Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse Page 9

  “Damnation,” Holmes expostulated. “And it is totally unnecessary that the workers should fear, for the entire ‘artefact’ is a fake.”

  “What?!”

  “It is a forgery, without doubt,” Holmes reiterated, and proceeded to explain the chain of clews and deductions which proved the matter; having brought the slate with him, he was able to show the professor several of the clews directly. At the end of the tale, Whitesell sat back in his chair with a frown.

  “But why would Dr. Beaumont do such a thing?” he wondered.

  “It could well be a somewhat puerile prank, I suppose,” Holmes offered, “but…”

  “But what? Go ahead, Holmes, tell me the worst.”

  “Very well. It is my understanding that your team and his have been in, mm, some mildly antagonistic competition, for the last several years?” Holmes delicately broached the subject.

  “Rather a bit, yes,” Whitesell confessed, mildly abashed by the admission. “But I thought the hatchet buried when he approached me about the dig back in the summer. I had sent him something of a peace offering in the spring, so…”

  “Do you know if his own team is still working anywhere?” Holmes queried.

  “I… don’t THINK so,” Whitesell responded, uncertain. “I’m fairly sure not… but I cannot say for certain.”

  “If they are, it may be that he intends to delay your operation in order that his might obtain a ‘scoop,’ as the American newspapermen say. A sufficiently large discovery might well eclipse yours in the newspapers and scientific journals. It would also,” Holmes continued, “explain a few things like the various delays we experienced, and some of your missing equipment.”

  “Delays? What do you mean?” Whitesell wondered.

  So Holmes sat down and sketched out the entire sequence of delaying tactics he and Watson had experienced, from the invitational letter held up in post right down to the contaminated food for the caravan.

  “It’s just possible, I suppose.” Whitesell looked up at Holmes, expression blank. “And you think that the missing hospital tent, medical equipment, carbide lanterns, and the like, are simply more evidence of the same?” the professor confirmed.

  “I do,” Holmes averred. “Someone does not want this team to find Ka-Sekhen’s tomb. For reasons unknown, at least so far. And Beaumont is as likely a suspect as any.”

  “Well…” Whitesell broke off.

  “’Well’ what?”

  “Nichols-Woodall and I had a spat earlier in the year,” the archaeologist admitted. “It was bad enough that he initially signed on with another expedition… until he heard that Beaumont was coming. Then he resigned from that expedition, and made nice with me.”

  “So Nichols-Woodall is a suspect, as well.”

  “Yes, but he knows little of hieroglyphics.”

  “That still does not eliminate him,” Holmes pointed out. “It is not an especially skilful job. He may have copied bits out of textbooks on the subject.”

  “True.”

  “Are there any other suspects? Is Lord Trenthume focussed on your expedition, for example? Mr. Phillips?”

  “Phillips hasn’t the contacts to do something like all this,” Whitesell averred. “Perhaps the tablet, but not the rest. And he’d have a hard time hiding even that from me.”

  “I thought as much, but it does not hurt to ask. And Trenthume?”

  “Cortland has indeed branched out in recent years,” Whitesell admitted. “He is quite wealthy and adores archaeological digs. As between us,” Whitesell paused and glanced around. They both listened carefully, and Holmes tiptoed to the tent flap to glance outside.

  “We are alone,” he murmured, returning to his seat. “You may continue, Professor.”

  “Um, yes, well, as between us, he is far from the sharpest knife in the drawer—though, knowing you, you have probably already noticed…”

  “Indeed.”

  “Still, he’s started financing other expeditions. And takes turn-about attending them,” Whitesell informed the detective. “Insofar as I can tell, he seems to think it makes him a dashing figure with the ladies. Leighton tells me it just makes him look silly, but from my experience, not all women agree with her. And as he has yet to marry and produce an heir…”

  “Ah. I see. So an important discovery makes him appear more important, hence a more desirable, eligible bachelor…”

  “Precisely.”

  “Of these three, then,” Holmes pondered, “which do you think most likely to perpetrate all these things?”

