Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse Read online

  “I have seen a little, yes, so I am not totally surprised. At home, he has a positive brigade of street urchins he has marshalled to his cause. You would be amazed at the information they seem able to turn up for him, usually in mere hours.”

  “I don’t doubt a bit of it. I shudder to think of the effect he could have had as the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Not that I can picture him in such a… colourful… wardrobe, mind. But,” Whitesell dropped back at the same time as he lowered his voice, nodding at the pair in front of them, “I think Holmes had not exactly considered the passage of time, do you think?”

  “Oh, quite,” Watson agreed, grinning beneath his moustache as he watched the H.M.S Sherlock Holmes being towed to its berth by the tiny tug Leighton. “This should prove an interesting evening. Your daughter is… very beautiful.”

  “Thank you, thank you, Doctor. I agree, but then I am somewhat biased. Come along, then. The meal should be served in a few moments.”

  They moved on, as Professor Whitesell—and daughter—began the process of introducing the pair to the other members of Whitesell’s team.

  Behind them, Landers Phillips brought up the rear, hiding a scowl.

  * * *

  The makeshift procession made its way under the awning, stopping before one dapper, if slightly dishevelled, early-middle-aged man. Holmes managed to free himself from Leighton’s grip and drew himself up, adjusting his attire as he studied the man only briefly.

  “Good evening, Lord Trenthume,” he said scant seconds later, proffering his hand.

  “Lord Trenthume, may I present Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor John H. Watson,” a startled Whitesell quickly interjected, and the men shook hands. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, the Right Honourable Michael McMillan Cortland, Earl of Trenthume.”

  “I have heard a bit about you, Mr. Holmes, and about your nigh-magical abilities,” Lord Trenthume remarked offhandedly, “but I put little stock in it. I may be forced to change my mind. How the deuce did you manage to identify me out of the others?”

  “There is nothing magical about it, I assure you,” Holmes replied with a chuckle. “It is all observation, and then reasoning from what I observe.”

  “Deduction,” Watson supplied.

  “Precisely,” Holmes agreed. “Observation and deduction. Knowing both proper etiquette, and the Professor, I was quite certain that Watson and I would be introduced to you first. But aside from that, I should have recognised you out of the group, and was already drawing a conclusion as to your identity well before we came to you. For instance, I note that your attire is of the finest linen, in the latest style, and by that style, your suit must be from one of the top tailors in Savile Row. Yet you have a large smudge of red clay across your waistcoat, and have taken no measures to remove it or ensure it does not stain; this argues that you are unconcerned over the possibility of replacing so expensive a garment. You wear a tightly-woven red silk jacquard kerchief, quite costly, about your neck to protect it from the sun, despite a predilection for that colour to fade readily. In addition, you display an intricately-linked gold watch chain, of the type that is sometimes called Byzantine, with a large, filigreed gold fob containing extensive diamond and ruby pavé. Taken all together, these clews23 say that you have considerable wealth. You carry a brand-new whisk and brush in the rear pockets of your trousers, but there is no sign that they have yet been used; likewise for the hammer slung at your waist. You are younger than the Professor here, yet your physique is that of a mature man, strong and full, and your hair has the slightest tinge of silver beginning at the temples. With this knowledge, as well as the information Professor Whitesell sent me regarding his colleagues, especially the paragraph telling me that the venerable Cortland family continues to finance his expeditions through the beneficent generosity of the most recent Earl, could you be any other than the Earl of Trenthume?”

  The others broke into spontaneous applause. Holmes flushed—with pleasure, this time—and sketched a swift bow.

  “Well, well, it seems Dr. Watson’s little stories are far more accurate than I would have credited,” Whitesell chuckled. “No offense, Doctor.”

  “None taken,” Watson waved off the apology with a smile. “It is a common reaction.”

  “Yes,” Holmes agreed, “one of two, diametrically opposed. The other is usually something along the lines of, ‘Oh, how absurdly simple!’” and they all laughed.

  “Shall we see if Holmes can identify the others?’ Whitesell suggested, grinning broadly. “Are you up to the challenge, Holmes?”

  “Oh, quite,” Holmes replied with nonchalance. “I have already ascertained their identities in any event. We have previously met Mr. Phillips, so I may eliminate him from the equation, though he would have been easy to deduce, merely on the basis of his age. That leaves the other archaeologist, the geologist, and your Egyptian foreman Udail… who is hovering behind you, Professor, awaiting your instruction to have the meal served.”

