The Finding of the Lamps
Sergeant Daw at first made some demur; but finally agreed to advise
privately on a matter which might be suggested to him. He added that I
was to remember that he only undertook to advise; for if action were
required he might have to refer the matter to headquarters. With this
understanding I left him in the study, and brought Miss Trelawny and
Mr. Corbeck to him. Nurse Kennedy resumed her place at the bedside
before we left the room.
I could not but admire the cautious, cool-headed precision with which
the traveller stated his case. He did not seem to conceal anything,
and yet he gave the least possible description of the objects missing.
He did not enlarge on the mystery of the case; he seemed to look on it
as an ordinary hotel theft. Knowing, as I did, that his one object was
to recover the articles before their identity could be obliterated, I
could see the rare intellectual skill with which he gave the necessary
matter and held back all else, though without seeming to do so.
“Truly,” thought I, “this man has learned the lesson of the Eastern
bazaars; and with Western intellect has improved upon his masters!” He
quite conveyed his idea to the Detective, who, after thinking the
matter over for a few moments, said:
“Pot or scale? that is the question.”
“What does that mean?” asked the other, keenly alert.
“An old thieves’ phrase from Birmingham. I thought that in these days
of slang everyone knew that. In old times at Brum, which had a lot of
small metal industries, the gold- and silver-smiths used to buy metal
from almost anyone who came along. And as metal in small quantities
could generally be had cheap when they didn’t ask where it came from,
it got to be a custom to ask only one thing—whether the customer
wanted the goods melted, in which case the buyer made the price, and
the melting-pot was always on the fire. If it was to be preserved in
its present state at the buyer’s option, it went into the scale and
fetched standard price for old metal.
“There is a good deal of such work done still, and in other places than
Brum. When we’re looking for stolen watches we often come across the
works, and it’s not possible to identify wheels and springs out of a
heap; but it’s not often that we come across cases that are wanted.
Now, in the present instance much will depend on whether the thief is a
good man—that’s what they call a man who knows his work. A
first-class crook will know whether a thing is of more value than
merely the metal in it; and in such case he would put it with someone
who could place it later on—in America or France, perhaps. By the
way, do you think anyone but yourself could identify your lamps?”
“No one but myself!”
“Are there others like them?”
“Not that I know of,” answered Mr. Corbeck; “though there may be others
that resemble them in many particulars.” The Detective paused before
asking again: “Would any other skilled person—at the British Museum,
for instance, or a dealer, or a collector like Mr. Trelawny, know the
value—the artistic value—of the lamps?”
“Certainly! Anyone with a head on his shoulders would see at a glance
that the things were valuable.”
The Detective’s face brightened. “Then there is a chance. If your
door was locked and the window shut, the goods were not stolen by the
chance of a chambermaid or a boots coming along. Whoever did the job
went after it special; and he ain’t going to part with his swag without
his price. This must be a case of notice to the pawnbrokers. There’s
one good thing about it, anyhow, that the hue and cry needn’t be given.
We needn’t tell Scotland Yard unless you like; we can work the thing
privately. If you wish to keep the thing dark, as you told me at the
first, that is our chance.” Mr. Corbeck, after a pause, said quietly:
“I suppose you couldn’t hazard a suggestion as to how the robbery was
effected?” The Policeman smiled the smile of knowledge and experience.
“In a very simple way, I have no doubt, sir. That is how all these
mysterious crimes turn out in the long-run. The criminal knows his
work and all the tricks of it; and he is always on the watch for
chances. Moreover, he knows by experience what these chances are likely
to be, and how they usually come. The other person is only careful; he
doesn’t know all the tricks and pits that may be made for him, and by
some little oversight or other he falls into the trap. When we know
all about this case, you will wonder that you did not see the method of
it all along!” This seemed to annoy Mr. Corbeck a little; there was
decided heat in his manner as he answered:
“Look here, my good friend, there is not anything simple about this
case—except that the things were taken. The window was closed; the
fireplace was bricked up. There is only one door to the room, and that
I locked and bolted. There is no transom; I have heard all about hotel
robberies through the transom. I never left my room in the night. I
looked at the things before going to bed; and I went to look at them
again when I woke up. If you can rig up any kind of simple robbery out
of these facts you are a clever man. That’s all I say; clever enough
to go right away and get my things back.” Miss Trelawny laid her hand
upon his arm in a soothing way, and said quietly:
“Do not distress yourself unnecessarily. I am sure they will turn up.”
