“Good man,” Whitesell remarked. “They are, indeed. At least as closely as we could make it, given the tent is not quite the same shape as the dig field. But each tray represents one grid square, so it is reasonably close.”
“Capital. Then look here, Leigh: in this tray we have the remains of a fire, into which has been cast the carcase of a chicken. Next to it are a couple of cook-pots, and the remnants of at least one more that has broken. These two squares, and probably several more, would denote the camp kitchen, as it were, likely similar in many respects to our own, saving we have cast-iron stoves versus their open fires, or perhaps some form of rudimentary clay stove,” Holmes pointed out, then strode to the next table. “Here we have a small pot of perfumed unguent; can you smell it, Leigh?”
“Yes! Ooo, it still smells good!” Leighton exclaimed, bending over the tray and inhaling. “Um… sandalwood?”
“Most likely,” Holmes agreed. “Yes, the ambers, resins, spices and what-not will have helped to preserve the fats into which they were mixed, which is why you can still sometimes recognise the fragrance, even after millennia. And here next to it we have some tiny brushes, a pot of ground charcoal, a bronze mirror, and a comb made of water buffalo horn. What do you suppose was here?”
“Someone’s vanity table?” Leighton wondered; the other men stood back with slight smiles, watching silently with pleased approbation as the detective taught the professor’s daughter. “They used charcoal and things to line their eyes, didn’t they? And so maybe the little pot of charcoal is the liner, and the brushes are for applying it, like actors do. The mirror is to see what they were doing. And of course the comb is for the hair…”
“Very good,” Holmes concurred. “Which means that the vanity table was inside what?”
“Well, if it had been a village, it would be someone’s home, I suppose,” Leighton considered. “But this was a work site, was it not?”
Holmes glanced at Whitesell for confirmation.
“That’s correct,” the archaeologist averred. “We have not seen any sign of permanent structures. No foundations or the like have been found.”
“And there are some broken tent pegs in the corner tray,” Beaumont added.
“So it was in someone’s tent,” Holmes noted. “And in all these adjacent trays, we find various items of jewellery, clothing fasteners, sandal straps, and the like. Which means this all comprised what?”
Leighton gnawed her thumb for a moment, thinking as she looked over the array of items, then finally offered a tentative, “The campsite?”
“Very good!” Whitesell exclaimed, intensely pleased. “You have reasoned through it all very well, Leighton! And Holmes, my boy, that was a lovely example, not just of reasoning, but of teaching!”
“Thank you, sir,” Holmes responded, sketching a slight bow, as a delighted Leighton flushed.
“Thank you, Da, Sherry,” she murmured.
“So we know where the camp is, and where the kitchens and living quarters were,” Holmes determined.
“And the, er, the facilities,” Phillips added, flushing in embarrassment.
“The latrines,” Nichols-Woodall elaborated bluntly, with a dry grin. “For obvious reasons, we do not have any of, ah, THOSE ‘relics’ in the tent.”
“Eww,” Leighton exclaimed, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Uncle Parker, please!”
“After all this time, surely the ordure does not still… smell?” Holmes asked somewhat delicately. “It has been many millennia!”
“No, no,” Whitesell chuckled. “Not in the desert. By now it is all quite desiccated. But we felt it might still be… unsanitary. So we chose not to risk it.”
“The workers were not especially happy about finding it, especially those that are Muslims,” Phillips noted. “But the Professor explained that it was little more than regular dirt and soil at this point, and it took an expert to even be able to tell…”
“And Udail backed me, Lord bless him,” Whitesell added. “So we managed well enough. Everyone understood, and no one was offended.”
“Good.” Holmes nodded knowingly.
“Yes. So we have the living areas well defined,” Beaumont noted, “but the work areas—where the tomb or tombs may be—seem still to be lost to us.”
