The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1): The Case of the Missing Mummy (Full Thriller Audiobook)

THE CASE OF THE MISSING MUMMY THE NEW ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES WRITTEN BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND NORAH GODWIN NARRATED BY PETER SILVERLEAF SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE MISSING MUMMY In the summer of 1885, Holmes and my humble self were engaged in a somewhat curious case. Because of the following self-explanatory reasons, I was not able to publish earlier on this issue. Now that the legal implications concerning crunching details in this case are barred, this case won't have to be withheld from the public anymore. We still sat at the breakfast table as we heard a short autocation ending with our housekeeper Mrs. Hudson protesting. I looked at Holmes. What could that be? Holmes, who was stuffing his pipe, replied without averting his gaze, a little rough-headedness coupled with exaggerated zeal in direct confrontation with conscientiousness. The stormy guest, meanwhile, escaped Mrs. Hudson and in the next moment knocked violently at the door. Holmes raised an eyebrow, a clear sign that he was only willing to tolerate such behaviour because it outweighed his curiousness. He nodded to me that I would open the door, which was still being maltreated. Even if this was not the beginning of the day as I had imagined, still it was not going to change. I went to the door and opened. Good morning, sir, I began. I may assume you are here in a matter of urgency. At the door stood a fifty-year-old professorial-looking man with glasses and full beard. I have probably seen him once before, but I had forgotten the occasion. You will have to excuse me, he gasped, still out of breath from storming up the stairs. I must immediately speak to Mr. Holmes. It is a matter of life and death, actually mostly about death. I asked him in. Holmes had already risen from the table as the man ran towards him. Thank God, Mr. Holmes, he shouted fevered. Holmes calmly nodded at the man. Good morning, Mr. Thompson. Then he turned to me and asked, Watson, you do know Mr. Edward Thompson, the curator of the British Museum? I did not let on to anything and nodded to the man as well. Of course, Mr. Thompson. The addressed wiped his sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief and murmured, Executive Librarian. Excuse me, I asked. Executive Librarian, Holmes answered quickly. That is the official title of Mr. Thompson. Indeed, he confirmed and took a seat at the table without one being offered to him. You have to excuse me, he repeated. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door. Excuse me, but I could not stop this gentleman. He insisted this was a matter about— A matter about life and death, Holmes finished. It is quite all right, Mrs. Hudson. We are acquainted. Mr. Thompson here is a scholar, a historian to be precise, and today his story is in a rush. Mrs. Hudson nodded skeptically, but closed the door and went back to the ground floor. I decided to bring proper order into the sudden meeting and asked Mr. Thompson, Can we offer you something, Mr. Thompson? Maybe a cup of tea? He dismissed the proposal with a wave of his hand. No, no, thank you. Honestly, I am in the mood for something stronger. Without a word, Holmes took my decanter of whiskey and a glass out of the cupboard, put it in front of Thompson, and poured it over. The beverage was, and Holmes was very aware of the fact, a product of the old established distillery Mortlach in Dufftown. But Holmes ignored my silent protest and sat down next to Thompson. Well, Mr. Thompson, you have an explanation for your sudden raid? Are you being pursued? Thompson was startled and looked uncertainly over both shoulders. I—no, I don't think so. Then it must be the thought that is following you, Holmes continued. What has caused you such agitation? Before answering, Thompson emptied his glass with one pull and poured himself another. You ought to know, Mr. Holmes, I am a sensible person. Not many things fluster me like this, but this morning something outrageous happened. Politely waiting for Holmes to finally ignite his pipe, Mr. Thompson began again. Maybe you have heard that we are currently planning a colossal new exhibition at the British Museum, Treasures from Ancient Egypt. One of the exhibits is a newly discovered Theban mummy in a noble sarcophagus that only just arrived a few days ago from Alexandria. I know that Holmes was not very interested in these things, so I said, before he could obviously negate, Of course, we read about it. All of London is waiting for the opening excitedly. Again, Mr. Thompson emptied his glass. I am afraid London is