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charleygirlTitle: The Hand of Seth 14/15
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery, angst
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade, the Fourth Doctor, Sarah Jane Smith, Ibrahim Namin, Sutek
Summary: Meeting with a god...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements are the property of the BBC
Author's Note: Holmes and Watson as they appear in this story are based on the performances by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in the Granada TV series. This fic is ostensibly set between The Sign of Four and The Devil's Foot in the Granada run.
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
My immediate inclination was to head for the door through which we had come and leave the building as quickly as possible.
The absence of the chanting somehow sent a chill down my spine more certainly than the voices themselves had done. I ignored the impulse and crossed as stealthily as I could to Holmes’s side, peering round him to see what was happening in the room beyond. I could make out little besides the flickering of flaming torches and several figures in black robes clustered beneath a huge granite statue. As I watched through a haze of smoke, the figures spread out, revealing one of their number on his knees before the statue, his arms folded across his chest in some form of supplication.
“Oh, Dread and All Powerful Sutek, hear your instrument,” the kneeling individual, whom I recognised as Namin, intoned. “We are gathered to await your presence. All is prepared for your descent. All Powerful and Mighty Sutek join us, your servants. Come among us and take this world we offer you.”
I am not sure quite what I was expecting to happen, but I certainly was not prepared for the words to provoke a reaction. When a disembodied voice floated through the marble-floored chamber, I swear I felt my blood run cold.
“Who disturbs Sutek?” the voice demanded; a sibilant hiss almost as one might imagine a snake would sound had it been given the power of speech. It drifted through the room, touching everything with a faint air of malevolence. There is something far more deadly about a man who speaks quietly and means ill than one who shouts and screams. The hairs rose on the back of my neck.
“It is I, Lord, your humble servant Ibrahim Namin. I have done all that you asked of me.”
“It…pleases me to now that the moment of my deliverance is so close at hand. You know what you must do now?”
Namin nodded, and leaned forwards to place something upon the stone altar before him. He bent, his forehead touching the floor, before straightening once more. As he did, I could see that it was the statue of Seth that stood there. It had been discussed so many times that I confess even having seen the photographs my mind had built it into something more impressive than it actually was. All I could see was a small, crude wooden figure. Despite my anxiety, it came as something of a disappointment.
“See this offering, oh mighty Sutek. Draw from its sacred power!” Namin declared, throwing his arms wide.
There was a pause. In the resulting silence I was acutely aware of my own breathing and that of Holmes beside me. I glanced up to see him standing stock still against the wall, eyes never leaving the strange tableau before us.
At length, when the waiting had become almost intolerable, the mysterious voice came again. This time, there was very definite menace held within it.
“Namin, you are a false servant,” it said.
Namin stared at the statue, bewildered. It may have been the shifting light from the torches, but I could have sworn that the shadow thrown against the granite sculpture had changed shape, grown into something not quite…human. “I, Lord? I am your most humble and obedient - ”
“You have failed. The statue is not complete. I cannot transfer unless the lodestone is intact!” The voice rose ever so slightly in pitch. “Where is the hand?”
“I – I could not find it, Lord. We tried - ” Namin stammered.
“You know where the hand lies, Namin. You will obtain it. You will complete the lodestone.”
“I – I - ”
“You will!” the voice thundered. “You must!”
Namin’s face was panic-stricken as he turned towards us – he gestured desperately across the room, to the circle of cloaked brethren who stood there. As he did I caught sight of one of the tall windows – the glass was tinged a deep, deep red.
There was a sharp intake of breath from beside me, and as I watched a commotion began amongst the cloaked figures. They drew apart and two of them dragged the dishevelled form of the Honourable William Ravensley forwards. The lad was white was fear, struggling desperately.
“Bring him here,” Namin commanded.
Ravensley’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the altar, and his struggles began anew. One of the men holding him struck him a glancing blow across the forehead and he subsided, going limp in their arms.
“What is this?” demanded the voice. I looked wildly around the room. Where the devil was it coming from?
“He knows where the Hand of Sutek is hidden. He will tell us!” Namin insisted.
Again that most pregnant pause, as though the very air was holding its breath. I could not help joining it. I wondered what Holmes could be planning. To take on that many would be utter madness, as I had told him, and yet what good would we possibly do hiding where we were? I hoped fervently that my friend would have some scheme, and that his drug-induced confidence had not caused him to bring us here with no plans at all.
“He can tell you nothing, cretin,” the voice hissed. “He does not know where the hand lies.”
Namin’s look of bafflement returned. “But, I - ”
“You are an insect, Namin. I could crush you with the merest thought, or keep you alive in excruciating pain as I devised ever more ingenious and subtle means of torture.” There appeared to be some kind of amusement in the voice now, and I imagined that whoever might be providing it was taking great pleasure from the charade. I tried once more to discern where the voice was coming from, but it seemed to be all around me.
