The Egyptian Curse (10 page)

“Listen, Reynolds,” he said, “someone tipped Scotland Yard that Sedgewood's dagger might have been the murder weapon. And somebody - likely the same person - told that sap Howell at
The Times
that the dagger was contraband. Was it you?”

The assistant steward looked offended. “Certainly not! No one in service would have done such a thing. Besides, how would I know anything about it?”

“Well, you might have been the one who used the dagger on Alfie Barrington.”

Reynolds's jaw dropped. If the man was not utterly shocked at the suggestion, he was the greatest actor since William Gillette.

“Me, sir? But that's ridiculous. Why would I have done a thing like that?”

Hale sighed. He could think of no reason in the world why the butler would have done it. None of the usual motives fit - blackmail, romantic jealousy, money. Unless-

“Pounds sterling might have something to do with it,” Hale said. “Suppose Alfie's death was a smoke screen and Lord Sedgewood was the real victim all along. Did he leave you a legacy?”

“I - I have no idea, sir.” Sweat poured out Reynolds's craggy forehead.

“I like that idea,” Agatha said. “May I use it?”

Ignoring her, Hale continued to address Reynolds. “It's quite convenient that you had the day off when Sedgewood was killed, thereby making it look that you weren't around at the time.”

“His Lordship let me off to visit my brother in Lancashire. He's quite ill.”

“Maybe,” Hale said skeptically. “That can be checked. If that's true, who would know you were away that day?”

“The rest of the staff, of course. His Lordship may have mentioned it to his family. And perhaps Lady Lawrence.”

“Who?”

“Lady Lydia Lawrence - His Lordship's, er, friend. She and His Lordship often met alone at the townhouse, or sometimes at the country estate, but quite discreetly. Even Lady Sarah and Mr. Charles don't know.” He leaned forward and whispered. “She is a married woman, you see.”

Chamber of Horrors

One day men will look back and say I gave birth to the Twentieth Century.

–
Jack the Ripper,
Letter to Police,
1888

That evening, Hale walked down Fleet Street toward the Cheshire Cheese pub with Agatha's recriminations still ringing in his ears.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” she'd thundered as they climbed back into her car. “You scared poor Reynolds half to death.”

“I honestly thought he could have done it.”

“Don't be silly.”

The woman was his own age, and yet he felt the way he always had when he'd been chastised by his nanny as a child.

“Beg pardon, sir!”

A white-haired man, an old salt judging by his well-worn clothing and his rolling gate, had broken in on Hale's thoughts with a mumbled apology as he jostled him on the sidewalk.

What the - Hale was almost sure he'd felt the man's hand in his pocket. Frantic, he checked to see if anything was missing. On the contrary, he found a piece of paper with a written message in firm copperplate writing:

Madame Tussaud's, Jack the Ripper exhibit, 10 A.M.

Hale looked up to call after the man, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Well
, thought Hale,
I evidently have an appointment tomorrow morning with a person or persons unknown.
Normally only a fool would respond to such a summons, but Hale could think of few safer places than Madame Tussaud's to meet the mysterious individual who chose this peculiar way to demand an audience. The place would be crowded with tourists, and especially the area around the Ripper exhibit. What could go wrong in the Chamber of Horrors?

Monday morning did not start well for Hale. On his typewriter he found a note from Rathbone summoning him to the managing director's office. The tone of the missive was not warm:
See me. Rathbone.

“Yes, sir?”

Rathbone looked up from his desk. “Close the door and sit down.”

So, it's going to be that kind of meeting.
Just as Hale had suspected.

“I understand that you have been making inquiries into the deaths of Lord Sedgewood and his son-in-law.”

It could have been worse. Hale had been afraid that his boss had found out about Willie Gordon's contributions to his British Open stories. He could have gotten the sack for that.

“How did you know, sir?”

“Never mind how I know. Let's just say that certain people told certain people who told me. Did I or did I not tell you to stay out of that case?”

“You did not.”

“Eh? Don't be insolent. Of course I did.”

“With respect, sir, no you didn't. What you said was, ‘You can't be reporting on a murder in which you're Scotland Yard's chief suspect, can you?' I acknowledged that I could not. But I haven't been reporting. I have merely been asking questions. I did, however, pass on some answers thus obtained to Ned Malone, who did report it.”

