charleygirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charleygirl) wrote2008-03-04 06:51 pm
charleygirl) wrote2008-03-04 06:51 pm
Entry tags:
Fic | Sherlock Holmes | The Hand of Seth 2/?
Title: The Hand of Seth 2/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Summary: A client, a curse and a detective who refuses to admit that he is ill add up to a trial for Watson...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements appearing in later chapters 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, but as I've b*ggered up some internal chronology in later chapters I'm going to shunt it into an alternative universe. So there. *g* Doctor Who fans may spot an in-joke in the title...
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER TWO
“Dead?”
Holmes stared at our visitor for a moment in astonishment before the expression swiftly became a gratified smile. “This is most unusual. Pray, tell me how you can be so sure – have you - forgive me - some kind of terminal disease, perhaps?”
The young man shook his head. “No, Mr Holmes, nothing like that.”
“A premonition?” I ventured.
“Something of the sort, Doctor. You will perhaps have heard of the Egyptian artefact that my father is attempting to sell?”
“The one that has so high a price tag only Her Majesty would be able to afford to buy it?” Holmes nodded. “I have seen something of it.”
“The sale is taking place at my request, though my father does not take my worries seriously and is therefore making little attempt to truly be rid of the thing,” Amsworth said bitterly. “It has been in the family since my great-great-grandfather brought it back from the French invasion of Egypt in the late 1790s. It was given to him by Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“Then why should you wish to be rid of such a valuable heirloom?” I enquired. “Such objects are usually highly prized by their owners.”
Amsworth turned to look at me, and there was such terror etched into the youthful lines of his face that I was momentarily taken aback. I had rarely seen anyone look so scared before. “And so this one is, Doctor Watson, by every member of my family but myself. I am the eldest, you see, and so the curse will affect me, and me alone.”
Holmes blinked. “I’m sorry – curse?” he repeated sharply, sitting forward in his chair.
“Since the statue has belonged to our family, the eldest child of the house has always died shortly before their twenty-fifth birthday. At first nothing sinister was thought of it - when my great-grandfather’s sister died after falling down the stairs it was put down to a tragic accident. But then later my great-uncle was drowned when the ship he was taking to America went down, and my own uncle died in the Crimea, only a month before his coming of age,” said Amsworth, bowing his head and staring at his clasped hands.
“Surely,” I said, “men are killed in battle all the time. Such a death would not indicate that some…malevolent presence is at work.”
“Bravo, Watson,” murmured Holmes.
“He did not die in battle, Doctor,” Amsworth said. “He was trampled to death one night when the cavalry horses broke loose. Normally, of course, the eldest son would not have been permitted to join the army, but he was determined and defied the family by joining up as a private soldier.”
I looked at Holmes over the young man’s head. To my dismay, my friend’s eyes were alight with interest.
“And what makes you think that you will shortly suffer such an accident yourself?” he asked.
Amsworth looked up, fixing him with a wild stare. “It is my twenty-fifth birthday on Saturday. The curse is upon me, Mr Holmes, and I know that I will be dead by then. Death is at my heels!”
“Really, Lord James, I have enough to contend with hunting out mortal criminals. I doubt if I will have much success with the one man none of us can avoid.”
I opened my mouth to chide Holmes for using such levity in the face of a man clearly distressed and probably suffering from some kind of nervous distraction, but before I could Amsworth was on his feet and crossing to the window.
“There!” he said, pointing to something below in the street, “See him, there! Every day for the past week he has been behind me, whatever the hour. I cannot shake him off.”
Holmes looked out in the direction of the young man’s quivering finger, after a moment relinquishing his place to me. I wondered exactly what I should see, and was a little disappointed to spot a man of vaguely Middle-Eastern appearance, tall and immaculately dressed, leaning upon a lamp-post a little further up the street. He was smoking a cigarillo, and occasionally glanced up at our window.
“Hardly the aspect one would imagine the Grim Reaper to take,” Holmes muttered as I turned back into the room. He paced the hearthrug for a moment, one finger to his lips, before rounding on Amsworth, who had sunk dejectedly back onto the settee. “When did you first become aware of this man following you?” he demanded.
“A week last Monday,” the young man replied, a little startled by the brusque tone.
“And when did it become common knowledge that your father was attempting to sell this artefact?”
“At around the same time.” As Amsworth spoke he looked somewhat surprised, as though the connection had not occurred to him.
