Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse (20 page)

“Do you anticipate that one of, if not the, earliest pharaohs would have already established the need?” Holmes pointed out, climbing down, as did the others in their turn. “Surely Ka-Sekhen’s tomb would have been created too early for grave-robbers to be desecrating the pharaonic tombs regularly. It was the pharaohs of the ninth and tenth dynasties that were most prone to inscribing curses, were they not? And we are presumably excavating the very first pharaoh. I put it to you that he would have had no reason for such a thing.”

“Well, you do have a point…” Whitesell’s moustache seemed to wilt slightly. He turned to study the oversized doorway which now loomed over them.

“All Holmes is saying is to be careful,” Watson offered gently. “It may be the tomb of this Ka-Sekhen, or perhaps one of his near successors, or it may not. Don’t some of these tombs have so-called booby traps? Or even faked entrances?”

“They do, and you are both right,” Whitesell said with a sigh. “I really must learn not to get so heated over a discovery.”

“It is a splendid discovery, whether or no, Professor,” Phillips pointed out, shooting an annoyed glance at Holmes. It registered on the sleuth at that moment that the student assistant never had apologised as per Whitesell’s orders; undoubtedly he was still resentful, and the hostile glance served to prove as much. “It is obviously a newly discovered tomb for SOME important Egyptian, which is wonderful. And if it is Ka-Sekhen’s, so much the better.”

“True, lad, true,” Whitesell agreed, “but Holmes and the good doctor are perfectly correct, as well. It is far better to go inside cautiously… assuming there IS an ‘inside,’ I suppose… and emerge whole with our discovery, than to rush in where angels fear to tread and end up joining Ka-Sekhen in the realm of Anubis, as it were.”

“Professor, come and see,” the digger beside Udail remarked in heavily accented English. “Is not this the latch?”

Whitesell knelt beside the Egyptian and studied the small device the man had found, inset into the doorframe. He put out a hand to examine it more closely.

“Careful, Professor,” Holmes murmured, watching, studying the entire doorway for possible traps.

* * *

“I am, my boy, I am,” Whitesell muttered absently. “I think that this is indeed the lock. It is a small latch set into a recess of the right lintel.” He glanced up, to see Holmes’ grey eyes intently scrutinising the framework, and recalled Holmes’ principal occupation, deciding that caution likely dictated obtaining the detective’s go-forth, as well. “Do you see anything, young Holmes?”

“May I?” Holmes asked permission, stepping forward.

“By all means.” Whitesell backed up several paces to provide room, as did the digger and Udail, thus allowing Holmes to come in and run light hands gingerly over the entire structure, as high up as he could reach. Phillips scowled and folded his arms in impatience as he watched. “Anything there?” Whitesell followed up.

“Nothing that I can discern,” Holmes admitted, moving back. “But there could easily be a deadfall on the other side of the door, so I do not recommend rushing through as soon as it is opened.”

“No, no, I’m an old campaigner in that regard.” Whitesell threw him a smile. “Even if there is no trap against grave robbers, the structure can still be unsound. And there is always the matter of determining if the air is bad.” He nodded to his foreman. “Udail?”

“Yes, Professor?”

“Use the end of your spade, and stand as far back as you can, then press the latch.” Whitesell waved to one of the other diggers standing by. “You over there, get a candle ready.”

“No need, Professor. I have matches for my pipe.” Holmes rummaged in his pockets before producing his waterproof match container.

“Very good, Holmes.” He turned back to the other worker. “Go get torches, lanterns, and carbide lamps. Udail, go ahead with opening the tomb.”

Udail nodded his understanding, then backed up, obeying the professor, as the other digger ran off to find the lighting equipment.

* * *

When the spade handle depressed the latch, there was a single soft click. Udail glanced at Whitesell, who nodded and made a pushing gesture. So Udail used the spade handle as a probe, gently pressing against the door until the leverage point was found. As the airtight seal broke on the chamber within, there was a soft sough of air; dust swirled from the edges of the door, and it abruptly yawned into a pitch-black maw. A gust of warm, musty, stale air met their faces; Lord Trenthume wrinkled his nose. Udail, somewhat unnerved, backed up.