going to have to wait a while longer, because our main attraction got lost. Holmes calmly replied, The mummy? Indeed, Mr. Holmes, I am referring to the mummy, answered Thompson in a quavering voice. As I opened the sarcophagus an hour ago, the mummy was gone and the vessel empty. Yesterday evening everything was fine, but now— I had to interrupt him. Are you afraid that your mummy raised from the dead and ran away so he could terrorize the subjects of the Queen as an undead monster? But my ironic remark just irritated Mr. Thompson even further. I don't think that— he stuttered. You don't think that— Please. Ignore Dr. Watson's liking for unfitting humour and horrible penny dreadfuls, interrupted Holmes. The same rule that applies to other cases applies to this case. If we eliminate the improbable, only the truth will prevail, even if it seems to be unlikely. Facts will show whether the mummy ran away or was abducted. Mr. Thompson regaining some hope. You are going to take the case? Money is no consideration. If the mummy won't reappear, the museum is ruined anyways, and then I am also ruined. Fear not, said Holmes reassuringly. We will seize your mummy and return it. Dead or alive, I added to my undivided amusement, which merely earned me an uncertain look from Thompson and a punitive one from Holmes. The curator again filled his glass with my expensive scotch and drank it out immediately. First of all, it is important, said Holmes, while I silently removed the decanter from the table and put it back in the closet, that you clear your head again. In two hours we will come to the museum so we can inspect the crime scene. I request that you introduce us to everyone that had access to the exhibition. Thompson rose. Of course, Mr. Holmes. Thank you so much, Mr. Holmes. He lengthily said goodbye before I managed to usher him out. As the door closed, Holmes' grey eyes flickered. He seemed to have acquired an excessive liking for the case. Holmes, I tried to calm him. You are not really thinking about going mummy-hunting, are you? My dear Watson, we are both scientists. You know as much as I do that a dead body, no matter how well it was prepared, is unlikely to regain life after five thousand years. Not with spells, electricity, or any other sorts. I replied jokingly with a wink that Holmes did not return. The ladies Shelley and Webb, Luden, begged to differ. Fiction, dear Watson, Holmes replied dryly. This is fiction. Science and fiction are two very different things, and in no case to be combined. So what is your proposal? We stick to the facts. Knowledge, observation, and deduction are the pillars of my method. This you should sufficiently know by now. Well then, come now. Onward to the British Museum. Half an hour later we sat in the carriage to Bloomsbury, not far from where the classicist building of the museum is seated. The peculiar anticipation that emanated from Holmes continued to lead me confounded. The mummy enthusiasm that had gripped England and part of the continent decades ago, in the wake of Napoleon's expedition to Egypt, never appealed to me. Especially in aristocratic circles people had taken pleasure in purchasing mummies and presenting them as attraction in the course of exuberant parties. As a highlight, it was customary to unwind the pitiful long-deceased, who were covered with wide linen bandages. In my opinion this would neither show reverent treatment with people who had been laid to eternal rest, nor a minimum of hygiene, which I felt obliged to as a physician. As if reading my thoughts, after a few minutes of silence, Holmes suddenly said, Watson, you know that most of the mummies circulating in Europe are counterfeits? Fakes? Within these bandages are usually the remains of recently hanged criminals of our time, sometimes also only animal cadaver, certainly very well dried and balmed. Such preparation is even possible within a short time frame. In some cases nothing else but rotten wood and shavings came to light. This thought did not really help to calm me. What kind of world are we living in that allows even human bodies to become commodities? And how degenerate one must be to deceive the credulous public by using body parts of delinquents or smoked house-cats as archaeologic relics. Do you really consider, I responded, that the missing mummy is also counterfeit? Holmes firmly shook his head. I don't consider anything. I am merely sorting my knowledge. Of course, I will leave a much-needed dissection of the cadaver in order to determine the age into your able hands and eyes. I had to object. I thank you for your trust and appreciation, but I am a physician, Holmes, not a coroner. Holmes lifted the index finger of his right hand. Well, then you should become