Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse

by Stephanie Osborn

  “But you can’t dig for archaeological finds and not get a bit dirty and dusty, John! That’s part of the fun and the excitement of it all!” She glanced about and saw no one else. “Do you want to know a secret?”

  “What?”

  “Da has forbidden me to go into the dig pits! He says it isn’t lady-like. Otherwise, I should be right down in there with the rest of them, digging in the dirt and finding some glorious old, perfectly unique specimen!”

  “You are quite a unique specimen yourself, Leigh,” he replied, chuckling. Leighton returned his smile, pleased and happy.

  “Do you suppose it would be safe to walk around the perimeter, then?”

  “I think so,” Watson considered. “I have my service revolver, and it is loaded. Here.” He offered his arm, and they set off on their perambulation, chatting happily as young lovers are wont to do.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Mineralogical Enigma

  —::—

  Two hours later, the pair returned to the camp proper, in time for dinner. Cortland was also back, safe and sound… but without any more notion of where he had seen the strange night-sky-like stone than he had before. Nichols-Woodall was still absent, evidently communing with his colleagues from the vantage of the telegraph office in town; whether said communion would be fruitful or not remained for his return.

  Holmes was also back, but withdrawn, quiet and thoughtful. He sat just outside the flap of the tent he shared with Watson, studying his transcription and occasionally scribbling notes in the margins.

  “What are you doing, Sherry?” Leighton wondered as she walked up on Watson’s arm.

  “Mm? Oh, beginning a preliminary translation of all those hieroglyphics inside the crypt, Leigh,” he responded a bit absently. “It looks to be quite unusual…”

  “Well, it can wait,” Professor Whitesell declared, coming around the corner of the tent. “I’ve been looking for you lot. The servants are only holding dinner until I could find you.”

  “Professor, I should really prefer—” Holmes began.

  “No buts, young man,” Whitesell blustered. “You know my rules, well enough.” Holmes sighed.

  “What about Nichols-Woodall?” Watson asked. “He hasn’t got back yet.”

  “Had a note from him, carried back by the dog-cart driver,” Whitesell said. “The responses to his telegrams indicated that two of his mates were not so far away. So he took boat downriver to Luxor, to consult with a couple of his colleagues. He’ll likely spend the night and be back to-morrow, hopefully with information.” He gave Holmes a stern mock-glare. “All the more reason not to let those of us left here escape a nice, communal meal.”

  “I really think this is more important,” Holmes declared.

  “But Sherry, you haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast,” Leighton protested. “You spent luncheon in the crypt, and didn’t even come out for tea! Did you at least carry your canteen?”

  “I did,” Holmes said succinctly. “And used it.”

  “Well, that’s better than nothing,” Watson remarked drily.

  “But you didn’t eat! That can’t be good for you, can it, Da? John? Tell him it isn’t good for him.”

  “I’ve done so many and many’s the time, Leigh,” Watson said with a wry grin, shaking his head. “When he gets that mind of his focussed on something, little else matters.”

  “Well, I matter!” Whitesell boomed cheerfully. “And last I checked, I was in charge of this dig. And I say: COME TO DINNER!” He laughed, then added, “I expect all THREE of you at table in five minutes!” He headed off in the direction of the mess tent, whistling jauntily.

  “If we must, we must,” Holmes huffed.

  He put away the sketch-pad within the tent, then joined Watson and Leighton.

  * * *

  Dinner was mildly more congenial without Nichols-Woodall to snipe with Beaumont, though Phillips maintained a towering silence and sent many a glare at Watson, who sat beside an effervescent Leighton, who was in turn occupying Nichols-Woodall’s vacant seat. It seemed their afternoon stroll had not escaped his attention, even ensconced in the artefact tent as he had been, and he resented it vehemently. It had long since become patently obvious to Holmes that Phillips had intentions toward Leighton, intentions which had been thwarted by first Holmes and now Watson, and in despite of Leighton’s wishes, as she had told him. So Holmes had kept a wary watch on matters, but there was no indication, to the detective’s practised eye, that Phillips intended to do anything this time… other than glower and sulk. After all, the detective considered, Watson’s personal history in the Army is well-known, and that is unlikely to be something with which Phillips wants to tangle, even with Watson’s mild disability. After a couple of futile attempts by Whitesell to draw Phillips into the conversation, the professor forbore, and confined himself to a discussion with Holmes, Cortland and Beaumont for the rest of the meal.

