The Scroll of the Dead (21 page)

‘Yes, yes,’ snapped Miss Andrews. ‘I am not interested in your deductions. I have not come here to listen to those. I have another purpose.’

‘Revenge.’

She nodded. ‘I have come to kill you,’ she announced simply, pulling a revolver from her reticule and pointing it at the detective.

‘I cannot help thinking that your animosity is misplaced, Miss Andrews. You no doubt blame me for the death of your father.’

‘No doubt. Certainly
I
have no doubt.’

‘But is that rational? Does not the blame lie with you?’

The idea so surprised the girl that she failed to respond.

‘Shouldn’t you have prevented your father from becoming involved with Sebastian Melmoth in the first place? Sir Alistair was a respected and able archaeologist. Could you not see that he was risking his reputation, his freedom, and his life in falling in with that malefactor? The dream, the fevered desire to discover Setaph’s Scroll of the Dead had overwhelmed his better judgements, but you –
you
could be more objective about it.
You
were not blinded by the same passion.
You
knew of the dangers.
You
knew that what he planned, what he agreed to, was wrong.
You
could have warned him.
You
should have stopped him.’ Holmes’ voice was forceful, passionate even, but now he paused and added simply and quietly: ‘But
you
did not.’

‘I tried at first,’ the girl snapped, ‘but he wouldn’t listen. His desire was all-consuming. It was like a disease, a pain that needed relieving. He saw Melmoth’s offer as his last chance. In the end I could not deny him that. If I had, he would have shut me out of his life, and I could not have borne that. I loved him, you see – loved him with all my heart and soul.’ She tossed her head angrily, her eyes now wet with tears. ‘But you... you wouldn’t understand that, would you? Love. You can’t make a deduction about love. Love cannot be analysed, placed under the microscope, or written up in a notebook. What do you know of the real world, with real people and real passions, Mr Sherlock Holmes? You just sit here in your dry and dusty room working on clues and theories, never considering the hurt, anguish, and tragedy in which your cases are soaked. People are merely pieces of the puzzle to you, like figures on a chessboard. As long as the mystery is solved you have no consideration of how their lives are affected by your actions. You do not care.’

Holmes was startled at this attack upon him. ‘You may be right,’ he said at length. ‘I have little experience of emotional passions – love as you term it. It is too irrational for my taste. But I have understanding and empathy and I am well aware that you are suffering under a great
burden of guilt. Guilt which you are trying to place upon me. But it won’t work, Miss Andrews, because your basic honesty and decency tell you that it is wrong. I am a detective. My task is to track down wrongdoers. You and your father were involved in criminal activities. I tracked you down. Where is the blame in that? The fault lies with your father and yourself. And if your father could not be persuaded to act otherwise, as you say, then that relieves you of the blame, too, and the fault lies solely with him.’

The girl gave a bitter laugh and rose, moving backwards to the door. ‘You make it sound so plausible, Mr Sherlock Holmes, so reasonable, like one of your deductions. But, as you have said, passion lacks reason and my passion is revenge.’ She held the gun at arm’s length and prepared to fire.

Hurriedly I read Holmes’ note and fled from the club. It was striking a quarter-to-nine as I hailed a hansom and ordered the cabbie to fly like the wind to 221B Baker Street.

‘Killing me will not solve anything, Miss Andrews,’ said Holmes, his voice remaining calm and reasonable despite the fact that a revolver was aimed at his heart. ‘Construct for yourself a version of events following my death. You have no safe haven to which you can return. Scotland Yard is close on your heels and it is only a matter of time before you are recaptured, but this time murder will be added to your crimes. How does that help you or your father? Certainly the world will fail to understand your need or your reason to kill me in revenge. Your death sentence would be assured. The whole scheme is madness. Put down the gun and give yourself up and face what punishment is due to you with a dignity and fortitude that would make your father proud of you. Then you can begin to make a new life for yourself. That is the best course of action. I
am sure it is what your father would have wanted.’

Catriona Andrews moved closer to the detective, her features clouded with mixed emotions, and for a moment the gun wavered in her hand and she began to lower it to her side. Then suddenly anger flashed in her eyes and she raised the gun again. With a trembling hand she aimed it at Holmes once more. This time she cocked the trigger. The sound seemed to fill the whole room.

On entering 221B I crept up the stairs as quickly as I could, and listened at our sitting-room door where I could hear a female voice raised in anger. Stealthily, I opened the door.

‘Whatever happens to me – and quite simply I don’t care now – I will at least be content in the knowledge that I’ve put a bullet through the heart of Mr Sherlock Holmes.’ Catriona Andrews’ finger began to squeeze the trigger.

‘Ah,’ cried Holmes with a smile, glancing beyond the young woman to the shadows by the open door, ‘Watson, old fellow, splendid timing as always.’

My friend’s outburst disconcerted the young woman sufficiently to make her hesitate. On impulse, she turned round just as I made a flying rugby tackle for her, bringing her tumbling to the ground. As she hit the floor of our sitting-room, the gun went off with a deafening report and the bullet lodged itself in the plasterwork of the ceiling.