  “I shouldn’t think it would be Parker,” Whitesell protested. “We quite made up our disagreement, I thought. And Cortland surely does not have the wit for such a complex plot… if plot it is.”

  “True,” Holmes murmured. “The circumstantial evidence does seem to point to Beaumont.”

  “Yes.”

  “But it is just that—circumstantial.”

  “True, but still. What should I do? I cannot just throw him off the site! It would hardly be diplomatic.”

  “My advice would be to say nothing as yet, Professor,” Holmes advised after a few seconds to consider. “Give me some time to observe, to look into matters, and try to adjudge what is going on, to the best of my abilities. I will keep you closely apprised of my findings, and perhaps in a few days, we may have somewhat to direct us.”

  Whitesell gazed at him thoughtfully for a long moment, pondering the matter, then nodded. “All right, Holmes. I’ll look to you to tell me what’s going on, and what to do about it, once you find out.”

  “To start, then, do you slip into the village, to the telegraph office, and send a wire to your colleagues back in London. Ask if Beaumont’s own team is active elsewhere.”

  “Well, I will, then.”

  Holmes left the tent, determined to spend the day surreptitiously observing the entire dig team.

  * * *

  With nothing else on hand to translate, as the other inscription fragments were not in a condition to be read, Holmes spent the day wandering the archaeological site, familiarising himself with the terrain, mentally comparing it with the maps he had memorised, and keeping an eye on the various actors. It was easy to see rumour of the curse spreading amongst the diggers, as Udail made his rounds; easy to see, too, that the workers became uncomfortable with the purported knowledge of said “curse.” Holmes began to worry that it could cause more difficulties than merely slowing down the dig.

  “It may,” he told Watson in their tent after lunch, “end up shutting it down.”

  “No! Of course not! You cannot think so, old chap,” Watson protested. Holmes shook his head.

  “But I do. If enough workers become fearful, too fearful to continue, there will not be enough manpower to go on.”

  “Then we will simply hire more workers.”

  “And what will happen to these other potential workers, Watson, as soon as the current workers reach their homes and tell all their friends, relatives, and neighbours that the tomb is cursed, and it is a diabolical death merely to work on it?”

  “Dear God, Holmes. Surely not.”

  “I cannot risk it, my dear Watson. For Professor Whitesell’s sake, I MUST find out what is going on, and put a stop to it, post-haste.”

  * * *

  “I noticed that neither Beaumont nor Phillips came in for lunch to-day,” Watson volunteered, after several moments of silence. “You don’t suppose…”

  “No, Beaumont was in the artefact tent, cataloguing several—legitimate—finds from this morning, and Phillips was in one of the pits where the workers found a large pot. He is endeavouring to extract it entire, without damage. It is heavily decorated, and he and the Professor think it may relate to Ka-Sekhen’s tomb, so it is important it should emerge as unscathed as is practicable. And he did not wish to leave it over luncheon, lest its weight, without the support of the surrounding soil, should cause it to fracture. I believe I overheard Udail remarking that Beaumont went to help on that task, when o
nce he was finished cataloguing.”

  “And Professor Whitesell? Is he upset over this scandalous matter?”

  “He is, quite a good bit actually, but is carrying on with the proverbial stiff upper lip,” Holmes said, offering a small, fond smile with the statement. “He has been over at least half the site already to-day, I would swear to it. The quartermaster, the artefact tent, the pit where Phillips is working, debating locations with Nichols-Woodall, simply everywhere. And I suspect that it is to distract his mind from worry over this whole affair. And all that after a swift trip to the telegraph office right after I spoke with him.”

  “Great Scot! He may be our elder by several decades, but it does not seem to have slowed him in the least.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Sheeerry! SHERRY!” came a call from without, and Holmes stifled a groan.

  “Oh no! Not now. Not when I have so much on my mind. It will not do. Watson,” he murmured, “do you suppose I can slip out through the back tent seam without being seen?”

  “No, it’s lashed down far too well,” Watson hissed, trying hard to refrain from imprudent laughter. “You know, Holmes, most men would give a body part to be in your position with that beautiful girl.”

