The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 23
“Aspergillus flavus.”
“What’s that?” His face colored an alarming shade.
“Oh, nothing. Just something I heard.” From Holmes, who had finally explained his fascination with fungus to me. I bitterly regretted mentioning it to Lawrence. We old men tend to prattle on too much.
His eyes narrowed. “Take heed, Dr. Watson. You should know I have nothing but the greatest respect for Mr. Holmes. And yourself, for that matter. But there comes a time in every man’s life when he loses a step or two, finds himself short of breath at the top of the stair; he can’t remember crucial facts or important dates anymore. Perhaps the mind wanders in the undiscovered country. That’s when the time comes for him to leave the stage to younger men who can play the roles a new drama may require. Don’t you agree?”
“I suppose that’s true of some, sometimes,” I answered guardedly.
“May I buy you another pint?” he asked, with just the semblance of a smile.
“No, no, I think I’m headed on home to bed. If I can remember the address.”
“You’ll pass that message along to Mr. Holmes, won’t you? Let him know his bees are lonely for him down in Sussex. He’s inconvenienced me once already. I would be most unhappy if he crossed me again.” His tone was friendly as ever, so that you might not even notice the threat implicit in his words. No, explicit, I suppose. He was young and vital. I don’t think I could have taken him. Nor, I thought, could Sherlock Holmes, not at this late stage in life.
I was still up when Holmes came in, on toward one in the morning.
“Watson, old friend, you look as tired as I feel. Don’t tell me you waited up for me.”
“Tell me about T. E. Lawrence,” I demanded.
“That’s a peculiar request, since I’ve spent the evening combing the city for Lawrence. I received a tip today that he’s been seen in London.”
“Oh, he’s here all right. I just had a drink with him down at the Barley Mow. We exchanged some words.”
Holmes poured himself a brandy, drew up a chair in front of me and straddled it. “I would very much like to know those words. Exactly.”
“And he made me promise to repeat those words. But first: he alluded to dealings you’ve had with him before?”
“The Official Secrets Act—”
“The Secrets Act be hanged!”
He considered. “I can tell you that I have faced him once before, although from a distance. It was really Gertrude who tumbled his apple cart.”
“Gertrude?”
“Gertrude Bell, the most brilliant mind in all Arabia. The bravest woman in the world. Of course, he could not accept being stymied by a woman, so he shifted the blame to me. More than that I cannot tell you.”
“But did he not help defeat the Ottomans, or the Turks, whatever?”
“By unleashing an Arab jihad.”
“Jihad? Could we stick to English, please?”
“A holy war. An uprising. And I fear he thinks that uprising has just begun. He wants to nurture it until it is a full-blown conflagration. Now, tell me about your conversation in the pub.”
So I recounted to him everything Lawrence had said.
When I got to Lawrence’s reaction to the word aspergillus, Holmes sat upright. He said not a word but was plainly excited. Finally, he let out a sigh as I finished my tale.
“I think you should not go out tomorrow,” he advised.
“Holmes, I hardly think such precautions are necessary.”
“Not necessary for you, perhaps, but necessary for myself. I need you by my side. My arthritis—”
He hadn’t mentioned arthritis before, but I had suspected it. The finest single-stick fighter of an age was no more. Old age is cruel.
“What about Mrs. Roberts? Is she in danger?”
“I’ll have a private word with her husband. I think she’ll be all right as long as she keeps clear of us.”
“But why was he so wrought up about the aspergillus?”
“When I inspected the fungus in Dr. Lucas’s possession? It was not fungus. It was common dirt.”
I digested that. “Lawrence switched the vials?”
“Racing ahead of us by aerophane to do so.”
“Lawrence was the poisoner?”
“I doubt it, but I suspect he is the one who taught the poisoner the deadly effects of the fungus. He’s an archaeologist himself. No doubt he’s come across it before. And if he passed that information on, he must have had a reason to do so. He always has a reason.”
He downed his brandy.
“And I received confirmation today—there was a heart scarab.”