Namin fell to his knees. “Please, All Powerful Sutek, please spare your humble, faithful servant. I have done all that you asked of me and more, I do not deserve your displeasure - ”
“How dare you seek to bargain with Sutek! Insect! Microbe! You are of no importance.”
“Lord, I - ”
“There is one here who does know,” the voice continued, “and he has the hand in his possession. You will retrieve the hand, Namin.”
For a long moment, Namin stood frozen before the altar. Then, quite slowly, he stood, turning towards the doorway and the spot in which we crouched. The brethren turned as one, and my heart leapt into my throat.
Namin was looking straight at Holmes.
***
An unpleasant smile swept over his face.
“Mr Holmes,” he said, “I might have guessed. You seem determined to interfere.” His voice hardened. “Give me the hand.”
Holmes took a step forwards, one hand going to his waistcoat pocket. Before he withdrew it, however, he shook his head. “No. I think I shan’t.”
An angry shutter slid down across Namin’s features. “I warned you before: do not play games with me. You do not understand the powers you meddle with. I can crush you.”
“That I seriously doubt. I will make a bargain with you – release Mr Ravensley, and I will consider giving you the hand.”
“A bargain?” Namin burst out laughing. “What sort of bargain is this?” He gestured to the four hooded men standing behind him, and from within the folds of their robes I could see gun barrels glinting in the light from the wavering torches. “No more stalling, Mr Holmes. Give me the relic. I will give you five seconds. Five - ”
“This relic, as you call it, no more belongs to you than does the rest of the statue,” Holmes told him. He was quite calm, even in the face of such overwhelming odds. I could not tell whether his incredible self-control had taken charge or if the bravado was due entirely to the cocaine. “If you let Mr Ravensley go and return the statue to its owner, I may ask the police to take the action into account when charging you.”
“Namin, I grow impatient,” hissed the voice. “The moment of transference approaches – I can wait no longer. Kill them!”
“No! That’s exactly what he wants!” shouted a new voice from the other side of the gallery. Recognising its commanding tone, I dared to turn my head to see, beyond the hooded men, the mysterious Doctor, Sarah at his side. “He revels in death! Destruction will only make his transference all the easier!”
“More interference!” The disembodied voice was still measured, but there was more than a little anger and impatience there now. “Namin, take the hand. The release of Sutek is all that matters. Crush these insects!”
“Move a muscle and I’ll destroy the lodestone,” said the Doctor. Despite his ridiculous appearance, scarf trailing on the marble floor, there was determination in his face and manner. Here was a man who meant exactly what he said. “Which is it to be, Sutek?” he called to the room at large.
“The hand, Namin! Take the hand! The will of Sutek must survive!”
For a moment, all stood as though frozen. The, quite suddenly, Namin launched himself at Holmes with a roar, knocking my friend to the ground. I turned to help him but found myself unable to move, my arms pinioned by one of the cowled brethren who had come round behind me with the speed of lightning. I struggled, trying to free my right hand and my revolver, but the fellow was incredibly strong, hands more like iron than living flesh. The fingers that held me were like a vice, and I saw that I would be powerless to help Holmes, who was fighting valiantly as he grappled with Namin but at so much less than his usual strength. A gun barrel hovered before my eyes and I thought myself lost…
There was the sound of an impact and I barely registered I was free until the man holding me abruptly crumpled, releasing his hold. Startled, I turned to see Bretherton standing behind me, a stone statue held high in wavering hands, having apparently just brought it down upon the head of my captor. Such a blow would have shattered the fellow’s skull, but I had no time to check as the next moment the curator had spun and struck the looming figure with the pistol as it closed in upon us. The cloaked individual fell without a sound, the gun clattering on the polished floor. I scooped it up, breathlessly thanking Bretherton.
He looked at the statue, ironically one of the falcon Horus, Seth’s great enemy, ruefully. “I do hope I’ve not damaged it,” he said.
There was a great noise coming from the other side of the room, the Doctor’s voice booming out some warning or other coupled with Sarah’s raised in alarm. The smoke coming from the torches hid them from my sight – I instinctively turned my attention to Holmes.
As I neared, Namin apparently doing his best to throttle the life out of him, my friend was obviously flagging, his weakened state robbing him of his usual stamina and skill in a fight. I held the pistol ready, aiming it squarely at Namin’s back. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could Holmes curled his body upwards, his feet pushing against Namin’s belly. With one great burst of strength he kicked out, propelling the Egyptian quite six feet to hit the floor hard, fetching up against a stone sarcophagus.
