2
Across the Gulf of Death.
For some utterly silent moments the two men looked steadily at one another.
Watson blinked a few times, but Holmes was as unmoving as a recently deceased man. Except for the light within his eyes, which was bouncing around like a spinning top and dancing like tall flames.
"The writing on the potsherd." John suggested, "Let's have a look at these translations and see if they will match."
He reached once again to lift an item, and again was slapped away by Sherlock's viper-like hand.
"Why aren't I allowed to read?" he grumbled.
His friend sniffed. "Well, I suppose I could let you. Just skip out the boring parts, if you will."
Unrolling the parchment felt a lot more significant than opening an envelope, Watson thought, as he did so. He browsed the words for a moment before beginning. Now it was Sherlock leaning over his shoulder, tapping impatiently with his foot.
"I, Amenartas, of the Royal House of the Pharaohs of Egypt, wife of Kallikrates (the Beautiful in Strength), a Priest of Isis, being about to die, to my little son Tisisthenes (the Mighty Avenger)."
John couldn't see Sherlock's face, but he had stopped breathing, a sure sign that he was tightly clutched in the claws of delighted suspense. He had never felt the thrill of the chase rolling off his partner's body in such strong waves. It was overpowering. It seeped into his own muscles and made them tense and poised for action.
"I fled with thy father from Egypt in the days of Nectanebes, causing him through love to break the vow that he had vowed. We fled southward, across the waters, and we wandered for twice twelve moons on the coast of Libya (Africa) that looks towards the rising sun, where by a river is a great rock carven like the head of an Ethiopian.
"Four days on the water from the mouth of a mighty river were we cast away, and some were drowned and some died of sickness. But wild men took us through wastes and marshes, where the sea fowl hid the sky, bearing us ten days' journey till we came to a hollow mountain, where a great city had been and fallen, and where there are caves of which no man hath seen the end; and they brought us to the Queen of the people who place pots upon the heads of strangers, who is a magician having a knowledge of all things, and life and loveliness that does not die.
"And she cast eyes of love upon thy father, Kallikrates, and would have slain me, and taken him to husband, but he loved me and feared her, and would not. Then did she take us, and lead us by terrible ways, by means of dark magic, to where the great pit is, in the mouth of which the old philosopher lay dead, and showed to us the rolling Pillar of Life that dies not, whereof the voice is as the voice of thunder; and she did stand in the flames, and come forth unharmed, and yet more beautiful.
"Then did she swear to make thy father undying even as she is, if he would but slay me, and give himself to her, for me she could not slay because of the magic of my own people that I have, and that prevailed thus far against her. And he held his hand before his eyes to hide her beauty, and would not.
"Then in her rage did she smite him by her magic, and he died; but she wept over him, and bore him thence with lamentations: and being afraid, me she sent to the mouth of the great river where the ships come, and I was carried far away on the ships where I gave thee birth, and hither to Athens I came at last after many wanderings.
"Now I say to thee, my son, Tisisthenes, seek out the woman, and learn the secret of Life, and if thou mayest find a way slay her, because of thy father Kallikrates; and if thou dost fear or fail, this I say to all of thy seed who come after thee, till at last a brave man be found among them who shall bathe in the fire and sit in the Place of the Pharaohs."
"You could have summarised that into five sentences and saved us a world of time." Sherlock jibed.
"Everything on that potsherd is interesting!"
They both huffed, and turned away from one another.
There was a long pause in which John could positively hear the cogs of Sherlock's efficient brain turning.
"So it is true. Or rather, believed to be true." Sherlock murmured to himself.
"I knew it." John stated, referring to Holmes' keeping of information from him.
"Watson, may I presume that you are currently in the deepest grips of desperate curiosity and awe?"
"I suppose you could say that."
"Good. That's what I'd hoped. Now I can tell you the rest of what I know."
He sat back, folded his hands together and placed his chin upon them, eyeing Watson with a determined gaze that he didn't like one bit.
"Watson. I have been researching."
"Well, of course you have."
"My boys on the street have been poking around for weeks, now. I have studied the papers fervently. Lestrade has been pouring information into my ears almost every day. There is a new stir, Watson. Great things are afoot. I can feel it."
"Could we please skip the dramatics?"
"I told you you would put a damper on my spirits! I told you!" Sherlock cried in earnest angst.
"Just get on with it, then."
"There is a whisper - just a whisper - that Stewardson is on the move towards Africa."
"Stewardson?"
"Oh, Watson, keep up! The most sophisticated leading man of organised crime in London since last year! He owns more than half the brothels in the city. Nobody but myself knows that he was behind our last six major bank robberies. He is gathering money to himself like a queen bee - in other words, through the sheer force of his workers."
"You never told me about this Stewardson. You never tell me about anything until it will gain you the most melodrama."
"I have been keeping an eye on him. Watching him play the game, knowing there was something more behind it all. Waiting to see if he did anything... interesting. And it has finally turned up, my lucky day! He has made a slip-up. Somebody has let his African cat out of the bag, onto the tongues of unreliable men. And now I know what he is up to."
"It's still not very clear to me. Why is he going to Africa?"
"Weren't you reading everything in those letters, Watson? Honestly!"
"The whole matter is entirely confusing. Is this about that undying fire or whatever it is?"
