The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 27
I sat with Sherlock Holmes again that evening in the hotel lounge, though I was careful to drink sparingly this time. My unresolved feelings made conversation a burden. But then I recalled the question that had been pushed to the back of my mind. Who had killed Colonel Herbert?
“I’m afraid I was the cause of Colonel Herbert’s death.”
“What—?”
“At least in part. By placing the blame for Lord Carnarvon’s death on the curse, I emboldened Colonel Herbert’s assassins, who knew that many would jump to the conclusion that it must be the work of the curse, as well. Even Scotland Yard was lulled.”
“Assassins?”
“Oh, yes. Lawrence never works alone. The Arab doctor who performed the operation was as guilty as he. I suspect he has disappeared deep into the curtained desert by now.”
“Did Herbert really steal the scarab from his own brother?” I asked.
“I think not. Far more likely he was given the scarab to smuggle out of the country. Herbert was a remarkable man, but remarkably unprepossessing. He aroused suspicion in no one. He often traveled around dressed as a tramp. It made him a superbly effective spy.”
“But why did he have to die? Because he knew about the poison?”
“No. Because he was a man of reason. A peacemaker. You know how he negotiated the release of prisoners from Mustafa Kemal after the battle of Kut? By offering himself in their place.
“But there is a faction among the Egyptians who don’t want reason; they want independence above all. The charming Zaghlul Pasha is their chief. The voice of reason is a hindrance to them and must be stilled. Far better to deal with firebrands. And those few who have proven entirely sympathetic to their cause, like Lawrence.”
“Lawrence killed Herbert? And that’s why he tried to kill us?”
“Had him killed, or had a hand in the planning. Lawrence knows better than to sully his own hands. And he didn’t try to kill us because of what we knew, but to keep us from stopping his next move.”
“He’s got more deaths planned?”
“You remember what you said upon meeting General Stack? That he seemed a reasonable man?”
“Lee Stack is his next target?”
“I believe so. A reasonable man might bank the fires of the Egyptians.”
“You’ve got to warn him.”
“I’ve already made my report to Intelligence and to Colonel Stack personally, but I’m afraid I’ve been met with disbelief. Lawrence is still adored in some quarters. As for me, I’m the man who believes in fairies.”
“You’re bitter,” I ventured.
“I’m not bitter, strangely enough. I saved a life at the Reichenbach Falls yesterday. I can’t help but feel absolved to some degree for the life I took there thirty years ago. I am at peace. I am willing to let the world go on as it will, for good or ill. It will anyway, you know.”
“You never could have saved her without Mrs. Roberts.”
“And you, my doughty friend.”
That night I was plagued by nightmares about leaving my hotel room for something, the newspaper, perhaps, and being shot in the back, thirty times, by Mrs. Roberts. Would Sherlock Holmes absolve her of my murder, blaming it on the scarab?
I was ready for my own bed at home. Hadn’t we solved the case?
Well, no. For there was still the matter of the scarab. Scarab, scarab, who had the scarab?
Of course, there was another loose end to wrap up, one which had been entirely driven out of my mind, although I’m sure my readers have by no means forgotten it. I was reminded painfully of it as soon as I entered my sitting room the next day, with Holmes at my heels.
Sitting there, in my best chair, was T. E. Lawrence.
After I got over the initial shock, and realizing that he was not armed and that Mrs. Colfax had seen him in and that Holmes had situated himself in my second-best chair, I busied myself making tea and bringing in the low stool from my examining room. Neither Holmes nor Lawrence seemed inclined to speak of any matters of importance until I was settled and they’d had a few bracing sips of blue tea.
“First,” said Lawrence, clearing his throat, “I suppose I owe you both an apology.”
“For trying to kill us?” surmised Holmes, as if he might have been referring to Lawrence’s dropping in on us unannounced.
“Just so.”
“So you could kill the sirdar,” I said flatly.