  “I am NOT ‘most men,’ and I find it very annoying,” Holmes protested, drawing himself up. “Were she to actually discuss anything of import, it might be less irritating, but I am either forced to reminisce interminably, or to remark on—or endure—seemingly endless ‘romantic’ vistas, or images, or some concept or other she has taken into her head about Pharaonic Egypt which I then must explain away, or such similar drivel. We have long since ‘caught each other up,’ as it were, and there seems to be little else to discuss—at least, of anything I find interesting. I have tried to inject some seriousness into the conversations, for I know she has the brains for it, but it seems hopeless; she is at that age where she is uninterested in more austere matters, which she considers dull and boring. No, she is all about sentiment, and flights of fancy, and romance, and such tripe. Ah well. I had hoped to spend the siesta time pondering the clews to this puzzle, but it seems not to be. So I suppose I may as well face the Gorgon.”

  “Holmes!” Watson remonstrated. “How could you insult that enchanting creature so! And you call yourself her friend!”

  “I am her friend,” came the counter-argument. “I am simply not her pet toy poodle.”

  “Um, well… Ah! I have it, then!” Watson said, spinning to the table with his medical equipment. “Quickly! Remove your waistcoat, undo your collar-ends, shuck off your braces, muss your hair, and lie down on your cot!”

  “What?”

  “Just do it! Hurry! Listen—she’s headed this way!”

  Without further ado, Holmes obeyed, even daring to unfasten the top few buttons of his shirt for good measure. Watson dragged one of the camp stools to Holmes’ bedside, placed his open medical bag on the canvas floor at his feet, and extracted a jar of petroleum jelly. He smeared a thin film of the stuff across Holmes’ upper lip and over his forehead, dropped the jar back into his bag, then grabbed a washcloth and the pitcher of water from the washbasin, saturating the cloth, wringing out only a little of the excess before running it across Holmes’ face. Then, to Holmes’ intense startlement, Watson wrung out most of the water… across the detective’s prostrate chest. Holmes gasped in shock and flung his arms out, for the water was cooler than his body temperature… just as Watson completed the ruse by slapping the wet cloth into both of Holmes’ armpits, thoroughly soaking his shirt and taking his breath away at the same time.

  “Watson! What are you doing?!” Holmes whispered, when he could catch his breath; Leighton’s calls were just down the row of tents now. Watson grabbed one of Holmes’ feet, dragging it off the cot, to dangle awkwardly a few inches above the canvas floor.

  “Hush, close your eyes, and follow my lead! Here she comes!”

  “Sherry? Dr. Watson? Are you inside? May I come in?” came the soft hail from without.

  “Come in, Miss Whitesell,” Watson called in a low voice, “but please, do be quiet.”

  The tent flap was pushed back, and Leighton entered. She stopped dead, hands flying to her mouth in distress, as she saw the tableau within: an apparently unconscious Holmes, sprawled across his cot, half-undressed, his shirt soaked with what appeared to be perspiration, moisture heavily beaded on his brow and lip, while Watson sat beside him with his medical kit, gently sponging him down with a wet cloth.

  “Dr. Watson! What’s wrong?! Is Sherry ill?”

  “Not too badly, I think,” Watson soothed, mopping Holmes’ beaded brow with the damp washcloth. “You may have seen him exploring the site this morning, learning his way around a bit better? I think perhaps he may have been trying to learn the grid off by heart… he mentioned something this morning…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I’m afraid he might have got a little overheated,” Watson said, only avoiding lying through his teeth by the narrowest of margins and considerable circumlocution. “He appears to have a touch of heat prostration. A cool down, a quart or so of water in him—I TOLD you to take your canteen,” he broke off to tell an inert Holmes sternly, “and he’ll be fine. If he behaves, I MIGHT let him out again this afternoon, after the siesta—provided he wears his topee, takes at least one canteen full of water and DRINKS from it… and perhaps a moist bandanna, worn about the throat.”

  “Oh DEAR!” Leighton exclaimed, horrified. “Is he awake?”

