The Pharaoh’s Curse

by Robert V. Stapleton

I had never before seen the eyes of my friend Sherlock Holmes sparkle with such rage. He was sitting beside the empty fireplace, staring directly into the face of a young woman in the chair opposite him. The moment I walked in through the door of his rooms in Baker Street, I was in no doubt about the depth of his feelings.

“Are you telling me, Miss Venton,” said Holmes, “that you want me to help you find a bag of old bones?”

Her bright blue eyes stared back at him, inflexible and unrepentant. “Hardly any old bones, Mr. Holmes. It’s more a matter of finding the mortal remains of a First Dynasty Egyptian king. Pharaoh Amkotep, no less.”

“It is as I said. A bag of old bones. I’m sorry, but I can do nothing to help you.”

I stepped forward, to try to bring peace between them. “Now, Holmes,” I said, “you can hardly turn the young woman away so abruptly when she’s come to seek your professional help.”

Without looking up at me, he waved vaguely in my direction. “This is my colleague, Dr. Watson. He wanders in here from time to time.”

She acknowledged my presence with a slight tilt of the head.

I smiled in return.

Holmes now turned his gaze fully on to me. “You deal with it, then, Watson. You know my methods. Although I hardly think you’ll need them in this case. Without having any other facts to go on, I should say the matter is perfectly straightforward.”

He turned away, picked up his violin, and began to pluck a tune, pizzicato, on the strings.

I dropped my evening paper onto the table, pulled up a straight-backed chair, and sat down facing the young lady. “I’m sorry for my friend’s rudeness,” I said. “Am I to understand that your name is Venton?”

“That’s right. Beatrice Venton.”

“Then, Miss Venton, perhaps you’d like to tell me your story.”

She gave Holmes one more poisonous look, and turned to face me. “Very well, Dr. Watson. But I don’t think anyone can help me now. Mr. Holmes was my very last hope.”

“Sometimes it can help simply to share a problem with somebody else.”

She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. “Very well.” She took a deep breath. “You might have heard of Dr. Seymour Venton.”

“The famous Egyptologist? Of course.”

She looked up at me. “He’s my father. He has spent much of the last fifteen years searching for, and unearthing, the relics of people who lived in Ancient Egypt. Especially their mummified remains.”

“That’s very interesting.”

“For the last five years, I have been my father’s constant companion and co-worker in Egypt.”

Without interrupting his tune, Holmes said, “Hence your tanned skin, caused by constant exposure to the sun. And the scarab beetle ornament on a chain around your neck.”

“The scarab?” I hadn’t noticed that.

She gave a self-conscious smile, and held the necklace out so that I could see the fine workmanship of the scarab. “From the tomb of Pharaoh Ramses.”

I nodded. “Please continue, Miss Venton.”

She gazed into the unfocussed distance. “For a long time, we had been searching specifically for the remains of Pharaoh Amkotep. Trying to fill in the blank pages of the mysterious period of history covering his brief reign.”

“With no success?”

“Oh, we did indeed have success. Initially, at any rate. We worked hard to find the burial place. We scoured the archives, researched the history of ancient rulers, and dug in numerous locations. Then, we found him. Still in his sarcophagus, in a stone-lined tomb in the desert of the Upper Nile valley. But no sooner had we uncovered the remains than a band of grave-robbers came along one night and removed the mummified remains of our pharaoh. One of our Egyptian workers had betrayed us. We thought we would never see his remains again.”

“But?”

She abruptly turned her gaze onto me once more. “Dr. Watson, there is just a chance that the pharaoh has been brought to this country. For what reason, I have no idea.”

“Why do you say that?”

She became agitated. Then she stood up, stepped over to the window and looked outside. Not seeing the daily activities of Baker Street, but some horrible scene painted by her own imagination.

“We had a stroke of luck. We knew a man who worked at the docks in Alexandria. He told us of a cartel that specialised in exporting mummified remains. To places all over the world. It’s nothing new. There are reports of mummies being sent to the United States, to be used for a whole list of frivolous purposes. Some have even been fed into the paper mills. Can you believe it?”

“And I suppose it’s all quite legal.”

“Legal, yes. But morally reprehensible. As far as I’m concerned, anyway. Well, our friend told us that some of the mummies were being exported to England. So we turned our search back to London, on the off chance, but the trail went cold. Now, all we have to go on is a name. Dackford.”

Holmes interrupted his playing. And looked up at her. “Dackford? Mr. Cornelius Dackford?”

“Have you heard of him, Mr. Holmes?”

“It’s a name whispered in hushed tones among the lower classes of society.” He stood up. A light had now entered his eyes. The light of a chase. “But I don’t know where he resides at the moment. Perhaps this is a case for the Baker Street Irregulars.”

Within ten minutes, the leader of the band of street urchins was standing in front of us. “What can we do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

“I want you to find somebody for me, Wiggins.”

“We’re good at that kind of thing, Mr. Holmes.”