“What? No, of course not. To keep you from taking the caliph.”
“The who?” I asked.
“Abdülmecid II, the caliph of the Ottoman Empire. Or he was until three days ago, when the caliphate was dissolved and he was banished from Turkey. He had to flee for his life to Switzerland. He will be the last caliph.”
“What’s that got to do with the price of onions?” I asked.
“There was a plot, devised by Harington and his boys, to bring Abdülmecid to England and prop him up as caliph in exile. When you took off for Switzerland in such a hurry, I thought you were part of it. They failed in the end. He had no wish to be a puppet.”
“I begin to understand. Without the caliph, the sharif of Mecca becomes the sole voice of Islam,” said Holmes.
“Sharif Hussein has already taken steps to have himself proclaimed caliph,” Lawrence replied.
“Which would strengthen the hand of Faisal and pan-Arabism. You’re still in Faisal’s corner after all this time?”
“I made promises,” Lawrence said solemnly.
I couldn’t follow all the twists and turns of politics. But I had not taken my eyes off the main point. “And did those promises include the murder of Aubrey Herbert?”
Lawrence looked at me as if I were mad. “You lay that at my door? He was my bosom friend.”
“Yet you were the one who recommended the doctor who pulled every tooth out of his head,” I exploded.
“He was desperate! He was going blind. Can you imagine what that meant to a man like Herbert? I’d heard that clearing out bad teeth can help with cataracts. He had a mouthful of rotten teeth. It was a risk, but one he was willing to take. I had no idea he’d have every tooth in his head pulled! And it did him absolutely no good.”
“So you poisoned him. Aspergillosis.” I wasn’t letting go.
“Ah, I should have known you’d recognize the symptoms in Lord Carnarvon. Your friend is not as perceptive as you, however, Holmes. But then, what is he but a stenographer? I came here today to ask you about this letter, whether I should put it in the hands of Mary Herbert.” He took an envelope from his pocket and threw it on the table. Then he stood.
“I’ll leave it in the hands of the good, saintly doctor. Only know that if you had insulted me a hundred years earlier as you did today, I’d
have put a bullet through your brain.” He strode out the door and slammed it behind him. “The gall of the man! Shall we at last call Scotland Yard?” I roared. “My eyes are tired, Watson. Would you do me the favor of reading
Colonel Herbert’s missive?” I picked up the envelope. It was indeed from Colonel Aubrey
Herbert. I put on my reading glasses, opened it, and read aloud.
My dearest Tom,
When this reaches you, I shall be no more. I’m afraid the curse of Tutankhamun is real, at least for me. I fear I should never have visited the tomb with you, nor asked you about the fungus on the western wall. Certainly I should never have collected it, never had it distilled. I thought to turn two of the wealthiest men in the world into informants. It would have been quite a coup. Instead, I am certain my actions led inadvertently to the death of my brother, and likely Gould’s death as well. I cannot expiate these crimes, except by one means.
Night is closing in on me. The operation was a failure. I thought that I was brave, but I cannot go on with the shame of either my spiritual or my physical afflictions. I still have enough of the aspergillus solution to provide my quietus.
Tell Mary, tell Mary . . . whatever you think is best. But tell her that I have loved only her and shall love her beyond death and to the end of time. I am sorry to lay this burden on you. I have no one else, and I know that you are brave beyond all reason.
Your loving friend,
Aubrey
By the time I finished reading, my voice was hoarse.
“I apologize. I have led you badly astray” was all Sherlock Holmes said.
I did not speak for several minutes. Then I mumbled, “He did try to kill us, remember.”
“True. Of course, that’s hardly an exclusive club.”
