Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse Page 2

  “I am thankful for that much,” Watson admitted. “But… are we certain that there are no highway robbers in these mountains?” He glanced around in unease at the rugged landscape, the sharp edges of the dark mountain scarps illumined a pale silver by the light of a waxing crescent moon, low in the west. The sandy road ahead gleamed a pale gold in that same light. The camels in front of them kicked up a tawny cloud of dust with each plodding footstep, which did not settle until well after the entire caravan had passed; Watson could taste it upon his lips, which felt gritty.

  “…Not entirely, no,” Holmes conceded then, sparing a surreptitious glance at their surroundings himself—not, Watson suspected, that he had been unobservant before; that would have been totally out of character for Holmes. “One can never be completely sure of such things, in such places as this. But I should think it is unlikely, given so much exploration in and around Luxor—this is one of the most direct routes to maritime shipping, as it happens. And it is an ancient road, having seen its own archaeological digs, as has its terminus on the Nile: Qina was known as Kaine by the ancient Greeks, and Maximianopolis to the Romans, and evidently was, or is, an eastern bank offshoot of the ancient Egyptian city of Ta-ynt-netert11, or Tantere. So there has been much digging in the region. Traffic through these parts is heavy enough, with sufficient numbers of antiquities passing through, that even if the Egyptian authorities did not provide for such, which they do, I have it to understand that a rather prestigious group of archaeologists, including our host, have banded together to ensure this route is well-guarded. Or at least as much as is possible, in the circumstances.” He paused, then placed a casual hand on his hip, before resting its opposite on a rather thick leather strap, part of the camel’s harness; it widened substantially at the end underneath Holmes’ hand, and might almost have been a hidden holster for a rifle, or a shotgun. “Nevertheless, things happen. Which is why we are hardly… undefended, ourselves.”

  Watson brushed his own hip in response, then paused in thought. Finally he glanced around to see who might be nearby, then turned and leaned forward to speak privately to Holmes, whose camel was slightly ahead and to one side. Holmes, in response, twisted a bit in the saddle, the better to face the doctor.

  “The choice of our camel-puller was not random happenstance, was it, Holmes?” Watson kept his voice low.

  “No indeed, it was not. Omar was known to me, back in the day, as a very trustworthy young camel-puller. Now he is a full-fledged caravaneer, though still young for his status: he owns most of these camels, and is very proud of the fact. Not that he has his own formal caravanserai as yet, though I am uncertain that the terrain is suited to it in any event. More, he remembered me from the time when we were both lads, and promised that both I and my, er, mildly invalided friend—pardon me, Watson, but I played up the nature of your injuries, and for good reason, as I desired you to have the best, most comfortable mount possible, in the circumstances—would arrive safely at Professor Whitesell’s dig camp. In fact, he pledged it upon his camel train, which is saying a good bit. Look, up there at the head of the file—he is himself leading us, though he did not have to; as the owner, he could have hired someone, and normally would have done.”

  Watson was touched by this rare evidence of Holmes’ consideration, though he hid it carefully. “But the rest of the handlers?”

  “Are hand-picked, known and trusted by Omar. And all are well-armed. We two, our baggage, and some half-dozen crates of imported goods, comprise the whole of his caravan’s lading on this trip. We are quite as safe as if we were in the midst of the British Army phalanx. Never fear. By this time to-morrow, we shall be safely at Qina, and may transition back to normal hours, as the trip up the Nile will be during the day, more comfortable, and much cooler on account of the water. I am sorry you are in pain, my friend, but our only other transport option was a dogcart pulled by a donkey, which would have been slower, dustier, and much rougher over mountain roads. Not even the most careless of antiquities experts would trust his treasures to such a conveyance; how much the more my closest friend, whose injuries still cause him pain?”

  Watson never said another word about the discomfort of his mount.

  * * *

  At dawn they camped; as they knew from the previous morning, the heat increased rapidly after sunrise, making it difficult to sleep. So instead, Holmes and Watson sat companionably on camp stools in the shade at the door of their tent, extracted pipes and tobacco, and puffed upon the soothing herb in the congenial silence that befitted a friendship such as theirs.

