Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Be that as it may, I also gather that, despite my best efforts in the business, Leigh is now more than a little uncomfortable around me,” Holmes observed, stifling a sigh.

  “A tad, Holmes, a wee tad. But she still cares for your friendship, you know. She told me that much, after the debacle last night: that she was very glad to know you were her friend, no matter what. Seemed to think it was very important—to both of you.”

  “It is,” Holmes admitted, a hint of gruffness to his manner.

  “Then give her time, young man, give her time. She will come around.”

  “Is her emotional state the best, do you think?” Watson wondered, concerned.

  “What do you mean?” Whitesell asked, surprised by the question.

  “Well, we do not need her falling into a melancholy over the matter,” the physician pointed out. “Not out here in the middle of the desert. Were we in London, where she would have friends and wholesome distractions readily available, I should not be as uneasy, but a thing like that could swiftly become quite serious in such a harsh environment as this. Should I pop round and ensure she is quite all right, perhaps?”

  Whitesell was silent for a moment, studying Watson, chewing his lower lip in thought. He cut a sidelong glance at Holmes, questioning; Watson watched as Holmes swiftly manufactured and donned an unassuming, bland expression, and suddenly gathered what was in the wind—or at least, what was in Professor Whitesell’s thoughts.

  “Oh! No, no,” he backpedalled, “I did not mean—”

  “Now, now, doctor, I think that may be a capital idea,” Whitesell blustered, as Beaumont and Nichols-Woodall looked on in patent amusement. A puzzled Lord Trenthume simply blinked and listened. “Why don’t you do that? I think you might be just the man to… cheer her up, don’t you know?”

  “Well,” Watson said, uncertain, “I can try, I suppose. That… wasn’t what I had in mind when I suggested… I am a physician, so…”

  “Yes, I understand. I’m not trying to put you on the spot, as it were. Look, Doctor,” Whitesell said, softening his voice and becoming serious, “I love my daughter. Plain and simple. She is the apple of my eye, as the saying is, and all I really have left of my dear wife. But right now, she is in some considerable pain over this situation, and there is not one damn thing I can do about it. It is, after all, the way the world works. And you ARE a physician, as well as a handsome young male, if you don’t mind my opinion. If you could see your way clear to keeping an eye on her, perhaps providing some company if that is not onerous to you, you would at the least have a father’s gratitude. There need be nothing beyond your natural inclinations, and I have Holmes’ word that you are a perfect gentleman.”

  “Have no fear on that score, Professor,” Holmes averred. Watson felt his cheeks heat from the honour Holmes had just done him as he nodded, still dubious.

  “I will see what I may,” he finally offered. “Certainly I will attempt to bring her out of her doldrums, and make her comfortable with Holmes once more. Beyond that, I cannot say. It is, at least in part, up to the lady.” He paused, then added, “I think I shall see if she will act as nurse again. Is the surgical tent finally set up, with all its equipment and accoutrements?”

  “Yes, Udail said that was completed last night—just before the fight broke out,” Whitesell said with a sigh. “Good idea; it will be much more proper for a young lady than if the surgery was in your tent.”

  “Well, and it will not be so crowded,” Watson supplied. “Holmes’ and my tent was getting a bit cramped, what with my medical equipment, and his scientific apparatus, spread all over.”

  “Very true. It was always my intention, from the time I knew we would have your help, Doctor. We simply,” Whitesell briefly cut his eyes at Holmes, and Watson realised that he must know of Holmes’ suspicions, “misplaced some of the supplies in the journey over from England.”

  “Off with you, then, Watson,” Holmes said, flashing him a brief, encouraging smile. Suddenly Watson found himself wondering how much of the previous night’s events had been anticipated by Holmes, and played in such fashion as to eliminate all other contenders for Leighton’s attention save Watson. It was, he considered, well within Holmes’ ability to extrapolate that far in advance, for he had seen him do similar feats; but had the detective actually done so? Watson suspected he would never know, of a certainty. “For we are finished here, and the work I plan to-day is not such that you can help me with, anyway. And Leigh rather needs you, I think.”