“I know you are. So you should have no difficulty finding this individual.” He looked to Miss Venton. There was now a fragment of hope in her eyes as well. “I want to know the whereabouts of a man called Dackford. Cornelius Dackford. It seems he trades in exotic goods.”

“Usual rates, Mr. Holmes?”

“Usual rates. And double if you manage it by breakfast tomorrow morning.”

The following morning, we called on Mr. Dackford. He owned a warehouse down by the docks. It was a disreputable place, with water dripping from a broken pipe in one corner of the building, and rats scuttling around in dark holes and murky shadows. Not a suitable resting place for a ruler of ancient Egypt.

A man answered our knock. He was thin, balding, and had skin as yellow as parchment.

“Mr. Dackford?”

The man glared at us through narrowed eyes, and blew a cloud of tobacco smoke into our faces.

“Hmm,” mused Holmes. “I see you smoke a German brand of tobacco, Mr. Dackford.”

“Here. Who are you?”

“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” I replied, “and I am Dr. John Watson.”

“And the young lady?”

“Miss Beatrice Venton. The daughter of an eminent Egyptologist.”

Dackford cast his dark eyes suspiciously up and down the back lane.

“And what do you want with me?”

“We’re looking for the mummified remains of a pharaoh,” said Holmes. “Amkotep.”

“Doesn’t mean anything to me,” said Dackford, giving an exaggerated shrug. “Can’t tell one of them blighters from another. What does it matter, anyway? They’re all dead and gone.”

“It might matter if you were working for a gang of smugglers.”

Dackford looked offended. “Now listen, Mr. Holmes. Everything I do here is quite legal, whatever else you might think of it.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But the police might still be interested in some of your other activities. At the very least, they might want to search your premises here.”

“You can’t frighten me.”

“Then perhaps you can help us in our search.”

Dackford gave a non-committal sniff, and pointed to a wooden chest in the far corner of the room. “Have a look through that lot. They’re a load of charms and bracelets we’ve taken from some of them mummies. Nothing of much value. If you’re lucky, you might just find something to keep you happy.”

Whilst Holmes wandered around the storage area, his eyes scanning every inch of the place, I stood beside Miss Venton as she searched through the collection of trinkets.

Most of it was rubbish, but after several minutes she stood up again, holding a delicate fragment of cloth in her hands. “Look. This piece of fabric. There’s an ancient cartouche still visible on it.” She looked at me. “The name of Pharaoh Amkotep.”

I looked down at the material in her hands. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, Dr. Watson. I’ve spent years looking for these hieroglyphs. They’re branded into my memory.”

Holmes turned towards Dackford. “So, even if it isn’t here now, that mummy certainly has been here in the recent past.”

The man gave a sour look.

“To whom did you supply that mummy?”

“I don’t remember. And anyway, I often send them to auction. Sell them anonymous, like.”

“I only need a name.”

Dackford turned nasty. “Well that’s all you’re getting out of me.”

Holmes sniffed the air. “Tell me, Mr. Dackford,” he said. “Those German cigarettes. Did one of your clients supply them to you?”

Dackford’s eyes bulged in anger as he wrestled to control his temper.

“But there’s something more on this cloth,” said Miss Venton. “Along with the cartouche, there are other hieroglyphs.” She looked up at us with concern. “It’s not unknown to find them in such tombs, but it tells of a curse on anyone who disturbs his bones.”

Holmes shook his head. “A curse only has power over you if you believe that it has.”

But Dackford was interested now. “A curse, you say? I’ll be able to charge at least twice the going rate for something like that. Now, clear off, all of you. I’ve got work to do.”

As we left the warehouse, Miss Venton looked deflated.

“Cheer up,” I said. “At least we know that your lost pharaoh passed this way.”

“Yes,” she said, “but we’ve no idea where the trail leads from here.”

“Perhaps not,” said Holmes. “But the initial indications are suggestive.”

After we had escorted Miss Venton to her lodgings, Holmes and I took a cab to Oxford Street, and decided to walk the rest of the way. During those next few minutes, Holmes stopped at every newsstand and kiosk within sight, and collected a copy of every different newspaper edition he could find.

The moment we stepped through the door of his rooms in Baker Street, Holmes tossed the newspapers onto the carpet in front of the fireplace, cast aside his hat, coat, and cane, and knelt down amongst this array of newsprint. He divided them between us, and we began to search through them.

“What exactly are we looking for, Holmes,” I asked him.

He looked up at me as if I were stupid. “You know what unscrupulous people do with mummified remains, don’t you, Watson?”

I gave him a bland stare.

“You’ll be aware of an interest among the general public in viewing grotesque exhibits. The fairgrounds and amusements parks are full of them. Charlatans and tricksters make a great deal of money from catering to the morbid curiosity of the general public.”

“Of course. And the unwrapping of mummified remains has recently become one such ghoulish entertainment. Yes, I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never been to such an event.”