When no indication of deadfall or imminent roof collapse was forthcoming, a fearless Holmes strode forward, striking a match. He stepped onto the threshold and thrust his hand, holding the match, into the opening. It flickered from the breeze borne of motion, but burned brightly. Holmes whipped the match back and forth through the air, extinguishing it before it could burn his fingers, and turned.

Scanning the assembled group, he realised that no one was wearing a carbide lamp, and the worker had not yet returned with any.
Mm. Not even Whitesell expected this so soon,
he thought.

“Bring torches,” was all he said.

* * *

Professor Whitesell led the way. Within was a large anteroom, covered on all four walls with the most archaic form of hieroglyphics known, which Watson himself could tell matched the style of writing upon the doorposts outside, especially after Holmes’ tutorial. The floor was inlaid with an intricate, patterned mosaic which seemed to represent a map of ancient Egypt and her occupied territories, with small tiles of what looked to be pure gold marking the ancient cities, and a trail of lapis lazuli forming the Nile; a large, bright golden star, the featured item in the mosaic, apparently represented the tomb’s location, a matter which even Watson thought odd. The high ceiling was painted to represent, as closely as possible, the night sky; the stars appeared gilded in some fashion.
If the floor has gold in it, chances are, the ceiling does, too, I suppose,
the physician considered.

* * *

On the far side of the chamber was another door, in similar style to the one through which they had already passed. Whitesell, Phillips, Beaumont, Lord Trenthume, Nichols-Woodall, and faithful Udail promptly made a bee-line for this door. Several diggers followed somewhat reluctantly, muttering in discontent, their faces blanched in fear, with downcast countenances. Holmes snatched a torch from one of these latter as he passed; the startled digger flinched badly, then stared at him for a moment as though he were possessed, before shrugging and moving on. Holmes turned to study the inscriptions upon the walls, holding the torch high.

“Anything interesting?” Watson wondered, wandering over to Holmes’ side.

“Rather,” Holmes muttered, lost in his musings.

“Did you note the floor mosaic?” Watson asked.

“Indeed. Quite intricate.”

“I never heard of a Pharaoh’s tomb marking its position on a map, did you?”

“No. Most unusual.”

“Am I bothering you?”

“Not particularly. You point out matters that I had myself noted, and which, I believe, factor into this—” He waved his free hand at the carved wall.

* * *

A feminine squeak at the outer door interrupted his train of thought before he could say more, and they looked up to see Leighton Whitesell dancing happily through the opening.

“We found it! We found it! Sherry pointed the way, and Da found it!” she sang, and clapped her hands in delight. “John, Sherry, isn’t it WONDERFUL?”

“Indeed it is,” Watson smiled, coming to her side and taking her hand into the crook of his arm. “Shall we go into the next room when the door opens?”

“Watson, don’t let her go rushing off to the front,” Holmes warned, pausing in his mental translation of the walls to turn and look at them. “Just because the vestibule, as it were, appears danger-free does not argue that there will not be more dangers deeper in.”

“Oh, bosh, Sherry!” Leighton exclaimed. “Don’t be such a spoilsport!”

“Tut, my dear! A young lady of your breeding, and using such language!” Watson laughed, teasing her gently.

“Sorry to be a ‘spoilsport,’ as you put it, Leigh,” Holmes replied, his tone a bit sharp and brooking no denial, “but some pharaohs were known for protecting their tombs in every possible way—including setting traps for the unwary. Your father has experience with these; you do not. Nor does Watson. I should not wish either of you to be hurt. So you will follow your father and his colleagues, well back in the group, or I shall ensure you remain here. And believe me, I CAN ensure it.”

“But—”

“No, no, Holmes is quite right, my dear,” Watson agreed, “we must be cautious and allow those with more acquaintance with these matters to take the lead. And never fear, my dear Holmes, I’ll not let this lovely woman walk headlong into danger.”

“Very good, Dr. Watson,” Whitesell’s voice floated back to them, and they realised he had been listening to the conversation. “Most appreciated. Thank you, Holmes, as well. Leighton—behave yourself, my dear little girl. You are entirely too impetuous and headstrong for your own good sometimes. Stay with our obliging doctor, and the both of you, do what Holmes tells you—he knows what he’s about. I need to concentrate on this, and I cannot spare the thought processes to worry about keeping my daughter out of danger. So if you will not obey Holmes’ instruction, go back to your tent.”

