The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 26
“Did I? Oh, good. It was heavy.” She seemed to collapse in on herself.
“I think it’s leaving her. I can feel it ebbing. All the voices have been silenced.”
“I did not save her from the falls to see her hanged,” said Sherlock solemnly.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Dr. John Watson
We left her laid out on Mrs. Roberts’s bed, Mrs. Roberts holding her hand tight. Both of them looked like driftwood washed up on the shore. We had hot cocoa sent up.
“Holmes,” I whispered in his ear. “The doctor could do nothing. Sir Archibald is dead.”
“I hope he may be the last victim of the curse.”
“The curse? She murdered him in cold blood,” I protested.
“I think I would like to partake of a drink in the lounge. Will you join me?”
Of course, I acquiesced.
We argued it through three brandies, till I was quite frazzled. Holmes, of course, remained unperturbed throughout, though on occasion I’d swear his temper almost flared. We were about to begin round four, with what might have been disastrous results, when we were joined by Mrs. Roberts. So we switched to sherry and cooler heads prevailed.
“It all came pouring out. She’s told me everything, or everything she remembers. I’m afraid it’s all mixed-up in her head like a bad dream.
“She says it all began with that strange honeymoon dinner hosted by Colonel Herbert. She wasn’t there for the offer made by Colonel Herbert, having been relegated to being bored to tears by Guinevere Gould, but she heard all about it when her husband came to bed, deep in his cups, as was usually the case.
“He’d given them a choice between power and beauty and gave the first choice to Ali Fahmy Bey, knowing, I suppose, that the Oriental will always choose power first, anticipating beauty would follow in its train. Ali chose accordingly. Gould was content with beauty.”
“One would expect of a man who marries his mistress,” Holmes commented.
“Then Colonel Herbert made the abstract concrete, like a magic trick. He offered Ali Fahmy a vial of poison from the dust of Tutankhamun’s tomb, both lethal and undetectable, for a thousand pounds. And to Gould, for that same thousand pounds, he offered the heart scarab of Tutankhamun. He set them out on the table, like a merchant bargaining his wares in the bazaar.
“The scarab was a thing of wondrous beauty, so that for a moment Prince Ali regretted his choice, but he eagerly eyed the black liquid in the vial. The power of life and death—ah, that were power indeed. The colonel asked them whether they would like to trade, but each was enthralled by his own choice. So, they made their deal and checks were forwarded to Colonel Herbert that same night.
“Ali told her all this, and she praised his choice. But as she lay there in bed, her thoughts went to the scarab, and the thought grew in her mind until she had to see it, just once, just for a minute. She didn’t sleep that night.”
“When the dawn came, she called Mrs. Gould and invited her to lunch that day,” Holmes surmised.
“Oh, no. To breakfast.”
“‘Oh, yes, what foolishness,’ Guinevere Gould said when the princess broached the subject.
“‘Still, it must be very beautiful,’ Marguerite said longingly.
“‘Beautiful, but quite impossible. I do wonder how Colonel Herbert got hold of it at all.’
“‘Could I see it? Just for a moment?’
“‘Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t understand. I had George return it to Lord Carnarvon. He told me how relieved His Lordship was to see it. I don’t need any stolen baubles.’
“Princess Marguerite looked at her as if stricken. What a fool the woman was! She hurried through the meal.”
Holmes saw it all in his mind’s eye. “She must have assumed Lord Carnarvon had given the scarab to his half brother to sell. He had to get some of his money back, after all. If he had sold it once, he would sell it again.”
Mrs. Roberts took up the thread again. “Yes, she determined to go to Lord Carnarvon. He’d sell it to her for half the price, or she’d take his secret to the Egyptians. First she would go home and put on a new frock, perhaps touch up her hair. The flapper look wouldn’t do for a man like Lord Carnarvon; something softer and fuller was required—”
“I don’t think it will be necessary to detail her wardrobe,” Holmes cut in.
Mrs. Roberts did not appreciate the intrusion. “You must understand that she was dressing with the intention to seduce.”
“Her normal intention. Do go on.”