Chapter Twenty-Four: Mrs. Estelle Roberts
Yesterday I received a letter from the princess. She was full of woe. She had miscarried Prince Ali’s child, she said. I was at first stricken by the news, until I remembered that she had never been pregnant, that it had only been a ruse. She was still in a state of shock and confusion from which she might never fully recover. Perhaps she had convinced herself she had been pregnant, as she had believed her husband still alive. She needed someone to love. It was part of her makeup, her very being. It is a curse to be beautiful. As for the murderer that had once dwelled within her, there was no trace remaining. It was as if it had lost its footing, slipped through Sir Sherlock’s hands, and perished in the waters below. One sincerely hopes so.
But I soon put her out of my mind. Today was the day. Today I would meet with Natacha Rambova. I would have been nervous enough dealing with such a celebrity, but today I had a mission. I had to learn how she had been affected by the scarab—if she truly had the scarab. Sir Sherlock and Dr. Watson would be close at hand, awaiting my verdict. At least her husband, Valentino, would not be present. He had an interview with Film Monthly to attend.
Sherlock Holmes had written to Mrs. Gould, who confirmed that she had told her husband to return the scarab to Lord Carnarvon. She also confirmed that she had received the same letter as the princess from Sir Archibald—just after reading in the papers that Sir Archibald had died.
I had been cleaning house all day. The children would not be home for hours. Holmes and Watson were in the baby’s room with the door firmly shut. I was afraid they would wake the baby, but they had practice at sitting quiet as church mice for hours, they assured me. I turned down the gas, more to hide the shabbiness of the furniture given to us by friends than to set a mood. I had met her before, had a brief conversation with her, but I had never before held a séance with her. She had smarts, though, I was immediately impressed by that. She was not some brainless Hollywood starlet. I would have to be careful.
A knock came at the door. I froze for a second, then recovered myself, smoothed down my hair, and moved to answer it.
She sailed through the door like a swan. Her dress left me tongue-tied. So chic, so lovely, so—Egyptian (a gold metallic lace dress with silk lamé and handcrafted floral ornaments). Her eyes were questioning— no, questing. Her hair was parted in the exact center, throwing the severe planes of her face into stark relief. I recovered myself and invited her inside. Except she was already seated, exactly where she was supposed to be, puffing carelessly on a cigarette. I suppose that poise came with being an actress. I could learn from her.
I sat down across from her at the small table. A candle was lit between us. Unaccountably, I was reminded of the Hodsons on the train. I muffled a giggle. She must have thought me deranged.
But sensitives are excused their little eccentricities. Soon we dropped into a more somber mood. She wanted to talk to Heber C. Kimball, her great-grandfather. (The “little Russian” confessed to me that her given name was Winifred Kimball Shaughnessy; she was born in Utah).
I thought it an odd request, wanting to commune with a relative from so long ago, but she explained that no one else had been able to reach him. He had been a lion in his time, and she badly wanted his advice. She’d heard Sir Sherlock lecture in New York, remembered that I was the only sensitive able to put him in touch with his mother. She said she was afraid that her relative was reluctant to speak because he was a Mormon. Indeed, one of the first Mormons, counselor to Brigham Young himself, if I knew who that was (I didn’t at the time but later educated myself). He most definitely did not believe in spiritualism. So he might be embarrassed to admit he was still alive, so to speak. Of course, he had wed forty-three wives during his lifetime, so perhaps he simply preferred to keep a low profile in the afterlife rather than be plagued by them throughout eternity.
I said that I would relish the challenge, but that he might not appear if his beliefs interfered. I called Red Cloud to my side easily enough, and after a longish search he said that Kimball was there with us, but whether he could get him to speak he doubted very much. He was a closemouthed one, even to his fellow spirits. Did she have any specific questions?
She thought for a bit. “Is death the way you imagined it would be?”
There was silence, but I could feel a rumbling, like faraway thunder.
“Will you not speak to the daughter of your loins?” I asked.
“No,” came the roar. “I’m waiting for the last judgment.”
“But the world hasn’t come to an end,” she answered meekly.
“My world has. I should be exalted.”
“I’m so confused, Grandfather. Where can I find peace?”