“Then perhaps you need to broaden your horizons,” said Holmes. “We’re looking for any report of an unwrapping occasion. It will probably appear as an advertisement, inviting those with a macabre taste to attend a scientific event, or some such poppy-cock.”

We searched.

Holmes was the one who found it. An invitation for members of the public to gather for an unrolling event. In was to take place in a basement room attached to a teaching hospital on the south bank of the Thames. Tickets to be purchased in advance from a certain Professor Tobias Powell. No address was given.

Holmes tossed the newspapers to one side, and began to search through his own collection of cuttings and documents. The storage system rapidly descended into chaos. Mrs. Hudson would once more be kept busy re-establishing order there.

“Here he is,” said Holmes. “Professor Tobias Powell. An entrepreneur who describes himself as a scientist, a dealer in the extraordinary, and a collector of the exotic.”

“Perhaps we should have a word with this Professor Powell.”

“Well, you’ll certainly have to do that if you want to buy a ticket for that unrolling event. Fortunately, we now have an address.”

“I am indeed honoured to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” said Tobias Powell, as he ushered the three of us in to the study of his modest town-house.

I looked around the room. A vase of flowers stood on a side-table. It held a single red rose, a single white carnation, and several green leaves of lily of the valley. The sweet smell filled the room, and helped to cover the smell of tobacco-smoke that lingered in the air.

Powell turned to face us. “Won’t you please sit down, gentlemen and lady?”

We did so.

“Now, why would a great detective like you, Mr. Holmes, be interested in my humble affairs?”

“Merely helping out our client,” said Holmes. “Miss Venton here is trying to discover what happened to the mummified remains of a certain Egyptian pharaoh.”

“I’m not sure I can help.”

“But I understand,” said Holmes, ‘that you organise events at which mummified remains are unwrapped.”

“I have indeed organised such occasions in the past. And I make no secret of the fact. But we are very particular about whom we allow to such evenings. We advertise widely, but we select with extreme care.”

“Very wise,” said Holmes. “But we are looking for one particular mummy. The Pharaoh Amkotep.”

“I’m not an Egyptologist, Mr. Holmes. So I really cannot help you. But, if you would like to attend one of our sessions, then I’d be very pleased to add your name to our list. Perhaps you might like to attend the event we are holding on Thursday of this week.”

“That is very kind of you,” said Holmes. “But I shall be busy with other matters on that particular day. However, I think my friend, Dr. Watson, and my client, Miss Venton, would be happy to attend.”

“There is just one problem,” I told them. “I happen to be a married man. I can hardly escort Miss Venton there on my own. It just wouldn’t be right.”

“Then I have perfect the solution,” said Powell. “Lord Elstack will be joining us that evening. Perhaps you could come along with him.”

Miss Venton looked at me, and smiled. “It sounds like the ideal solution.”

“Then that’s settled,” said Powell. “Seven o’clock at the hospital entrance. Oh, and refreshments will be provided afterwards.”

As we were leaving, Holmes turned to face Powell. “Would you mind my asking one particularly pertinent question, Professor?”

“Of course not.”

“Of what are you a professor?”

“Modern and Ancient Sciences.”

“Of course. Thank you, Professor.” Holmes turned away. “It is just as I thought.”

On the evening for the unrolling of the mummy, a black brougham pulled up directly outside 221b Baker Street. A man stepped down - rotund, ruddy of complexion, and with a winning smile. He wore a top-hat and a frock-coat. Here was Lord Elstack, an important member of Lord Salisbury’s Conservative government.

“Good evening, my Lord,” I greeted him.

“Ah, good evening, Dr. Watson. Mycroft Holmes asked if I wouldn’t mind calling to collect you this evening. I don’t normally act as a taxicab service, but, to tell you the truth, I’d be glad of some company this evening. And some female company at the same time.” He smiled at Miss Venton.

“That’s very good of you, my Lord. Sherlock Holmes has gone off on business of his own. Again.”

The brougham drew up outside the teaching hospital. We climbed down and joined a small group of people already assembled there.

We now numbered eight in total. Four were unknown to me, two ladies and two gentlemen. Then there were the three of us, and the man we had come to know as Professor Tobias Powell.

“Good evening, my Lord, ladies, and gentlemen,” he said. “It seems that we are now all present and correct. I would therefore like to invite you to follow me.”

He led the way in through the main hospital entrance, and then down into the basement area of the building. At the bottom of a flight of stone steps, he pushed open another door, and welcomed us all into a small underground room. The walls were whitewashed, the floor was covered in green ceramic tiles, and a gas-light hissing above a small stone mantelpiece. A second door, on the far side of the room, was shut. A cupboard stood in one corner, and a large table took pride of place in the middle of the room. On this table lay a figure, wrapped in a white sheet. It had the outline shape of a human body.

We gathered around the table.