“There are only a few places where tombs can be,” Nichols-Woodall pointed out. “The layout of the valley is not unlike that at the Wadi al Muluk26, or for that matter at Ta-Set-Neferu27. There is a large mountain ridge backing the valley, which is what my American colleagues would term a box cañon,28 with outlying spurs defining the sides. It is only along these that the tombs could possibly have been built; the sediments in the cañon floor would have been far too thick, even in Ka’s time, for a vertical shaft approach.”
“Yes, mon ami, but that is still a very long base line over which to search,” Beaumont observed. “We can reasonably assume that the current surface level is considerably above what it was in Sekhen’s day, which means we must dig a trench of unknown depth along the bases of the mountains. And that is a great deal of digging to do, through sand and scree. There is much talus accumulated at the foot of the mountains.”
“Granted, but chances are, we only need worry about the vertical faces,” Nichols-Woodall argued. “The scarps of the mountains are, traditionally, where the tombs were built, because of the greater stability of the ceilings due to uniform thicknesses.”
“That is still a great deal of expanse,” Beaumont replied.
“True…” Nichols-Woodall admitted, quirking his mouth in frustration. “We desperately need a way to narrow down the search.”
“Professor, I have not thought to ask,” Holmes interjected then, “but how exactly did you settle upon this site to begin with, if you had not yet discovered relics here?”
“Oh, well, as you know, I have been searching for Sekhen for a long time,” Whitesell explained, and the others paid close attention. “I was re-reading a translation of one of the ancient histories, when I suddenly realised that a particular passage about Ka-Sekhen’s funeral seemed more awkward than was warranted. It seemed poorly translated to me. I accessed transcriptions of the original hieroglyphics, compared them to the common translation, and recognised that the translator had missed some complex idioms and metaphors. Once those had been properly inserted, the passage became a kind of riddle, all about ‘backbones and ribs,’ and ‘stones of the sky,’ and treaties, and the like. I did a bit of leg work, and found that the little puzzle could only be solved—at least in part—by assuming it described this area. I checked with Parker, and ascertained that the mountains could not possibly have changed to such an extent in the intervening time as to be unrecognisable. So I filed a request to conduct an archaeological exploration. And here we are.”
“Do we have a topological map of the area?” Holmes asked.
“We do,” Nichols-Woodall confirmed, going to a stash of large, heavy-weight pasteboard tubes in the corner. “Topographic, geological outcroppings, and more. Some of which I had to make myself; I have been here since the latter part of summer, working.” He fetched several tubes and carried them to an empty table, beginning to remove the rolled maps inside. “Perhaps if we all put our heads together over this, we may determine some probable target sites for test pits.”
“Capital idea, Parker,” Whitesell agreed. Leighton tugged at Holmes’ arm.
“Come, Sherry,” she murmured. “Let’s leave them to their stuffy old maps, and go for a walk.”
The men all froze, staring at the pair. Holmes, in his turn, stared at Leighton, who blinked back in confusion.
“My dear Leigh,” he informed her, “while I am gratified to see you and your father again after all this time, I am here to work, not to reminisce or to ‘catch us up.’ I am a part of this expedition team, and I am expected to—and shall—participate in solving the problem of locating Pharaoh Ka-Sekhen’s tomb. This is why I came.”
“I’ll take you for a walk later, Leigh, perhaps
during the siesta period, if it isn’t too hot,” Phillips offered. “But Holmes is right. We need to work for now.”
“I want to walk with SHERRY,” Leighton demanded. “I see you all the time, Landers. I haven’t seen Sherry in years.”
“I am busy right now, Leigh,” Holmes reiterated. “I need to familiarise myself with the terrain, if I am to be of any use in helping determine where the tomb is.”
“But—”
“Go back to your tent, Leighton,” a mildly irked Whitesell ordered his daughter, “if you aren’t interested in the work. You brought a small trunk of books, needlework, and the like, to include a whole collection of those blasted penny dreadfuls29 that Phillips got you started on; I’m sure you can find something to keep yourself occupied for the day.”
A disconsolate and vexed Leighton wandered out of the artefact tent en route to her own tent, as the men began to pore over the maps.
