“Oh, yes, very comely,” Watson admitted fervently without thinking, then caught himself. Holmes was grinning at him like a Cheshire cat. “I, uh, I mean…”
“Never mind, Watson. I shall most certainly send her to you as a nursing assistant.”
And he was gone, leaving behind a chagrined young physician.
* * *
Holmes watched the archaeologists and their workers the rest of the afternoon, but saw nothing of any consequence that he could determine. Phillips and Beaumont finally finished extracting the pottery jar, and Cortland came around to help them fetch it out of the pit, as it was quite large and heavy—and moreover, in one piece, well-decorated over most of its surface, and apparently of the proper age to date to Pharaoh Sekhen’s reign. Whitesell and Nichols-Woodall prowled the base of the mountain, where a scarp rose up for more than a hundred feet; from time to time, one or the other would point here or there, so Holmes decided they were discussing possible tomb sites. And despite the detective’s fears, Udail kept the local workers going, screening the sand for small items and digging pits in hopes of finding larger items. The slowing of the work, however, was noticeable even to Holmes, who had not been there more than a scant few days. He drew a long, slim finger thoughtfully across his perspiring forehead; the moisture reminded him of Watson’s injunction, and he brought up one of the canteens and took a long, cool drink from it.
Leighton did find him, and hovered near for a while, until Holmes expressed mild discomfiture over the possibility that her attentions might give away his earlier “malady” to her father; in reality, he simply did not want to risk offending the older man by being too dismissive of his daughter. Then he suggested she might go to assist Watson in his makeshift infirmary, and reluctantly, she did so.
As the sun moved deep into the clefts in the mountains, casting a long dark shadow over the dig site, the day cooled slowly into evening, and the dinner gong rang the warning. Work ceased for the day, and everyone retired to their tents to freshen up a bit before the evening meal was served.
* * *
The gathering around the dinner table, however, seemed electrified. Tension fairly crackled under the awning, and Holmes realised that something was very wrong. Watson arrived with Leighton on his arm, but she looked petulant, and he appeared unhappy. Professor Whitesell took his usual seat, but chewed his lower lip and drummed his fingers restlessly on the table top. Phillips glared at Watson, coming over and taking Leighton off the physician’s arm before escorting her to her traditional seat between himself and her father. Meanwhile, Nichols-Woodall’s expression could most closely be said to resemble a thundercloud. The only people at the main table who appeared unperturbed were Beaumont and Lord Trenthume. But then, considered Holmes, Lord Trenthume rarely looks perturbed, because, if appearances are anything to go by, he seldom has any serious awareness of what is going on around him. The sleuth idly wondered what went on in the earl’s head to render him so completely oblivious so much of the time. Then again, he thought, I am assuming that as much goes on in other men’s minds as goes on in mine, which is probably not a reasonable assumption, judging by some.
Everyone seated themselves, and the first course was served, a spicy mutton stew. Little was said, and the tension did not decrease overmuch as they ate their way through the course. Leighton relaxed a bit, and began to chat casually with her father and Phillips, telling them about how much she’d learned from Watson about treating patients; the news appeared to mollify Phillips, and lighten the Professor’s mood. On hearing this, Holmes turned to Watson and raised a querying eyebrow. Watson shrugged, then, under cover of the removal of the first course, leaned over and murmured, “I’m not you.”
“Ah.” Holmes paused, biting his own lip in vexation. “Sorry about that, old chap.”
“Not your fault.”
The main course came out, kebabs on a bed of couscous. By this time, everyone seemed relatively jovial… except for Dr. Nichols-Woodall. If anything, Holmes decided, watching him, the thunderstorm was about to break. In the next instant, it did.
“So, Beaumont, did your little device serve your purpose?” With a snide tone, Nichols-Woodall dropped the bombshell into the midst of the table, and everyone stopped, forks halfway to their mouths. Beaumont slowly put down his fork, staring at the other man, eyes narrowed. Holmes surreptitiously took a deep breath, realising the bad blood between the pair was about to come to a head.
“What do you mean by that, sir?”
“I mean,” an irate Nichols-Woodall specified, “your little fake ‘mummy’s curse.’”
