“There is considerable stonework. Most of the buildings seem to be stone or stucco. A bit of brickwork, but it seems crude.”
“Indeed. That is the, mm, the most convenient, building material here.”
“Precious few trees in a desert, I suppose. And what are there, are probably better used for other things than building timbers,” Watson decided. The front of the small caravan stopped before a two-storey stucco building. A small sign hung over the front entrance.
“Quite. Ah, here we are, An Alenwem Alejyed Leylaan.15 That sounds promising.” Holmes nodded at the sign
“You read—and speak—Arabic?”
“Of course. Do you not?”
“A bit. I’m hardly fluent, but I can get by in an emergency. And you?”
“When I was here before with Professor Whitesell, it was essential. At that time I was his assistant, trusted with probably half the logistics, and a great deal of the linguistics; I could not have got about without at least a fundamental knowledge of the language. I would not claim to be a scholar, but I did well enough. It has been a few years, but it swiftly came back to me in Safaga.”
“He speaks fluent Arabic, he reads Arabic as well as he speaks it, he rides camels as if born to it,” Watson grumbled under his breath. “In addition to being the best damn jack16 in all of London; London just doesn’t know it yet. I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. His memory is a bloody steel trap. I’m the confounded nickey17 about these parts.” Unseen by him, grey eyes cut to his face, studying it briefly in the dim light, then returned to the sign over the hostelry door.
“I expect we could both use a sound night’s sleep, after the last few evenings,” Holmes continued, as though he had never heard his companion. “Watson…”
“Yes, Holmes?”
“Our discussion this morning, in Omar’s tent…”
“Yes?”
“Would you feel safer going home to Baker Street? If you would prefer, I can make arrangements in the morning to send you down the Nile to a steamer ship in Alexandria. You could be home in a fortnight, if not sooner.”
“You intend to go on?”
“I do.”
“Then I will most certainly accompany you,” Watson said stoutly.
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely positive.”
“Very well, then; it be on your own head,” Holmes said, only half-whimsically. “This is likely to be the last sleep in a proper bed that we shall have for some months, Watson; enjoy it.”
“I fully intend to, old chap,” Watson offered cheerfully, as a handler coaxed their mounts to kneel. Swinging his bad leg awkwardly around the camel’s hump, the physician eased himself gingerly to the ground. “Ahh,” he murmured, stretching, “much better. Oop!” He staggered briefly, and the alert camel handler grabbed his shoulders, steadying him before he could fall.
“Are you well, Watson?” Holmes murmured with solicitude, dismounting his own camel with his usual grace and coming to his friend’s side. “Are your wounds troubling you? The journey hasn’t made matters worse, has it?”
“No, no, Holmes, I’m quite all right,” Watson brushed off Holmes’ concern with a slight smile. “My bad knee is just a trifle stiff, is all, and I’m afraid it failed to entirely straighten out just now. I’ll flex it a bit once we alight in our rooms, maybe rub it with liniment, and it will be as right as rain in the morning. It was only that second day I was in pain.”
“Ah yes. The first day, one is getting used to it. The second day is the one which hurts!”
“Exactly!”
And, chuckling, the two men entered the hostelry to be led to their beds.
* * *
After a substantial, relatively easily-digestible breakfast of fuul18 and hard-boiled egg stuffed in pita, all washed down with that same syrupy-sweet coffee which could be found throughout the country, they departed the quay at Qina, headed up the Nile on the steam launch Akhenaten, midmorning of the next day. Their rooms had been comfortably cool, the beds of softest goose down, and even Watson had to admit there were no kinks remaining in his anatomy as he boarded the steam launch.
“I say, Holmes, this is quite pleasant,” he noted from his seat at the rail when once they were well under way.
“It is, Watson,” Holmes said, standing next to him at the rail and pensively looking out westward. “And it’s about time! The breeze is deliciously cool and damp off the water, and the canvas over the launch provides welcome shade against that deucedly hot Egyptian sun! Whenever I am here, I have no doubt why the pharaohs worshipped the sun, for surely the sun controls everything hereabouts!”
“Ha! Excellent point, old man! Listen, do you suppose the captain would mind if I smoked?”
“I shouldn’t think so, but perhaps you ought to ask him first.”
“Er, I rather ascertained, while we were boarding, that he only spoke Arabic.”
