The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 25
“Calm yourself, sir. If you must know, he is entertaining a young lady. A rather fascinating—”
Holmes swung the register around to read it. “What room is he in?” He leafed through, scanning the pages.
“Please sir, it’s most irregular—” The clerk tried to scrabble the register back.
Holmes grabbed the clerk’s collar and pulled him close. “What room?”
“Three oh five!” squeaked the clerk.
“Call the doctor.” He shoved the telephone in front of the clerk. “Tell him it’s urgent.”
We ran to the lift, threw the attendant out, rammed the cage closed, and punched the button for the third floor.
The door to 305 was standing open. We burst into the room. It was in disarray, with drawers open and clothes tossed hither and thither. A man was lying on the bed. His skin was grey and his eyes distended, his limbs flailing helplessly. It was Sir Archibald, knocking at death’s door. There was no sign of any fascinating woman.
I leaned over him, sniffed his breath, and took his pulse. “His heart is beating like a trip-hammer. He’s been poisoned.”
“We’ve got to pump his stomach,” said Holmes.
“It’ll do no good. Look at the deep scratches on his cheek. It’s gone straight to his bloodstream, the same as Lord Carnarvon.”
Holmes picked up an empty vial from the floor, examining it. “A much more powerful dose, it would seem.”
I spied Mrs. Roberts, looking small and frightened.
“Mrs. Roberts, go downstairs. Make sure he’s called the doctor. Tell him it’s blood poisoning,” I shouted.
“Aspergillosis,” pronounced Sherlock Holmes.
“Immediately,” I said as she stood stock-still, watching the man in his agony.
Mrs. Roberts regained her senses and clattered out.
“I had to get her out of here. She looked as if she were about to faint,” I said.
“She reminds me of you when we first started. You recall the murder of Enoch Drebber?”
Of course I remembered. It was the first account I had written up of our adventures together. But I hadn’t been as green as all that. I had seen plenty of death in Afghanistan. I didn’t see any reason in arguing it at this crisis point.
“The princess made a thorough going-over of this room,” I remarked instead.
“And found nothing, I’ll be bound,” Holmes observed.
“She can’t have gotten far.”
Mrs. Roberts appeared in the doorway, fairly panting for breath. She appeared to fill the entire doorway, darkening the entire room like a thunderhead.
“You know where to find her,” she said. “You’re the only one who can save her.” Her voice was deep and harsh and seemed to come from somewhere far away. I felt an icy hand grip my heart.
“Why? Why would she go there?” I asked, petrified by the very thought.
“To end her life.”
“Well, then, let her go,” I said coldly, despite my medical vows.
Mrs. Roberts drew back from me as though repulsed. But she hadn’t seen Holmes perish once already at the bottom of that cauldron.
“I shall go to the falls,” Holmes said solemnly.
“Holmes, for God’s sake, why?” I begged.
“Because my mother asks it of me. Because I still have business with Professor Moriarty.” And that was that. The resolve in his eye, ah! I knew it so well—it was unconquerable.
“Then this time I shall go with you,” I said.
“No, you must stay by Sir Archibald’s side and lend him what succor you can, at least until another doctor arrives.”
He and Mrs. Roberts went out together. I looked daggers at the dying man on the bed. I’m sorry, but I did. Then I set about making his last moments as comfortable as possible.
I waited and waited, the tall clock in the corner eating up precious seconds, whole minutes. Finally, a young fellow came through the open door, far too young to be a doctor. He looked exasperated. He went straight to Sir Archibald.
“I knew we should never have discharged you from the clinic,” he said, laying his hand along the fevered forehead.
He was a doctor.
“Aspergillus flavus,” I said in his ear. “Blood poisoning.”
“This man has just undergone abdominal surgery. Radiation poisoning is what he’s got.”
I did not care to hear it. I went after Holmes. I went banging down the stairs, shouting his name. The clerk met me at the bottom of the stair.
“He left, he and the lady,” he said calmly.
“I’m going after them. Check us in.”