“Fake? Curse?”
“Of course,” Nichols-Woodall raged. “We should have known you were too dishonourable to truly bury the hatchet, save in our own backs! We know the stone tablet you connived to insert into the artefacts is a forgery! Young Mr. Holmes, there, was too astute for you! He caught all your errors, recognised it for what it was, and came to Professor Whitesell this very morning!”
“So he has translated the inscription?” Beaumont wondered, blasé.
Holmes closed his eyes momentarily, with a silent sigh, at this breakdown of his plans. When he opened them, he cast an admonishing glance at Professor Whitesell, who returned it diffidently, somewhat red-faced. Then Holmes looked down the table at a bristling Nichols-Woodall and Beaumont, facing off against each other across the width of the table, an uncomfortable Lord Trenthume occupying the end seat, more or less between them.
“Yes, Dr. Beaumont, I have translated it,” Holmes replied dispassionately, feeling suddenly very tired.
“And you believe it to be a forged item because?” Beaumont pressed.
“Because the particular form of hieroglyphic used is of a much later period than what we are looking for, yet it invoked one of the names of Pharaoh Ka-Sekhen, and because the stone had been treated to give it the superficial appearance of weathered age, despite the very recent carving of the hieroglyphs.”
“Well?” Nichols-Woodall demanded, rising partway from his chair. “Even if the log of discoveries was inaccurate, Willingham and I both remember you bringing it in, making so much of it! And no record of where it was found! What are you about, Beaumont?! Did you intend to slip in a fake without our knowledge, then at a convenient time reveal it and discredit us to academia? In the eyes of our friends and colleagues? Or are you trying to frighten the workers, slow down the dig, enable your own team somewhere else to make a discovery first? You and your bloody DAMN FAKE CURSE! I should have shot you as soon as you arrived!” He slammed an angry fist on the table, sending china and cutlery clattering and bouncing, and suddenly a wave of silence washed over the tables of the workers outside the main dining tent.
Beaumont turned away from Nichols-Woodall and gazed at Holmes, as a genial, appreciative smile spread across his face, and he began to applaud slowly.
“Very good,” he murmured, his claps accelerating as his voice rose. “Very, very good, Monsieur Holmes, I am sure! Relax, mes amis!32 It is all a joke! Forgive me for the perverse humour, but the good Professor Whitesell made so much of our translator before he had even arrived, that I feared lest his skills fail to live up to his publicity! I would never have allowed the thing to go forward as a true relic, of course not! But I felt it wise to, ah, to play a little prank upon Mr. Holmes, to ensure he was as good as his reputation made him! You have indeed chosen a worthy translator for us, Willingham! But I must ask: why did you yourselves not realise the deception, eh? Why not?”
With a growl, Nichols-Woodall responded, “You KNOW I am a student of geological matters, Beaumont. Give me a stone, I shall identify it, and determine its original locale. I cannot, nor could not ever, read hieroglyphs.” He paused, then admitted, “I curse myself that I did not stop to examine the stone of the tablet, for then I might have recognised how it had been treated to resemble an ancient artefact, and uncovered your subterfuge at once.”
“And while I did teach Holmes the basics of pictographs, hieroglyphs, a
nd logograms,” Whitesell added, annoyed at the not-so-subtle reverse accusation, “he has taken his language skills far beyond anything I taught him, so I did little more than glance at it, trusting him to analyse it swiftly and accurately upon his arrival—which he did. And at any rate I prefer to study the mummies themselves, and to a lesser extent, the architecture. I can translate quite facilely, when the need arises, for that is how I found this site, but I have always used a translator for the expeditions themselves. That way, I have the time and energy to focus upon what I most enjoy. I felt we had obtained a truly first-rate translator in Holmes, and I am now proven correct. Still, I would have been more comfortable with a less… unorthodox… method of testing him, Beaumont. You should have come to me with your concerns.”
“I am sure, I am sure, Professor, and I am sorry for the capricious humour, but it does out, sometimes.” Beaumont turned to Holmes. “My compliments, Monsieur Holmes. That was quite the feat. Very systematic and logical. You are a very intelligent young man; you will make much of yourself before all is said and done, provided we all make it safely out of this dusty oven of a land with our skins unscathed.”
