The Mystery of the Scarab Earrings

by Thomas Fortenberry

Though it was the fad of the last few decades in certain parts, the fact that the lady wore desiccated beetles as ear rings instantly caught Sherlock Holmes’s attention. I saw him perk up, his eyes shining brightly, from his usual dissipation at this time of morning.

“Would you like tea, Miss Aldebourne?” I inquired.

“Scarabs,” Sherlock Holmes said.

“Yes,” she said faintly, looking queerly at him. Then she touched her ears. “Ah, I see. My father...”

“They were a gift from your father. Beautiful. Of course your father was Professor Aldebourne, the historian who has made a name for himself digging up the sands of Egypt. I presume by your demeanor that he is no longer with us.”

“How did you... ? No, he’s not dead. He can’t be! But he is-”

“Missing, then. May I?”

With his usual brazenness, Holmes approached the lady and took hold of her ear. Her lustrous black hair was upswept, so that he had easy access to her lobes. He examined the scarab earrings at length, moving from one ear to the other, fingering the dried shells. I heard him mumble something about the weight of the carapace. At times his face drew extremely close to her neck as he peered at some detail of pincher or wing. Out of shock, perhaps, the young lady said and did nothing, black eyes wide, not moving, and barely even breathing as he turned the unique jewelry dangling from her ears.

Knowing his methods, I went about making us all cups of tea.

“These gifts, he had them made for you personally?”

“Yes. He brought the scarabs back from an expedition he was on, oh, it must have been four years ago now. He brought them back alive and later had them crafted into these gifts for my birthday. A bit shocking, I suppose. They took some getting used to, but now I treasure them. He told me they were the gift of his eternal love. They remind me of him and his obsessions, so I wear them constantly.”

Finally satisfied, Holmes returned to his seat. “So tell me, did he ever finish his book on the excavations at Hierakonpolis?”

“Why... I don’t... How do you know about his writings?”

I chimed in, “Mr. Holmes has extensive knowledge of an amazing amount of subjects, and often, even, irrelevant facts and trivia.”

Sherlock Holmes clucked his tongue. “Not irrelevant. Relevant. You disappoint me, Watson. I thought you of all people understood the essential role of well-rounded research.”

I chuckled. I tapped my nose. It was a rare moment to get his goat. “I chide. You see, Miss Aldebourne, Holmes follows all the journals and keeps up on the latest in science, medicine, politics, and numerous other topics.”

“I see. Much like my father then. He is always reading and rambling on about various things that we couldn’t quite follow.” She looked pleadingly at my companion. “Do you know him?”

“Only through his thoughts. You could say I have read his mind from time to time, so precise were his writings.” Holmes replied. He paused for a long moment, hands steepled beneath his chin, staring at her, evaluating her demeanor. “Plus, the mummy walks at midnight. This was the nature of his death I presumed to mention previously.”

She was quite stunned and gasped. The cup rattled against the saucer in her hand. She frankly gaped at Holmes before looking down. I saw that she had softly begun to cry.

I rose and quickly crossed the sitting room to pass her my handkerchief. She mumbled her thanks and wiped her eyes, attempting to compose herself.

I glared at Holmes on the way back to my chair and leaned close to whisper, “Must you? What is that about? What mummy?”

He ignored me. “You see, I do read. Even the scandal rags, from time to time. The article was in The Flying Gryffin. “The Mummy Walks at Midnight” detailed odd occurrences at Weymouth House, where Egyptian antiquities and treasures are stored, and where your father works, cataloguing all the ancient knowledge recovered from the various expeditions in Egypt. The article stated that the staff, and even intrepid explorers like your father, have seen a mummy stalking the halls at night. That many of the housekeepers have fled in terror, praying and trembling, vowing never to return, because they believe there is an ancient curse unleashed, probably from some disturbed artifact. Perhaps the Pharaoh himself has been awakened. He seeks the return of his missing cat.”