“Well. She got up her nerve with a couple of cocktails and went to his room. She knocked on his door, possibly a little too loudly. He opened the door with a puzzled look on his face.
“‘Princess Marguerite, I believe it was?’
“‘Lord Carnarvon, it is imperative that I should speak to you. Alone.’
“‘Your husband?’ He looked up and down the hall.
“‘Is not with me. May I come in, please?’
“He admitted her and shut the door behind her.
“‘To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of this visit?’
“‘I will come right to the point. You are trying to sell a precious item. I should like to buy it.’
“‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
“‘Don’t be coy. I’ve seen the heart scarab.’
“‘There is no heart scarab.’
“But she could see the fear in his eyes. She, of course, had never laid eyes on the scarab, but she described it, just as her husband had described it to her.
“It must have been too much for him. He grabbed her by the wrists and began shaking her. ‘Who told you? Who told you?’ But she knew how to handle herself in a fight with a man. Long fingernails raked his cheek, drawing blood. He threw her onto the bed. She expected him to throw himself on her, but instead he turned away. The deepest cut of all. ‘Get out,’ he told her.”
Holmes interposed again. “He was signing his death warrant. She went directly to her husband and told him Lord Carnarvon had tried to have his way with her. Did he believe her?”
“Not really, but he made sure to be in the hotel dining room the next morning when Lord Carnarvon come down to breakfast. Fahmy noted the scratches on his face.”
“Would he really have cared?” I asked.
“Perhaps not, but he knew what was expected of him as a man. And besides, he had purchased the poison. He was eager to test it. It seemed the perfect opportunity. He knew any number of people who would like the Englishman out of the way. So while Carnarvon was having his toast and marmalade, he crept up to his room. Getting a maid to unlock the door was easy, with his brilliant smile and a claim that he was meant to wait for Lord Carnarvon.
“Once inside, he swiftly found milord’s aftershave and added a few drops of the poison to it.”
“The aftershave! Of course,” I said, remembering Holmes’s testing of the scents.
We looked to Mrs. Roberts to take up the tale again.
“Then he searched everywhere for the scarab. But it was nowhere to be found. Nowhere! He slipped out and down the stair just as the lift opened and Lord Carnarvon stepped out.
“She was bitterly disappointed when he told her he had not found the heart scarab. She berated him for not searching till he found it. It was nowhere to be found, he insisted. But Gould had returned it! She was certain.
“Did his wife see him return it? He’d never brought it back to Lord Carnarvon, Ali reasoned. He wouldn’t pay a thousand pounds just to throw it away. Gould had lied to his wife.”
“Ah, so that was when she realized Gould still had it,” said Holmes.
“And the more she brooded over it, the more convinced she was that she was right: Gould still had the scarab. He must have it. He would give it up, or he would die, too.
“No, he would not kill again, Prince Ali vowed. Gould had done him no dishonor. ‘Very well then,’ she threw back at him. She would get the scarab herself, by hook or by crook.
“Her husband didn’t believe her; he thought she wouldn’t have the courage to act. But oh, she had the courage, and she had access to the poison. That meant Gould’s death. She was able to introduce a few drops into his drink at a rather somber farewell dinner. It was risky, but she had already discovered that it was a slow-acting poison: Lord Carnarvon had taken three days to die once he’d shaved himself.
“Gould apparently felt their mutual experience of Lord Carnarvon’s death had created some sort of bond between them. He invited them to his villa at Cap Martin. Foolish man.”
“Things did not go as she had planned,” said Holmes. “Gould came down with a fever, and his wife rushed him to Cap San Martin the very next day. He was far more robust than Lord Carnarvon had been. There was nothing to do but follow them, pretending they were concerned for Gould’s health.”
“By the time they arrived at Villa Zoralde, she told me, they found Guinevere Gould worn-out with worry. Marguerite offered to look after him while Guinevere took her rest. While he moaned in his sleep, she searched his room from top to bottom. At last, she found the scarab, hidden away cunningly among his papers. She was transported by the sight of it.