  Udail looked startled, and stepped from behind Whitesell. The others laughed again, delighted, and Whitesell instructed, “Yes, go ahead and have the workers served, Udail. We will be ready here ourselves in about five minutes. Feel free to take your own meal with your sons.”

  “Very good, Professor,” Udail said, bowing before departing.

  “All right, Sherry,” an enchanted Leighton said, clapping her hands, “the other two?”

  “Dr. Parker Nichols-Woodall,” without hesitation Holmes pointed with one hand, “and Dr. Thomas Brockingthorpe Beaumont.” He pointed with the other hand.

  “Very good!” Phillips exclaimed, impressed despite himself, as they all applauded again.

  “What gave us away?” Beaumont wondered, a hint of French accent lilting his proper English speech.

  “The well-used whisk and brush in your back pocket, used for delicately removing dust and dirt from an artefact,” Holmes told Beaumont. “I learned their operation well myself under Professor Whitesell, and they still find convenient use in my repertoire, when I am investigating crime scenes that are… mm, older in nature, is perhaps a good way to phrase it. And your accent, obtained from your Occitan father, confirms my deductions… for do you not speak fluent French, Dr. Beaumont?”

  “Indeed. I was reared bilingual; my mother was English.”

  “And per your curriculum vitae, have added to those languages. Very good. As for Dr. Nichols-Woodall, he has a specialised hammer, of the type known as a ‘rock pick,’ hanging from his belt, for chipping off smaller specimens of stone outcrops. More, it shows signs of heavy wear, so I deduce it is likely his favourite hammer.”

  “You saw all that?!” Nichols-Woodall exclaimed in some startlement. “Why, the thing is half-hidden by the tails of my waistcoat!”

  “Excellently done, my boy,” Whitesell praised. “And entirely correct in every point. Professor Bell would be quite proud of you, I’ve no doubt. In fact, I think I shall sit down to-night and compose a letter to him, detailing this little introduction!” At this Holmes’ lips compressed, and he nodded, pleased; Whitesell continued. “Gentlemen, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, normally a private consulting detective, who will, as you already know, be our expert in hieroglyph translation on our little excursion; and with him, his friend and companion—and our physician for this expedition—Dr. John. H. Watson.”

  * * *

  On that note, Leighton again towed Holmes, this time to his seat at table, and motioned to Watson to follow, smiling happily. Then she moved around the head of the table to the seat across from Holmes. Phillips pulled out her chair, and her father saw her seated.

  Once Leighton was seated, the men took this as their cue to sit as well. Watson noted that Whitesell took the head of the table, as the expedition lead; the financier, Lord Trenthume, took the foot. His daughter sat at Whitesell’s right hand, with Phillips next her, and Beaumont sat between Phillips and Lord Trenthume.

  Holmes, meanwhile, sat on Whitesell’s left hand, a position Watson found subtly signifi
cant, especially given the daughter’s position. The physician privately wondered if Holmes had realised the social implications, and suspected that the sleuth was being considered—whether willingly or unwillingly; most likely unwillingly, by his earlier behaviour—as a potential family addition. Then again, Watson pondered, it might simply be the position awarded to a favoured former protégé.

  Watson sat in his turn next to Holmes, and the geologist, Nichols-Woodall, had the final seat, across from Beaumont. This was, Watson was soon to find, likely highly preferable to having the two men sit beside each other.

  The first course was a flavourful, spicy lentil stew, a slightly sweet sauvignon blanc providing a counterpoint, with local Egyptians hired for the duration serving the course. After taking a sip of the wine, a curious Watson glanced at the Professor, knitting his brows.

  “Sir, if I might make bold, is this not a European wine?”

  “It is,” Whitesell smiled, taking a sip and savouring it briefly. “One of my favourites. Is it perhaps not to your taste, Doctor? I can have another fetched, if you would prefer.”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary. It is very much to my taste; it is an excellent wine. But surely you did not bring sufficient…? The entire dig team?” Watson wondered, suddenly worried for the expedition’s finances.

  “Ah, I see your concern. No, my boy, the wine is only served in the main tent; you see, the majority of the manual labourers are Muslim, Doctor. They do not drink alcohol, as perhaps you know from your own exploits in the Afghan territories. But my sommelier is Coptic Christian, one Abraam Fouad of Alexandria; he chooses from the selection we brought from a fine London vintner, based on what the cook is preparing for the given meal. He is also the one who serves the wine and any aggregate after-dinner spirits, so that the Muslims among the wait staff do not have to handle it, and thus violate their precepts. Don’t worry; I shan’t break the bank, I assure you.”