Holmes hesitated, then spun and sat on the railing bench beside Watson.
“Old chap, are you requesting of me to ask him FOR you?”
“You’re the fluent linguist in this region, not I.” Watson shrugged.
“Watson…” Holmes paused, mentally debating his phrasing. “It has not escaped my attention that you seem to feel… inadequate, in this environment, especially as regards my experience in it. Perhaps this is the way to start…?” Watson let out a soft, rueful chuckle, then leaned toward his friend, dropping his voice.
“Not in this case, Holmes, I fear. Partly for that very reason, I tried to make chit-chat with the captain back at the quay, to no avail. There is a… an accent, a dialect, or the like, which I am simply not grasping, which our good captain seems to have. I might manage to make myself understood, but I swiftly realised I was unlikely to understand HIM. I’ve no idea if it is a regional dialect, a speech impediment, or what, but despite my best efforts I cannot understand the man for the life of me.” He met Holmes’ concerned grey gaze. “I hadn’t the problem at the hostelry, so it seems to be only the captain. I swear to you, Holmes, I will try—but for now…” He shrugged again, then nodded at the stern, where the captain steered the launch. “It had best come from—and to—you.”
“Very well, then. One moment.” Holmes turned and called back to the launch’s captain. “Aleqbetan, qed sedyeqy aledkhan lh alanabeyb?”19
“Webteby’eh alhal, ya sedyeqy,”20 came the cheerful reply. “’Ela alefhem adenah, bheyth tekwen amenh. Welken aqewl lh an ahedr aletmaseyh! La ted' lh tefqed lh anebweb aletbegh!”21
“Neqth memtazh, ya sedyeqy!”22
The captain and Holmes both laughed, and Watson frowned, disappointed. Holmes turned to his friend.
“Wipe that scowl from your face, Watson. It’s quite all right. Go ahead and smoke, as you like. And I may well join you. But whatever you do, don’t lose your pipe overboard. In fact, I recommend a cigarette; I have some already rolled, if you prefer. Or perhaps a cigar from our baggage.”
“But why?”
Holmes merely pointed to the riverbank with a long, slim finger. Watson turned to look.
“I see nothing but some deadwood and logs washed up,” he noted with a shrug.
“Look closer. Those are not logs. They are crocodiles. There will also be cobras.”
“CROC—! Ah, well then. Of course. Do you have your cigarette case about you?”
* * *
The launch travelled swifter, even upstream, than a camel; the terrain changed fairly rapidly from the relatively open desert full of sand dunes and more distant mountains near Qina, to low encroaching sandstone mountains, thence to higher, more rugged cliffs and mountains, closer in, as they neared—and passed—Luxor. Watson happily gazed out at the spectacular temple ruins as they glided past, and Holmes considerately fetched the field glasses from their baggage so that he might get a closer view.
Some two hours before sundown, they arrived at the landing, still well downstream of the First Cataract, though they had yet a considerable traverse west
of the Nile to the actual dig site.
“Mr. Holmes?” a young, red-headed man, appearing to be in his very early twenties and with a pronounced Liverpool accent, called to them as they clambered up the gangplank to the quay. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“Here!” Holmes replied, holding up a hand. “And this is my friend and colleague, Doctor John H. Watson.”
“Indeed,” the young man smiled, taking their hands and shaking in turn. “My name is Landers Phillips; I’m Professor Whitesell’s doctoral student and assistant. We had your telegrams, and he sent me to fetch you back to camp. But you’re later than we expected; based on your message from Safaga, we thought you’d be here two days ago, until we got your telegram from Qina this morning.”
“A little matter of some… spoiled… food,” Watson offered, “and a temporary camp in the desert became an extended stay.”
“Oh!” Phillips exclaimed, shocked. “Are you both well?”
“Thanks to Watson, we are now.” Holmes shot his friend a smile.
“Good, then. Is Omar here with—? Ah, there he is,” Phillips said, as Omar and two of his men unloaded trunks and bags from the rear of the launch. When Phillips put two fingers to his mouth and delivered a sharp whistle, Omar looked up, spotted the younger man, who was now waving, and nodded; he turned to his men and pointed, and they began carrying the baggage up the quay. Phillips continued, “Mind where you walk. Some areas down near the river banks fairly swarm with cobras; I understand they like the water. You’ll need to look out by the dig, too. There’s a nest of ’em somewhere, because one shows up now and again, but we haven’t located where they’re coming from. Now, I have a donkey cart over here for all of your things, and a dogcart for us to ride in. The Professor will be waiting dinner on us.”