“Of course, the scarab would never be safe as long as there was a chance that Gould might rally. So she administered another few drops in his tonic to finish him off. Then she begged off, saying she had received word that her sister in Paris was ill. They would return as soon as ever they could. She kissed Guinevere lovingly on the cheek. So it was from the comfort of the Savoy that she read of Gould’s death two days later.
“And all would have been well, had they not met Valentino and his new wife, dancing one night at the Savoy. She immediately sensed an attraction between her husband and the Russian girl, Natacha Rambova. He even invited the couple to dine with them, a sure sign that he was smitten.
“He’d warned her that she must never show the scarab to anyone, but she so badly wanted to make the Russian girl jealous. Somehow the conversation had turned to Egypt and Tutankhamun. The little Russian girl was eaten up with jealousy that they had toured the tomb. The princess could feel the heat of the scarab beneath her clothes, burning between her breasts on the golden chain she had fitted it with. In fact, she had not been parted from it since she had first donned it in the Villa Zoralde. She showed it to the Russian girl, only briefly. What harm could there be in it? And Rambova had gushed over it so.
“Ali was furious. That would pass. She knew how to manage him. But she was not prepared for the row that came later. She locked herself in the bathroom to avoid blows and decided to take a bath to still her pounding head. When she came out, tranquil in mind, he was gone.”
“And so was the scarab.” Holmes and I arrived at the conclusion together.
“It was pouring outside. The hours ticked by. What if he didn’t return? What if he was with that woman? Or with both of them? She knew her husband’s predilections quite well by then. Could he have hidden it somewhere in the room as a nasty trick? She searched diligently. All she found was the gun. She felt it smooth and cold in her hands. Luxurious. She checked to make sure it was loaded. She loved the perfume of the bullets. She even rubbed them on her neck, just below the earlobes.”
Holmes hurried her to the ending. “When he came back, it was after two in the morning. He told her he had sold the scarab to Valentino. So, she shot him.” End of story. “And Sir Archibald?” I asked after a bit. “She didn’t even remember Sir Archibald.” “Didn’t remember murdering him? That’s cold-blooded,” I said. “I think I can enlighten you with regards to Sir Archibald. I found
this in her coat pocket. It’s from him.” He pulled a paper from his
pocket, unfolded it, and gave it to me to read aloud.
Dear Lady,
I believe you have in your possession an item of interest to us both. You see, I am the radiologist who was brought in by Mr. Howard Carter to examine and scan Tutankhamun’s mummy. Examining it, I made a rather interesting discovery: the definite impression of a heart scarab, though I had been told definitively that there was no heart scarab. When I questioned Mr. Carter on the matter, he admitted that there might have been such a scarab, but it must have been plundered a thousand years ago. I accepted his explanation, even though I knew it wasn’t the truth. The marks around the scarab’s impression told of a far more recent plunder—nor was it hard to guess by whom.
For, you see, I had heard the rumor of a very special dinner, and a disquisition afterward concerning power and beauty. No one seemed certain what those talismans representing power and beauty were, but I could guess what beauty was, though not to whom it had been sold. There are two of you whose husbands were privy to that discourse. One of you has the scarab. The other one is innocent. If the scarab is returned to me, I shall see to it that it is returned to the proper authorities, and nothing more need ever be said about it.
“Then he gives the date and place for their rendezvous.”
“Did he really intend to return the scarab?” I wondered aloud.
“No,” said Mrs. Roberts, with all the certainty of women’s intuition. “But why did she go? She didn’t have the scarab by then.”
“No, but the letter made her doubt her husband’s final words. She thought perhaps he had sold it back to Guinevere Gould. She had never believed that lady could give it up so blithely. She hoped the other woman would bring it.”
“Then he sent a letter to both of them?” I asked.
“The identical letter, I should say. It was only because she is out of the country that Mrs. Gould did not receive it, else she might have come today as well, if only to disabuse him of the notion that she had the scarab in her possession. She might have been the sixth victim of the curse.”
“Shall we go to the police now?” I asked.