“Burton replied?”
“Not exactly.” He removed a cable from his pocket and handed it to me. I unfolded it and read it eagerly. It wasn’t what I expected at all.
It was from Carter. It read, “NO HEART SCARAB. STOP. CARTER.”
“Definitive confirmation that there is indeed a heart scarab. Carter saw my name and took the extraordinary step of intercepting my cable.”
“But does Burton have a photo?”
“Carter will likely have destroyed any photos by now. But Burton may still have the plate stowed away somewhere safe. In which case, he may be in danger.”
“We must get word to him.”
“We shall, as soon as I can track down Lady Evelyn. She and her husband are unfortunately incommunicado at present. Honeymooners have a regrettable inclination for privacy.”
I did not sleep well that night. I finally left my bed and rejoined Holmes, who was obviously in the middle of one of his three-pipe problems, which had become a three-bumper problem. I joined him in a brandy, drinking until the decanter was empty and I was in a stupor. I fell asleep before the dying fire.
I awoke the next day to an aching head and stiff bones, and Holmes asleep in the chair across from me. Mrs. Colfax had come in and was scandalized to find the empty decanter between us. She started thrusting the windows open and letting the cold air pile in. I asked her to please work quietly and to fry up every egg she could lay her hands on. Holmes looked old, old and worn-out. I reminded myself that I was two years older than he.
The day passed away. We did not go out, more from torpor than fear, and we got no word from the outer world, except the papers. These we practically bathed in, especially the Times, with its news of the continuing wrangling between Carter and Lacau. This inaction continued for three solid days, while Holmes gathered in and sifted through what information he could from contacts. But he was sorely hampered. We knew no one at the Yard anymore. If he had wanted to recruit new irregulars, they were all in school nowadays. It was a new day. So we stewed, till news came from an unexpected source.
Mrs. Colfax answered a knock on the door and announced Mrs. Roberts. We exchanged frowns—so much for keeping her safe—but there was nothing we could do but let her in.
“Oh, Sir Sherlock, I have a message for you from Madame Louise, but it doesn’t make any sense at all,” she burst forth without even a greeting.
“Bring some tea, Mrs. Colfax, make it strong,” Holmes ordered.
“You look all in,” I said. Perhaps it was ungentlemanly of me to even notice.
She caught her breath and continued. “She wants you to go save Sir Archibald. The radiologist. The man we saw with the princess. At Meiringen. I know!” she cried before we could even get a word out. “She’s warned you over and over not to go to Meiringen, and now she wants you to speed there. At once.”
Holmes asked quietly, “You’re fully certain it was my mother?”
Mrs. Roberts accepted a cup of tea from the housekeeper and sipped at it. She nodded her head. “There are no emanations remotely like your mother’s.”
“I’m sorry,” I asked. “Where is Meiringen?”
“Have you forgotten? We’ve been there. Meiringen is the town next to the Reichenbach Falls.”
And with that, he started packing. I tried to talk him out of it; I talked till I was blue in the face, but he only said brusquely, “You’re the one who doesn’t believe in all this mumbo jumbo, have you forgotten? Commence packing or you will surely be left behind.” Mrs. Roberts stayed silent, obviously conflicted.
Then the telegram came. I opened it and shouted to Holmes, “It’s from someone named Marie-François Goron.”
“Princess Marguerite has left Paris for Switzerland,” he boomed back.
Which is exactly what the cable said. I started packing.
“Unlooked-for associations,” Mrs. Roberts said mysteriously.
“Mrs. Roberts, could you secure a cab for us?” I called.
She returned, “I have one waiting in the street! With my luggage.”
I poked my head out the bedroom door. “I don’t think it wise for you to accompany us. It could be dangerous.”
“Luckily, I am going with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” came her steady reply. “I think I’ll be safe enough.” This prediction would prove as wrong as wrong could be.
From his bedroom, Holmes bellowed, “Pack, Watson, pack.” So I supposed it meant she was coming. We had all taken leave of our senses. I returned to my packing. At least I knew where we were going this time. My woolen things would be perfectly welcome.