“I see that you are lame. It will not do to assail the mountain in your present condition.”
Till he mentioned it, I had forgot all about my swollen ankle. Now the pain came throbbing back. I winced, but I was determined. I strode out through the front door without another word.
“Here, take my staff.” The clerk ran up to me and presented it. It was good, stout oak. I thanked him profusely, touched by his good heart. I might look like a decrepit old man with it—I certainly felt like one—but I wasn’t jolly well going to be deterred by the falls this time. I tottered off with a renewed sense of vigor. Holmes and the woman were already far ahead of me.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Mrs. Estelle Roberts
The clerk had told us it was only a fifteen-minute ramble to the path that that led to the falls. “Then you can take the funicular to the top.”
“The funicular?” Holmes repeated in disbelief. “There’s a funicular now?”
“Oh, yes, sir. The falls have become a very popular tourist attraction. You know, the famous detective Sherlock Holmes slipped and fell to his death there.”
Holmes gave him a frosty look. “Don’t believe everything you read.” He stalked out the door. I struggled to keep up.
“The station is next to the clinic in Willigen. Do you know it?” the clerk called to Holmes.
“I think he knows it,” I said apologetically, turning round and round.
I don’t think Sir Sherlock had any intention of taking the funicular. He had climbed the mountain path thirty years before and intended to do so again.
But that had been thirty years ago. After a brisk ten-minute march, he began wheezing, and I was laboring hard. I had heard something about lighter air—or lesser air, thinner air—in the mountains. Believe me, it’s true.
I was entirely out of breath by the time we reached the funicular. The high mountain air was paper-thin and clear as crystal. I feared my lungs might shatter like glass. Sir Sherlock looked done in. When I saw the climb the funicular would make, I was amazed that Sir Sherlock and Dr. Watson had once hiked their way up. Without even consulting one another, we settled in on the cold wooden seats. I tried to look as calm as Sir Sherlock did. He was positively somnolent.
I didn’t feel calm at all. I was about to face the elemental, to test my power against its malevolence. I had to free the woman from its poison. If I should fail—it didn’t bear thinking about.
A tall man came in and sat across from us. His face was grey and haggard, and the look in his eyes so haunted that once I had seen them, I did not want to meet his gaze again. His clothes were of good make, but in a style of the last century, as if they had been handed down to him from his father. His hair was gray and lank and oily with some foul-smelling pomade in it. He did not speak, but his eyes drifted toward me and made me feel so unclean that I shuddered all over.
That was when I realized that Sir Sherlock did not see him.
He spoke to me. “Estelle, how nice to finally make your acquaintance.” Then he entered me. I choked. Sir Sherlock eyed me with concern. He laid a hand on my forehead. I could feel the slime of his flesh.
“He’s here,” I managed to get out. “Moriarty.”
His eyes narrowed to fierce grey slits. “What does he say?”
I wanted to slap Sir Sherlock’s hand away. I could only manage to wave my hands helplessly. “He’s waiting for you. He’s been waiting for you a long time.”
He removed his hand, but I could still feel his fetid breath on my face.
With a jump, the funicular started up. Dr. Watson was not coming.
“Oh. Let’s get off!” I cried. The few passengers aboard turned my way.
“Calm yourself. It’s only bluster. What else does he say?”
“You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes, or be trodden underfoot,” I said in a thin, serpentine voice.
“Ah, he’s said that before. And rued it, I fancy,” Sir Sherlock said.
We began climbing toward the sky. I had never felt such evil coursing through my veins before. Nausea came in waves.
“I’m glad you killed him, God forgive me, but I am glad,” I breathed.
“God forgive me, for I never meant to kill him. It preys upon my mind.”
“And now you will kill a woman. Let that prey upon your mind,” came that voice, clutching at my throat, wagging my tongue.
Did he mean me? Did Sir Sherlock mean to murder me? Did he have the pharaoh’s heart already? I had never suspected, fool that I was. There was nowhere to escape to.