She stared rather woodenly. She had grown more pale. Her lips were bloodless. Then she firmed up a bit. Color rose in her cheeks once more.

“It is no joke. It truly happened! My father has been very upset, because the institute is losing staff and visitors have started refusing to come. Very important visitors, like the nobles and businessmen around town who fund it. My father told me they fear a curse, some ancient evil. The more serious-minded, he said, fear catching some Nile malady. Nevertheless, the damage is done. The Director, Mr. Cushway, said if the institute loses any more backing, they will have to close Weymouth House. All his research will cease and the artifacts will be lost-”

“This will not occur.” Holmes cut her off curtly. “I was presenting feline jocularity in order to jostle you out of your melancholy. The secret fear you have been carrying of father’s possible death is clouding your thinking. Fear not! Archaeology is all the rage currently. In fact, I will wager that if news of a mummy shambling through the halls spreads to the public, and if maybe a few gruesome deaths occur, it will be a boon to the institute. The Weymouth will become a tourist Mecca. You will be unable to close the doors in the evenings due to the crowds of curiosity seekers clamoring to get inside. Murders are quite exciting. Good for business.”

I was appalled. Our young visitor looked shocked again. She opened her mouth but failed to utter a word.

“Mr. Holmes did not mean to insinuate that your father is dead or any death would be a good thing. He merely expounds at times to make a point of some sort without ever considering the way his words sound.”

Holmes sniffed. “It is a fact of life. Salacious events draw the attention of the rabble. They gawk at the macabre. The weirder the circumstances, the better the crowd. Witness the popularity of The Flying Gryffin. It is the entertainment of the circus that distracts them from their own misery.”

We sat in awkward silence for a few moments. Holmes got up and went over to the mantel where he kept his pipe. He began loading it with tobacco.

After several minutes, Miss Aldebourne rose and smoothed the skirt of her dress. I came to my feet. “Thank you, Dr. Watson.” She approached me and returned my handkerchief. She turned with a perfunctory smile. “Mr. Holmes. I appreciate your time. I apologize for having wasted it.”

She moved toward the door.

I hurried to open it.

“Why are you leaving?” Holmes asked, blowing a cloud of smoke upwards. He waved at her chair. “Sit. I have questions.”

“But, I thought-”

“No, you failed to think. You assumed.”

“But, I came to ask for your help-”

“Yes, and I intend to give it. But it is exceedingly difficult to help you if you walk out. Are you not interested in the fate of your father?”

“I... I thought you were making fun of the curse and-”

“Well, it is quite ludicrous. An ancient Egyptian curse dug up three-thousand years later from the banks of the Nile, transported across the sea to our fair isle, to be unleashed within the hallowed halls of our institutions? Why? Are the ancient pharaohs in all their stony glory jealous of tea time? Bah. People are not rational and are very easily mislead by their fears. However, I intend to look into the matter, curse or no curse. I was going to anyway, since the rag’s story of the mummy brought it to my attention. You see, I have the keenest interest in solving these puzzles. Especially one like this that has the spice of history. It is merely fortuitous that you came to me first.”

“I... yes. Yes. You are correct. My father is missing. He would never... He was in the middle of cataloguing a massive new collection. Plus, as I alluded to earlier, the institute was beginning a very important funding drive. I went to the police, but they said he probably decided to totter off to a pub for a few days. Take a holiday, to escape the pressure. Why would he leave? He loves what he does! I... I feared the worst because of all the stories circulating.

“Those gruesome mummies. Have you ever seen one up close? So shriveled and hideous. They are my least favorite part of his work. I grew up in his store rooms and display halls, often sleeping on musty stacks of books. His work is an obsession, which is fine. I love him for it. I always wanted to be by his side. But those mummies always scared me. They gave me nightmares at night. Now people have seen one moving. Seen one walking, like I always feared... imagined they did in my dreams. It is horrific! A nightmare come true! But no one will listen. The police laughed and said I was being hysterical. It is why I sought you out. My father means so very much... Thank you.”

She almost collapsed back into her seat.

