The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 3
“No, no one died there, but the one commonality the victims share is that they were all at the tomb of Tutankhamun shortly after it first was opened. And that ‘land of savages’ you imagine is the cradle of civilization.”
“But there have been hundreds of visitors to the site.”
“Which is precisely why we must find out why these particular victims were cursed. What did they do at the tomb that set them apart for punishment?”
“Holmes, I beg of you—”
“Did my mother not speak to you?”
“No. Your Mrs. Roberts put on a very bad French accent and tried to frighten me.”
“She’s superb, isn’t she?”
He wasn’t listening to a word I said. “Holmes, what if the deaths were merely coincidence?”
“I can countenance coincidence up to a point. But three people have already died. You don’t call that coincidence.”
“I can certainly call it coincidence before I call it the curse of some moldering pharaoh,” I persisted.
“And there was the death of the canary.”
“What, some tattletale?” This was a story I hadn’t heard.
“Carter, the archaeologist in charge of the dig, owned a canary—a marvelous singer by all accounts. The workmen all considered her a lucky omen. On the very day he first opened the tomb, a cobra slithered its way into his house and killed the bird in its cage.”
“The pharaoh revenging himself on a canary bird!” I chortled.
“The cobra, as I’m sure you know, is a symbol of protection for pharaohs. Four cobras bearing four suns crown his forehead. The uraeus, I believe it’s called.”
“Really,” I stated flatly, never in my life having heard of a uraeus. “Well, I suppose that proves it.”
“Excellent. Your obdurate skepticism is exactly why I need you. Hold tight to it.”
He was infuriating. “And why do you need her? Her gullibility?”
“If you like. Come, let’s go find her. Mrs. Roberts’s talents will be indispensable.”
“In that case, what do you need me for?”
“My dear Watson. For what purpose does the flame need the flint?”
At least he had not run out of cryptic aphorisms. I tried to brush that one aside and put a cheerful slant on the affair.
“Well, we won’t need a fire in Egypt, if it’s as hot as they say. And I have always wanted to visit the pyramids.”
“Do not speak so glibly, my friend. We’re not embarked on a holiday. Egypt is on a knife edge, fraught with danger. The fall of the Ottomans has made that whole part of the world a tinderbox.”
“The military is still in control, is it not? Old Allenby still at the tiller?” I asked.
“The Egyptians believe they’ve gained independence under the new treaty.”
“But they haven’t really, have they?”
“Of course not. Which they are just coming to grips with. And when they do, there’ll be blood watering the sand,” he declared ominously.
“It’s nothing to do with our little errand,” I said, looking for assurance.
“I wouldn’t be so confident of that. Tutankhamun’s tomb is opened, and straight off all of Egypt is a powder keg? His influence lies everywhere on the land of the Nile.”
“You make Tutankhamun sound as dangerous as Moriarty.”
“Moriarty’s spirit is more malevolent, but Tutankhamun’s power is the more pervasive.”
“Moriarty’s spirit? Have you been in touch with him, too?” I lifted an eyebrow.
“He is never far from my thoughts.”
Were his teeth chattering? It was then I noticed the bluish cast of his complexion. Here we were on an open platform in February with the wind whipping about at a good fifty miles an hour. I have always been a warm-blooded man, and was well upholstered against the wind to boot, but not so my companion, whose hands were stuffed into his ulster. I led the way back to our carriage, eager to see the lady’s face when I sprang Holmes on her unawares.
I was disappointed.
“Sir Sherlock, how wonderful to see you.” She didn’t blink as she glanced up from her letter writing to greet him. She didn’t bother to ask where he had joined the train. Her face was at any rate not one for betraying surprise: with deep-set eyes, a sharp nose, and prominent cheekbones, framed by close-cropped black curls, she was the model of the mysterious woman, giving nothing away—not that I had ever been especially proficient at reading women. Had she known all along that Holmes was on the train? Probably. Certainly. They had arranged this little play between them. This was her deck of marked cards.