one, Watson. Forensic pathology is a significant aspect of scientific criminology. I still prefer living patients, I insisted. The benevolent look that Holmes now put on did not bode well. All right, he began in a calm voice. Should our embalmed corpse, in contrary to our expectations, be alive, you will certainly find another field of activity. Certainly Mr. Thompson will assist you as an Egyptian interpreter during your anamnesis. In addition to me frowning, I was only able to say one word. Anamnesis. Holmes nodded. Of course, Watson, especially you as a physician have to admit that it can't be healthy for a corpse to start breathing again after thousands of years have passed despite the missing of their inner organs. If you ask me, in this case examination and, if necessary, treatment are not only appropriate but also unavoidable. Holmes said that with an almost mischievous grin on his face that he could not prevent from appearing. Clearly he was pulling my leg. Well, I responded, what a shame that I don't have my doctor's bag with me. Finally the carriage stopped in front of the main entrance to the museum at the Great Russell Street. The impressive pillared portal, a splendid symbol of the cultural-historical appropriation of the world by the Empire style, had a rather threatening effect to me today than of one of inviting generosity. As Holmes jumped up the stairs energetically, I trudged along fatefully. Mr. Thompson was already waiting for us in the entrance foyer. He guided us through the groups of visitors of the permanent exhibitions straight into the still closed off area where they planned to present the ancient Egyptian exhibits. We reached the sarcophagus in question, which was set up in the middle of the room, while passing hieroglyphic stelae, animal and chimera statues, scarabs made from copper, fragments of papyrus and the famous Rosetta Stone, which Mr. Thompson, as a paleography expert, was particularly fond of. The glistening centrepiece in gold, sapphire blue and ruby red, ornated with relief images and characters, polished and illuminated, reflecting all the glory of the ancient pharaoh kingdom at the Nile. Still, nothing more than an ancient coffin. In the end, the vehement ways of the Egyptians to cheat the transitoryness of all earthly things shows little faith in their own concept of the afterlife. From a scientific point of view, however, the professionalism used to preserve corpses on the basis of their limited knowledge is remarkable. Having said this, Mr. Thompson could not present us the result of these efforts. We convinced ourselves that the sarcophagus was indeed empty. Although there was obviously nothing to see, Holmes inspected the open sarcophagus for a long time, while Thompson and I stood beside it. He touched the surface and inside, scratched at the latter, knocked and shook the lid, took measure and even inhaled its odour. As I was about to impatiently end his performance, Holmes suddenly straightened up and turned to us saying, Ah! Exactly what I suspected. Once more he circled the sarcophagus and stopped directly in front of us and turned to the museum director. Your sarcophagus, Mr. Thompson, is apparently just the innermost cover of the mummy's entombment. Am I correct in assuming that a second, mostly wooden sarcophagus was attached around this, and this, in turn, was enthebed in a stone sarcophagus? Impressive, Mr. Thompson replied. That's correct. The limestone cube remained in the tomb, the intermediate shell in Cairo. Our focus led upon the mostly golden inner sarcophagus and, of course, its content. Holmes nodded knowingly. Also, the golden sarcophagus, may I assume that it will probably weigh around 240 pounds, distributed evenly between the cover and the bottom? Once more the curator had to agree. Indeed, these numbers meet our research. Again, Holmes circled the sarcophagus slowly, now stepping in the opposite direction. As he arrived at his starting point, he declared, Very well, I have what I need. Mr. Thompson, I would like to speak to your research associates who had access to the sarcophagus. Very well, Mr. Holmes, I'll bring the two out immediately. They are currently in the basement. One moment, please. Mr. Thompson hurried away, leaving us alone. I immediately took the floor. Well, Holmes, what did you discover? A lot, my dear Watson, he confirmed, but one after another. First, there are no scratches on the inside of the lid and no signs of violent opening of the sarcophagus from the inside. With that, we can tend to exclude an autonomous outbreak of the mummy. Eerie, I exclaimed. What a relief! Meanwhile, Holmes informed me immediately, This is not an argument against a potential liberation from the outside. Holmes! Please