“The exact nature of the item?” Holmes snapped his fingers in my direction, indicating that he wished me to make an exact record of the particulars. I readied my notebook.
“It is a wooden statue, about ten inches high and somewhat crudely painted. The representation is of the god Seth, the figure of a man with the head of a creature it seems no one can identify but bears some resemblance to a jackal. There is a similar statue in the British Museum which represents Horus, the enemy of Seth. They have long been interested in possessing the pair.”
“Seth…also known as Set, or Sutek. Lord of Chaos. Interesting…” Holmes mused. “Very well, my lord, I shall accept your case. I think that I can be fairly confident of concluding matters without the need to battle with ancient Egyptian gods.”
Amsworth’s surprised expression remained. “So you believe me?”
“I do not necessarily believe that you are under a curse, but I do think that I can be of assistance to you. It will be necessary for me to conduct some enquiries, and I shall be in touch before Saturday. In the meantime I would suggest that you do not go out alone.”
Relief flooded the young man’s face, and he practically leapt from the sofa to grasp Holmes’s hand, pumping it up and down with enthusiasm, much to my friend’s consternation. “Thank you, Mr Holmes! You have no idea what a strain it has been, bearing this terrible fear alone, for none of my family would take it seriously. I am so incredibly grateful to you, sir!”
Holmes withdrew his hand with no little effort, and favoured the viscount with one of his swift smiles. “Do not thank me yet, my lord. Save that for a successful conclusion.”
I saw Amsworth to the door, where he shook my hand with almost as much vigour. I sincerely hoped that his irrational fear of curses and death could be successfully allayed by Holmes, but in my view the case could not have come at a worse time.
When I returned to the sitting room Holmes was banging drawers and doors about in his bedroom. A few moments later he emerged dressed in an old ragged jacket and trousers, a cloth cap pulled low on his head and a grimy muffler wound round his neck, half obscuring his face.
“Ah, Watson. I’m going out, and I may be some time,” he announced when he saw me.
“Holmes, your health – you are not well enough to go gallivanting all over town!” I protested.
He successfully smothered the cough that appeared right on cue. “Your patients will be waiting for you,” he pointed out, and headed for the stairs. “I’ll see you later.”
I watched him go, torn between wanting to drag him back into the room by the scruff of the neck, and offering my services in case he needed help. Would he never listen to me?
***
My surgery kept me busy for the rest of the day, thankfully with patients who took my advice far more readily than Sherlock Holmes.
By the time I ventured outside to find a cab it was dark, and the rain which had been falling since mid afternoon had become a deluge. I was forced to walk for nearly half a mile before I found a hansom that had not been taken by someone younger and quicker than me. When I at last reached the sanctuary of Baker Street I was soaked to the skin, and my old wound was aching as it always does in damp weather. I was quite ready for my dinner, and looking forward to a whisky and soda to follow and accompany my cigar.
As I fumbled in my pocket for the key, the front door opened to reveal Mrs Hudson, who instantly bundled me over the threshold, appalled at my sodden appearance.
“I saw you coming down the street, sir,” she said, helping me out of my overcoat and shoes. “You’ll catch your death of cold!”
“Has Mr Holmes returned?” I asked as she expertly divested me of my jacket as well, and handed me a large towel.
“He has, sir, an hour since, and I don’t like the look of him, indeed I don’t.”
That was not what I had hoped to hear, though I had in truth expected it. “I had better go and see him.”
“You’ll have a hot bath first, and change out of those wet things,” ordered Mrs Hudson, “We don’t need you catching a chill too, sir!”
“No, indeed not,” I agreed, knowing that Holmes’s ailment was something far more than just a chill. I padded up the seventeen stairs to the landing – all the doors were shut, but my hand hovered over the sitting room handle before Mrs Hudson’s command and the chaffing of my wet clothes won out and I continued up the stairs to my own room.
Half an hour later, warmed and comfortable, I descended once more and entered the sitting room with more than a little apprehension as to what I would find. The blinds were drawn against the inclement evening, and the fire burned merrily in the grate, the blaze rendering the room somewhat stuffy and close. The gas was only half turned on, and in the dim light I could see Holmes hunched in his armchair, wrapped in an afghan and looking thoroughly sorry for himself.
“Well, I warned you, did I not?” I said loudly as I shut the door behind me.
