Adventure of the Egyptian Treasures, The

Muse, Jan 2005 by Bennett, Mark

It was a chilly morning in the December of 1895. Sherlock Holmes and I were breakfasting together in our rooms in Baker Street. Two weeks had passed since my friend had triumphed in the affair of the Bruce-Partington submarine plans, a case which earned him praise from the very highest levels of government, and an emerald tiepin from Queen Victoria herself.

After this intense but invigorating effort, it was disagreeable to fall into idleness-but Holmes could find no work worthy of his abilities. For a third morning I was engaged in leafing through the Times in an attempt to find details of some new crime that might engage his keen mind.

"Baffling business here, Holmes," said I. "The disappearance of Mr. Herbert Wells."

"Commonplace, Watson, commonplace," said Sherlock Holmes.

"Twelve people drowned at Grimsby. Fisherman arrested. Dreadful."

"A boating accident, nothing more."

"I say, what about this then, old fellow?" I asked, handing the newspaper across the table. "Theft of Egyptian treasures from British Museum. Scotland Yard puzzled."

"Some points of interest perhaps, Watson. Our old friend Lestrade is in charge of the case, which may explain the puzzlement. Indeed, I am expecting a tap on the door at any moment."

At that moment there was a tap on the door, and Mrs. Hudson entered to announce Inspector Lestrade.

"Come in, Lestrade," chuckled Sherlock Holmes, waving the puzzled-looking policeman toward a chair. "How is the British Museum?"

Lestrade fumbled with the brim of his hat as he sat down.

"It is a mystery, Mr. Holmes," he murmured.

"I hope it is, or you and I would have nothing to keep us busy," Holmes smiled. "If I can be of any assistance then be so kind as to give me the facts. It is always a mistake to theorize without the facts."

Lestrade gave us a sketch of events. The fabulous gold and jewels from the tomb of King Horemhotep, one of the Museum's most famous exhibits, had been plundered. The building was closed for the night. The guard was sleeping, locked in the Egyptian Room. No sign of the thief's entry or exit had been found. The only clues Lestrade had discovered were a third-class ticket for the underground railway, a strand of gray hair, a cigar end, a used match, and a half-burned envelope bearing a stamp. Lestrade produced these items from his overcoat pocket; Sherlock Holmes and I examined them.

"What do you make of them, Holmes?" I asked.

"The train ticket interests me," said Holmes. "It is marked Rotherhithe to Russell Square. An underground railway tunnel passes directly beneath the British Museum. I would be very surprised if the thief did not enter from below."

Holmes looked at the cigar end through his magnifying lens. Then he sniffed at it.

"This has been chewed," he said, "by a man with very few teeth and a liking for spicy food and quantities of gin. The match was clearly used to light the cigar, which is of a cheap type smoked by sailors. Our thief has been a sailor in the Orient-he likes spicy Oriental food. His lack of teeth and the gray hair tell me he is probably middle-aged. The cigar has been extinguished not by any boot, but by the iron tip of a wooden leg. Evidently, our one-legged, middle-aged sailor-thief traveled from Rotherhithe, where the docks are, to Russell Square, near the British Museum."

"What about the envelope, Mr. Holmes?" asked Lestrade, looking up from his notebook.

"The envelope is postmarked Edinburgh, one week ago. Most of the address has been burned, but we can still read that it was sent to a fellow named Le Bone. I suggest, Lestrade, that we limit our search to a toothless, middle-aged, one-legged sailor called Le Bone, living in Rotherhithe."

"Amazing!" I cried.

"Elementary," said he.

At that moment, our Baker Street sitting room began to throb with the noise of a thousand steam engines. The gas lamps flickered, the curtains fluttered, and the coals in the fireplace glowed with a fierce white heat.

Gradually, on the bearskin hearth rug before the fireplace, the shape of a massive machine materialized from nowhere, its polished metal workings glimmering in the light of the gas lamps above.

Holmes and I watched, enthralled, as the machine came to rest in our sitting room. In its midst sat a pale young man, who looked around himself cautiously as his contraption came to a standstill.

Lestrade stepped forward. "Now then, what is this?" he said.

The young man stood up from his seat.

"I am Herbert Wells," he said.

"The fellow who disappeared!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, here I am, H. G. Wells," said Wells. "This is my time machine. I have been traveling backward and forward to solve the theft at the British Museum."

"You need not have bothered, Mr. Wells," said Sherlock Holmes calmly, lighting his pipe. "We are aware of the culprit, a toothless, middle-aged, one-legged sailor from Rotherhithe by the name of Le Bone. An hour or two and the villain will be under lock and key, never fear."

"Nonsense, Mr. Holmes," replied Wells. "I return from the year 2005, where I have obtained the latest scientific advice on this case. Ten years from now, identifying a criminal by his unique fingerprints will be common practice."