Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are searching for the fifth Earl of Convarran who disappeared after returning to England following a disastrous excavation at the Black Pyramid in Dashoor, Egypt. During his investigation, Holmes discovers his clients are concealing a deadly secret, a secret that entangles him and Watson in a conspiracy that threatens all their lives. At the heart of the mystery are two ancient artifacts. Relentlessly pursued by cultists, collectors, and the British government, the artefacts are the key to finding the Earl. As Holmes unravels clue after clue, he is convinced that they all point to a single man. A powerful, dangerous man whom Holmes must confront and defeat if he is to find the Earl and save his clients.
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are searching for the fifth Earl of Convarran who disappeared after returning to England following a disastrous excavation at the Black Pyramid in Dashoor, Egypt. During his investigation, Holmes discovers his clients are concealing a deadly secret, a secret that entangles him and Watson in a conspiracy that threatens all their lives. At the heart of the mystery are two ancient artifacts. Relentlessly pursued by cultists, collectors, and the British government, the artefacts are the key to finding the Earl. As Holmes unravels clue after clue, he is convinced that they all point to a single man. A powerful, dangerous man whom Holmes must confront and defeat if he is to find the Earl and save his clients.
We were a fortnight into December of 1890. The weather, increasingly cold, turned bitter overnight. I awoke to a howling wind flinging icy pellets against the rattling windowpanes, and a profound ache in my leg, the result of a wound I suffered during the Second Anglo-Afghan war. After partaking of one of Mrs. Hudson’s bracing winter breakfasts, I put my feet up on the fender hoping to pass a restorative morning reading by the fire.
“Have you seen this, Holmes?” I exclaimed, holding up The Times. “Sir Roger Trumbull has been murdered. His hands were cut off and carried away by the killer!”
“A member of the Henry expedition, I believe,” Holmes replied.
“What?”
“Sir Roger was an Egyptologist with the British Museum was he not?”
“Oh, yes. Quite right.”
The mysteries of ancient Egypt, a topic of conversation from the meanest hovels of the working class to the grandest drawing rooms of the elite, enthralled the public. Even Holmes was not immune.
My friend rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming with expectation. “Mayhap, Watson, Sir Roger’s death will bring some work my way and dispel this boredom that afflicts me. It is just the type of affair that utterly confounds the police.”
“The vulgar press is connecting it to Lord Convarran’s disappearance and putting it down to a pharaoh’s curse.”
“Of course, they are, Watson. That is what the indiscriminate public craves.”
“Well, you know, Holmes …”
“Kindly refrain from defending them, Watson.” He fixed me with his steely grey eyes. “It is the sort of device you employ in your little stories of my deductions, playing upon the appeal of the fantastic rather than the facts.”
“Really, Holmes, your critique is unfair!”
“Humph!” He raised his newspaper and would say no more.
As the day wore on, Holmes shuttled between his desk and his chemistry table, clipping crime reports, perusing his correspondence, dispatching replies, and puttering about with his experiments. Periodically, he went to the window and gazed down into the street.
“Surely, Holmes, you’re not expecting a client in this weather?”
“On the contrary, Watson, their coach approaches as we speak.”
My curiosity getting the better of me, I bestirred myself and joined him at the window. A private coach, a heraldic seal emblazoned on its side, pulled by four black horses, slid to a stop in the snow-filled street. A liveried coachman jumped down and crossed the pavement to our door. The bell clanged followed by the quick tread of Billy, our pageboy, hurrying to answer the summons, with Mrs. Hudson’s slower step coming along after him. Within seconds came a clatter on the stairs. Holmes, already at our door, opened it to a beaming Billy who, pulling himself up to his full height, thrust a silver salver at him with a calling card upon it.
“A lord and lady to see you, Mr. Holmes!” he cried.
Holmes glanced at the card. A smile flickered upon his lips. “Pray show our distinguished visitors the way up.”
“Straight away, Mr. Holmes!” said the lad and was off again like a shot.
I turned back to the window. The driver let down the coach’s step and opened the door for his passengers. A man emerged, and then turned to help a woman. I could tell they were young – I reckoned not more than twenty years of age. Both were dressed from head to toe in black. When the lady had gained her footing in the icy track, the two men took up positions on either side of her and so they made their way into the house. We soon heard footsteps ascending the stairs and Billy reappeared to announce our guests.
“Lord Silverpin and the Honorable Vivienne Henry,” he said. With a flourish, he ushered them inside.
Lord Silverpin and Lady Vivienne were quite striking. They wore long coats and kubankas, Russian-style hats of Astrakhan fur. Their kid gloves were trimmed with the same fur, and both carried ebony walking sticks topped with gold.
“Lord Silverpin, Lady Vivienne, come, warm yourselves by the fire,” said Holmes.