Holmes gave a heavy sigh and poured out two large brandies. After this evening’s adventures, I think we both deserve a substantial reward,’ he said, handing me a glass and sitting opposite me by our fire. It was some two hours after my timely return to Baker Street. In the intervening period we had had to deal with Mrs Hudson’s frantic enquiries about the
gunshot and then suffer her tirade about firearms practice in our sitting room, which was followed by the arrival of Hardcastle and two constables to escort Miss Andrews to the Yard. Mercifully, she went quietly and without a word. Holmes had made no mention of her murderous attack upon him and had already placed the young woman’s gun in his little museum, out of sight.

‘If the truth be known, Holmes, I am more than a little angry with you,’ said I gruffly, after taking a sip of brandy.

Holmes affected an air of mild surprise. ‘Oh? Why is that, my dear fellow?’

‘Firstly for not taking me into your full confidence from the start. You knew that young woman would call this evening and that she may well have posed a threat to your life...’

‘Indeed I did. It was clear to me that she was the author of the note purporting to come from Thurston. She wanted you out of the way so that she could deal with me alone. But she would not have ventured in if you had been around, or skulking in the shadows waiting to pounce. You know how badly you do these things. I had to be alone – with no hint of a trap or subterfuge. I also did not want to place you in a position of risk or danger.’

‘But you arranged for a message to be delivered at the club explaining everything.’

Holmes nodded smugly.

‘But what if I hadn’t arrived in time?’

‘I knew I could keep her talking, and I have complete confidence in your alacrity.’

‘A minute later and you would have been dead,’ I snapped, still angry. ‘Did you stop to think of how I might feel if I had failed? If you were shot it would have been your fault for being overconfident and arrogant – but I would have been left to shoulder the guilt. You never think beyond yourself.’

Holmes bowed his head and stared into his drink for a moment, before looking me straight in the eye. ‘You are not the first person to make that observation this evening. I humbly beg your pardon, my dear Watson. You are quite right in that I had not considered the possibility of you failing me.’ He smiled. ‘You see, you never have, and I have come to rely upon that.’

I could not help but smile in response. ‘That is all very well, but I beg you in future not to be so reckless, and to include me in your plans.’

‘I shall endeavour to do so.’

We sat for some moments in silence. I was pleased that the air had been cleared, although I was under no illusion that Holmes would act any differently in future. His brilliant independence of mind and action was both his genius and his weakness, and was an innate part of his personality. To change this would be to change the man, and I certainly had no desire to do that.

‘What do you think will become of Catriona Andrews?’ I said at length.

‘With a good counsel and a plea for mitigating circumstances of diminished responsibility, I do not believe the lady will languish for long at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Once she has got over her father’s death, she will need to rebuild her life which, as a bright, forceful young woman, I am certain she will do.’

‘If she does, she will be the sole survivor of this sad business.’

‘Indeed. This case has been peopled with individuals who have sought to conquer or cheat death, and now the grim reaper has them in his thrall. Life presents sufficient challenges and pleasures without the need to delve into that particular mystery. It comes all too soon as it is. “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die”.’

So saying, my friend turned and stared into the bright yellow flames of our fire.

by

T
he full moon hovered like a spectral observer over the British camp. The faint cries of the dying and wounded were carried by the warm night breeze out into the arid wastes beyond. John Walker staggered out of the hospital tent, his face begrimed with dried blood and sweat. For a moment he threw his head back and stared at the wide expanse of starless sky as if seeking an answer, an explanation. He had just lost another of his comrades. There were now at least six wounded men whom he had failed to save. He was losing count. And, by God, what was the point of counting in such small numbers anyway? Hundreds of British soldiers had died that day, slaughtered by the Afghan warriors. They had been outnumbered, outflanked and routed by the forces of Ayub Khan in that fatal battle at Maiwand. These cunning tribesmen had truly rubbed the Union Jack into the desert dust. Nearly a third of the company had fallen. It was only the reluctance of the Afghans to carry out further carnage that had prevented the British troops from being completely annihilated. Ayub Khan had his victory. He
had made his point. Let the survivors report the news of his invincibility.

For the British, a ragged retreat was the only option. They withdrew into the desert, to lick their wounds and then to limp back to Candahar. They had had to leave their dead littering the bloody scrubland, soon to be prey to the vultures and vermin.

Walker was too tired, too sick to his stomach to feel anger, pain or frustration. All he knew was that when he trained to be a doctor, it had been for the purpose of saving lives. It was not to watch young men’s pale, bloody faces grimace with pain and their eyes close gradually as life ebbed away from them, while he stood by, helpless, gazing at a gaping wound spilling out intestines.

He needed a drink. Ducking back into the tent, he grabbed his medical bag. There were still three wounded men lying on makeshift beds in there, but no amount of medical treatment could save them from the grim reaper. He felt guilty to be in their presence. He had instructed his orderly to administer large doses of laudanum to help numb the pain until the inevitable overtook them.

As Walker wandered to the edge of the tattered encampment, he encountered no other officer. Of course, there were very few left. Colonel MacDonald, who had been in charge, had been decapitated by an Afghan blade very early in the battle. Captain Alistair Thornton was now in charge of the ragged remnants of the company of the Berkshire regiment, and he was no doubt in his tent nursing his wound. He had been struck in the shoulder by a jezail bullet which had shattered the bone.