  “It has always been Professor Whitesell’s belief that at least one proper meal a day, complete with the niceties, is a boon to morale during an expedition into the wilds,” Holmes elaborated urbanely. “It is why he insists upon a formal—well, I suppose ‘semi-formal’ is perhaps a better term, given that our tendencies have always been to arrive at table with minimal freshening, in preference to remaining at the dig pits as long as possible—a semi-formal dinner, at the very least. Breakfast and luncheon are somewhat negotiable; dinner is not.”

  “Except in the event of an emergency,” Whitesell added. “Should such a matter arise, Doctor, I assure you that you, your attendants, and anyone you required to assist, would of course be exempt. I suspect that, in a very bad situation, we might well forego it altogether, but fortunately I have never had to do so yet. I do my utmost to maintain as safe conditions as it is possible to do, under such circumstances as we currently find ourselves. Since I often use the same local workers on successive expeditions, and new workers are most usually obtained from the families of my regular workers, it is something of,” Whitesell paused to shrug, then added in a slightly gruffer tone, “a family affair, I suppose.”

  “After all this time, the Professor knows most of the local workers on a first-name basis, Doctor,” Phillips informed Watson.

  “Oh, of course, of course. Quite understandable. Well, then. Very good. Cheers,” Watson offered, holding up his goblet.

  “Cheers,” came back the chorus, everyone clinking glasses to right and left.

  “Tell me, Professor,” Holmes queried, tasting his first course, “is old Qusay still working for you?” At this, everyone else also began the meal with alacrity, all sampling both the stew and wine and making pleased sounds.

  “No, Holmes, he retired about two or three years after you moved on,” Whitesell noted. “Said he was getting too old in the joints for all that work. His youngest son Razin took his place, however.”

  “Oh, capital. I should like it if you would introduce me to him at some point, Professor; his father was a positive delight, and easily taught me half of my Arabic. Watson, you were noting my fluency on the trip here, and Qusay not only improved my vocabulary, but helped me hone my pronunciation, into the bargain. He quite took me under his wing.”

  “Really! I should like to meet the son, too, then!” Watson declared. “Perhaps even the father, if he lives nearby. My Arabic could use a little honing,” he added sheepishly.

  “I’d be delighted, both of you,” Whitesell beamed. “Razin is very much a chip off the old block, as it were. I think you’ll like him.”

  Just then, Beaumont looked up and declared, “Ah, this is indeed most delicious, Professor! I had forgotten how much I enjoyed a good lentil stew. The cuisine in the Americas, while excellent, is very different. I have not had a proper lentil stew since… oh! Since that conference, Parker, when you could not find your trousers, mon ami!”24 he addressed Nichols-Woodall with a smirk, then turned to the others. “He evidently had to borrow a pair from a colleague… who had considerably shorter legs. And they were brown, and he had no brown suit; he wore a grey one… for the keynote paper. It was… quite the sight.”

  “I should have had my own trousers, thank you, were not SOMEONE at this table less of an atrocious prankster,” Nichols-Woodall pointed out with some heat. Beside him, Lord Trenthume blinked in discomfited bemusement. “I should very much like to know how WHOEVER did it managed to break into my rooms at the hotel in the first place.”

  “Well, mon ami, perhaps you should ask Mr. Holmes,” Beaumont offered, a mock-innocent smile on his face, but with a disparaging, almost calumnious, look in his eyes. “What a pity there are no longer any clews, after all this time.”

  “Someone… broke into your room, and stole… your trousers,” Lord Trenthume murmured, a perplexed expression on his face. “What an outré thing to happen…”

  “You know,” Nichols-Woodall remarked, thoughtful, but with a vaguely malicious light in his own eyes, “I recall that colloquium quite clearly, myself. Wasn’t that the one where you gave a talk on one of those esoteric theories of yours, and everyone attending the talk was laughing at it? Something about a connexion between alchemy, the Aztecs, and the Amazons, or the like?”

  Poor Lord Trenthume began to fidget nervously. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, but seemed to have no idea what to say, and shut it again without having made a remark.

  “Ah, yes, I remember,” Beaumont agreed placidly. “And it was the Maya, not the Aztecs. Although it is less alliterative, I suppose. Well, radical revolutions in science are often scorned by lesser minds. As I recollect, you attended my talk…”

  “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, uns
killed 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!”