Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse (19 page)

“Da!” Leighton clapped her hands happily. “You have figured out where it is?”

“Where it most likely is,” Whitesell corrected. “Yes, we believe so. It will take some digging to verify it, however. So. Have you had a… pleasant morning, my dear girl?”

“I have, Da,” she said, offering a shy smile to both her father and her companion. “John, here, has taken just as good care of me as Sherry has.”

“’John,’ is it, eh?” Holmes murmured to Watson, under cover of the first course service.

“It is now,” Watson replied in kind. “I am still not sure where this is going, though.”

“Time enough for that, old chap.”

“True.”

* * *

The entire team, including the diggers, were excited over the possibility of finally finding the tomb, and the season was now late enough to work throughout the afternoon, with some slight considerations of health and safety, to include water-bearers moving through the dig field to ensure that those in the pits, working with spades and picks, remained well-hydrated. So Udail asked for volunteers to work through the siesta, and had them aplenty; in fact, there were none left who wanted a siesta, so the break was promptly curtailed. The work commenced enthusiastically right after lunch on the two sites selected by Dr. Nichols-Woodall, and continued until the dinner warning gong. By that time, both trenches butted up solidly against the bluffs in question, and were fully twenty yards long, four to five feet wide, and nearly six feet deep…

…And contained absolutely nothing.

* * *

Dinner proved as disconsolate as luncheon had been exuberant. Once again Leighton was walked in by Watson, with a groggy Phillips wandering in moments later, and the three were informed of the lack of discovery.

“Aw,” Leighton murmured, disappointed.

“Yeah,” Phillips agreed, wistful—or as much so as a man thoroughly stupefied on narcotics, with a huge dressing over his nose, could be. “It, ub, would be dice… to, uh, fide it, already.”

The others blinked in surprise, distracted from the previous conversation by Phillips’ obvious intoxication. Watson scrutinised Phillips briefly with a professional eye, then threw Professor Whitesell a glance that managed to be simultaneously warning, sympathetic, and sheepish, just before he shrugged with the faintest hint of a wry grin, and the Professor nodded his understanding of the unspoken message:
It will be best to ignore the majority of what Phillips says, for now—it is apt to be the laudanum talking, but it is a necessary evil, so please bear with it.

“Landers, my lad,” Whitesell murmured, loud enough for everyone at the table to hear, but gentle enough to convey his compassion, “are you sure you should be at table? You appear to be a bit… groggy.”

“Ub, probably nod, Professor,” Phillips admitted slowly, swaying slightly in his chair. “I’b sdill tagig de laudadub. Bud I god hugry, ad I figured id would be bedder if I ade sobedig.”

The others took this in, translating the man’s speech with varying degrees of facility. Finally Lord Trenthume queried, “Did he say laudanum?”

“Yesh, I did,” came the response from Phillips. “For by dose.” He pointed in the general vicinity of that appendage; given the large bandage on it, it was hard to miss.

“Aha. That explains much. One of us will see him safely back to his tent after dinner, Will,” Beaumont addressed Whitesell in a quiet, unassuming voice. “Dr. Watson,
mon ami
, surely he does not need to be wandering about like this, by himself? While taking the laudanum?”

“No, he really shouldn’t,” Watson admitted. “But as I saw Sati, my orderly, leave the infirmary as soon as the warning gong rang for dinner, then spotted him crossing between mess tents as I was escorting Leighton to dinner, I think Phillips, here, was likely in safe hands. Sati has been popping over two or three times daily to see about him in any event.”

“Yesh,” Phillips slurred, nodding. “Sati. He’ped be ged doo didder. Cobig bag doo ged be afder. Good bad, he is.”

“’Good bad’?” Lord Trenthume puzzled.

“I think he means, ‘good man,’” Holmes suggested.

“Yesh. Good bad.” Phillips nodded again.

“Ah. Capital,” Whitesell decided, then seemed to have a thought. “Abraam? No wine for Mr. Phillips to-night. I think the laudanum is quite enough as is.”

“Yes sir,” the sommelier replied discreetly from the corner of the tent. “I had already rather anticipated it.”

“Very good, then.”

The table fell silent as they all began the first course.

“I am so sorry, Professor, about the lack of findings to-day,” a sincere Watson took the opportunity to say, after several moments. “I thought surely you had it. Where will you try next?”

