Free The Scroll of the Dead by David Stuart Davies

engravings almost, picturing a series of grinning, repulsive faces, demonic and gargoyle-like. The sickly-sweet smell of incense, evocative of the east, permeated the air with a thick, cloying aroma that was almost suffocating in its intensity. The luxuriant carpet and furniture appeared to be in various shades of grey, black, or dark brown and, hanging over the mantelpiece, was a portrait of the owner of the house. The oil painting was in the high Gothic style, showing Sebastian Melmoth standing in themoonlight with a ruined castle battlement in the background. His pale face glared out at us with spectral animosity as though the painting were alive and he was aware that we were intruding upon his private quarters. The eyes glittered, animated by hate as the beam of light passed over the face. It was an unnerving apparition.
    However, all these observations took but a matter of seconds, for the real interest of this apartment was the dark oak casket resting on trestles in the centre of the room.
    Holmes swung the beam of the lantern on to the lid, illuminating a small silver plate, engraved with the legend: Sebastian Melmoth Hic reviviscere 1866-1896.
    My friend gave a snort of disgust. ‘Come Watson, help me with the lid.’
    ‘But surely, Holmes...’
    ‘This is the raison d’être of our visit. A closed coffin is no proof. It could easily be empty.’
    It was not empty. Despite all the bloodshed and the grisly injuries I had witnessed during my time in Afghanistan, I could not prevent my gorge from rising at the sight we witnessed as the lid was removed from the coffin. Perhaps, I pondered later, it was the incongruity of it that shocked my system. Despite being informed that Melmoth had been killed in a shooting accident, I was unprepared for the horrific extent of his wound. The mutilated corpse lay in the coffin with his wounds clearly on view. The upper half of his chest had been blown away and he had no face to speak of – just a mask of gory, dark red tissue which glistened in the light. Even the head had been shaved of its blond locks, further enhancing its ghoulish appearance.
    Holmes was far from taken aback by the sight of the apparition that lay before us. In fact he gave a murmur of satisfaction. A hunting accident, eh? Well it would have taken at least two cartridges to create this effect. It has been very nicely done, Watson. Very nicely done indeed.’ Sosaying he leaned over the corpse and examined the hands closely; then, shining the lamp on to what had once been a face, he scrutinised the teeth protruding from the ghastly mask of raw flesh.
    ‘Well, I am quite convinced that whoever this fellow is, he is certainly not Sebastian Melmoth.’
    ‘How can you be so certain?’
    ‘The evidence here merely proves what I already suspected. Look at the hands...’ He lifted one up and shone the lamp on to it. ‘Observe the callouses, the dirt-ingrained fingernails. These are not the hands of an aesthete and dandy; they are the hands of a labourer.’ Dropping the arm, he leaned further over the corpse and pulled back the shreds of flesh around the mouth. ‘Similarly the teeth have not had the benefit of the expensive dental care that the rich can afford. Those brown and black stumps speak of an unhealthy diet and neglect. No, my friend, this poor devil is merely a substitute, a decoy, if you like, to disguise the fact that Sebastian Melmoth is still very much alive.’
    ‘But what is the purpose behind this deception?’
    ‘I may flatter myself, but I believe it has been done mainly for my benefit, to put me off the scent. If the major suspect is dead, then the detective has to look elsewhere for another...’
    ‘Meanwhile, he carries on with his nefarious plans with impunity.’
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘But who then is this wretch in the coffin?’
    I was destined not to receive the answer to my query for, as Holmes was about to reply, there came a noise from the upper part of the house. It was the sound