“Doctor!” Bretherton shouted, and I swung round just in time to drop into a crouch as one of the cultists rushed at me. He flew over my head, and I righted myself, putting a bullet into his shoulder before he could stand. Strangely, he slumped back on the marble without even a grunt of pain.
“Hurry, Doctor!”
For a moment I thought that the girl Sarah was calling for me, but as the air cleared for a moment I saw that her words were encouragement for her friend, who had managed to get close to the statue, the brethren either out of action or occupied elsewhere. Smoke seemed to be rising from it, mingling with that from the blazing torches. I coughed involuntarily. Somewhere above us the strange voice was screaming in impotent rage, unable to do anything to stop the destruction of the cult’s plans. I wondered whether, if I rounded the great granite statue of a long-dead pharaoh, I might find a man crouched there with some means of amplifying his voice. I had seen such things accomplished by stage illusionists in the past. But if the man was there, why did he not assist his confederates? Why continue with the charade as chaos erupted around him? And what was the charade for?
I had no time to even attempt to discover the answers to my questions. Holmes had managed to stand and now leaned against the wall, his face chalk white, trying to regain his breath. I hurried towards him, and did not notice Namin getting painfully to his feet until it was too late. The Egyptian barrelled into me, knocking me aside and lunging for Holmes once more. His momentum carried them into the bracket supporting one of the torches, presumably used under normal circumstances for a lamp, and the whole thing came down with them, hitting the floor with a terrible crash.
I picked myself up, but my revolver had fallen from my hand and was nowhere to be seen. Not waiting to try and find it or retrieve the cultist’s pistol from my pocket, I put my youthful prowess on the rugby pitch into rather rusty practise and launched myself at Namin, grabbing him around the middle in a creditable tackle. He struggled like a madman, trying to throw me off and catching me under the chin with a flailing fist, but despite tasting blood in my mouth I held on with grim determination.
“Sarah! Where are you going?” I heard the Doctor shout somewhere behind me.
“To get something!” There was a scrabbling sound on the marble not far away, and then the sharp click of a gun being cocked. I knew immediately that Sarah had found my fallen revolver.
“Sarah?” There was mild alarm in the Doctor’s voice now.
“Cover your ears,” she ordered.
“No…what are you doing?” cried the disembodied voice, its measured tone lost, risen in anxiety.
A shot rang out, echoing all around the gallery, and the voice escalated into a scream.
“What have you done?!!”
“Take cover!” the Doctor yelled, as a moment later my ears popped and everything suddenly went black.
***
I came round with a terrible whistling in my ears.
For a panicked moment I thought that I might have been deafened, but as I regained my senses I realised that the whistling was in fact coming from Lestrade, arrived at last and summoning his men as he surveyed the wreckage of the sculpture gallery with wide eyes. Several constables were already picking their way through the dust and chunks of stone to where the black-robed brethren of the Cult of Seth lay.
I climbed unsteadily to my feet. The statue of Seth, the cause of it all, was no more, its place on the altar filled by an oily, smoking patch something I did not care to look at too closely.
“Doctor!” Lestrade exclaimed, noticing me and hurrying to my side. “I would have been here an hour ago, but Mr Holmes expressly said - ”
“I know, Lestrade. Just as well you’re here now.” I did not think it work explaining Holmes’s uncharacteristic lack of judgement. I could not damage his reputation in such a way, angry as I had been with him.
“What the devil’s been happening?” the inspector wondered.
“That will take time to explain. Is Mr William Ravensley all right?”
Lestrade appeared to have forgotten all about the boy. “I’ll go and find out.”
He bustled off, leaving me to look at the devastation around me. Bretherton was sitting covered in dust but otherwise unharmed. He stared at what had become of the gallery – at least three of the huge statues were damaged beyond repair, and several others had great chunks gouged from them, as well as scorch marks as though they had been touched by fire.
“Dear God,” the hapless curator muttered, “Whatever will the governors say about this?”
Reassured that he was well, I turned to Holmes, and was pushed off my feet for the second time as Namin, having swiftly recovered himself, bolted for the doorway. I shouted to Lestrade, and Namin found himself neatly intercepted by four of the inspector’s men. They dragged him away, screaming and yelling abuse.
By the time I was standing once more, Sarah had beaten me to Holmes’s side, and was crouching over him, concern etched on her pretty face. “It’s all right,” she said when I reached her, “he’s alive. I think that torch caught him across the head.” She gently touched Holmes’s scalp, where the flames had scorched his hair. He did not react – I bent down and checked him over, finding him to be breathing shallowly, barely conscious.
