The Egyptian Curse Read online

Page 12


  Hale left out nothing. When he’d finished quoting Harley Reynolds and closed the notebook, Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “You really have done quite well, Hale. You lack only the ability to draw conclusions from the facts you have marshalled.”

  “And I suppose you’ve solved the case already?” Hale didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  Holmes chuckled. “That would be saying too much, but I believe that I am making progress. In those detective stories that are so popular these days, the second killing is always The Man Who Knew Too Much. Sometimes in reality it does happen that a second murder is committed to cover up the first, but not so in this case. I am convinced that the killer framed Lord Sedgewood in the hopes of disposing of two people neatly - Alfie Barrington by knife and Lord Sedgewood by the hangman’s rope.

  “Think about it, Hale. Who informed the Yard about the murder weapon being the dagger if not the killer? And why do so if not to point to Lord Sedgewood, the owner of the dagger? It was a clever bit of misdirection, I must admit, except for the fact that it didn’t work. When it became clear that Scotland Yard suspected the wrong person, the killer was forced to get rid of Sedgewood in a more direct way.”

  “Then you do know who the killer is?”

  “I believe so, but because of your fine work I have a few more questions to ask before I can be certain.”

  The Baronet’s Wife

  “The worst of having a romance is that it leaves one so unromantic.”

  – Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1891

  Only with great effort was Sherlock Holmes able to convince Hale that he, Holmes, alone should visit Lord Sedgewood’s friend Lady Lawrence and her husband, Sir James Lawrence, Bart.

  “I’m sorry, Hale,” he had said, “but your connection with the late Lord’s daughter would make it impossible for Lady Lawrence to speak honestly in front of you. Besides, I believe you are under instructions from your managing director to cease med - that is, to discontinue your investigation.”

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  Holmes merely smiled. He suspected that Hale would have been upset to learn that he had been the one to rattle Rathbone’s chain - through Wiggins - about his star reporter’s unauthorized inquiries. Hale was a fine fellow, both brave and intelligent, but Holmes was on the case now. And he knew more than he had let on to Hale.

  He had written reports from his old friend about Carter (“apparently an honest mistake that His Lordship never forgave”) and Baines (“a fraud, but everyone knows it”). He himself had learned much about Portia and Sidney Lyme, as well as all the members of the Sedgewood family, from the chatty Agnes. She had related with particular relish a rumor that Sidney Lyme, like Lord Sedgewood, had taken antiquities out of Egypt illegally. Since Agnes particularly specialized in low gossip, the name of Lady Lawrence was not unknown to Sherlock Holmes. All of the servants knew about her frequent visits and time alone with the master of the house.

  She turned out to be a handsome brunette, taller than her husband. Although in her mid-fifties, she looked nowhere near her years. Holmes could see why Sedgewood would be taken with the woman. On this afternoon she wore a day blouse of a light blue silk Crepe de Chine decorated with a ruffle that ran in a rectangle down the front around a row of white buttons. Her mid-calf length skirt was a contrasting color of blue, and was embellished with a metal beading. These were not the clothes of a woman who skimped on fashion. Sir James appeared perhaps a decade older than Lady Lawrence, with a bald head and a distracted air. His attire reflected that of a man of a different age than his wife.

  “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, looking at the calling card bearing that name and nothing else. “Aren’t you dead?”

  “Not anymore,” the beekeeper of Sussex said dryly.

  “Oh, I see.” But, clearly, he didn’t.

  “What’s this about, Mr. Holmes?” Lady Lawrence spoke directly, but with no sign of irritation or concern. “You said on the phone that it had something to do with Lord Sedgewood.”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “I understand that you were quite good friends with His Lordship.”

  “Barely knew the fellow,” Sir James said. “Seemed nice enough, though. Died the other day, didn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Holmes looked at Lady Lawrence.

  “I actually knew him better than Sir James did,” she said. “We served together on a committee of the Arts Council.”

