The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 21
“There was naturally a dispute when the Egyptian government went back on their agreement to divide up the spoils from the tomb, and the English government—read one Aubrey Molyneux Herbert as their representative—sided with them. Herbert was chosen as a peacemaker, but of course Carnarvon as the older brother thought he was being betrayed. They nearly came to blows.”
“Surely you don’t think he killed his own brother,” I tutted.
“Half brother. I cannot rule it out.”
“But who killed Colonel Herbert? Or did he simply die of blood poisoning?”
“Perhaps Princess Marguerite can shed some light on the subject.”
But we were not to speak with the lady that day. Though we came into the lobby of the Savoy with Holmes clicking the camera shutter for all he was worth, we were too late.
“She’s checked out, sir. Just this afternoon,” a clerk informed us.
“Didn’t she have a meeting with the press scheduled?” I asked, scanning the deserted lobby.
“The reporters and rubberneckers have all decamped, begging your pardon. Word leaked out that that the princess’s midwife, a Madame Champeau, has confessed to the Paris police the forging of a birth certificate for Princess Fahmy. The first question from the press today was on that subject. There was no second question.”
The shutter ceased clicking. Holmes scratched his beard.
“Surely she must have left a forwarding address,” he demanded.
“Oh, yes, sir, the Ritz. In Paris.”
We made an ignoble retreat.
“Who’s for a quick trip to Paris?” I said, only half joking.
Mrs. Roberts looked up hopefully, then said, “I have to be there when the children get home.” She looked downcast at the prospect.
“I think that’s enough for today. We’ll resume the hunt tomorrow,” said Holmes.
We dropped Mrs. Roberts (who was anxious to be home before her children returned, as if she were a truant hoping to avoid a scolding), and we made our way home, only to find a cable from Lady Evelyn.
He had done it. Carter had shut down the dig and had refused to turn over the keys to the proper authorities. Now the fur would fly.
After dinner, Holmes was restless and went out once more, whether with some definite purpose in mind or merely to feel the streets of London beneath his feet again, he did not say. I sat down with a spot of port and endeavored to finish John Buchan’s Greenmantle.
The next morning, Holmes was brimming with news; unfortunately, none of it was hopeful.
“We won’t be taking any overnight trips to Paris. I cabled the Ritz. She was there for one night and checked out. No forwarding address. I should have taken your advice and pursued her while we had the opportunity.”
“Well, there’s Mrs. Gould.”
“Who is in America. No one can hazard a guess as to when she’ll return. Or whether.”
“Well, then, what about this Lawrence chap?” I knew I was
reaching. “He has literally dropped off the face of the earth.” “My, you have been busy. What about a spot of breakfast, then?” “Good old practical Watson. Bring on the kedgeree and buttered brown toast.”
We sat at the breakfast table in our dressing gowns eating a good English breakfast and talking of nothing. Forty years were wiped away and we were young again, making our way in the world.
Chapter Sixteen: Mrs. Estelle Roberts
Louise came to me that night in a dream. Her voice was so hopeless, her warnings so terrifying, that I am surprised I did not wake up howling, beating Arthur’s chest. I think she must have held me under, the way one drowning person will another when she loses her head and panics. Sir Sherlock was swallowed by holes, traps, pitfalls, crevasses, graves, endless abysses. Only he was not a man of sixty-odd years in my dream. He was a child of three or four, a baby rocking in his cradle on the edge of a cliff. How I wailed for mercy for that child, tried to reach out and save him, but each time I did I discovered anew that my own limbs had been lopped off, leaving horrid bloody stumps. I only brushed his stricken face, his tiny fingers. Above all there was the endless roar of waters.
I knew, even as I dreamed, I was witnessing every mother’s fears for her child, played out in excruciating detail. I couldn’t tell if it were prophecy or only maternal anxieties. Every mother has these terrors; everyone has imagined her child dying in every conceivable fashion, falling, burning, drowning, cudgels, knives, one moment laughing and alive, the next crushed beneath some shapeless falling thing—but we do not speak of it.