  The professor maintained an enthused chatter over the discovery of the crypt, and what could possibly be the point of interring a mere stone slab within it. This chatter was bantered back and forth by both Beaumont and Lord Trenthume, with a thoughtful Holmes occasionally offering a bland observation. The sleuth also noted that Beaumont seemed to be intent upon drawing Whitesell out on what he believed the crypt to represent; but the younger archaeologist certainly did not volunteer any information himself. Cortland was nearly as enthusiastic as Whitesell, however, and the pair babbled back and forth for over an hour, through all three dinner courses.

  Just then, Watson leaned over and tapped Holmes’ arm beneath the level of the table.

  “Holmes, do you need me for anything after dinner?” he murmured.

  “No, not particularly. Why?”

  “Leighton has invited me… I had thought to visit with the professor and herself in his tent.”

  “Ah,” Holmes grinned. “Go right ahead with your courting, old fellow. I have plenty to do as it is, and I am likely to still be up when you return.”

  “Not on my account, I hope. It will all be very proper and above-board.”

  “No doubt, my dear Watson. But the inscriptions were copious, and will take some little time to translate. And they are the oldest Egyptian script I have ever seen, so they will not be easy. I only hope my translation skills are up to it.”

  “Do you have reason to think you may have difficulty?” Beaumont interjected the question. “Forgive me, mon ami, I did not mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard you mention the inscriptions, and I am curious.”

  “It will certainly not be elementary,” Holmes admitted. “While I have considerable skill with the Middle Kingdom inscriptions from my prior work with the Professor, and some experience with what are called by some, ‘proto-hieroglyphs,’ I had not thought there was a form of the writing that was older still, but this does appear to be.”

  “You translated the lintel writing readily enough the other day, old chap,” Watson pointed out.

  “Yes, but as I told you at the time, Watson, the curses seemed to be based on… or perhaps, part of the original source for… the Book of the Dead. So after getting the first bits, I had some expectation of what came next, within reason. The outer room is another matter altogether, and does not seem to relate to anything I have ever seen before.”

  “Then you have your work cut out for you, son,” Whitesell said. “But you have a talent for it, and I am convinced I could not have put the matter into better hands. If anyone can do it, you can.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Very good,” Beaumont said. “Let us hope so.”

  But Holmes noticed that Beaumont watched him surreptitiously through the rest of the meal.

  All told, though the meal had been delicious and it was entirely true that Holmes had skipped lunch, he was more than glad to see the meal behind him, and betake himself back to the tent, there to resume perusing the hieroglyphs from within the crypt.

  But this time, when he finished, he scanned the area
around the tent with every sense he possessed. Thus satisfied that there was no one else about, he opened his trunk, dug down to the bottom, and triggered the door of a hidden compartment. In this, he safed the sketch-pad, out of sight, before locking the trunk and tucking the key away on a chain hidden around his neck.

  Then he dimmed the lamp for Watson’s convenience when he should return, and went to bed.

  * * *

  Nichols-Woodall returned late the next morning, somewhat downcast.

  “They did not recognise it, either,” he admitted to the others at lunch. “Neither Gottlieb nor Åkerman. There is not a stone in Egypt, they said, that matched my description, nor yet even my detailed sketches. They wanted to see samples, but I told them I could not take samples due to the possible value of the object—if we can ever identify it! Then they suggested I take photographs of it and send them, but I told them it would not help, for a photograph would not depict the rich, nuanced shades of blue and teal to be found in the stone. So they threw up their hands in vexation.”

  “Surely it is not a huge nugget of… what is the stone? Lapis lazuli?” a naïve Phillips wondered.

