Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse (9 page)

“Ah well, perhaps for a bit after dinner, Professor,” Holmes replied, drawing into himself and replacing his normal demeanour with an outward austerity, polite but reserved. Whitesell blinked at the sudden change. “Leighton wanted us all to have a nice long chat to find out what we’ve been doing in the last few years, so I suggested after-dinner drinks in your tent.” It wasn’t precisely a falsehood, but it was stretching the truth a bit; still, Holmes never batted an eyelash.

“I… see,” Whitesell said, brows drawing together in thought. “Then I shall break out the tantalus
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and have it at the ready.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Will,” Nichols-Woodall remarked at the door of the artefact tent, “after we perused the maps this morning, I’d like to suggest that perhaps it might behoove us to walk the site, and try to pick up some indications in the doing. In my experience, a bit of field work never hurt anything.”

“Capital notion, old bean,” Whitesell agreed immediately. “I’m for it. Phillips, you’ll be joining us, of course. Make sure to bring a note-pad, and jot down anything we find of importance. Beaumont?”

“Yes, it is a good idea. I will of course attend.”

“Holmes? You’re the keen-eyed detective here. Will you be joining us in this little constitutional?”

Holmes pondered for a moment.

“No, Professor,” he decided, “not this time, I think. I have my methods, and right now I feel I should spend a bit more time familiarising myself with the overall layout—the mountains, foothills, outcrops, stone varieties, the locations of the found relics—before venturing into the site itself. And that means studying the maps a little more. Do not worry; it should not take long. I will likely be able to go out with you all on the morrow.”

“Very well, then, young man. You know what you are about,” Whitesell said tolerantly. “Come along, Landers, Parker, Thomas. Where did Cortland get to?”

“Oh, he went straight out to the dig pits,” Nichols-Woodall remarked as the four departed, his voice diminishing into the distance. “Said something about wanting to find a…”

Holmes waited until they were well gone, then fetched the relic log, pulled out his sketch-pad, and resumed work. He did not stop until the warning gong sounded for the evening meal.

* * *

Dinner followed the established pattern; Beaumont and Nichols-Woodall bickered, although it seemed to be less acrimonious than usual, and a nervous, uncomfortable Leighton attempted to divert the conversation from their argument to something more pleasant. Phillips said little, spending most of his time looking down at his food, and only answering if a question or comment was directed at him. He made a few sporadic attempts to converse with Leighton, but she did not encourage him; each time she gently cut him off, he shot a glare at Holmes before returning his attention to his meal. This did not escape Holmes’ attention.

Phillips is jealous,
he realised,
and not a little.
But Leigh has not given me any indication that he has any right to be jealous. Perhaps I can dig into the matter a bit to-night. It will not do to inadvertently create some sort of… what are they called? “Love triangles”?
He sighed to himself.
Bad enough that Nichols-Woodall and Beaumont do not get along. If Leigh’s intentions end up causing insult and offense with her, her father, AND her father’s assistant, Heaven help us all.
Abruptly, what appetite he had departed him.

Holmes only nibbled at the rest of his meal.

* * *

As Holmes, ever the gentleman, escorted Leighton through the darkness to her father’s tent after dinner, carrying a small lantern, he broke the affable silence of old friends, but with diplomacy and as much tact as he could muster.

“Leigh,” he began with some hesitation, “I noticed…”

“What?”

“Well, young Phillips. He seems rather… possessive… of you.”

“Yes, it’s a bit annoying,” Leighton averred, revealing some pique. “He made some overtures to me, oh, six or eight months ago, and started trying to court me. I wasn’t especially interested, and I tried to let him know as delicately as I could. He’s Da’s assistant, so I didn’t want to make him angry or anything. But because he IS Da’s assistant, he’s over at the house all the time, and… well, he seems to either not take ‘No’ for an answer, or perhaps he just didn’t understand that I wasn’t particularly interested. So he kept on courting me.”

“Did you know your father planned to invite me on the expedition?”

“He made some noises about it, yes,” Leighton admitted. “I was positively thrilled when he told me.”

“Did PHILLIPS know?”

“Well, of course he did.”

“But did he know of our… previous… friendship?” Holmes pressed, watching her face intently.