Sergeant Daw turned to her so quickly that I could not help remembering
vividly his suspicions of her, already formed, as he said:
“May I ask, miss, on what you base that opinion?”
I dreaded to hear her answer, given to ears already awake to suspicion;
but it came to me as a new pain or shock all the same:
“I cannot tell you how I know. But I am sure of it!” The Detective
looked at her for some seconds in silence, and then threw a quick
glance at me.
Presently he had a little more conversation with Mr. Corbeck as to his
own movements, the details of the hotel and the room, and the means of
identifying the goods. Then he went away to commence his inquiries,
Mr. Corbeck impressing on him the necessity for secrecy lest the thief
should get wind of his danger and destroy the lamps. Mr. Corbeck
promised, when going away to attend to various matters of his own
business, to return early in the evening, and to stay in the house.
All that day Miss Trelawny was in better spirits and looked in better
strength than she had yet been, despite the new shock and annoyance of
the theft which must ultimately bring so much disappointment to her
father.
We spent most of the day looking over the curio treasures of Mr.
Trelawny. From what I had heard from Mr. Corbeck I began to have some
idea of the vastness of his enterprise in the world of Egyptian
research; and with this light everything around me began to have a new
interest. As I went on, the interest grew; any lingering doubts which
I might have had changed to wonder and admiration. The house seemed to
be a veritable storehouse of marvels of antique art. In addition to
the curios, big and little, in Mr. Trelawny’s own room—from the great
sarcophagi down to the scarabs of all kinds in the cabinets—the great
hall, the staircase landings, the study, and even the boudoir were full
of antique pieces which would have made a collector’s mouth water.
Miss Trelawny from the first came with me, and looked with growing
interest at everything. After having examined some cabinets of
exquisite amulets she said to me in quite a naive way:
“You will hardly believe that I have of late seldom even looked at any
of these things. It is only since Father has been ill that I seem to
have even any curiosity about them. But now, they grow and grow on me
to quite an absorbing degree. I wonder if it is that the collector’s
blood which I have in my veins is beginning to manifest itself. If so,
the strange thing is that I have not felt the call of it before. Of
course I know most of the big things, and have examined them more or
less; but really, in a sort of way I have always taken them for
granted, as though they had always been there. I have noticed the same
thing now and again with family pictures, and the way they are taken
for granted by the family. If you will let me examine them with you it
will be delightful!”
It was a joy to me to hear her talk in such a way; and her last
suggestion quite thrilled me. Together we went round the various rooms
and passages, examining and admiring the magnificent curios. There was
such a bewildering amount and variety of objects that we could only
glance at most of them; but as we went along we arranged that we should
take them seriatim, day by day, and examine them more closely. In the
hall was a sort of big frame of floriated steel work which Margaret
said her father used for lifting the heavy stone lids of the
sarcophagi. It was not heavy and could be moved about easily enough.
By aid of this we raised the covers in turn and looked at the endless
series of hieroglyphic pictures cut in most of them. In spite of her
profession of ignorance Margaret knew a good deal about them; her year
of life with her father had had unconsciously its daily and hourly
lesson. She was a remarkably clever and acute-minded girl, and with a
prodigious memory; so that her store of knowledge, gathered
unthinkingly bit by bit, had grown to proportions that many a scholar
might have envied.
And yet it was all so naive and unconscious; so girlish and simple.
She was so fresh in her views and ideas, and had so little thought of
self, that in her companionship I forgot for the time all the troubles
and mysteries which enmeshed the house; and I felt like a boy again....
The most interesting of the sarcophagi were undoubtedly the three in
Mr. Trelawny’s room. Of these, two were of dark stone, one of porphyry
and the other of a sort of ironstone. These were wrought with some
hieroglyphs. But the third was strikingly different. It was of some
yellow-brown substance of the dominating colour effect of Mexican onyx,
which it resembled in many ways, excepting that the natural pattern of
its convolutions was less marked. Here and there were patches almost
transparent—certainly translucent. The whole chest, cover and all,
was wrought with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of minute hieroglyphics,
seemingly in an endless series. Back, front, sides, edges, bottom, all
had their quota of the dainty pictures, the deep blue of their
colouring showing up fresh and sharply edged in the yellow stone. It
was very long, nearly nine feet; and perhaps a yard wide. The sides
undulated, so that there was no hard line. Even the corners took such
excellent curves that they pleased the eye. “Truly,” I said, “this
must have been made for a giant!”
“Or for a giantess!” said Margaret.