Our guests removed their coats and hats and, along with their sticks, handed them off to Mrs. Hudson who hung them on the coat stand beside our door.
Lord Silverpin addressed Holmes. “The weather is fierce, and we do not wish to keep our man waiting. However, our narrative will take some time to relate. Would you be so kind as to provide our coachman with a hot beverage?”
“Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes cried.
“Certainly, your Lordship, he shall have it right away,” she replied.
While this exchange transpired, Billy stood, mouth agape, goggling at our visitors. I can’t say I blamed him for a handsomer couple I have never seen. The young lord was tall, but not exceptionally so. His raven hair, grown long, was tied at the back with a ribbon. His features were delicate yet regal, as were Lady Vivienne’s. And she, the most perfect specimen of femininity I have ever encountered. From her intricately piled tresses, as black as his and pricked with jewels, to her dainty booted feet, she exuded a heady demeanor that captivated my every sense. Yet, it was their eyes that struck me most, green as emeralds, intelligent, and probing. Lady Vivienne extended her tiny, gloved hand. Startled, as Holmes had yet to introduce us, I received her hand gently and kissed it, perhaps lingering a bit overlong, transfixed by an unusual, seductive scent that for a moment rendered me quite giddy.
Mrs. Hudson coughed, breaking my trance. As I relinquished the lady’s hand and stepped back, our housekeeper curtsied, nudging Billy, who bobbed a bow. The two of them then hustled off to see about the coachman.
“Now then,” said Holmes, eyeing me with what I perceived as mild amusement. “Allow me to introduce my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. You may speak freely in his presence.”
After formally acknowledging our guests, I fetched two more chairs and placed them near the fire.
“May I offer you a sherry?” Holmes inquired.
“That would be most welcome,” said Lady Vivienne. “We are chilled to the bone.”
“You are fraternal twins, are you not?” Holmes asked nonchalantly as he poured four glasses of our best sherry. “In fact, you’ve devoted some effort to accentuating your similarities.”
Lord Silverpin’s eyes narrowed as he gave Holmes a shrewd look. “Indeed, you are correct, Mr. Holmes.”
“I beg your pardon; I meant no offense. It is interesting though, that rather than seek differentiation, you seek a greater resemblance to one another.”
“We have always felt as though we were one person divided into two,” Lady Vivienne said.
“Of course,” murmured Holmes. “The sensation of separation where it is perceived there should be none. Fascinating.”
Fearing Holmes’s insatiable curiosity had intruded on too private a matter, I suggested we take our seats. After we had settled by the fire, I endeavored to engage our guests in a bit of light conversation.
Holmes, undeterred by his social gaffe, interrupted my postulations about the weather to inquire, “How may I serve you, your Lordship?”
“Your pardon, Dr. Watson,” Lord Silverpin said as he turned away from me and addressed my friend. “Our father, Robert Henry, the fifth Earl of Convarran, has been missing for more than two months and as yet no trace of him has been found. The police are baffled, and we are at our wits’ end.”
“I have no doubt of that,” Holmes replied. “I have followed the story in the papers with some interest. I take it there has been no communication, no ransom demand, no ultimatum, no other requests?”
“None,” said Lady Vivienne.
“Pray, tell me, what were the circumstances of your father’s disappearance? Include all the details, even those that seem of no consequence. Leave nothing out.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and rested his hands upon his breast as if in contemplation.
Our guests looked to me. “His posture is Holmes’s way of focusing on your every word,” I reassured them.
“Just so,” said he. “Pray begin.”
“Very well,” said Lord Silverpin. “As you may also know from the papers, our father is an amateur archaeologist with a keen interest in Egyptology. His last expedition was to Dahshoor where he and three associates, Sir Roger Trumbull, Professor J. Ambrose Emm, and the great adventurer, Mr. Cedric Matheson, conducted excavations on the Black Pyramid and the surrounding necropolis. They stayed little more than a month before abandoning the site and returning home. Then on the thirteenth of October, our father retired to his study to complete preparations for an exhibition at the Egyptian Hall. We saw no more of him that evening. That is not unusual for he often works late into the night. The following day, he did not appear for breakfast. This also is not unusual. He often goes to his bed in the early hours of the morning, sometimes not at all, but naps upon the divan in his study.”
At this point, Lady Vivienne took up the story.
“We were first concerned when he failed to appear by mid-morning to leave for London. I went to his bedchamber and found it unoccupied. I then went to his study. The door was locked, as is his habit when he does not wish to be disturbed, and though I knocked and called, he did not answer.”
“We then consulted our butler and our housekeeper. Neither had received any communication from him. Father’s valet told us he had not seen him since the evening before when he dressed him for dinner. The following morning, when he went to Father’s bed chamber to prepare his toilette, he found the room empty and the bed unused.”