Rathbone looked down, the trace of a smile at the corner of his lips, and fiddled with his curved pipe. “You know who you remind me of, Hale?”

“Someone good, I hope, sir.”

“You remind me of me, damn it to hell.” He paused. “Let me make this clear: I do not want to hear any more about you taking an interest in this case. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“Perfectly, sir.”Rathbone had said he didn't want to hear about it. He hadn't said “don't do it.”

“Good.” Rathbone lit the pipe, signifying that the stern-parent talk was over. “What do you have planned for today?”

“I was thinking about a visit to Madame Tussaud's.”

“Tussaud's? The place has been around forever. Everybody's been there at least once. Where's the story in Tussaud's?”

“That's what I'm hoping to find out.”

Madame Tussaud's wax museum had been founded on Baker Street by Marie Tussaud in 1835. Almost half a century later her grandson had moved it to its current location on Marylebone Road. Hale had visited the museum with Sarah once, viewing with special interest the wax figures Madame herself had created of Sir Walter Scott, Admiral Nelson, and victims of the French Revolution.

The museum was much more than that, of course, and not just wax. One of the current highlights was a collection of authentic relics of the Emperor Napoleon: three carriages, including the one he used at Waterloo and in the Russian campaign; his coronation robes; his toilet case and telescope; and the bed he died in on the island of St. Helena. The whole collection was valued at £250,000.

For the more gruesome-minded, however, the biggest attraction at Madame Tussaud's was and always would be the Chamber of Horrors, featuring such notorious killers as Jack the Ripper, Charlie Peace, Dr. Crippen, and Burke and Hare.

It was to the Jack the Ripper exhibit that Hale presented himself at ten o'clock, following the instructions on the paper placed in his pocket the night before. No one knew what Jack the Ripper looked like, Hale thought, but the aftermath of his horrific crimes was well attested to. Hale stood looking at the grisly tableau when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Thinking about it later, Hale turned red at the memory of how he jumped.

“Penny for your thoughts?” said a rough voice behind him.

Hale turned around quickly. At first he saw only the old sailor who had bumped into him the night before. Then the sailor stood straighter and, by some magic of control, altered his face. It was still an old face, but one that Hale knew well.

“Holmes!”

“I knew the Ripper, and so did Scotland Yard,” he said quietly in his natural voice, nodding at the waxworks. “That is really quite a good likeness. The nose is a little too wide, though. Lestrade helped them with that figure. It was his charming way of letting certain people know that he knew without risking his own life.”

The waxwork image of the killer didn't ring any bells for Hale. Possessing more than his share of the curiosity natural to every journalist, he couldn't help asking, “So - who was he?”

“That, I am afraid, is a story for which the world is not yet prepared, even after all these years.”

“What's this all about, asking me to meet you here? And why the disguise?”

“At the request of my old friend Wiggins, who has little regard for Inspector Rollins, I have been making inquiries into the Barrington-Sedgewood murders. It's time that you and I share information about the case. However, I thought it inadvisable for Rollins' man who is following you to know that we are meeting. Incidentally, I hope you enjoyed your golf game.”

“How did you - ?”

“I followed you, of course, which is how I know that a Scotland Yard officer was also following you, and doing a fair job of it.”

Hale felt foolish, as he often did in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. “I wasn't just playing golf. I was interviewing Sedgewood's butler, Reynolds.” He told Holmes the whole story of his day on the links, starting with an abbreviated account of his earlier meetings with Agatha Christie, as they strolled through the Chamber of Horrors.

“Mrs. Christie should do well in her chosen profession of mystery writer,” Holmes said at the end. “Her insight about the servants was spot on. I myself have been talking to the cook at Carlton House Terrace, a woman of about my age named Agnes. She is a fair hand at cribbage.” His tone turned wistful. “I once knew a maid named Agnes. She married a baker. For a number of years I visited her husband periodically to make sure that he treated her well. Oh, look, my old friend Charlie Peace!”

As they stood in front of the waxwork representing the famous burglar and murderer, Hale worried - not for the first time - whether the years had at last caught up to Sherlock Holmes. He was reassured when the old detective got back on point.