“Quite right.” Holmes took several more deep puffs, creating a rather voluminous wreath of smoke about his head before returning to his own seat.

“Now, if you will submit to some more questions regarding your dear father, whom I had hoped to meet some day in order to discuss his explorations in Egypt and adventures in the rescuing of antiquities, we will proceed. Please do not mind Dr. Watson’s scribbling. He likes to keep notes of these perusals of mine.”

She nodded.

We spent the rest of the morning speaking with the rather comely Miss Aldebourne. As always, I listened in awe to Sherlock Holmes. His surprising breadth of knowledge shone as he expounded on the newborn science of archaeology, discussed Professor Hawthorne’s papers and travels, his speeches and theories. His daughter offered up intimate details of their life together, of his triumphs and discoveries, his failures and worries. It always intrigued me that Holmes had a singular ability to elicit responses from people while simultaneously insulting and commending them.

Abruptly, Sherlock Holmes vanished for the next week.

I fretted about. I visited Baker Street often. I talked with Mrs. Hudson, but she had no idea where he had gone. I accidentally upset Miss Aldebourne again by inquiring with her on the fourth day if she had any idea where Holmes was, and thus alerting her to the fact that he was missing. She assumed that he had decided to either flee the case outright and be done with her madness, or that something much worse had happened, and Holmes had disappeared just as had her father.

“All is lost! My father will never be found! The museum will close!” she wailed. Uttering assurances, I left her quickly, kicking myself on the walk home for ever having bothered her.

I secretly began to fear Holmes had succumbed to the doldrums that afflict him and vanished into the depths of the city as he so often does. So I decided to stay over for the next several days in my old rooms and hunt through the stacks and bundles of papers that clutter every shelf and corner for any clue as to Holmes’s whereabouts. His chaotic housekeeping was that singular anomaly that most visibly afflicted his character. Alas, though I spent many long moments reliving old cases as I unearthed forgotten tokens, I discovered nothing about his current absence.

On the evening of the seventh day, one of the urchin boys who inhabit the poorer streets of our city knocked at the door at 221b Baker Street. Holmes liked to employ these unfortunates from time to time, and indeed the young lad had a message from my vanished friend.

Through all his lectures on graphology, I at once could divine that this letter, written in strong, distinctive strokes, came from the hand of Sherlock Holmes.

Come at once to Weymouth House. Urgent that you attend the mummy unwrapping tonight. Bring money to donate, yours eyes to observe, and your revolver to serve. Keep near Miss Aldebourne.

I took a hansom cabriolet to the historical institute. It was drawn by a fine roan horse and, listening to the clomp of the hooves on the cobblestones, I pondered where Holmes had been during the intervening days.

Weymouth House was a strong, sturdy building that was designed along staid Classical lines, as the structure predated the current overwrought architectural fad of Gothic Revival. It looked to be the perfect storehouse for antiquities.

I was led through several rooms packed with tables and shelves filled almost to overflowing with statues, carvings, chests, vases, papyri, jewelry, paintings, and other artifacts. Though the doorman moved everyone swiftly along, I saw enough to spark a deeper interest and knew I would return to peruse these shelves at leisure.

I was brought into a chamber full of other guests and introduced. Most of the crowd were businessmen and their wives, amongst whom I discovered several colleagues from the medical profession. Here and there throughout the room were true gentry, those grand old representatives of ancient nobility, who stood their ground like lions. There were also a few politicians who slunk around, laughing too loudly like hyenas, some retired military officers, a sea captain, several professors, explorers, and assorted foreign dignitaries who help on expeditions. It was an interesting and lively crowd and I circulated for some time, getting acquainted with the lot. Miss Aldebourne was there, of course, and we spoke, though I tried to keep a distance and be casual. All were here for the event, which was a fundraising brainchild of Mr. Cushway, the director of the House.

I kept an eye out for Sherlock Holmes. Knowing he was alive had lifted a burden of apprehension that had been on me throughout the week. However, I did not see him as the evening wore on, and we had refreshments and made small-talk.

