Authors: Braven
"Come, now, if you
wish to cover the corpse, don't let part of a hand dangle from under
the sheet. I assume the cadaver is why you sent for me. Now, really,
I cannot explain away dead bodies in your establishment. There is a
limit to my influence."
This gentle badinage
seemed unusual for the intelligence expert, habitually so
noncommittal. It was not until later that I realized his
lightning-sharp faculties, on a par with my friend's, had seized on
the situation, had projected it, and was furiously thinking as to
what position he would take. In truth it was Mycroft who was caught
off guard, but not one quiver in his massive face revealed it.
"We had a visitor,"
stated Sherlock Holmes. "A man attacked on the waterfront and
fatally wounded who was intent on reaching 'Holmes.' But he was taken
to the wrong one."
The sleuth crossed to
the couch, gently removing the sheet part way to reveal the face of
the dead man. Mycroft regarded the dark visage impassively though I
noted that his lips pursed several times.
"How much do you
know?" he queried.
"Very little."
"No message? No
final word?"
"Yes. But before we
go into that, what is the background of this matter? I have, by
chance I will admit, become involved, and curiosity is the
hallmark of our family."
Mycroft's mouth had a
stubborn look about it. "It's a touchy matter, Sherlock."
"Oh come now, the
cat's out in any case. When I noted that the man's hair might have
been artificially treated to produce that kinky look, it took me but
a moment to realize that the dark skin could well be the result
of a dye. Jolly good job, that. I'd like to know the formula. With my
suspicions aroused I made a test, and your supposed Nubian didn't
pass."
Mycroft Holmes for the
first time allowed the shadow of surprise to touch him.
"Cruthers was one
of my top men. His native disguise has fooled the best for years."
"But not the very
best," replied Holmes, who never ranked modesty as a virtue.
"The moons on his fingernails are white. If he were Negroid,
they would be blue. Not a fatal oversight," he added. "I
doubt if anyone else would have thought of that."
"You relieve me,"
said Mycroft dryly, but I sensed his words were sincere. "This
whole affair may reflect rather badly on my department. I had a hunch
and risked one of the best of my people in the Egyptian-Sudan theatre
to check it out. Losing Cruthers makes that a costly decision."
Sherlock Holmes viewed
his brother's large and sober features for a long moment, then
replaced the sheet over the dead man with a shrug.
"Your agent didn't
die in vain. Here's the whole story." He paused for a moment to
thumb shag into the briar that he favored on occasion. A wooden match
ignited the pipe, and he continued through clouds of smoke. "One
of my people discovered your agent under attack on the East India
docks. Two of the assailants came to a bad end."
Mycroft made as though
to speak but was forestalled by a gesture from his brother.
"I've dispatched a
man to check on the third. Cruthers could barely utter the name of
'Holmes' and was brought here. He just made it, but before death, he
left a singular message. The exact words were: 'They . . . they found
it. Chu . . . it was Chu.'"
"So," said
Mycroft after a considerable pause. "I was right. At least
partially. By Chu, Cruthers must have meant Chu San Fu, your
arch-enemy."
"And England's,"
responded the sleuth grimly. Placing his pipe on the mantel, he
returned to the body on the couch. "Your agent brought some
tangible evidence, or my fingers play me false." Taking one of
the corpse's arms, he reached up the coat sleeve. "When I first
became aware of this Watson and I were not alone, so I thought it was
a matter we could wait upon."
Securing a gleaming
object that must have been fastened to the dead man's forearm, Holmes
crossed to display it to the seated Mycroft. Standing alongside the
sleuth, I surveyed the object eagerly.
"By George, it's
beautiful!"
No one disagreed with
me. It was a dagger in a sheath of gleaming gold. Gently, Holmes
extracted the ornamental blade, undamaged, pure in design, and
seemingly produced that very day by the loving hands of a master
craftsman. Yet I knew instinctively that it came from a time so
ancient as to be shrouded in the mists of the past.
"Egyptian, of
course," murmured Mycroft Holmes.
"Without a doubt.
Note the sheath festooned with the jackal's-head design. God of the
dead," Holmes added, sensing my puzzlement. "The blade is
of hardened gold, and see the handle with the familiar cloisonne work
of glass and semiprecious stones. At the end is a lapis lazuli
scarab."
"I did not know you
fancied Egyptology," said his brother.
"Do recall that I
once had rooms in Montague Street, just around the corner from the
British Museum, with much more time on my hands than now."
"What does the
dagger suggest to you?"
"Ancient, indeed,
and valuable. Originally, the possession of royalty. There is a
thriving trade in Egyptian antiquities, though something as
valuable as this would have been gobbled up by a museum or wealthy
collector long ago."
"Deduction?"
persisted Mycroft.
"There are flash
floods in Egypt that sometimes reveal undiscovered tombs to local
grave robbers. I seem to recall a whole village whose inhabitants
have been robbing the dead for over three thousand years."
"Kurna."
"Surely a record
for the trade of thievery, would you not say, Watson?" Holmes
had made note of my expression of complete amazement. "Of
course," he continued, "a tomb not rifled by grave robbers
might have been found, though none has been to this date."
Holmes retrieved his
pipe from the mantel and sat in the easy chair by the desk. "So
much for deductions and our brief encounter with your man Cruthers.
It is now your turn."
