At this point my chronicler would describe the young woman, telling you what color hair she had and how she was dressed and how she comported herself. He has an eye for these superficial things. But I was much more intrigued by the color of the moist mud on the toe of her boot---it told me that she had come straight here from the cemetery where her father was buried.
She lost no time getting to the point. "The coroner says that my father's death was from natural causes, but I do not agree."
"You have reasons for your doubts?"
She removed a slip of paper from her muff. "This was found beside his body. What do you make of it?"
I examined the paper, noting that it was made of a heavy papyrus such as that used by the ancient Egyptians. More strange, it was printed in an ink that bore no resemblance to any with which I was familiar. The script was archaic but easily legible. The message was brief.
Death awaits you.
After examining the note for any additional clues---there were none--I laid it on a table. "And this leads you to believe that your father was murdered? How? My friend Dr. Watson is away and unavailable for consultation, but I think that I can say with some reasonable degree of certainty that brain hemorrhage is difficult to precipitate by unnatural means. Unless you suspect that he was frightened to death by this macabre message."
She shook her head vigorously. "Papa was a man of reason. He did not hold with superstitious thinking. No, he did not die of fright. But I am convinced that it is no coincidence that he was clutching this piece of paper when he died." She leaned forward. Her pupils dilated slightly. "You see, his dear friend Krishnababu Patel, the physicist died only two weeks ago and when his wife discovered his body in the bath, he was holding a note exactly like this one."
"Ah." I leaned back in my chair. "So you suspect that there is an academic murderer loose in England. Someone with a grudge against both your father and Patel. A former student perhaps?"
"Possibly."
I was silent a moment, considering what I knew about Krishnababu Patel. He was to physics what Prescott was to mathematics, a genius, the best in all the world, and the loss of these two men in such a short period of time was a severe blow to the cause of reason. I leapt to my feet and began to pace back and forth while mentally compiling a list of those who might benefit from the death of the two men. Could it be a spiritualist plot? An academic feud? Was the grudge against one man and the other was killed to obscure the real motives?
Miss Prescott, observing that I was deep in thought, remained silent. No doubt she had learned this valuable habit from living with a genius who was subject the sudden fits of mathematical brilliance. When my speculations were complete I resumed my seat.
"There is more," Miss Prescott added.
"Do tell."
"The police inspector mentioned another death. Do you remember the Russian ballerina who died in Soho two months ago?"
"The great Ivana. Certainly. I was privileged to see her last performance. The press reported that she died of influenza."
"True. What the stories did not mention was that a note just like this one was found by her corpse." Now the cogwheels inside my head were turning madly. Wh at connection did the world's premiere ballerina have with a mathematician and a physicist?"
"Were Ivana and your father acquainted?"
"Not that I know. But I do know that something very strange in going on here, and I wish to hire you to find out what it is."
Needless to say, I accepted the case. It was the strangest I had encountered in some time. All too often of late, the cases which had been offered to me were so transparent as to be almost insulting, and like my brother Mycroft, I could solve nine tenths of them without ever leaving my room. This is not to say that I in any way rival my brother in intellectual facilities. Rather, it is meant as an indication of the mundane nature of these "mysteries." But this case promised to be anything but mundane. A few inquiries were all it took to prove that Miss Prescott was correct. Three people, each world renowned in their fields, had died from what appeared to be natural causes. The only link between them was the fact that each was clutching an identical note which read Death awaits you.
That was as far as my investigation went, until two weeks later I read about the sudden demise of Henry Birdtree, more commonly known as Lucky Hank, the best gambler in the United States and possibly in the world. He had broken the bank not once but twice at Monte Carlo and had been denied admittance to most of the casinos in Europe because of his phenomenal skill at cards. As a result, he had spent the last few years of his life entertaining royalty and aristocrats with his tricks.
The press reported that he had choked an a sandwich in a room full of witnesses. There was no mention of a note, but on a hunch I contacted the Belgian police and discovered that he too was found to be in possession of a prophetic message.
A pattern was beginning to emerge. There was one thing which linked all four victims--- each was the best in the world at what he or she did. But why destroy such great talent? And how could anyone make a man choke on an ordinary sandwich in a room full of witnesses or make a woman contract a fatal case of influenza or give a man a brain hemorrhage? The sudden demise of Big Bart Malloy, a circus performer in Australia touted to be the strongest man in the world and Ling Lao Chin, the renowned poet seemed to confirm my suspicions. But the two men died just hours apart in countries separated by thousands of miles, meaning that if it was murder there must be more than one killer and the conspiracy must be world wide. Could it be the work of my old nemesis Professor Moriarity? Unlikely. He had always had a soft spot in his cold heart for beautiful women and though I am no judge of such things Ivana was commonly held to be one of the most beautiful women in Europe.