Finally, Mr. Cushway arrived with fanfare. Trumpets sounded and gongs clanged. A man yelled out some verses in a foreign tongue - whether Arabic or some ancient, dead language, I knew not. Four large Egyptians with robes and headwraps carried Mr. Cushway into the room on a chair between poles. A seeming legion of their countrymen then marched into the room supporting a giant, wooden sarcophagus. It was banded in precious metals, painted with fantastic creatures and figures, and glittered with jewels and gems. The crowd parted and fell back as this precession stamped into the middle of the room with their sandaled feet. With a loud, ominous boom, they lowered the massive container of the dead to the floor.

Cushway arose, spread his arms, and intoned deeply:

“Oh, Ra, you giver of all life,

Prince of Everlastingness.

The earth rejoices when it sees your golden rays.

People who have been long dead

Come forward with cries of joy

To behold your beauty every day.

You go forth each day over heaven and earth.

Oh, Ra, God of Life, you Lord of Love,

All men live when you shine.

“Since the dawn of time,” he continued, “when the sun first rose on mankind, we have stood preeminent. Civilization arose in the river valleys of the Holy Land. Mighty Babylon in the valley of the Euphrates. Then there was Egypt, flowing for eternity along the banks of the Nile. Writing! Music! Mathematics! Architecture! All the achievements of civilization came from these ancient societies and lifted mankind in glory above the animal kingdom. All these ancient civilizations, like Greece, like Rome, built up knowledge and power and wealth, and dominated the world in their time. Like the torch handed down by Prometheus, this knowledge has been given from people to people, from city to city, from Babylon to Cairo to Athens to London.

“But, whether by the smiting by God from a Flood, or by barbarian invaders, or just by the vaguery of all-powerful Time wearing them down, all these civilizations faltered and crumbled, and the torch of knowledge dimmed and almost went out. Civilization would have been forgotten to all, and all the accumulated knowledge lost, had it not been for our modern intrepid explorers. Those who were brave enough to break down the doors of ruined temples, enter the dark of crypts, and dig up entire cities buried beneath the dust of Time. Explorers who have recovered texts and techniques and returned from foreign deserts and mausoleums to our shores with the knowledge of the ages.

“Ever since my first digs in Egypt with Maspero, amongst scholars and pyramidologists, I have been steadfastly unearthing the ancient history of mankind and bringing it home to England. With the discoveries at Deir el Medina, Sakkara, and in the Valley of the Kings, we have recovered astounding lost artifacts from ancient Egypt. Some of these are gathered here in the rooms before you, and others are being displayed in newly built museums around the world. We must continue this heroic work and uncover all the mysteries of the past. It is for this reason I asked you all here tonight. Because, sadly, we cannot do it alone. We need your help!

“The work is brutal and backbreaking. We travel deep into jungles, or far out across the wastelands and deserts. We venture into the wild, dangerous, unexplored corners of the Earth. We have to carry supplies, hire teams of workers, build them shelter and feed them, and then put in months and months of grueling work moving mountains of rock and dirt.”

Cushway looked old and exhausted. He stared down at the floor for a long time.

“We dig and we dig. For what? Crumbling wood? Dried bits of paper? Broken statuary? No. For glory? Perhaps. For gold treasures? Yes!” He stabbed his forefinger into the air and broke into a smile.

Everyone laughed.

“No, we uncover the past for knowledge. We need to know where we have been so that we will know where we need to go. We need to know how people lived in the past. How they spoke, what they wore, where they traveled. How they waged war and died. We need to know what they built and what they tore down. We need to know, to learn the lessons of the past, so that we do not repeat the same mistakes.”

People in the crowd began clapping. Cushway looked reinvigorated again. He was standing like a champion atop a hill.

“This is why I invited you here tonight. We need your help. I want you to see first-hand what we do, what we discover. I want you to become explorers of the past with me!”

