To the first, he added several drops of carbonic acid, attempting to replicate the same test he had made on the slab itself; as with that earlier test, nothing happened. He nodded to himself: he had not expected differently.
Then he performed several different tests in turn on each of the test tubes, vigilantly recording his findings after each test. The last two samples he went to some lengths to dissolve as completely as possible, then added additional reagents to each solution until he got precipitates settling into the bottom of the test tubes. Each of these precipitates was extracted, carefully dried, and placed on the tiny balance scale for weighing.
“Well, that is hardly surprising,” he decided, as he commenced thoroughly cleaning the test tubes; he had only brought a few from Baker Street into the desert, for fear of breakage, and he did not have enough to run all of his tests in parallel. “It is a known petrology, after all. Now for the real test.”
Holmes took the small bits, splinters, and dust he had collected from beneath when he had struck off his sample from the main slab, and dumped it all into a small, scrupulously clean mortar, the hardest in his collection, an expensive little utensil which had been fashioned out of one solid piece of milky-white quartz. He wielded the matching pestle for quite some time until he had a reasonably finely ground powder, though it was not as uniform as that which the lapidary saw had made. This likewise went onto its own fresh sheet torn from the note-book, and separated into as many piles by the other end of the delicately-wielded spatula. After weighing, each pile went into its own clean test tube, and he repeated the exact tests he had performed on the material of Leighton’s pebble necklace.
Once those tests were complete, he sat down and began to scratch calculations into the note-book, based on the numbers obtained in the chemical investigations.
* * *
At the end of his work, several hours after he had started, and having completely forgotten about tea, he sat back and studied his results, then shook his head.
“It should not be possible, but it is,” he muttered in amazement. “Even to the percentages.”
He cleaned his equipment and put it away, then tucked the two principal samples into his pocket; it would not be possible to mistake them, for one had the flat surface and slight cuts of the lapidary saw, whereas the other was more rough-hewn on the raw edge. He caught up his note-book and tucked it into a special, inside pocket of his waistcoat.
“Now I must confess to the deed, and convince Nichols-Woodall of my findings,” he declared, and set off to find the geologist.
* * *
“You DIDN’T!” Nichols-Woodall exclaimed, when once Holmes had managed to separate Landers Phillips from the geologist’s coat-tails and convince Nichols-Woodall to return—alone—to the tent he shared with Watson.
“I did,” Holmes admitted. “It had to be done, Doctor, no matter what the Professor may have wanted. You know it, and I know it. And while he refused you permission, he said nothing to me, after all. I have reason to think we may be able to get away with a mild subterfuge, if you are willing to work with me; surely you noticed the chips, dings, and whatnot along the bottom of the, mm, billet, if we may thus term so large a stone?”
“Yes, I did,” Nichols-Woodall averred. “I tried to tell Will, for I see where you are going, and had thought to do so myself, but he would not hear of it. Undoubtedly the damage was produced in the moving of so large a rock, for it was all along the bottom, where we might expect contact to be made, with… with whatever they used to transport such a heavy weight.”
“Precisely,” Holmes agreed with a nod. “More than likely, the stone’s own weight caused it to spall at the contact points, based on my observations. So that area, along the base, is where I took my sample. I estimate in a few days’ time it will be indistinguishable from the rest. And it is, ah, rather carefully located in shadow right now, in any case.”
“Well… good, then,” Nichols-Woodall decided. “What Will doesn’t know, in this case, won’t hurt him. And you say you have identified it?”
“Positively,” Holmes asserted. “To easily within the margin of error of the analyses.”
“Show me.”
“The various end-products themselves are preserved over here, on these papers,” Holmes gestured to small mounds of material of various colours, ranged along the back of the table. “But here are my observations and calculations.”
Holmes produced his note-pad, opened it to the first page containing his observations of the stone slab, and laid it on the table in front of the geologist, gesturing to him to take a seat and read, which he did. Holmes, meanwhile, took a more casual seat on the end of his cot, and watched Nichols-Woodall as he read through Holmes’ work.
It took a while, but Holmes was a patient man. When Nichols-Woodall finally looked up, there was wonder in his hazel eyes.
“You have done it, Holmes. This is a masterful little piece of research, and done in a tent in the field, no less,” Nichols-Woodall declared. “For there can be no mistake, though I have no more idea how it got here than how the others got to the Salisbury Plain, let alone their point of origin. No wonder I did not recognise it, for I was considering the wrong continent!”
“You agree, then?”
“Oh, yes. There can be no mistake,” Nichols-Woodall proclaimed. “It is dolerite, from the exact same source as that which produced the bluestones of Stonehenge.”
CHAPTER 9
Revelations and Ramifications
—::—
It was nearly dinner, and they decided that Nichols-Woodall should tell Professor Whitesell about the identification in private at the earliest possible opportunity, but maintaining Holmes’ participation as confidential, for so the sleuth wished.
“May I keep this to show him?” the geologist asked, holding up the remnant from Leighton’s necklace. “If I am to abide by your desire to seem uninvolved, thereby preserving the both of us in his good graces, then I dare not reference your chemical analyses. It would make for an obvious identification if I can show him I have a comparison, and then he can see for himself the similarities.”
