The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 17
“Why would His Lordship have mixed himself up in the affair?” asked Mrs. Roberts, duly scandalized once more.
“To sell it. He had intended to sell many of his findings to Western museums. But the new government’s interdiction made that impossible. He was out a large sum of money. Perhaps he decided to get some of it back.”
“Lucas called it ‘priceless.’ Who could afford such a thing?”
“Gould?” suggested Mrs. Roberts.
Holmes slammed his fist on the table in triumph, which garnered more stares from nearby diners. I had to admit it made some sense. Gould was a well-known spendthrift. Perhaps a trinket for his new bride? On his first wife’s death, her jewels were valued at a cool million, as the Americans say. Wife number two might have been looking for a head start on her own nest egg.
“And then it was stolen from Gould. By a woman,” added Mrs. Roberts.
My mind was in a brown fog, trying to find its way clear. My two companions were already racing ahead. What they wanted to know now was about Gould’s associates, especially anyone who might have visited him during his illness at Villa Zoralde.
“Lady Evelyn should help us there,” Holmes said, as if she could remember the hundreds of visitors she had coddled on their tours of the tomb.
So far as I could make out, the reasoning was that since the voice in the tomb had said the “true name” had been stolen by a he, it must mean by Gould; since Gould’s spirit had said, “she,” it must have been stolen from him in turn by a woman. It seemed far too complicated.
“But if that’s the case, wouldn’t this woman have been struck down by the curse, too?” I argued, playing devil’s advocate.
“Perhaps she has been,” replied Mrs. Roberts.
There was that. Although she didn’t supply any names.
“If only we had one more chance to speak to the lady of the tomb,” said Mrs. Roberts.
That was her pet name for the shrieking fury who had knocked me flat. Her wish, luckily, was not to be granted. It had already been decided that tomorrow we would begin the long journey home, going the slow way by train to Alexandria and then ship to Marseille. We would have hours on the train to question Lady Evelyn about the Goulds and their intimates. We would not, however, have another chance to bother the “lady of the tomb,” and for that I was thankful. At least we hadn’t wound up attempting to exorcise the elementals, making complete and utter fools of ourselves, which I had feared would be the outcome. We had never aroused the hordes of newspapermen always on the hunt for a sensation, either, thanks in part to the sunglasses we always wore. I was beginning to understand why the film stars love them so.
“Perhaps we might have time to stop in at the Cairo Museum before we go? There could be important emanations from the treasures held there,” said Mrs. Roberts.
Good heavens. Well, she wasn’t insisting to interview the Sphinx. At least not yet.
That night, Holmes took up his violin again. It seemed that his three-pipe problems had become three-tune problems. As I have said, I find nothing more calming than to listen to his bowing. But perhaps his neighbor above or below did not share my fondness. I heard a knocking on his door. The violin ceased abruptly and did not resume. Probably a hotel official had dissuaded him from his late-night serenade. Just as well. We had an early morning ahead.
Then I heard voices. It wasn’t difficult to make out whose they were: Holmes’s and Mrs. Roberts’s. Well, if they wanted to share secrets without me, that was all well and good. They could at least have kept their voices down, though. Some people were trying to sleep.
They kept droning on about the tomb, the tomb, the tomb . .
I snapped awake, only then realizing I had nodded off. The talk had ceased. But I could hear, plain as day, Holmes’s door opening, then swinging shut. Locked. I leapt out of bed. What had she said? If only we had another chance . . .
I rushed to my own door and cracked it open, letting the hall light flood in. I could see them together, just disappearing down the stair. Could it be? Of course it could.
Did I consider that I wasn’t wanted? Not for a second. I threw on my clothes and was soon galumphing down the stairs. Where had they gone? Well ahead of me. They were hurrying, too. And they weren’t going for a midnight stroll in the garden or a moonlight tour of the temples. The tomb, the tomb, that was where they were headed. Perhaps they intended an exorcism after all.