Cushway walked over to the sarcophagus and put his hand on the gilded lid. “I want you all to experience what it is like to stare into the face of one of our ancestors who lived and breathed thousands of years ago. But not just any man. A king among kings. A man who ruled his entire world. A man so mighty he built an empire and raised up pyramids to the height of mountains. Do you want to see the face of the mighty Pharaoh?”

The room echoed with enthusiastic support as the crowd surged forward together around the sarcophagus.

“Now, now, dear fellows. Patience.” Cushway made elaborate brushing motions as he circled the massive coffin and shooed people away from it.

“You see, I must be cautious. First, if anyone is in any way faint or squeamish at the site of death - ladies, I speak mainly to you, but also to anyone elderly or infirm of heart - please remove yourselves from this room at once. We are about to unwrap a man dead for more centuries than England has even existed!” He clapped his hands loudly and yelled, “Jenkins! Please show them to the refreshments set up in the library.”

There were mumblings and, after a few moments, a few men and the majority of the women left the room. A few intrepid ladies stayed, including Miss Aldebourne. I took note of those leaving, assessing ailments in case my consultation was necessary later.

As the last elderly couple was moving away, Miss Aldebourne leaned close to me and said, “I have seen this charlatan’s tricks so many times, it is boring. I am going to go get some wine. Enjoy the show. I’ll join you after the unveiling.” She walked off quickly, following the couple.

“Well, now only the strong remain,” Cushway said amidst chuckles. “Second, we need your trust. You see, amidst all the ruined buildings and broken pottery, we also find treasures. Statues and jewelry made from pure gold and silver, priceless gemstones. All sorts of treasures.”

With a flourish he brought a golden necklace out of his pocket that trailed a full shimmering foot down before it ended in some sort of stylized bird with golden wings spread. The feathers were various types of colored gems, and it is eyes gleamed with rubies.

There were gasps throughout the room.

“We never know the value of things we dig out of the dirt until they are glittering in the air before our faces. Furthermore, as you know, mummies are wrapped from head to toe in linens that help preserve them from the ravages of Time. But, what you might not know is that within the layers of these linens, they secreted jewels and treasures to take with them into the afterlife. Every time we unwrap a mummy, we discover hidden treasures just like this!”

Cushway circled the sarcophagus again, the necklace held high, while the crowd gasped, pointed, and some reached out to touch the dangling object.

“So you see, we need your trust to protect these priceless treasures. We must protect this heritage from common thieves. This-” he shook the necklace vigorously “-this is nothing compared to the treasures we have already unearthed, and who knows what glories the future holds - perhaps some of which we will unwrap tonight, in the shroud of the pharaoh.

“Which brings me to my third and most important point. We need your help. We have to pay to travel, pay to dig, pay to clean, pay to house, pay to ship, pay to store, and pay to protect these treasures. We simply do not have enough money to do so. I-” he patted his sides “-am broke. I am always digging in the fields or back in the warehouses cleaning and cataloguing. I do not have time to have another career just to pay for this one. But with your help, we can continue. With your help, we can uncover every last item that has been lost to Time. In fact, everything we find inside this mummy tonight, every piece of jewelry, every small statue and prayer and gemstone, I will give to you for your support. So that you may go home and show your neighbors just how much you care. Show the world how much you have saved from the past. Well? Will you help us? Will you help us recover these treasures? Will you pledge to me, tonight, that you will help us save civilization from the ravages of Time?”

There were cheers of huzzah and pledges made all around the sarcophagus.

Director Cushway shook hands and patted shoulders and thanked the contributors, including me, when I gave him the money that Holmes had asked that I bring.

“And now the final moment has arrived. We reveal the Pharaoh!”

Cushway clapped his hands again and the Egyptian workmen surged forward, clamorously barging through the crowd. One of the clumsy louts slammed his shoulder into me on the way through the crowd and knocked me off balance. He helped steady me with strong hands as I stumbled, and breathed garlic at me with an accented, “Excuse, excuse!”