  “What are you going to do, then?” Watson asked, dabbing his napkin to his mouth before laying it aside and starting to stand. Holmes pushed back his chair, as did Whitesell; the others took it as their signal to rise as well.

  “I had thought,” Holmes began, the corner of his lip quirking in wry humour, “to have another look over the artefacts we have uncovered so far, to see if they might provide any more clews as to where this accursedly elusive tomb might be hidden. However, as Phillips appeared to head off in that direction also, it may be that I should make other plans! It would not do for a fight to break out amongst the antiquities!”

  “No, no!” Nichols-Woodall laughed outright. “That would not be good at all! They would be smashed to tiny bits! Willingham, by way of a palliative, may I suggest that we join Holmes, and discuss our findings en masse?43 Certainly our presence should serve as a damper on young Phillips’ unbridled passions, and may well prevent disaster befalling our hard-won treasures! What do you say, Thomas?” Nichols-Woodall addressed Beaumont in a friendly fashion. “Do you cast in your lot with my idea?”

  “I think it is a good plan, Parker, indeed,” Beaumont averred with a smile.

  “Yes, yes! A capital notion, Parker!” Whitesell agreed, shaking his head in gratification. “Let us betake ourselves to the artefact tables! Lord Trenthume, would you do us the honour? Dr. Watson, if you should want us, we will be there until at least lunchtime.”

  “Very well,” Watson confirmed. “Professor, if Phillips is having trouble with that nose of his, tell him to come by the hospital during hours and I’ll set it for him, if needs be. I’ll make sure your daughter is busy elsewhere so that she need not deal with him.”

  “I will, young man,” Whitesell agreed. “Off with you, now,” and Watson headed for the dwelling tents as the rest of the men made their way in the general direction of the dig site and the artefact tent just beside it.

  * * *

  When the men walked into the artefact tent, Phillips was not working. Instead, he was seated on one of the folding stools, leaning forward slightly, holding both hands to his badly swollen nose and grimacing in pain. “Is it broken?” Whitesell asked immediately.

  “I’m not sure. I think it may be,” Phillips answered nasally, shooting Holmes a dirty look. “It isn’t quite the same shape it was before, and it sort of points off to one side now.”

  “Don’t take a swing at a fellow who is more experienced, next time, and it won’t get broken,” Whitesell replied sharply, addressing more the hostile glance at Holmes than what Phillips had actually said. Phillips muttered something under his breath. “What’s that? Speak up, Mr. Phillips.”

  “I said, you said that already, this morning,” Phillips grumbled.

  “Or words to that effect, yes. As well as several more. Dr. Watson has offered to treat your nose and set it if necessary—”

  “And by the look of it, I’d say it’s necessary,” Nichols-Woodall interjected.

  “—If you will go by the infirmary during surgery hours,” Whitesell finished his statement.

  “Will that make it feel less like an elephant has trodden on it?” Phillips wondered.

  “Eventually,” Nichols-Woodall answered, ending the succinct statement with a sound suspiciously like a snort. Holmes assumed by his expression that the geologist was trying not to smirk, and concluded that the other man had had some experience in fights, himself. A quick assessment of Nichols-Woodall’s nose reinforced that impression: it w
as mildly crooked, canting off to the left a smidge, likely placed there by a wicked right cross, the consulting detective adjudged.

  “Well, then when do the surgical hours start?” Phillips queried somewhat impatiently. Holmes pulled his pocket-watch and consulted it.

  “In a little over an hour,” the detective answered. “In the meanwhile, if I might suggest, based on experience,” here he cut a sidelong glance at Whitesell, who looked satisfied, “if I were in your position, I should go lie down with an ice bag, assuming we have any ice in camp.”

