The Scroll of the Dead (7 page)

Holmes pulled the bell and we heard it ring in the far reaches of the house. Presently the door was opened by a saturnine young man, with dark, baleful eyes and an air of intimidating arrogance, whom I took, wrongly as it turned out, to be Melmoth’s manservant. Holmes extracted a calling card from his waistcoat pocket and presented it to the young man without a word.

The fellow examined it sardonically, even turning it over to discover if
there was anything on the reverse side, and then, leaning indolently against the door frame, he raised his eyebrows in a facetious manner. ‘Yes, what is it?’ he asked, waving Holmes’ card carelessly.

‘Please inform Mr Melmoth that I wish to see him on urgent business,’ said Holmes sharply.

For a moment there was the ghost of a smile on those swarthy and arrogant features. ‘If you want to see Sebastian urgently, then I suggest you “go look for him in the other place”,’ he said, and this time the red lips did stretch back into a smile, revealing a thin line of white teeth.

Holmes frowned. ‘I will not be deterred, sir,’ he said with some warmth.

‘I am afraid you will. Apparently, you have not heard the sad news,’ said the young man casually, apparently brushing some invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘I regret to inform you that Mr Sebastian Melmoth is dead.’

N
ever in all the years that I have known Sherlock Holmes did I see him look more shocked and dismayed than he did on hearing that Sebastian Melmoth was dead. For a moment he remained motionless, as though struck dumb by the import of this news – news which threw all his deductions and plans into complete disarray.

‘When did it happen?’ I asked the youth, partly out of curiosity and partly in an attempt to cover up my friend’s hesitancy.

‘The day before yesterday,’ came the languid reply. ‘Seb was involved in a shooting accident on my father’s estate in Norfolk.’

‘Your father...?’

‘... is Lord Felshaw.’

‘A shooting accident, you say?’ prompted Holmes, regaining some of his composure.

The youth nodded. ‘Yes. Sad business,’ he replied, without any emotion in his voice. ‘We were out shooting with Briggs, one of our keepers, when Sebastian lost us for a while in the undergrowth. We heard a shot and found him dead.’

‘What happened?’

He gave a light shrug of the shoulders. ‘His gun must have gone off accidentally. A rather messy business really.’

‘You don’t seem to have been upset by the incident,’ I remarked tersely the fellow’s easy arrogance beginning to rankle.

‘We all die at some time. Seb, of all people, was probably quite happy to try it out. The final great experiment, y’know.’ A shadow of a sly grin passed over his sharp features and then he paused and breathed deeply as though taking the air. ‘Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, the morning is far too chilly to allow one to stand on the doorstep indulging in idle chatter. The funeral ceremony is tomorrow and I have arrangements to make.’ Just before closing the door on us, he added pointedly: ‘It will be a very private affair. Attendance is by invitation only.’

Holmes remained taciturn and silent as we made our way back to Baker Street. His gloomy features told of the pain and indignity that he felt at being proved so wrong in his deductions. As we turned into Baker Street once more, I attempted some words of consolation.

He gave a sharp intake of breath before replying. ‘Save your sympathies, Watson. Melmoth’s demise does not alter the facts. He was the one who murdered Daventry and stole the papyrus from the museum.’

‘How on earth can you prove it now?’

He tapped his forehead. ‘It is here, but not yet engendered.’

Smiling briefly, he took my arm and led me towards our door. ‘There is more in this business than we can yet see, but I am convinced that I am on the right track. Events will evolve which will provide us with more light.’

There was a further surprise for us when we entered our sitting-room. We had a client awaiting our return. A young, fresh-faced woman attired
in a fashionable green velvet dress rose from the seat by the fire to greet us. She was tall and slender, with stylishly-dressed, copper-coloured hair, and a pair of challenging brown eyes. ‘Mr Holmes?’ she said, gazing uncertainly from one to the other.

‘I am he,’ replied Holmes, pulling off his coat and draping it over the wooden chair by his work bench. ‘And this is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson, Miss...?’

‘Andrews – Catriona Andrews.’ She spoke clearly and confidently and yet there was a certain nervousness about her demeanour. It was not, I surmised, a natural diffidence, but one brought about by worry and concern.

‘Resume your seat, Miss Andrews. Would you care for some refreshment? Tea perhaps?’

The young woman shook her head with determination. ‘No, no, nothing thank you. I am anxious to explain why I am here.’

Holmes threw himself down in his chair and with a broad gesture bade me to take a seat also. ‘My colleague and I are all attention. Please take your time and relay your problem clearly and in full detail.’ So saying he slumped back and closed his eyes.

Our visitor leaned forward in her chair and began her narrative. She spoke in clear, well-modulated tones which contained only a faint trace of her Scottish ancestry. As I have already told you, I am Catriona Andrews: the daughter of Sir Alistair Andrews.’

‘The archaeologist?’ I cried.

‘Yes.’ At this point our visitor faltered, her head drooped, and she retrieved a handkerchief from her reticule to dab her moist eyes. ‘My father... my father has disappeared.’

Holmes, who did not seem at all surprised at this sudden revelation, nodded his head in understanding without even opening his eyes. ‘Pray begin at the beginning, Miss Andrews,’ he said softly.

The brave young woman gave a shake of the shoulders, stuffed the handkerchief back into her reticule, and began again. ‘My mother died shortly after my birth, and so the full responsibility for my upbringing fell to my father. That is perhaps why I feel closer to my father than do most daughters. We live together in a comfortable villa in St John’s Wood. I act as his assistant – helping him in his work, typing his papers, co-ordinating the catalogue of his vast collection of relics which he has accumulated from his various expeditions.