Holmes asked after her health.
“I’m afraid I may have picked up a head cold dashing about in the rain. It will definitely be a welcome change going from the London downpour to the warm Luxor sun.”
Holmes offered her no dire warnings about Egyptian blood. She’d led me to believe she had no knowledge of our destination, though I will admit as the days went by it would become obvious that she had packed for the warm weather—as I had not. I thought uncomfortably of my woolen suits and, worse, my woolen underclothes.
“This time of year in Egypt is fairly moderate,” remarked Holmes, probably sensing my discomfort. If there were a mind reader aboard, it was Holmes.
And was she really going to call him “Sir Sherlock”? He had been knighted after the war for services rendered to his country, though those services were secret, and he always claimed that it was for championing the spiritualist cause. He swore he had facilitated a séance in which the king received invaluable advice from Queen Victoria. I could only pray he was joking. I remember the king intoning his name, “Sherlock Dantes Holmes,” at his investiture while touching his shoulders with the blade. No one noticed me wipe away a tear with my sleeve. I fancy “Dantes” came from some French relation. I still called him “Holmes” and always would. I doubt he would have called me “Sir John” if our roles had been reversed.
“I can’t believe we are going to Luxor to explore the tomb of Tutankhamun. My husband is eaten up with jealousy. He’s read every word the papers have printed about it,” Mrs. Roberts said.
“I could hardly invite your husband and children along. I shall need your undivided attention to the task.”
“You will have it, of course,” she replied brightly.
I had already noted that she was a married woman but had given little thought to her responsibilities therein. Now there were children to be considered as well? “Of course?” That was all she had to say? She had simply abandoned her children for a fortnight’s holiday? She must be wedded to a truly understanding, not to mention long-suffering, husband. Of course, there were many times I’d left Mary alone when Holmes needed me to traverse afield at a moment’s notice on some dangerous affair, and she never complained. But I was, after all, a man.
I fell into tender remembrances of Mary, which I would not share, even with my faithful readers, for the world. Holmes and Mrs. Roberts occupied themselves with shoptalk, if spiritualists can be said to talk shop.
It was nearing one, and all of us were drowsing, when we arrived at Dover to board the channel ferry at the Marine Docks. It seemed almost like old times, the ocean spray crusting our faces as we stepped out of the station, crowding onto the ice-caked Admiralty Pier, the heavy fog muffling our tread, save that this time the apricot scent and swirling skirts of Mrs. Roberts intruded. Strange that I still remember her scent after all this time. If she was at all disquieted about abandoning husband and children, she did not show it. She seemed wrapped in serenity as securely as in her burgundy duster.
Once we were settled in for our crossing, Mrs. Roberts produced some knitting from her bag. I wished she had introduced it earlier, for the endless clacking of her needles had me so drowsy so that I soon fell fast asleep—only to wake with a start, groggy and bleary-eyed, some three hours later to the garbled sounds of a loudspeaker in French and English (or it may have been Swahili for all I could make of it), announcing our imminent arrival in Calais. In response the passengers were slowly shifting, like stone made flesh, gathering their belongings about them.
Mrs. Roberts was asleep—those unsettling eyes closed, her mouth slightly open, looking vulnerable as a child, her knitting resting upon her lap. “Sleep, that knits up the raveled sleeve of care” inevitably passed through my mind.
I daresay Holmes had not slept at all. Though he had removed his spectacles, his eyes seemed turned inward upon himself, searching for answers to questions I would not even think to ask, as I had seen him do many times in our youth. We all do with less sleep at our age, just at the point in our lives when we have fewer concerns to fill our waking hours. Besides, Holmes had long ago trained himself to go for days on end without sleep.