spare me with your jokes. What happened to observation, knowledge, and deduction? Be patient, my dear friend, Holmes tried to reassure me. All in good time. First of all, we have to ask Mr. Thompson's staff. Previous conclusions might be subject to the possible danger of lack of precision and erroneous prematurity. Before I could hassle Holmes any further, the museum director reappeared in the room. He was accompanied by a young lady and a gentleman who was certainly in his student years. Mr. Thompson introduced them. These are my closest collaborators regarding the Egyptian special exhibition. My personal assistant, Miss Jane Norton. My pleasure, Holmes interrupted. And Mr. Bellingham, a dedicated Egyptology student. Thompson continued. Holmes simply nodded at Mr. Bellingham. Well, let's start now, he said. After all, you have a few agitating hours behind you and certainly a lot more to prepare for the exhibition. Keeping this in mind, we do not want to keep you from your tasks for too long. In fact, both looked very exhausted. Obviously, Mr. Thompson demanded a lot from his staff. Barely over twenty years old, Mr. Bellingham looked worn, his hairdo a bit out of shape and a little grey from the dirt in the cellar. Miss Norton, probably the same age, looked tired as well, her white coat stained with brown dust on the right sleeve. Noticing the latter, Holmes immediately pulled out his handkerchief like an obliging gentleman. Oh, you allow? he asked, smiling, grabbing her hand and cleaning the creases of her sleeve. Poor Miss Norton, however, was not able to handle so much directness. Her face already blushed as Holmes pocketed his handkerchief. However, this was by no means the first time that Holmes deliberately attempted to unsettle his counterpart during a questioning. I assume that in this case it was also part of his methodology. Finally, Holmes began. Miss Norton, how long have you been working for Mr. Thompson? Regaining her composure, she responded quickly. For two and a half years. And how did you get this job? The director responded before Miss Norton could. You must know, Mr. Holmes, Miss Norton's father and I were fellow students at the University of Oxford. Mr. Norton was seriously ill some years ago, and Mrs. Norton unfortunately died more than fifteen years ago. These circumstances made me obligated. I understand, Holmes interrupted. Miss Norton, when did you last see the mummy? Last night, she answered. Mr. Thompson and I closed the sarcophagus before we locked up the premises and left the museum. And at that point the mummy was still in place? Mr. Thompson nodded vigorously. Of course! Of course, repeated Holmes. Let's talk about this morning. Where were you, Miss Norton, when the disappearance of the mummy was discovered? In the warehouse in the basement, she explained. I was about to bring up our copper scorpions to exhibit them along with the scarabs. I heard Mr. Thompson screaming and immediately went upstairs. Indeed, the curator confirmed. It took a bit, though, because the cellar is very winding. Miss Norton luckily knows how to traverse the basement very well. I, on the other hand, would get lost in the narrow corridors and rooms. Bellingham had been unaffected and largely motionless alongside Miss Norton until Holmes turned to him and asked, And you? How and where did you spend the last twenty hours? The student answered calmly, missing any nervousness. I left the museum early yesterday to devote myself to studying the Book of the Dead at home. I have to admit, until deep into the night. Holmes frowned. The Book of the Dead? A collection of ancient Egyptian spells and incantation, Bellingham explained, and immediately began to recite, O Amon, Amon, from the vault of heaven you look down to earth. Turn your radiant face to the rigid, lifeless shell of your beloved son. Make him strong and victorious in the lower worlds. Thank you, thank you, Holmes interrupted, very impressive. You should know that, Bellingham continued, unasked, Egyptian mythology is my speciality. That is why I applied here on the occasion of the new exhibition. We recently hired Mr. Bellingham for a limited time, Thompson confirmed. His expertise and, above all, his enthusiasm are impressive. Indeed, murmured Holmes more to himself. And today, Mr. Bellingham, when did you arrive here? Only about two hours ago, he replied. Miss Norton then informed me of the disappearance of the mummy. Mr. Thompson was probably still with you at this point, Mr. Holmes. Holmes nodded. He was about to circle the sarcophagus again, but stopped halfway and turned back. Miss Norton, Mr. Bellingham, that will be all for now. Thank you for your time and cooperation. You may now return to your work. In case I have