“Yes, sir,” Leighton said with a defeated sigh. “I’ll listen to Sherry, and stay with him and John.”

“I’ll take care of the matter, with Holmes’ advice, sir,” Watson offered. “Never fear.”

“Very good then. Thomas, where was I…?”

Just then, Phillips glanced back and glared at the trio in something very like hatred; Holmes raised an eyebrow at the other man’s scowling expression. Realising he had been caught staring, Phillips wiped his expression and quickly returned his attention to the work on the inner door, just in time for it to slide open. Everyone jumped back for a moment, and even Holmes paused to ensure all was well: should a mass exodus become necessary, he intended to be ready and available to help everyone get out safely.

Professor Whitesell studied the doorway for long moments before thrusting his torch through. It sputtered briefly in the musty, ages-old air, then blazed strongly as circulation established itself from the outside, through the antechamber, and into the interior room. He nodded.

“Come along, then,” he told the others, “but slowly and carefully. Don’t touch anything. Watch your step. And keep an eye out! We don’t want to trigger anything nasty.”

The group moved forward and through the door, Holmes bringing up the rear.

* * *

“Oh, my dear Lord in heaven,” Whitesell gasped in delight, staring at the only object in the inner chamber. Said inner chamber was rather plain, save for the starry sky pattern continued from the ceiling of the previous room, and some extensive, though basic and unadorned, hieroglyphic inscriptions on the walls. The floor was of simple, close-set native flagstones, smooth and polished. The featured object, however, was not ordinary at all. “I have never seen the like. What a lovely material for a sarcophagus!”

“Great Scot,” Dr. Nichols-Woodall remarked in astonishment, staring at the large bowlder. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen stone like that anywhere in Egypt, have you, Cortland?”

“No, not in all my extensive travels in this land,” Cortland, Lord Trenthume replied, eyes wide. “Though… it looks familiar, somehow…”

“Yes, it does,” a dreamy Leighton whispered; no one seemed to notice her comment, however. Holmes merely stood and studied the large thing in the centre of the inner chamber.

The entire group gazed as though mesmerised at the gleaming, dark blue stone shot through with white specks like stars. The block was some six feet long, three feet across at its widest point, and three feet deep. However, it was not quite rectangular, Holmes decided, but rather more sub-hexagonal, and irregular. There was no carving at all on it, nor was it shaped in any fashion other than the original rough shape of the stone, all of a single piece, which had then been highly polished.

“It’s beautiful,” Leighton murmured, and this time the acoustics of the room carried the sound to everyone in it. “It looks like the night sky.”

“You are right, my dear, it does,” Watson agreed, spellbound. “No wonder the ceiling is so decorated. It is indeed splendid. Quite a fitting resting place for a king.”

“Except it isn’t,” Phillips declared bluntly, tone verging on insolent rudeness. Holmes observed he spoke more AT Watson than TO him.

He cannot get over his fixation on Leighton,
the sleuth decided.
He simply transferred the bulk of his hostility from me to Watson, following Leigh’s transfer of affections. Watson, you had best watch your back, old chap. Though Phillips IS rather slow on the uptake. He is only now noticing what I observed from the moment I entered the room.

“What?” Professor Whitesell exclaimed in shock. “What do you mean, Landers?”

“Mr. Phillips is correct,” Holmes agreed, moving to the fore to prevent Phillips from gaining control of the conversation; he did not wish for some sort of verbal joust to erupt. “I saw it, from the first moment I laid eyes on the stone. Professor, study this object more carefully. See, there is no lid, nor even an incised line for one. This is no sarcophagus. It is a solid block of stone, carefully interred.”

“By Jove,” Whitesell said in surprised realisation, running his hand along the smooth, polished stone. “So it is. Why on earth did they do that?”

* * *

Holmes had spent the rest of the afternoon copying down the hieroglyphics on the lintel of the tomb entrance while the others detailed the tomb findings—or lack thereof; and all evening he sat on a stool with the lantern on the tiny table inside their tent, translating painstakingly, while Watson read a book. Finally he sat back and put his hand to his aching back with a slight groan. Watson looked up.

“What is wrong, Holmes?”

“Oh, nothing in particular, Watson. Too many hours spent hunched over this text, and too little proper back support, I suspect.”