“He still holds communal dinners, then?” Holmes asked, following the young man off the quay and under the shade of a clump of date palms nearby. There, the aforementioned carts awaited.
“He does,” Phillips confirmed. “He says it bonds the party better. I’m not entirely sure I agree with him, but there it is. You’ll see what I mean, soon enough. And of course prayer tents for our Muslim workers, and such. Climb in, gentlemen. Tariq is driving the baggage cart; he knows the way, and will follow along after with your things. I’ll just take care of your travelling expenses and we’ll be off.”
“No need, my good man,” Holmes noted, reaching for his pocket-book. “We budgeted for porters and the like.”
“No, no!” Phillips waved him off with a smile. “I have express orders from the Professor, and I dare not contravene them! Else it is apt to be my hide adorning the museum! You are an expert consultant brought in for the purpose of helping us decipher any writings we may discover, so the university will cover your expenses, and glad of it. Dr. Watson, too; it is always good to have a physician on site, in case of injury or the like, as Professor Whitesell said—especially, I suppose, with those blasted snakes in the area, though they’ve not truly threatened anyone so far. Besides, if we find what we hope to find, it will end up in the British Museum, and we’ll all be famous! In with you, now!”
The pair clambered in; Phillips paid Omar and the captain of the Akhenaten, then he joined them, took up the reins of the shaggy little pony, and they were off.
CHAPTER 2
Introductions and Reacquaintances
—::—
When they arrived at the dig, there was a large white awning erected off to one side, a big hardwood table standing underneath, set with a pristine white tablecloth and linens, proper silver, crystal, and china; a sideboard sat nearby. Clustered around this awning were several more tables, less elegant, where the local diggers ate. Some of these had canvas shades and others did not. Dirty, dusty Egyptians—obviously the diggers, by the state and style of their clothing—milled around the outer tables, tolerantly awaiting the food. Under the awning a more dapper, if still dusty, group stood. Most of them had skin browned almost as dark as the native Egyptians, proof of their active outdoor profession. One gentleman, somewhat shorter than the others, stocky, and possessed of a white beard and moustache beneath his pith helmet, stood patiently at the entrance to the awning, gazing down the rutted track to the river with bright blue eyes. Upon spying the dogcart, a huge smile spread across his wizened face; he clapped his hands in delight and stepped forward to meet the cart, as Phillips drew the pony to a halt.
“Holmes!” he cried with enthusiasm. “Ah, young Holmes, it is so good to see you!”
Holmes sprang nimbly from the rear of the dogcart, hurrying to the older man, a broad grin on his face. “Professor Whitesell!” he exclaimed. “How delightful to see you again! I’d swear you haven’t changed at all!”
He held out his hand to shake, but Whitesell caught him in a fatherly embrace. Holmes stiffened instinctively, but relaxed slightly after a moment, and gently patted the older man on the back. As the embrace eased, he turned to Watson.
“Professor, allow me to present my friend, colleague, and sometime Boswell, Doctor John H. Watson, late of Her Majesty’s Army medical department. Watson, this is Professor Willingham Adelbert Whitesell, Quatermain Professor of Archaeology at Oxbridge.”
* * *
“Pleased,” Watson said, beaming beneath his moustache, stepping forward and taking the professor’s hand in a firm grip before shaking. “I’m looking forward to picking your brains about what Holmes, here, was like when he was younger.”
Holmes’ eyebrows shot up, in what Watson mischievously interpreted as surprised dismay, and Whitesell chuckled impishly.
“I think I may just be able to oblige, Doctor. And I’m looking forward to finding out more about the adventures the pair of you have had,” Whitesell responded with a grin. “I knew young Holmes was destined for something great, but I’d be damned if I could figure out, at the time, what it was.”
“He does hide it well, doesn’t he?” an impish Watson tossed back, and watched in amusement as Holmes’ eyebrows shifted into a considering, one-raised, one-not configuration. A faint crease of annoyance developed between them. “I swear I could not make out what he was about, when we had only just moved into the flat and were still getting to know each other. The fact that he was pulling my leg half the time, and actually pretended not to know the Earth went around the Sun, only served to throw red herrings across my path.” Watson shot a glance at Holmes from the corner of his eye, and noted the detective’s cheekbones had grown ruddy.