Which meant they had to cross the river. And so had I. Had they arranged their crossing beforehand? There was no shortage of small boats on the riverbank, but I soon found a definite shortage of pilots. They had wandered away for sleep or a late dinner or their own assignations. Some of them were asleep in the hulls of their boats, rocked to sleep by the waves. I attempted to wake one up and nearly got a dagger in my belly for my trouble. I did not repeat the experiment. Others I approached claimed to be reserved. Probably they were fibbing, but just as probably every one of them had a dagger or worse.
At last I found a fellow. He spoke no English, but I jabbed a finger across the river; that was plain enough. Of course, he flayed me alive on the cost of the trip, holding out his hand resolutely while I shoved pound notes into it. In the end I threw in my pipe. Then he had to raise the triangular sail. But once he weighed anchor, we skimmed across the water like silk. I would have instructed him to wait, but God knows what that would have cost me. Besides, there were plenty of boats still on this side of the river. I’d have no trouble getting back.
Of course, there were no mounts, no horses, asses, or camels in sight, so I’d have to ride shanks’ mare through the Valley of the Kings. Then I remembered the heavy, barred gate in front of the tomb’s entrance, and the guard. How did Holmes intend to defeat those?
Easily, it turned out. When I arrived, breathing heavily, the guard was asleep inside his box (or at least I hoped he was merely asleep). And both chain locks had been picked. So much for Carter’s elaborate safety precautions. Still, if the guard should wake—
I slipped past the open gate. And stared into the dark, cursing myself for not having brought a torch. Had Holmes brought one? Of course. He was always prepared, because he had always planned his every move. And I was never prepared because he always kept me running after him in the dark, both literally and figuratively. Sometimes I think that he did it because it amused him to see me so blundering. Well, what of it? His eyes were failing him, his strength, his very breath. If he still needed his golden aura of superiority, he could lean on me; I would not deny him. Or I might have done him wrong in my thoughts; he may have simply assumed his mind was as transparent to me as mine was to his. Most of the time I refused to think about it at all.
I should simply turn back.
I didn’t.
I crept slowly down the steps, holding on to the wall as though my life depended on it. The darkness swallowed me whole. Every step was slower, more uncertain, more full of doubt, till it became torture. But then, before I was even halfway down the passage, I heard the voices. I stopped dead, frozen in place.
Dozens of voices, all at once, from every direction, resounding from wall to wall, behind and before. Foreign tongues, none of them recognizable. Was I having another seizure? Or had all the devils in hell been released? My heart beat in my breast like a bass drum. I felt short of breath. My legs would not hold me up. I crouched down, still clinging to the wall, trying to steady myself.
“Lady, we shall return the heart. This we vow. Rest, spirits, rest. Elementals, be at peace.” That was the voice of Mrs. Roberts, almost chanting.
The voices dulled and then dropped away, mingling with the sound of my breathing, which sounded louder than a train passing in the night.
Then Holmes’s voice echoed, “‘She paid for the name’? What did she mean?”
Then another voice, clear and strong:
“John Watson. John Watson.” Oh, what a sweet voice. I could listen to it for hours. Louise’s voice. At first I thought it was calling me. I would have called back, but my voice was trapped in my throat. Then it went on:
“Keep John Watson close.”
“But why is Watson so important?”
It was Sherlock’s voice asking. That hurt me.
“Keep John Watson by your side.”
I felt my gorge rising. I had to steady myself. Remember, I assured myself, it’s only Estelle Roberts at her playacting, keeping Holmes in thrall. I had to believe that. Why she was saying what she said, I couldn’t guess, but I was sure it somehow worked to her personal benefit.
“Reichenbach.”
What? Not that dread place again.
“You will need him at Reichenbach.”
A wind swept through the place where no winds came. There was silence.
Then I heard a growl almost like a lion’s in that echoing space, and a scream. A spasm of pure terror rocked me.
“Get behind me!” Holmes’s voice came like a whip. And then I heard his stick, hammering away at something. I had to go to his aid! I stood upright. But my feet would not move forward.
Silence.
“Estelle, are you harmed?”