“At first I was reluctant to leave Sussex and look into this business. My bees are demanding taskmasters, you know. But that was a mistake. By the time I saw how badly Rollins was botching the matter, it was far too late for me to explore the physical scene. Scotland Yard is fairly good at that sort of thing these days, anyway. I would make bold to say that they took a lesson or two from me. However, I did learn a bit from Agnes in the course of losing multiple hands of cribbage. Now, tell me what you found out, word for word if you can.”

“I can.” Hale pulled out a notebook that he had reserved for his jottings on the case. “I've been writing everything down after every interview, as much as I remember - and I have a trained memory. My involvement began with a phone call in the night from Ned Malone.”

Hale left out nothing. When he'd finished quoting Harley Reynolds and closed the notebook, Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “You really have done quite well, Hale. You lack only the ability to draw conclusions from the facts you have marshalled.”

“And I suppose you've solved the case already?” Hale didn't even try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Holmes chuckled. “That would be saying too much, but I believe that I am making progress. In those detective stories that are so popular these days, the second killing is always The Man Who Knew Too Much. Sometimes in reality it does happen that a second murder is committed to cover up the first, but not so in this case. I am convinced that the killer framed Lord Sedgewood in the hopes of disposing of two people neatly - Alfie Barrington by knife and Lord Sedgewood by the hangman's rope.

“Think about it, Hale. Who informed the Yard about the murder weapon being the dagger if not the killer? And why do so if not to point to Lord Sedgewood, the owner of the dagger? It was a clever bit of misdirection, I must admit, except for the fact that it didn't work. When it became clear that Scotland Yard suspected the wrong person, the killer was forced to get rid of Sedgewood in a more direct way.”

“Then you do know who the killer is?”

“I believe so, but because of your fine work I have a few more questions to ask before I can be certain.”

The Baronet's Wife

“The worst of having a romance is that it leaves one so unromantic.”

– Oscar Wilde,
The Picture of Dorian Gray
, 1891

Only with great effort was Sherlock Holmes able to convince Hale that he, Holmes, alone should visit Lord Sedgewood's friend Lady Lawrence and her husband, Sir James Lawrence, Bart.

“I'm sorry, Hale,” he had said, “but your connection with the late Lord's daughter would make it impossible for Lady Lawrence to speak honestly in front of you. Besides, I believe you are under instructions from your managing director to cease med - that is, to discontinue your investigation.”

“How the hell did you know that?”

Holmes merely smiled. He suspected that Hale would have been upset to learn that he had been the one to rattle Rathbone's chain - through Wiggins - about his star reporter's unauthorized inquiries. Hale was a fine fellow, both brave and intelligent, but Holmes was on the case now. And he knew more than he had let on to Hale.

He had written reports from his old friend about Carter (“apparently an honest mistake that His Lordship never forgave”) and Baines (“a fraud, but everyone knows it”). He himself had learned much about Portia and Sidney Lyme, as well as all the members of the Sedgewood family, from the chatty Agnes. She had related with particular relish a rumor that Sidney Lyme, like Lord Sedgewood, had taken antiquities out of Egypt illegally. Since Agnes particularly specialized in low gossip, the name of Lady Lawrence was not unknown to Sherlock Holmes. All of the servants knew about her frequent visits and time alone with the master of the house.

She turned out to be a handsome brunette, taller than her husband. Although in her mid-fifties, she looked nowhere near her years. Holmes could see why Sedgewood would be taken with the woman. On this afternoon she wore a day blouse of a light blue silk Crepe de Chine decorated with a ruffle that ran in a rectangle down the front around a row of white buttons. Her mid-calf length skirt was a contrasting color of blue, and was embellished with a metal beading. These were not the clothes of a woman who skimped on fashion. Sir James appeared perhaps a decade older than Lady Lawrence, with a bald head and a distracted air. His attire reflected that of a man of a different age than his wife.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, looking at the calling card bearing that name and nothing else. “Aren't you dead?”

“Not anymore,” the beekeeper of Sussex said dryly.

“Oh, I see.” But, clearly, he didn't.

“What's this about, Mr. Holmes?” Lady Lawrence spoke directly, but with no sign of irritation or concern. “You said on the phone that it had something to do with Lord Sedgewood.”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “I understand that you were quite good friends with His Lordship.”

“Barely knew the fellow,” Sir James said. “Seemed nice enough, though. Died the other day, didn't he?”