“Ah! You young scamp, Holmes! I taught you better than that!” Whitesell said, shaking his fist, but with lips twitching, and Watson knew he was trying not to laugh at Holmes’ discomfiture.
“A wise man does not always admit to everything he knows,” Holmes decreed, giving Watson an austere glance. “Especially when he does not yet fully know the gentleman to whom he speaks.”
“You thought enough of me to share a flat,” Watson riposted smartly, by way of reminder.
“You had Stamford to vouch for your antecedents,” Holmes pointed out. Whitesell laughed.
“Gentlemen, is this a true disagreement, or merely a show put on for my entertainment?” he wondered.
“Neither,” Watson offered sheepishly, as a diffident Holmes broke off the conversation. “We are prone to chaffing each other unmercifully when no one else is about, and I fear we forgot we had… an audience.”
“Quite,” Holmes murmured.
“Then this is a strong friendship! Brothers in all but blood, I should say, by the look of it. Well, well, come along, Doctor, and let me introduce you and Holmes to the others. Holmes, do you remember my daugh—”
A petite, human-sized cannonball with golden hair abruptly launched itself at Holmes, only slowing when it fairly bounced off his chest. He seemed to freeze in place as his arms became unexpectedly full of a very attractive, and very shapely, young woman.
“SHERRY!” she cried, hugging him enthusiastically. “Oh, my dear Sherry! It’s been years! Oh, it’s so WONDERFUL to see yo
u! You haven’t changed a whit!”
With an obvious effort, for the young woman seemed determined to hug him as tightly as possible, Holmes held her at arm’s length and stared at her in astonishment. Watson gaped at the scene; not only was the young woman uncommonly lovely, he had never before seen Holmes in such a predicament.
“Leigh?!” Holmes queried, patently shocked. “Is that you?”
“She’s grown a wee bit, hasn’t she, Holmes?” Whitesell noted proudly. “My little girl is quite the woman now. Dr. Watson, permit me to introduce my daughter, Leighton Quintana Whitesell. Leighton, this is Dr. John Watson.”
A beaming Leighton finally moved back from Holmes as Watson stepped forward, taking her hand and bowing briefly over it. “Charmed,” he murmured, trying not to get lost in the vivid green gaze.
“Good evening, Doctor, very pleased to meet you,” Leighton said with a welcoming smile, then turned back to Holmes, catching his hand and pulling him—unwillingly—behind. Watson was put in mind of a tugboat manoeuvring an ocean liner. “Sherry, you can’t imagine how excited I’ve been over seeing you again! You’ve already met Landers. Come along and meet the others! You too, Doctor! Are you really Sherry’s bosom friend? Da says you are.”
“We are dear friends, yes, sometimes in despite of appearances,” Watson averred, then cocked an eyebrow at Holmes, who was evidently—as Watson adjudged by his expression —trying not to show his vexation over the situation in front of Professor Whitesell. “’Sherry’? Holmes, what—”
“Oh, that would be her childhood name for Holmes,” Whitesell explained, as Leighton towed a red-faced Holmes before them. “She wasn’t able to quite manage wrapping her little mouth around the name ‘Sherlock,’ and so that is how it ended up coming out—with a few intermediate attempts, I suppose, since she had a bit of a lisp, early on. You see, there is some ten or twelve years’ difference in their ages, give or take, and she was quite a child when Holmes and I first met, which was actually a couple of years before he began his post-graduate work—she is still some few years from her majority yet, though I might have presented her as an early debutante last season, had either of us wished. But Holmes was at my home a good bit at the time, as you might imagine of a protégé student, and Leighton fairly doted on him. My wife Dulce—Dulce Lucrece Quintana, she was; I met her at a natural philosophy conference at La Universidad de Zaragoza, and we fell head over heels in love—her mother Dulce died, oh, perhaps two years before Holmes became my pupil, and I was busier than I should have been, with a daughter that age; buried my heartbreak in my work, as it were. I was a bad father for a few years, Doctor, though I hate like hell to admit to it, but there it is. Young Leighton was starved for affection, I fear. And while you may not know it, let alone credit it, young Holmes there has quite a way with the children, as it turns out.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse Page 3