“There is more to it than that,” I replied, knowing that his collapse had been more to do with his abused constitution finally crumbling than a glancing blow from a torch. He had simply been unable to stand up to Namin any longer – I did not want to imagine what might have happened had the end not come when it did. “He has not been well for weeks.”
“I’m sorry. I wish we could have got here sooner,” she said, and I sensed that she meant the words.
“You knew what was going to happen,” I said, suddenly realising the significance of their appearance at the last moment. “That’s why you sent those messages. How did you know?”
She hesitated, mouth open as if to begin an explanation, but before she could speak her friend was there behind us, looking impatient to be gone.
“Come on, Sarah, time we were off,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to where Lord Harcourt, who had apparently followed Lestrade into the building, was conducting a rather emotional reunion with his son. “We don’t want the police asking awkward questions, do we?”
“True. But ‘who are you’ and ‘where do you come from’ are quite simple questions to ordinary people,” Sarah replied.
He flashed her that toothy grin. “Who wants to be ordinary? Come on – time and tide and all that.”
“No,” she said, turning back to Holmes. “We can’t just leave him, not like this. It’s partly our fault he was involved.”
“Sarah,” the man in the scarf began in a warning tone.
“If you wish to leave I cannot stop you,” I said, not wanting to be the cause of an argument, however indirectly, “though I have no doubt that Inspector Lestrade will wish to speak with you. I would appreciate a little help to get Holmes back to Baker Street, however, if it is not too much trouble.” Bretherton was still gazing in shock at the damage to the museum, and I could see that I would get no assistance from that quarter. “If you could find us a cab, I would be most grateful.”
The Doctor looked torn, but nodded and strode off, neatly avoiding a curious Lestrade and vanishing through the doorway. Sarah helped me to lift Holmes, who groaned, eyelids fluttering, as his head lolled against my shoulder. I felt my old wound twinge as I took his weight, Sarah taking his other side and supporting as best she could, for he was not a small man.
He friend had found a cab in record time, and took over, assisting me to settle Holmes upon the seat. I turned back to thank him, only to find that he was already some distance away, waiting beneath a street lamp for Sarah to join him. A little up the street a police constable was attempting to reassure residents that everything was quite safe, and that the explosion (for such I could only assume it had been) was nothing to worry about.
“He hates goodbyes,” Sarah said in explanation.
“I must thank you, both of you. If you had not arrived when you did - ”
“The Doctor’s good at last-minute rescues.” She smiled, and held out a hand to me. “It’s been an honour to meet you, Doctor Watson.”
Rather disconcerted by her abruptness, I shook her hand. Her grip was firm, authoritative. “And you, Miss - ?”
“Smith. Sarah Jane Smith. Perhaps we’ll meet again, if the Doctor doesn’t think it’ll cause the universe to collapse or something.”
“Sarah!” called the man in the scarf.
“I’m coming!” She pulled something from her pocket and pressed it into my hand. I looked down and realised that it was my revolver. I had forgotten all about it. Sarah glanced into the cab at the unconscious Holmes. “Don’t worry. It’s only 1897 – he’ll be fine,” she said incomprehensibly, and skipped off to join her friend, turning back for a moment to wave.
Their conversation drifted back to me on the night air as I climbed into the cab.
“So what exactly happened when I shot the statue?” Sarah asked, tucking her arm through the Doctor’s.
“You activated the automatic self-destruct mechanism,” he replied. “The Osirans were nothing if not ingenious.”
“They taunted Sutek by giving him the means of his escape, and then blowing it up the moment he got too close?”
“Of course. What better way to increase the misery and frustration of his imprisonment?”
“Sneaky bunch. He’ll try again.”
“We know he will. We’ve been there, remember?”
“How could I forget…”
Their voices faded into the darkness. I glanced at the sky, the moon still tinted red as the eclipse faded, and wondered exactly what they had been talking about.
***
Mrs Hudson was still up when we returned to 221B, almost as if she had known that something would happen.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said when I enquired, “there’s something nasty in the air tonight , Doctor. Got more than a little to do with that red moon, I don’t doubt.”
I could not disagree. Holmes came back to himself a little as I helped him up the stairs, though he was dreadfully pale and weak, unresisting of my ministrations and limp as a rag doll as I put him to bed. He began to shiver and cough, and I wrapped him in blankets, checking his temperature and hoping that the fever of a few days before would not return.
As I folded his clothes, I felt something in the pocket of his waistcoat – drawing it out I discovered it to be the wooden hand, still clutching its strangely-shaped key.
I stared at it for some time, before, on an impulse, I threw it into the sitting room fire. The statue was gone, no one would be needing it any more. The god Seth was once more consigned to the pages of Egyptian mythology.