  “I’m afraid we do not,” Lord Trenthume noted with regret. “I had hoped to arrange it for just such a circumstance… well, for injuries, at any rate… as well as possibly for drinks, but no amount of money can purchase it, at this point. We are simply a little too far from the nearest source, and in too warm a climate, for it to survive shipment. Later in the season we may be able to obtain some, but not as yet.”

  “Well, but still, Holmes has a point,” Beaumont decided. “Even without ice, lying down is certain to help matters. It will definitely reduce the swelling, especially if you use several pillows to elevate your head a little. A cool, moist compress will serve reasonably well in the stead of the ice, also. And this we can provide.”

  “Very well,” Phillips conceded with a sigh. “I fear I am getting little work done in any case, for the deuced thing throbs like blazes, and I cannot concentrate for the life of me. With your leave, Professor?”

  “By all means, son, go lie down and try to relax,” Whitesell said, gentling his tone, “and then go see Dr. Watson in an hour, and have him fix the thing.”

  Phillips nodded and left, en route to his tent, and the camp cot within.

  * * *

  When Watson arrived at Leighton Whitesell’s tent, the door flap was open; Leighton sat at her little table inside, a book open in front of her, but she was not looking at it. Instead she stared into space, an incredibly sad expression on her face.

  He cleared his throat loudly as he rapped against the central support pole, and she jumped, startled.

  “Oh! Dr. Watson,” she said, glancing at the entrance and seeing him waiting. “I’m so sorry; I was wool-gathering. Were you waiting long? What on earth are you doing here?”

  “No, I only just arrived. Your father sent me to see about you, Miss Whitesell. May I come in? Or perhaps you might wish to come out?”

  “The flap is well open; that should satisfy the proprieties. Come in, whilst I fetch an extra chair from Da’s tent.”

  He stood back briefly while she exited, returning moments later with an additional camp stool. He followed her into the tent then, and saw her seated in her folding chair before taking the stool himself.

  “So Da sent you?” Leighton wondered. “Why? Or did he say?”

  “Yes. We had some… concerns… about your, ah, emotional state. We did not wish you to fall into a melancholy over this whole very upsetting situation, so at your father’s urging, I popped ‘round to see about you.”

  “Well,” she answered, and Watson thought the word sounded more like a sigh than anything else, “I suppose that’s a reasonable thing, for I am certainly embarrassed and discouraged by all of it.”

  “Rest assured, anything you wish to confide in me will remain with me, and none other. I take my patients’ confidences VERY seriously.”

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt,” Leighton offered him a meagre, wistful smile. “Sherry has nothing but good to say of you, and he says you are a consummate gentleman.”

  Surprised, Watson felt himself flush, and tucked his head slightly.

  “He does me too much honour,” he murmured. “But if I may help, I shall.”

  “May I ask you a few questions? About Sherry, and, and, things?”

  “Certainly. If they do not violate his confidences as a friend, I will endeavour to answer you, if it will help.”

  “All right. And no, I shan’t ask anything too private, I think. He is so intelligent, and he has never been anything but charming to me, even as a child. I can scarce credit it—but I credit even less that he could, or would, tell me a falsehood. So does he really plan to remain single for his whole life, as he said?”

  “If he said so, I cannot gainsay it.”

  “Come now, Doctor,” Leighton scolded. “Surely you hold his trust as much as I.”

  “Well then… he does intend it,” Watson confirmed, relenting in light of the girl’s prior knowledge, obviously imparted by Holmes himself. “I do not really understand as yet why he feels it necessary, so I do not entirely agree with his decision, but then, it is not my decision to make.”

  “But you are bosom friends,” she pointed out. “How is it that you, of all people, do not understand? Surely you would have discussed such a thing, would you not?”

  “We are bosom friends, because we… connected, is perhaps a good word… relatively quickly after meeting,” Watson explained. “I hope you grasp my meaning in that. But we have not actually known each other that long, Holmes and I, not really. We met last year when we both went in search of decent, affordable lodgings in London, and decided a particular flat in Baker Street suited very nicely, if we shared the cost. A mutual friend, a medical dresser from St. Bart’s named Stamford, introduced us, rather fortuitously, we felt.”