“Please do not say ‘I told you so’, Watson. Smugness does not become you,” came the response from the huddled figure in the chair.
I couldn’t help laughing at that. “It would serve you right if I did,” I told him. “Where the devil have you been all day?”
“Following the man who has been shadowing Amsworth. It has been a most interesting few hours.”
“And dangerous.” I sat down slowly on the opposite side of the hearth, watching him as he tried to inch closer to the fire. He was obviously cold, but the heat in the room was rapidly becoming uncomfortable – I scrutinised his face and saw with concern the tell-tale flush across his cheekbones, the unnatural brightness in his eye.
“There was no danger. He had no notion I was on his tail. This man is a queer fellow, Watson – a fanatic, apparently devoted to those old Egyptian deities that to most have been lost in the mists of time. He rambles, talks to himself as though there were another person present, argues with that person quite violently.”
“A lunatic, then.”
“I am not sure of that. He waited for some time at the Harcourt residence in Grosvenor Square, and only left when it became clear that Amsworth was not going to venture out again today. I followed him halfway round London before he eventually turned up Great Russell Street and entered the British Museum.” Holmes coughed, trying to hide the action behind his hand, but the spasm shook his frame and he could not hide the grimace of pain it brought to his face. I allowed him to continue his story, but went to fetch my medical bag from the hall. “He spent two hours in the Egyptian galleries, just staring at the artefacts. His interest appears to be primarily in the statue of Horus Amsworth mentioned. I spoke to the attendant on duty – apparently the man’s name is Ibrahim Namin, and he is well-known to the museum staff. He has been expelled more than once for causing a disturbance.”
“And still they allow him back? What kind of disturbance does he make?”
“Fanatical ranting, declaring that he is a servant of the dark lord Seth, or Sutek, proclaiming that he will return the god of Chaos to the earth where he will reign supreme. The police have been called on more than one occasion, and he has been charged with disturbing the peace, but somehow he finds his way back inside.”
“Then surely it should be for the police to deal with him,” I said as I found the thermometer in my bag.
“Quite so. I intend to speak to Gregson or Lestrade about him. But there is something deeply odd about the man, Watson.” Holmes frowned, apparently unaware of my movements. “When he left the museum it had begun to rain heavily – he ducked into a church, to shelter, so I assumed, but that was not the case. He made straight for the organ, and to my surprise seated himself before the keys and proceeded to play with such fervour that I am convinced I saw the rafters tremble from the vibrations. The noise was incredible.” He shook his head, evidently still baffled by the occurrence. “The verger quite naturally came running to demand exactly what Namin thought he was doing, creating such a disturbance in a house of God. Namin took no notice, as far as I could ascertain in some kind of ecstatic trance. He played on – the music, if one can call it that, built to a crescendo, and as it did so from above came the most deafening thunderclap I have ever heard in my life, Watson. It sounded like the very wrath of God itself.”
“A coincidence.”
“Of course. But it was enough to disorientate me for a moment, and when I recovered Namin had gone.”
“And so you walked back here in the pouring rain when your health is already weak. I despair, Holmes,” I said, and he looked at me a little sheepishly.
“I had to take the opportunity when it presented itself.”
“I only hope that you have not done more damage. You will be lucky not to go down with pneumonia if you do not take more care.” It was evidence that he was not feeling himself when he allowed me to slip the thermometer under his tongue. He held it there in the manner of a man with an intense desire for a cigarette. “You have a temperature of a hundred and one,” I told him, “and you appear to have caught a bad chill, on top of everything else. I suggest that you go to bed and stay there until I say otherwise.”
“You have become a terrible bully of late, Watson. Do you treat all your patients in this manner?”
“Only when they do as you have, and take no notice of my advice.”
He snorted. “That is arrant nonsense. I always listen to your advice, I just do not necessarily agree with it. However - ” He held up a hand to prevent my interrupting “ – on this occasion I will do as I am told, and am therefore taking myself off to my room.”
“To rest, I hope.”
“Of course. I am obeying the orders of my physician.” He stood unaided, but it was obvious to me that it was likely he would fall down again at any moment and so I offered my support. This he accepted with a grimace, and with my help he stumbled to his bedroom, cursing his own weakness in the strongest terms.
I settled him in the bed and made sure he had all he wanted, firmly denying his request for his pipe and the tobacco slipper. He glared at me, but there was little venom in it. When I emerged, I found that Mrs Hudson was laying the table for dinner.