My mind was stuck in a rut. There was only thing to do. I resorted to cocaine which, while it can cloud reason with the sudden increase in physical sensation, often leads to flashes of brilliant inspiration. At first all I experienced was the usual mixture of numbing and exhilaration. But after a few restless turns around the room, I stopped before the table where Sir Prescott's note was lying. Tentatively I touched the papyrus. The words, though written in english, seemed to swim together, forming something much like egyptian hieroglyphics. A silly illusion brought on by the coca leaves, I thought at the time. But my heightened senses showed me something more important, something I had missed. Stuck to the back lower corner of the paper, literally embedded in the papyrus was a single coarse black hair.
Microscopic examination revealed that it was canine. So the author of these note had a dog? I could surmise this since the dog or at least its hair was present when the papyrus was pressed. The exact breed was unclear though the strand bore a resemblance to the hair of a certain egyptian dog, long extinct.
Another thread of the tapestry was beginning to unravel. The notes were written by someone with ties to Egypt. No doubt my subconscious already suspected this fact and thus the illusion of hieroglyphics. The black dog was obviously related to Anubis, the egyptian god of the dead. Was the author of these grim messages an egyptologist? If so, he might have access to a mummified dog.
As so often happens in my investigations, this new clue lead to even more questions. I could understand why an ambitious archeologist might want to eliminate his rivals in his own profession, but why would an egyptologist want to kill the men and women who were the best in unrelated fields? Was it a blind? Was the next target to be a rival archeologist?Or could this be the work of a Satanic cult, the deaths contrived in order to placate some angry deity?
This last explanation seemed the most reasonable, but I was still far from the truth. And meanwhile, the greatest minds and talents of the world were being cut down like ripe wheat. It was time to consult my brother, Mycroft.
I found him at his club. He never leaves the premises, and today he was looking even paler than usual. His forehead was covered with beads of sweat and his breathing was fast, as if he had just been climbing steps, though I know for a fact that my brother is extremely lazy and never exerts himself. "I was expecting you," he said. Dr. Watson would have described his speech as "gasping".
Since he always says something of the sort, I did not comment. Instead I launched into a description of the recent suspicious deaths. Mycroft raised one swollen hand, cutting me off in mid sentence. This is something I would not tolerate in any man except him, but my brother is the greatest detective in the world with a mind which makes mine seem like that of a small child.
"I know. I know. Masters of science and art are dropping like flies. And each dead man or woman is found to be in possession of a note. Specifically a note printed on papyrus reading 'Death Awaits you'"
I was honestly surprised. "None of the papers have reported this detail. How did you hear about it?"
He opened his left hand. On his palm was a slip of paper. "I did not read about it. I have seen it."
I snatched the papyrus from his hand. "So you are the next target. We must summon the police. Mount a guard. I will stay with you, of course, since the police are only moderately useful at best. We have him this time---" Again, Mycroft waved his hand. Even this simple gesture appeared to tire him. "Too late. I am dying."
"Dying?" I leapt to my feet. A quick examination of his pupils, breath and pulse revealed no sign of any poison with which I am familiar. "How?" Grimacing, he clutched his chest. "A bad heart. I have known for some time that the end was near. This message confirmed it."
"Confirmed it? How? How could anyone know that you would die of natural causes today?"
He shook his head slightly. Sweat was pouring off his brow now and his skin was as white as death. "Not anyone. Anyone human, I mean. This message is from Death himself. And it is not a threat or a warning. See how it is worded? It is an invitation. Death is inviting me to join him. Perhaps for a party. Just think of it, Sherlock, a dinner party for all the greatest minds and talents in the world. It would be worth dying to attend such an affair."
I was too shocked to say anything for a moment and when I did speak it was to utter one word. "Impossible!"
Though my brother was obviously in pain, he managed to smile a little. "Dear Sherlock, I have told you time and again that you will never be a truly great detective as long as you cling to that notion of yours---how does it go?-- once you rule out the impossible whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. It is the first part that is wrong. Everything is possible, my brother---" He choked.
I rose to my feet. "I will fetch your physician."
He grabbed me by the wrist. "No good. Nothing he can do. Stay with me while I---" It was his last word. With a sigh, he expired.
For days, I went over our last conversation. My brother was obviously confused. The failure of his heart had deprived his brain of blood, leading him to talk nonsense.
Several weeks passed. Though I left no avenue unexplored and went days at a time without sleep, I came no closer to solving this riddle than I had been when Miss Prescott first presented it to me.