As I watched it burn, however, for a moment I could have sworn I heard a voice, far away, screaming in rage…
To be concluded…
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery, angst
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade, the Fourth Doctor, Sarah Jane Smith, Ibrahim Namin, Sutek
Summary: Meeting with a god...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements are the property of the BBC
Author's Note: Holmes and Watson as they appear in this story are based on the performances by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in the Granada TV series. This fic is ostensibly set between The Sign of Four and The Devil's Foot in the Granada run.
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
My immediate inclination was to head for the door through which we had come and leave the building as quickly as possible.
The absence of the chanting somehow sent a chill down my spine more certainly than the voices themselves had done. I ignored the impulse and crossed as stealthily as I could to Holmes’s side, peering round him to see what was happening in the room beyond. I could make out little besides the flickering of flaming torches and several figures in black robes clustered beneath a huge granite statue. As I watched through a haze of smoke, the figures spread out, revealing one of their number on his knees before the statue, his arms folded across his chest in some form of supplication.
“Oh, Dread and All Powerful Sutek, hear your instrument,” the kneeling individual, whom I recognised as Namin, intoned. “We are gathered to await your presence. All is prepared for your descent. All Powerful and Mighty Sutek join us, your servants. Come among us and take this world we offer you.”
I am not sure quite what I was expecting to happen, but I certainly was not prepared for the words to provoke a reaction. When a disembodied voice floated through the marble-floored chamber, I swear I felt my blood run cold.
“Who disturbs Sutek?” the voice demanded; a sibilant hiss almost as one might imagine a snake would sound had it been given the power of speech. It drifted through the room, touching everything with a faint air of malevolence. There is something far more deadly about a man who speaks quietly and means ill than one who shouts and screams. The hairs rose on the back of my neck.
“It is I, Lord, your humble servant Ibrahim Namin. I have done all that you asked of me.”
“It…pleases me to now that the moment of my deliverance is so close at hand. You know what you must do now?”
Namin nodded, and leaned forwards to place something upon the stone altar before him. He bent, his forehead touching the floor, before straightening once more. As he did, I could see that it was the statue of Seth that stood there. It had been discussed so many times that I confess even having seen the photographs my mind had built it into something more impressive than it actually was. All I could see was a small, crude wooden figure. Despite my anxiety, it came as something of a disappointment.
“See this offering, oh mighty Sutek. Draw from its sacred power!” Namin declared, throwing his arms wide.
There was a pause. In the resulting silence I was acutely aware of my own breathing and that of Holmes beside me. I glanced up to see him standing stock still against the wall, eyes never leaving the strange tableau before us.
At length, when the waiting had become almost intolerable, the mysterious voice came again. This time, there was very definite menace held within it.
“Namin, you are a false servant,” it said.
Namin stared at the statue, bewildered. It may have been the shifting light from the torches, but I could have sworn that the shadow thrown against the granite sculpture had changed shape, grown into something not quite…human. “I, Lord? I am your most humble and obedient - ”
“You have failed. The statue is not complete. I cannot transfer unless the lodestone is intact!” The voice rose ever so slightly in pitch. “Where is the hand?”
“I – I could not find it, Lord. We tried - ” Namin stammered.
“You know where the hand lies, Namin. You will obtain it. You will complete the lodestone.”
“I – I - ”
“You will!” the voice thundered. “You must!”
Namin’s face was panic-stricken as he turned towards us – he gestured desperately across the room, to the circle of cloaked brethren who stood there. As he did I caught sight of one of the tall windows – the glass was tinged a deep, deep red.
There was a sharp intake of breath from beside me, and as I watched a commotion began amongst the cloaked figures. They drew apart and two of them dragged the dishevelled form of the Honourable William Ravensley forwards. The lad was white was fear, struggling desperately.
“Bring him here,” Namin commanded.
Ravensley’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the altar, and his struggles began anew. One of the men holding him struck him a glancing blow across the forehead and he subsided, going limp in their arms.
“What is this?” demanded the voice. I looked wildly around the room. Where the devil was it coming from?
“He knows where the Hand of Sutek is hidden. He will tell us!” Namin insisted.
Again that most pregnant pause, as though the very air was holding its breath. I could not help joining it. I wondered what Holmes could be planning. To take on that many would be utter madness, as I had told him, and yet what good would we possibly do hiding where we were? I hoped fervently that my friend would have some scheme, and that his drug-induced confidence had not caused him to bring us here with no plans at all.
“He can tell you nothing, cretin,” the voice hissed. “He does not know where the hand lies.”
Namin’s look of bafflement returned. “But, I - ”
“You are an insect, Namin. I could crush you with the merest thought, or keep you alive in excruciating pain as I devised ever more ingenious and subtle means of torture.” There appeared to be some kind of amusement in the voice now, and I imagined that whoever might be providing it was taking great pleasure from the charade. I tried once more to discern where the voice was coming from, but it seemed to be all around me.
