“Please take your places, gentlemen,” said Margaret. “It is almost midnight. Let us begin the ceremony inscribed on the walls of Queen Tera’s tomb. In a moment, we will summon a power stronger than man has ever known. Are you ready?”
“Get on with it, Miss Trelawny,” said Moriarty impatiently. Like each of the other men, he was now standing by one of the seven pillars.
“As you wish,” said Margaret. She seemed to be smiling a particularly catlike smile. It reminded Alice of the smile painted on the mummified cat in Tera’s tomb. Margaret stepped onto the platform, stood next to the sarcophagus, and said, “Light the lamps.”
MARY: What was it about those lamps, anyway? Why were they so special?
BEATRICE: Ayesha told me it was not the lamps themselves, which were merely ceremonial objects, but the oil they contained. Certain substances have the power to amplify energic waves. Some crystals will do it, as will certain kinds of musical instruments. And there is a combination of cedar and other aromatic oils that the priestesses of Isis would use for that purpose.
ALICE: Also cod liver oil, believe it or not.
What were they doing with Mr. Holmes? Mary leaned forward to see. Perhaps if she stood up… Moriarty and Colonel Moran were now standing by two of those strange pillars, which were shaped like lotus flowers. There were seven pillars in all, and on top of each one was a bowl of some sort. One flared up—ah, they were lamps! Each of the men stood behind a pillar—one by one, they were lighting the lamps, which burned with a strange white flame. She had heard their names earlier, when Moriarty had told them what to do: Lord Godalming, Dr. Raymond, Mr. Morris, Mr. Harker, whom they had walked over to the museum with, and of course Dr. Seward. She was afraid Dr. Seward might recognize her as Miss Jenks from when she had visited the Purfleet Asylum with Mr. Holmes, but he had scarcely glanced at her. So that was the infamous Dr. Raymond? It did not surprise her that he was involved in this absurdity as well. There, now the last of the lamps were lit. Were they about to start the ritual?
No one was paying attention to her, Diana, or Justine. They had simply been left sitting beside one of the exhibition cases, as though they were no longer important. Well, that was a relief! Mary stood up and tried to see what they had done to Mr. Holmes.
He was lying on the lid of that large stone box—the sarcophagus, she believed it was called. Lying spread-eagled like that, he looked more than ever like a spider. But not a dead spider! He was still alive—he must still be alive, mustn’t he?
In front of the sarcophagus stood a beautiful woman with upswept black hair, looking down at a scroll she held in her hands, saying something in a foreign language, her voice rising and falling, almost as though she were intoning a chant. She wore a black gown with a low collar, and around her neck was a magnificent gold necklace with a ruby pendant dangling from it. Earlier, when they had first entered and Moriarty called the women over for a hurried consultation, Mary had noted that it was in the shape of a scarab. He had called her Margaret—she must be Margaret Trelawny, who would be performing whatever strange ritual was being enacted here. On the other side of the sarcophagus stood Mrs. Raymond, holding Alice’s hand.
“What language is that?” Mary asked Justine. She did not think anyone would overhear them—the participants were too far away, and too occupied with those strange-looking lamps, whatever their purpose.
“None that I recognize,” replied Justine. “There is no one watching us. I will attempt once again to break this rope.”
“That will not be necessary,” said a low voice behind them. Mary turned around, startled. There, crouched in the shadow of a display case, was one of Colonel Moran’s lackeys. He spoke with a foreign accent that sounded almost, but not quite, German. She felt a sense of satisfaction that, after her European adventures, she recognized the intonation.
“Here,” he said, holding out a knife. “Free yourselves and flee while it is still possible.”
Diana snatched the knife out of his hand and sawed through the rope around her wrists, then quickly cut those around Mary’s and Justine’s wrists as well.
“Who are you?” asked Mary in a voice as low as his. At the center of the room, Margaret Trelawny was still reading from the scroll. The scarab on the necklace she wore was now glowing red.
“My name is Isaac Mandelbaum,” he said. “You have met my mother, the housekeeper for Professor Moriarty. She asked me to help you, to get you out before the—what is the word—the engagement. The combat. Soon, I hope, the Metropolitan Police will be here. They shall arrest Moriarty and his men for breaking and entering into the British Museum, with the intent to steal the artifacts from this exhibit. And then, once he is in custody, he will be brought up on other charges. He has been careful, very careful, but now we have evidence of his crimes—the opium dens, the houses of prostitution, the smuggling of goods and people.”
“What is we?” asked Diana skeptically. “Who are you working for, anyway?”
“That I cannot tell you,” he said. “But I am loyal to your British government, and I have been instructed, if possible, to save Mr. Holmes.” He drew a pistol from behind his back—it must have been in his belt. It was the same pistol that had been pointed at them only an hour ago, but now, apparently, he was a friend. Mary was not sure whether to trust him.
“Did Mycroft Holmes send you?” she asked. Who else in the British government knew about Moriarty and his criminal enterprises? It must be Mycroft—despite his apparent indifference in the Diogenes Club, he must be trying to save his brother. But Isaac Mandelbaum did not answer. He merely crouched in the shadows, pistol drawn, waiting. For what? He had said that help was on the way.…
Suddenly, Margaret Trelawny’s recitation ceased. Mary looked at the central platform. Margaret was no longer holding the scroll. She was standing still, turned toward Mrs. Raymond, who had her hands raised. Alice was leaning over, rubbing the hand Mrs. Raymond had been holding, and looking down at Mr. Holmes.
As Mary watched, the air around Mrs. Raymond shimmered. It looked as though she were surrounded by multicolored waves. Were these the energic waves Ayesha had described? They swirled around her, rising and falling, shifting with her motions. She looked like a conductor before an orchestra, but her orchestra was the air itself. Mary felt a cold wind rise and begin to blow around the room.
Around the platform, the seven men stood at the seven pillars. The wind whipped Mr. Morris’s long hair about his head.
“It’s time for the sacrifice!” shouted Moriarty, with a sort of triumphant glee in his voice. “This will be the last of you, Sherlock Holmes! You will be drained of your life, your essence, like a battery. This time there will be no resurrecting you from the waters of Reichenbach Falls!”
They were going to sacrifice Mr. Holmes in this insane ritual! For what purpose? Mary had no idea, but she knew that she had to save him.
“Help me!” she said to Justine. “I have to get to Sherlock!”
“Mary, what are you going to do?” asked Justine. She had to raise her voice to be heard above the wind.
“I don’t know!” said Mary. “I’ll think of something!” She had no plan—she always had a plan, but now she simply did not know what to do. She just knew that she had to get Sherlock Holmes off that platform.