“I'm afraid so.” Holmes looked at Lady Lawrence.

“I actually knew him better than Sir James did,” she said. “We served together on a committee of the Arts Council.”

“And your committee work required visits to his home?”

“On occasion.” She turned to her husband. “I think this will be quite boring for you, my dear. Perhaps you would like to go back to playing with your trains.”

“Wouldn't mind that at all. Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes. Oh, wait just a moment, please.” He dashed into another room.

As soon as he'd left, his wife turned to Holmes. “Is this some sort of attempt at blackmail? Because if it is-”

“Has my reputation sunk that low?” Holmes was more amused than offended. “No, Lady Lawrence, it is nothing of the sort.”

“Here we are!” Sir James returned to the room with an autograph book in his hand. “Would you mind giving me your autograph? I collect them.”

“It's one of his hobbies,” Lady Lawrence said. “He has many hobbies.”

“It would be an honor.”

Holmes dashed off his signature and Sir Lawrence left the room.

His wife watched him leave. “I'm really very fond of him, Mr. Holmes. I wouldn't hurt him for the world.”

“Nor have I any wish to do so.”

She sighed. “I was an absolute fool to become involved with Edward - or any other man. James and I have been married for twenty-six years. It has been a very satisfactory arrangement. His hobbies keep him busy, and he has been very generous in supporting causes that are important to me.”

“I perceive that you are an ardent supporter of Mr. MacDonald and his Labour party.”

She appeared startled for a second, and then looked down at her blouse. Holmes gave her full marks for realizing that the small party pin had given her away. This woman may have been foolish, but she was no fool. Holmes had seldom regretted his long-ago decision to avoid affairs of the heart: They inevitably clouded one's judgment.

“You disapprove of women in politics, Mr. Holmes?”

“I disapprove of politics.”

She arched an eyebrow. “But surely government is necessary or we shall have anarchy. And politics is necessary, or we shall have dictatorship.”

Holmes could tell that Lady Lawrence enjoyed this verbal joust, and he was surprised to find that he did, too. Reluctantly, he judged the time right to bring up the subject that had brought him here. So instead of asking Lady Lawrence whether she thought that anarchy, dictatorship, and inescapably sordid politics were the only options, he said:

“Did you visit Lord Sedgewood on Friday?”

“You mean, did I kill him?” She put her hand on the top of a chair, as if to steady herself. “It didn't take a detective to realize that you must be investigating his murder. No, Mr. Holmes, I did not have that distinction. And I had not visited him since about two weeks before he was killed. Our last discussion was not a pleasant one.”

“You had words?”

“It would be more correct to say that he had words. He summoned me to let me know that he loved another.”

“No doubt you were upset.” Holmes had learned from experience that others responded well to having their emotions acknowledged. The simple observation often caused them to talk more.

Lady Lawrence's free hand tightened. “Of course I was upset - for a good ten minutes. What woman wants to be told that a man is finished with her? I should have known that it was inevitable. I'd been told by one of his other women that he'd had many love affairs since the death of his wife, to whom he was apparently quite devoted. The worst part was that he offered me a financial settlement, for which I had no need or desire. That hurt.”

“And after the ten minutes?”

“I realized that I was quite relieved that it was over.”

“Because you didn't love Lord Sedgewood?”

“No, because I did. And he didn't deserve it. Nor did James deserve my infidelity.” She sighed. “As I said, I played the fool - but not so big a fool as to kill Edward for leaving me.”

Holmes couldn't claim to be a human lie detector, nor could any man. But he trusted his instinct that Lady Lawrence was telling the truth. He'd never seriously suspected her anyway. But he needed to be sure.

“Do you know the name of Sedgewood's new inamorata?”

Lady Lawrence gave a rueful laugh. “He didn't tell me that. Once, a month or so ago, I saw him dining in a discrete corner of Simpson's with a redhead, one of those wispy types. But it couldn't have been her - I later saw the woman with Edward and the rest of his family. He always kept his women separated from his family.”

She folded her hands in front of her. “I'm afraid I haven't helped you very much, have I?”

“On the contrary, Lady Lawrence, you have been invaluable. I already knew with a fair degree of certainty who killed the Earl of Sedgewood. Now I know why.”