Namin fell to his knees. “Please, All Powerful Sutek, please spare your humble, faithful servant. I have done all that you asked of me and more, I do not deserve your displeasure - ”
“How dare you seek to bargain with Sutek! Insect! Microbe! You are of no importance.”
“Lord, I - ”
“There is one here who does know,” the voice continued, “and he has the hand in his possession. You will retrieve the hand, Namin.”
For a long moment, Namin stood frozen before the altar. Then, quite slowly, he stood, turning towards the doorway and the spot in which we crouched. The brethren turned as one, and my heart leapt into my throat.
Namin was looking straight at Holmes.
***
An unpleasant smile swept over his face.
“Mr Holmes,” he said, “I might have guessed. You seem determined to interfere.” His voice hardened. “Give me the hand.”
Holmes took a step forwards, one hand going to his waistcoat pocket. Before he withdrew it, however, he shook his head. “No. I think I shan’t.”
An angry shutter slid down across Namin’s features. “I warned you before: do not play games with me. You do not understand the powers you meddle with. I can crush you.”
“That I seriously doubt. I will make a bargain with you – release Mr Ravensley, and I will consider giving you the hand.”
“A bargain?” Namin burst out laughing. “What sort of bargain is this?” He gestured to the four hooded men standing behind him, and from within the folds of their robes I could see gun barrels glinting in the light from the wavering torches. “No more stalling, Mr Holmes. Give me the relic. I will give you five seconds. Five - ”
“This relic, as you call it, no more belongs to you than does the rest of the statue,” Holmes told him. He was quite calm, even in the face of such overwhelming odds. I could not tell whether his incredible self-control had taken charge or if the bravado was due entirely to the cocaine. “If you let Mr Ravensley go and return the statue to its owner, I may ask the police to take the action into account when charging you.”
“Namin, I grow impatient,” hissed the voice. “The moment of transference approaches – I can wait no longer. Kill them!”
“No! That’s exactly what he wants!” shouted a new voice from the other side of the gallery. Recognising its commanding tone, I dared to turn my head to see, beyond the hooded men, the mysterious Doctor, Sarah at his side. “He revels in death! Destruction will only make his transference all the easier!”
“More interference!” The disembodied voice was still measured, but there was more than a little anger and impatience there now. “Namin, take the hand. The release of Sutek is all that matters. Crush these insects!”
“Move a muscle and I’ll destroy the lodestone,” said the Doctor. Despite his ridiculous appearance, scarf trailing on the marble floor, there was determination in his face and manner. Here was a man who meant exactly what he said. “Which is it to be, Sutek?” he called to the room at large.
“The hand, Namin! Take the hand! The will of Sutek must survive!”
For a moment, all stood as though frozen. The, quite suddenly, Namin launched himself at Holmes with a roar, knocking my friend to the ground. I turned to help him but found myself unable to move, my arms pinioned by one of the cowled brethren who had come round behind me with the speed of lightning. I struggled, trying to free my right hand and my revolver, but the fellow was incredibly strong, hands more like iron than living flesh. The fingers that held me were like a vice, and I saw that I would be powerless to help Holmes, who was fighting valiantly as he grappled with Namin but at so much less than his usual strength. A gun barrel hovered before my eyes and I thought myself lost…
There was the sound of an impact and I barely registered I was free until the man holding me abruptly crumpled, releasing his hold. Startled, I turned to see Bretherton standing behind me, a stone statue held high in wavering hands, having apparently just brought it down upon the head of my captor. Such a blow would have shattered the fellow’s skull, but I had no time to check as the next moment the curator had spun and struck the looming figure with the pistol as it closed in upon us. The cloaked individual fell without a sound, the gun clattering on the polished floor. I scooped it up, breathlessly thanking Bretherton.
He looked at the statue, ironically one of the falcon Horus, Seth’s great enemy, ruefully. “I do hope I’ve not damaged it,” he said.
There was a great noise coming from the other side of the room, the Doctor’s voice booming out some warning or other coupled with Sarah’s raised in alarm. The smoke coming from the torches hid them from my sight – I instinctively turned my attention to Holmes.
As I neared, Namin apparently doing his best to throttle the life out of him, my friend was obviously flagging, his weakened state robbing him of his usual stamina and skill in a fight. I held the pistol ready, aiming it squarely at Namin’s back. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could Holmes curled his body upwards, his feet pushing against Namin’s belly. With one great burst of strength he kicked out, propelling the Egyptian quite six feet to hit the floor hard, fetching up against a stone sarcophagus.