  “No, no,” Nichols-Woodall demurred. “It is not the right shade of blue, for one thing. You see, Phillips, lapis lazuli was used extensively in ancient Egypt, and is a not-uncommon find. I would have recognised that instantly. But this stone has more green in it, and high quality lapis lazuli is a pure, rich caerulean blue, indeed sometimes what is called cobalt blue. Even the lower grades are more of a faded indigo than this stone. And as valuable as it was, and is, I doubt that so huge a nugget would have warranted interment instead of use—in cosmetics, in jewellery, in decorative inlay…”

  “Well, it was just a thought,” Phillips said, with a rueful grin and a shrug.

  “A good thought, nonetheless,” Whitesell commended. “Sometimes the things that are the most obvious are the things we miss, after all.”

  “True,” Nichols-Woodall admitted. He offered the young man a friendly smile. “Have you yet studied the petrology of Egypt, Landers?”

  “The stones of the area? No sir, not yet. I have the various dynasties down, and can identify pottery with the best of ’em, but I haven’t got to the rocks quite yet. I know that the relics of certain dynasties are most often found in certain strata, but I fear I could not recognise those strata in the field if my life depended on it. I was hoping to begin working on that during this expedition, but so far, well…” He shrugged.

  “What are your plans for the afternoon, then? If you are free, perhaps you might enjoy accompanying me; I plan to hike the mountains in the area and see if I can find a match for our big blue stone.”

  Phillips’ eyes lit up, and he gave a querying glance at Whitesell, who nodded his permission.

  “Sounds first-rate, Dr. Nichols-Woodall,” he replied. “I should like that, very much.”

  “Good. Go fetch your topee, a full canteen, a revolver in case of snakes, and a kerchief for your neck,” Nichols-Woodall instructed. “It will be hot.”

  * * *

  Holmes slipped into the inner chamber while no one else was there: Phillips and Dr. Nichols-Woodall were off hiking the area, studying the stones; Professor Whitesell was in his tent, reviewing his textual translation for clews about the mysterious stone slab; and Udail had come to fetch Dr. Beaumont to look at another pot, possibly a second amphora, that had been found in one of the pits, though this one appeared broken, or at least cracked. So a solitary Holmes now stood and stared thoughtfully at the large blue-green bowlder in the light of the modern oil lanterns hung from the ancient torch sconces.

  After a few moments, he removed one of the lanterns and walked over to the side of the stone, running his hand lightly along its smooth surface as he moved to the rear of the chamber. Once or twice he bent over, examining rough places near the base of the polished stone. Then he crouched down low so that he would be hidden from the entryway by the stone itself, and produced several items from his pockets, arranging them on the floor.

  The first thing he did was to set the lantern on the floor and pick up a small velvet pouch. From this he produced a jeweller’s loupe; he placed it to his eye and leaned close to the side of the slab, studying the surface and the crystalline structures thus revealed.

  “Mm,” he grunted, leaning back. He returned the loupe into its protective pouch and set it aside, then picked up a small note-pad and pencil stub, and scribbled several short notes. Putting it down, he studied the remaining tools he had brought before selecting another.

  This new tool proved to be an unglazed piece of ceramic tile. This he held to the corner of the slab. He pressed into the slab with it, exerting some force, though careful not to break the tile, before dragging it along the edge of the slab. A soft scraping noise made itself apparent, and he withdrew the tile, studying the surface. A powdery streak ran along it, a light bluish-green in most places, but a nearly-invisible white in a few spots.

  Just then, faint voices filtered through from the outer door, the light in the outer chamber flickered, and Holmes froze, hands hovering over the tools he had laid out. The voices moved on, fading into the distance; the light filtering through from outside steadied, and he relaxed, letting out a breath he had not realised he’d held.

  That would have been… unpleasant, he thought. Professor Whitesell would likely throw me off both the expedition and the site, were I caught at what I intend. It would be well within his rights, I suppose, but unwise, nevertheless. It’s quite a pity that he refused to let Nichols-Woodall properly study the slab, for there would almost certainly have been an identification by now, if he had. Especially after consulting the other geologists. And given the condition of the base of the stone, it would hardly harm it unduly. I shall have to adjudge later whether I may take the geologist into my confidence in helping me identify it, for he certainly has the greater knowledge and experience.