any questions, Mr. Thompson already gave me your addresses. Mr. Thompson nodded at the both affirmably, and his assistant disappeared quickly into the basement. Mr. Thompson, there is one last question I would like to ask you, said Holmes, when it was just us three left. Is it correct that there are three individuals that could possibly enter this room with your keys separately? Without thinking, Thompson replied. Well, this, of course, applies to Miss Norton and Mr. Bellingham. Both are the only ones who have keys for this room. Not the only ones, Holmes corrected. You also have all the keys, don't you? Mr. Thompson slightly stuttered. Of course. But, Mr. Holmes, what are you implying? You don't think that I myself... I am not implying anything, Mr. Thompson, said Holmes quickly. I gather facts. Fact is that this room is only accessible through a single door. Fact is that this door was not opened forcefully last night. The lock is untouched. And fact is that only three individuals have a key for this door. Mr. Thompson wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. All of this may be right, but it does not make sense. Not yet, corrected Holmes. If we may, Dr. Watson and I would like to say goodbye for now. I have further investigations to make, which will be of essential significance for us to convict the perpetrators very soon. I have no doubts about that. A good day, Mr. Thompson. Holmes left the room vigorously. I followed him with a short delay. The curator was left behind, looking at his empty sarcophagus, puzzled. In front of the museum, Holmes was finally inclined to talk about the state of affairs. He quickly turned the tables, though. Well, my dear Watson, he asked, did you notice anything inside there? You did handle the staff with kid gloves, I replied immediately. But put pressure on Mr. Thompson. Additionally, you questioned his assistant's loyalty. What are you hoping to achieve with that? Insecurity, Holmes explained. Those three are going to talk about it and possibly suspect one another. If the perpetrator is indeed among them, he should know now that we are not far behind. Is one of those three our man? Holmes shook his head. Not necessarily, although possible. Of course, there could exist more keys that even Mr. Thompson does not know about. But furthermore, a professional burglar knows how to open up a locked door without leaving a trace. This explanation left me a little helpless. I looked at him inquiringly. That means we don't know anything, I exclaimed, a little frustrated. Holmes smiled in amusement. Far from it, my dear friend, he replied. For instance, we know that this is a thief with special interest. Who else steals an old mummy of little financial value, but leaves the much more valuable gold sarcophagus behind? Much less the other jewelry of the exhibition. That means this is not about simple direct enrichment. An obvious insight, I was annoyed that I have not considered this. Furthermore, Holmes continued, it is more likely two offenders. A human alone, let alone a young woman, would hardly be able to open the heavy sarcophagus. I thought for a moment and dared a quick guess, which I immediately regretted. Miss Norton and Mr. Bellingham together could probably have done the act easily. Hold your horses, my dear Watson, said Holmes quickly. Opportunity and possibility alone do not make the base for a suspected crime. In addition, the two are seemingly in a more competitive relationship than in a cooperative one. Still, fact is that both were up all night and could not come forth with any witnesses, besides their own four walls. Before I was able to reply, Holmes stopped a carriage and was about to get in as he turned to me and said, For now we shall separate, Watson. I have a few important errands to run. I will meet you later in Baker Street. And what am I supposed to do? I subtly protested. You should talk to the guards whenever convenient, said Holmes. The British Museum with all its splendors won't be unguarded all night long. Convince yourself of the safety precautions during closing times. I felt a little honoured that Holmes gave me such an important job. All right, I answered dutifully. It only dawned on me later that it was more about keeping me busy than about a necessary investigation. Around two hours later, when I arrived at Baker Street, in fact equipped with little relevant information, I found Holmes occupied with chemical analysis at his small laboratory space. He seemed completely engrossed in his activity and barely noticed my arrival. After watching him without a word for about five minutes, he finally straightened up. Watson, come over here, he commanded. Despite the slightly rude sound of his voice, I approached him. He