I struggled for release as Moriarty poured his bile into me, cruel words, crueler thoughts, with a tenuous, mocking laughter behind them. My mind was at war, and I was no match for him. Red Cloud could not hear me over the roaring waters. But I never repeated another word to Sir Sherlock. I let him think that Moriarty had left me. I would wait, and watch, until my moment came.
At last, we reached the top. Moriarty’s voice abated, as if I had left him in the lower depths, but I felt ground down like meal. The falls were roaring in my ears ceaselessly, half-human, reminiscent of my dreams. It came to me that Moriarty wasn’t the only one who had died here. Adventurers, spurned lovers, ruined traders, lost souls had all cast themselves or been cast onto the rocks below. Whether they were benevolent spirits or malevolent devils I couldn’t begin to tell. But they were all calling to be heard. I could not but pity them.
Sir Sherlock led the way to a narrow rocky path. It was slick and icy in places with the spray of the falls. I could have wished for a railing or a walking stick or . . . something. Sir Sherlock ahead of me seemed sure-footed as a mountain goat.
My first sight of the falls up close snatched away what little breath I had left. They were awesome, turning and churning in a widening gyre. What was it about this old man that made me follow him down that path? I don’t know to this day. But I followed. The sun was shining like a gold coin on fire, but there was a heavy mist all about, soaking me, coating my face and limbs with ice. I looked down for only a moment into that seething cauldron, feeling it would reach out with awful tentacles and drag me under. There were eyes in that black pool and malice in those eyes. From then on, I trained my eyes only on Sherlock Holmes’s narrow back. It was when he stopped abruptly, and I almost ran into him, that I saw her at the end of the path.
There was nowhere for her to go but into our waiting arms. Or down—down into the dark tumult. For a moment, just a moment, I was so maddened by the sound that I thought of throwing Sir Sherlock off the edge. Or was it a moment? Time seemed suspended. If I threw him over, I could go back. No one need ever know. The temptation was sore.
As for her, she looked like one already drowned. Her hair was streaming down her back, her collar wrenched open as if she could not breathe, her grey gown bedraggled. Her imperious ways were fled, replaced by a look of deep desperation. She stood trembling like a windblown leaf, perilously close to the edge.
“Marguerite.” His voice was soft and low, like a lullaby. I felt the strings of my own mind go slack. All the horrid thoughts of throwing him over the edge blew away, as if driven by the wind. Moriarty passed from me—into her? Was Moriarty dancing in her head?
Sir Sherlock’s voice rose a breath. “Marguerite!”
With that her eyes came into focus and she started. I held my breath until she spoke.
“Have you got it?” she breathed.
There was no doubt what she meant. She didn’t have it. She had come all this way, only to be cheated.
“No,” he answered. Her face darkened. He quickly added, “But I know where to find it.”
“Where is it? Did he have it? I searched everywhere.”
“He doesn’t have it. He never did.”
“He said he had it!” she screeched.
“It was a lie, and you knew it. You know who has it.”
“Who?”
“Come away from here and I’ll lead you to it.”
“No, no, it’s down below. I can hear it calling.”
“You showed it to someone. After your husband warned you against it.”
“No.”
“You did, Marguerite.”
“It was his fault,” she whined. “He boasted first.”
“Who did you show it to?”
“I showed it to no one!”
“Who?” he thundered, and my legs quivered.
“That woman. The girl with Valentino.”
“Natacha Rambova. She is the one who has it.”
“No, you’re lying. I hear its voice calling.”
I heard that voice, too. Sweet and sinister. I couldn’t make out the words, but it was seeking to snare me again.
“What did the voice tell you?” I asked, my voice brittle.
“It told me it’s at the bottom, the very bottom.” She cast her eyes longingly into the void.
“No. That voice is full of deception, Marguerite.” Sherlock’s voice was laden with suasion. “That voice only wants to torment you, to destroy you. Believe me, I know that voice. It has haunted me for years.” His voice so passionate that it forced her to listen, to reconsider. Light slowly spread across her face.
