Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

"Who?"

"The man on the dock. One of the attackers of Mycroft's agent that Bertie coshed."

"You mean he killed him?"

"Doubtful. More likely he was disposed of by Chu's order, having failed in his mission. His coffin is marked for delivery in Alexandria."

I was shaking my head in a confused manner and Holmes continued, a sharpness denoting impatience in his voice.

"Come, come, Watson! The sword is taken to the freighter, which just happens to list in its cargo the final remains of Sidney Putz, in life employed by Chu San Fu as an assailant. Surely, too much coincidence there. The sword is by now concealed in the coffin, and since we know that it is ticketed for Alexandria, that is the sword's destination. Can you conceive of any reason why the body of a dreg of the London underworld is being transported to Egypt save to provide a place of concealment for the fabled weapon?"

"But why, Holmes, is the sword going to Egypt?"

"As is your wont, Watson, you have stumbled over the main problem facing us. Why indeed? That is the answer we seek, and fortunately we have time. The Hishouri Kamu, being of the tramp variety, is slow, with many ports of call on her schedule. Until she reaches Alexandria, the sword is completely safe and we are allowed a breathing spell."

"Which we certainly need," I began, but before I could expound further on this subject, Holmes interrupted as though in haste to clear the air and move to other matters.

"Spare me, good chap, a lament regarding questions breeding more questions. The sword exists, that we know. Chu San Fu has it, for we saw his minions steal it. We know where it is and where it is headed. Now we must find a connective link, for surely Egypt brings to your mind Mycroft's dead agent, his mention of Chu San Fu, and the unusual and ancient relic that he had secreted on his person."

"But was not Mycroft imbued with the idea of an ancient tomb? The prophet Mohammed antedates ancient Egypt not by centuries but by thousands of years."

"Three, at least," agreed Holmes. "You put it well, ol' fellow. We must think more on this."

When Holmes thought, he required facts to form a framework for his speculations. This meant research, and there is no searcher more detailed than the one who does not look for knowledge but augments knowledge already acquired. The latter is armed with the indispensable, for he knows where to look for what he seeks.

Our rooms at Baker Street, with the numerous case histories in which I took great pride, and Holmes's commonplace books along with the newspaper files, produced a semi-library atmosphere. This was augmented by an inflow of work on Egypt and the Valley of the Nile that captured all available table space, spilling over to piles on the floor that I tried to keep orderly. I recalled those early days when fate, in the form of my chance meeting with young Stamford at the Criterion Bar, had first thrown Holmes and me together. I had estimated his fund of knowledge in a rather cavalier manner. While conceding that he had a profound grip on chemistry and an immense familiarity with sensational literature, I had listed his understanding of philosophy and astronomy as nil and his grasp of politics as feeble.

Things had changed during the years. First my friend had become well versed in astronomy, spurred, no doubt, by the fact that the infamous Moriarty had penned The Dynamics of an Asteroid, which enjoyed a European vogue. Then his facile mind reached out into other fields, not all connected with the solution of crime. His ability to sustain feverish periods of intense mental activity allowed him, once his teeth were implanted in a subject, to stay with it until it was wrestled into a workable form with familiar features.

I had lived through Holmes's flirtation with medieval architecture as well as his romance with sixteenth century music, which climaxed in his monograph upon the polyphonic motets of Orlandus Lassus, considered by experts as the final word upon the subject. Now it was Egyptology that the sleuth was gripping by the throat, albeit it was not a choice dictated by whim but motivated by our activities of late. Possibly it was also a rebirth of a previous infatuation dating from his Montague Street days. Whatever, most hours found my friend immersed in some volume or another, more often three or more simultaneously.

Such was the retentiveness of his splendid mind that several days later he devoted our entire dinner hour to delivering a detailed recounting of Giovanni Balzoni's Egyptian and Nubian operations, a man unknown to Holmes a week before. Egyptian architecture, jewelry, religions of ancient Egypt, a number of suggestions as to how the pyramids were, constructed—the list was endless. Finally I chose to ignore the whole matter before I began to imagine desert sand in my food! Holmes was on an Egypt spin, and he was looking for something. Painfully obvious was the fact that he wasn't finding it.

However, all the ensuing days and nights were not sedentary. My friend had his pack sniffing upwind. One day, having concluded several patient calls, I wasted some time pleasantly with a medical friend at the Bagatelle Club bar. Then I chose to walk back to Baker Street. In the vicinity of the Strand, I spied Holmes standing under the awning of a book dealer, an open volume in hand. Next to him, also in a studious pose, was Slippery Styles. That they were conversing in monosyllables without moving their lips I was sure. A bookstore as a meeting place was a favorite device of Holmes's, and I now knew firsthand that he was keeping Chu San Fu under close observation.

Chapter Ten

Sir Randolph's News

Our Surrey adventure began to seem like a dream, for the activity associated with it came to such an abrupt end. I grew accustomed to Holmes's presence in our quarters, a rarity when a major case dominated his working calendar. Then one morning I rose somewhat early and found that he was gone. But he rejoined me as breakfast was being served, even disposing of a rasher of bacon with eggs and some of Mrs. Hudson's toothsome scones. His manner seemed grave, but I did not note the nervous restlessness that indicated he was at loose ends as regards an idea. Actually, he seemed resigned. I waited him out, and finally he chose to tidy up and package the recent days of seeming inaction.

"We have reached an impasse, Watson, one that a crash course in Egyptology has not bridged, nor have events as reported from our sources provided a clue. At the end of a tether as regards my own resources, I am forced to go elsewhere, and as a first move I visited the Diogenes Club this morning. Recall that Mycroft came to us at our request, so I returned the courtesy."

"And found your brother similarly bemused?" This was but a shot in the dark.

"Let us say that his concern has grown, not lessened. There have been a series of meetings. First in Afghanistan, then Babylonia, Syria, Palestine, Persia, and Arabia. These being religious gatherings, Mycroft's information is very sketchy. One meeting in the Grand Mosque in Damascus was extremely well attended and a lengthy affair. The main point is that a spirit of unrest is spreading in the east and heading, like the Sacred Sword, towards Egypt. Islam blended a hundred scattered races into one, but the religion is split into many sects, more than seventy-two to be exact. If some revelation, some apparent miracle, were to unite the followers of the Crescent, you can anticipate the possible results."

In a sudden flash of understanding, I spoke automatically.

"The second coming of the Prophet."

Holmes's nod of agreement was grim. "As another move towards assistance, I have secured an appointment with Sir Randolph Rapp. Are you free to accompany me this morning?"

I accepted this invitation with alacrity. The unusual household of said gentleman was extremely interesting to me, as was the man himself. His theories rather paralleled Holmes's thinking on certain matters, and his influence, though indirect and unsuspected, was enormous.