‘Everything was fine between us until just recently, when he began behaving oddly – shunning most visitors and spending more and more of his time locked up in his study. About a week ago he began taking his meals in there alone. He would also go out late at night and not return until it was almost morning. When I asked him about these nocturnal expeditions, he told me sharply that it was his private business.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘It was so very unlike my father – we always shared so much, and now he was shutting me out. You can imagine how concerned and hurt I was by his behaviour. It was as though he had become another person.

‘And then yesterday he did not return at all. His bed had not been slept in and there was no note to indicate where he might have gone. I was beside myself with worry. I was about to contact the police when this letter arrived by the four o’clock delivery.’ She passed me a crumpled sheet of paper on which was written the following message:

Dear C

I shall be away for some time.

Forgive me for not informing you of my absence, but, believe me, I have my reasons.

Do not worry about me: I am perfectly safe and well, but under no circumstances contact
the authorities about my disappearance. I will explain all when I return.

All my love

‘What is this design?’ I asked, pointing to a scribbled drawing which took the place of a signature.

‘I do not know how well you know your Egyptology, Doctor Watson, but it is Thoth, the ibis-headed scribe of the Gods. That is my father’s special signature. He used it when he wrote me playful notes when I was very young. It is a kind of secret between us. That is why I know that the note is genuine.’

‘Signatures can be learned, however obscure,’ observed Holmes. ‘There is no doubt about the handwriting?’

‘None whatsoever. I am sure this note came from my father.’

‘Miss Andrews, you said that your father shunned most visitors...’ She nodded.

‘But not all?’

‘No. There was one man who called on two occasions who was quickly ushered into his room.’

‘You knew this man?’

‘No. I had never seen him before. I do not even know his name.’

‘Describe him please.’

‘He was young. About thirty, I should say. Well dressed in a rather flamboyant manner. He was very pale and had long blond hair.’

‘Why Holmes...’ I cried, recognising this description of Sebastian Melmoth.

My friend put his fingers to his lips. ‘Fascinating, isn’t it, Watson? Now, Miss Andrews, allow me to examine the note.’

Holmes took the sheet of cream paper from her outstretched hand and scrutinised it with his lens. ‘Hmm. The writing is crabbed and erratic —
obviously written under some duress. The pen splutters some five times, indicating that the message did not spring freely from the writer’s mind but was dictated to him.’ He held the paper to the window. ‘Is this your own notepaper, Miss Andrews?’

‘No. My father always insists on white.’

‘It is a quality paper, probably costing fourpence a sheet, leading one to suppose that our kidnappers are quite wealthy.’

‘Kidnappers!’ Both Miss Andrews and I burst out with the same exclamation simultaneously.

Holmes smiled. ‘Indeed. All the evidence – slim though it is – leads me to the inevitable conclusion that your father has been kidnapped.’

At times Holmes was so concerned with displaying his talents for deduction that he gave little thought to the effect his revelations would have on those he was addressing. Miss Andrews, her face drained of colour, gripped the arms of her chair and leant forward towards my friend. There was, however, a steady gleam in her eye that clearly showed her reserve and courage. When she spoke, her voice was clear and controlled, but edged with suppressed anger. ‘You cannot mean it, Mr Holmes. Who would want to kidnap my father? And why? Besides, there has been no ransom note. Surely you are mistaken.’

‘I fear not. However, I do not believe that your father’s life is in danger for the present.’

I placed a comforting hand on the young lady’s shoulder and frowned at my friend. ‘Holmes,’ I said sharply, ‘stop talking in riddles. Miss Andrews has a right to have a clear explanation from you.’

‘Of course,’ he replied, with little conviction.

‘If her father has been abducted, why has there been no communication from the kidnappers?’

‘Because they have what they want already: not money, but Sir Alistair’s specialist knowledge.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, but I am completely baffled by all this. Please explain things to me clearly.’

‘I cannot take you fully into my confidence just yet, Miss Andrews, but I can assure you that...’

But Holmes could get no further with his assurances. A sudden change had come over our visitor. She rose to her feet, her whole frame bristling with indignation, and halted Holmes in mid-sentence with a violent wave of her hand. ‘That is not good enough, sir,’ she cried vehemently, her eyes sparking fire and the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘If you know something concerning my father’s disappearance, it is your duty to tell me. I am no delicate flower unable to take bad news – whatever it may be. I am determined and responsible. I have accompanied my father on many of his digs and endured conditions and undergone tasks which would have made many men tremble. You may be in control of your world, Mr Holmes, but do not make the mistake of thinking that all women are feeble, brainless little things who must be protected from the cruel blows of life. They are not. I can assure you that
I
am certainly not. I will not be patronised or placated. Therefore, I demand that you tell me all you know.’

This certainly was a day to challenge Sherlock Holmes. His jaw muscles tightened and there was a momentary flicker of anger in his eyes; then, as though containing his irritation, he stretched his legs out and leaned back in the chair, chuckling gently to himself. ‘How can I resist such an entreaty, eh, Watson?’ It was an uneasy response, and he had not quite managed to capture the air of nonchalance that he had intended.

I did not reply; in fact, I deliberately averted my gaze from both Holmes and the young woman. I did not want to become involved in this brittle
tête-à-tête.
It did my heart good to have a woman put my friend in his place. My Mary often said that, despite all his skills as a reasoner, Holmes had a most faulty understanding of the female psyche and tended to treat all women in
the same manner. Miss Andrews was proving him wrong.

‘Well, sir, I am waiting...’

Holmes gave a sigh of resignation. ‘You request of me more than I am able to offer, Miss Andrews...’ He held up his hand to prevent a further torrent of invective. ‘I will tell you what I believe to be true, but you will allow me to keep my unproven theories to myself until circumstances validate them or not.’