  Half an hour later, a boy—Omar’s youngest, as they had discovered the day before—brought them small trays containing their meals: hot shawarma made of stuffed aish, a kind of pita or pocket-bread filled with roast mutton and mint, lightly smeared with tahini; and the thick, syrupy-sweet coffee of the region on the side. Sticky pieces of baklava, liberally soaked with honey and carefully wrapped in parchment, baked by Omar’s wife before their departure from Safaga, rounded out the meal. It was hardly a feast, but it was flavourful and sustaining, and as Holmes pointed out, it was as good as it was likely to get in that remote part of the world. Hungry, Watson tucked it away with alacrity, Holmes rather less so, as was his wont; and even Watson decided it was tasty. “Though,” he admitted, “the mutton could have been a bit younger. It was a tad tough.”

  “Then it would have been breeding stock, and a source of fleece,” Holmes replied, using a piece of the parchment to wipe honey from his lips. “Here, the sheep are only eaten when they are too old and infirm to continue producing. When you are finished, Watson, let us fetch our canteens and go to the water tank and fill them.”

  “Then what?”

  “Sleep if we can; smoke, if we cannot.”

  “And to-night12 we reach the Nile?”

  “We do.”

  * * *

  But they did not. When Holmes woke that evening shortly after sundown, it was with a decided feeling of malaise; at the sound of retching, he turned his head to see Watson kneeling on the tarpaulin floor next to the other folding cot in the twilight, eructing into the bucket intended for his tobacco ash with some violence. The sight sent an unpleasant wave of nausea through Holmes’ own gut. The smell, a moment later, only intensified the sensation.

  When he could catch his breath for being sick, Watson looked up at Holmes.

  “How… how are you faring, Holmes?”

  “I… have been better,” the detective admitted, sitting up slowly in his camp cot and putting a hand to his belly. “Spoiled food?”

  “Most like-likely,” Watson panted. “I have already had to rush to what passes for a latrine outside the camp—twice. The diarrhoea is severe, and quick of onset. Forgive my indelicacy, but most of the camp is in the same condition, and it does not do in the circumstances to sugar-coat the matter. Thank God for a pit in the sand, or we should be in foul shape. I’m surprised you have not had similar issues already.”

  “I did not eat as much for dinner, if you will recall. My appetite, you know, is generally less than yours anyway, as I am thinner; and the heat tends to decrease it further. But that does not mean…” he broke off as a troublesome cramp gripped his belly, “…that I will be unaffected.”

  “Where?” Watson abruptly bent back over the bucket, gagging, but nothing came up. Most likely, the detective considered, watching, there was nothing left to come up. “Show me. Where?”

  “Where what?” Holmes asked, wondering if some part of the statement had been lost in the dry heaves.

  “Where in… in your gut? I saw you… wince.”

  “Ah.” Wordlessly, Holmes pointed in the general vicinity of his solar plexus.

  “Good, it is still high,” Watson declared, waving a hand at his medical bag in the corner. “In there. Go. Find the… the paregoric. And… and a dosing cup.”

  Holmes immediately moved to the bag and rummaged within, tossing over his shoulder, “Cholera?”

  “I… I think
n-not,” Watson panted, evidently fighting off another wave of nausea. “No m-muscular cramping, no unduly w-watery ex-excreta…”

  “Good Lord, Watson,” Holmes remarked fervently, coming up with the paregoric. “There is enough in here for an army.”

  “A-and more in my trunk,” he murmured, stammering slightly in his inability to ward off the swells of reverse peristalsis. “I c-came prepared. I’ve b-been in backwater lands be-before, as y-you so re-recently pointed o-out. It sh-oould d-do for the diarrhoea and nau-nausea, too. Here.”

  Holmes handed over the bottle and dose cup; Watson measured out a dose and handed it back to Holmes.

  “Down the hatch,” Watson ordered. Holmes shot the medicine, then grimaced, smacking his mouth in distaste.

