Nichols-Woodall spread his hands in frustration.
“Any ideas, Thomas?” Whitesell tried.
“I am the archaeologist, like you, mon ami,” came the reply. “I am no expert with the stones, as is our friend Parker, here. If he does not recognise it, who am I to say otherwise?”
“Holmes?” Whitesell queried then. “You’re not a geologist, per se,51 but Dr. Watson’s stories indicate you have a wealth of knowledge on the subject, nonetheless…”
Holmes bit his lip, thinking; finally he shook his head.
“I recognise it,” Lord Trenthume remarked. “I just wish I could recall where I’ve seen it before.”
“No offense, Cortland, old fellow,” Nichols-Woodall pointed out, “but that isn’t much help.”
“I know,” Cortland complained. “I’ve racked my brains, trying to remember. But I just can’t bring it to the front.”
“Perhaps,” Holmes suggested, “a divertissement is in order, milord.”
“What did you have in mind?” Cortland wondered, raising an intrigued eyebrow.
“Whenever there is ‘something sitting right under my nose,’ as Watson likes to put it, and I know it is there but cannot pull it to the fore, I do something—anything—to take my mind OFF it,” Holmes explained. “I play my violin. We decamp for a concert or an opera. Read a book. Go for a walk. Do whatever suits your fancy and your resources out here in the desert; but make sure it will take your conscious mind completely off the subject at hand. This allows for the subconscious to do its work and identify the pertinent fact for you. For that matter, we might as well all do. It is almost time for luncheon as it is, and I note that the wait staff are becoming anxious to clear the table and prepare it for that meal in any event, so we should probably all escape for a bit of recreation, or work, of some sort.”
“But if any of you go for a stroll, and especially the Earl,” Phillips interjected, “in the name of all that is holy, milord, take your revolver with you. I never saw the lot of cobras in the area! They seem to have fairly come out of the woodwork in the last two days. I saw three this morning, just while I was, ah, well, emptying the jordan52 into the trench in the brake.”53 He flushed.
“There is likely an underground stream flowing down from the mountains around which they have nested, and our dig has disturbed their dens,” Whitesell said, serene. “Cobras are, for the most part, placid creatures, else the Hindi would not be able to so easily tame them. Pay attention to your surroundings, take your revolvers as Landers recommends, and you will be fine.”
“But it is a recommendation that we would all do well to heed,” Nichols-Woodall pointed out.
“True, true,” Beaumont agreed. “Whitesell, you are more the expert of Egyptology: is it not so that the cobras may be using nearby tombs as dens and nests? Might not they lead us to the tombs?”
“Well, it is certainly possible, I suppose,” Whitesell decided. “They may have found small natural crevices in the stone, even down into the rooms. I have heard of it happening. But even if they have not, their lairs will certainly be in amongst the rocks and stones, and the vibrations produced by our picks and spades will have agitated them.”
“Then Phillips is indeed correct, and we should all take heed,” Holmes averred. “Lord Trenthume, do you betake yourself off for whatever diversion best suits you—but be sure to carry a loaded revolver. I think my time may best serve by transcribing the engraving within the antechamber, for later translation.”
“Well done, Holmes,” Whitesell said, pleased. “Now let us all return to our tents and load our pistols.”
“And I shall contact some of my colleagues and see if I cannot identify this blasted blue stone,” Nichols-Woodall declared. “Will, would you object if I took a small sample of the slab, for identification purposes?
“You want to whack it with that bloody damn hammer of yours?!” Whitesell said in horror. “Knock a chunk off it? Certainly not, Parker! We don’t know what this thing is, or what kind of importance it had, or may have. And there are aesthetics to consider!”
“But, Will, if I am to identify it…”
“No, Parker. I’ll not hear of it. There’s an end of the matter.”
“All right, Will, but you do make it damnably hard to do my blasted job,” Nichols-Woodall complained. “Phillips, would you have someone bring the dog-cart around? I need to run into town and send some telegraphs…”
“Certainly, sir,” Phillips agreed.
