Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse (12 page)

“Watson! What are you doing?!” Holmes whispered, when he could catch his breath; Leighton’s calls were just down the row of tents now. Watson grabbed one of Holmes’ feet, dragging it off the cot, to dangle awkwardly a few inches above the canvas floor.

“Hush, close your eyes, and follow my lead! Here she comes!”

“Sherry? Dr. Watson? Are you inside? May I come in?” came the soft hail from without.

“Come in, Miss Whitesell,” Watson called in a low voice, “but please, do be quiet.”

The tent flap was pushed back, and Leighton entered. She stopped dead, hands flying to her mouth in distress, as she saw the tableau within: an apparently unconscious Holmes, sprawled across his cot, half-undressed, his shirt soaked with what appeared to be perspiration, moisture heavily beaded on his brow and lip, while Watson sat beside him with his medical kit, gently sponging him down with a wet cloth.

“Dr. Watson! What’s wrong?! Is Sherry ill?”

“Not too badly, I think,” Watson soothed, mopping Holmes’ beaded brow with the damp washcloth. “You may have seen him exploring the site this morning, learning his way around a bit better? I think perhaps he may have been trying to learn the grid off by heart… he mentioned something this morning…”

“Yes?”

“Well, I’m afraid he might have got a little overheated,” Watson said, only avoiding lying through his teeth by the narrowest of margins and considerable circumlocution. “He appears to have a touch of heat prostration. A cool down, a quart or so of water in him—I TOLD you to take your canteen,” he broke off to tell an inert Holmes sternly, “and he’ll be fine. If he behaves, I MIGHT let him out again this afternoon, after the siesta—provided he wears his topee, takes at least one canteen full of water and DRINKS from it… and perhaps a moist bandanna, worn about the throat.”

“Oh DEAR!” Leighton exclaimed, horrified. “Is he awake?”

“Mmh,” Holmes groaned just then, before continuing in a whisper. “Oh, my head. Yes, Leigh, I am awake. Please keep your voice down. My head…”

“You could be verging on a migraine,” Watson scolded. “And no wonder. Am I going to have to follow you around to insist you carry your canteen and use it? You have experience here; I’d have thought you knew better.”

“It has… been several years… Watson. One never… forgets how to… ride the bicycle, but… one can get… rusty.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Leighton said, in her softest tone. “Don’t you worry one whit, Sherry. I’ll go tell Da you need to stay in here this afternoon and get well.”

“NO!” Holmes cried, lunging upward; Watson immediately splayed his hand across the sleuth’s chest and pressed down hard, keeping him prone. Holmes promptly clutched his head and slumped. “No, Leigh, don’t do that. I had… rather he… didn’t know.”

“Ohhhh,” Leighton said, in understanding—as she thought. “I see. It would embarrass you in front of Da and the others. Yes, I understand. Um, what shall we tell Da, then, if he notices you’re missing?”

“Tell him that, um… that Holmes decided to come back to the tent, to mull over potential clews to, uh, to the tomb’s location,” Watson suggested, after a moment’s thought.

“Yes,” Holmes agreed. “Yes, that would do very well, Leigh. Tell him that. But only if he asks. I have no doubt I shall be out and about in an hour or so, with Watson tending me, here. So he may not even miss me.”

“All right. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, Miss Whitesell,” Watson declared. “In fact, I shall have to ask you to leave, and tie the tent flap closed behind you, if you would be so kind. You see, I plan to remove some more of Holmes’ garments and apply cool compresses, and it would not do for you to remain.”

“Oh!” She blushed furiously. “Of course! I’ll just slip out then. Feel better, Sherry! Do take good care of him, Doctor!”

And she was gone, tying the tent flap behind her.

* * *

The two men waited until the pattering sound of her footsteps faded into silence, then Holmes sat up, and they both doubled over with laughter, carefully stifled lest she return.

“You… you owe me for that, Holmes!” Watson gasped, before burying his red face in his pillow to muffle his laughter.

“I do, you rascal!” Holmes agreed, practically convulsed with silent laughter. “A prettier improvised plan I could not have devised! The mineral jelly not only appeared to be a film of sweat, it made the water bead up! Where did you get that trick?”

“From you, of course! Where do you think I learned it all? I have paid attention whenever you have disguised yourself, you know!”

“Capital, my dear Watson, positively capital!”

