Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

"You don't?" I asked.

Despite my many years with Holmes, there was always the element of surprise when he confessed to being baffled. In a similar vein, to hear Randolph Rapp in doubt about anything made my eyebrows jump.

The professor was shaking his head. "There are still so many things we do not know. Especially about Egypt."

"But I thought the Rosetta Stone—" I began.

"Oh yes. One of Napoleon's soldiers discovers a black basalt tablet that provides the key to the deciphering of the hieroglyphics and the rediscovery of the culture of ancient Egypt. Quite amazing, but not completely satisfying. We have never been able to decipher the hieroglyphics of Crete, Watson, which may predate those of Egypt. Aztec and Mayan inscriptions remain a puzzle. In a similar manner there are the so-called secret writings."

Holmes was leaning forward on the couch.

"This is something new," he admitted.

"It is reasonably certain that they originally were in the pyramids, though possibly later tombs from which they were stolen, for they were inscribed on tablets of gold. But some have shown up through the centuries. As to their message, who knows?" Rapp shrugged and then another thought intruded.

"There is one chap, Howard Andrade, who I'm told has cracked the riddle. He based his study on the Cretan hieroglyphics, using them as a basis or key to the cuneiform symbols of the secret writings. Evidently he has succeeded."

"But," I said, "if this Andrade fellow has deciphered an ancient form of writing, wouldn't there be a bit of a stir? I'd think the journals would pounce on it."

"Dear me, no!" protested Rapp. "Things move a bit slower in the field of antiquity. Andrade is a brilliant chap. I'm inclined to believe he has pulled it off. But he will make no claims until he has absolute proof. Remember, every other Egyptologist will desperately try to prove him wrong simply because they haven't deciphered the secret writings themselves."

"A competitive field."

"Ruled by pride," agreed Rapp. "Andrade removed himself from the country to complete his research. Doesn't want his near-triumph to leak out. Last I heard he was living in Venice."

I almost jumped out of my chair, and even Holmes had the good grace to register surprise.

"Venice, you say?"

"I do, never expecting this reaction. Here we are discussing ancient religions and a potential holy war, then of a sudden you give every indication of going somewhere."

"We are," said Holmes. "To Venice."

Chapter Eleven

Adventure in Venice

Of course, it was not as simple as that. Holmes had other questions regarding Andrade to pose to Randolph Rapp, and on our return to Baker Street messages flowed from his pen. But on the following day, we resumed our travels, nothing new to one associated with the greatest man-hunter of all time.

Holmes, for no reason that I could fathom, chose to take the train to Dover, and from there the steamer to Belgium. In the great harbor station at Ostend, he conferred at some length with the stationmaster, a meeting to which I was not privy. Being a bad sailor, I was attempting to sip some passable tea and consume dry biscuits with no great success. My stomach was not in the best condition, and the table at the station restaurant where my friend left me seemed disposed to tilt on occasion, purely an illusion.

When the sleuth fetched me, the stationmaster was by his side with a veritable sheaf of rail tickets and an enthusiastic expression on his face. I knew what that meant Holmes's knowledge of rail traffic had suggested a varied route festooned with connections, which had positively enthralled the stationmaster who would certainly wire ahead to assure us of superior service during our journey. It was a procedure that Holmes had followed on previous cases. Whatever strange stations we dropped off at to await an inbound train, whatever intricate route we followed, we were certain to arrive in Venice in the shortest possible time. Holmes's travel plans invariably depended on perfect timing, which was always forthcoming. In the minds of Anglo-Saxons, possibly other races as well, there lurks the tendency to attribute a personality and sex to inanimate objects, even such awesome things as thundering locomotives. The beautiful Blue Train to the south of France has always seemed feminine to me, whereas the luxurious Orient Express is associated with the masculine gender. If, amidst the pistons and wheels of a great train, there lurks a smidgen of soul, I know of a certainty that it is aware of the presence of Sherlock Holmes and would never dare be behind schedule when carrying the master sleuth. Call me mad, but the results bear out my fancy, and after four changes en route, we arrived at the pearl of the Adriatic in an amazingly short time indeed. The St. Lucia railway station was as irrational as ever, but Holmes had us out of it and into a suite in the Venezia Hotel on the Grand Canal in short order.

During our rush through western Europe and down the boot of Italy, one thing was glaringly obvious. Our route had been relayed to others, for cables had arrived for Holmes at various stations during the trip. He did not choose to make me privy to all of their contents, but I gathered that Howard Andrade resided in a private home on the Rio di San Canciano. I assumed Holmes had made arrangements to approach the gentleman, since this seemed his intent, but my native curiosity as to his methods and plans was diverted by my queasy stomach and travel fatigue. Once installed in the Venezia with assurances from my friend that nothing would happen of an immediate nature, I devoted myself to the healing arms of Morpheus and, in early evening, awoke considerably refreshed and feeling quite the new man.

Holmes was pacing the sitting room, clad in his purple robe and puffing on his pipe, giving no indication of fatigue from our journey. I sensed that he had not rested since our arrival and confirmed this thought when I spied the butt of a thin Mexican cigar in an ashtray.

"Orloff has been here!" I cried instinctively. My friend's eyes twinkled. "Watson, what a delight! You spy the only clue to the presence of our somewhat sinister friend in a trice. Truly, our years together have not been wasted."

"But what is he doing here?" I snapped my fingers suddenly. "Ah ha! You contacted your brother, and Wakefield Orloff followed us to Italy."

"I certainly contacted Mycroft after our interesting meeting with Randolph Rapp. However, this led to a trading of information. He was most interested to learn that Chu San Fu is en route here via yacht. After a bit of prodding he revealed that Orloff has been in Venice for some time keeping an eye on Howard Andrade, the expert on ancient writings."

I was regarding the sleuth with knitted brows. "You mean, your brother anticipated Chu San Fu's trip to Venice?"

"Not at all, but Mycroft has been captivated with the idea of something in Egypt being at the bottom of the Mid East unrest. He knew of Howard Andrade's work on the secret writings of the pharaohs, and very reasonably put two and two together."

"Holmes, you'll have to be more specific than that."

"Then I must blend fact with conjecture," he replied, his hands clasped behind him as he strode the length of the room and back again. "The ominous meetings of Moslem leaders being fact. As to what has stirred the Mid East cauldron, we must look for some new element, some occurrence out of the ordinary that has brought these various factions together at this specific time. If the catalyst is in Egypt, conjecture leads us to Andrade. If he has decoded the secret writings, that is certainly new and could lead to additional breakthroughs in the unraveling of the history of the ancient civilization. Remember, Watson, it was but in 1822 that the Frenchman, Champollion, using the Rosetta stone as his key, cracked the hieroglyphics. Since Egypt's history was recorded in stone and preserved by the unique dry climate, Champollion's discovery allowed modern scholars to learn more about life in ancient Egypt than we know of our own original Saxons. The Rosetta Stone was discovered in 1799, but it took almost a quarter of a century before that black lump of basalt fulfilled its destiny."