Holmes hesitated. Nichols-Woodall saw, and suddenly understood.
“It came from young Leighton’s necklace, didn’t it?” he asked perceptively. “I see the cut surface, and it is of the right size. And it has been polished.”
“Yes, it did,” Holmes admitted.
“Do you have to give it back to her? Were you forced to destroy the rest in the analysis? Is this all that is left of the pendant?”
“No, and no,” Holmes noted. “She is left with probably some two-thirds of the original, still around her neck, with the flat surface now enabling it to lie nicely. The lapidarist collected all of the rock dust from the cutting, and that dust is what I was able to analyse chemically.”
“I see. So the hard-nosed, uncompromising detective does have a small sentimental streak, after all?”
“I… had thought to keep it, in memory of a day, it is true,” Holmes disclosed a bit diffidently. “Several days, actually. Leigh was a dear little moppet, as a child.”
“Holmes, I must say, there is far more to you than you ever let on. I think it a pity, given your intellect and your many talents, that you have chosen a life of celibacy. With the right spouse, you could pass on some amazing traits to future generations. And probably enjoy the raising of said generations, from what I have seen.”
Holmes flushed, and his manner became austere.
“It is as I told Leigh, Doctor: men’s lives not uncommonly hang in the balance of my successful conclusions. I cannot afford distractions.”
“So you bury those sentiments, deep down. I understand,” Nichols-Woodall said softly. “You are a strong, brave man, Holmes. I admire you for that, even young as you are. And I swear by my honour and our friendship, I shall return this to you,” he waved the tiny slice of pebble, “as soon as I have convinced Will of the validity of our—of your—conclusions. Which hopefully
will be in private, sometime after dinner.”
“Very good, then,” Holmes agreed.
* * *
After dinner, Holmes watched as Dr. Nichols-Woodall drew Professor Whitesell away from the main group, murmuring something in his ear. Whitesell did something of a double-take, meeting Nichols-Woodall’s gaze with a question in his own. Nichols-Woodall jerked his head in the general direction of the dig field.
“Very well; let us fetch lanterns and carbide lamps,” the sleuth just heard the archaeologist say.
There were few left to see the geologist and the lead archaeologist depart on their enigmatic errand. Phillips had already tried to leave in a huff after a dinner spent watching Leighton flirt delicately with Watson; Beaumont had intercepted him and taken him off with a promise to discuss Central American ruins, presumably either to avoid another brawl or to protect any antiquities upon which Phillips might take out his wrath, Holmes was unsure which. Lord Trenthume had promptly retired to his tent as soon as the meal was complete; Holmes suspected that he kept a very high quality private stock of liquor hidden in his tent.
Which left Watson and Leighton, who were still sitting at the table, chatting quietly. Holmes laid light hands upon their shoulders, and they looked up. Wordless, he nodded at the departing backs of Whitesell and Nichols-Woodall.
“What is that about?” Watson wondered, keeping his voice low as the pair rose from the table.
“Dr. Nichols-Woodall confirmed my identification of the interred stone, shortly before dinner,” Holmes murmured to the pair. “He is going to show the Professor.”
“You did it?!” Leighton hissed in excitement.
“I did, Leigh. Thanks to your necklace.”
She let out a soft squeal and gave him a brief hug. He chuckled, a bit self-conscious, and after a moment returned it gingerly, in remembrance of the child she had once been. When he released her, it was to be met with a firm, enthusiastic handshake from Watson.
“Capital job, old chap,” the physician told him, adding a clap on the back into the bargain. “By way of celebration and a bit of relaxation, would you like to join us in a moonlit walk and a little chit-chat?”
“Would I not be, er, in the way?”
“Not at all, Sherry,” Leighton vowed, taking his near arm and hugging it for a moment, before tucking her hand in his elbow. Watson moved near, and she tucked her other hand into that worthy’s elbow. “I think it would be a splendid stroll, with two such intelligent men to talk to! My oldest friend and my beau; how wonderful is that? Do say you’ll come? I promise I shan’t do anything that will make you uncomfortable.”
“Very well,” Holmes decided. “It has been a very busy day, and I should not mind a chance to stretch my legs in company with friends.”
They set off.
* * *
“…You’ve identified it?” Whitesell said with excitement as the pair entered the vestibule of the crypt.
“Strictly speaking, a… colleague did,” Nichols-Woodall corrected, the slight hesitation going unnoticed by Whitesell. “But I was certainly able to confirm it. Come, I’ll show you.”
They passed through into the inner chamber, standing alongside the large block of stone. The lanterns hanging from the sconces had been extinguished by workers at sundown to preserve lamp oil. Now Nichols-Woodall sat the lantern he carried on top of the big stone, reached into his pocket, and directed the carbide lamp from his helmet onto the object he withdrew.
The small fragment of polished pebble glimmered with a slightly waxy sheen in the light, a deep shade of slightly greenish blue, shot through with specks of cream and white. The geologist set it, flat side down, on the top of the slab.
It was a perfect match.
“Where did you get that?” Whitesell wondered. “And what is it?”