At Beaumont’s addendum, so discreetly ominous, Holmes stiffened; he nodded his affronted acknowledgement.
“Um, let’s all finish the lovely kebabs now,” Leighton offered, just a little too brightly, “and then I’m sure there will be a delicious dessert to follow.”
Holmes pushed back his chair and rose.
“Professor, if you will excuse me, I have some work to do in my tent,” he said, controlling his insult and exasperation with an effort.
* * *
“What?” Whitesell said in some surprise; he had spent the last ten minutes silently reproaching himself for confiding in Nichols-Woodall, against Holmes’ recommendation, and it was proving to be a diplomatically difficult meal to get through. He realised suddenly that there were times he regretted insisting upon such communal meals—and this was one of them. “What do you have to do, Holmes?”
“I have sketched out a map of the locations of the relics we have recovered, and had planned to study it,” Holmes said, brusque. “Should I deduce from it anything about the location of the tomb, I will of course inform you at once.”
Whitesell nodded with a sigh. “Go, then.”
Holmes left the table immediately, vanishing into the dark outside the tent.
* * *
Back in the tent, Holmes found a folded slip of paper on his pillow, his surname inscribed on the outside. It was a short note in Professor Whitesell’s hand, evidently left by that worthy just after Holmes had already departed for dinner, and it read,
Holmes,
I just received a wire from my friends at the University. They have confirmed that Dr. Beaumont’s team is not active at this time, and that work on his most recent independent dig was completed last spring. I am relieved to say I think we may have no concerns from that quarter, though there are others that come to mind.
W. A. W.
“Hm,” Holmes hummed to himself, pondering the information. “Perhaps it was only a poorly-considered prank, a form of le bizutage,33 then.”
He pulled out his pipe, packed and lit it, and settled down on his cot in the dim light of the lantern, for a thoughtful smoke.
* * *
“Fine job of it there with your deuced ‘perverse humour,’ Beaumont,” Nichols-Woodall jibed again in intense annoyance, after they all watched an offended, irked Holmes depart with ramrod-straight back. “Alienate our translator, while you’re about it.”
“Once again, I offer my apologies, my friends,” Beaumont said, bowing his head in what seemed to be humble obeisance. “It has gotten me into much trouble many times before this, I fear. I will endeavour to make it up to you all in the days to come—especially the talented young Mr. Holmes.”
Which was a pretty apology, it had to be admitted.
But Watson thought he was just a trifle too cavalier about it.
CHAPTER 5
Something Old, Something New
—::—
The next day, the new tent for the hospital and infirmary arrived shortly before noon. The quartermaster promptly notified Lord Trenthume, Professor Whitesell, Doctor Watson, and Udail the foreman. Udail, recognising the need to erect the tent as soon as possible, showed up at the mess tent just prior to luncheon to obtain permission from Whitesell for appropriating some half-dozen men from the dig, in order to get the task done quickly.
“About time,” Whitesell decreed. “By all means, Udail. Take however many men you need for the work, and get the ruddy blasted thing set up! The sooner the better, don’t you agree, Dr. Watson?”
“I do indeed, Professor Whitesell!” Watson averred.
“Will you supervise, Doctor?” Whitesell queried.
“If you like,” Watson agreed with a shrug. “I doubt I am any more knowledgeable about erecting large tent structures than the good Udail, though admittedly, my military experience taught me a good deal about the subject; but I can certainly direct the placement of cots and equipment to my preference. Udail, I will join you after luncheon, if that is suitable. Sooner, if you require.”
“No,” Whitesell decided, “we all need to eat. After luncheon is quite soon enough, I think.”
“Very good, Professor, Doctor. After luncheon will be fine.” Udail bowed and exited the tent post-haste, on his way to organise the matter before the meal should be served.
* * *
After the meal, which was for a wonder relatively quiet, they all stood.
“Well, I am off to see about the infirmary tent,” Watson declared. “What about the rest of you? Time for an afternoon nap?”