* * *
Leighton, more than a little impatient, was already waiting in the “mess tent,” as Watson tended to term it, when the men arrived from the artefact tent after the luncheon bell was rung. They all took their assigned seats, and Abraam began to pour the wine. A perspiring Watson showed up moments later, having apparently jogged from the tent he shared with Holmes.
“So sorry to be late,” he panted, hurrying to his seat. “I’ve been hauling equipment all over, and tying off tarpaulins, and the like. I’m afraid I lost track of the time. Then, when the gong rang, I had to finish what I was doing before I could come, or it would all have fallen down.”
“Well, Doctor, how is the medical department coming along, then?” Whitesell asked, as the meal was served. “It sounds as if you’ve been quite busy, though I’ve no idea at what.”
“Decently enough, I suppose,” Watson replied, digging in hungrily. “Yes, I have been very busy. I have my emergency kit unpacked and more or less deployed, though it is rather crowded in the tent now. I did have the idea to see your quartermaster about matters of a large tarpaulin, cord, and tent pegs, in order to create a kind of lean-to shanty onto the side of the tent in which Holmes and I are staying, where I may place two cots and some tables for equipment,” he noted. “At least until the proper hospital is found.”
“Capital notion, my dear Watson,” Holmes offered. “That should ease the crowding a bit, and allow for a place for any long-term patients to lie close by where you may readily tend them, without our being required to vacate our own beds, or for you to trek over half the camp.”
“Precisely, Holmes,” Watson said, then downed an entire glass of water at a go.
“I think the good doctor is tired, thirsty, and hungry, after a morning’s hot, hard work,” Beaumont noted with a friendly smile, as one of the servants came up and refilled Watson’s water goblet, only for him to dive back into it. “How far along are you, Dr. Watson?” Watson had to come up for air to reply.
“I have the tarpaulin, the cording, the tent pegs, some folding cots and tables,” Watson told him, “and I know where I want everything, and I even have the canvas attached to the side of the tent, but I still need to drive the tent pegs and string it all up properly, then position the tables and such like underneath.”
“What about your staff?” Phillips wondered.
“I sent them to help Lord Trenthume and the quartermaster search for the hospital pavilion,” Watson explained. “Besides, two of the three are women, one more elderly, and I should think they might not be able to hammer tent pegs into the ground with a heavy mallet. It would hardly be good for my first patients to be my own staff.”
“Good point,” Whitesell decided. “Cortland, any news on that front?”
“None, Will,” the Earl of Trenthume replied. “The thing has simply vanished into thin air, as that American magician is wont to say. I have sent downriver to see about purchasing another one. We cannot go on like this, should something serious happen; Dr. Watson would be overrun, and poor Holmes here would have nowhere to sleep, even with the lean-to arrangement.” He shook his head. “And if a haboob30 should come in, it would well and truly be a mess.”
“Ooo, good point,” Phillips murmured.
“The bloody damn—oh, forgive me, Miss Whitesell—the blasted canopy is likely still lying in the ship’s hold, wherever THAT has got to. Off to Timbuktu, I suppose.” Cortland rolled his eyes in annoyance.
“How long before the replacement arrives?” Whitesell asked.
“The tentmaker in Luxor indicates we will have it within the week… if nothing else goes wrong.”
“Then in the meanwhile,” Beaumont offered, “may I suggest that we strapping men go with the doctor after luncheon, and assist him in erecting his, ah, ‘adjunct office,’ gentlemen?”
“Sounds like a cracking good plan, Beaumont,” Nichols-Woodall agreed. “You never know, after all: one of us might wind up needing it! With all of us at it, we can erect the canvas, tie it down well, set up tables and cots, position all the equipment Dr. Watson is willing to leave exposed to the elements under it, and still have plenty of time for a nice cool nap in our own tents.”
“Consider it done,” Professor Whitesell decreed.
* * *
After the meal, they all traipsed off to Holmes’ and Watson’s tent, where in only a scant quarter-hour, the makeshift medical office was erected and its furnishings positioned; even Leighton got into the act, helping determine the best layout for the furnishings, based upon efficiency of movement.