“Doctor!” Bretherton shouted, and I swung round just in time to drop into a crouch as one of the cultists rushed at me. He flew over my head, and I righted myself, putting a bullet into his shoulder before he could stand. Strangely, he slumped back on the marble without even a grunt of pain.
“Hurry, Doctor!”
For a moment I thought that the girl Sarah was calling for me, but as the air cleared for a moment I saw that her words were encouragement for her friend, who had managed to get close to the statue, the brethren either out of action or occupied elsewhere. Smoke seemed to be rising from it, mingling with that from the blazing torches. I coughed involuntarily. Somewhere above us the strange voice was screaming in impotent rage, unable to do anything to stop the destruction of the cult’s plans. I wondered whether, if I rounded the great granite statue of a long-dead pharaoh, I might find a man crouched there with some means of amplifying his voice. I had seen such things accomplished by stage illusionists in the past. But if the man was there, why did he not assist his confederates? Why continue with the charade as chaos erupted around him? And what was the charade for?
I had no time to even attempt to discover the answers to my questions. Holmes had managed to stand and now leaned against the wall, his face chalk white, trying to regain his breath. I hurried towards him, and did not notice Namin getting painfully to his feet until it was too late. The Egyptian barrelled into me, knocking me aside and lunging for Holmes once more. His momentum carried them into the bracket supporting one of the torches, presumably used under normal circumstances for a lamp, and the whole thing came down with them, hitting the floor with a terrible crash.
I picked myself up, but my revolver had fallen from my hand and was nowhere to be seen. Not waiting to try and find it or retrieve the cultist’s pistol from my pocket, I put my youthful prowess on the rugby pitch into rather rusty practise and launched myself at Namin, grabbing him around the middle in a creditable tackle. He struggled like a madman, trying to throw me off and catching me under the chin with a flailing fist, but despite tasting blood in my mouth I held on with grim determination.
“Sarah! Where are you going?” I heard the Doctor shout somewhere behind me.
“To get something!” There was a scrabbling sound on the marble not far away, and then the sharp click of a gun being cocked. I knew immediately that Sarah had found my fallen revolver.
“Sarah?” There was mild alarm in the Doctor’s voice now.
“Cover your ears,” she ordered.
“No…what are you doing?” cried the disembodied voice, its measured tone lost, risen in anxiety.
A shot rang out, echoing all around the gallery, and the voice escalated into a scream.
“What have you done?!!”
“Take cover!” the Doctor yelled, as a moment later my ears popped and everything suddenly went black.
***
I came round with a terrible whistling in my ears.
For a panicked moment I thought that I might have been deafened, but as I regained my senses I realised that the whistling was in fact coming from Lestrade, arrived at last and summoning his men as he surveyed the wreckage of the sculpture gallery with wide eyes. Several constables were already picking their way through the dust and chunks of stone to where the black-robed brethren of the Cult of Seth lay.
I climbed unsteadily to my feet. The statue of Seth, the cause of it all, was no more, its place on the altar filled by an oily, smoking patch something I did not care to look at too closely.
“Doctor!” Lestrade exclaimed, noticing me and hurrying to my side. “I would have been here an hour ago, but Mr Holmes expressly said - ”
“I know, Lestrade. Just as well you’re here now.” I did not think it work explaining Holmes’s uncharacteristic lack of judgement. I could not damage his reputation in such a way, angry as I had been with him.
“What the devil’s been happening?” the inspector wondered.
“That will take time to explain. Is Mr William Ravensley all right?”
Lestrade appeared to have forgotten all about the boy. “I’ll go and find out.”
He bustled off, leaving me to look at the devastation around me. Bretherton was sitting covered in dust but otherwise unharmed. He stared at what had become of the gallery – at least three of the huge statues were damaged beyond repair, and several others had great chunks gouged from them, as well as scorch marks as though they had been touched by fire.
“Dear God,” the hapless curator muttered, “Whatever will the governors say about this?”
Reassured that he was well, I turned to Holmes, and was pushed off my feet for the second time as Namin, having swiftly recovered himself, bolted for the doorway. I shouted to Lestrade, and Namin found himself neatly intercepted by four of the inspector’s men. They dragged him away, screaming and yelling abuse.
By the time I was standing once more, Sarah had beaten me to Holmes’s side, and was crouching over him, concern etched on her pretty face. “It’s all right,” she said when I reached her, “he’s alive. I think that torch caught him across the head.” She gently touched Holmes’s scalp, where the flames had scorched his hair. He did not react – I bent down and checked him over, finding him to be breathing shallowly, barely conscious.