  “And your committee work required visits to his home?”

  “On occasion.” She turned to her husband. “I think this will be quite boring for you, my dear. Perhaps you would like to go back to playing with your trains.”

  “Wouldn’t mind that at all. Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes. Oh, wait just a moment, please.” He dashed into another room.

  As soon as he’d left, his wife turned to Holmes. “Is this some sort of attempt at blackmail? Because if it is-”

  “Has my reputation sunk that low?” Holmes was more amused than offended. “No, Lady Lawrence, it is nothing of the sort.”

  “Here we are!” Sir James returned to the room with an autograph book in his hand. “Would you mind giving me your autograph? I collect them.”

  “It’s one of his hobbies,” Lady Lawrence said. “He has many hobbies.”

  “It would be an honor.”

  Holmes dashed off his signature and Sir Lawrence left the room.

  His wife watched him leave. “I’m really very fond of him, Mr. Holmes. I wouldn’t hurt him for the world.”

  “Nor have I any wish to do so.”

  She sighed. “I was an absolute fool to become involved with Edward - or any other man. James and I have been married for twenty-six years. It has been a very satisfactory arrangement. His hobbies keep him busy, and he has been very generous in supporting causes that are important to me.”

  “I perceive that you are an ardent supporter of Mr. MacDonald and his Labour party.”

  She appeared startled for a second, and then looked down at her blouse. Holmes gave her full marks for realizing that the small party pin had given her away. This woman may have been foolish, but she was no fool. Holmes had seldom regretted his long-ago decision to avoid affairs of the heart: They inevitably clouded one’s judgment.

  “You disapprove of women in politics, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I disapprove of politics.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “But surely government is necessary or we shall have anarchy. And politics is necessary, or we shall have dictatorship.”

  Holmes could tell that Lady Lawrence enjoyed this verbal joust, and he was surprised to find that he did, too. Reluctantly, he judged the time right to bring up the subject that had brought him here. So instead of asking Lady Lawrence whether she thought that anarchy, dictatorship, and inescapably sordid politics were the only options, he said:

  “Did you visit Lord Sedgewood on Friday?”

  “You mean, did I kill him?” She put her hand on the top of a chair, as if to steady herself. “It didn’t take a detective to realize that you must be investigating his murder. No, Mr. Holmes, I did not have that distinction. And I had not visited him since about two weeks before he was killed. Our last discussion was not a pleasant one.”

  “You had words?”

  “It would be more correct to say that he had words. He summoned me to let me know that he loved another.”

  “No doubt you were upset.” Holmes had learned from experience that others responded well to having their emotions acknowledged. The simple observation often caused them to talk more.

  Lady Lawrence’s free hand tightened. “Of course I was upset - for a good ten minutes. What woman wants to be told that a man is finished with her? I should have known that it was inevitable. I’d been told by one of his other women that he’d had many lov
e affairs since the death of his wife, to whom he was apparently quite devoted. The worst part was that he offered me a financial settlement, for which I had no need or desire. That hurt.”

  “And after the ten minutes?”

  “I realized that I was quite relieved that it was over.”

  “Because you didn’t love Lord Sedgewood?”

  “No, because I did. And he didn’t deserve it. Nor did James deserve my infidelity.” She sighed. “As I said, I played the fool - but not so big a fool as to kill Edward for leaving me.”

  Holmes couldn’t claim to be a human lie detector, nor could any man. But he trusted his instinct that Lady Lawrence was telling the truth. He’d never seriously suspected her anyway. But he needed to be sure.

  “Do you know the name of Sedgewood’s new inamorata?”

  Lady Lawrence gave a rueful laugh. “He didn’t tell me that. Once, a month or so ago, I saw him dining in a discrete corner of Simpson’s with a redhead, one of those wispy types. But it couldn’t have been her - I later saw the woman with Edward and the rest of his family. He always kept his women separated from his family.”