“No, I think not, at least for me,” Whitesell noted. “As we get farther into winter, it is cooling off more, and I think I shall begin foregoing a siesta. We are working our way through the grid fairly nicely, too. And it is cool, with a slight, high haze, to-day. So I believe I am for the dig pits, to see what we may find. Phillips, lad, you’re with me to-day, if that suits.”
“Very well, Professor.”
“I think I will join you, as well,” Beaumont said. “Perhaps we will find something of actual significance to-day.”
“I’m for prowling the rocks,” Nichols-Woodall decided; Holmes suspected the geologist felt rather anti-social after the previous evening’s dramatics, and frankly did not blame him. “I want to get the best feel I can for the stratigraphy of the region. I think it may help us locate the tomb sites.”
“And I shall wander the dig sites, placing an emphasis upon not falling in,” Holmes said, carefully hiding his own reclusive sensibilities behind a droll exterior. “In any event, the better I know the layout of the ‘crime scene,’” he forced a chuckle at the deliberate pun, “the more likely it becomes that I can figure out the location of the body.”
The other men laughed, which was as he had intended.
“Well then,” an irritable Leighton declared in annoyance, “if you’re all going to be out working in the heat, I’m going back to my tent and reading a book.”
“Why, Leighton,” Whitesell remonstrated, “I thought you liked the digs.”
“…I do,” she said, abashed. “I just… hadn’t realised…”
“Come along with us, Leigh,” Phillips urged. “You know you have fun, out amongst the dig pits.”
“Just don’t fall in,” Nichols-Woodall reminded her with a laugh.
“Well… all right,” she decided, mood lightening. “Perhaps for a little while.”
“Good,” Whitesell said, satisfied. “You can explore for a bit, and we’ll be happy to answer your questions, then if you wish, you may go back to your tent a little early, to cool off and freshen up before dinner.”
* * *
Upon seeing one of the less-experienced diggers uncover what looked like a suspiciously smoothly-curved stone of a particular hue, Holmes cried, “STOP!” before the man could damage it for an ordinary stone. The
man froze, and Holmes vaulted nimbly down into the hole and moved to investigate. Pulling a whisk broom from his back pocket, he brushed the sandy soil from the top, then ran his fingers over the surface.
“Mm, yes. I believe you may have found an early amphora,” Holmes told the digger. “Most likely from Bronze Age Greece, though it may be Egyptian. Quite probably it was brought over in trade, and contained olive oil.”
“But not wine, Mr. Holmes?” the digger asked in a heavy accent.
“Possibly, I suppose,” Holmes considered. “There seems to have been a preference for beer in ancient Egypt, but tastes do differ. Let us see about extracting it, and we shall find out.”
Holmes removed his cravat, rolled his sleeves higher, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, then reached for a spade and began to help excavate the soil around the vessel.
* * *
Soon sweat and dust streaked Holmes’ shirt, plastering it to his back as the sun glared down, but the neck and body of the amphora were exposed at last. He handed the spade back to one of the workmen, and wielded his whisk again, using it to uncover the handles on the neck of the pot, lest a spade break them. When he got to the top—it was lying partly on its side, at an angle—the detective got a surprise.
“It is still sealed,” he said in astonishment. “That is a rare thing.”
“Why, Master Holmes?”
“Because the stoppers are usually of something like cork, which rots over the millennia,” he explained. “This one appears to use a clay stopper, sealed with beeswax. Run fetch the Professor; I will keep digging.”
One of the workers climbed the ladder and ran to find Professor Whitesell, while the other two assisted Holmes in moving the soil away from the pot, carefully freeing it from its age-old grave.
Within minutes, Whitesell, his daughter, Phillips, and Beaumont stood or crouched at the side of the pit where Holmes worked.
“What have you got there, Holmes, lad?” Whitesell asked.
“A SEALED amphora, Professor,” the detective-turned-archaeologist replied, removing his pith helmet and dragging a dusty forearm across his perspiring forehead, leaving a reddish-brown smear behind. “You might want to have Udail fetch the block and tackle; it feels full. And we have almost got it dug out sufficient to recover it.”
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