Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse (6 page)

“Yes.”

“…Because no one was there to attend yours.”

“Hardly!” Nichols-Woodall bristled. “I had a full—”

“Sherry!” Leighton Whitesell suddenly sang out, in what appeared to Watson to be a desperate effort to either interrupt, or drown out, the caustic conversation at the other end of the table. Lord Trenthume sat up straight in what appeared to be relief at the diversion. “DO you remember the first archaeological outing I ever attended with you? The one just outside London, where you fell into the pit?”

“Fell into the pit?!” Phillips goggled. “How on earth did THAT happen?”

Holmes flushed, but Watson noted her statements had served the purpose of at least temporarily silencing the rancour between Beaumont and Nichols-Woodall; the attention—and curiosity—of both men, as well as that of Phillips and Lord Trenthume, was now fastened upon the conversation between Holmes and Leighton Whitesell.

“The particular dig Leigh is referencing was in Stonehenge,” Holmes said stiffly to the rest of the table, and Watson wondered at the intense expressions which appeared on all the faces at the other end of the table. “Leigh was quite small at the time; the Professor had given her supervision partly over into my hands. I had just finished explaining to her how archaeology ‘worked,’ as she put it, and showing her how to extract a relic without damaging it, when one of the, ah, unskilled labourers came up with something he had found, wondering if it were anything of import. And while I was studying the object and answering his question, I fear she got quite away from me and lost herself among the standing stones. By the time I caught sight of her again, she was clear on the other side of the structure, headed toward one of the dig fields, and I broke into a run, intent on fetching the young scamp back to her father, lest SHE fall in…”

“But he didn’t realise that Da had started another pit on his side!” Leighton giggled. “I saw him run around one of the big—what are they called? The big standing stones with the cross-posts on top?”

“Menhirs?” Phillips suggested. “Trilithons?”

“Yes, those,” she agreed, her smile dimpling her cheeks quite adorably, Watson thought. “Trilithons. Sherry ran around one of the trilithons. And then he just… disappeared. One second he was there, and the next, he wasn’t!”

“Heavens above,” Professor Whitesell murmured, “I remember that! I was at the bottom of the pit Holmes fell in, and I think I broke his fall!”

“Yes!” Leighton giggled again; poor Holmes flushed deeper. “And you both came out simply all over clay mud!”

The table burst into laughter; Watson noticed Holmes shifting uncomfortably, but unobtrusively, in his seat. When the others could catch their breaths, Nichols-Woodall asked, “Did you find anything? At Stonehenge, I mean. Fascinating place.”

“Indeed,” Beaumont agreed.

“Other than my sacroiliac, no,” Holmes grumbled, putting a hand to his back in remembrance.

“Oh, we found what appeared to be a few ancient holes for stones no longer there, long since filled in. Most likely the stones that had been in them had been broken up and used in local construction in later eras. That sort of thing happens quite a lot in archaeology,” Whitesell said, dismissing the matter with a wave of his soup spoon. Watson noticed the sidelong glance the Professor had given Holmes, and suspected he was attempting to change the subject to avoid further embarrassing his former student. Meanwhile, the servers removed the remains of the first course, replacing it with the entrée brought straight from the kitchens on the far side of the encampment, a chicken and couscous dish redolent with cinnamon and cardamom. Following close behind, Abraam the sommelier poured a young, spicy sangiovese which proved to pair marvellously with the dish.

“Aha! Not quite as observant as you made us think a bit ago, eh, Holmes?” Phillips jibed the detective, and Watson saw the graduate student throw a quick glance from the corner of his eye at the young woman sitting beside him.
Mm,
Watson decided,
someone is jealous of the lady’s attentions.
Holmes’ jaw tightened, but before he could reply, Whitesell did.