  She folded her hands in front of her. “I’m afraid I haven’t helped you very much, have I?”

  “On the contrary, Lady Lawrence, you have been invaluable. I already knew with a fair degree of certainty who killed the Earl of Sedgewood. Now I know why.”

  Smuggling

  Nemo sine crimine vivit (No one can live without crime).

  – Latin Proverb

  Portia Lyme!

  Hale, dawdling over his feature story on Madame Tussaud’s, suddenly sat up straight. It all seemed so clear to him now. Who would have a good reason to kill Lord Sedgewood? Portia Lyme! The woman who found the idea of a pharaoh’s curse “just divine” might be impatient for her fiancé to inherit the earldom and the fortune that went with it.

  And what about the murder of Alfie Barrington? Holmes undoubtedly was right that it was just the first step in a devious (or “just divine”) plan to get rid of Lord Sedgewood. But was Portia Lyme really capable of such a round-about plan? Never underestimate a woman.

  “Portia? Don’t be silly.”

  Hale had hurried through writing the rest of his story (“Madame Tussaud’s is an attraction that waxes but never wanes”), handed it in, and told a colleague that he was leaving for lunch.

  He was delighted to find Sarah almost completely recovered back at her own home on Bedford Place.

  “You assume Portia’s not capable of murder?” he said.

  “I suppose that I do assume that,” Sarah said thoughtfully, “but that’s not what I meant. Portia has no need of Daddy’s money. Her family is richer than ours. And even if she did need money, and she was capable of murder, I can’t see her killing Alfie and Daddy. Our families have been friends for years. Sidney and their late father, Sir Harry Lyme, used to knock about Egypt with Daddy.”

  Lord Carnarvon immediately came to Hale’s mind. “You mean they were rivals at digging up the best mummies and that sort of thing?”

  Sarah shook her head. “No, no, for some reason Sir Harry and Daddy were great mates. Maybe Daddy didn’t feel threatened because Sir Harry was only a knight and not a peer. They helped each other out - and that’s a good thing for Sidney. Daddy could have gotten him into a spot of trouble a while back if he’d chosen.”

  Hale felt the hairs on the back of his head rise.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sidney tried to sell Daddy a marble shabti figure from the tomb of the High Priest Pinedjem I.”

  “What’s a shabti?”

  “It’s a figurine of a servant, made out of clay or wood and buried with the body of an important person to assist him in the afterlife. This one should have been returned to the Egyptian government under the rules set up by the Department of Antiquities.”

  “You mean like that dagger your father shouldn’t have had?”

  Sarah frowned. “Not exactly. You see, unique items are supposed to go to the Egyptian Museum. The excavators are to divide the remainder, but only to go to public institutions and societies, like the British Museum or the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. But it’s very common for excavators in Egypt to hold on to small items ‘on account,’ as they like to say. Rumor has it that Lord Carnarvon’s widow had Howard Carter remove everything in her husband’s collection taken ‘on account’ before she sold it to the Met so as to avoid embarrassment.

  “Daddy’s little dagger was easily taken out of the country and easily hidden away in his rather small collection in the townhouse. But the shabti figure that Sidney offered him was almost three feet tall, which put it into the Egyptian Museum category.”

  Hale rubbed his mustache thoughtfully. “Where is it now?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I suppose Sidney still has it if he didn’t find a willing buyer.”

  “And that could get him into trouble?”

  “Only if-”

  The doorbell rang. It was Inspector Rollins.

  “Your timing is impeccable,” Hale told the Scotland Yard official as they faced each other in the hallway. “I know who killed Barrington and Lord Sedgewood, and why.”

  Rollins smirked beneath his walrus mustache. “So do I.” He held out his right hand. In it was a piece of old oilskin, which he unfolded. Beneath those folds was a golden-handled dagger. The hilt was an ornate gold palmetto design with what appeared to be semi-precious stones and on the copper blade was some floral device.(Hale had never been good at identifying flowers). “And this will prove it,” continued Rollins. “Unless I miss my guess, tests will show that it was this wicked-looking instrument that ended Mr. Alfred Barrington’s life.”

