks of trees. It was a wild and yet restful landscape, and watching it grow brighter by the minute as the sun rose above the distant mountains had a calming and restorative effect on me. So entranced was I by this passing vision of natural ruggedness and beauty that I failed to notice that Sherlock Holmes had joined me.

‘“Therefore am I still/A lover of the meadows and the woods/And mountains; and all that we behold/From this green earth”,’ he intoned softly, and added by way of explanation, ‘Wordsworth. This was his country: the land of hills and lakes.’

We stood in silence for some time, gazing out at the passing scenery as the train shuddered and rocked its way up a gradient. Then, with a swift change of mood, Holmes consulted his watch. ‘We arrive in Penrith in just under an hour. Let us retire to the restaurant car for breakfast. I am not sure when we shall have the opportunity to eat again.’

After a full breakfast of ham and eggs, sausage, toast and coffee, Holmes spread out a map on the dining car table. As you can see,
Watson, Penrith lies at the northern tip of Ullswater. The main road runs down the western side of the lake but Grebe Isle – there – lies to the east. So to speed our journey we must approach it from the eastern side of the lake.’ He pointed to a thin wavering line on the map which ran along the blue patch of water. ‘Although quicker, this route will be more difficult to follow. It appears rather basic. I suspect these lines marked here are merely dirt tracks. However, to some extent this will be to our advantage. They will afford us greater cover should we need it.’

I scrutinised the map closely to familiarise myself with the locale. Ullswater is a long, straggly lake, looking not unlike a crooked stocking. Grebe Isle, no more than a black dot on the blue shading on the map, was situated towards the southern end where the lake was at its widest.

‘There appears to be a small promontory here virtually opposite the island,’ I observed, pinpointing the location with my knife.

‘Yes, I suspect there will be a small jetty with boats used for access to the Isle.’

‘If not, we shall be in trouble,’ I grinned.

‘Nonsense,’ said Holmes, returning my grin. ‘You can swim, can’t you, Watson?’

Penrith is the old capital town of Cumberland, built of the local stone in the ninth century. On leaving the station, we could not help but be aware of its sense of history as we passed the rugged Lakeland buildings, many of which dated back to the sixteenth century, flinty monuments to the skill of their architects and builders.

The sky was blue but dotted with ragged grey clouds, and a sharp wind cut through the folds of our coats. Although a stranger to the town, Holmes strode out with purpose as though he knew exactly where he was going. ‘We seek a livery stable, and the likeliest place to locate one is the market place.’

‘How do you know that we are walking in the right direction?’

‘No secret, my friend. I obtained directions from the guard while you were paying for our splendid breakfast.’

Indeed, it was not long before we located the little market place, which was bustling with activity. It was just after eight in the morning, and various shopkeepers were pulling up their blinds, opening their doors, wiping down their counters, and setting out their produce for the day. Workmen and businessmen criss-crossed the tiny square, hurrying to their places of employment. Holmes and I, moving at a slower pace, completed a circular tour but failed to spy out any livery stable. ‘We shall have to make enquiries,’ announced Holmes, and he led me to one corner of the square towards a small open-fronted shop, which bore the sign Joseph A. Cooper, Blacksmith’ in black lettering above it.

‘A blacksmith will certainly know where we can locate a couple of horses.’

Joseph A. Cooper, a brawny fellow with fiery side-whiskers which matched his shiny red face, fulfilled Sherlock Holmes’ prediction. Still wielding a glowing horseshoe with a pair of long pincers, he broke off his task to provide us with the information we required. ‘You want Flinty O’Toole – he’s the best horse man round here, is old Flinty,’ he told us brightly. ‘He keeps a smallholding out towards Stocksbridge. It’ll not be more’n a couple of mile out of town. Two fit gen’lemen like yourself can make it easy within the hour. Tell Flinty that Joe Cooper sent yer and he’ll set you up with a couple of good nags.’

After he had given us detailed directions on how to reach O’Toole’s smallholding, we thanked the blacksmith for his assistance and set off at a brisk pace. Soon we had left the environs of the town and were making our way along primitive country roads where the influence of the nineteenth century had not yet been felt. Joe Cooper was accurate in his estimations, for within forty minutes we had located Flinty O’Toole’s place. He was a small Irishman with a pleasant demeanour, a leathery
complexion, and bright, twinkling blue eyes. He soon fixed us up with a couple of fine mounts and half an hour later Holmes and I were riding along by the eastern shores of Ullswater.

That very morning, near the city of London, in a grey suburban churchyard, a small funeral was taking place. There were few mourners, but there was a discreet police presence. Standing some way back from the graveside was a non-uniformed sergeant and his superior, Inspector Amos Hardcastle.

As the coffin bearing the lifeless body of Sir Alistair Andrews was lowered into the dark maw of the grave, the young priest intoned: ‘He that believeth in me shall have everlasting life.’

Catriona Andrews, her face covered by a dark veil, stooped over the grave, whispered some final words to her father before scattering a handful of earth onto his coffin. She then let out a wail of despair. It sounded like the howl of a wounded wild animal, and it cut harshly through the sepulchral silence of the graveyard. It was painful to hear her, and even the hearts of the waiting policemen were touched by the anguished cry. They bowed their heads in sympathy.

And then, suddenly, the girl was on her feet, and with the quickness of a greyhound was racing away through the graveyard, dodging in and out of the gravestones with great dexterity and speed. So sudden had been her flight that both Hardcastle and his sergeant were taken completely by surprise. For some moments they were caught in a kind of daze as they struggled to comprehend what they had seen. Then the inspector snapped into action, pulling the young sergeant with him. ‘Come on, Porter. For God’s sake, she mustn’t escape,’ he cried, haring off in the same direction as Catriona Andrews. The sergeant followed suit, unceremoniously leaping over the open grave, nearly knocking the stunned clergyman to the ground in the process.

But by now the girl had, it seemed, disappeared completely.

Had the purpose of our expedition not been such a dark and serious one, the ride we took along the shoreline of Ullswater would have been most refreshing and relaxing. It was good to be on a horse again. I had not ridden since my days in Afghanistan, and yet I felt at home in the saddle. One sees the world from a completely different and quite unique perspective from the back of a horse. In other circumstances I should have been very happy, but always at the back of my mind were thoughts about the unknown dangers which lay ahead. The sun may have been shining on the gentle rippling waters and the scenery may have been a blessing to the eye, but such things could not erase the growing sense of unease I felt. Not even Sherlock Holmes could be sure what we were likely to encounter when we reached our destination. Against this uncertainty, the soothing rhythm of a trotting horse and the beauty of nature had no power.