“There is more to it than that,” I replied, knowing that his collapse had been more to do with his abused constitution finally crumbling than a glancing blow from a torch. He had simply been unable to stand up to Namin any longer – I did not want to imagine what might have happened had the end not come when it did. “He has not been well for weeks.”
“I’m sorry. I wish we could have got here sooner,” she said, and I sensed that she meant the words.
“You knew what was going to happen,” I said, suddenly realising the significance of their appearance at the last moment. “That’s why you sent those messages. How did you know?”
She hesitated, mouth open as if to begin an explanation, but before she could speak her friend was there behind us, looking impatient to be gone.
“Come on, Sarah, time we were off,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to where Lord Harcourt, who had apparently followed Lestrade into the building, was conducting a rather emotional reunion with his son. “We don’t want the police asking awkward questions, do we?”
“True. But ‘who are you’ and ‘where do you come from’ are quite simple questions to ordinary people,” Sarah replied.
He flashed her that toothy grin. “Who wants to be ordinary? Come on – time and tide and all that.”
“No,” she said, turning back to Holmes. “We can’t just leave him, not like this. It’s partly our fault he was involved.”
“Sarah,” the man in the scarf began in a warning tone.
“If you wish to leave I cannot stop you,” I said, not wanting to be the cause of an argument, however indirectly, “though I have no doubt that Inspector Lestrade will wish to speak with you. I would appreciate a little help to get Holmes back to Baker Street, however, if it is not too much trouble.” Bretherton was still gazing in shock at the damage to the museum, and I could see that I would get no assistance from that quarter. “If you could find us a cab, I would be most grateful.”
The Doctor looked torn, but nodded and strode off, neatly avoiding a curious Lestrade and vanishing through the doorway. Sarah helped me to lift Holmes, who groaned, eyelids fluttering, as his head lolled against my shoulder. I felt my old wound twinge as I took his weight, Sarah taking his other side and supporting as best she could, for he was not a small man.
He friend had found a cab in record time, and took over, assisting me to settle Holmes upon the seat. I turned back to thank him, only to find that he was already some distance away, waiting beneath a street lamp for Sarah to join him. A little up the street a police constable was attempting to reassure residents that everything was quite safe, and that the explosion (for such I could only assume it had been) was nothing to worry about.
“He hates goodbyes,” Sarah said in explanation.
“I must thank you, both of you. If you had not arrived when you did - ”
“The Doctor’s good at last-minute rescues.” She smiled, and held out a hand to me. “It’s been an honour to meet you, Doctor Watson.”
Rather disconcerted by her abruptness, I shook her hand. Her grip was firm, authoritative. “And you, Miss - ?”
“Smith. Sarah Jane Smith. Perhaps we’ll meet again, if the Doctor doesn’t think it’ll cause the universe to collapse or something.”
“Sarah!” called the man in the scarf.
“I’m coming!” She pulled something from her pocket and pressed it into my hand. I looked down and realised that it was my revolver. I had forgotten all about it. Sarah glanced into the cab at the unconscious Holmes. “Don’t worry. It’s only 1897 – he’ll be fine,” she said incomprehensibly, and skipped off to join her friend, turning back for a moment to wave.
Their conversation drifted back to me on the night air as I climbed into the cab.
“So what exactly happened when I shot the statue?” Sarah asked, tucking her arm through the Doctor’s.
“You activated the automatic self-destruct mechanism,” he replied. “The Osirans were nothing if not ingenious.”
“They taunted Sutek by giving him the means of his escape, and then blowing it up the moment he got too close?”
“Of course. What better way to increase the misery and frustration of his imprisonment?”
“Sneaky bunch. He’ll try again.”
“We know he will. We’ve been there, remember?”
“How could I forget…”
Their voices faded into the darkness. I glanced at the sky, the moon still tinted red as the eclipse faded, and wondered exactly what they had been talking about.
***
Mrs Hudson was still up when we returned to 221B, almost as if she had known that something would happen.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said when I enquired, “there’s something nasty in the air tonight , Doctor. Got more than a little to do with that red moon, I don’t doubt.”
I could not disagree. Holmes came back to himself a little as I helped him up the stairs, though he was dreadfully pale and weak, unresisting of my ministrations and limp as a rag doll as I put him to bed. He began to shiver and cough, and I wrapped him in blankets, checking his temperature and hoping that the fever of a few days before would not return.
As I folded his clothes, I felt something in the pocket of his waistcoat – drawing it out I discovered it to be the wooden hand, still clutching its strangely-shaped key.
I stared at it for some time, before, on an impulse, I threw it into the sitting room fire. The statue was gone, no one would be needing it any more. The god Seth was once more consigned to the pages of Egyptian mythology.
As I watched it burn, however, for a moment I could have sworn I heard a voice, far away, screaming in rage…
To be concluded…
