“I’m no psychiatrist, but Professor Shawcross is clearly suffering from some form of megalomania.”
“Yet his friends and colleagues at the British Museum said he was right as rain, right up until he went off the rails that is,” Baynes replied.
“So they say,” added Holmes. He was slumped in the corner, cocooned in his overcoat and scarf.
“Academics close ranks like any other senior profession, to preserve the solemn sanctity of their trade, yet something pushed Professor Shawcross over the edge just as surely as something else drove Peter Allenby into that marsh.”
“You don’t think it was an accident?” I said.
“The young man knew his occupation. He also knew the area and would mostly likely know the condition of the soil. I doubt he would simply wander blindly into the marsh.”
“So, we’re still none the wiser?”
“Not quite; there’s one thing we’re certain of.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“That there’s more to know,” Holmes said.
In Mrs Hudson’s absence 221B Baker Street was dark and cold. We remained swaddled in our coats as I set a fire in the grate and we gradually thawed out. Hot brandies were the order of the day, and this time the inspector did not refuse. Holmes was more animated than he had been on the train, pacing the room, before pausing periodically to rap on the floor with the tip of his cane.
“Holmes is that din really necessary?”
“I don’t know yet,” was his cryptic reply.
“You think it’s still here, don’t you?” rumbled Baynes. “Under the floorboards, perhaps?”
“So that’s why all the tapping,” I said. “You did the same thing in the case of the Red-Headed League when you detected the tunnel to the bank under the street!”
“The flute was never committed to evidence when Professor Shawcross was arrested, and it would go against his very nature, however deranged, to simply discard it.”
“Or it may never have existed at all,” I suggested. “There were only two witnesses to have seen it. One is dead and the other mad.”
“That is also a possibility, thank you, Doctor.”
“Also, if it were here don’t you think we would have found it by now?”
“Only if we knew to look for something concealed, which we did not until today.”
“Good lord, I think I’ve fathomed it!” Baynes sat forward and put his brandy on the table.
“Inspector?”
“I know where the flute is! The professor told us himself: ‘As it was below, so it is now above’. It was buried before, concealed below ground. But these rooms are above ground, so where would you bury it?”
“Beneath the floorboards?” I offered.
“A valid suggestion Doctor, but too obvious. The key is the second part: ‘It lies in Hell with an eye on Heaven’. Fire and the sky. Where do we find both in here?”
Holmes clapped his hands with a loud report. “Hah! A fireplace! A chimney!”
“A chimney indeed. The fire is a metaphor for Hell, and the eye on Heaven is the top of the chimney stack.”
“Might I suggest we check the other rooms first?” I said. “There are no fires lit in them and I am loathe to douse this one and return to our frozen state simply on a speculation. If the flute is there, it has waited ten years to be discovered. A few more hours will make little difference.”
“Duly noted. You are indeed on fine form today, Watson.”
I debated whether to feel praised or patronised and chose the former as the less contentious option.
We began in Holmes’s room. Baynes stayed in the sitting room by the fire, his health not inclining him to such exertion. Holmes knelt beside the cold grate and commenced tapping a half crown on the brick lining of the chimney.
“We are indebted to Mrs Hudson for having the chimneys swept only last week,” he said. “It at least gives us a clean field of play.” Each knock was met with a dense, dull response, all bar one. “There’s a void behind here.” Holmes tapped again to be sure. “Yes, definitely. I need tools.”
Moments later he was gingerly scraping away the crumbling mortar before finally easing the brick free. “There’s something inside,” he whispered. He reached in and gently withdrew a man’s shirt, bundled and filthy. Rolled within was a fold of ancient deerskin, and inside that lay the flute. A miasma of soot and fine dust drifted up from it that had me coughing.
There was no mistaking it as anything but a human tibia that had been skilfully shaped and polished with eight holes drilled along its length. As the professor had noted, it was decorated with scenes and symbols I will not utter here.
Holmes sat back on the floor, admiring the relic.
“We have it, Watson. We have it!”
The fire had done its work and the sitting room was like an oven. So much so I was obliged to loosen my collar. Between it and the brandy, I was feeling uncommonly warm.
The inspector, an empty glass before him, had also succumbed. He had keeled sideways in the armchair and was snoring robustly. I moved to wake him.
“Let him rest, Watson,” said Holmes. “The fellow has done immense service today. He’s more than earned a moment of repose.” He laid the flute on the dining table. “I’ll warrant that this is your grain of truth behind the professor’s story.”
“How so?”
“You know my methods of analysis. They are based on data and observation. Yet to some they seem miraculous. Likewise, if you took the science of today back two hundred years it would appear to be magic.”
“Or witchcraft?”
“Precisely! Not consorting with dark forces, but a combination of stage magic and ancient herbal healing all wrapped in a theatrical mystique. Now imagine a figure clad as death itself walking ahead of the king’s army. Would that not put fear in the enemy?”
I rubbed my temples with my fingertips. My head did not so much ache as throb. A deep roaring pounded in my ears. I could hear my heartbeat booming like a kettledrum.
“The illusion would only last as long as it took to skewer the mummer with an arrow,” I pointed out.
“But what if the Danes had been subject to some form of hallucinogenic? Say, a powder burnt in a firebrand? That is why the king’s men were told to avert their faces, in order to avoid breathing it in! Mystics of the time often partook of hallucinogen mushrooms to expand their consciousness.”
I could barely hear Holmes now, the agonising thrumming in my head drowning out all other sound. I clawed at my collar, my body burning from within. Everything was too bright. Daggers of light seared my eyes. I pushed the heel of my hands into them, but it did no good.
“Watson!”
I heard a faint, familiar voice, distant and echoing.
“Watson, you’re too close to the fire! The fire!”
“FIRE!”
I looked up to see Sergeant Green barking orders to the riflemen at his side, followed by a gusto volley that cut down the screaming ranks of oncoming Afridi warriors.
I lay slumped against a dead horse, my shoulder coursing blood. There were no hands to help me; all were set fighting the foe. I clamped my palm against the wound, blood pulsing between my fingers.
I felt lightheaded, adrift, my soul detaching from the anchor of my body. I looked out over the bodies of my brothers in arms, the 66th Berkshires, red on red in the Afghan soil. Soon we would all come to dust, far from home and forgotten.
Something caught my eye – a black flag fluttering over the field. No, not a flag, a form, a figure! It had a human shape but was featureless, as smooth as oil, like a sheet draped over a cadaver. The vague geography of a body, but that was all. It drifted idly over the fallen, the tips of its toes lightly brushing their bodies as it passed. Raised to its lips was the flute, although I heard no tune above the din of war. Perhaps that was its music?