The door opened again, and an elderly man, bent with the deformity of age, shuffled into the room. He was wearing the overalls of a hospital porter. The man coughed loudly, and introduced himself. “My name’s Jenkins. I work for the hospital. They’ve asked me to come and represent them this evening.”

Powell wasn’t pleased to see the old man. “Very well,” he said, with a hint of impatience. “If you really have to.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” said Jenkins. “I’ll stay in the corner, out of your way.”

Powell now turned to face his guests. “My Lord, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “welcome to this special event. The unrolling of the mummified remains of an official from Ancient Egypt. After the unrolling, you are invited to join us for refreshments in the room next door. But, back to the business in hand. Many years ago, the official we are about to meet held power in the land of Egypt. Possibly even as a pharaoh. This evening, these remains will see the light of day for the very first time in nearly four-thousand years.”

Everyone in the room was already entranced by this presentation, and we hadn’t even started yet. Miss Venton looked on, with a severe expression on her face. But soon she too was captivated by the occasion.

“However,” continued Powell. “I must warn you. I have received information that this particular burial comes with a curse attached to it. If you believe in such things.”

Miss Venton nodded slowly.

“If any of you would like to leave,” said Powell, “please do so now. Otherwise, you will remain here entirely at your own risk.”

We all remained where we were. Rooted to the spot. Our morbid curiosity now fully aroused.

Powell wandered over to the cupboard, and came back a moment later having exchanged his jacket for a white laboratory coat. He was also carrying a number of modern surgical and medical tools.

The unrolling began. Powell first pulled open the outer rolls of cloth. Dust filled the atmosphere, along with a smell that made us all pull back in disgust. Some of the onlookers had to reach for their handkerchiefs.

The lower part of the corpse appeared first. The legs and torso were withered and blackened with age. The desiccated body had shrivelled so much that the ribs showed through what remained of the skin.

Then, as a climax, Powell unveiled the head. “Behold, the face of the ancient world.”

Now we had our first glimpse of the pharaoh himself. The skin again was black, and pulled taut across the skull. But the face had character. Here was somebody who had once lived and breathed just like each one of us. Each person present had their own reaction. The ladies looked horrified, the gentlemen looked on with a more objective eye, and Powell looked satisfied. Lord Elstack appeared overawed by the sight of the mummy. Miss Venton’s eyebrows narrowed in horror. And, for myself, I have to admit, I could hardly take my eyes away from that face. It was a sight that might haunt a man’s dreams for many years to come. The only person who was unmoved by the experience was the old man, Jenkins. He sat by himself in the corner of the room, and watched the reaction of the others impassively.

Miss Venton spoke up. “This is the pharaoh my father discovered in Upper Egypt.”

“How can you tell that?” I asked her.

“You remember the cartouche we found at Dackford’s warehouse?”

“Yes.”

“Then look.” She grasped hold of the charm around the mummy’s neck. “This has the same name. Amkotep.”

Powell turned towards us. His face twisted into a scowl. “If you’re saying you have a claim to this mummy, then you’re too late. For the moment, I must ask you to remain quiet.”

But Miss Venton would not be silenced. “You rogue,” she shouted. “You thief. My father and I spent many years looking for this mummy.”

“I know nothing about that,” said Powell. “And if you make any trouble in here, young lady, then I shall ask you to leave. If you wish to keep the charm, then you’re welcome to it. But don’t spoil the evening for the rest of us.”

She agreed to accept the necklace, and calmed down.

After several more minutes, we had all had our fill of dust and death.

Powell stepped back, and rubbed his hands. “Now, my Lord, ladies and gentlemen. Refreshments are available for you in the next room. Please make your way through the side-door. And I hope you all manage to stay clear of the pharaoh’s curse.” He laughed, and opened the door.

Miss Venton and I stayed behind. She was still looking at the remains of the mummy. Transfixed.

I was about to follow the others through the door, when I felt somebody tug at my sleeve. I looked round. It was the man, Jenkins.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I have a cab waiting outside. For you and the young lady. I think it would be wise if you left immediately.”

Neither Miss Venton nor I were in any mood for light refreshments and inane small-talk. Without hesitation, we both followed the old man out the way we had come, up the stone steps and out through the main entrance. Then we climbed into the cab that was indeed waiting for us at the roadside. To my surprise, the old man climbed in after us. And sat down opposite me.

I looked at him more closely now. He removed his cap, brushed out his hair, and unbuttoned his overalls.

Now I recognised him. “Holmes!”

“You didn’t think I’d leave you there on your own, did you?” said Holmes. “I’ve been investigating our friend back there. It is as I suspected - he is no professor. At least, not of any institution in this country.”

The case, it seemed, was now over. Closed. Our client, Miss Venton, was clearly disappointed, but her questions had now been answered. I had assumed we were dealing with a simple case of grave-robbing. But that assumption was about to be proved wrong.

I called round to Baker Street the following morning.