“I don’t think the police will be necessary,” said Mrs. Roberts, rubbing a finger along her lips as if she meant to wipe away the story she had just related.
“Pah! Now you sound like Holmes.”
“You’re a medical man,” said Mrs. Roberts. “Think of the elemental as an infection, passed on from one host to another. The infection caused her to lose her balance, badly. But now the infection is fading. She has righted herself.”
“And who is she? A money-grubbing little—”
“I know something of what it is to be a woman grubbing for money,” she replied dryly.
“So we blame her actions on what—elementals? Because if that’s the case, the scarab is still out there, in the hands of this Hollywood actress. Should we expect to hear of a rash of murders in Hollywood?”
“Not necessarily. The elemental has a different effect on each person, just as an infection does. It had no effect at all on Guinevere Gould. Still, I think it would be safest if the scarab is returned to its rightful owner.”
“The Egyptian government,” I said.
“Tutankhamun.”
She saw the look of disbelief on my face. “Surely you have seen enough to shake your disbelief at last.”
I think I grunted. It was the only cogent answer I could make. I didn’t know what I believed any longer. I had yet to work it all out logically. But I didn’t want to admit that to her.
“Surely the police will want to know who poisoned Sir Archibald,” I cried.
“I’ve discussed that with the clerk already. Did you know that he is Peter Steiler’s son?” asked Holmes. “He said that the doctor has already signed the death certificate, giving cause of death as hepatic abscess.”
I threw in my cards.
I went to bed a little tipsy that night, but sleep eluded me. In the morning we would take the train to Paris. We would deposit Princess Marguerite at her home. Holmes and Mrs. Roberts kept assuring me it was the right thing to do. Every fiber of my being told me I should go to the Meiringen police and tell them everything. I could not bring myself to believe in all this spiritualist pap that Holmes so voraciously dined on.
Yet I had seen things that I could not explain, it was true. How had Mrs. Roberts known that we would find Princess Marguerite at the falls? Could she really have practiced hypnotism on me? I could still remember the heat from the flames in the tomb, my skin crackling and blackening. But what if I cracked the door open to the “other side”? Would I then be forced to believe in philandering fairies? Or could I believe in just a little of it? Must it be all or none? Where to draw the line?
Murderess! She’d ruthlessly murdered four people for a mere bauble. Wait, then who had murdered Colonel Herbert? He seemed to have been forgotten. Holmes had said not every death could be attributed to an elemental.
What time was it? Would the kitchen staff still be working? Perhaps a glass of warm milk would soothe my jangled nerves. I must have fallen asleep with that comforting thought in mind.
Thus, the next morning at breakfast, it was I who looked as if I’d murdered someone. As for Princess Marguerite, she seemed perfectly normal, if a little vacant. Her eyes were unfocused and the blood at her throat pulsed like a metronome.
Conversation was tepid. I decided not to take up the argument again, not there in front of the lady herself. To what purpose? Mrs. Roberts was convinced that the princess was well on her way to a cure of some sort, that the scarab itself was entirely to blame for her sins, that she could heal the woman with soft words. And Holmes, once the paragon of logic, merely parroted her arguments. Was there some logic beyond logic that I was missing? Oh, I had been all over this a hundred times. I could either go to the police, who had already declared Sit Archibald’s death a result of a failed operation, or I could keep quiet.
I kept quiet. As the tomb.
The princess did mention at one point that she was anxious to get home to her husband. Whether she was serious or shamming, I couldn’t tell. No one seemed comfortable reminding her that she had put three bullets in her husband’s back. Where he was buried, I didn’t know, but he certainly was not waiting for her at the Rue Georges-Ville.
She and Mrs. Roberts sat next to each other whispering the whole way back to Paris. Her sister had by now alerted the authorities since she had left without a word or even a note. It was rather a job to call off the dogs, and her sister seemed disappointed that she had not returned with a pack of reporters at her back. We booked rooms at the nearby Hotel du Bois and repaired thither. Mrs. Roberts chose to stay with the princess till the wee hours of the morning. I feared for her, alone with that woman and her sister, who might be as mad as she. But I admired her courage.