“Who is Goron?” I asked.
“An old friend from the Paris police. Retired, of course. Writes detective novels now. Once you supplied us with her location, I asked him to keep an eye on her.”
“Would this be the same mustachioed fellow you employed in Monte Carlo?”
“Pack, Watson.”
In short order we were dragging our bags down the stairs to the street and heaving them into the back of the cab. We piled into the back seat all higgledy-piggledy. Soon we were roaring toward Victoria Station.
“Why is the princess headed for Switzerland?” asked Mrs. Roberts.
“More specifically, Meiringen. Not the falls, which we should have no reason to visit. I’m afraid Sir Archibald may have made the mistake of trying to blackmail her. And we know she doesn’t like to be threatened.”
“So the princess was the poisoner?”
“She was always the most logical suspect. She did kill her husband in cold blood. But does she have the scarab? Or does Sir Archibald?” His forehead wrinkles creased as he juggled the possibilities in his mind.
“I can’t imagine what else would draw her so promptly,” said Mrs. Roberts.
The cab turned onto Wigmore. We settled in, each to his own thoughts. Mine were full of misgivings. Of course, I was the one who had called it all mumbo jumbo. But sometimes the snark is a boojum, you see. I glanced out the window.
“Wait, we’ve passed Victoria Station! Driver—”
“Let him be. We’re not going by train. We’re going to Biggin Hill,” Holmes put in.
“Biggin Hill? Is it still open? I thought after the mutiny there—”
“It is very much open. I made the trip down there only yesterday, searching for Lawrence’s plane. Fell into a conversation with one of the pilots. I told him to be on the lookout for a pilot named Lawrence, or Shaw, or Ross. I told him I might need his services one day if he was amenable. I rang him up while you were still packing. We haven’t time to waste.”
Mrs. Roberts winced. Two aeroplane flights in the same month must have chilled her blood. She would have to grit her teeth and bear it if she were coming with us.
“And this fellow is a qualified pilot? Truly?” she asked, almost pleading.
“This fellow is Billy Bishop.”
That made my eyes light up. “Billy Bishop? The war hero?”
“I’ve had my fill of war heroes,” she said acerbically.
“Billy Bishop! Hell’s handmaiden. He brought down something like eighty Fokkers during the war! He’s a legend. How did you get him to pilot us, Holmes?”
“I’m a legend, as well.”
Point to Holmes.
Biggin Hill wasn’t much to look at in those days, rows of canvas hangars holding mainly Bristol flyers, already out-of-date, some roughshod barracks, and a few anonymous concrete buildings that Holmes said were for advanced research, though he did not elaborate. It was cold on that windswept hill. Luckily, Colonel Bishop was waiting for us at the gate. I tried not to look too awestruck. Mrs. Roberts tried not to look too distrustful. We all tried to avoid the mud.
“Junkers F-13. German make,” said Bishop, introducing us to our flying steed. “Isn’t she a beauty? She’ll hold four comfortably.”
“A German aircraft?” I asked, disturbed.
“We’re studying it,” he said with a wink.
“And it’s made entirely of metal?” said Mrs. Roberts, gazing in wonder.
“World’s first aluminium aircraft,” he said, petting its side as if it were a horse.
Mrs. Roberts looked pleased, although she probably would have been more comfortable with brick, to ward off the big bad wolf. Looking back, I might have preferred it myself.
“Are we ready to take off, Bishop?” asked Holmes, who was not in awe of man or machine.
“Let me just kick the tyres and light the fires.”
We entered the plane, which actually had proper, upholstered seats. Mrs. Roberts surprised us all with blankets—which I recognized were taken from my own linen press. What would Mrs. Colfax think? I hoped she wouldn’t bring in the constabulary. The blankets turned out not to be needed, as the cabin was sealed and even heated, more or less. She did offer mine to the colonel up in the open cockpit, who gracefully refused it.
“Ceiling and visibility unlimited. Nice day for a flight,” he called back to us. “Should be over the Channel in a little under an hour.” Then he lit the fires.
