The Perils of Sherlock Holmes (3 page)

“I knew you would surmise it was missing. No other circumstance would have driven me to leave off the task before it was complete. It was stolen, Holmes; spirited away by my assistant while I was out, under my wife’s very nose. I am as certain that James Patterson is the thief as I am that polygamy is the instinctive law of nature.”

The name of the man he suspected shocked me so deeply that I overlooked his inflammatory last phrase. “Not the son of Colonel Henry Patterson!”

“The same, Doctor. No acorn ever rolled farther from the oak than the offspring of the hero of Roarke’s Drift. More fool I, knowing the little bounder’s reputation; but mine is scarcely better, and I thought if some stalwart had lent me a hand up when it counted, I might have found a better billet in my decrepitude than a third-rate consulate in the Adriatic. I’ve paid dearly for my charity. The day after tomorrow marks a month since he walked out on me, with King Tut under his coat.”

With the economy of language typical of his writing style, our prospective client described those events which had brought him to our door.

Immediately upon renting the house he shared with his wife, Isabel, Burton had unpacked a trunk he’d kept in storage nearly thirty years, containing papers he’d collected and almost forgotten. The importance of the Tutankhamen manuscript was instantly apparent, and he’d engaged young Patterson to perform errands which would otherwise distract him from his work. Colonel Patterson had disinherited his son upon learning that he’d stolen from him to repay gambling debts, then gotten himself barred from every club in London as a card and billiards cheat. On evidence supplied by his father, James had spent a month in Reading Gaol for petty theft. When he came to Burton with his tale of woe, he was living in Spitalfields with a woman of unsavoury reputation. A man of less than sterling credits himself—Burton’s outspoken nature and boundless curiosity about matters best left unexamined preceded him everywhere he went in society—the explorer agreed to take young Patterson on in consideration for room and board and a small wage.

Straight away, Burton realised he’d accepted one challenge too many. Daily the fellow vanished before his work was done, stayed out all night, and the next day could not be roused to begin his duties until late afternoon, whereupon the cycle would repeat itself.

“I had a brief period of hope,” said our guest, “when Patterson bought a Kodak camera out of his first week’s pay. I thought he was showing an interest in something constructive. However, the novelty of the purchase soon faded. The contraption languished on a shelf in my study while he continued his dissolute course.”

One day, Burton returned from the reading room of the British Museum to be told by Lady Isabel that his assistant had given notice and left. An inspection revealed that the Egyptian document was missing. Burton interrogated his wife, who swore that Patterson had come from the study empty-handed, gone up to his room to pack his meagre belongings, and gone out carrying only the worn portmanteau he had when he’d arrived.

She said she’d seen the papers spread out on the desk only a quarter-hour before. Moreover, she’d spent the intervening time writing letters in the little anteroom that separated the study from the stairs, with a view of both. Had he returned to the room, she could not have failed to see him.

“Is the manuscript fairly compact?” asked Holmes at this point in the narrative.

“Anything but. With my notes, which vanished along with it, it was as thick as a city directory. The original parchment is brittle and leaves a trail of brown flakes whenever it’s moved.”

“Then it’s unlikely he carried it out beneath his coat, as you indicated.”

“Impossible. That was just a figure of speech.”

“Is there a possibility he sneaked back in later? Or that some anonymous thief gained entry between the time Patterson departed and you arrived?”

“There is not. Isabel was in the anteroom the entire time. There is no other entrance to the study except the window, which has been nailed shut since we moved in.”

“Have you been in contact with Patterson?”

“As I suspected, he returned directly to the woman in Spitalfields. When I confronted him there, he did not take the trouble to deny the theft. A police search of his quarters failed to uncover the papers, and no amount of threats on my part would persuade him to confess what he had done with them.”

“Did you try bribery?”

“Against all my principles, yes. He laughed at me. Ten years ago, I’d have struck the blighter, but my wife has had a domesticating influence. He has me over a barrel, Holmes. The authorities won’t jail him without evidence. The insolent creature as much as challenged me to take action. I’d call him out, Isabel or no Isabel, but killing him on the field of honour would not bring back the directions to Tut’s tomb.” Impotent rage coloured the old knight’s features through the artificial pigment.