But finally, as the spring rains ended and the first daffodils appeared in the cemetery where my brother was buried, I found my answer. A so called "psychic", Madame Deauville, real name Maudie Dunn, died. In her possession was found a list of famous people who had recently expired. It included all those I have previously mentioned plus a few others whose names were unfamiliar to me and ended with Madame Deauville herself. A line had been drawn through each name and a date entered beside the name indicating the date of death.
Madame Deauville was found with a pen in her hand, the ink still fresh. Her last act was to draw a line through her own name and scribble the date---then she died, her death a result of a tumor of the neck with which she had suffered for year but which recently had started to obstruct her airway. In her other hand was a note which said "Death awaits you." A thorough search of her house revealed more important clues. There was a letter from Sir Prescott. Apparently, several weeks before his death. Madame Deauville had written to him, warning him that we would soon die. His response was polite but short. He did not believe in her so called psychic powers.
Nor did I. But I know that a brilliant mind can, through powers of deduction, give the appearance of having supernatural abilities. I have myself been accused of having psychic powers. It should be relatively easy to make predictions about who might die in the near future, especially if one has a network of spies to check on the health of various famous people. And it would be a simple thing to give servants notes inscribed with the words "Death Awaits You" and install them in the households of people who seemed likely to die. Or, if one had sufficient funds, to send spies into hundreds of such households, knowing that time would yield a few deaths and that if the notes were found in the dead men and women's hands this would be seen as "proof" of supernatural forces.
The world, of course, saw things differently. Madame Deauville was proclaimed to be the greatest psychic who ever lived. Her house was turned into a shrine. The papyrus note was declared to be a supernatural message from the next world and was encased in glass and displayed to the gullible who came to gawk.
After Madame Deauville's death, there were no further mysterious notes. While my attempts to identify her assistants were unproductive---the police refused to get involved since they said that it was no crime to predict that a person would die--I was certain that I had found the answer to this most puzzling mystery. Since my dear friend and chronicler Dr. Watson did not return from India until after Madame Deauville's death, I have been forced to take up pen and paper in order to dispel the myths which surround her life and death.
Mycroft's last words still puzzle me. It is hard for me to imagine how even a lack of blood flow to the brain could so diminish his mental faculties. But then, we are flesh and blood creatures and even our minds, which seem so noble, so miraculous, are in the end just biologic machines, subject to the same failures that plague man made machines.
A post script. I have recently decided to follow Dr. Watson's advise and give up my cocaine. I have no concerns about my physical health---I have never been more fit---but the drug is beginning to induce strange hallucinations. Twice, I have imagined that I stood in the periphery of a large room, the walls, floor and ceilings paneled in some kind of black material that seemed to absorb the light. Before me was a long table set with plates of ebony and goblets of obsidian. The delicacies piled high on silver platters included living butterflies, fresh roses and violets, particles of glowing gold, rock crystal that sparkled like diamonds. The stoppered glass flasks contained brightly colored gases rather than liquid.
In each chair sat a human being, but these were the only ordinary creatures to be found in this strange assembly. The servants who served the "food" and "drink" were little more than skeletons, clothed in bits of rag and flesh. The musicians who strummed harps had wings, some reptilian, some insect, some feathered like birds and all wore masks so lifelike that they truly seemed to be humans topped with animal heads---cats, lions, birds, dogs.
Drifting closer, I saw that the host, who sat at the head of the table was clothed from head to toe some kind of gauzy black material that seemed to ooze and shift as if it was a cross between solid matter, liquid and gas. His face was obscured by shadow, but at one point he reached for a goblet of pink smoke and I glimpsed his hand---and it seemed as if my heart stopped beating. Try as I might, I can not remember what his hand looked like, only that it seemed to effect me profoundly.
Hurriedly, I averted my eyes. And there, at the right hand of the host was my brother, Mycroft, looking more fit than I have seen him in years. He was telling a story and the black clad host seemed most interested-- And then, the dream ended. Both times it was exactly the same. Poor Mycroft, if he had known how his strange death fantasy would possess my imagination, he would not have shared it with me. Since I can not risk polluting my mind with images which I can only describe as mad, I must put away my syringe and rely on day to day events to provide me the moments of excitement which my intellect craves. Recording this case has provided a welcome diversion. Maybe I will take up pen in hand again in the near future, if Dr. Watson does not object too strongly to this usurping of his role.
S. Holmes. London.
Bio:I write speculative fiction with elements of fantasy, science fiction and horror.
E-mail: taylorjh@nationwide.net
URL:http://www.nationwide.net/~taylorjh/
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