We took off, only to find that metal was even louder than wood. Still, it was a good deal warmer. And Paris in two hours. Flying was a marvel. If we didn’t crash. I surreptitiously knocked on metal. Mind you, we had Bishop in the cockpit. And weren’t about to engage any German Fokkers. Things were looking up for a change. I sat back and watched the boats chasing each other across the Channel below.
We were in the middle of the Channel when Holmes jumped up and threw open the cockpit door, sending cold air whistling through the cabin. “There’s another plane out there. Port side.”
We peered through the windows. Surely it wasn’t that unusual to see another aeroplane crossing the Channel, not in this day and age.
“Yes. She’s an Avro. Wave,” said the major. Obviously, nothing to worry about.
Mrs. Roberts and I waved obediently, but Sherlock Holmes stood in the cockpit doorway, staring suspiciously at our friend in the sky.
“Bishop, does the Avro have any weapons capabilities?” he asked.
It was getting cold inside the cabin. Mrs. Roberts reached for her blanket.
“Not that one. Looks like a . . . Type G. There was only one made, and usually she’s sitting on the runway right next to this bird.” His voice seemed to lose a bit of its cheery Canadian confidence.
The plane was rapidly closing the distance between us.
“Then it’s strange that she should be in the sky right next to us, don’t you think?” said Holmes.
“Well, now that you mention it—there, she’s climbing.”
“Why is she climbing?” Holmes’s voice was urgent.
“She’s climbing awfully slowly,” I chimed in.
“That’s why there was only one of them made. Poor rate of climb. But as for why, she probably wants to take advantage of our draft.” Was that worry creeping into Bishop’s voice?
“Could you outrun her if you had to?” questioned Holmes.
“Probably not. She’s a much lighter body, spruce and canvas, and he’s the only one weighing down that plane—”
“What’s that noise?” shouted Mrs. Roberts.
“That’s the sound of her engines. She’s right above us now. A little too close, really,” replied the major.
“Yes, far too close,” shouted Holmes.
Then there was a shudder and a terrible scraping sound above us. The roof began to buckle. Holmes threw himself into the copilot’s seat.
“What the—” I cried, stunned.
“She’s trying to land on top of us!” barked Bishop.
“What for?” asked Mrs. Roberts.
“She’s trying to kill us!” said Holmes.
Mrs. Roberts’s face turned green. Our nose dipped as the weight settled on us.
“You’ve got to outrun her!” I shouted.
“Can’t do that. But I can do the next best thing. Hold on!”
I felt the sudden wallop of my heart against my rib cage. There was a tearing sound; I thought the roof was going to peel off. Then all at once we popped up, and the Avro was filling the cockpit window. Then it rolled off and disappeared from our view.
“What did you do?” I called.
“I just throttled back. I can’t outrun her, but I can stop on a dime if I have to. She’s pranged us good, though.”
“Is he gone?” Mrs. Roberts asked.
“Who is he?” I shouted.
“It’s Lawrence, of course. He must have been watching your place. And no, I fear he is not gone.”
“If Princess Marguerite is the killer, why is Lawrence trying to kill us?” I asked.
“I never said she was the only killer.”
Perhaps he might have mentioned that before we were in the air over the Channel, I thought.
“Well, you did say it might get dangerous,” said Bishop.
“He didn’t say it to me,” muttered Mrs. Roberts. I had said it to her, though I had never anticipated anything quite like this.
Holmes craned his head out the side of the cockpit. “He’s behind us. Coming up fast.”
“How crazy is the man?” asked the major.
“He’s desperate,” said Holmes.
“He’s Lawrence of Arabia!” I said.
“Then she’s going to try to ram us,” Bishop concluded grimly.
“Won’t she do more damage to herself than to us?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter. If she can shear off our empennage, we’ll lose any maneuverability.”
“What can we do?” Mrs. Roberts asked, peeking from behind her blanket.
“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. As for what you can do—pray.”