"I'm glad I don't
have to explain this to the Cabinet," was Mycroft's surprisingly
frank response. "In the field of geopolitics, I find that
anticipation is of inestimable value. Gentlemen, there is a spirit of
unrest in that potential cauldron that is the Middle East. My agents
can't pin it down but it is there, and the specter of Mohammed Ahmed
Ibn Seyyid Abdullah will not permit my ignoring it."
"Mohammed who?"
I exclaimed.
"The Mahdi, ol'
chap," answered Holmes. "As I recall, China Gordon was one
of your heroes."
"General Gordon was
but one of our great losses," said Mycroft.
"Then it is a holy
war you fear."
"Considering the
locale, it is more in the realm of the probable than the possible.
The results of the last one were staggering. It was but in '83 that
the Mahdi wiped out a ten-thousand-man Egyptian army under Billy
Hicks. He took Khartoum, and his followers killed Gordon. If the
Sudanese prophet hadn't died in '85, we might be still mired in that
mess."
Holmes was regarding his
brother with that sharpness of expression so evident when his mind
was engrossed. "There's more to it than that, I'll wager."
"What alerted you?"
responded Mycroft quickly.
"History will no
doubt brand us for colonialism, but the thin red line of the British
Army has prevented periodic outbursts of bloodletting and will again.
A responsibility of the Empire. There has to be more."
Mycroft Holmes surveyed
both of us for a long moment.
Then he sighed.
"General Kitchener
is preparing for the reconquest of the Sudan."
I stifled an
exclamation. So it was to be war. The death of Gordon, a boil under
the saddle blanket of Britain, was to be avenged.
Holmes was eagerly
leaning forward in his chair. "Of course. With Kitchener headed
south, an outbreak of religious violence on his flanks and rear
would be fatal. Bismarck was right. Never fight a war on two
fronts."
A discussion between the
offspring of the family Holmes could prove most frustrating to the
listener. Their statements were clear enough, but each seemed capable
of anticipating the other's meaning, at least in part, without
words. It was as though there was another channel of communication
open only to those two minds.
Holmes sprang to his
feet with that nervous energy that indicated he was prepared to cross
the Rubicon.
"Something has
intrigued you about ancient Egypt," he said, indicating the
ornate dagger resting on the desk.
"Call it a
sensitivity," admitted his brother. "I picture some
mystical pronouncement from the past couched in the general terms
used so effectively by the Greek oracle of Delphi. Something that a
zealot could twist to serve his purpose. Then it would be like a fire
in a wheat field. Conflagration first, with devastation as the
aftermath."
Mycroft Holmes had been
talking to the ceiling, but now his dreamy eyes fastened on both of
us.
"Recently some
unusual antika objects have appeared, and there has been talk of a
strange expedition in the Valley of the Kings. I sent Cruthers to try
to hire out as a digger and evidently he succeeded. Note the dagger,
Sherlock. Why did he bring it back? Where did it come from? Who
found it? Until now I suspected international politics, but the
mention of Chu San Fu in connection with the matter sheds a different
light. What interest would he have in Egyptian antiquities other than
the fact that he is renowned as a collector?"
"He
was
a
collector," was Sherlock Holmes's response. "I happen to
know that his great horde of art objects has found its way to the
market and has been disposed of. Which makes the rascal very solvent
at the moment. Also, I consider the Chinaman to be a megalomaniac,
and in my experience a zealot and a man with a deranged mind have a
great deal in common. Yes, fault outlines of a pattern begin to
emerge. If you do not object, I shall look into this matter."
Mycroft's ponderous
shoulders registered an expressive shrug.
"Knowing you,
Sherlock, you will do so whether I object or not. However, I need
assistance regarding this and must conceal the activities of my own
organization. The P.M. would but laugh at me. Government believes in
crossing bridges only when they come to them. If you and Watson and
that ragtag army at your command will give a hand, do be my guest."
"That ragtag army
can be very effective at times," responded Holmes somewhat
haughtily.
"Agreed," was
his brother's answer. "But please, Sherlock, no practical
jokes. Lord Cantlemere has not yet recovered from your outré
sense of humor regarding the Mazarin Stone affair."
Mycroft Holmes's words
were delivered lightly, but I sensed that he hoped his plea would be
heeded. The intelligence expert was the calmest and most secure
of men, as unruffled and serene as the fortress of Gibraltar, yet I
felt that dealing with his mercurial brother produced a certain
feeling of unrest even in him.
The older Holmes, with
the air of one who has done all he can, began to rise from his chair.
"Cruthers will have
to be disposed of," he stated, "and the less fuss, the
better."
His considerable form
moved across the room with the peculiar grace so often exhibited by
those of his size. At the window he flashed some signal towards his
hansom below, then turned to me with an expressive glance, which
I was able to interpret. By the time I reached our ground-floor door,
his driver was on the stoop carrying a large lap robe. When I
indicated the stairs, he mounted them quickly and silently. By the
time I reentered our chambers, the driver had the dead body swathed
in the lap robe and was lifting it effortlessly from the couch.
"I'll be right
down," stated Mycroft, and of a sudden the driver and his burden
were gone. Helping Mycroft into his greatcoat, I attempted to
brighten the somewhat grim atmosphere.
"Your driver
doesn't surprise easily."
"Men who
do
have
slow reflexes," he muttered. Before turning towards the door, he
shot a keen glance at his brother. "You fell in with my Egypt
theory with uncommon ease, Sherlock. Could it be that you possess
information that I am not privy to?"