Holmes looked up. “Did none of these servants go to your father’s study to see if he required anything?”
“No, Mr. Holmes. Our father forbade the servants to enter his study or otherwise disturb him on pain of immediate dismissal.”
“Has this always been so?” Holmes asked.
“No, he issued this directive after his return from Egypt.”
Holmes nodded. “Go on,” he said.
“Our coachman was to drive the exhibition crates to Whitchurch Station and supervise loading them onto our private train, then return for father and his valet, as they intended to accompany the crates to London. On arrival at Paddington, the crates would be sent on to the Egyptian Hall. Father would then go on to our house in Mayfair where he planned to stay until after the exhibition. Staunton confirmed he had transported the crates and father, but at a much earlier hour than scheduled. When questioned, he stated father wished to make an early start and because he would be in London only a short time, he did not require his valet. A footman at our Mayfair house would suffice for his few needs.”
“Why did your coachman not inform you of this change in plans immediately?” Holmes asked.
“It did not occur to him,” Lord Silverpin replied. “He assumed our father had already done so. We did not realize father was missing until the staff at Mayfair telegraphed to say he had not appeared on the appointed day. It was then we contacted the police.”
“What of the crates?” asked Holmes. “Could the contents have been the object of thieves? As I’m sure you are aware, there is a brisk trade in antiquities here at home as well as in Egypt.”
“The crates were delivered to the Egyptian Hall,” said Lady Vivienne. “They contained a mummy and assorted funerary objects from the tombs of various nobles. They contained nothing from royal burials or of great monetary value. We provided the police with a list of the contents.”
“Who delivered them?” asked Holmes.
“Presumably, a carter hired at Paddington.”
Adjusting his position and crossing his long legs, Holmes asked, “What conclusion have the police drawn?”
“That is why we have come to you, Mr. Holmes. The police have it all wrong.”
“Have they,” said Holmes. “I shouldn’t wonder. Pray, elucidate.”
“At first, the police believed the culprits to be Egyptian radicals who wish to keep foreign fortune-hunters out of Egypt. There have been threats in the past. However, due to a lack of evidence, they began to believe a rumor started by a member of the Egypt Exploration Fund who insinuated that our father’s disappearance was a deception and that he would reappear at the mummy unwrapping exhibition at the Egyptian Hall where he intended to attract investors for his next expedition.”
“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “Mummy unwrapping! Are you serious?”
“Quite serious, I’m afraid, Dr. Watson. Unfortunately, such events are still en vogue.”
“I perceive,” Holmes said, “that you do not approve of such entertainments.”
“You are correct, Mr. Holmes. The tide is beginning to turn away from exploitation, but as with any great change, progress is painfully slow.”
“Did your father appear?” Holmes asked.
“There was no performance, Mr. Holmes. We cancelled it immediately.”
“I don’t mean to be indelicate,” said Holmes, “but I must ask: Is your father given to such machinations?”
With some reluctance, Lord Silverpin replied, “He has always had a penchant for the theatrical. Pharaoh’s curses and other macabre goings-on when bandied about in the daily papers ensure a good turn out and promises of authentic artifacts for personal collections attract investors.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “However, in this case, you do not believe your father concocted this ballyhoo?”
“We do not,” said Lady Vivienne, her voice tremulous with emotion. “He enjoys costumes, drama, and illusions, but he would not condescend to such vulgar deception.”
“What of the other members of the expedition? What light can they shed upon your father’s disappearance?” asked Holmes.
“The police have not been able to speak with Professor Emm. His servants say he is away on business,” said Lord Silverpin.
“What?” said Holmes rising from his chair. “All this time? Where has the man gone?”
“The servants claim they do not know.”
Holmes retrieved the sherry from the sideboard and refilled our glasses before returning to his seat.
“What of Matheson?”
“Mr. Matheson did not return home with the expedition. He went on to India to join a hunting party. He remained there and has only just heard of our father’s disappearance. He is now en route to England.”
“And poor Sir Roger,” said Lady Vivienne, “In the past, he and the museum had been the recipient of threats from radicals demanding the return of artifacts they claimed were stolen by excavators. And that is not all, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you saw in today’s papers, Sir Roger was killed in a most grotesque way.”
A tremor shook her whole body. Lord Silverpin placed a comforting hand on her arm.
“Yes,” said Holmes. “And you fear a similar fate may have befallen your father.”
“We do, Mr. Holmes. After our father’s disappearance, we found an unusual scarab on the floor in his study. We did not associate it with his disappearance at the time. However, Inspector Lestrade discovered a scarab of the same kind on Sir Roger’s body.”
Holmes leaned forward in his chair. “Where are these scarabs now?”
“With the police,” said Lord Silverpin.