  “Bleh,” the detective muttered. “That was disagreeable.”

  “Not nearly as much as t-the alternative! Here. My turn. I… ugh. I have to get better, or I-I cannot p-possibly treat t-the entire cara-caravan.” He measured his own dose and took it, then hung his head over the bucket as the bitter taste of the paregoric itself, mingled with a sugar syrup to render it more palatable, nauseated him once more.

  “The entire caravan team is in this condition?”

  His only answer was a nod of the head and another dry retch.

  “Perhaps I may be able to help you…” Holmes offered.

  “Perhaps I m-may ta-ake you up… up on it,” Watson panted.

  Holmes sat silently and watched his friend until Watson settled and slumped against the side of his cot, sitting on the tarpaulin floor. Then the detective rose and moved to Watson’s side.

  “Here, Watson,” he murmured, “let me help you lie back down for a few minutes, while the paregoric takes effect.”

  “I… I’ll be fine, Holmes,” Watson protested weakly. “YOU need to lie down and let the paregoric take effect, else you’ll be in the same shape.”

  “And I shall… right after I get you back into your bed.”

  The sleuth would not be dissuaded, and soon Watson was lying quietly in his army cot as relief washed his features. Holmes nodded in satisfaction, then betook himself back to his own cot to lie back down, glad to do so as another gut cramp hit.

  But within minutes, Watson was dozing lightly, and Holmes felt his belly relax as the paregoric, so close akin to morphine, took effect. He smiled to himself and drowsed, vaguely aware when Watson roused himself a few minutes later, took the bottle of paregoric and the dosing cup, and left the tent.

  * * *

  After a bit, Holmes was able to gain control of his responses to the drug and rose, finding himself relieved from the previously impending intestinal issues. Having slept in his trousers and vest, he rose, donned his stockings and shoes—after first checking them for scorpions and other such unpleasant creatures—and went to the small washbasin in the corner of the tent. There he freshened himself somewhat before putting on his shirt, shrugging into his braces, and donning his waistcoat. Then he went out in search of Watson.

  Holmes found him at Omar’s tent; all of the caravaneers, in various stages of disability, lay on pallets nearby, shaded by tarpaulins stretched overhead. Watson sat slumped on a suitably-sized rock close at hand, pale and worn, but functioning. He looked up at Holmes with a wry, weak excuse for a smile.

  “I got a dose of paregoric into everyone,” he said, “including Omar’s son, just in case; the lad was the only one of the lot of us who hadn’t got ill, I think because he ate left-overs from the previous night. I scrubbed out the dose cup with sand and water in between each of my patients. It is hardly my preferred cleansing method, but it will have to do in the circumstances. Omar has been extremely apologetic, and swears that he will have his wife clean their kitchen upon his return, upon pain of a beating or some such, though I don’t think he’s actually serious about THAT. He seems very devoted to his wife. He is quite upset, however.”

  “Is he in his tent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Awake?”

  “The last I checked.”

  “May I speak to him?”

  Watson nodded. “Just don’t get him stirred up or he might start vomiting again.”

  “Of course,” Holmes agreed, and stepped inside.

  * * *

  As soon as Holmes entered the tent, he saw Omar lying on a pallet, his son sitting beside him and watching over him. Omar’s eyes glittered in the dim light of a tiny lantern, and he fixed his gaze on the sleuth.

  “Holmes, my friend,” Omar murmured. “I am glad to see you on your feet. My most fervent apologies. I shall have strong words with my wife when we return. I swear to you, by the beards of my fathers, that this has never happened before.”

  “I believe you, and I think your wife is not to blame, old friend,” Holmes told the caravaneer in an understanding tone, utilising that unique way he had about him to soothe. He moved to the side of Omar’s pallet, opposite the man’s son, and crouched. “Do not treat her unjustly. Save your words for another time, another place, and another person.”

  “What do you mean? Khalil, your father thirsts. Fetch my water bag.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I mean, Omar, that I have reason to believe that there is a delaying tactic going on, with its intent being to discourage Watson and myself from proceeding to Professor Whitesell’s dig site.”

