The Lost Million

“And wherefore, I repeat that, for fear of great disaster to thyself, let not thine hand touch this brazen cylinder which containeth the Thing which shall remain imprisoned therein in the realms of Tuat (the underworld) until released by Osiris on the Day of Awakening… this 25th of the month Tybi.

“Be ye therefore warned, for by disobedience assuredly the anger of the Sun-God and of Osiris the Eternal will fall heavily upon thee. And Harnekht shall smite them.

“May disaster happen but in the house of thine enemies. May traitors, day by day, be led by Time to their destruction, and may they remain for ever in Amentet, the place of gloom…”

“Curious,” I said, looking up to the Professor’s grave bearded face as he peered over to me through his glasses.

“Yes. The fable is very interesting. I have not yet decided the actual date of the papyri. But it is certainly much later than King Merenptah,” he said. “We have many cartouches of his time here in the Museum, and there are many others about Europe, as St. Petersburg and Darmstadt. But in certain ways the hieroglyphics are different. Hence I am of opinion that the bronze cylinder referred to – if it has been found and still exists – was placed with these papyri in the tomb at a much later date.”

“You have no knowledge of the person who brought this to you?” I asked.

“Only that his name was Arnold – I see that I made a note at the time – and that he was staying at the Savoy Hotel.”

“Strange that he did not return to claim his find.”

“Very. My own idea is that he may have been called abroad suddenly, and will return one day. He seemed extremely intelligent.”

“And the cylinder. What do you think it could have contained – what is the Thing to which the papyri refers!”

The old professor shrugged his shoulders.

“How can we tell if the cylinder is non-existent? Probably it was rifled from the royal tomb a thousand years ago and broken open by sacrilegious persons who were unable to decipher these writings, and who cared nothing for the curse of the ten plagues placed upon them,” he laughed.

Then Mr Arnold had evidently not revealed to the Professor the existence of the cylinder. Why? Because he had already again hidden it in fear.

“We have many records of objects concealed, but most of the things referred to in the papyri have disappeared ages ago,” added the great Egyptologist, who, taking me along the gallery, showed me the mummy of the great Pharaoh Merenptah himself, in whose tomb the fragments of papyri were found.

The Professor was extremely kind, and lent me his decipher to copy them. After finding that I could obtain nothing further concerning the man Arnold, and that he was not known as an Egyptologist, I thanked him and left without telling him of the existence of the cylinder.

That same night, I returned to Upton End with intention to show Guy Nicholson the curious record when he visited me on Sunday.

Next morning – which was Saturday – I opened my newspaper, which, as usual, I found on the library table after breakfast, when my eyes fell upon a heading which caused my heart to stand still.

The printed words danced before my bewildered eyes. For a second I stood like a mail in a dream. I held my breath and eagerly read the half a dozen lines of brief announcement – a report which caused me to clap my hand to my fevered brow, and to involuntarily ejaculate the words —

“My God! It can’t be true —it can’t be true!”

Chapter Eleven

A Sensation in the County

The paragraph I read was truly a startling one, brief, but amazing.

Apparently few details had arrived in London, for it read thus —

“Mr Guy Nicholson, son of the late Mr Nathaniel Nicholson, the well-known ironmaster of Sheffield, and for twenty-five years Member for South Cheshire, was yesterday morning found dead under somewhat remarkable circumstances. It appears that he entertained some guests at dinner at his house, Titmarsh Court, near Corby, Northamptonshire, and the last of his friends to depart left about midnight. About two o’clock in the morning a friend who was staying in the house, and whose room was directly over the library, was awakened by a man’s piercing shrieks, as though of horror. He listened, and heard a loud thumping sound below. Then all was quiet. It being the first time he had been a guest there, he did not alarm the household, but after lying awake for over an hour dropped off to sleep again. In the morning, however, the maid who went to clean the library found the door locked on the outside, as usual, but, on entering, was horrified to discover her master lying upon the carpet, he had been dead some hours. Considerable mystery attaches to the affair, which has created a great sensation in the neighbourhood, where the young man was well-known and highly popular.”

What could actually have happened!

I read and re-read that paragraph. Then I rang up Stokes, my chauffeur, on the telephone, and we were soon tearing along the Northampton Road.

Within a couple of hours we turned into the big lodge-gates of Titmarsh Court, which I found was a fine old place, upon which huge sums must have been spent by Guy’s father in the way of improvements. It was a splendid specimen of the old, moated manor-house, situated in well-timbered grounds and approached by a long shady avenue of chestnuts, which met overhead.