The room was already filled with tobacco smoke, and the seats beside the fireplace were occupied by two men, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, and Holmes’s brother Mycroft. My friend was pacing the carpet, deep in meditation.

As I entered the room, he looked up. “Ah, Watson. About time, too.”

I was taken aback by this abrupt welcome. “I thought the case was closed,” I said. “Miss Venton found her pharaoh, and now at least she has possession of the mummy’s necklace.”

“Perhaps,” said Holmes, “but things have taken a darker turn.” He waved his hand towards the seated men.

I looked towards them. “What’s happened?”

It was Lestrade who answered. “Dr. Watson, did you last night attend an event at which an Egyptian mummy was unwrapped?”

“Yes. I went there with Miss Venton.”

“Was the event organised by a man who called himself Professor Powell?”

“I think you already know it was.”

Mycroft said, “A problem has arisen as a result of that evening.”

“Problem? What problem?”

“There were eight people present, I believe.”

“That’s right.”

“This morning, four of those people are seriously ill in hospital. And one man is dead. They were all taken ill shortly after leaving the hospital building.”

I was horrified. I looked to Holmes. He shook his head, as though to advise me not to mention his presence there.

“And Powell?”

Lestrade replied, “There’s not a sign of him anywhere. We’ve visited his home. We’ve searched the hospital. And now we are having all the ports put on alert for him.”

“A waste of time,” muttered Holmes. “You can be sure the bird will have flown these shores well before dawn.”

“As a man of science,” I said, “I hesitate to mention it, but Powell did warn us that the pharaoh’s tomb had a curse on it. Even Miss Venton found evidence of that. I just wonder if the death have anything to do with that curse.”

Mycroft pulled a sour face. “If you believe in such things.”

“What do the other victims say?”

“They all seem to agree with you, Dr. Watson,” said Lestrade.

“But the symptoms suggest another reason for their illness,” said Mycroft. “It seems they are consistent with strychnine poisoning.”

“Strychnine?”

“Hardly the work of some four-thousand year old mummy,” said Holmes. “I would normally dismiss the story of the curse as superstitious nonsense, and eliminate it as a possibility. But when a man really believes in such things, then a curse had real power. Either way, now we know we are dealing with a poisoning, and we stand on more solid ground.”

“But I’m as fit this morning as I was last night,” I said. “And I haven’t heard that Miss Venton has been taken ill.”

“Miss Venton has left town to visit her father,” said Lestrade, “so we must assume that she also avoided being poisoned.”

Mycroft looked at me. “Why do you imagine that these poor people were affected, when you and Miss Venton were not?”

I made the connection immediately. “They all stayed for refreshments afterwards. That must have been how they were poisoned. Ingestion of contaminated food. Then the symptoms must have come on fairly quickly afterwards. Cramps, stiffness of the joints, agitation, seizures. They would need professional help almost at once. It’s a good job they were already in a hospital at the time.”

Holmes looked towards me. His eyes flashing. “Once again, it all points to this fellow Powell. Don’t you see it?”

I shook my head. “Who was the poor fellow who died?”

“Lord Elstack,” said Mycroft. “That’s why I’m here. He was a senior member of the government. The P.M. is livid about this. He wants the perpetrator’s head on a platter. As soon as ever possible.”

“But you can’t find him.”

Lestrade shook his head sadly.

Holmes strode towards the door. “Then it’s up to us to solve the riddle. Come along, Watson. You too, Mycroft. We must visit the scene of the crime.”

“The hospital?”

“No. The home of Lord Elstack.”

The house was swathed in gloom when we arrived. The curtains were closed. The servants were moving around more quietly than usual. And the man’s wife was sitting in the front reception room. She looked deflated, and her eyes were red with crying.

“Good morning, your ladyship. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.”

“Welcome, gentlemen,” said the lady. “I’m sorry I can’t greet you more warmly this morning.”

“Indeed. It must be a very difficult time for you.”

“I’ve already given the police a statement, so I don’t think I can tell you anything new, Mr. Holmes.”

He drew up a chair, and sat down beside the grieving widow. “I’m sure this has come as a great shock to you, Lady Elstrack, but I would like you to tell me anything that might be relevant. However odd or peculiar it might seem.”

She looked up at him. “My husband was taken ill even before he walked through the door. Oh, it was terrible. His muscles went into spasm. But that was only the start of it. He became agitated. Soon he was sweating like a pig, and his heart was beating rapidly. It only grew worse during the night. Mr. Holmes, my husband was turning blue. I called in the family doctor, but he felt my husband was too ill to move. So I stayed with him. And I didn’t leave his side for one moment. Until he finally passed away. In the end, it was his heart that failed.”

“All classic signs of acute strychnine poisoning,” I said gently.

“And, did he say anything at all?” asked Holmes.

Lady Elstrack pressed a black silk handkerchief to her eyes. “There was something. I think.”

“Please, try to remember. Any detail might hold the key to uncovering the mystery behind this terrible event.”