  “Mmh,” Holmes groaned just then, before continuing in a whisper. “Oh, my head. Yes, Leigh, I am awake. Please keep your voice down. My head…”

  “You could be verging on a migraine,” Watson scolded. “And no wonder. Am I going to have to follow you around to insist you carry your canteen and use it? You have experience here; I’d have thought you knew better.”

  “It has… been several years… Watson. One never… forgets how to… ride the bicycle, but… one can get… rusty.”

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Leighton said, in her softest tone. “Don’t you worry one whit, Sherry. I’ll go tell Da you need to stay in here this afternoon and get well.”

  “NO!” Holmes cried, lunging upward; Watson immediately splayed his hand across the sleuth’s chest and pressed down hard, keeping him prone. Holmes promptly clutched his head and slumped. “No, Leigh, don’t do that. I had… rather he… didn’t know.”

  “Ohhhh,” Leighton said, in understanding—as she thought. “I see. It would embarrass you in front of Da and the others. Yes, I understand. Um, what shall we tell Da, then, if he notices you’re missing?”

  “Tell him that, um… that Holmes decided to come back to the tent, to mull over potential clews to, uh, to the tomb’s location,” Watson suggested, after a moment’s thought.

  “Yes,” Holmes agreed. “Yes, that would do very well, Leigh. Tell him that. But only if he asks. I have no doubt I shall be out and about in an hour or so, with Watson tending me, here. So he may not even miss me.”

  “All right. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No, Miss Whitesell,” Watson declared. “In fact, I shall have to ask you to leave, and tie the tent flap closed behind you, if you would be so kind. You see, I plan to remove some more of Holmes’ garments and apply cool compresses, and it would not do for you to remain.”

  “Oh!” She blushed furiously. “Of course! I’ll just slip out then. Feel better, Sherry! Do take good care of him, Doctor!”

  And she was gone, tying the tent flap behind her.

  * * *

  The two men waited until the pattering sound of her footsteps faded into silence, then Holmes sat up, and they both doubled over with laughter, carefully stifled lest she return.

  “You… you owe me for that, Holmes!” Watson gasped, before burying his red face in his pillow to muffle his laughter.

  “I do, you rascal!” Holmes agreed, practically convulsed with silent laughter. “A prettier improvised plan I cou
ld not have devised! The mineral jelly not only appeared to be a film of sweat, it made the water bead up! Where did you get that trick?”

  “From you, of course! Where do you think I learned it all? I have paid attention whenever you have disguised yourself, you know!”

  “Capital, my dear Watson, positively capital!”

  And they doubled over again.

  * * *

  By the time Holmes had stripped off his sodden shirt and vest, dried off, cleansed away the petroleum jelly, and dressed in clean, dry clothing, he and Watson judged that enough time had passed for him to venture forth once more, and he had indeed had occasion to ponder the situation in which the expedition collectively found itself. This time, however, when he left the tent he not only wore his pith helmet, he wrapped one of Watson’s bandannas about his throat, and took TWO full canteens—his own and Watson’s—slung bandolier-style across his chest.

  “Seriously, Holmes, it really isn’t going to hurt to take in a bit more water, in this environment,” Watson offered, as he handed Holmes his own canteen, back in the tent. “You’re entirely too prone to not eating or drinking when you are working, and that simply won’t do, here. Professor Whitesell has asked me to maintain ‘surgery hours’ at certain times of day in the tent, meaning I am stuck here for the rest of the afternoon in any case, so take my canteen too. I’ll have one of my nurses fetch a fresh pitcherful from the water butt, so I shall be just fine.”

  “Fair enough, Watson,” Holmes agreed mildly, adjusting the strap across his chest. “I suppose if Leigh starts in again, I can always begin sending her off with alternate canteens to bring me water. I may well float away in that event, however.”

  “Which will not hurt in the least. Um, does she have any nursing skill?”

  “Why, would you like for me to send her here, to help you?”

  “It… was a thought.”

  “She is quite comely, isn’t she?”