I could hear what sounded like muffled sobs from the woman. Then:
“Sherlock, Red Cloud spoke to me! He spoke at last! He warned me of the cobra! Did you . . . ?”
“It’s quite dead.”
“Who sent it?”
For that there was no answer. A light flashed. Holmes’s torch! They were making their way out. I stumbled, trying to get away. They were going to find me, helpless as a child. My legs were leaden. I’d be humiliated. Was there anywhere I could hide? No. I didn’t want to be in there when Holmes locked the gate behind him.
“The cobra! They’ll know we’ve been here,” hissed Mrs. Roberts.
That was something Holmes would have thought of as a matter of course twenty years ago. The torch swung out of sight. My legs were freed. I made my escape.
As I came tumbling out, I saw the eyes, but I could not stop. I slammed into the gate, throwing the man in front of it to the ground. The guard had awakened. And found the gate unlocked.
I threw myself on top of him. I rued the move as soon as I had made it. He was a head taller than I was and had muscles of iron. We rolled together in the sand. It was all I could do to hang on. Until he threw me off and dragged me to my feet. He peered at me in the gloom.
“Sharluk Hulmiz!”
He let go of me, then steadied me as I found my feet. It was the one called Hassan, the very one who had been reading aloud from The Hound of the Baskervilles the day before. He had not studied it very closely, I would guess, for he had somehow mistaken me for Sherlock Holmes. That was a bit of luck. I dragged him back into the sentry box. He tensed as we heard the soft clang of the gate. I put my finger to my lips.
“Moriarty,” I whispered and sank out of sight. Holmes and Mrs. Roberts emerged. Holmes spent a few moments wrapping the chains around the door and locking up while Mrs. Roberts stood lookout. Then they both hustled away without even looking toward the sentry box.
“I thought Moriarty was dead,” said Hassan in perfectly good English.
Curse all faithful readers. “Yes, of course,” I scrambled. “But that is one of his most dangerous lieutenants.”
“Then why do you go about with him as a companion?”
“He doesn’t know that I know . . . who he is . . . Wheels within wheels, don’t you know?” I trailed off, feeling a right duffer.
He stared at me blankly. “But what did he want in the tomb?”
I was fast running out of ideas. “Ah . . . spirits. Elementals. He seeks to control them.”
That at least seemed logical enough to Hassan. After exacting his promise that he would tell no one of our midnight visit, I hurried away after my erstwhile companions.
I was in for the rudest surprise of the night. When I reached the river, the two had already departed, of course. But so had every single boat. Perhaps two in the morning was curfew for Nile boatmen. I had no choice but to sit down by the river, with my back against a palm tree, make myself as comfortable as possible (which was not comfortable in the least, as visions of cobras and crocodiles danced in my head), and wait till morning.
My thoughts kept going back to what I had heard in the tomb. Of one thing I was sure: Holmes would not be returning to the Reichenbach Falls. He had tried to explain it to me once. Although death was our handmaiden in many of our adventures, Holmes had never laid hands on a man and killed him before Moriarty. And though one might think Moriarty the most deserving of death of all the foes we had faced, seeing him plunge to his death had had a profound effect on my friend. For three years after he had wandered the earth, taking the name of Sigerson, seeking what could only be called absolution. He never found it. He’d plunged back into his peculiar profession, but more like a pack mule than a spirited stallion. Yet there was something softer about the man, a new hesitance to condemn, a look of regret to his demeanor when he’d laid some villain low. It was not unwelcome, but it was at times unfathomable—not that the man could ever be fathomed.
It was along about five, the light just smudging the sky, when I began to see lateen sails on the horizon. I rose and waved, jumping up and down. I would have called, but my voice had deserted me in the chill of the night, and I could barely whisper. But one eagle-eyed sailor saw me and lighted right in front of me. It was the same fellow who had brought me across. Reluctantly, I handed over my tobacco pouch.