“There,” Watson said, hot and tired, but with a satisfied light in his eyes. “Even after the hospital tent is set up and a proper surgery in operation, I think I shall leave this; smaller matters, especially anything that may crop up in off-hours, can be tended here, rather than having to go over to the hospital.”
“And you have overflow room, in the event of something… catastrophic,” Nichols-Woodall murmured.
“Of course, of course,” Watson said. “But let us hope and pray nothing does.”
“Quite,” Holmes agreed, growing solemn as his eyes became distant with memory. “May Providence watch over us all, in this treacherous desert. I shall never forget the young boy who… became lost in the haboob… on my second expedition with the Professor…” He averted his face briefly.
“Oh,” Whitesell said, sobering. “I… recollect that…”
“Well, let us all go back to our own tents, relax, and cool down,” Beaumont suggested, changing the subject before the conversation became too maudlin. “It has become uncomfortably hot to-day.”
“It has, indeed. Absolutely excellent notion, that,” Watson declared, mopping his profusely perspiring brow.
The other men dispersed. Watson went straight into the tent; Holmes heard the soft creak of his cot as he stretched out upon it. He turned, intent on going back to the artefact tent to spend more time studying the maps…
…And nearly tripped over Leighton.
“Now for a walk?” she asked with a smile. Holmes subtly took a deep, exasperated breath, let it out; reined in his irritation. It will not do, he thought, to upset Leigh or her father. I should much prefer to remain on good terms with the both of them. I shall have to be gentle, but firm.
“No, Leigh,” he told her quietly. “I have some catching-up to do, relative to the rest of your father’s team, as I am so late arriving. I had in mind to return to the artefact tent and continue studying, well, everything that is available to study. Given my background as a consulting detective, the determination of a tomb site is a perfectly reasonable task.”
“But…”
“Perhaps, after dinner, you, your father, and I, can repair to his tent and have a nice talk, get properly caught up on one another,” Holmes suggested offhandedly. “It would hardly be proper for me to take you on an unchaperoned walk, in any event.”
“Well, that’s true…” Leighton admitted, considering. “At least until Da says it’s all right.”
“Exactly.” Holmes quickly set his mind onto how to c
ommunicate delicately to Professor Whitesell that it was not “all right.”
“Then perhaps some tea in the dining tent, at the end of the siesta break?”
“Ah,” Holmes said, caught off guard, “perhaps.”
“All right,” Leighton lilted, happy. “I’ll come fetch you for tea, then.” She fairly danced off.
And I, Holmes thought, as he headed for the artefact tent, will make sure to come back and fetch Watson first…
* * *
Holmes spent the rest of the early afternoon poring over the various items in the artefact tent, especially the maps. He located the entry log for the different relics, and tried to compare the locales where they were found to the maps, with some difficulty. There were no grease pencils that he could find—it was his experience that they tended to migrate into the dig fields and become lost, anyway—and he was loath to mark on the precious maps with anything else.
“I believe what I need to do,” he mused to himself, “is to create my own map, which will position the various found items on it, as well as pertinent geologic and topographic features, and their relative relations to same. Then I may ruminate on it at my leisure, including in our tent in the evenings, over a pipe. I should fetch my sketch-pad from my trunk.” He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked it. “Mm. And it is high time I also fetched Watson, as well.”
* * *
“But Holmes, would she not be ideal for you?” Watson protested, as Holmes dug through his trunk in search of his sketching pad. “Surely you cannot really mean to remain single forever. She is intelligent, beautiful, her father fairly dotes on you…”
“You know my principles, Watson,” floated up from the trunk’s depths. “That is, in fact, precisely what I do intend. And I doubt the Professor is looking to marry her off as yet, in any case. It is still some few years to her majority. Young woman she is, to be sure… but the emphasis is still upon young.”
“Holmes… had you stopped to think about the seating arrangement at meals, and what it possibly implies, in this regard…?”
Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse Page 6