  He bent back to work, scribbling more notes before reaching for a small dropper bottle and a rag. Extracting a full dropper, he rose, stooping low, until he could reach the top of the slab without presenting too large a form above it, and scanned the surface. Locating several of the larger whitish crystals, he placed several drops of liquid on each one, and watched closely. Nothing happened, and he used the rag to wipe off the residue before ducking behind the hulk of the rock once more.

  Several more scribbles went into the note-book, and he reached for his jack-knife. Unfolding it, he brought the blade to bear on that same corner of the slab on which he had wielded the ceramic tile. But instead of shaving off bits, as it had done with the inscribed slate, his knife slid off without so much as leaving a mark on the stone. When he examined the blade, however, he was dismayed: a long scratch had been left in it, and the section of the blade’s edge that had contacted the slab was now dull.

  “Damnation,” he murmured to himself in chagrin. “The stone is quite hard, then. I shall have to sharpen this blade, and try to polish out the scratch. That puts paid to the notion of trying to take an inconspicuous sample, and I dare not use the knife as a chisel lest I break the blade outright.”

  He picked up the note-pad and pencil, scribbling a few more notes, before he gathered up his utensils, replaced them in his pockets, and slipped out, unnoticed.

  * * *

  Back in the tent he shared with Watson—who was still in the infirmary with Leighton—Holmes took the opportunity to study his notes in private.

  Colour: blue to blue-green, some areas cream to white

  Lustre: non-metallic, dull, slightly waxy

  Streak: also blue-green, some areas white

  Carbonic acid test: no result. Therefore the white crystals are not calcite or similar.

  Hardness: >steel; therefore >4 on the Mohs’ scale

  “Hm,” he said. Then he pocketed the small note-book, rummaged in his trunk and extracted a whetstone. He pulled his treasured jack-knife, a childhood Christmas gift from his parents, from his waistcoat pocket
and commenced sharpening it, deep in thought.

  * * *

  Since it was still early in the afternoon, Holmes wandered over to the dig pits and looked across the valley, debating what to do next. Professor Whitesell could be seen in the near distance, papers in hand, wandering about somewhat absently, and consequently in constant danger of falling into one of the pits; Holmes realised he was likely attempting to correlate locations with his translation. Beaumont was still working with Udail to extract the pot, which evidently was intact, after all—Holmes knew if a pot were found intact, it was likely filled with something, dirt at the least, which had prevented its being crushed, and this tended to render it very heavy and awkward to move.

  Just then, Nichols-Woodall walked across the far end of the valley, Phillips tagging eagerly behind like a puppy. The pair disappeared around the far spur; ten minutes later, Nichols-Woodall appeared on top of the spur, headed higher, onto the ridge proper. It took Phillips fully five more minutes to reach the top of the spur, and he paused and leaned his hands on his knees once he had reached that level; he appeared to be panting. Holmes took the behaviour to indicate that Phillips was not in nearly as fit a physical condition as Nichols-Woodall.

  Well, perhaps he will be too tired to give anyone the Evil Eye to-night at dinner, for a change, the detective considered with amusement. Then it dawned upon him that that meant the geologist would likely not be back to the camp UNTIL dinner.

  Holmes turned casually and headed back into the camp.

  * * *

  The dwelling area was largely deserted at that time of the afternoon; everyone was out at the dig field, working in the kitchens, or staffing the infirmary. Holmes made his stealthy way toward Nichols-Woodall’s tent, glanced about to verify no one was in sight, then slipped inside.

  On the table in the corner of the tent lay the various field tools of a geologist, most in duplicate. This included several rock hammers. Some had chisel heads, others had pick heads for harder stone. Holmes hefted one of the pick-headed hammers and examined it for a moment before he slid the handle under the waistband of his trousers, adjusting his waistcoat to cover the hammer’s head, then slipped back out of the tent and headed for the crypt, stopping by his tent for his sketch-pad on the way.