The workers began the arduous task of removing the massive lid. Levers were brought forth. They grunted and pried at the sarcophagus until finally, with a crack and then a long grating noise, the lid slid aside, revealing a second smaller, yet equally beautifully decorated coffin. After some ropes were applied, it was lifted out. When it was opened, the mummy was revealed.

The gasps and murmuring quickly fell to a complete silence of awe as the mummy was freed and placed on a table.

Miss Aldebourne wandered back through the crowd and sidled up beside me. She whispered, “Were you sold, Dr. Watson?”

I smiled weakly and nodded.

Cushman himself oversaw the careful unwrapping of the mummy. Oddly, no treasures fell out of the folds during the unwrapping. Cushman stopped several times, seeming almost confused and questioning the workers with sharp foreign words. But then he would smile at his patrons and continue.

“Something is not right,” Miss Aldebourne said in my ear. “I have seen this show too many times. The patron show jewels are missing.”

The linens were extremely long and it took much more time than I ever imagined to finally get down through the layers to the mummy.

Cushman said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the Pharaoh!”

He unwrapped the head. When he did, I wished instantly that he had not.

Cushman cursed loudly and staggered back. Several of those closest gagged or shouted. One lady swooned.

The mummy was no withered pharaoh. Rather, it was revealed as the mottled and blackish-gray face of the missing Professor Aldebourne. A tight cord cut deep into his neck.

I grabbed at Miss Albebourne as she screamed and screamed again. She broke free and moved up to the table. Stark white, she looked her father full in the face. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She then turned away, shaking, and with a deep, ragged gasp of air that seemed to come from the very depths of hell, staggered away from the table.

I called her name but she broke into a run. Most of the crowd did as well. People fled from the mummy table in all directions.

I tried to examine the professor in more detail. It was obvious that he had been murdered. But, as I tugged at the linens around his shoulders to see if I could see any further wounds on his chest, Director Cushway came at me like a beast. He struck me in the shoulder and the side of the head, before pushing me violently away from the table.

“Leave him alone! Leave him alone!” he shouted. Then he sank to his knees and began sobbing, “Oh, dear lord! Oh!”

I turned rather uselessly through the chaos until I heard a scream. It came from the depths of the back rooms in the Weymouth - and it sounded like Miss Aldebourne.

I ran through several rooms, trying to find my way, when I heard her scream again. This time I could follow the sound more directly. I passed through two more rooms and ran down a long back corridor to a storage area.

There was a final strangled cry from one of the rooms, but it abruptly cut off. I pushed open the door and had the fright of my life. I swear now, writing this passage and thinking back on these events, that I lost several years on my life at the sight.

A linen-wrapped, shambling, mummy from an ancient Egyptian tomb was standing over the bent form of Miss Aldebourne, strangling her with both hands!

It was the most frightened I had been since those early years on the battlefields of Afghanistan. Every fiber of my being urged me to flee. I knew Death, and I was looking at a spectre of it now.

The mummy looked over at me as I pushed my way into the room. He then let go of Miss Aldebourne and her body crumpled to the floor. Like a horror from beyond the grave, the mummy began lumbering directly towards me!

After a few seconds of shock, feeling returned to my limbs and reason to my brain. I reached for my pistol, which Holmes had demanded that I bring. I patted my empty pocket. I hit it again, and then all the others I owned.

My pistol was missing. It must have fallen out during my run through the House.

By this time, the mummy was upon me. I raised an arm to strike him, but he hit me in stomach first. I doubled over and he struck me in the back on the head, knocking me to my knees and stunning me.

I heard footsteps and saw one of the workers run up, robes flapping. One, two, and then a third gunshot rang out, right over my head. The mummy grunted and then fell headlong to the floor.

I crouched with my arms crossed over my aching head, awaiting a shot to my head from the worker, or further assault from the mouldering mummy. After a breathless moment, I looked up.

A swarthy fellow with white teeth grinned down at me. “Is the Doctor Sahib well?”