"Ahem. There is another whisper, Watson -"
"I thought you said there was only one whisper."
"I said just a whisper, I didn't restrict it to a singular. There is another whisper, and the whisper is made of four words. The Spirit of Life."
"What?"
"It all says here, in this preposterous message! Life exists; why therefore should not the means of preserving it indefinitely exist also? I tell you, Watson, this legacy of fathers and sons that we hold here in our hands is encouragement of a wild old tale about the discovery of eternal life. Of immortality. And it is this that Stewardson is after."
"How did he find out about the Spirit of Life if we have the casket with all of its information inside?"
"Howard Vincey. The man who owned this casket. Or rather, the father of the man who gave me the casket. Family heirloom and all that. Stewardson learned of the Spirit of Life through word of mouth, my dear Watson, and through pure accident, mostly. It wasn't easy to discover where he had gotten his information from. At that time, before I had obtained the casket, I had never even heard of the name Vincey. But I listened very hard, and I read a lot, and I asked around even more. And with the whispers about Africa and Spirits, the name came seeping through, just once, and it was all I needed."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I immediately located the current Vincey's household and paid him a friendly visit. I pretended to be a distant cousin, if you must know. I pulled it off. He was sick as a dog, on his deathbed even, so I feigned preliminary concern for my long lost relative, his illness being the reason I had turned up. I think he was delusional with pain and general unwellness, so he bought it easily."
"Holmes. You went in search of a dying man to collect evidence about the whispers of a criminal?"
"I didn't know he was dying." Sherlock bit back haughtily, "Anyway, I managed to get him to talk, by deftly winding a weave of suggestion into the conversation. He mentioned the iron box once or twice, and then blurted out that his family's legacy was in jeapoardy. His father before him had once let slip, on a night of drunken enchantment, the story of the Vinceys' biggest secret to a friend called Stewardson. Aha! I thought, here we have our man, and his motives."
John tsked, but Holmes ignored him.
"Then, of course, the fellow started blabbering on about a son, and how the iron box must be delivered to him, and since I was a long lost and trustworthy cousin, he begged me to take it to Horace Holly, as he feared he would be dead very soon, and he didn't think he could make the journey."
"How awful for the poor fellow."
"He was rather raving mad. He wouldn't tell me the contents of the chest, forbade me to open it, but pleaded that I take it to its new, rightful owner as quickly as possible."
"So you brought it straight here to open."
"I brought it here for safekeeping. You were the one who decided to open it."
"Was not!"
"Well anyway, here it is all opened, and now we know why Stewardson is heading for Africa, and likely why he turned criminal in the first place - to fund this amazing adventure and attain eternal life in the most elaborate style. Whilst betraying an old friend, and his friend's son. The fiend has been working his way up the law-breakers' ladder ever since, reaching a peak of lordship over all crime just this year.
The only thing that remains uncertain - that Vincey himself did not know - is whether his father showed Stewardson the actual contents of this casket. If he did, we shall be at a distinct disadvantage. Or at least, we won't have an advantage. Which is the same thing."
"What do you mean, disadvantage? How are we even going to try to prevent Stewardson from setting sail? And - even if there is a rumour about this Spirit of Life - why would we chase a criminal who is idiotic enough to pursue it? It is complete balderdash and you know it. He will come back from Africa empty handed, and we shall catch him then. If he comes back from that awful place at all."
"My dear, dear Watson! We cannot prevent Stewardson from setting sail. He is already leaving, this minute. And I propose that I would rather prove this 'balderdash' as balderdash with my own eyes, than wait around for a master of crime to come home a potential immortal. Can you imagine the difficulties an immortal and malicious genius could create for us?"
"But Holmes, there is no such thing as magic, let alone magic that could do this."
"Who says that it is magic? Life exists; why therefore should not the means of preserving it indefinitely exist also?" he quoted once again, "I can conjure things using outlandish scientific experiments that you could not dream up in your wildest nightmares. New science, Watson. The age is racing ahead of us into the possibilities of the future. Who knows that the future is not bearing down upon us from ahead, impatient to engulf us in its horrors? If there is a scientific method of Nature whereby the human anatomy may be frozen in its age, then I shall be the one to discover it. No, don't look at me like that. You know that I think it is ridiculous too, but you know me too well to think that I could pass it up."
He was right. The manic idea had possessed him. It was already a part of him, gnawing away at his insides, hungry for more knowledge, for discovery and conclusion. John could see it working like the mechanisms of a great genius-machine behind those dark hazel eyes of his.
The greatest mystery in the world. It certainly sounded so.
"Holmes." he said, in a very resigned voice, "Are you trying to tell me that we are going to go to Africa?"
"Watson, don't interrupt when I am about to make an important statement." he snapped, evidently appalled by John's utter lack of artistic taste for suspense.
He picked up the pot sherd of ancient writing, tossed it in one hand for a moment, then placed every item very quickly and carefully into the casket, and then put the casket back into the ebony case, and the case back into the iron box.
He shut the lid with a resounding clang, and an air of great importance and determination.
Then he finally turned to John.
"Watson." he said, with that great smirk on his face that meant John was going to be in a lot of danger within a very short space of time, "We are going to Africa."