“How is he, Doctor?” she asked, casting a concerned glance at the half-closed bedroom door.
“He has been pushing himself too hard,” I replied, reluctant to pass my worries on to her.
“He’s lucky he has you. If you weren’t here I shudder to think what might have happened to him by now.” Much as she might deplore some of his habits – and Holmes would try the very patience of a saint with his chemistry experiments and indoor target practise – Mrs Hudson was fond of him, rather as a mother might be fond of a naughty schoolboy. “Get him well, Doctor, please. I’d much rather have him bellowing down the stairs than ringing the bell – though don’t you dare tell him that,” she added hastily.
I smiled. “I shan’t breathe a word, Mrs Hudson, I promise.”
She departed, leaving me to my rather lonely repast. Once or twice I heard Holmes coughing – I went to check on him to find that, though his temperature had not risen he was still very hot and flushed. With a sigh I resigned myself to a sleepless night, and went to fetch a cloth and a basin of cool water.
***
I confess that it was not until the sunlight was streaming through a gap in Holmes’s bedroom curtains that I realised I had fallen asleep after all. Morning had come without my noticing, and I had a painful crick in my neck as thanks for my efforts through the night. I removed the compress and laid my hand on Holmes’s forehead, relieved to find it much cooler than it had been a few hours before. He was sleeping soundly at last, and I took the opportunity to slip upstairs and tidy myself up a little.
Mrs Hudson must have heard me stirring, as when I returned to the sitting room she had laid breakfast and there was a telegram sitting on Holmes’s plate. I glanced at it as I helped myself to bacon and eggs – the envelope had URGENT stamped in the left-hand corner. The door to the bedroom was closed, and I hoped that Holmes was still asleep. I did not want to bother him with work just at that moment.
However, if something was marked URGENT then there must be good reason for it…
I battled with my conscience for some moments before I reached for the envelope and tore it open. The telegram was from Holmes’s brother, Mycroft, which was somewhat unusual. But what made me drop my fork onto my plate in horror was the wording of the message itself:
AMSWORTH DEAD. STOP. STATUE STOLEN. STOP.
POTENTIAL INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT. STOP.
COMING AT ONCE. STOP.
M.
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Summary: A client, a curse and a detective who refuses to admit that he is ill add up to a trial for Watson...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements appearing in later chapters 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, but as I've b*ggered up some internal chronology in later chapters I'm going to shunt it into an alternative universe. So there. *g* Doctor Who fans may spot an in-joke in the title...
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER TWO
“Dead?”
Holmes stared at our visitor for a moment in astonishment before the expression swiftly became a gratified smile. “This is most unusual. Pray, tell me how you can be so sure – have you - forgive me - some kind of terminal disease, perhaps?”
The young man shook his head. “No, Mr Holmes, nothing like that.”
“A premonition?” I ventured.
“Something of the sort, Doctor. You will perhaps have heard of the Egyptian artefact that my father is attempting to sell?”
“The one that has so high a price tag only Her Majesty would be able to afford to buy it?” Holmes nodded. “I have seen something of it.”
“The sale is taking place at my request, though my father does not take my worries seriously and is therefore making little attempt to truly be rid of the thing,” Amsworth said bitterly. “It has been in the family since my great-great-grandfather brought it back from the French invasion of Egypt in the late 1790s. It was given to him by Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“Then why should you wish to be rid of such a valuable heirloom?” I enquired. “Such objects are usually highly prized by their owners.”
Amsworth turned to look at me, and there was such terror etched into the youthful lines of his face that I was momentarily taken aback. I had rarely seen anyone look so scared before. “And so this one is, Doctor Watson, by every member of my family but myself. I am the eldest, you see, and so the curse will affect me, and me alone.”
Holmes blinked. “I’m sorry – curse?” he repeated sharply, sitting forward in his chair.
“Since the statue has belonged to our family, the eldest child of the house has always died shortly before their twenty-fifth birthday. At first nothing sinister was thought of it - when my great-grandfather’s sister died after falling down the stairs it was put down to a tragic accident. But then later my great-uncle was drowned when the ship he was taking to America went down, and my own uncle died in the Crimea, only a month before his coming of age,” said Amsworth, bowing his head and staring at his clasped hands.