I recognized the voice, even if the disguise had baffled me. It was the worker who had bumped into me during the opening of the sarcophagus. I sat back on the floor and stared up at my long-time colleague. “Are you serious? Sherlock Holmes, I presume.”

He bowed. “At your service.”

“Now, I realize what happened to my missing service pistol. You lifted it when you bumped into me.”

Holmes then stepped quickly over to the fallen Miss Aldebourne. I pushed myself up and joined him. She had passed out, but after a few minutes of administering to her, she recovered. Meanwhile, Holmes had moved over to the mummy.

After a minute more with the young lady, I walked over to the obviously deceased figure. There were three spreading scarlet bloodstains in the wrapping on the chest. Holmes was unwrapping the head.

“So tell me, Miss Aldebourne,” Holmes called over to the young lady, “did this monster from an ancient crypt say anything to you when he attacked you? Perhaps in the Queen’s English language, rather than babbling in an ancient Egyptian tongue?”

“Yes,” she rasped. She cleared her throat. “Yes, he did. He kept demanding that I give him the key to the vault. I have no idea what he meant. He just said ‘key’ over and over, but then he was choking me, and I simply don’t remember anything else.”

“Well, the key to it all, indeed. That is all we need, now isn’t it.”

With that statement, Sherlock Holmes approached the girl, reached out, and unhooked her left ear ring, saying, “This scarab is the key.”

Turning it over, he stuck his darkened thumbs into a crevice that ran across the back of the carapace and broke the beetle in half. A shiny brass key was revealed hidden inside.

“Ah, and now, we seek the ledger.”

Two days later, we were in the sitting room at 221b Baker Street, talking with the very striking Miss Aldebourne, and the somewhat rodent-faced Inspector Lestrade. She was dressed in a black dress with a black lace veil, which only served to enhance her dark, almost Italian looks. It had been a difficult week for her, yet she seemed to be the stronger for it. I believe that knowing the truth, even the grim reality of death, was still better than not knowing the fate of her father.

For Lestrade, as usual, there was little to do to aid his appearance. Even his suit was wrinkled and stained, like he had been crawling through tunnels underground.

“So,” Lestrade continued, “you insist that you knew nothing about the identity of the murderer, just that he was the mummy, and that the mummy was behind the crimes. This is why you went undercover as a worker at Weymouth House and worked to unravel the mystery of Dr. Aldebourne’s disappearance.”

“Correct. You see, it was obvious from the beginning that something dire had happened to Professor Aldebourne. Someone as dedicated and focused as he on his research would never have left it, for any reason. He has done the same thing for decades. There would be no monetary pressure or form of stress that would push him away. He would never ‘go on holiday’ as it were, or abandon his work for any reason. Therefore, it was evident from the very first that he was deceased. We only needed to find the motive.

“Furthermore, the professor left the day-to-day machinations of the historical institute to Cushman. He could suffer through the financial and administrative pressures, while Aldebourne focused on his research. It was Cushman who came up with the circus act of unwrapping mummies for rich patrons and giving them decorative baubles so they would further fund Weymouth House and its archaeological pursuits. I had to infiltrate the place as a worker in order to ascertain roles, to sense moods, and uncover motives. Cushman could have been the mastermind behind the mummy business, but I quickly ruled him out. Charlatan that he was, he was an honest clown doing what he felt was best for the institute. He was duped just as much as the public and risked losing his livelihood just as much as the professor.

“However, the treasures are real. There is gold, silver, jewels, and things undreamt of which these explorers have recovered from the tombs of ancient pharaohs for decades. They are stored in a vault. Only Aldebourne had a set of keys to it. One he had hidden. The other he gave to his daughter. What was it you told me when you first arrived, dear? He said those scarab earrings were the gift of his eternal love. So they are. He gave you quite a gift!”

“How in the world did you know there was a key inside?” she asked. “They were mine and even I didn’t know.”