Still, I think we were all bone-tired when we shuffled down the gangway into a grey mist to await the continental train at Calais. It was mere steps to the station, the Gare Maritime, but they were slow steps with the crowd around us gawking—as if Calais had any sights whatever to boast of, even in the daytime. At this time of the morning there were only inquisitive dock lamps frowning down on unfriendly, crouching buildings.
“France doesn’t look very much different from England,” observed the lady, looking about forlornly.
“Calais was actually built by the British, back in the 1300s. It never seems to have lost its English accent,” said Holmes.
“It’ll look different when we reach gay Paree,” I assured her.
“When will that be?” she wondered, stifling a yawn.
“Our train leaves at one,” Holmes informed us.
“One o’clock!” I groaned in dismay. It had just turned five in the morning by my watch. The sun would not venture forth for another two hours if it decided to make an appearance at all. “Surely there must be an earlier train.”
“I think you’ll find the wait worthwhile.”
“I think we’re all dead on our feet and would rather take the first train running,” I complained.
“Perhaps, but I have business to attend to here. Personal business.” His face was set in stone, unreadable.
“What? Whom do you know in Calais?” I grumbled mutinously.
“An old friend. No need to concern yourself with the matter. The fog should lift by nine, and then you may glory in the sight of the white cliffs of Dover, Mrs. Roberts.”
“And what shall we do in the meantime?” I wailed, put out by the entire arrangement.
“The Chatham has just added a restaurant, I understand. Also there is a lounge, and a reading room. Even a casino if you’d like to take a flutter. It should be very much to your liking. Almost the entire staff speaks English as perfectly as Oxfordians. Should you require anything, ask for Edgerton. He knows me of old.”
Well, there was nothing to say to that, although the lady needed constant reassurance that her luggage would be transferred to the correct train. She seemed to have heard tales of hatboxes winding up in China and having to be ransomed. But the mists looked to want to increase to a drizzle, so we parted with Holmes and hurried our way up the dark, still street to the Chatham, a quarter mile distant along the coast. At least it was a well-lit, cheery-looking target.
We decided to try the restaurant, although the lady had misgivings as to French cooking. I myself looked forward to a galette complete, a sort of pie filled with egg, ham, and cheese that I had read about. But my courage failed me, and we both ordered English breakfast, with tea. One would never have known we’d left London behind. We ate in a dead silence that became increasingly awkward.
Finally, Mrs. Roberts looked up from her meal (and there was nothing ethereal about her appetite) and said plainly, “You’d like to ask me a question.”
I don’t suppose it required any extraordinary powers to divine that.
“Perhaps one or two,” I replied cautiously.
“Ask. I’ll answer.”
Her curt tone sounded so much like a gypsy fortune teller that I wondered if she expected me to cross her palm with silver.
“Well . . . how did you get into this line of work? Mediuming, that is. Mediumship. How long have you been at it?”
“Only a couple of years. If you mean public readings, that is.”
“Did you study with someone?”
Mrs. Roberts laughed.
“I’m sorry, have I asked an untoward question?”
“There are many paths. I heard the voices of those who have passed over from a very young age. I learned to hide my abilities, because no one would believe me. It was three years ago when I attended my first spiritualist meeting and met Mrs. Elizabeth Cannock, who told me I was chosen by the spirit world. Once I was convinced, Red Cloud sought me out.”
“Red Cloud? Is that a spiritualist organization? Or congregation?”
She smiled at this. “He is my spirit guide. An American Indian.”
“Oh—you mean he’s—”
“Passed over, yes.”
“What, uh, what tribe was he with? Or is he with?”
“He does not speak of his past. ‘Know me by my works,’ he tells me.”
“Didn’t Jesus Christ say something of the sort?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps he heard it from Red Cloud.”
I laughed heartily at this, until I realized she was serious. Her eyes bored into mine. The conversation once again became awkward.
“And you really think the pharaoh’s tomb is cursed?” I said delicately.
“I’m certain of it. Any time an ancient Egyptian relic is disturbed, someone ends up paying. You have only to look at Cleopatra’s Needle to be convinced.”