“Do you think he intends to loot the tomb himself?”

“Hardly. He is not an archaeologist, and the work is heartbreaking even when one has the wherewithal to finance an expedition. He is as lazy as Ludlam’s dog and as poor as a leper. His only hope for profit would be to sell the manuscript, but since I’ve alerted the Royal Geographical Society to that possibility, his only recourse would be to ransom it back to me, for considerably more than I offered the first time. But four weeks have passed, and he has made no attempt to get in touch. Isabel suggested I consult you.”

“You have had him watched, no doubt.”

“He can’t take a step in any direction without being observed by private enquiry agents. The farthest he’s travelled is to the corner post office and back. The agents’ fees are ruinous, and I am a poor man. The situation cannot continue. The key to the greatest historical find in a generation lies in the hands of a common thief. You are my court of last resort.”

“I think of having a placard lettered to that effect.” Holmes pulled at his pipe. “I should like to visit your study, if you will have me.”

“Certainly, although I fail to see what the visit will achieve. My search was thorough, and the layout is as I described.”

“I do not think otherwise. However, as you well know, the source of the Nile remained invisible to those who lived next to it for ten thousand years. Identifying it required a stranger. Watson, be a good fellow and hail us a cab. Tutankhamen awaits.”

A brief ride in a four-wheeler deposited us three before an unprepossessing house in Westminster, where Sir Richard presented us to his wife. I found her to be a woman of serene dignity, at whose throat reposed a gold crucifix, in the heart of Protestant England. An adventurer, she, every bit as fearless as her husband, who had penetrated the African interior, Mecca, India, and the Country of the Saints in Utah Territory. She greeted us graciously.

“I hope, Mr. Holmes, you can help Richard locate his pagan shrine. It has the virtue at least of being less dubious than some of his other projects.”

“Isabel still entertains the hope of civilising her barbarian,” confided our host.

“Would that Jimmy Patterson had absconded with
The Perfumed Garden
.” With this Parthian shot—delivered, it seemed to me, without a trace of irony—she left us to our exploration.

Burton’s private study was an exhibition hall of Orientalia; the exotic fixtures in our own digs were conventional by comparison. Beaded curtains, scimitars, an Indian hookah, blowguns of various lengths, and at least one shrunken head were interspersed among no fewer than five writing-desks. Sir Richard, reappearing after a brief absence in a proper European turnout of shirt, shoes, waistcoat, and trousers, with most of the stain scrubbed from his skin, informed us that each cluttered desk contained papers related to a different literary enterprise.

“It used to be ten,” he added; “but the diplomatic service has gelded the stallion.”

Holmes made no response, engaged as he was in his examination of the room. His intense grey eyes scanned the books and
objets d’art
on the shelves, peered inside the kneeholes of desks, and passed without scholarly interest across scattered sheets containing dense notations in Burton’s nervous hand. His hands remained in his pockets until he came to the hearth, where he prodded the smoking ashes of a recent fire with a poker that had begun life as a Sepoy lance.

Holmes replaced the weapon in its holder, then directed his gaze to the leopardskin rug in front of the grate. For several moments he remained in a crouch with his hands spread on his thighs, moving only his eyes. Suddenly he threw himself to the floor, combed his fingers through the short coarse fur, and came to his feet holding something between his forefinger and thumb. With his other hand he fished out his pocket lens to study it more closely. He asked how often there was a fire in the room.

“Every day, even in summer,” came the reply. “All those years in the tropics have ruined me for the English climate.”

“Tell me, Sir Richard, if you recognise this.”

Burton accepted the tiny object, smaller than a child’s fingernail. He borrowed the lens, through which he scrutinised it for a few seconds only.

“Parchment, without a doubt, and ancient.” He paled. “Good Lord, Holmes! You can’t suppose—”

“I never suppose. I only propose. The document left this room by way of the chimney, there to mingle with the rest of the soot coating the most populous city in the world.”