“Parker has several more ideas,” Whitesell said, confident, nibbling absently at his food while keeping a concerned eye on Phillips. “We shall try each in turn, and if there is anything here to find, sooner or later, we shall find it.”

* * *

But they didn’t. Trench after trench was cut, with no luck, and no tomb. His frustration rising, Professor Whitesell even began to doubt himself.

“Maybe we are not finding it because it is just not here,” he said over dinner one evening fully a week later. “Perhaps I was wrong about this location. Perhaps I was wrong about the entire thing.”

“No, Da!” Leighton exclaimed. “Surely not!”

“I do not believe you were wrong about the translation, Professor,” Holmes said. “Once you told me about the particular passage, I found it in my texts, and studied it myself. And I firmly believe that your translation was more nearly accurate than the original translation was. It may be,” he suggested, considering, “that this is simply not the site the text describes, after all, in despite of the apparent resemblance, and we shall have to find another.”

“I think Holmes is correct,” Beaumont offered. “We are merely digging in the wrong cañon. When once we find the right one, we shall find the tomb quickly, I think.”

“Well, then. What do you recommend, gentlemen?” Whitesell asked, spreading his hands.

“I recommend we keep looking a little longer, Will,” Nichols-Woodall declared, staunch. “We haven’t exhausted all my options quite yet.”

“I say we return to Cairo and research the text further,” Beaumont said in an assured manner. “Perhaps we can locate the true area, so.”

“I can’t—no, I REFUSE to believe that the Professor could be wrong,” Phillips said, steadfast. By this time he had finished the laudanum pills and Watson had removed the majority of the packing, though he was still taking powders for pain relief. There was still a fair amount of swelling and bruising, enough so that his speech continued mildly nasal, but he had returned to work… and consequently had noticed that Watson was now keeping company with a very cheerful Leighton Whitesell. The glares that had been reserved exclusively for Holmes were therefore now being transferred to the physician, and the student assistant was doing everything in his power to curry favour with the Professor, whether subtle or, more often, not so much so. Consequently, at this somewhat bombastic declamatory statement, most of the eyes at the table rolled in bored distaste, then ignored him altogether.

“Cortland?” Whitesell polled.

“I think I should split the difference, Will,” Lord Trenthume offered. “Try for a few more days; then, if we still have found nothing, repair to Cairo and ponder the matter. I see no point in wasting monies by digging pointless holes in the earth.”

“And finally, Holmes,” Whitesell said.

Holmes did not answer right away, but sat with his brows knit in thought.

“What is it, Holmes? Is something wrong?” Whitesell wondered, concerned.

“No, nothing, Professor—and everything,” Holmes replied thoughtfully. “Because everything indicates, to my mind, that the tomb should be here, somewhere. And my gut is in agreement. Which latter virtually always means that my subconscious has deduced something of which my conscious mind has yet to become aware.” He looked up and met the Professor’s vivid blue eyes with his own grey gaze. “I think we should continue the search, Professor—right here.”

“But Holmes, where else can we dig? The only sites left to try are composed of hard stone,” Whitesell protested.

“Then you try the hard stone,” Holmes announced.

“But the ancient Egyptians could not possibly have cut it with their bronze tools,” Beaumont protested.

“Unless the strata change with depth,” Holmes pointed out. “Just because what is on the surface in the modern day is too hard for bronze chisels, does not mean what is below, what was on THEIR surface level, was so hard as well. Professor, I would like to strongly urge you to at least finish out the calendrical week.”

“Where do you suggest we try next, Holmes?” Nichols-Woodall asked. “My geological extrapolations have proven fruitless; what does your detection indicate, based upon the clews we have?”

“Over in the corner of the valley formed by the highest spur and the main range,” Holmes said. “That is where I would try, for it is a strong area of the mountains, and the spur would act as a buttress, stabilising the entire structure—and surely, with their construction skills, the Egyptians would have known this. Moreover, everything I have seen—all the clews I have to hand—point to that area, at least in my mind. Meanwhile, I shall go to the artefact tent first thing in the morning and pore over the clews again to see what else I may find.”

“The infirmary has been slow of late, and I don’t have to be there until mid-morning,” Watson noted. “If I may be of help, Holmes, you have only to ask. They can always send word if an emergency arises.”

“Thank you, old chap; I shall take you up on that.”