“No, no!” the professor protested. “Behave yourself, Landers, and mind your manners. Sherlock—that is, Mr. Holmes—deserves our respect, and has more than earned it. It was not his fault, but young Leighton’s, for running off! In retrospect, it was probably mine, too; saddling a young, unmarried man such as Holmes was at the time, a man with little experience of children, with a fireball like Leighton, and then still expecting him to fulfil all his other duties? Think of it, Landers. Put yourself in that position! Holmes was, if I recall correctly, some couple of years younger than you are now; Leigh was perhaps all of ten years of age, if that, and a positive mischief just like her mother! How would YOU fare, in the circumstances?” Phillips’ eyes went wide, shooting to Holmes, and he winced just before the professor continued. “No, Holmes was already running when he rounded the stone, attempting to protect my recalcitrant young daughter over there from harm. I actually heard his grunt of recognition—just before he landed atop me! No, he saw, but it was too late to stop. I was only thankful that neither he, nor I—nor Leighton—was seriously hurt, in that little incident.”

“So someone caught you, then, Leigh?” Phillips asked the young woman.

“Oh yes,” Leighton giggled again. “It was one of Da’s other colleagues…”

“Professor Gärtner, of Heidelberg University,” Whitesell filled in. “He died some three or four years ago, when the tunnel collapsed on him as he tried to excavate that Viking funerary longboat, some fifty kilometres outside Stockholm.” The mood at the table quieted at the remark.

“Oh, I remember hearing about that,” Lord Trenthume hummed in recollection. “Weymouth told me of the matter. They’d located it and looked inside, and were trying to shore it up while they uncovered all of it, and it all fell in, instead. What a pity. He was a good man.”

“And very nice,” Leighton agreed. “Even to a silly little girl such as I was.” She turned back to Holmes. “Do you recall giving me the pretty stone, Sherry?”

“Oh, you mean the pebble that ended up in my shoe after landing on top of the Professor? I do.”

“Well, I took it home and washed off the mud, and put it in the music box Mama gave me before she died,” Leighton revealed, sobering. The mood at the table, already serious from the discussion of the dead archaeologist, became positively solemn. “I kept it as a memento for a long time. Then, two years ago, I got it out and had our family jeweller make it into a pretty necklace. See?” She pulled a heretofore-invisible chain around her throat, which brought up the gleaming little blue-green pebble from its hiding place in her décolleté. “I keep it so that, whenever I become melancholy, it helps to remind me of a wonderful day so very close to Mama’s death, when my dear friend Sherry showed me how to dig in the dirt to find ‘old things.’”

Professor Whitesell looked moved; he harrumphed once or twice, and cleared his throat, but said nothing. Both Beaumont and Nichols-Woodall dropped their gazes to their plates in respect. Holmes nodded, jaw tightening, though whether in stifled emotion or annoyance, Watson could not tell; the detective took a bite of the curried mutton, as did Watson…

…Who looked up to see a white-faced Phillips glaring at Holmes in utter hatred.

* * *

As they finally left the dinner table, Watson turned to Professor Whitesell.

“I had it to understand from Holmes that you would like for me to function as a physician for the project,” he noted. “And you so introduced me to the others.”

“Yes, that’s quite correct, Doctor.”

“Do you have a regular physician under whom I should work?”

“No. Well, we do, but his wife was expectant and he was unable to come this year,” Whitesell explained. “She experienced significant and potentially grave difficulties with their last child, it seems, and he did not wish to leave her. Hence my delight when I found you were available to come with Holmes.”

“Aha, I see. Perfectly understandable, then,” Watson agreed, nodding sage concurrence. “He was probably wise to remain close to home in the circumstances; I expect I should do the same, were I in his position. Very well then. If you could have someone show me to the surgery, I will commence setting up. I hope there were no medical problems before my advent. We came on as soon as matters could be arranged.”

“No, there have not been any medical incidents, not of any import, at any rate,” a diffident Whitesell began, “but there is still a problem…”

“What, then?”

“Well, I am loath to say, Doctor, but something seems to have happened to our cargo while en route…”

Holmes and Watson exchanged knowing glances.

“A familiar complaint, I find,” Holmes muttered, watching the conversation with perspicacious interest.

“…And, well, the big hospital tent seems to have been… misplaced,” an abashed Whitesell continued, not having noticed the exchange. “As well as some of the apparatus.”

“Misplaced?!” Watson exclaimed in surprise. “How in the name of all that is holy does a body misplace something as big as a bloody hospital tent? Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Whitesell!” Watson added, flushing, suddenly remembering the young woman was still with them, and his language had not been the most delicate.