“Um, no.” Leighton turned a faint pink. “No, I didn’t tell him that you and I knew each other… before.”

“But why on earth not? Leigh,” Holmes broke off the previous inquiry as an idea struck, “are you trying to use me as a shield from Phillips’ attentions?”

“Um, well, maybe… maybe a little,” she replied in a small voice.

“Are you afraid of him?”

“Not… exactly,” Leighton confessed. “I don’t think he would hurt me or anything. But… Sherry, you mustn’t tell anyone I said this…”

“Of course not.”

“…I’m not sure if he’s courting me for my own self, or because I’m the Professor’s daughter. Do you understand?”

“Mm. Yes, I do. And that is a consideration. Using you to curry favour with your father, possibly to become his heir…”

“Yes,” Leighton said with a kind of sad nod. “And Da has done well for himself over the years, and neither he nor Mama came from a poor family to begin with. It… worries me.”

“Has he given you reason to think it?”

“No, not exactly,” Leighton admitted, shaking her head. “It’s more… it’s hard to explain. Sometimes… sometimes he seems more to be ‘courting’ Da than he does me, if you understand me.”

“I do. But Leigh, your father is not only his advisor and teacher, he is Phillips’ supervisor, as well. So he would naturally desire to curry favour with your father. And he is young; he seems inexperienced and a bit naïve to me, at least in some regards, and he may simply not be subtle enough to realise that the same… mm, methods… are not appropriate for both things.”

“Well, maybe I AM misunderstanding him, but it… like I said, it worries me. So it was the only thing I could think of, to stay close to you. And of course I enjoy being around you anyway; you’re smart, and fun, and, and I like you, and… Are… are you mad?”

Holmes drew a deep breath, thinking rapidly.

“No,” he decided, “no, I am not angry, merely… this complicates things, Leigh,” he pointed out. “I am also working for your father, and there is enough bad blood and enmity on the team as it is…”

“Yes. At the opposite end of the table, you mean.”

“Precisely. I cannot afford to start some sort of war between Phillips and myself over you. And nor can your father afford it.”

“I know, I just… don’t know what else to do,” Leighton sighed. “Landers may not like it, but he cannot gainsay the fact that you and I are old friends, and so he cannot protest…”

“Does your father know?”

“Yes and no. He knows that Landers asked to keep company with me, and that I was not overmuch inclined… but he does not really know that Landers has continued to pay me attentions. And, like you, I don’t want to cause schisms between him and Da, so…”

“I see. Well, let me watch for a while, and try to ascertain which way the winds lie. Perhaps there is something I can do to resolve your problem for you.”

“Oh, thank you, Sherry!” And she leaned up and deposited a spontaneous, enthusiastic kiss on his cheek, much as she had been wont to do as a child. He instinctively pulled away a bit from the contact, but despite himself, Holmes smiled slightly at the reminiscence.

At the end of the row of temporary dwellings, hidden in the darkness and well out of earshot, Landers Phillips peered around the end of a tent at the couple, and scowled.

* * *

“Well, well, young man, it’s good to have you back in my ‘house’ again, even if the walls and roof are only canvas,” Professor Whitesell said after a lively chat among the three old friends had wound down.

“It is good to be back, Professor,” Holmes offered. “It has been too long, I suppose. But then, we have both been busy… and Leigh has been busy in her own way, growing up.” Leighton smiled.

“How are your parents?” Whitesell asked. Leighton rose casually and fetched a platter of dainty biscuits, surreptitiously watching the exchange, careful to remain silent.

“I… don’t know.” Holmes leaned forward, catching up the brandy decanter and topping off his drink, by way of averting his face. “Well, I suppose, judging by their last letter.”

“Have you been home recently?”

“…No.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Still? After all this time?”

Holmes shook his head, sitting back. “Until very Hell itself freezes over.”

“You could take him to task now, you know. A sound thrashing comes to mind.”

“I could, but what would be the point? It would not make matters any more congenial, nor my welcome any more favourable. And it certainly would not help… them.”

“True, I suppose.” Whitesell paused, studying the aquiline face half-hidden behind the brandy snifter, as Leighton sat the tray of assorted biscuits in front of them, then resumed her seat. “So, tell me: How much of what your friend Dr. Watson writes, in those stories about your adventures, is true?”