“Surely,” I said, “men are killed in battle all the time. Such a death would not indicate that some…malevolent presence is at work.”
“Bravo, Watson,” murmured Holmes.
“He did not die in battle, Doctor,” Amsworth said. “He was trampled to death one night when the cavalry horses broke loose. Normally, of course, the eldest son would not have been permitted to join the army, but he was determined and defied the family by joining up as a private soldier.”
I looked at Holmes over the young man’s head. To my dismay, my friend’s eyes were alight with interest.
“And what makes you think that you will shortly suffer such an accident yourself?” he asked.
Amsworth looked up, fixing him with a wild stare. “It is my twenty-fifth birthday on Saturday. The curse is upon me, Mr Holmes, and I know that I will be dead by then. Death is at my heels!”
“Really, Lord James, I have enough to contend with hunting out mortal criminals. I doubt if I will have much success with the one man none of us can avoid.”
I opened my mouth to chide Holmes for using such levity in the face of a man clearly distressed and probably suffering from some kind of nervous distraction, but before I could Amsworth was on his feet and crossing to the window.
“There!” he said, pointing to something below in the street, “See him, there! Every day for the past week he has been behind me, whatever the hour. I cannot shake him off.”
Holmes looked out in the direction of the young man’s quivering finger, after a moment relinquishing his place to me. I wondered exactly what I should see, and was a little disappointed to spot a man of vaguely Middle-Eastern appearance, tall and immaculately dressed, leaning upon a lamp-post a little further up the street. He was smoking a cigarillo, and occasionally glanced up at our window.
“Hardly the aspect one would imagine the Grim Reaper to take,” Holmes muttered as I turned back into the room. He paced the hearthrug for a moment, one finger to his lips, before rounding on Amsworth, who had sunk dejectedly back onto the settee. “When did you first become aware of this man following you?” he demanded.
“A week last Monday,” the young man replied, a little startled by the brusque tone.
“And when did it become common knowledge that your father was attempting to sell this artefact?”
“At around the same time.” As Amsworth spoke he looked somewhat surprised, as though the connection had not occurred to him.
“The exact nature of the item?” Holmes snapped his fingers in my direction, indicating that he wished me to make an exact record of the particulars. I readied my notebook.
“It is a wooden statue, about ten inches high and somewhat crudely painted. The representation is of the god Seth, the figure of a man with the head of a creature it seems no one can identify but bears some resemblance to a jackal. There is a similar statue in the British Museum which represents Horus, the enemy of Seth. They have long been interested in possessing the pair.”
“Seth…also known as Set, or Sutek. Lord of Chaos. Interesting…” Holmes mused. “Very well, my lord, I shall accept your case. I think that I can be fairly confident of concluding matters without the need to battle with ancient Egyptian gods.”
Amsworth’s surprised expression remained. “So you believe me?”
“I do not necessarily believe that you are under a curse, but I do think that I can be of assistance to you. It will be necessary for me to conduct some enquiries, and I shall be in touch before Saturday. In the meantime I would suggest that you do not go out alone.”
Relief flooded the young man’s face, and he practically leapt from the sofa to grasp Holmes’s hand, pumping it up and down with enthusiasm, much to my friend’s consternation. “Thank you, Mr Holmes! You have no idea what a strain it has been, bearing this terrible fear alone, for none of my family would take it seriously. I am so incredibly grateful to you, sir!”
Holmes withdrew his hand with no little effort, and favoured the viscount with one of his swift smiles. “Do not thank me yet, my lord. Save that for a successful conclusion.”
I saw Amsworth to the door, where he shook my hand with almost as much vigour. I sincerely hoped that his irrational fear of curses and death could be successfully allayed by Holmes, but in my view the case could not have come at a worse time.
When I returned to the sitting room Holmes was banging drawers and doors about in his bedroom. A few moments later he emerged dressed in an old ragged jacket and trousers, a cloth cap pulled low on his head and a grimy muffler wound round his neck, half obscuring his face.
“Ah, Watson. I’m going out, and I may be some time,” he announced when he saw me.
“Holmes, your health – you are not well enough to go gallivanting all over town!” I protested.
He successfully smothered the cough that appeared right on cue. “Your patients will be waiting for you,” he pointed out, and headed for the stairs. “I’ll see you later.”
I watched him go, torn between wanting to drag him back into the room by the scruff of the neck, and offering my services in case he needed help. Would he never listen to me?