“I assure you, Dr. Watson, I have no idea,” Whitesell responded, exasperated. “I am as annoyed about it as you are, I am sure. But the quartermaster is on it, and we hope to have matters resolved within the week.”

“Well, that is something, I suppose,” Watson considered. “Do forgive my surprise, Professor—I simply had not expected that! What shall we do in the meanwhile?”

“Ah, we had rather thought—hoped may be a better word—that you might treat any patients in the tent you will be sharing with Holmes, here—I presume that is a suitable living arrangement? Yes? Good—and then we would house any invalided patients in their own tents,” Whitesell suggested. “It could make for a deal of walking should you have to make rounds, however, and I’ve to understand from Holmes that your knee is not the best, after your Afghan tour…”

“True,” Watson sighed. “It is certainly not an optimal arrangement.”

“But if you need help, you have but to ask,” Whitesell went on considerately. “I will immediately have someone come by to help. In fact there are a couple of the local workers who normally staff the hospital, in addition to the regular doctor, and you may—and should—call upon them whenever you need help. I will instruct them to report to you after breakfast, lunch, and dinner until further notice, and to remain within reach at all times.”

“I will introduce you to them to-morrow
25
morning,” Nichols-Woodall offered. “Willingham will likely be onto the quartermaster to see what has been located, and our foreman, Udail, will get the digging started for the day. So I can spare the time to help you get set up.”

“As can I, at least for the unpacking of the equipment,” Holmes agreed.

“Very well,” Watson decided. “I shall take you both up on it.”

“I expect this arrangement to be needful only for a few days,” Whitesell vouched. “If we simply cannot find the blasted thing, I shall go into Luxor and see about acquiring another.”

“What about the medical equipment?” Watson wondered, perturbed. “I did not come prepared to equip an entire surgical hospital with my own instruments; I don’t even have enough equipment of my own, back in London, to do so!”

“No, no, everything is fine as far as that is concerned, Doctor,” Whitesell soothed. “While it was initially, ah, ‘walkabout,’ as one of my Australian colleagues is wont to phrase it, most of the equipment did show up only three days ago. But without the hospital tent, we have nowhere to put it.”

“Ah, I see,” Watson said, nodding. “So the quartermaster has it, and I will have access to it in an emergency, but it has merely not been put out as yet.”

“Precisely.”

“Holmes, are you game for living in a makeshift infirmary for a few days, old boy?” Watson asked.

“I shall make do just fine, my dear Watson. However, when I needs must begin unpacking my own scientific apparatuses, let alone spreading hieroglyphic text about the place, we are apt to become chock-full in short order.”

“True,” Watson considered, while the archaeologists and geologist looked on. “Well, hopefully it will only be for a few days, and if all goes well, I may not even have any patients, or none of significance, at any rate. A splinter here, a blister there, perhaps. A dab of carbolic should do the trick without much trouble.”

“Yes, I think we shall do fine, Watson.” Holmes turned to Whitesell. “It will do, well enough, sir. We thank you. Now, it has been a long, hard few days of travel; might I trouble you to have someone show us to our tent, Professor?”

“I shall do so myself, my boy,” Whitesell said with a smile. “Good night, Nichols-Woodall, Beaumont, Phillips. Cortland, old chap, would you be so kind as to escort Leighton back to her tent? Thank you, sir. Leighton, I shall be back shortly, dear. Now, lads, come with me.”

* * *

As they walked, Whitesell pointed out various important locales: the foreman’s tent, his own tent, Phillips’ tent, the location where the hospital tent would be—essentially next to Holmes’ and Watson’s tent—the artefact tent, where newly-discovered relics were taken to be catalogued, cleaned, and studied, as well as the dig fields beyond.

“…So I know you are a bit away from us,” Whitesell explained, “but it has been our experience that the labourers are the ones most likely to need medical attention, because of all the heavy work, you know, and so we put you over here, near the hospital… or rather, where it will be once we have found the deuced thing.”

“It is well thought out,” Holmes concurred. “That way, should things be going well, and Watson have few patients to attend, he may retreat to our tent to rest, out of the sun, until needed again. But if an emergency should arise in the night, say, he is ready to hand.”

“Precisely,” Whitesell agreed, nodding vigorously. “If, however, the two of you take issue to being among the, ah, the ‘hired help,’ I can have your tent moved.”