held a small bowl filled with brown powder under my nose. Smell, Watson. I inhaled deeply. It was a caressing smell, oriental, somewhere between Levantine Anatolian spice palate and the Swedish steam of Maghrebi shisha. So, Holmes asked. Pleasant, I answered. Spicy and sweet at the same time. Interesting. Try it, Holmes said as he held out a small teaspoon. I hesitated and suspiciously looked at him. Holmes, this is not a psychotropic substance like your cocaine or the sort. You know that as a doctor I reject them. No, no, he assured me. Absolutely not. Just trust me. I picked up the spoon and put a small amount of it on the top of it, while looking gravely at Holmes. No drugs, right? Holmes smiled and shook his head, and I put the spoon in my mouth. The taste was just like the smell. First a little salty, and the aftertaste was smoky. Overall, a very well-made spice. Very well, I said, after I swallowed everything. Exquisite, this mixture would be perfect for a barbecue of Eastern Mediterranean flair. What is it? Mummia, Holmes replied. What? was the only thing I was able to say while I was trying to regain my breath, but the gag and coughing reflex gained the supremacy. Fatherly Holmes patted my back. All this mummy-eye, mummy-powder, he repeated, that is what you get when you grind a mummy. For centuries, even millennia, mummia has been considered a medicine. I choked twice more, spat in my handkerchief, and then loosened my collar to supply my red head with oxygen. Damn it, Holmes, I gasped. I know very well what mummia is. You let me eat a grinded mummy. Have you taken leave of your senses? Calm down, replied Holmes. Most of the available mummia is not made from real Egyptian mummies, but fakes. How reassuring, I exclaimed, still upset. Then, on my part, this is just ordinary cannibalism. Where did you get that stuff from, anyways? No reputable pharmacy would dare sell that nonsense these days. One of your colleagues was so kind, Holmes explained, to leave a little of it to me. A colleague? What a miserable quack must he be, I revolted. I want to know the name, Holmes. I am going to report him. They need to take away his doctor's license. Now calm down, said Holmes. You are behaving like a toddler. The doctor said. The doctor who, I insisted. Would you be so kind as to tell me his name? Holmes sighed. If it calms you, my dear Watson, I have the sample from a certain Dr. Jekyll, who is practicing at Cavendish Square. Noting the name and address in my notebook, I decided to give this colleague a tongue-lashing when I had an opportunity. But that never happened. When I wanted to visit him some time later, he mysteriously died. But that is another story. Slowly, I regained my composure. All right, Holmes. What were you looking to gain with this maneuver? I poured myself a glass of whiskey to rinse my mouth. Holmes took out his handkerchief, unfolded it, and shook it out over a plate. This way, small brown particles like the mummy powder fell on the plate. I hope you remember, explained Holmes, that I cleaned Miss Norton's sleeve at the museum. The substance that I was able to seize will now be compared with the bought mummy. I understand, I answered. If it is also mummy, Miss Norton may not only have to do with the disappearance of the mummy, but also with the further processing. Holmes nodded. Quite right. He picked up some powder from the plate with a teaspoon and held it in front of my face. Watson, may I ask you to taste the sample now? I gasped and raised my hands defensively. Holmes, you are not serious. I will most definitely not try another mummy. No, thanks. I thought you would boycott my investigations, Holmes said dryly. He emptied the powder in a reagent dish and began to heat it over a gas flame. The methods of chemical analysis are anyways much more precise than your irritated taste buds. Smoke formed above the dish, which Holmes deliberately inhaled. Then he poured a clear liquid, which initially forced the substance to form smoke, but eventually caused a purple discoloration. Triumphantly, Holmes turned to me. Quod erat demonstrandum. And what exactly did you prove? I asked. It is mummia, Holmes said. The substance is proven to contain tar, marm resin and potash. Any proportions of dried human tissue are more difficult to determine. I was somewhat surprised. You can read all this from your little experiment? Holmes smiled mischievously. Well, no. It is not that easy. I have already done some other analysis before you arrived. Seeing that my mummy tasting was completely unnecessary, I tried not to get upset again and answered calmly. Fine. And what are we going to do now with our newfound knowledge? It is fact, Holmes explained, that Miss Norton obviously had to have made