“Didn’t you find peace in Egypt?”
I was flabbergasted by the words coming out of my mouth. I had been thinking desperately of a way to shoehorn Egypt into the conversation. Now the spirit of her ancestor had laid the groundwork for me.
“I’ve never been to Egypt,” she replied.
“You haven’t been? You look like you’ve been. Go to Egypt and leave me in peace.”
“It’s strange you should mention Egypt, because—”
“What’s strange about it? Don’t bandy words with me—spit it out.” He was a fierce old goat, impossible to restrain.
“It’s just that I’ve received a rather strange gift from Egypt. Something that feels—powerful.”
“Thought you said you hadn’t been to Egypt,” he snapped.
“No, I—”
“Leave me be.” And just like that, he was gone.
No amount of coaxing would get another word from that proud, defeated spirit. At last, I shook my head and admitted failure. She was obviously disappointed, though she assured me that I was praiseworthy for being able to summon him at all. “What do you suppose he meant with all that about Egypt?”
“Well,” I said cautiously, “your interest in Egypt is obvious from your dress. And you said you had received a powerful gift—”
“Yes, well, I really should be going. I have to meet my husband.” She stubbed out her cigarette and rose. I had gone too far, too fast.
“Perhaps some tea to refresh you?”
“You English with your tea. Charming. I think a cocktail at the hotel might be more my cup of tea. But thank you. You’re a magnificent medium. I’ll tell everyone about you.” She kissed me on both cheeks too quickly for me to dodge. She moved toward the door. That was when the baby’s door opened, and Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson issued forth. She looked askance. “I didn’t realize you had another client waiting.”
“Mrs. Valentino, Sir Sherlock and Dr. John Watson,” I struggled to get out.
“Well, I’m honored.” She actually made a little curtsy.
“It might not be such an honor as you wish. If you’d care to take a seat?” said Sir Sherlock.
“This sounds ominous. I really do have to meet my husband.”
“It’s about your scarab.”
“Scarab? I haven’t any scarab.”
“You do. You’re wearing it now.” I could feel the heat of it as soon as she had stepped in the door.
A look of calculation came into her eyes. She retired to the sofa. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have chosen a medium who mingles with a world-famous detective.”
I took a chair as well. Dr. Watson positioned himself in front of the door. Sir Sherlock remained standing, hovering over his subject. It struck me that if he were a pharaoh, he would probably have to be entombed standing up.
“Surely you knew where the scarab came from,” said Sir Sherlock.
“The princess was very coy about that. I suspected, but then I thought, how could she have come by such a thing? Not that I cared overmuch. It was beautiful, and I wanted it.”
“She came by it through treachery and murder. It is steeped in the blood of innocents.”
“If it came from where I suspect, there can be no innocents involved,” said Natacha, facing him down.
“You speak the truth. But the scarab is cursed and will curse anyone in the chain till it is restored to its rightful place. You have felt the power of its allure.”
“So it is from the tomb of Tutankhamun,” she said.
“It is the heart scarab. It must be returned,” I replied.
She lit another cigarette at that, leaned back and puffed on it thoughtfully. “Oh no, I don’t think they’ll want it back. I think Carnarvon’s greatest conundrum must have been how to get rid of it,” she said nonchalantly. “Do you read hieroglyphics?” She looked toward each of us in turn.
“Very badly,” admitted Sir Sherlock.
“I’ve been studying them lately. Fascinating. But perhaps you’ve seen the cartouche of Tutankhamun?”
“That I have.” We nodded in tandem with Sir Sherlock. I could see it in my mind’s eye: the bird, the flame, the ankh, the crook, the . . . what else? I would know it if I saw it.
She reached into her bosom and produced the heart scarab. She had had it on a chain around her neck the whole time. It was a beetle, oval in form, of emerald, and etched with dozens of tiny hieroglyphics in gold. I stared at the hieroglyphs as if they might suddenly become plain to me.