  Hale felt his chest tighten.

  “Where did you find it?” Sarah asked in a wavering voice. Hale gave her credit for the bluff, even though it was a lost cause. Of course she knew where it came from, and Rollins knew that she knew.

  “From your garden out back. We just dug it up. I knew there had to be some reason a stray dog’s been sniffing around a patch of newly turned earth for several days now. My men have been watching. I’m hoping that we will find fingerprints on it.” He refolded the oilskin. “Of course, the murderer may have wiped it clean, but you never know. We shall need to take the fingerprints of everyone in the household for comparison. I know you will have your servants cooperate. Oh, and I’ll need yours and Mr. Hale’s, of course, also. You understand that we must be thorough.” The sneer in his voice was almost palpable.

  With a sinking feeling, Hale knew that he was right about the fingerprints. Sarah wouldn’t have bothered to clean her prints off of the dagger before burying it.

  “Whose dagger is it, Rollins?” Hale asked.

  “I believe it to be the rightful property of Queen Ahhotep, mostly recently to be found in the possession of the late Lord Sedgewood.”

  “Well, then, of course his fingerprints would be on it, and his daughter’s as well,” Hale said.

  Rollins slowly nodded, apparently unmoved. “You may well make that argument at New Scotland Yard. But for the moment I’m taking you two into custody.”

  Lady Sarah made an inarticulate cry. Her hand went to her mouth and she collapsed against Hale.

  “On what charge?” Hale demanded. The timing surprised him. He had thought Rollins would wait until after the formality of comparing the fingerprints to haul them in.

  “You are both material witnesses in a homicide. That will do to hold you for the next seventy-two hours. Would you like to make this easier on all of us by just confessing now?”

  New Scotland Yard

  “Crime is common, logic is rare.”

  – Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Copper Beeches

  New Scotland Yard sat at the end of Derby Street, on
the east side of Parliament Street on the Victoria Embankment. The turreted building, in a Scottish design, was built on the foundation of what originally was going to be an opera house. Its granite façade was quarried, appropriately enough, by convicts at Dartmoor. Hale had been there dozens of times. Somehow, he reflected ruefully as he entered the building, it had looked different when he came there as a reporter rather than as a suspect in custody.

  Of the 140 offices in the building, forty of them belonged to the Criminal Investigation Division. The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Stanley Hopkins, had an office in one of the turrets overlooking the river. Senior officers, like Chief Inspector Henry Wiggins, had offices on the ground floor. The lower the rank of the inspector, the more flights of stairs he had to climb. Dennis Rollins’s office, Hale knew from his most recent visit to the building, was on the third floor in an interior office that didn’t even have a window onto the inside quadrangle. But Hale was quite certain that his ambitions fell nothing short of that turret office.

  “You are each entitled to one telephone call,” Rollins advised his charges unnecessarily.

  Sarah wasted hers on telephoning Sir Edumund Featherstone, a stodgy old solicitor who undoubtedly excelled at wills and trusts but had never been involved in a criminal case. After giving the matter a good deal of thought, Hale decided to call no farther away than the ground floor of the building.

  “Wiggins? This is Enoch Hale. Lady Sarah and I are enjoying the hospitality of Scotland Yard.”

  “I heard,” the Chief Inspector said. “Rollins is quite proud of himself. But don’t get too comfortable. You have friends in high places - or at least a friend of yours does.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you will be rescued within the hour. Just sit tight.”

  Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Hale gave up asking questions when it became clear that Wiggins preferred to keep him in suspense.

  The same could not be said for Inspector Rollins. It seemed that he would never run out of questions as he sat across a table from Hale in a small, windowless room not far from his office on the third floor. Sarah sat on Hale’s right. The initial interview would be together, and then Rollins planned to question them separately.