mummia. Probably still in the basement of the museum. Subsequently, the mummy only left the exhibition in small particles. Also, fact is that the mummy has already been destroyed and Mr. Thompson is not going to be happy about that. The third fact is that it was important for Miss Norton that it was real mummia from the remains of a real pharaoh's grave. But there are two things we don't know yet. First, who helped Miss Norton? And second, what was her motive? I am assuming, I said, that you already have a plan on how to get the missing answers? Of course, my dear Watson. Holmes confirmed, it is quite simple. We will ask Miss Norton about it. Right now. About an hour later, it was already dark. We stood at the given address in front of Miss Norton's apartment door. It was a little puzzling that she lived in Brick Lane in the East End. Apparently, her family had undergone some kind of social decline. Miss Norton opened immediately. It seemed like she had been waiting for us. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, she greeted us. You certainly want to enter? Please. She escorted us to a barren room that had only one adjoining room. She sat down at a simple wooden table and offered us to follow. While I sat down thankfully, Holmes waved off and went straight to the point. Thank you, Miss Norton, I prefer to stand. You probably know why we are here. She nodded slowly. My father told me that it would not take long for you to appear. He said you were the best detective in England, after all. What? Only England? I asked with an ironic undertone. Holmes ignored my remark. Am I right in assuming, he continued, that your father was your accomplice in this nightly visit at the museum, and that he was the one who helped you lift the sarcophagus lid and steal the mummy? Miss Norton seemed almost apathetic, but confirmed the questions with a nod. Holmes now warmed up. In the cellar catacombs, where no one knows their way around better than you, you prepared everything to grind the mummy. Presumably your father and you set up a small mechanical powder mill there, without anyone else noticing. I have to confess, pretty brilliant if simple. Who would suspect such a robbery? Miss Norton knew she was convicted. We would have proof once we investigated the cellar of the British Museum. She got up, went to the door of the next room, and was about to open it. I want to show you something, she said. Holmes and I followed her through the door and found ourselves in a largely dark room. Only light candlelight on a dresser made for partial flickering illumination. In one of the dark corners of the room was obviously a gaunt figure, whose outlines were only vaguely discernible. When Holmes and I arrived in the middle of the room, the figure stepped with heavy and steady steps towards us. At first the candlelight only caught an arm that was bandaged with a small linen cloth to the fingertips. The next moment we could see a head. This too was almost completely except for the eyes and the mouth wrapped in bandages. My heart was thumping because we were clearly standing in front of the mummy. She took another step towards us and said, Good evening, gentlemen. Holmes calmly asked, Mr. Norton, I suppose. The mummy figure nodded. Forgive my appearance, but my illness does not allow me to wear proper formal attire. In full candlelight we could see that Mr. Norton only wore a kind of nightgown. Almost his entire body was bandaged. Speaking was difficult for him. I am suffering from a largely unknown disease that slowly eats away my skin and my outer body tissue. The doctors are at a loss and have already given up. Prior to that, all my efforts to treat this devoured all my fortune. Obviously, I cannot be seen in public anymore at daylight. That is certainly a grave and regrettable fate, replied Holmes, for you and your daughter. Nevertheless, you will understand that I am also interested in the whereabouts of the Egyptian mummy. Of course, Mr. Holmes, Norton answered. Unfortunately, the mummy is almost completely crushed. After thousands of years, the corpse has shrunk massively and offers little substance, despite all the efforts to mummify it. He gestured to some glasses on the dresser, which obviously contained mummier. The mummy powder is my last hope to heal. Maybe it can be applied externally and internally to stop or at least slow down my decaying process while I am alive. Mr. Norton, I objected. I am sorry, but a serious medical effect of mummier, or even the regeneration of tissue, is scientifically excluded. Modern pharmacology rightly deleted it from its range. It is just superstition. Norton shook his bandaged head. Dr. Watson, in my desperate case you are ready to believe anything. A friend