***
My surgery kept me busy for the rest of the day, thankfully with patients who took my advice far more readily than Sherlock Holmes.
By the time I ventured outside to find a cab it was dark, and the rain which had been falling since mid afternoon had become a deluge. I was forced to walk for nearly half a mile before I found a hansom that had not been taken by someone younger and quicker than me. When I at last reached the sanctuary of Baker Street I was soaked to the skin, and my old wound was aching as it always does in damp weather. I was quite ready for my dinner, and looking forward to a whisky and soda to follow and accompany my cigar.
As I fumbled in my pocket for the key, the front door opened to reveal Mrs Hudson, who instantly bundled me over the threshold, appalled at my sodden appearance.
“I saw you coming down the street, sir,” she said, helping me out of my overcoat and shoes. “You’ll catch your death of cold!”
“Has Mr Holmes returned?” I asked as she expertly divested me of my jacket as well, and handed me a large towel.
“He has, sir, an hour since, and I don’t like the look of him, indeed I don’t.”
That was not what I had hoped to hear, though I had in truth expected it. “I had better go and see him.”
“You’ll have a hot bath first, and change out of those wet things,” ordered Mrs Hudson, “We don’t need you catching a chill too, sir!”
“No, indeed not,” I agreed, knowing that Holmes’s ailment was something far more than just a chill. I padded up the seventeen stairs to the landing – all the doors were shut, but my hand hovered over the sitting room handle before Mrs Hudson’s command and the chaffing of my wet clothes won out and I continued up the stairs to my own room.
Half an hour later, warmed and comfortable, I descended once more and entered the sitting room with more than a little apprehension as to what I would find. The blinds were drawn against the inclement evening, and the fire burned merrily in the grate, the blaze rendering the room somewhat stuffy and close. The gas was only half turned on, and in the dim light I could see Holmes hunched in his armchair, wrapped in an afghan and looking thoroughly sorry for himself.
“Well, I warned you, did I not?” I said loudly as I shut the door behind me.
“Please do not say ‘I told you so’, Watson. Smugness does not become you,” came the response from the huddled figure in the chair.
I couldn’t help laughing at that. “It would serve you right if I did,” I told him. “Where the devil have you been all day?”
“Following the man who has been shadowing Amsworth. It has been a most interesting few hours.”
“And dangerous.” I sat down slowly on the opposite side of the hearth, watching him as he tried to inch closer to the fire. He was obviously cold, but the heat in the room was rapidly becoming uncomfortable – I scrutinised his face and saw with concern the tell-tale flush across his cheekbones, the unnatural brightness in his eye.
“There was no danger. He had no notion I was on his tail. This man is a queer fellow, Watson – a fanatic, apparently devoted to those old Egyptian deities that to most have been lost in the mists of time. He rambles, talks to himself as though there were another person present, argues with that person quite violently.”
“A lunatic, then.”
“I am not sure of that. He waited for some time at the Harcourt residence in Grosvenor Square, and only left when it became clear that Amsworth was not going to venture out again today. I followed him halfway round London before he eventually turned up Great Russell Street and entered the British Museum.” Holmes coughed, trying to hide the action behind his hand, but the spasm shook his frame and he could not hide the grimace of pain it brought to his face. I allowed him to continue his story, but went to fetch my medical bag from the hall. “He spent two hours in the Egyptian galleries, just staring at the artefacts. His interest appears to be primarily in the statue of Horus Amsworth mentioned. I spoke to the attendant on duty – apparently the man’s name is Ibrahim Namin, and he is well-known to the museum staff. He has been expelled more than once for causing a disturbance.”
“And still they allow him back? What kind of disturbance does he make?”
“Fanatical ranting, declaring that he is a servant of the dark lord Seth, or Sutek, proclaiming that he will return the god of Chaos to the earth where he will reign supreme. The police have been called on more than one occasion, and he has been charged with disturbing the peace, but somehow he finds his way back inside.”
“Then surely it should be for the police to deal with him,” I said as I found the thermometer in my bag.