* * *
Watson was, with the assistance of the assigned nursing staff, attempting to teach a willing Leighton Whitesell some of the finer points of nursing, specifically the proper administration of hypodermic syringe injections, when a loud male scream rent the air from somewhere across the camp, though it sounded to be relatively nearby to Watson’s experienced ear. The entire hospital staff froze in shock, and within moments, a babel of voices outside rushed toward the infirmary. Over the babel, he heard Udail calling his name.
“Dr. Watson! DR. WATSON! Help us!”
Watson dropped what he was doing and rushed to the door of the hospital tent, just in time to meet Udail at the head of a yammering, agitated procession of men. In their midst, one of the diggers, pale even through the sweat and dirt that coated his face, lay on a cobbled-together stretcher made of several spade handles lashed together with sashes and scarves, being carried by the others. His expression was contorted in pain; his knee was drawn up, and he clutched his calf, rocking back and forth and groaning.
“What happened?” Watson demanded of Udail.
“Snake,” Udail said simply. “Cobra.”
“It bit him?!” Watson cried, motioning the jabbering, upset gaggle of men to put his newest patient on the nearest empty bed.
“Yes, Doctor, there on the leg, where he is holding. He was, ah, relieving himself, and did not see it in time.”
“What is his name, and can he speak English?” Watson directed the question at Udail, while turning to his staff and firing off orders. “Leigh, fetch the alcohol and some clean cloths. Sati, I need the tourniquets and some gauze bandaging. Alimah, do you find the scalpels and the cups. Wahbiyah, the topical cocaine. Hurry.”
“His name is Salah, Sayyid54 Doctor, and yes, he speaks English,” Udail responded, as Watson’s medical staff broke into a coordinated flurry of activity—except for Leighton, who responded quickly, but was a little more flustered than the others. The workers sat the makeshift stretcher holding the injured man down atop the nearest cot, sliding out the spades, then stepped back. “Out with you!” Udail told them. “Sayyid Doctor Watson will tend Salah, and he needs room to work! He cannot work well with you leaning over him at his elbows!” The men cleared out, and Udail crouched beside the stricken man. “All will be well, Salah, do not fear. Dr. Watson is a good man, a good doctor. He will take the best care of you. Sayyid Doctor,” Udail said, “this man is my cousin. I know a bit of medicine, so I understand…”
“Was that him screaming a few moments ago?” Watson asked, as Leighton set up a table for the instruments beside the patient, and the others placed the sterile implements he had requested upon it. Leighton then returned with a tray containing a basin, pitcher of water, clean towel, and soap, and Watson thoroughly washed his hands before she took it away again.
“It was,” Udail averred. “He was just outside the camp.”
“Good,” Watson declared, seating himself on the stool Sati placed for him by the bedside. “The quicker he gets medical attention after being bitten, the better the prognosis.” He nodded at Udail. “I will do my best, my friend. Was it a deep, hard bite?”
“It was deep enough,” Udail decided. “I cannot say how hard.”
“Hard,” Salah affirmed, the first coherent word he had spoken.
“Salah, khalil,55 try to relax. The good Dr. Watson knows what he is doing. I will wait just outside, and you have only to call to me.”
Salah nodded, grunting in pain, and Udail bowed and left th
e tent, but Watson could see him hovering just outside the opening. The cacophony of voices outside quieted immediately, however.
“Salah,” he said to his patient, “I do not wish to offend, but I need to see the limb where you were bitten.”
With little hesitation, Salah hitched up his garment to just below his knee. The leg had already started to swell and discolour rather badly, and the two puncture wounds were obvious on the outside of the lower calf, oozing blood. Leighton emitted a gasping sound that Watson absently suspected was a stifled scream, then was silent. Good girl, he thought in abstraction, focussing most of his attention on his patient. It isn’t pretty, but such things never are. If you can stomach this, you will indeed make a fine nurse.
“Mm,” Watson hummed, studying the wound with swift precision. “Sati, my friend, can you remove the sandal on this foot without showing his sole?”
“I can, Doctor.”