of mine who is working as an archaeologist in Cairo told me about the delivery to the British Museum. More so, he said, that it might be a find from a real royal tomb, a pharaoh of the Ramesses line, who, if not a descendant of the sun god himself, can give me hope. But even that is over now. Then Norton turned to Holmes. Mr. Holmes, I am ready to face the consequences and accompany you to the police. My life is forfeited anyways. I urge you, however, to put in a good word for my daughter. Three weeks later, the grand opening of the new expanded Ancient Egyptian exhibition took place as scheduled at the British Museum. It was an immense public success. All of London talked about it. The new golden sarcophagus opened to the public for the first time, which was presented openly, and with it the mummy wrapped in dense bandages caused a particular sensation. Holmes and I were also invited to the ceremony. The overjoyed director Thompson enthusiastically thanked us again and again for the salvation of his exhibition and the recovery of the lost mummy. Packed up in a small wooden box, we were able to give it back to the museum within 72 hours. In regards to the police, we had to regretfully admit that we had been able to secure the stolen goods, but that the thieves, presumably an unscrupulous band or professional criminals from Germany, unfortunately escaped us and had already left for the continent. Catching them would hardly be possible. We left the opening party prematurely. Walking down the steps in front of the museum, Holmes smiled contentedly. I, on the other hand, still had doubts about the outcome of our case. You seem as if the day is won, I began, but is it not true that we helped in justice? After all, you lied to the police. Holmes looked almost amused at my remorse. My dear Watson, law and justice do not always coincide. Do you want to rise above the narrow ridge between legitimacy and righteousness? After a short thought I had to decline. I am a physician, Holmes, no lawyer, and certainly not a moralist, but there are still two questions that you have to answer. Holmes stopped. Go ahead, he said. Well, on one hand, I am interested in the whereabouts of Mr. Norton and his daughter. Apparently Mr. Thompson granted his assistant a longer paid vacation. You do not happen to know anything about that, Holmes? Only peripheral, he answered. Mr. Norton is currently, on my recommendation, at a dermatological sanatorium near Vienna. As I heard only yesterday, there seem to be first treatment successes, and, of course, his daughter is there with him. Not satisfied with his statement, I continued, but Holmes, Mr. Norton was without financial resources. How was he able to pay for his stay and the treatment? Oh, that's no problem, said Holmes. When I told Mr. Thompson about the regrettable state of health of his former classmate, he immediately agreed to cover all the costs. Even I had to laugh about that for a moment. But one thing still remained unclear. That's all fine, Holmes, I said, quickly regaining my composure. One last thing. All right, answered Holmes. Who or what in God's name is actually in the sarcophagus? I asked, looking seriously at him. My dear Watson, Holmes explained, you probably know Victoria's Lodge at the northern end of Hyde Park? I nodded. Well, the local doorkeeper, Mr. Winbridge, has created a small unofficial cemetery in the hidden backyard. For God's sake, I interjected, you did not steal a body. Making an innocent face, he asked me, unmoved, why not? Since we were still in the square in front of the museum, I whispered, regarding to that, law and ethic should be equally clear. You can't steal a human cadaver and show it in a museum. Holmes raised an eyebrow. I can't? Are the Egyptologists and mummy researchers doing something entirely different? But calm down, my dear Watson. I did nothing of that sort. The small necropolis in Hyde Park is an animal cemetery. There are pets, especially dogs and cats, buried. And a monkey. This one, it was a chimpanzee, was kindly left to me by Mr. Winbridge for a small fee. With the expertise of Miss Norton, I prepared the animal carcass. I can explain the details to you later, so that it looks somewhat similar to our lost mummy. As long as no one removes the bandages, my deception will remain undetected. Considering the circumstances, I literally lacked the words. Without any further comment, I followed Holmes to the street, where a carriage was already waiting for us. Leaving behind, admired by the visitor and celebrated by the press, the proud Mr. Thompson inside the museum, who presented a golden pharaoh sarcophagus in which an ordinary chimpanzee had been laid to rest to step forward to the Egyptian death court of Osiris.