He eased toward her, almost imperceptibly, narrowing the gap between them. If I could only keep her distracted. Or was it him I wanted to distract, to lure him over the edge? The desire suddenly was overwhelming. I reached out—
It was then that Louise came to me, filling my blood, burning the shadows from my heart, freeing my tongue, banishing Moriarty. I don’t remember everything she said through me, but they were words of consolation, bright drops of mercy, words to break the heart and forge it anew.
But the waters drowned her voice. Even her words were not enough. Words would not suffice. The woman took a deep breath and leaned over, as one leans over a lover. Lost her balance.
And fell.
Sherlock Holmes lunged for her. He grabbed hold of her arm. He went to his knees with the sudden weight. His bones cracked against the hard earth. Still, he held on to her somehow, though he was sprawled on the cold, wet stone. He slipped, inch by inch, being dragged to the edge. Was it only her weight that was pulling, or had Moriarty grasped her by the legs, pulling her down? He didn’t care about the woman at all, I saw that now. He wanted to drag Sir Sherlock into the teeming waters. I looked on, trading horror and ecstasy back and forth. I went to my knees beside him. I didn’t think to help at all. I didn’t think to harm. I could only watch, held at bay by all those drowned spirits.
“Let me go!” she cried, twisting and turning in his grasp.
“I’ll not let go. Though it be forty days and forty nights, I will not let you go.”
She went silent, pouting like a little girl who cannot have her way.
So he lay there, motionless. I could hear his breath next to me, and the occasional sob of the girl. From far away I thought I heard Moriarty’s laughter. Sooner or later Sherlock Holmes must tire and let go.
“Let go, old man.” Did I say it aloud? Did I whisper in his ear? In a moment there is time for visions and incisions, which a moment will erase.
Then I heard a stamping, and a new voice, clear as day. Not one of my voices.
“Grab hold of my stick, Maggie. Sherlock Holmes has wrists of steel. He will not let you go. You shall not die today—be reconciled to that. Take hold.”
Hearing that voice, the plain, steady syllables of John Watson, Moriarty fled the earth as though he were no more than a sparrow. I found myself again staring into Princess Marguerite’s eyes.
Her gaze flickered over me. She looked at me searchingly, beseechingly, and something seemed to go out of her face, something hard and cruel in the lines around her eyes and lips. She was left with the face of a sad, lonely woman.
“Take hold,” commanded Dr. Watson, in a voice that would not be denied.
There was a moment of indecision. Then she raised her free arm, flailing at the stick. He lowered it farther. She clamped her hand around the base. His knees buckled slightly. He must have felt the pull of her weight stabbing at his bad ankle. Yet he held. He gritted his teeth and slowly began to raise her. Holmes strained with every fiber of his being and grabbed hold of her by the shoulder. Together, scrabbling for every sweet inch, they lifted her to safety. She collapsed into my waiting arms. My arms, not Moriarty’s, nor Louise’s, nor even Red Cloud’s. I held her like a daughter.
Sir Sherlock stood, creakily. He turned to Dr. Watson. Both men were out of breath. “How did you get here so soon? The funicular is thirty minutes each way,” he said, huffing and puffing.
“I walked,” the doctor replied simply.
“You walked. You are a marvel.”
And he wrapped his arms around his friend in a great bear hug. I’d never seen two men hug, and I’m not sure Dr. Watson was entirely comfortable with it.
“Can you help me with her?” I called.
Sir Sherlock broke off from his embrace and came back to me. Together we lifted the woman, who was nearly catatonic, to her feet. She seemed to revive a little in the warmth of the detective’s arms. Together we carried her away from that dangerous place, with Dr. Watson limping behind like one of those St. Bernard dogs one always hears of.
Soon we saw the funicular humming up the cable, growing big like a child’s toy become real. We deposited her in a seat safely away
from the window.
“The scarab, do you have it?” she uttered faintly.
“Forget about the scarab. You flung it into the falls,” said Sir Sherlock.