And they doubled over again.

* * *

By the time Holmes had stripped off his sodden shirt and vest, dried off, cleansed away the petroleum jelly, and dressed in clean, dry clothing, he and Watson judged that enough time had passed for him to venture forth once more, and he had indeed had occasion to ponder the situation in which the expedition collectively found itself. This time, however, when he left the tent he not only wore his pith helmet, he wrapped one of Watson’s bandannas about his throat, and took TWO full canteens—his own and Watson’s—slung bandolier-style across his chest.

“Seriously, Holmes, it really isn’t going to hurt to take in a bit more water, in this environment,” Watson offered, as he handed Holmes his own canteen, back in the tent. “You’re entirely too prone to not eating or drinking when you are working, and that simply won’t do, here. Professor Whitesell has asked me to maintain ‘surgery hours’ at certain times of day in the tent, meaning I am stuck here for the rest of the afternoon in any case, so take my canteen too. I’ll have one of my nurses fetch a fresh pitcherful from the water butt, so I shall be just fine.”

“Fair enough, Watson,” Holmes agreed mildly, adjusting the strap across his chest. “I suppose if Leigh starts in again, I can always begin sending her off with alternate canteens to bring me water. I may well float away in that event, however.”

“Which will not hurt in the least. Um, does she have any nursing skill?”

“Why, would you like for me to send her here, to help you?”

“It… was a thought.”

“She is quite comely, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yes, very comely,” Watson admitted fervently without thinking, then caught himself. Holmes was grinning at him like a Cheshire cat. “I, uh, I mean…”

“Never mind, Watson. I shall most certainly send her to you as a nursing assistant.”

And he was gone, leaving behind a chagrined young physician.

* * *

Holmes watched the archaeologists and their workers the rest of the afternoon, but saw nothing of any consequence that he could determine. Phillips and Beaumont finally finished extracting the pottery jar, and Cortland came around to help them fetch it out of the pit, as it was quite large and heavy—and moreover, in one piece, well-decorated over most of its surface, and apparently of the proper age to date to Pharaoh Sekhen’s reign. Whitesell and Nichols-Woodall prowled the base of the mountain, where a scarp rose up for more than a hundred feet; from time to time, one or the other would point here or there, so Holmes decided they were discussing possible tomb sites. And despite the detective’s fears, Udail kept the local workers going, screening the sand for small items and digging pits in hopes of finding larger items. The slowing of the work, however, was noticeable even to Holmes, who had not been there more than a scant few days. He drew a long, slim finger thoughtfully across his perspiring forehead; the moisture reminded him of Watson’s injunction, and he brought up one of the canteens and took a long, cool drink from it.

Leighton did find him, and hovered near for a while, until Holmes expressed mild discomfiture over the possibility that her attentions might give away his earlier “malady” to her father; in reality, he simply did not want to risk offending the older man by being too dismissive of his daughter. Then he suggested she might go to assist Watson in his makeshift infirmary, and reluctantly, she did so.

As the sun moved deep into the clefts in the mountains, casting a long dark shadow over the dig site, the day cooled slowly into evening, and the dinner gong rang the warning. Work ceased for the day, and everyone retired to their tents to freshen up a bit before the evening meal was served.

* * *

The gathering around the dinner table, however, seemed electrified. Tension fairly crackled under the awning, and Holmes realised that something was very wrong. Watson arrived with Leighton on his arm, but she looked petulant, and he appeared unhappy. Professor Whitesell took his usual seat, but chewed his lower lip and drummed his fingers restlessly on the table top. Phillips glared at Watson, coming over and taking Leighton off the physician’s arm before escorting her to her traditional seat between himself and her father. Meanwhile, Nichols-Woodall’s expression could most closely be said to resemble a thundercloud. The only people at the main table who appeared unperturbed were Beaumont and Lord Trenthume.
But then,
considered Holmes,
Lord Trenthume rarely looks perturbed, because, if appearances are anything to go by, he seldom has any serious awareness of what is going on around him.
The sleuth idly wondered what went on in the earl’s head to render him so completely oblivious so much of the time.
Then again,
he thought,
I am assuming that as much goes on in other men’s minds as goes on in mine, which is probably not a reasonable assumption, judging by some.