“Do you remember the story your daughter told, that first night after Watson and Holmes arrived, about the expedition to Stonehenge, and Holmes falling into the dig pit atop you?”
“Yes? Oh, surely you don’t mean to say that is the pebble from Holmes’ shoe? The one she had made into a necklace?”
“It is a fragment of it,” Nichols-Woodall informed him. “The pebble was a tiny piece of a so-called ‘Stonehenge bluestone.’”
“Which makes this…”
“From the same source,” Nichols-Woodall declared.
“But… how on earth… all the way to Egypt?!” the flabbergasted archaeologist sputtered.
“That, I cannot explain, any more than I can explain how Stonehenge was built, or where the stones came from in the first place, Will.”
“Good Lord,” was all Professor Willingham could think of to say.
* * *
Breakfast was a bit hectic the next morning; what appeared to be a small den of cobras had invaded the kitchen area overnight. Nichols-Woodall discovered much later that a small landslide on the other side of the ridge, possibly triggered by a slight earthquake too small for humans to feel, had disturbed the snakes and caused them to flee their lairs. But no formal meals could be served until the area was rid of the creatures: they had found the heat from the coal-fuelled stoves and ovens to their liking over the Egyptian winter, and were attempting to settle in for the duration.
Holmes and Watson extracted their weapons and joined Lord Trenthume as he assisted in clearing the kitchens… after Watson had sent urgent messages to his staff to attend the hospital at once and prepare for multiple cobra victims, just in case.
Professor Whitesell, meanwhile, went off with Nichols-Woodall and Udail—all of them properly-armed as well—to inspect the rest of the encampment, then check out the dig pits. Whitesell left Phillips and Beaumont behind with revolvers and strict instructions to ensure that his and his daughter’s tents remained safe, with his daughter well-guarded inside, despite her protestations that she should be helping in the infirmary. Whitesell also left orders that, rather than resuming digging, the manual labourers should spend the morning cautiously checking the pits—and the crypt—for any more of the deadly reptiles; he did not desire any more snakebite victims than Watson and his staff had already treated.
By dint of sheer luck, none of the kitchen staff had been bitten in the discovery of the snakes’ incursion, and in relatively short order the men had either killed or driven off the reptiles. But it took a while for the understandably jumpy cooks to calm down sufficient to work; several cookpots, kettles, and frying pans were dropped on the ground, accompanied by short screams, if the least little unexpected thing happened.
“I think,” a morose Watson decided, watching, “that we will not be getting breakfast to-day.”
“I believe I agree with you,” Holmes said, amused. “We may be lucky to get luncheon, as well, but there should still be some cups and tea canisters on the sideboard in the ‘mess tent,’ as you call it. Perhaps even a few biscuits, though they are likely to be stale. And I can heat water over my Bunsen burner if I can lay hands on some alcohol to refill it. It will have to do, for now.”
* * *
Luncheon was a little addled, and the courses served were simpler than usual, but it was understandable in the circumstances, and no one complained. Professor Whitesell seemed excited, and the group found out why, just before the dessert course was served. He tapped his fork against his water goblet to get the attention of the others at the table; quite a lively little discussion about the cobra invasion had ensued, and it was necessary to interrupt it. The Professor stood, beaming.
“I have an announcement to make,” he said with a broad smile, blue eyes sparkling. “I know to-day is proving uncommonly hot for the time of year in despite of our little reptile friends, and we are all a bit irritable, especially after being forced to skip breakfast, but I believe this news will decidedly improve morale! It seems our most excellent geologist, Dr. Parker Nichols-Woodall, with the assistance of his colleagues and, I have it to understand, my daughter’s willingness to allow something of hers to be, ah, altered, well… Parker has
managed to identify the stone inside the crypt!”
Applause went around the table, and Holmes and Nichols-Woodall studiously avoided meeting each other’s gazes. An excited Leighton locked eyes with Watson, and the others watched Whitesell in expectation.
“And?” the Earl of Trenthume demanded. “Don’t keep us in suspense, man! I’ve been racking my brains over this for days!”
“Stonehenge,” Whitesell said, succinct. “The slab of rock in our Egyptian ‘tomb’ is nothing less than one of the missing bluestones of Stonehenge!”
Gasps went around the table, and several averted gazes shot to the elder archaeologist in shock and surprise.
“Now Will,” Nichols-Woodall objected, “I never said it WAS one of the bluestones! I simply said it was a dolerite derived from the same source!”
“And where is that source, Parker?” a jovial Whitesell demanded to know, quite pleased with himself. “No one has ever found that source, so you cannot say it was NOT taken direct from Stonehenge! And there are certainly stones missing from that monument, as I myself ascertained!”
“Surely not,” Beaumont started to protest, just as the Earl of Trenthume jumped to his feet.
“THAT’S IT!” he shouted in jubilation, punching a fist into the air. “THAT is where I’ve seen that kind of stone before! At Stonehenge! My father used to take me there as a boy! I was fascinated by it… but I have not been there in years! No wonder I forgot!”
“And no wonder it was so hard to identify,” Phillips said. “Wrong bloody continent!”
“Precisely!” Whitesell crowed.
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