“I’ll see word is sent to Sati, Doctor,” Whitesell said. “That way, you may stay with Holmes all morning, and be fetched if needed.”

“Very good,” Watson agreed.

“So, gentlemen, what say you all?” Whitesell addressed the others.

“It’s as good a plan as any, Will,” Lord Trenthume said. “Sounds good to me.”

“And me,” Nichols-Woodall said.

“I suppose I shall go along with it, then,” Beaumont agreed.

“Then to-morrow we dig in the corner of the spur,” Whitesell decreed.

* * *

The next morning after breakfast, the group split up. Holmes and Watson, accompanied by Lord Trenthume, removed to the artefact tent. Holmes produced his handmade map, and Watson and Lord Trenthume helped him verify the entries he had made upon it, fetching the artefact log as well as the artefacts themselves as confirmation. It was well past Watson’s normal infirmary hours when they finished, but it all graphed to the appropriate spots on Holmes’ chart. The detective studied his map, then sighed.

“I see nothing here that points me elsewhere than I recommended last night,” he said. “Lord Trenthume, would you mind fetching that small clay tablet which Dr. Beaumont and Mr. Phillips found a day or two ago? I want to review the inscription again.”

“Certainly, Holmes, it is just right over here,” Lord Trenthume said, going to fetch it from its tray.

“Watson, would you care to learn a thing or two about hieroglyphs, while I work?” Holmes asked, reaching for the tablet. “Sometimes I find it is true that explaining a thing to another person may clarify it in one’s own mind. So if you have any curiosity on the matter, it may kill two birds, as the saying is.”

“I have been quite curious, actually, Holmes,” Watson replied, pulling up a stool to sit at the detective’s elbow.

“Very good. Let us start with some basics…”

* * *

“Get Holmes!” Whitesell called from somewhere near the cliff’s base, voice echoing among the rocks. “Tell him we’ve found the entrance to the tomb! There are inscriptions!”

Holmes, who had been seated at the artefact table for the last hour, studying the clay tablet discovered the day before and using it as a lesson in translation for Watson, glanced up at that worthy, who now stood beside him. Two sets of jaws dropped. Instantly Holmes rose and shoved the tablet back into Cortland’s grasp, and the pair scrambled out of the tent, sprinting for the base of the bluff. Behind them, Lord Trenthume scurried to put the fragile clay tablet someplace safe before running after them.

Professor Whitesell, so excited as to be nearly hopping up and down, stood there awaiting them, several diggers clustered around. Behind him, its top some two feet below ground level, its threshold at the bottom of a large pit, was a stone lintel and door, cut directly from the bedrock. The lintel was inscribed all around with ancient hieroglyphics, and Holmes crouched low to glance over them, as Udail studied how best to open the door without causing damage. Significantly, one block near the top of the left-hand side of the door frame was missing; the stone which they had found a few weeks prior, and which fragmentary inscription Holmes had translated, appeared to be a perfect fit for the gap.

“Well?” Whitesell demanded of Holmes, delighted. “I knew it! I told you we’d find it! Very well, so I had a bit of hesitation; it was still here, right where you said! Pharaoh Ka-Sekhen’s tomb, right here, in the bloody hardest stone in the entire area!” He danced a few jig steps before turning to several workers. “Start cutting a ramp into the side of the pit. There are certain to be several large antiquities inside, sarcophagi and such, and it will be far easier to bring them out if we do not have to contend with ladders and block and tackle rigs.” The men nodded and moved to one side, commencing to murmur among themselves about the most likely place to construct such a ramp, the gradient required, and the length it needed to be.

“Professor,” Holmes began slowly, still considering the writing on the lintel, “I see nothing here about any pharaoh, let alone the names Ka or Sekhen. But I DO see quite a few warnings, of the, ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’
49
variety.”

“Nonsense,” Whitesell declared, eager. “Nothing new. Just more evidence of the so-called ‘Mummy’s Curse.’ I put no stock in it. There are precious few such real inscriptions as it is, which makes it a discovery, as well. They were likely all done for show—a baseless threat to strike fear into the hearts of the ignorant. Besides, look! Right there is where that lintel-stone came from, the one you translated a week or so back! And that certainly DID invoke Sekhen! Come, let’s get down into the pit and see what we may find!” He promptly began scaling nimbly down the wooden ladder near the corner.