“What, the obelisk on the Victoria Embankment? That’s been there fifty years or more,” I pointed out.
“And in that time it’s seen more suicides than any other spot in London. There’s talk of a dogheaded man who haunts it. There’s your real Jack the Ripper,” she declared. “It should be returned to Cairo without delay.”
I could see this trip was going to be excruciating.
I passed the rest of my time in the reading room, luxuriating in all the English newspapers. The weather having cleared, as Holmes had predicted, Mrs. Roberts elected to go for a walk along the shore, taking in the white cliffs, dodging the sea gulls, and no doubt freezing her toes off.
We were to meet Holmes at the Gare Maritime for luncheon. He was already waiting for us in the canteen. The smile etched on his face meant he had secrets he was hoping we’d try to winkle out of him. If there was one language I could read perfectly well, it was that of Holmes’s facial expressions. I was little in the mood for such games unless he had solved the case and we could return home. None of us ate much. I had a croque monsieur and pretended it was a galette complete.
But when it came time to board the train, I will admit my day brightened considerably.
“The blue train!” I exclaimed when it came into view, the cars all glistening blue with gold trim like an admiral of the fleet. “You cannot be serious, Holmes.” Le train bleu was only the most luxurious form of transport on the continent. It was known as the millionaires’ train. None of us were millionaires, I was fairly sure.
“I’m not certain that Lady Evelyn knows there are any other means of accommodation available,” Holmes posited.
“Remind me not to tell her.”
Even for Lady Evelyn, it seemed an outsize order. From what I’d been led to understand, the blue train was sold out sometimes months in advance, and February must be the height of the Mediterranean tourist season. Exclusively first-class, white-gloved stewards, and cordon bleu dining. If this were a foretaste of our journey, I might be able to overlook any ancient curses.
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to forgive a few hours’ delay.” I finally gave in and inquired of Holmes how his meeting had gone, but he only nodded and his mouth went up at the corners a trace. Secrets were worth more to him than pounds sterling.
We boarded. The lady was agog (as was I, I’ll admit) at the appointments, luxuriant blue velvet upholstery trimmed in mahogany, beds to sink into forever, stewards all in blue and gold, with entire banks of gold buttons winking across their chests. Then, once the train started, it was as silent as if we were flying. I’ve always had a fondness for trains of every kind, but if all trains were like the blue train, I should spend my days simply riding back and forth across the continent, at peace with the world.
Of course, this train could hardly carry us all the way to Luxor, more’s the pity. We would wake in the morning to disembark at Marseille, and board a steamer that would carry us to Alexandria. Even if it were as luxurious as the train, it would yet be tedious, and the rocking of the sea would do terrible things to my insides. And Alexandria, from what I had heard, made Calais look like paradise. From there we would make our way to Luxor—hopefully by train and not by camel. We had many weary days in each other’s company ahead of us. Was I already regretting my promise to Lady Evelyn? There was no turning back.
I was looking forward most to the sleeping car on this leg of the journey. But I had promised to join the others for dinner, and certainly the prospect of a full five-course dinner with the Selle de Veau Orloff was alluring, if I could just keep from falling asleep with my face down in the oeufs frites Catalan.
“How many hours to Marseille? When does the ship depart?” I asked, once we had given the waiter our orders and toasted each other with real French champagne.
“We are not taking the ship at Marseille,” said Holmes.
“What? Aren’t we going to Luxor?”
“Indeed, but first we must proceed to Monte Carlo, where my lady and her newly minted husband await us.”
“What? They’re accompanying us? Why, for heaven’s sake?” I protested.
“Be sure that we would get nowhere near Tutankhamun but for the good graces of my lady. My understanding is that Carter is a touchy subject and takes a dim view of our project.”
Well, I certainly couldn’t blame Carter for that. I took a dim view myself.
“Why are they waiting for us in Monte Carlo and not, say, Cairo?” I asked.