I wanted to comfort Louise, to hold her close, but I could not make myself heard above the waters. When I woke in the smeared morning light, it was to headache and exhaustion.
I got up, put on my bravest face, and made breakfast for Arthur and the children, as in the olden days. The olden days? What was I thinking of? It was but a month or so ago. The fire had created a great gulf in my life, a chasm that seemed impossible to bridge. My own dear ones were so vulnerable. I’d never feel safe again. The eggs looked up from the pan at me with sickening false smiles. I felt nauseous.
To make matters worse, the dream did not fade from my consciousness, as dreams mercifully do, but stayed with me, stepping on my shadow, clawing at me with phantom fingers, whispering voices. I was scheduled to give a demonstration for the Marylebone Association that day, but I doubted my ability to hear any voice but that of endless cascading waters. Perhaps I should put it off for a day or two?
I expected a wire from Sir Sherlock as to whether he was interviewing Mrs. Gould that day, but the morning wore on and no message came. Should I call him, tell him Louise had predicted imminent danger? But he knew all about imminent danger; he’d always lived with it. He needed to know what form the danger would come in. And that I could not tell him.
I had the dream again. I woke in terror in the middle of the night and fled my bed, Arthur’s calm breathing. I sought shelter in the baby’s room and the rocker there. But I did not dare sleep. I had not heard a word from Sir Sherlock. I would have to seek him out—if he were still alive.
He may have returned to Sussex. Dr. Watson would know. But when I called, Dr. Watson was not at home. I talked to his housekeeper instead. Fortunately, she was the garrulous type.
“Gone to Paris, he has. Never home—how can I cook his dinners?” she squawked.
“Well, at least you’ll have some time to yourself.” I was hurt. They had gone to the continent without me. Not that I could have gotten away. But still, they might have asked me. They must be seeking out Princess Marguerite. It was dangerous to beard her in her own den. Oh, everything was dangerous! Even sleep.
“No such fortune,” said the housekeeper, bringing a merciful halt to my tumbling thoughts. “Mr. Holmes is still here. He’s even worse. That man eats like a bird for days on end, and then he has the appetite of a horse. Never know how much to prepare.”
“Is Sir Sherlock in now?” I asked hopefully.
“No, he’s at Barts.”
“Barts? Hospital? Has something happened to him?”
“Couldn’t say. Just left a note this morning. He was looking peaked last night. Of course, he does, most days. Doctor should prescribe a paregoric.”
I was too late. My nightmare had come horribly true! I took a cab to the hospital, hang the expense. I had failed Madame Louise. Why, oh why had I waited?
There was no record of him having been admitted at St. Bartholomew’s. Had he gone to another hospital? I couldn’t check them all. He must be there. They had made some sort of mistake. I’m afraid I made something of a scene. I found myself facing the head of the hospital, a doddering old fool named Stamford, trying to calm me down.
“Now, what was the name of your friend again?” he asked, waving a noxious pipe around.
“Sir Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”
He laughed long and heartily at this. I hardly thought it seemly given the circumstances.
“Come,” he said. “I’ll take you to him.” And he padded away. I followed, all at sea.
We walked down one long hall after another, till we left the clamor of the hospital far behind. The halls were dark and empty. I began to be a little afraid. After all, how old was this hospital? Nearly a thousand years. How many had died here, in loneliness and pain? I could feel them gathering behind me.
Then we came to a door, the only door that had a light underneath. He knocked, and I heard a muffled voice say, “Enter.” He opened the door to a long table filled with gleaming glass—glass tubes, glass vials, glass retorts—and through it all, the stony face of Sherlock Holmes was reflected.
“What is it, Stamford?” he growled.
“Someone to see you, Holmes.”
Sir Sherlock glanced up and, recognizing me, broke into a smile. “Mrs. Roberts! Welcome to my world. To what do I owe the honor?”
“She was afraid something had happened to you.” I would rather Dr. Stamford had not mentioned that detail, but I could at least breathe again.