Chapter Twelve: Mrs. Estelle Roberts
Of course, it was a heart, a heart of stone. What more perfect vessel could there be for all the little hurts, the words locked away, the hopes never fulfilled, the love never shared, the desire never quenched? All roiling ceaselessly in the heart, in the fiery cauldron of the heart, till it must spill, it must flood, must rise up in waves to take out every living thing in its path. And I had promised to return the heart to the lady, to Tutankhamun himself, hoping they would sleep, merely on the strength of my vow. When I had no idea how I would fulfill that vow.
These were the thoughts chasing through my mind when I woke early the next morning. It was still dark. Our train was scheduled for six. It would be nine hours to Cairo, and we hoped to outrun the heat of the day, though it would inevitably catch up. It was the first leg of a long journey home—an awfully long way to have come for such a short time. Sir Sherlock seemed to think it was all worthwhile. And I missed my children so fiercely that I fell in readily. I was so impatient to see them that I wished to be to be home instantly. Where was a genie of the sands to grant my wish? But I was relieved at least that I wouldn’t be getting on a plane ever again. Or so I thought.
We were making a frugal breakfast in the Beauchamps’ suite. There was tension in the air. When was there not? Sir Sherlock hadn’t touched his food. Lady Evelyn seemed snappish. Oh, and Dr. Watson kept falling asleep.
“It’s time we had a talk, Lady Evelyn.” Sir Sherlock seemed wintry.
She did not meet his eyes.
“About T. E. Lawrence. And Captain Shaw.”
This caused a sour look on both the Beauchamps’ faces. Things were getting interesting. Dr. Watson started snoring. I gave him a good wallop on the back, and he reared up wide-eyed. Just then, a loud knock sounded on the door.
The baronet jumped up, seeming glad of the interruption, and opened the door to Mr. Merton, the Times photographer. He charged in without so much as a by-your-leave.
He tossed his head in greeting and turned on the baronet. “The Bugatti Torpedo? That’s yours?”
The baronet dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “What the blazes are you talking about?”
“I heard you’re leaving for Cairo today. I’ve got to go with you.”
“I’m sure there are tickets available for the train.”
“The train won’t get me there on time. It’s got to be your auto.”
“I don’t have an auto. Not here.”
Merton scratched his head, looking overwrought.
A look of understanding spread across Lady Evelyn’s face. “You mean Father’s Bugatti. I’d forgotten it was here.”
“Yes, beautiful car. If you’re not using it, can I borrow it from you?” Mr. Merton pleaded.
The Beauchamps both looked horrified.
“Why the hurry, Merton?” asked Sir Sherlock.
“Something’s come up, something big.”
“Not another death?” I asked fearfully.
“She’s come back. Princess Marguerite has arrived in Cairo. I’ve got to get the interview.”
“The murderess? She’s come to Cairo? Whatever for?” I asked.
“There’s the little matter of two and a half million dollars. The prince died intestate, and the family is claiming his fortune. Did you think she wouldn’t contest that? The only reason she married Fahmy to begin with.”
“But she murdered him. Surely no court would award her the inheritance after that,” Dr. Watson objected.
“I wagered no one could get her off in an English court of law, but Hall managed it quite adroitly,” said Merton ruefully.
“She’s a consummate gambler, and she’ll play as long as she has a single card left,” declared Sir Sherlock. “I’d be interested in posing certain questions to her myself.”
“Now, that would sell some papers: Sherlock Holmes interrogates Princess Marguerite,” mused Lady Evelyn.
“Would you let me publish it?” asked Merton eagerly, seizing on the idea.
“We’re running away with ourselves. I can’t just let you have the Bugatti—”the baronet began.
“We can’t simply leave it here, Brograve. We’re going to have to ship it home from Cairo.”
“You could ship it to Marseille and Watson could drive it to Calais,” suggested Sir Sherlock.
Dr. Watson was awake for that. He went deathly pale.
“Watson?” The baronet went saucer eyed.
“He’s an excellent driver.”
“Ik kan rijden,” interrupted Anna. She had been so quiet that morning I had almost forgotten she was with us.