This sarcophagus stood near to one of the windows. It was in one
respect different from all the other sarcophagi in the place. All the
others in the house, of whatever material—granite, porphyry,
ironstone, basalt, slate, or wood—were quite simple in form within.
Some of them were plain of interior surface; others were engraved, in
whole or part, with hieroglyphics. But each and all of them had no
protuberances or uneven surface anywhere. They might have been used
for baths; indeed, they resembled in many ways Roman baths of stone or
marble which I had seen. Inside this, however, was a raised space,
outlined like a human figure. I asked Margaret if she could explain it
in any way. For answer she said:
“Father never wished to speak about this. It attracted my attention
from the first; but when I asked him about it he said: ‘I shall tell
you all about it some day, little girl—if I live! But not yet! The
story is not yet told, as I hope to tell it to you! Some day, perhaps
soon, I shall know all; and then we shall go over it together. And a
mighty interesting story you will find it—from first to last!’ Once
afterward I said, rather lightly I am afraid: ‘Is that story of the
sarcophagus told yet, Father?’ He shook his head, and looked at me
gravely as he said: ‘Not yet, little girl; but it will be—if I
live—if I live!’ His repeating that phrase about his living rather
frightened me; I never ventured to ask him again.”
Somehow this thrilled me. I could not exactly say how or why; but it
seemed like a gleam of light at last. There are, I think, moments when
the mind accepts something as true; though it can account for neither
the course of the thought, nor, if there be more than one thought, the
connection between them. Hitherto we had been in such outer darkness
regarding Mr. Trelawny, and the strange visitation which had fallen on
him, that anything which afforded a clue, even of the faintest and most
shadowy kind, had at the outset the enlightening satisfaction of a
certainty. Here were two lights of our puzzle. The first that Mr.
Trelawny associated with this particular curio a doubt of his own
living. The second that he had some purpose or expectation with regard
to it, which he would not disclose, even to his daughter, till
complete. Again it was to be borne in mind that this sarcophagus
differed internally from all the others. What meant that odd raised
place? I said nothing to Miss Trelawny, for I feared lest I should
either frighten her or buoy her up with future hopes; but I made up my
mind that I would take an early opportunity for further investigation.
Close beside the sarcophagus was a low table of green stone with red
veins in it, like bloodstone. The feet were fashioned like the paws of
a jackal, and round each leg was twined a full-throated snake wrought
exquisitely in pure gold. On it rested a strange and very beautiful
coffer or casket of stone of a peculiar shape. It was something like a
small coffin, except that the longer sides, instead of being cut off
square like the upper or level part were continued to a point. Thus it
was an irregular septahedron, there being two planes on each of the two
sides, one end and a top and bottom. The stone, of one piece of which
it was wrought, was such as I had never seen before. At the base it
was of a full green, the colour of emerald without, of course, its
gleam. It was not by any means dull, however, either in colour or
substance, and was of infinite hardness and fineness of texture. The
surface was almost that of a jewel. The colour grew lighter as it
rose, with gradation so fine as to be imperceptible, changing to a fine
yellow almost of the colour of “mandarin” china. It was quite unlike
anything I had ever seen, and did not resemble any stone or gem that I
knew. I took it to be some unique mother-stone, or matrix of some gem.
It was wrought all over, except in a few spots, with fine
hieroglyphics, exquisitely done and coloured with the same blue-green
cement or pigment that appeared on the sarcophagus. In length it was
about two feet and a half; in breadth about half this, and was nearly a
foot high. The vacant spaces were irregularly distributed about the
top running to the pointed end. These places seemed less opaque than
the rest of the stone. I tried to lift up the lid so that I might see
if they were translucent; but it was securely fixed. It fitted so
exactly that the whole coffer seemed like a single piece of stone
mysteriously hollowed from within. On the sides and edges were some
odd-looking protuberances wrought just as finely as any other portion
of the coffer which had been sculptured by manifest design in the
cutting of the stone. They had queer-shaped holes or hollows,
different in each; and, like the rest, were covered with the
hieroglyphic figures, cut finely and filled in with the same blue-green
cement.
On the other side of the great sarcophagus stood another small table of
alabaster, exquisitely chased with symbolic figures of gods and the
signs of the zodiac. On this table stood a case of about a foot square
composed of slabs of rock crystal set in a skeleton of bands of red
gold, beautifully engraved with hieroglyphics, and coloured with a blue
green, very much the tint of the figures on the sarcophagus and the
coffer. The whole work was quite modern.
But if the case was modern what it held was not. Within, on a cushion
of cloth of gold as fine as silk, and with the peculiar softness of old
gold, rested a mummy hand, so perfect that it startled one to see it.