“Quite so. I intend to speak to Gregson or Lestrade about him. But there is something deeply odd about the man, Watson.” Holmes frowned, apparently unaware of my movements. “When he left the museum it had begun to rain heavily – he ducked into a church, to shelter, so I assumed, but that was not the case. He made straight for the organ, and to my surprise seated himself before the keys and proceeded to play with such fervour that I am convinced I saw the rafters tremble from the vibrations. The noise was incredible.” He shook his head, evidently still baffled by the occurrence. “The verger quite naturally came running to demand exactly what Namin thought he was doing, creating such a disturbance in a house of God. Namin took no notice, as far as I could ascertain in some kind of ecstatic trance. He played on – the music, if one can call it that, built to a crescendo, and as it did so from above came the most deafening thunderclap I have ever heard in my life, Watson. It sounded like the very wrath of God itself.”
“A coincidence.”
“Of course. But it was enough to disorientate me for a moment, and when I recovered Namin had gone.”
“And so you walked back here in the pouring rain when your health is already weak. I despair, Holmes,” I said, and he looked at me a little sheepishly.
“I had to take the opportunity when it presented itself.”
“I only hope that you have not done more damage. You will be lucky not to go down with pneumonia if you do not take more care.” It was evidence that he was not feeling himself when he allowed me to slip the thermometer under his tongue. He held it there in the manner of a man with an intense desire for a cigarette. “You have a temperature of a hundred and one,” I told him, “and you appear to have caught a bad chill, on top of everything else. I suggest that you go to bed and stay there until I say otherwise.”
“You have become a terrible bully of late, Watson. Do you treat all your patients in this manner?”
“Only when they do as you have, and take no notice of my advice.”
He snorted. “That is arrant nonsense. I always listen to your advice, I just do not necessarily agree with it. However - ” He held up a hand to prevent my interrupting “ – on this occasion I will do as I am told, and am therefore taking myself off to my room.”
“To rest, I hope.”
“Of course. I am obeying the orders of my physician.” He stood unaided, but it was obvious to me that it was likely he would fall down again at any moment and so I offered my support. This he accepted with a grimace, and with my help he stumbled to his bedroom, cursing his own weakness in the strongest terms.
I settled him in the bed and made sure he had all he wanted, firmly denying his request for his pipe and the tobacco slipper. He glared at me, but there was little venom in it. When I emerged, I found that Mrs Hudson was laying the table for dinner.
“How is he, Doctor?” she asked, casting a concerned glance at the half-closed bedroom door.
“He has been pushing himself too hard,” I replied, reluctant to pass my worries on to her.
“He’s lucky he has you. If you weren’t here I shudder to think what might have happened to him by now.” Much as she might deplore some of his habits – and Holmes would try the very patience of a saint with his chemistry experiments and indoor target practise – Mrs Hudson was fond of him, rather as a mother might be fond of a naughty schoolboy. “Get him well, Doctor, please. I’d much rather have him bellowing down the stairs than ringing the bell – though don’t you dare tell him that,” she added hastily.
I smiled. “I shan’t breathe a word, Mrs Hudson, I promise.”
She departed, leaving me to my rather lonely repast. Once or twice I heard Holmes coughing – I went to check on him to find that, though his temperature had not risen he was still very hot and flushed. With a sigh I resigned myself to a sleepless night, and went to fetch a cloth and a basin of cool water.
***
I confess that it was not until the sunlight was streaming through a gap in Holmes’s bedroom curtains that I realised I had fallen asleep after all. Morning had come without my noticing, and I had a painful crick in my neck as thanks for my efforts through the night. I removed the compress and laid my hand on Holmes’s forehead, relieved to find it much cooler than it had been a few hours before. He was sleeping soundly at last, and I took the opportunity to slip upstairs and tidy myself up a little.
Mrs Hudson must have heard me stirring, as when I returned to the sitting room she had laid breakfast and there was a telegram sitting on Holmes’s plate. I glanced at it as I helped myself to bacon and eggs – the envelope had URGENT stamped in the left-hand corner. The door to the bedroom was closed, and I hoped that Holmes was still asleep. I did not want to bother him with work just at that moment.
However, if something was marked URGENT then there must be good reason for it…
I battled with my conscience for some moments before I reached for the envelope and tore it open. The telegram was from Holmes’s brother, Mycroft, which was somewhat unusual. But what made me drop my fork onto my plate in horror was the wording of the message itself:
POTENTIAL INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT. STOP.
COMING AT ONCE. STOP.
M.
TBC
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I did write a fair bit of it a while ago, so I'm working from that which helps. :)
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I'm really enjoying this! :)
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