Everyone seated themselves, and the first course was served, a spicy mutton stew. Little was said, and the tension did not decrease overmuch as they ate their way through the course. Leighton relaxed a bit, and began to chat casually with her father and Phillips, telling them about how much she’d learned from Watson about treating patients; the news appeared to mollify Phillips, and lighten the Professor’s mood. On hearing this, Holmes turned to Watson and raised a querying eyebrow. Watson shrugged, then, under cover of the removal of the first course, leaned over and murmured, “I’m not you.”

“Ah.” Holmes paused, biting his own lip in vexation. “Sorry about that, old chap.”

“Not your fault.”

The main course came out, kebabs on a bed of couscous. By this time, everyone seemed relatively jovial… except for Dr. Nichols-Woodall. If anything, Holmes decided, watching him, the thunderstorm was about to break. In the next instant, it did.

“So, Beaumont, did your little device serve your purpose?” With a snide tone, Nichols-Woodall dropped the bombshell into the midst of the table, and everyone stopped, forks halfway to their mouths. Beaumont slowly put down his fork, staring at the other man, eyes narrowed. Holmes surreptitiously took a deep breath, realising the bad blood between the pair was about to come to a head.

“What do you mean by that, sir?”

“I mean,” an irate Nichols-Woodall specified, “your little fake ‘mummy’s curse.’”

“Fake? Curse?”

“Of course,” Nichols-Woodall raged. “We should have known you were too dishonourable to truly bury the hatchet, save in our own backs! We know the stone tablet you connived to insert into the artefacts is a forgery! Young Mr. Holmes, there, was too astute for you! He caught all your errors, recognised it for what it was, and came to Professor Whitesell this very morning!”

“So he has translated the inscription?” Beaumont wondered, blasé.

Holmes closed his eyes momentarily, with a silent sigh, at this breakdown of his plans. When he opened them, he cast an admonishing glance at Professor Whitesell, who returned it diffidently, somewhat red-faced. Then Holmes looked down the table at a bristling Nichols-Woodall and Beaumont, facing off against each other across the width of the table, an uncomfortable Lord Trenthume occupying the end seat, more or less between them.

“Yes, Dr. Beaumont, I have translated it,” Holmes replied dispassionately, feeling suddenly very tired.

“And you believe it to be a forged item because?” Beaumont pressed.

“Because the particular form of hieroglyphic used is of a much later period than what we are looking for, yet it invoked one of the names of Pharaoh Ka-Sekhen, and because the stone had been treated to give it the superficial appearance of weathered age, despite the very recent carving of the hieroglyphs.”

“Well?” Nichols-Woodall demanded, rising partway from his chair. “Even if the log of discoveries was inaccurate, Willingham and I both remember you bringing it in, making so much of it! And no record of where it was found! What are you about, Beaumont?! Did you intend to slip in a fake without our knowledge, then at a convenient time reveal it and discredit us to academia? In the eyes of our friends and colleagues? Or are you trying to frighten the workers, slow down the dig, enable your own team somewhere else to make a discovery first? You and your bloody DAMN FAKE CURSE! I should have shot you as soon as you arrived!” He slammed an angry fist on the table, sending china and cutlery clattering and bouncing, and suddenly a wave of silence washed over the tables of the workers outside the main dining tent.

Beaumont turned away from Nichols-Woodall and gazed at Holmes, as a genial, appreciative smile spread across his face, and he began to applaud slowly.

“Very good,” he murmured, his claps accelerating as his voice rose. “Very, very good, Monsieur Holmes, I am sure! Relax,
mes amis
!
32
It is all a joke! Forgive me for the perverse humour, but the good Professor Whitesell made so much of our translator before he had even arrived, that I feared lest his skills fail to live up to his publicity! I would never have allowed the thing to go forward as a true relic, of course not! But I felt it wise to, ah, to play a little prank upon Mr. Holmes, to ensure he was as good as his reputation made him! You have indeed chosen a worthy translator for us, Willingham! But I must ask: why did you yourselves not realise the deception, eh? Why not?”

With a growl, Nichols-Woodall responded, “You KNOW I am a student of geological matters, Beaumont. Give me a stone, I shall identify it, and determine its original locale. I cannot, nor could not ever, read hieroglyphs.” He paused, then admitted, “I curse myself that I did not stop to examine the stone of the tablet, for then I might have recognised how it had been treated to resemble an ancient artefact, and uncovered your subterfuge at once.”