“At first, he told me it was the Curse of the Pharaoh. Punishment meted out to anyone who disturbed his ancient bones”

“And then?”

“Then, towards the end, he tried to say something else.”

“Yes?”

“His mind was clearly deranged. As far as I could make out, he said ‘green the land, red the cliffs and white the sand.’”

Holmes looked up, as though a great light had shone into a darkened room. “‘These are the colours...’”

“’...of Heligoland.’” Mycroft completed the proverb.

Holmes looked up at me. “Watson. When we visited Powell in his home, what did you see there?”

“Some flowers.”

“Yes, but what colours were they?”

“A red rose and a white carnation. Flowers with a message. Both messages of hope and love.”

“And lily of the valley. Sweet flowers with green leaves.”

“A message of sweetness and happiness.”

“And,” said Mycroft, “put together, they are the colours which represent the island of Heligoland.”

“But there was more,” said Holmes. “In the entrance hallway, I noticed a pair of boots. Ingrained in the cleats were small particles of red sandstone. Add to that the fact that our friend Powell was wearing a watch-chain with a fob in the shape of an anchor. Then add the fact that the smoke of German tobacco was hanging in the air.”

“I don’t follow.”

“We have a Germanophile, with a love of the sea, who has recently been walking on red sandstone. There is only one place anywhere near the coast of Germany where red sandstone can be found.”

“The island of Heligoland?”

“Precisely.”

“And the poisoning?”

“If you wanted to hide a murder by poison, the best way to evade detection is to make it look like an accident. Hide it amongst other poisonings that can be explained.”

I rubbed my brow. “I see. So, presumably his Lordship ingested a much larger dose than any of the others, and suffered much more serious effects as a result.”

Holmes struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Watson, I’ve been a complete idiot. I should be kicked all the way from here to Charing Cross. This isn’t a pharaoh’s curse. It isn’t even a careless death or a mindless murder. This is a political assassination.”

Back at Baker Street, Mycroft sat back in an armchair, and began to explain the situation. “The island of Heligoland lies twenty-eight miles from the North Sea coast of Germany. It was ceded to Britain from Denmark after the Napoleonic Wars. Apart from a roost for thousands of seabirds, it also provides a strategic location for its British garrison. When the Kiel Canal is finally completed, Heligoland will lie like a dagger at the very jugular of German power in the North Sea. Lord Salisbury is currently negotiating to exchange the island for control over certain territories held by Germany in Central and Eastern Africa. The Germans want that island, and intend to have it. The Prime Minister is equally determined to have those territories.”

“And where does Lord Elstrack fit into the picture?” I asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? He has always been opposed to the idea. Bitterly opposed. And he’s been making enemies over the issue. The Prime Minister, for one, together with certain powerful figures on both sides of the North Sea.”

“So who killed him? Surely not the British government.”

“Certainly not. Your see, Elstrack had one important supporter. The Queen herself. No, the killer is nobody in the British government.”

I was dumbfounded. “Are you saying it’s the Germans who’ve murdered him?”

“I don’t think so. This man Powell is English, but he has a genuine love for Germany and for that island. For some reason, he is prepared to stop at nothing to see the island of Heligoland handed over to Germany.”

I looked to Holmes. “So, what do we do now?”

“We travel to where the answer must undoubtedly be found. Heligoland.”

Mycroft stood up, abruptly. “I shall arrange to have a cruiser waiting for you both in Harwich. The afternoon train should get you there in time to sail this evening.”

“You’d better go and pack some personal items then, Watson,” said Holmes. “Oh, and don’t forget to include your service revolver.”

It was early on the second day after leaving Harwich when I staggered out onto the foredeck of the cruiser. We had been sailing east, but had now turned towards the southeast. The dawn was rising red and angry ahead of us. Silhouetted dark against the burning sky stood Sherlock Holmes. His arms were folded across his chest, his coat was billowing out in the gathering breeze, and his eyes were fixed on the sea ahead. He was standing like some conquering hero - perhaps like Washington crossing the Delaware. Full of purpose and intent. Seasickness might lay me low, but never Holmes.

The First Officer joined us on deck, and pointed towards a hunk of land just visible above the horizon. “You’ll be pleased to know gentlemen that we are now within sight of Heligoland.”

“I shall certainly be glad to set foot of dry land again,” I told him.

“However,” he continued, “as you’ll have noticed, a storm is brewing. So we’ll approach the island from the far side. It’ll give us shelter from the roughest of the weather.”

We stood watching carefully as we approached the island. We saw waves breaking in a cloud of spume against the foot of precipitous cliffs. A sea-stack rose in a tall column of red sandstone, with white seabirds flocking around its treacherous upper reaches.

“Lange Anna,” said Holmes. “A landmark in this area.”

“And there’s a lighthouse flashing farther south along the west coast.”

“That’s interesting.”

