Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse (11 page)

“But why would he do it? He is part of the expedition!”

“Ah, but only this first time,” Holmes pointed out. “It is my understanding that, until he approached Professor Whitesell with something of an olive branch in late summer, they were in fact so competitive as to be unpleasantly acrimonious. You have seen the animosity between him and Dr. Nichols-Woodall, who has long been a respected member of Professor Whitesell’s team.” Holmes paused, then added, “Moreover, he has spent most of his expeditions in recent years in Western Hemisphere rainforests, not in Egypt. He is not up on his hieroglyphics. And so he erred in his linguistics, by using a much later version of the ancient Egyptian ‘letters’ than were appropriate for Pharaoh Ka-Sekhen.”

“I see. So your dilemma is…?”

Holmes sighed.

“What to do with that knowledge,” he admitted.

* * *

The pair quietly discussed the situation until late into the night, clear through Holmes’ dinner, even after retiring, and finally came up with a reasonable plan. So in the morning after breakfast, Holmes subtly drew Professor Whitesell aside.

“What is it, Holmes?” Whitesell wondered a few moments later, from the sanctuary of his private tent.

“It… is about the stone tablet Dr. Beaumont found,” Holmes began.

“Oh, excellent! Did you get it translated?”

“I did. But—”

“Let’s hear it, then! What does it say?”

“It is a curse, and translates to,
‘Death shall come on swift wings to him who disturbs the peace of the Pharaoh Sekhen. Curséd be he! They that shall break the seal of this tomb shall meet death by a disease that no physician can diagnose nor cure. I shall cast my fear into him; there will be fierce judgement, and an end shall be made of him. He shall descend in torment to Anubis at a time he does not expect.’
” Holmes paused, then added, “But I do not think—”

Just then Udail entered.

“Professor,” the foreman began, “I—oh, I am sorry, Mr. Holmes. I heard voices, but I thought it was only Mr. Phillips, and… Forgive me! I will come back.” And he began to bow out of the tent.

“No, no, Udail, what is the matter?” Whitesell asked, for the Egyptian was uncommonly pale.

“The carbide lamps have finally arrived, Professor, and the supplies master—ah, the quartermaster, rather, forgive my rusty English—wished to know where you would like them kept.”

“Ah, very good. Tell the quartermaster that I shall come by shortly, once Mr. Holmes and I have finished.”

“It shall be done, Professor.” Udail bowed again. “Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, Udail?”

“Does it make you fear?”

“What?”

“The curse.”

Holmes bit his lip, realising the man had evidently overheard him quote the inscription just before coming in. “No, Udail, it does not,” he replied, as calm as he knew how to be. “I can assure you, there is absolutely nothing to fear here.”

Udail bowed, a look of scepticism on his sun-bronzed face, and left.

“Well, that was ill-timed,” Whitesell grumbled, and Holmes grasped that the archaeologist also understood the significance of Udail’s reaction. “Udail is a good man, and an excellent foreman for the archaeological work, very knowledgeable, but inclined to be somewhat superstitious, and a bit of a gossip. The news of the curse will be all over the dig site by sundown, if not sooner. Along with his fear of it.”

“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 once 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.