“Do so. I’m worried of the foot losing circulation from the sandal straps if it swells much more. Let me see the tourniquet…” he said as Sati began work on the sandal straps. Within moments the tourniquet was skilfully tied just below Salah’s knee, its tightness carefully checked, and Watson looked up. “Leigh, let me see the soap and water again. I need to remove some of the dust and dirt from the area of the bite, before I proceed further.”
With Leighton’s help, Watson quickly cleaned the worst of the sweaty dirt from several square inches of the skin around Salah’s injury, then swabbed it with alcohol to sterilise it. Salah hissed loudly, then let out a stream of curses in Arabic. By this time Sati had the sandal off, and Salah’s feet draped with a sheet to avoid unintentional insult to the other Muslims in the room.
“I am sorry, Salah,” Watson murmured, examining the wound with care. “Alcohol does burn like fury, I know. My friend Holmes has told me so, often enough! Let me do something about that, because what I have to do next will hurt a lot worse, otherwise.” He picked up a swab and the bottle containing the topical cocaine solution, dipping the swab into the liquid before slathering the area of the bite with the drug-saturated swab, making sure that the solution also dribbled into the two fang marks. Within seconds, Salah eased, relaxing into the bed. Watson nodded to himself, disposing of the swab with care, then reached for the scalpel. Seconds later, two cross-shaped incisions had been made, one in each fang mark, and Watson turned to Alimah, who had the small glass cups waiting, a little tuft of absorbent cotton wool in the bottom of each one. Watson took the first; Alimah picked up one of the long medical swabs and struck a match, lighting the cotton wool on the tip of the swab, then shaking it through the air to extinguish it. She held it still for Watson to hold the cup upside-down over it, then Watson quickly placed the warm cup over one of the incised bite marks. Seconds later, he and Alimah had repeated the process, placing the second cup over the other fang wound.
“What are you doing?” Leighton asked softly, watching from the end of the bed.
“Alimah heated the air inside the cups,” Watson explained, his gaze never leaving the two cups, “which caused the air to expand so that, as they cool, a slight vacuum will be produced inside them. Do you see what is happening?”
“The flesh is bulging up into the cups,” Leighton said, fascinated, “and the two wounds are bleeding more.”
“It is pulling out the poisoned blood, Mistress,” Alimah said, her gentle voice lilting. “It is safer than sucking with the mouth, though I have done so in an emergency. It does not do to swallow, or to have ulcers in the tongue, lips, or gums, however.”
“I… can see why,” Leighton murmured, still observing. “And… the cotton wool is…”
“Helping to soak up the contaminated blood,” Watson finished for her, glancing up with a smile. “There are, as Alimah suggests, several ways to do this, including using rubber squeeze bulbs on special cups similar to these, but this is what we have to hand, and it is probably the best way, in my professional opinion, as these kinds of cups are much easier to clean afterward. Alimah, as badly as he was bitten, I think I want to run a second set of cups on him, possibly a third.”
“Very good, Doctor. I will prepare two more sets.” And the Egyptian woman, older than any of them, smiled beneficently and moved to prepare more of the glass cups, which sat on another table nearby, where she had placed them earlier for convenience’s sake, anticipating the need.
“Salah, how are you feeling?” Watson asked.
“It does not hurt so much anymore,” Salah informed him. “And I am not so dizzy, I think.”
“Excellent,” Watson declared. “You are very fortunate, Salah: the cobra did not hit any major blood vessels, but injected its venom into the muscular tissue. I will swab the area with anaesthetic again when I take off the cups, and that should make it feel even better. You will undoubtedly have some bruising, old fellow, but you would have that anyway. Better a few bruises on a live body than the alternative, however, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes,” Salah said decidedly.
After a few more moments, Watson gently broke the seal on the cups, careful to catch up the soiled cotton wool inside without touching it, as he lifted them away; Alimah took them from him and set them aside to dispose of the cotton wool and cleanse the cups later. Then Watson dabbed a bit more of the cocaine solution directly on the incised wounds, and he and Alimah placed fresh cups over them, repeating their earlier procedure.