“Ah. Now THAT,” Holmes chuckled, setting down his glass and leaning forward again, elbows on his knees, “depends upon to whom you are speaking, I suppose…”

* * *

Some hour and a half later, after a relatively congenial evening spent in Professor Whitesell’s tent, a tired Holmes—who had had to be alert to project his desired message, while subtly negating Leighton’s, the whole time—departed for the tent he shared with Watson. Leighton saw him off at the door of the tent, then tidied away the glassware as her father nursed the last of his brandy, watching her thoughtfully.

“Leighton,” he began, “are you and Holmes getting along well?”

“Why, yes, Da, why would you think otherwise?” Leighton wondered, depositing the last of the glassware into the bin to be taken to the kitchens and washed the next morning.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he pondered, thinking over Holmes’ behaviour through the course of the evening, and what Whitesell took to have been unspoken messages the sleuth had telegraphed him. “He just seemed rather… reserved.” He paused. “Leigh, my darling girl, I know you have hopes in that direction, but…”

* * *

“Well, Da,” she said with a smile, carefully avoiding the topic of Phillips lest she cause inadvertent hostilities between her father and his
aide-de-camp
, “Sherry DID ask if I was keeping company with anyone else, when he walked me over here after dinner.”

“He did? Well, I stand corrected, then,” Whitesell told his daughter. “Perhaps I misunderstood his behaviour. Nothing could please me more, you know; Holmes is a fine young man. Let me know how I may facilitate the relationship. But Leigh…”

“Yes, Da?”

“He was right, to-day: he DOES have work to do, important work. I don’t mind you keeping company with him, but under no circumstances will I stand for your distracting him from that work—at least, any more so than the normal vagaries of love are wont to distracting young people the world over. The university AND Lord Trenthume are paying him well for his troubles, and should you cause him to fail to perform up to expectations, the ramifications could be awkward, at the least, and distressing, at worst. It could even cause me to lose all future financing for expeditions.”

“Oh! Very well, Da. I understand. I’m sorry.”

“Quite all right, dear. Now,” he said, rising and placing his empty glass in the bin with the rest, “off to your own tent and to bed with you.”

“Okay. Good night, Da.” And she kissed him on the cheek before leaving.

He stood at the door of the tent, thoughtfully watching her go.

* * *

“…No, Watson, I am quite sure, by the look in his eye, that Professor Whitesell took my meaning, subtle as it was,” Holmes asserted. “He and I communicated well back in the day, sometimes able to use little unspoken codes here and there, when in the midst of a delicate negotiation with locals, and I plainly saw the moment when he comprehended.”

“But the lady?”

“I am assured that the lady has her reasons,” Holmes stated. “I should normally tell you, but I am unwilling to breach her confidence, in the circumstances.”

“Perfectly understandable, I suppose,” Watson said, hiding a sigh. “But Holmes, if you are desirous of avoiding romantic entanglements…”

“Very much so.”

“…Then you should still be careful,” Watson recommended. “Miss Whitesell holds you in high regard, and with great affection. Even if she does not mean to, and I am not altogether convinced of that, it would still be entirely too easy for such affection to turn to… something more. I have seen it happen in more than one instance. And that could be…”

“Catastrophic,” Holmes finished for him, worried. “I know, my dear fellow. She is… still too young for such matters, in my opinion. But for the sake of the child I knew, I would not hurt her for the world.” He sighed. “Damnation, Watson! Why must there always be such deep intrigue surrounding women?!”

“Sometimes, Holmes, I think that it is less the women, and more our culture, which creates the intrigue,” a rueful Watson offered. “Were our society as a whole less reticent, there might be less artifice surrounding courtship and the opposite sex.”

“Perhaps. But we do not have such a society, so we are forced to plod ahead through the mire,” Holmes complained.

“I still say I should love to have your problems, old chap.”

“So you are interested in her, then?”

“I… find her very attractive,” Watson confessed, as circumspect as he knew how to be, yet still give his friend an honest answer. “But Holmes, if you DO… care for her, in… that fashion, I should never…”