A woman’s hand, fine and long, with slim tapering fingers and nearly as
perfect as when it was given to the embalmer thousands of years before.
In the embalming it had lost nothing of its beautiful shape; even the
wrist seemed to maintain its pliability as the gentle curve lay on the
cushion. The skin was of a rich creamy or old ivory colour; a dusky
fair skin which suggested heat, but heat in shadow. The great
peculiarity of it, as a hand, was that it had in all seven fingers,
there being two middle and two index fingers. The upper end of the
wrist was jagged, as though it had been broken off, and was stained
with a red-brown stain. On the cushion near the hand was a small
scarab, exquisitely wrought of emerald.
“That is another of Father’s mysteries. When I asked him about it he
said that it was perhaps the most valuable thing he had, except one.
When I asked him what that one was, he refused to tell me, and forbade
me to ask him anything concerning it. ‘I will tell you,’ he said, ‘all
about it, too, in good time—if I live!’”
“If I live!” the phrase again. These three things grouped together,
the Sarcophagus, the Coffer, and the Hand, seemed to make a trilogy of
mystery indeed!
At this time Miss Trelawny was sent for on some domestic matter. I
looked at the other curios in the room; but they did not seem to have
anything like the same charm for me, now that she was away. Later on
in the day I was sent for to the boudoir where she was consulting with
Mrs. Grant as to the lodgment of Mr. Corbeck. They were in doubt as to
whether he should have a room close to Mr. Trelawny’s or quite away
from it, and had thought it well to ask my advice on the subject. I
came to the conclusion that he had better not be too near; for the
first at all events, he could easily be moved closer if necessary.
When Mrs. Grant had gone, I asked Miss Trelawny how it came that the
furniture of this room, the boudoir in which we were, was so different
from the other rooms of the house.
“Father’s forethought!” she answered. “When I first came, he thought,
and rightly enough, that I might get frightened with so many records of
death and the tomb everywhere. So he had this room and the little
suite off it—that door opens into the sitting-room—where I slept last
night, furnished with pretty things. You see, they are all beautiful.
That cabinet belonged to the great Napoleon.”
“There is nothing Egyptian in these rooms at all then?” I asked, rather
to show interest in what she had said than anything else, for the
furnishing of the room was apparent. “What a lovely cabinet! May I
look at it?”
“Of course! with the greatest pleasure!” she answered, with a smile.
“Its finishing, within and without, Father says, is absolutely
complete.” I stepped over and looked at it closely. It was made of
tulip wood, inlaid in patterns; and was mounted in ormolu. I pulled
open one of the drawers, a deep one where I could see the work to great
advantage. As I pulled it, something rattled inside as though rolling;
there was a tinkle as of metal on metal.
“Hullo!” I said. “There is something in here. Perhaps I had better
not open it.”
“There is nothing that I know of,” she answered. “Some of the
housemaids may have used it to put something by for the time and
forgotten it. Open it by all means!”
I pulled open the drawer; as I did so, both Miss Trelawny and I started
back in amazement.
There before our eyes lay a number of ancient Egyptian lamps, of
various sizes and of strangely varied shapes.
We leaned over them and looked closely. My own heart was beating like
a trip-hammer; and I could see by the heaving of Margaret’s bosom that
she was strangely excited.
Whilst we looked, afraid to touch and almost afraid to think, there was
a ring at the front door; immediately afterwards Mr. Corbeck, followed
by Sergeant Daw, came into the hall. The door of the boudoir was open,
and when they saw us Mr. Corbeck came running in, followed more slowly
by the Detective. There was a sort of chastened joy in his face and
manner as he said impulsively:
“Rejoice with me, my dear Miss Trelawny, my luggage has come and all my
things are intact!” Then his face fell as he added, “Except the lamps.
The lamps that were worth all the rest a thousand times....” He
stopped, struck by the strange pallor of her face. Then his eyes,
following her look and mine, lit on the cluster of lamps in the drawer.
He gave a sort of cry of surprise and joy as he bent over and touched
them:
“My lamps! My lamps! Then they are safe—safe—safe! ... But how, in
the name of God—of all the Gods—did they come here?”
We all stood silent. The Detective made a deep sound of in-taking
breath. I looked at him, and as he caught my glance he turned his eyes
on Miss Trelawny whose back was toward him.
There was in them the same look of suspicion which had been there when
he had spoken to me of her being the first to find her father on the
occasions of the attacks.