“Is he going to be all right, John?” Leighton asked the physician.
“I think so,” Watson concluded. “It was only one bite, and the venom of the Egyptian cobra is some six times less toxic than the king cobra of the Indian subcontinent. And the snake did not hit any major blood vessels, as I said; that would have been very bad, and he might not even have lived long enough for them to bring him here. The prognosis is good. He is not convulsing, his pulse is strong and steady, and his eyes are tracking well. We shall have to watch him for a few days; cobra bites have a nasty tendency toward necrosis—”
“Necrosis?” Leighton asked.
“Tissue death,” Watson explained. “The tissue around the bite can become gangrenous. But there are ways to treat that, now, that will prevent calamities such as the loss of his leg.” Salah’s eyes grew wide, and his forehead puckered in worry. “Not to worry, Salah, you’re in good hands. Carbolic generally sets matters right, and I have that aplenty, and more beside. If it should become necessary,” he added, “I can grow a bread mould that would have amazing results when placed upon such wounds.”
“Bread mould?” Leighton wondered.
“Yes,” Watson said with a smile. “Strange to say, isn’t it? Makes me sound rather like a quack! But no, I have been keeping up with the research being done on the Penicillium family of moulds. It is most fascinating. They have not isolated the important extracts yet, but I have hopes.”
“Doctor,” Alimah asked, “will you wish another round of cups?”
Watson studied the wounds, noting that some of the swelling was starting to diminish in the leg. “No, I don’t think so, Alimah,” he determined. “It looks quite good. We may be able to elevate it soon, and I don’t want to over-do the blood-letting, in any event.”
“Shall I remove the cups and bandage the limb for you, then?” Alimah asked with a smile. “I am very experienced, I assure you.”
“Very good, Alimah. Remove the tourniquet at the same time, I think. You might dab the area with some carbolic before you bandage it, too.”
“I shall. And perhaps your lady friend may wish to observe. I can teach her about the techniques while I am about it.”
“Leigh, what say you?” Watson looked up at the younger woman.
“I’m game,” Leighton averred staunchly. “I want to learn how to help someone like Salah, here.”
“I think you may make an excellent nurse, with a bit of training, Leigh,” Watson said, rising from his seat and moving aside to let Alimah have it. “I have known some to faint at a sight like this.”
/> “I agree, Doctor,” Alimah lilted. “She has the head, and she has the heart.”
Leighton and Watson exchanged happy smiles, and Watson went to wash up.
* * *
After a few inquiries, Watson discovered that Holmes had disappeared into the ancient vault with a large sketch-pad after lunch, there to copy all of the hieroglyphics upon the walls for later translation.
Watson himself had finally finished his duties in the hospital infirmary, ascertained that poor Saleh was doing as well as could be expected, then taken Leighton and gone for a walk, careful both to carry his revolver and to watch for snakes. The others were out and about as well, engaged in various tasks.
“Let’s climb the mountain, John,” Leighton suggested, cheerful. “It’s later in the evening now, and it will be cooler up there.”
“No, Leigh, I should much rather remain close to the camp.”
“But why?”
“It is still too hot, for one! But mostly because the local cobras seem to have got their tails in a knot,” Watson explained with some fanciful humour, “and not only will it not do for ourselves to run across them, as the dig’s physician, I must stay close in case of medical emergency. You saw the mess earlier to-day. Among others, Lord Trenthume has gone for a stroll, as well. Holmes sent me word a bit ago that the Earl is trying to clear his mind and recollect something that may be important to the study of the crypt. It will not do for me to be too far away to help, should he become careless and be bitten.”
“Ooh,” Leighton groaned, “the nasty snakes. Yes, this morning was positively dreadful. I shouldn’t want to experience it, or have to watch you experience it, either, John. And Lord Trenthume does seem to be rather absent-minded, doesn’t he? Well, I shan’t argue, because I don’t want to anger one, either! That and the hot sun are the only things about this adventure that I simply don’t like.”
“What about the dust and dirt?”
“What about it?”
“Most women of your age and breeding would find it distasteful, at the least.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse Page 17