  “What? Holmes?” Watson said, coming into the tent to see to his patient. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because, my dear Watson, this is not the first attempt.”

  Khalil brought the water bag to his father, and helped him take several sips. Refreshed, Omar pushed up to one elbow.

  “Say on, my friend,” he told Holmes, waving a weak hand. “Tell us what is happening.”

  “I do not know as yet,” Holmes said, shaking his head. “But the letter of invitation from Whitesell to myself was delayed by close to a fortnight, and for no reason that I could discern. There were… problems… with our tickets for the Channel crossing; in France, our baggage was nearly shipped off to the Baltic Sea—”

  “But that was a simple error,” Watson protested.

  “No, it was not.” Holmes shook his head even more vehemently. “You did not see the orders in the porter’s hand.”

  “Nor did you.”

  “On the contrary. Though he tried to hide it—a suspicious gesture in itself—I was able to get a very clear reflection in the polished brass railcar plaque behind him. And it very plainly noted that OUR trunks, Watson—yours and mine—were to be redirected to Danzig, while you and I took the mail route. It was no accident. And now this,” he pointed out.

  “Damnation!” Watson exclaimed. “We’re being crabbed,13 as young Wiggins would say.”

  “Indeed, something like,” Holmes agreed.

  “Mish maquul!”14 Omar cried.

  * * *

  Holmes helped Watson tend the sick caravaneers the rest of that night and on into the next morning. The men were weak, and in need of some sustenance, but after Holmes’ revelation, it was agreed that it was not worth risking consuming more of their potentially-contaminated foodstuffs until they got to their destination in Qina, and could get fresh supplies. Holmes considered this plan with all due diligence, eventually concluding that whoever was attempting to dissuade their further travels was unlikely to know from whence they would purchase fresh food in Qina, and thus untainted food could truly be obtained. Then he unpacked some of his scientific equipment and ascertained that the water they carried was indeed safe to drink, and this provided the refreshing they needed to rest and recover.

  “Do you suppose we could try to make Qina to-night?” Watson wondered, as they sat in Omar’s tent and discussed the situation with that worthy. “And, once there, should we go on, or go home?”

  “Go on, by all means,” Holmes declared, firm and not a little angered. “Aside from the fact that no miscreant has ever, nor will ever, make me cow, I will not waste the efforts of Omar and his companions. For this att
empt certainly targeted them as well.”

  “True,” Omar agreed, “and we thank you, friend Holmes, friend Watson. Know that the both of you will always have a cup of cool water, and the sanctuary of my tent, when you are in Egypt.”

  Holmes sketched a half-bow; a weaker Watson simply nodded in appreciation.

  “For this, I thank you, old friend,” Holmes replied, voice soft. “If ever I may be of service, you have but to ask. Do you think you and your men will be able to depart to-night?”

  “Yes, we will see you safely to Qina while the stars are yet out and the moon is high.”

  * * *

  They did, though it was well past midnight when they arrived, and the moon not quite so high; their small caravan had not packed and departed camp until sunset was very near, for they were still too weak to risk departure in the daytime heat. The camels plodded around the edge of the town in the dark, Omar leading them unerringly through the back streets of Qina.

  “Where are we going, Holmes?” Watson asked.

  “I have it to understand there is a small hostelry awaiting us not too far off the river, Watson. It will have proper beds, though I cannot speak for the coolness of the rooms. Nevertheless, most such about here are composed of thick clay masonry, which resists even the heat of the day, so perhaps it may be comfortable, especially so near the Nile. And there should be food, safe food. Omar will see to that. You may not be able to tell, but I can: he is quite angry at whoever did this. So, too, are his handlers. I think we may safely conclude that the contamination was done by an outside party, back in Safaga. And I pity them, should Omar and his company ever find them out.”

  A curious Watson twisted and turned to look about him in the moonlight; there were no street lamps, at least in the region of the village where they were. Off to one side could just be seen the minarets of the mosque, black silhouettes against a deep cerulean blue sky, spangled with stars.