Free The Adventure of the Pharaoh's Curse (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 1) by Craig Janacek

is blocked on accounts of the protests. We needed to go down Kingsway and Aldwych instead and then here along the Embankment.”
    “Ah, very good,” replied Holmes, sinking back morosely into his seat. But then he sprang forward. “Stop the horse, cabby!” he commanded.
    “What is it, Holmes?”
    However, I received no answer. Instead, Holmes had already jumped out of the cab and was striding down the Embankment back the way we had come. The driver was futilely calling after him. I paid the man and hurried to catch my friend. Fortunately, he had not gone far. Instead he stopped at a curious spot.
    “Strange, Watson, how many times have we passed this way over the years, but never really registered it into our consciousness.”
    “Indeed, Holmes,” I exclaimed. I stared up at the great red granite obelisk that pierced the sky. It was over twenty meters high, engraved on all sides with hieroglyphs. It was flanked on two sides by giant bronze sphinxes, their inscription-dimpled patinas darkened to a midnight black.
    “If I recall correctly, this monument is known as Cleopatra’s Needle, though it actually has little to do with that great queen, whose age cannot wither her infinite variety.” Tell me, Watson, what do you see that is wrong with this tableau?”
    I studied it for a minute. “The sphinxes appear to be looking backwards. They should be guarding the Needle, not gazing upon it.”
    Holmes laughed softly to himself. “You are a conductor of light, Watson.”
    “Have you had some inspiration, Holmes?”
    “Oh, yes. Look over there, Watson,” he commanded, pointing towards Waterloo Bridge. “Do you recall that this is the locale of one of the greatest failures of my early years? For it was here that Mr. John Openshaw was decoyed and murdered by Captain James Calhoun and his two mates, minutes after I sent him away to his death. But, with age comes great wisdom. We shall not be defeated again, I think.”
    “Back to the Museum then?”
    “Not quite yet, Watson. There is still one piece of the puzzle that remains to be tracked down.”
    “Where to then, Holmes?”
    “No, my dear fellow. This is one task I must undertake on my own. There is no prospect of danger or I should not dream of stirring without you at my side.” He would say no more. By this point in our friendship I simply accepted his curiously secretive streak, which invariably led to the production of one those dramatic effects that he so clearly craved. I could attempt to guess at his exact plans, but often found that even I was often left in the dark. “I will be at the Museum by five o’clock,” he continued. “I will send a note to Lestrade and all of the other players to meet me there at that hour. I trust that by that time I will have cleared up the mess that I have made of this so far. Adieu.”
    I watched as he hailed a passing cab and leapt aboard. The streets were crowded on the way back to the hotel, but in the event that Holmes concluded his investigations early, I did not wish to miss any potential messages sent to me there. Therefore, I spent the remainder of the morning and early afternoon at a desk jotting down notes while they were still fresh in my mind, in the hopes that they might someday be worthy of publication. This quickly passed the time and before I knew it, I looked at the clock and realized that I must proceed with haste back to the Museum, skipping my tea in the process. I sprang into a hansom and drove to the Bloomsbury, half-afraid that I might be too late to hear the dénouement of this singular mystery.
    When I arrived minutes before the appointed hour, the main doors were due to remain open for a short time longer, and the galleries were still filled with crowds of assorted people. Fashionable ladies, chattering mindlessly behind gloved hands, inadvertently mingled with plodding laborers and stylishly, if modestly, attired clerks. Even a poorly-herded gaggle of children scampered amidst the ancient