Read Online The Adventure of the Pharaoh's Curse (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) by Craig Janacek - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig Janacek
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from removing any objects are too fastidious. Instead, I decided that the thief must be entering the Museum from outside each night. But how?”
“A tunnel!” I exclaimed. “A secret tunnel to the Underground Station! And when the lid is opened, a difference in air pressure creates the screams that are attributed to the Princess’ ghost!”
“Exactly, Watson!” He turned, and with his still-fearsome strength, threw open the stone lid upon its series of levers. “Gentlemen, I give you the entrance to the tunnel!”
But when the four of us peered eagerly inside, all we found was a thick layer of dust.
§
When Sir Williams had completed his strident exit in a fit of seemingly-justified indignation, Mr. Brundage trailing meekly behind him, Lestrade and I turned to Holmes with questioning looks. After his premature announcement, Holmes had carefully searched the inside of the sarcophagus, still hoping to find some hidden latch that might trigger the bottom portion to open into his conjectured tunnel. But after several futile minutes, Holmes was forced to admit defeat. He proceeded to slump against the side of the massive plinth that held the room’s guardian sphinx. Holmes sat for some time in silence with his head sunk forward, and his eyes bent upon the silent and empty sarcophagus. I imagined his thoughts bordered upon the morbid.
It had, of course, come as a great surprise to me to see that Holmes was wrong, for only a handful of times had I known him to fail. So accustomed was I to his invariable triumphs that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter my head. I worried that I must reject this case from my published records, for I always preferred to dwell upon his successes. I was greatly pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel any such slip. It was his specialty to be as precise as possible, but it was obvious that the years of inactivity during his retirement had slightly dulled his once razor-sharp mind. He was obviously embarrassed, while Lestrade simply raised his eyebrows in surprise at Holmes’ unexpected failure. Lestrade’s opinion had shifted over the almost three decades of his acquaintance with Holmes, from one of contemptuous skepticism to that of respectful awe. But I once again saw the pale light of doubt in the inspector’s eyes. I desperately hoped that this setback would not send Holmes into one of the fits of blackest depression to which he was often prey.
Holmes finally sighed and slowly stood. “I have miscalculated badly, Lestrade. I must reconsider my position,” he said at last. He strode from the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks, and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long, thin hands.
No more was said until we were ensconced in a hansom rattling our way back to the hotel. I hoped that some rest might help restore his powers. “I am afraid that this blunder denotes the true zero-point of my lifetime, Watson. You have seen me miss my mark before, but never before has my instinct played me so false. It seemed a foregone conclusion when it first flashed across my mind in the Underground station, but the one disadvantage of a dynamic brain is that one can always imagine alternative reasons which might make the scent a false one. Perhaps our day has passed? Soon these streets will be filled with motor-cars,” he gestured out the window. “These hansom cabs will vanish like relics of a forgotten era. An era, unfortunately, to which you and I belong.”
I endeavored to think of something reassuring to tell him, but the growing aches in my shoulder and leg told of the same truth of which he bespoke. Holmes was right. We were getting old.
Finally he was roused from his melancholy ruminations by the sight out the window. “Cabby, where are we going?” he called up to the driver. I look out and noted that we were not, as I would have expected, travelling down St. Martin’s Lane.
“Sorry, sir, the Square
“A tunnel!” I exclaimed. “A secret tunnel to the Underground Station! And when the lid is opened, a difference in air pressure creates the screams that are attributed to the Princess’ ghost!”
“Exactly, Watson!” He turned, and with his still-fearsome strength, threw open the stone lid upon its series of levers. “Gentlemen, I give you the entrance to the tunnel!”
But when the four of us peered eagerly inside, all we found was a thick layer of dust.
§
When Sir Williams had completed his strident exit in a fit of seemingly-justified indignation, Mr. Brundage trailing meekly behind him, Lestrade and I turned to Holmes with questioning looks. After his premature announcement, Holmes had carefully searched the inside of the sarcophagus, still hoping to find some hidden latch that might trigger the bottom portion to open into his conjectured tunnel. But after several futile minutes, Holmes was forced to admit defeat. He proceeded to slump against the side of the massive plinth that held the room’s guardian sphinx. Holmes sat for some time in silence with his head sunk forward, and his eyes bent upon the silent and empty sarcophagus. I imagined his thoughts bordered upon the morbid.
It had, of course, come as a great surprise to me to see that Holmes was wrong, for only a handful of times had I known him to fail. So accustomed was I to his invariable triumphs that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter my head. I worried that I must reject this case from my published records, for I always preferred to dwell upon his successes. I was greatly pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel any such slip. It was his specialty to be as precise as possible, but it was obvious that the years of inactivity during his retirement had slightly dulled his once razor-sharp mind. He was obviously embarrassed, while Lestrade simply raised his eyebrows in surprise at Holmes’ unexpected failure. Lestrade’s opinion had shifted over the almost three decades of his acquaintance with Holmes, from one of contemptuous skepticism to that of respectful awe. But I once again saw the pale light of doubt in the inspector’s eyes. I desperately hoped that this setback would not send Holmes into one of the fits of blackest depression to which he was often prey.
Holmes finally sighed and slowly stood. “I have miscalculated badly, Lestrade. I must reconsider my position,” he said at last. He strode from the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks, and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long, thin hands.
No more was said until we were ensconced in a hansom rattling our way back to the hotel. I hoped that some rest might help restore his powers. “I am afraid that this blunder denotes the true zero-point of my lifetime, Watson. You have seen me miss my mark before, but never before has my instinct played me so false. It seemed a foregone conclusion when it first flashed across my mind in the Underground station, but the one disadvantage of a dynamic brain is that one can always imagine alternative reasons which might make the scent a false one. Perhaps our day has passed? Soon these streets will be filled with motor-cars,” he gestured out the window. “These hansom cabs will vanish like relics of a forgotten era. An era, unfortunately, to which you and I belong.”
I endeavored to think of something reassuring to tell him, but the growing aches in my shoulder and leg told of the same truth of which he bespoke. Holmes was right. We were getting old.
Finally he was roused from his melancholy ruminations by the sight out the window. “Cabby, where are we going?” he called up to the driver. I look out and noted that we were not, as I would have expected, travelling down St. Martin’s Lane.
“Sorry, sir, the Square
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