“Something has happened. I haven’t had my tea yet. The hospitality of your hospital has fallen on hard times, Stamford,” Sir Sherlock scolded.
“All right, I’ll have tea sent. You’d think you were the only person I have to look after around here.”
Stamford shuffled off, muttering to himself.
“So what is all this?” I asked, trying to make sense of the scene.
“Chemical analysis. You remember I took a sample of the fungus growing on the walls of the tomb.”
“Yes, I remember that Carter dismissed it out of hand.”
“I found what I was looking for. Aspergillus flavus.”
“Which is what?”
“The prime suspect in the deaths of Lord Carnarvon, Colonel Herbert, and George Gould. It’s an airborne fungus that causes symptoms from allergic reactions to congestion to bleeding in the lungs.”
“And it’s fatal?”
“Usually not. But when introduced directly to the bloodstream, through abrasions—”
“Like a cut on the cheek?” I guessed.
“Precisely. The question is, who introduced it?”
“One of Lord Carnarvon’s team? I mean, a visitor wouldn’t just collect fungus from the wall. Except for you, of course. Who else would know it was deadly? And how would he administer it to all three of our victims?”
“All good questions, which must be considered in turn.”
“You don’t believe it was elementals anymore?” I asked, trying to keep the defensiveness from my voice.
“It was you who showed me how elementals can work through people. I think that is precisely the phenomenon we are dealing with in this case.”
There it was, out in the open. He believed someone had murdered Lord Carnarvon. And Aubrey Herbert, and George Gould, and who knew if there were more? There was still a murderer out there somewhere. It was easier for me to believe in ancient powers seeking revenge for violating a pharaoh’s tomb than a warm-blooded human ready to take lives without compunction, even if that person were acting under the influence of an elemental. I told him the story of my dreams.
A dark cast spread across his face as if night were falling on his soul. “If you dreamed that I was in danger, then you must have realized you are in danger as long as you associate with me. Perhaps I was wrong to involve you. This is no holiday in the sun.”
“I never thought it was,” I answered roundly.
“Then you’ll not take it amiss when I tell you, go home, Mrs. Roberts.”
“You involve Dr. Watson in danger constantly.”
“Watson is an old campaigner. And he does not have a spouse and four children waiting for him to come home to them.”
“I can’t get the roar of the waters out of my head.”
“You didn’t mention any waters.”
“It was in the background of all my dreams. Why, does it mean something?”
Sir Sherlock sat staring into space, his eyes fixed on a point far away. He looked about to spill whatever was in the test tube. Then he snapped back. He set the tube down. “Don’t need to get that on any open cuts. I do not want to go the way of the other victims of the curse.”
“Who would have known it was deadly?” I repeated.
“Someone who’d had experience with it. An archaeologist.”
“Carter?”
“Not unless he’s a remarkably fine thespian. But there have been any number of archaeologists working in the Valley of the Kings for over a century. Any of them might have experience with this fungus. And perhaps have been jealous of Lord Carnarvon. One certainly falls under suspicion.”
“Lacau, the Jesuit?”
“Ah, if he were truly a Jesuit, we could never know what was in his mind. But yes, Lacau.”
I didn’t want to speculate on these Jesuits, who seemed terribly dangerous in their own right. I went on to another question bothering me.
“Why did you send Dr. Watson to Paris?” I asked.
“Watson in Paris?”
It seemed I had stolen a march on him at last.
“So his housekeeper informs me.”
“You’re certain Mrs. Colfax said Paris?” He seemed genuinely perplexed.
I was becoming anxious now. An orderly came in with tea, and that calmed my nerves a jot. Sir Sherlock promised me that he would wire me as soon as Dr. Watson returned. “Watson is a prudent fellow, not given to caprice. He may simply have experienced an overwhelming desire for viennoiseries.”
I knew he was only trying to jolly me along, but sometimes jollying is just what I need. I bade farewell to Sir Sherlock and returned home, somewhat relieved.