A young man-servant opened the door, and was inclined to be uncommunicative, until suddenly I caught sight of Shaw’s grey car standing against the garage, and inquired for him.

In a few moments he came forward, sedate and grave, and somewhat surprised, I think, at my presence there.

“This is really a most terrible thing, my dear Kemball,” he exclaimed, his face pale. “I only knew of it late last night. The police and doctors seem to have kept the affair secret as long as they could.”

“I saw it in the paper, and came over at once,” I said. “What is your opinion?” I asked eagerly. “Is foul play suspected?”

“I really don’t know,” was his vague answer, as he stood in the wide, old-fashioned hall. “It’s a terrible thing, however. Poor Asta! she is overcome with grief, poor girl.”

“Ah yes?” I sighed. “She was very fond of him; I realised that the other day.”

Together we walked into a handsomely furnished sitting-room – the morning-room I supposed it to be – and there I was introduced to a fussy elderly man in tweeds named Redwood, the local doctor from Corby. He was a bluff, red-faced, clean-shaven man, a good type of the fox-hunting doctor of the grass-country.

“Well, Mr Shaw,” he exclaimed briskly, “Doctor Petherbridge, from Northampton, and myself have made a post-mortem, and we have come to the conclusion that death was due to natural causes – inflammation of the brain. We have made most minute examination, but can discover no trace whatever of foul play.”

“Nor of suicide – by poison, for instance?” asked Shaw, leaning with his back against the table, while the sun shone brightly across the pale blue carpet.

“Certainly not. We have had that in mind, but fail to find any trace whatsoever, though Petherbridge is taking the contents of the stomach into. Northampton for analysis, in order to thoroughly satisfy ourselves. Our conclusions are, however, that probably while seated in his armchair in the library reading his paper, as was his habit before going to bed, he was suddenly attacked, shrieked with pain, and quickly collapsed. Such fatal seizures are by no means uncommon.”

“But, doctor, the papers say that a noise of hammering was heard,” I remarked.

“Captain Cardew, who heard the shriek, is not actually certain about the hammering, it seems,” replied Shaw. “The poor fellow was in the best of spirits and quite well when Asta and I left him about a quarter-past eleven. We dined here with some people named Sweetman, the Vanes from Oundle, and Mr Justice Michelmore, who is staying with them. The judge was talking with him on the steps when we left.”

“Nobody who partook of the dinner felt any unusual symptoms, or one might suspect ptomaine poisoning,” remarked the doctor from Northampton, a short, grey-headed little man, who had at that moment entered the room. “My distinct opinion is that, though the affair appears most mysterious, yet it is due to perfectly natural causes.”

“And I suppose that is the evidence you will give before the Coroner to-morrow, eh?” Shaw asked.

“Precisely. I shall have a searching analysis of the stomach, of course. Indeed, I’m just off to Northampton for that purpose. But I do not anticipate finding anything. Young Nicholson was not the kind of fellow to take his own life.”

“No,” I said; “he certainly did not strike me as having any tendencies towards suicide. Yet, from what the papers say, the affair is most mysterious.”

“Oh, the papers!” laughed Shaw, derisively. “They’re always sensational. A good story means hundreds of pounds to them. But,” he added, “I must be off, Kemball. I was just going when you came. I have to be on the Bench this morning at twelve.”

“Please express my most sincere condolence with Miss Seymour,” I said. “You and I will meet again soon, no doubt.”

“My dear fellow, just come over whenever you like. Better ring me on the ’phone to see if we are at home, for we’re often out in the car this fine weather.”

And, taking my hand, the man who in his dual life was a county magistrate, and was about to sit and administer justice from the Bench, gripped my hand and went out, followed by the Northampton doctor, who a moment later I saw with two large glass jam-jars in his hand. Yet almost directly after I heard a low, peculiar whistle emanating from an adjoining room. Shaw was whistling to himself – even though the house was a house of mourning!

Left alone with Doctor Redwood I began to question him, explaining that I was a friend of the man now dead.

“Well,” he said, “I can’t tell you very much, Mr Kemball. Captain Cardew, who was Nicholson’s guest, is in the library. At least I left him there a little time ago; let’s go and find him.”

So he conducted me along a well-carpeted corridor where the doors, I noticed, were of polished mahogany, and opening one, I found myself in a long, low, old-fashioned room, lined with brown-backed books from the floor to the panelled ceiling. At the table a tall, fair-haired, military-looking young man was seated writing letters.