We sailed down the east coast of the island and dropped anchor not far from the Unterland, a low lying region of reclaimed land on the south and east of the island. Beyond this rose the red cliffs of the Oberland.

The cruiser’s boat dropped us off on the lea-side of a breakwater. Which was just as well, since the seas were rising alarmingly now. The wind was strengthening and the sky was turning an inky black.

“Have you brought your revolver with you, Watson?”

“You’ve no need to worry over that score, Holmes,” I said.

“Then let’s make our way into the town, and make enquiries about our man.”

One of the locals directed us to the residence of the Lieutenant Governor. We knocked on the door, and a man opened to us.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am Dr. John Watson. We are here on official business, and we need to introduce ourselves to the Governor.

“I’m sorry, but the Governor is away just at the moment. Visiting Berlin. I’m his secretary. Is there any way I can help you?”

“We’re looking for a fugitive from the law,” said Holmes. “A man who goes by the name of Professor Powell.”

“I know the man very well,” said the secretary. “I’m surprised to learn he’s done anything wrong. Perhaps you should call in at our local police station.”

The police station was more like an ordinary house. The sergeant there seemed interested to learn that he had a villain on the island.

“Yes, I know Professor Powell. And yes, he has only recently returned after a brief visit to England.”

“Then perhaps we might have a word with the gentleman,” suggested Holmes.

“Certainly. But first, I must give you this. It’s a telegram from London. It arrived this morning.”

Holmes opened the telegram. “It is as I thought. The matter is now extremely urgent.”

“Very well,” said the policeman. “Follow me.”

The moment he opened his front door to us, Powell recognised who we were. “Ah, Mr. Holmes. And Dr. Watson. What a surprise to see you both here. Won’t you please come inside?”

Powell led us in to a small front room, and then turned to face us. He raised one quizzical eyebrow. “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

The darkening sky outside allowed very little daylight to filter in through the two narrow windows. The room was dark and gloomy.

The policeman held up the papers we have given him a few minutes earlier. “These gentlemen have brought a warrant from Scotland Yard. For your arrest, sir.”

“Is that so?” Powell now raised both eyebrows in feigned surprise.

“For the murder of Lord Elstrack.”

“I don’t know the man.”

“Nonsense,” replied Holmes. “He was present at the unwrapping of that mummy in London only a few days ago. Now he is dead. Murdered.”

“It’s true I have organised the unwrapping of several mummies over recent months. But this is the first time I’ve ever encountered any trouble. Anyway, you have absolutely no evidence to convict me of any wrongdoing. If the food they ate that evening was contaminated with strychnine, then somebody else must have introduced it to the food when I wasn’t looking. If one particular visitor was then greedy enough to eat more than his fair share of the food, then how am I to blame? I repeat, you have no proof of any unlawful activity on my part. If anything is to blame, then it’s the curse of the pharaoh. I did warn them about that.”

Holmes narrowed his eyebrows, and glared at the man. “Whether it was the curse of the pharaoh, or not, I really don’t care, but how did you know it was strychnine poisoning?”

“It was in the newspapers.”

“But you had already left the country before the morning papers appeared. And anyway, Scotland Yard withheld the cause of death. Your own mouth condemns you, Powell.”

“A slip of the tongue is no proof of guilt. All your evidence against me is purely circumstantial. And anyway, what motive would I possibly have for killing anyone?”

“Mummies were not the only things you were exporting from Africa, were they, Powell?” Holmes shook the telegram in the man’s face. “I have discovered that you spent several years living and working in German East Africa. Your love for all things German comes from your time there. Amongst other things, you acted as a middle-man in the export of elephant ivory. I found traces of ivory at Dackford’s warehouse. I imagine he’s the one who oversees the practical side of your business. I even found him smoking the same German cigarettes you supply him with. When Britain takes over the administration of those African countries, you will be in a position to control of the entire ivory export trade. No wonder you wanted to get rid of anyone who stood in your way. There is your motive for murdering Lord Elstrack. Greed.”

“But nothing of my trade is illegal, Mr. Holmes. You still have no proof that I killed anyone.”

“Then come back with us, and present your case before a jury.”

Powell’s eyes darted between the three of us.

The police sergeant stepped forward. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to place you under arrest, Professor.”

Powell turned his back on us, opened a drawer in the table, and turned again to face us again.

“Look out, Holmes,” I cried. “He’s got a gun.”

“Now, don’t be foolish, Professor,” said the police sergeant. “Put that down, and come with me.”

Powell hurried towards the door, opened it and turned once more to face the three of us still in the room. “You should have kept your noses out of my business,” he yelled. “Now there is no going back. For any of us.”

He raised the gun, fired a single shot into the ceiling above our heads and hurried out into the gathering storm.

With my ears ringing from the sound of the gunshot, I ran towards the door. Holmes was already there, watching the dark figure scurry away along a rough track.

“He’s making for the lighthouse,” said the police sergeant.

“Then we must follow him,” said Holmes. “Watson, check your revolver.”

