Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

But as I prepared for our journey to Mayfair, another matter was brought to our attention. Wiggins, titular head of the Baker Street Irregulars, that motley group of juvenile street urchins that Holmes had recruited as his eyes and ears in the streets, came calling. The young rapscallion brought no news of his own but was the bearer of a message.

"The thin man sent this fer yuh, Mr. 'Olmes." Holmes took a handwritten note from Wiggins's grimy paw and, after reading it, dismissed his ally with thanks and a shilling.

"Slim's on the job, Watson," he murmured thoughtfully. "It would seem that Chu San Fu and his entourage will depart by private yacht for Venice within twenty-four hours."

"What sense does that make?"

"None, unless my memory has played me false." Holmes was beside the bookcase extracting a copy of Lloyd's Shipping Guide, which he riffled open. "I was right. The Hishouri Kamu does not touch at Venice or any other Italian port."

"The sword is en route to Egypt and the Chinaman to Italy. Has a new element been introduced into this overly complex matter?"

"Would that I could answer you, ol' fellow. Come, let us make for Mayfair. Having kept Chu San Fu in my sights till now, I don't intend to lose that advantage, so we may have a trip in store."

The Rapp estate in Mayfair seemed unchanged. Portions of the rambling house were visible through the trees, and the surrounding iron-spike fence provided an impressive barrier broken only by the driveway gate presided over by an occupied gate house. Being familiar with this unusual domicile, Holmes and I dismissed our hansom at the entrance and made ourselves known to the large, truculent-looking man who did not unlock the outer portal until we were identified. It clanged shut as soon as we walked through and began making our way towards the house.

Clumps of trees were effectively positioned to shield the residence from the street, but nothing grew near to the establishment save close-cut lawns. The area was as devoid of cover as the top of a billiard table. There was a chorus of low growls in the distance, and I knew the Doberman pinschers were nervously pacing their kennels. When the establishment was darkened for the night, the dogs would be let loose to roam between fence and house, and to walk then as we were now, without the presence of a known member of the household, would be akin to suicide. Randolph Rapp was important to the Empire, and considerable pains were taken to assure his safety and privacy.

When the butler, whose contours were those of a regimental blacksmith, ushered us within, Holmes and I were again observers of a picture of tasteful English home life. Costly Oriental rugs chose at intervals to modestly reveal highly polished floorboards before resuming their figured designs. The pristine white glove of an admiral of the fleet could have been run over any piece of furniture in the brightly lit drawing room without surfacing a dust mote or dirt particle. The logs in the fireplace and those in the attendant wood basket were of uniform size and cut, and I felt they would not dare allow a secretion of sap to flare or pop. Paintings were hung in precisely the right places as though positioned to the centimeter. Two large oils bore the imprint of John Everett Millais, and surely that was a Bellini over the great couch.

If the drawing room and entrance reflected the meticulous taste of the most proper Amanda Rapp, Sir Randolph's study, to which we were led, had to be his sanctum sanctorum and an untidy one at that.

As the butler retreated, the former professor, now motivational specialist, rose from behind his large desk, which was festooned with notes, letters, and reports in a helter-skelter manner. His ruddy face, rounded and smiling, emerged from an oversized head crowned by a shock of unruly hair. He was short, and his balloon-like body bounced as he came towards us, from his work area, on bandy legs.

"Ah, Holmes," he said, extending his hand. "Always delighted! Do sit down." Indicating a leather couch, worn in spots, a short distance from his overflowing desk, he seized my hand in both of his. His short, spatulate fingers, like those of a pianist, were strong. "And, my good Watson. You both look fit."

Leading me to a somewhat lumpy easy chair, he indicated humidors containing cigars and tobacco that were in evidence round the room. There was a jade case on his desk from which he extracted a long Egyptian cigarette. The index finger of his right hand was marred by a nicotine stain, which he suddenly seemed to notice, picking at it in an absent-minded fashion as he reseated himself.

I lit up one of Rapp's rum-soaked cigars with appreciation as the professor shoved papers aside, merely increasing the confusion. He gestured towards it with a sigh.

"Order is the virtue of the mediocre. Can't recall who said that, but the idea gives me comfort." He retrieved his cigarette, puffing on it. "But what has been happening in your active lives? You fellows get round a mite whilst I am chained here."

Holmes and I knew this wasn't true, and Rapp knew that we knew it. When it suited him, he wandered at will through government offices, and few indeed were the files not open to him. As like as not after one of his forays into what he called "the outside world," a series of reports would emanate from the very room we were sitting in and find their way by official courier to departmental heads, frequently with a shake-up as the result.

"Have you," questioned Holmes, "been privy to reports from the Middle East of late?"

"Sent to me by your brother," was the reply that accompanied an affirmative nod. "Bad show, that. Especially the gathering in the Grand Mosque of Damascus. Present were at least seven of the leading Islamics. When factions begin to agree, watch out! Especially the followers of Mohammed, for the Bedouin has always loved violence."

Preambles were wasted on one such as Randolph Rapp, and Holmes was delighted to dispense with them.

"If the diverse Islamic sects are untied by some miracle, the jihad, the holy war that they cry for, could result."

"Islam ... La illah il'allah," entoned Rapp.

"It's the miracle I'm searching for."

"There is the Sacred Sword."

I must have given a start of surprise, and Rapp favored me with a gentle smile.

"It was not long ago that I inquired of Holmes as to the disappearance of Captain Spaulding. Now, with a Mid East outbreak threatening, I must assume that you have considered the sword as a tool to stir the masses."

"My brother runs to the theory of an undiscovered tomb, and there is tangible evidence to back him."

"Also good thinking," replied Rapp crisply. "I see where his mind is going."

There was a pause, and I could not let this statement dangle.

"Well, I certainly don't."

"Consider . . . Watson, the matter of the Mahdi." Rapp's tone did me the courtesy of not sounding tolerant. "The outbreak he instigated is of recent vintage. The Mahdi got away with the prophet deception because of a resemblance, especially the construction of his teeth and the lisp. Even primitive minds bent on pillage and plunder will not respond to the same stimulus twice. Mycroft Holmes pictures a movement based on something more conclusive than a zealot waving a sword."

"An ancient prophecy, perhaps?" said Sherlock Holmes. "The very word 'ancient' leads us to Egypt."

Rapp seemed intrigued. "That cradle of civilization had a plethora of gods, but even among them, there was a one-god reformer. Ikhnaton, in the fourteenth century before Christ, banned all other deities in favor of Aton, the sun god. However, he was no Mohammed, and his monotheistic attempt failed. Upon his death, worship of the old gods returned, and the Egyptians attempted to eradicate that particular pharaoh from their history. I don't really know if his one-god faith lived on a bit or not."