“You remember that I observed them when you visited me. You may not have ever studied them with the critical eye I used. I could see that one had been cut open before it was dried. Also, if you felt them and weighed them, one was slightly heavier than the other. It was obvious that something was hidden inside the one shell. The shell is of a certain size and this jewelry, an earring, of a certain usable weight range. Hence, the object had to be restricted to a specific utilitarian range. It was simple deduction that it would be something very important to the professor that needed to be hidden which could be passed on to his daughter, such as a key to a drawer or lockbox.”

Lestrade harrumphed. “You make it sound simple. But that place had been searched high and low. How did you figure the key was was to a hidden drawer with a journal?”

“A ledger. We knew there had to be treasure from all the years of explorations. That takes a lot of space. To prevent theft, we must store these treasures in a secret location, and then hide the location and record of these treasures from staff, visitors, or other prying eyes. There has to be an accounting of these excavations - hence a ledger. It was easy to deduce he would have a hidden drawer or cabinet in his office in which to secrete the ledger. I told you as much when I gave you the key.”

“After you opened his desk that night in the museum.”

“I assure you, Inspector, I did not take anything else from the drawer. I was witnessed by Dr. Watson, Miss Aldebourne, and Mr. Cushman. I knew the location prior to recovering the key, because I searched his offices while in disguise that week. I knew what I was looking for ahead of time, a hidden recess that was small enough to hold a journal. Hence I was able to focus my search until I found the hidden panel. Then it was merely a matter of recovering the key.”

“Why did you wait, then? Why not call Miss Aldebourne as soon as you found the hidden drawer?”

“My dear Inspector Lestrade, please remember that Professor Aldebourne was still missing at that time. I realized early on that someone was playing a trick on people, from the news story. The only possible uses for the performance of the mummy were either to gain popularity for the museum, or to scare people away from it. The latter seemed to be the case. Thus, I ruled out the professor hiding and doing it himself to help save his museum.”

“What? Really!” Miss Aldebourne said.

“Exactly. But it was a possibility that had to be eliminated. So we were left with an adverse alternative. A criminal was utilizing the mummy trick to damage the reputation of Weymouth House as a cursed death-trap, to put pressure and fear on the staff in order to make them reveal the location of the hidden treasure.”

Lestrade nodded sagely.

“It also becomes evident now that the villain had enough inside knowledge of the House to know that they circulated treasure from the expeditions, that Aldebourne was the brains behind the institute, that they needed financial backing, and that Cushman did these invite-only mummy unwrapping parties. Hence, he was either a staff member or someone who had participated in the process. My infiltration of the House and observation of its operations eliminated the staff option. The staff members were all loyal both to the Professor and the concept of the House. In fact, he had worked with most of them for decades and brought many of them back from Egypt.”

Lestrade thumped the arm of the chair. “You make it seem logical. I had terrified, crying women telling me about a walking mummy. This was anything but routine.” He sighed. “Very well, Mr. Holmes. So how did you figure it was Sir Bradshaw?”

“I did not know which one of the supporters it was, only that it was one. The person had to have frequent access to the institute, had to have been at one of the mummy fund-raisers, and had to have enough resources to be already hooked in the antiquities trade and want to gain a whole lot more. Hence he had money. These aristocratic collectors are all the same. They are just as obsessive about owning objects as Professor Aldebourne was about discovering them. My only regret is that we were unable to capture him alive and divine a motive behind his obsession. I would have liked to question him. Alas, he had already murdered and was attempting to murder my friend and Miss Aldebourne. Steps had to be taken.”

Lestrade slapped his hands on his thighs. “Very well. I suppose that is it. Miss Aldebourne, if you will accompany me. I believe we have a vault to open. Sure you won’t accompany us, Mr. Holmes?”

He smiled and looked at me. “No. For me, the thrill is in the hunt. The chase is over. The gleam of gold is cold and barren and holds no interest for the likes of me.”

“Well,” Miss Aldebourne said in parting, “if you ever do find money lacking and need a job, Mr. Holmes, we could always use another porter down at the museum.”