“If he burned it, the man is a vandal, which is worse than a thief, and a madman besides. He has acted entirely without purpose, depriving posterity of the way to the riddle of Tutankhamen’s burial place. Now it will never be found.”

“Let us not be pessimistic. Where there is no reason, deductive reasoning is futile, and I am not prepared to surrender the point. Your vandal theory does not cover the second disappearance which has taken place.”

“There is nothing else missing.”

“Where, then, is the Kodak camera you said young Patterson abandoned to a shelf in the study?”

The explorer directed his gaze towards a cabinet containing books and exotic bric-a-brac. There was a space between objects.

“I haven’t given the bloody thing a thought for weeks. I’m certain it isn’t in his old quarters, either. I searched there as well. But certainly Isabel would have seen him carrying it out.”

“Possibly not. Apart from its simplicity, the Kodak’s chief advantage is portability. He could indeed have hidden it under his coat, apropos your suggestion, however facetious it was intended. The answer that occurs first is often the best.”

“But if he photographed the papers, why haven’t I received a ransom demand? I’m convinced he’s approached no one else.”

“For the answer to that, we must wait for morning,” said Holmes. “Will your purse enable you to maintain your watch upon him one more night?”

“Just that. I fail to see—”

“Failure to see is the driving force behind exploration. If the fellow attempts to fly tonight, he will have King Tut on his person, and presently you will have him upon yours. Tomorrow, or the next day at the very latest, the Pharaoh will be comfortably ensconced in Westminster. Should it be the next day, Dr. Watson and I shall stand the watch through tomorrow night. By then, one month will have passed since the deed was done, a wizard measure of time. My faith in the efficiency of our government institutions encourages me to expect success.”

My friend’s cheerful certainty had an effect upon the chronic cynicism of our host, whose ferociousness of feature had abated to some degree. “I shall be in your debt, quite literally. It goes without saying that history will as well.”

“History can look to its own account. Yours, Sir Richard, will be discharged if we can prevail upon you to put us up tonight at least. Should Patterson take flight, it’s best we learn of the fact simultaneously with you. Action must be taken in concert and at once.”

Burton accepted Holmes’s terms without hesitation. His majordomo, a Mameluke whose British livery did not subtract from his ferocious countenance, was sent round to our quarters with a note to Mrs. Hudson to pack two overnight cases. By the time he returned, we had dined with Sir Richard and his lady, on curried lamb such as I hadn’t tasted since my Indian service, paradoxically prepared by their stoic Scottish cook, and been shown to our room.

It contained two camp beds and various items of arcania which had spilled into it from the master’s overladen study. A stuffed mongoose perched on a shelf above my bed, feeding upon a lifelike cobra. That night I dreamt of Calcutta.

Our game had not flown by morning, when Holmes with some difficulty persuaded Burton to stay home rather than accompany us upon our mission.

“Your illustrious scars, and Patterson’s familiarity, would put the odds overmuch in his favour. Compose your soul in patience this one time. I assure you the game will prove worthy of the candle.”

We donned our simplest garb and alighted from the hansom several squares ahead of our destination. It was a neighbourhood of day-laborers, common loafers, and strangers to prosperity, for whom any unfamiliar visitor who did not arrive by shank’s mare or the Underground was suspect.

Holmes, armed with Patterson’s description, enquired at the post office on his street, and satisfied himself that our quarry had not been in yet that day. Thereupon we took up our vigil outside the entrance.

There, a group of unfortunates in motley attire crouched glumly on the steps and pavement, hoping to earn a shilling helping the odd customer carry his or her parcels. Upon Holmes’s advice, I ignored the black looks we received from our supposed rivals, whilst fingering the revolver in my coat pocket. There were evil faces in that crew, some of whom (I had no doubt) were described in detail in police bulletins posted inside the building.

The day wore on. People of every description, although few thriving in appearance, came and went; fewer still succumbing to our companions’ ministrations to relieve them of their burdens upon exiting. Lady Isabel had provided us with cold mutton sandwiches, which we unwrapped at mid-day, and earned some grudging approval from the others when we shared them with those who had not brought along provisions.