“Scotland Yard has certainly made a hash of it,” Holmes muttered. “Tell me, are there other persons who bear animosity, personal or professional, toward your father?”
Lord Silverpin drew in a long breath. “There are fierce rivalries for the best concessions and investors to be sure, but these men are gentlemen and scholars.”
“Yet treasure is the object, is it not? Gentlemen and scholars they may be, but they all yearn for gold.”
Lord Silverpin’s cheeks flushed, and his lips settled into a hard line. “Of course, one dreams of discovering an undisturbed royal tomb with all its riches intact. What archaeologist does not?”
This time it was Lady Vivienne who placed a calming hand on her brother’s arm.
“What can you tell me about your father’s last expedition?” Holmes asked. “You said it ended prematurely. Why was that?”
“To be honest, we know surprisingly little about it,” Lady Vivienne said. “Our father rarely spoke of it, and we did not press him as doing so caused him to become quite agitated. Perhaps there was a disagreement about methods or trouble with the hired workers or difficulties with the Service des Antiquities. Dahshoor is a sought-after concession, certainly not one to be abandoned without due course.”
Holmes nodded. “You have given me little to start with, but I believe I may be able to penetrate the matter.”
“You will help us then?” Lord Silverpin exclaimed.
A smile flickered across Holmes’s lips. “Yes, your Lordship, I will endeavor to find your father. The situation has some intriguing features.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said Lady Vivienne gracing my friend with a warm smile.
After bundling up against the cold once again, Lord Silverpin and Lady Vivienne bid us adieu. Holmes and I escorted our guests to the door.
“I would like to examine your father’s study and your house and grounds,” said Holmes.
Lord Silverpin gave Holmes a quizzical look. “But our father disappeared in London, Mr. Holmes. Will you not begin your search here?”
“His study is the last place your father was seen. I will begin my inquiries there,” said Holmes.
“Very well,” said Lord Silverpin. “We are returning to Highmount House today. Telegraph your schedule and we shall have a coach waiting for you.”
“Excellent,” said Holmes. “There is one other matter.”
“Your fee, of course,” said Lord Silverpin. “Be not concerned. Money is no object. Whatever the amount, it shall be paid.”
“I have no doubt of it; that is not the matter. Rather, how it is that you came to consult me?”
“It was upon your brother’s recommendation.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. He bowed. “I bid you both good day. We shall call upon you on the morrow.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of The Black Pharaoh by MX Publishing is a gripping, macabre story that’s moderately shocking in places. Connecting Dahshoor, Egypt (a UNESCO World Heritage site, and home to the famed ancient Egyptian pyramids and necropolises) and the London metropolis, it follows an abandoned archaeological dig by Sir Henry, the fifth Earl of Convarran and three of his English associates at Dahshoor, their return to London carrying some forbidden charmed artifacts and objects belonging to the ancient Egyptian monarchy (at rest inside the pyramids) and their gods, and the fatal consequences these men suffer in England when the evil, supernatural powers associated with these artifacts take brutal revenge against the purloiners.
Well worth reading as a fine Sherlock Holmes story, it distinguishes itself from the slew of current Holmesian pastiches in the following ways:
—First, in this story, Holmes, with his high scientific and logical inclinations is forced to confront the occult world (which he would not normally associate with as a detective).
—Second, it portrays a Holmes who isn’t infallible (though he comes out victorious in the end), as a couple of his initial plans fail, resulting in severe hurt to his ego and confidence, once driving him to take refuge in cocaine.
—Third, at one point, Dr. Watson, infuriated by the discovery of a questionably unethical act of Holmes that was kept secret from him, stomps out of 221 B, Baker Street, threatening to end their relationship forever!
—Fourth, the occult backdrop and the invocation of demonic powers by Holmes’ enemies have a mind-bending effect on him. This staunch student of rationality is forced to acknowledge that unknown evil powers indeed exist, after supernatural encounters in which Holmes is attacked and tormented by them.
—Finally, we are exposed to mental anguish of an unbearable degree. In two highly disturbing sequences, characters under hypnosis (cast by the enemies) unintentionally shoot their own friends/associates—acts they would NEVER commit if in proper control of their minds. The resulting guilt is crushing and destructive, highlighting the horror of one's forced actions under submission to dark, external forces.
There’s a lot more to the book that makes it interesting and gripping. It has considerable depth and a mystery-ridden, complex plot that's worth solving by the nonpareil Sherlock Holmes. However, to avoid writing spoilers, let me stop short here and leave it to the reader to discover by reading themselves!
Except for one small language error, the book is clean and error-free. Readability is excellent. There being no shortcomings standing in the way, I assign the book a full 5-star rating.
My recommendation to Sherlock Holmes fans is “Go ahead, buy, and read this book with confidence! It's definitely worth the buck.”