I didn’t hear from him all that day or the next morning. At least the dream had not returned. I had rescheduled my demonstration for that day, but my nerves were still shot.
I began the demonstration so distracted I had to strain to concentrate. I was finally able to fall into a blessed trance and relied on Red Cloud to carry the day. Dr. Gordon Moore was there once more, desiring to speak with a patient who had passed over only a week ago. Dr. Moore was so solicitous of his patients that he wanted to be sure they were comfortable in the afterlife. These were always pleasant conversations.
Then I felt a cold wind on the back of my neck, and all my muscles locked up. I felt a burning in all my limbs. I was gasping for air as if my lungs had forgotten how to expand. I forced my eyes open. At the back of the hall were Sir Sherlock and Dr. Watson just entering, neither the worse for the wear. I knew that some truly malevolent being had seized me, almost throttling me. I tried to fight, to call out, but it was no use. I prayed for Red Cloud, but there was no answer. I felt my posture become bent and broken, my voice taken by a voice at once musical and deadly:
“Mr. Holmes?” A thin, biting, truculent voice.
He stopped and looked up. He knew the voice at once.
“Moriarty?” he whispered. Both men froze in their tracks.
Though I was unwilling to move, he had command of my limbs. I started down the steps, trying to keep from tripping over my own feet. “You really must come to the falls. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. We must catch up.”
“The one place in the world I never wish to see again is the Reichenbach Falls. I took a life there. It was many years ago, but still it plagues me.”
“Why not give me a second chance, then? You may be able to atone for your sins.” I approached the two men. I felt like a snake crawling on its belly toward its prey.
“I don’t fear you, Moriarty, alive or dead. Now, leave this woman!” he answered with steel in his voice. He struck the floor between us with his stick with such force that it split in two.
His words cut through my heart like a knife. I heard a long wail. I stumbled and would have fallen, save that Dr. Watson stepped forward to take me in his arms and stop my headlong momentum. There was a gasp from the crowd. I knew I was released when I heard that gasp. It took long minutes to get my breath back to normal, but Moriarty had left me. I soon washed up on a familiar shore.
“Mrs. Penderecki, are you here?” I called out. It was my voice, my own.
Mrs. Penderecki let her hand creep up.
“Mrs. Penderecki, I have a message for you from your husband.”
“I’m not in any danger, am I? I was going to go to the theatre tonight.”
I noticed Dr. Watson smirk as they settled into their seats. Good, I was going to find out why he had gone to Paris. If I could make it through the afternoon.
You’ll wonder why I decided to go on that day. Because I knew Red Cloud had been ambushed, bested by a force more powerful than he. Because he needed healing. I let the Pendereckis be my penance.
Chapter Seventeen: Dr. John Watson
We were seated in a tea shop, though I would have much preferred a pub with a pint of bitter in front of me. It had been a long twenty-four hours. But Holmes was solicitous of Mrs. Roberts after her strange ordeal. We did not speak of it, though, and I was of such divided mind that I was content to let it lie, for now.
“Whyever did you go to Paris, Dr. Watson?” asked Mrs. Roberts.
“Yes, whyever, Watson?” Holmes chimed in. I put a scone in my mouth. After all that time away, I had a new appreciation for plain English cooking. Especially when it involved clotted cream.
She peered at Holmes. “He hasn’t told you?”
“We met at the door,” Holmes explained.“How propitious.”
“Didn’t you see the paper I left on the table? Open to the news?” I asked.
“There was no paper on the table.” He moved the scones out of my reach.
“Blast, the one time Mrs. Colfax tidies up. Excuse my language.”“What was in the paper?” Mrs. Roberts asked irritably.
“Princess Marguerite returned to Paris yesterday, as you know. I knew you still wanted to question her, so I decided to hunt her up before she went to ground.”
“So you were able to get there before she disembarked?” she asked, obviously confused.
“Oh, no. Impossible. But yesterday’s paper noted the name of the ship she traveled on. So I took a valise along. One of yours, Holmes. They’re nicer than mine.”