  “So you have scarcely known each other a year.”

  “Just a bit over, actually. It was, if I recall correctly, late summer of last year when we were introduced, Holmes and I. The flat he had already found was to our liking; we leased it and moved in, and proved congenial companions. But he only took me into his confidence regarding his cases about six or seven months back. We have but grown closer as friends since then. So yes, I know of his decision, but… well, it is not an easy thing to discuss, as I’m sure you can fathom. Matters and mind-sets have to be just so, for the subject even to come up, let alone be considered in detail. And so I have insufficient understanding, as yet.”

  “He does not have many friends…”

  “No. He does not. Nor does he especially seek for any. But… I think he cherishes those he has, all the more, as a consequence.”

  “Yes, he said as much.”

  “And you are one of those friends, Miss Whitesell.”

  Leighton nodded. “Yes, he said that, too.” She sighed. “I didn’t mean to offend him, Doctor. I… he was special to me, from the moment I met him as a child, and, and you see, I…” Leighton broke off and sighed again. Suddenly the light broke for Watson.

  “You had a case of calf love for him as a child, didn’t you?” he asked. She blushed a bright red.

  “Well, I did. I… confessed it to him during our walk last night. But… he made it plain that, that it could never be… more than a childhood fantasy…” She raked a distracted hand over her face, tangling her fingers in the hair above her forehead; the action pulled several golden strands loose from her chignon, and they drifted across her cheek. Instinctively Watson reached up to tuck them behind her ear, and she looked up, meeting his eyes, as he did so. He froze for a split-second before withdrawing his hand.

  “What shall I do, Dr. Watson?” Leighton asked, her voice soft.

  “Are you asking me as a physician, or as a friend?” he wondered.

  “You… would still consider being my friend, after what happened with Sherry?”

  “It was no one’s fault that your respective feelings for each other were not mutual. And you have not parted in antagonism.”

  “No…”

  “Thus, if you are willing, yes, I should like to be your friend.”

  Leighton nodded slowly.

  “Yes, I think I would like that, as well.”

  “So. Are you asking me as your physician, or as your friend?” he reiterated.

  “Both, maybe.”

  Watson leaned back, considering the situation. He well knew he would prefer more than simple friendship, but that more might not be forthcoming, and it would be unwise to throw away what he did have for what
he might not get. Even more, he wanted to be careful to avoid violating her trust in him, her confidences, yet still find a way to help her out of her current doldrums. Finally he decided to ask a few more questions before making a recommendation.

  “The other day, at Holmes’ suggestion, you came and worked at the hospital for a few hours.”

  “Yes.”

  “I… know I was a poor substitute for Holmes, who is the one you would have preferred to be with,” he added, “but you seemed to be interested in the work, and at dinner, you were rather enthusiastic…”

  “You are no man’s ‘poor substitute,’ Doctor, and I am sorry I gave that impression,” Leighton remarked, somewhat shamefaced. “But yes, I had hoped to spend more time with Sherry, and I fear that made me petulant instead of appreciative. Please accept my sincere apologies.”

  “No matter,” Watson waved away the apology. “I was not attempting to reproach you, but rather seeking information. Did you actually enjoy the work itself?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “Well, then. In lieu of sitting here staring into space, as you were when I found you just now, I think it might be better if you were to come to the infirmary and join my staff, at least for the time being. It will give you something to focus on, rather than pining, and I can assure you that the skills you will learn will be useful in future, no matter what comes.”

  “But…” Leighton began.

  “But what?”

  “What if Landers, or, or Sherry, God forbid, should be hurt? I…”

  “Would not be comfortable tending to them,” Watson finished her statement, understanding. “Trust me to take that into account, my dear. I will ensure you are not required to do anything that will make you uncomfortable.” He paused, then added, “I cannot speak for Mr. Phillips, of course. But I can readily tell you that Holmes regrets having to hurt you, and still desires your friendship. When you are ready,” he amended. She nodded.