“Powell’s right, isn’t he?” I said. “We have no proof that he is the killer.”

“You think not?”

“Well, we don’t even know how he managed to kill Lord Elstrack, without killing all the other people as well.”

“You remember that evening at the unwrapping event?”

“How can I forget it?”

“When Powell collected his medical instruments, he also had with him a hypodermic needle. Now, why would he want one of those to treat a body that had been dead for nearly four thousand years?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“I believe,” said Holmes, ‘that the syringe was loaded with strychnine. Then, just as everyone else in the room was distracted by the gruesome sight of the pharaoh’s body, he plunged the needle into his Lordship’s arm. I am confident that a post-mortem examination will reveal a fresh puncture wound.”

“The crafty fellow!”

Rain was already sweeping across the island, soaking everything and everyone in its way. By the time we reached the foot of the lighthouse, we were already drenched. But no matter. We needed to find Powell.

“There he is.” The policeman pointed towards the top of the lighthouse, and the veranda that ran around the outside of the lantern chamber.

We looked up. I could see a figure, standing defiantly against the weather and those who were threatening his freedom.

“Powell!” shouted Holmes. “Come down here, and give yourself up to the law.”

“You come and get me, Mr. Holmes!” The voice carried strongly despite the wind.

Holmes turned to our policeman friend. “You stay down here, Sergeant. I’m the one he wants to see.”

“Be careful, Mr. Holmes.”

The detective pushed open the door, stepped into the lighthouse, and began to climb the steps of the spiral staircase.

I followed, but I must confess that it took me much longer to climb those stairs than it did Holmes.

When I emerged into the lantern chamber, I could see the two men standing outside on the balcony. One was undoubtedly our murderer, and the other was my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Then the beam of the lighthouse turned on its regular cycle, and caught them both in its intense glare.

When the beam had passed, I stepped outside. Now I could hear their conversation.

“You have nowhere to go, Powell.”

“I love this island, Mr. Holmes. I would do anything in my power to secure its future as a part of the German empire.”

“And your own wealth, of course.”

“Any why not?”

“You stand accused of murder, Powell,” said Holmes. “You must face justice.”

“Believe me, Mr. Holmes, I would rather die on this windswept island than be hanged in a stinking English prison.”

“Then the alternative is in your hands, Powell.”

“You mean, jump to my death? Perhaps. But I’d rather take you with me.”

As I watched, Powell lifted his gun, and pointed it towards Holmes. Once more, they were both caught in the full glare of the revolving lighthouse beam. It blinded Powell for a moment, and he held his fire.

“No, you don’t,” I shouted.

Perhaps he hadn’t noticed me there, hidden as I was in the shadows. But Powell now turned towards me, and immediately fired his gun. He had no time to aim properly, so the bullet ricocheted off a steel strut and disappeared into the darkness. I already had my revolver in my hand. I took half-a-second longer to prepare myself. Then, aiming to disable rather than to kill, I squeezed the trigger.

At that moment, a flash of lightning cut across the sky, and lit up the man’s face. I was horrified. In that instant, the face had changed. It no longer resembled Professor Powell. It was a different face. One I had seen before. One that had been haunting my dreams for the last few nights.

Then, as I watched, Powell fell backwards over the balustrade, and plummeted to the ground.

Holmes and I hurried down the steps, to discover what was left of our adversary. I knelt down beside him, and felt for a pulse. There was none. Then I examined the body. It wasn’t my bullet that had killed the man. It was the fifty-foot fall that had broken his neck.

We both looked down at the face, now covered in blood.

“You know, Holmes,” I said, “up there, lit by that flash of lightning, I thought I saw another face.”

Holmes nodded. “So did I. And I wish I hadn’t. It was the face of the mummy. Black and shrivelled.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe it was only the harsh shadows cast by the lightning flash. Just a figment of our imaginations.”

“I hope you’re right, Watson.”

The Heligoland-Zanzibar Treaty was signed on the first day of July 1890, and control of the island was handed over to Germany.

An air of despondency settled over Baker Street. Had the pharaoh’s curse really been to blame? We had escaped from Heligoland with our lives. Our mission was now over, but with very little to show for it. The murderer, Powell, had escaped facing trial. The remains of the pharaoh had vanished as though into thin air. And we as a nation had lost Heligoland. Of all our cases, this was the most unsatisfactory. And I record the events with a heavy heart.

Sherlock Holmes never referred to the matter again.

Then, one morning in October, I received an unexpected parcel from Egypt. It was a gift from Miss Venton, as a way of thanking me for all the help I’d given her. I felt guilty that we had achieved so little. The parcel contained a stylus, retrieved from the burial chamber of Pharaoh Amkotep shortly before a sandstorm covered the tomb and returned it once more to the oblivion of the desert. The stylus had now been adapted to take a pen-nib. And it is with this pen that I have written, and now conclude, my story of the Pharaoh’s Curse.