“But how on earth did it arrive HERE, mon ami?” Beaumont remonstrated. “Surely it cannot be one of the stones from the fabled Stonehenge, for the ancients could never have carried it so far!”
“There are no dolerites on the Salisbury Plain either,” Whitesell pointed out. “So they had to be carried from elsewhere to begin with. If they can carry it a few hundred miles—for surely it would have had to be carried from a mountain region—then why not a few thousand? What difference can it make?”
“But Will, I already told you, I never said it was an actual piece out of Stonehenge,” Nichols-Woodall dissented. “And nor can you say that. We have no proof, just the knowledge that it is likely a dolerite or diabase from the same geological dike that produced those particular menhirs.56 I don’t believe for one second it actually CAME from Stonehenge.”
“It is as likely to have done, as to have come from this semi-mythical source of yours,” Whitesell shot back. “And you know as well as I do that there are gaps in the ring of bluestones, places where the stones are missing.”
“And the last I heard you mention it,” Nichols-Woodall riposted, “you were of the highly logical opinion that they had been broken up to use in local constructions.”
“That was before you identified this one, Parker.”
“Da, Uncle Parker,” Leighton spoke up, “how do you know it is the very same? Maybe it just looks very much like, but this one is from somewhere in Egypt.”
Nichols-Woodall avoided glancing at Holmes, replying, “The colour, the distribution of crystals, the crystal sizes, Leigh. All are telling, to the trained eye. But of course,” he hesitated just slightly, “we would need to perform chemical analyses upon this stone, and then again upon the ones at Stonehenge, to prove that they were… or were not… the same.”
“But wouldn’t it be possible to get a similar looking stone, crystals and all, if the formation processes were the same?” Phillips wondered. “I truly paid attention while we hiked about, Dr. Nichols-Woodall. It was fascinating. But if you had a similar melt, that cooled over a similar time, under similar conditions, wouldn’t it produce a look-alike stone?”
“That is precisely my point, young man,” the geologist confirmed. “Now, if your professor there would let me take some samples from the lower edge of the slab, where its own weight has caused spalling anyway, then we might get a bit farther along in this little mystery.”
“It is indeed the mystery,” Beaumont agreed. “Would not you say, Monsieur Holmes?”
“I would, indeed,” a subdued Holmes replied.
* * *
“Now we are going to start looking for any sort of connexions to Celtic Britain amongst the relics,” Whitesell declared as he, his student, and his colleagues left the dinner tent for the dig field. Holmes threw a concerned glance at Watson, as the physician, with Leighton on his arm, headed for the infirmary—surgery hours had been expanded in light of the cobra incursion.
But offhand, nothing that had already come out of the dig, nor anything that was found that day, seemed to have anything to do with matters of the British Isles, Celtic or otherwise.
* * *
A hungry, hot and tired Beaumont, who had been at the bottom of a pit all afternoon in an unsuccessful attempt to extract another amphora intact—it broke apart even as he was trying to strap it into the sling of the block and tackle crane—had left the dig field after collecting the various pieces and seeing them back to the artefact tent for reconstruction. Frustrated and irritable afterward, he had retired to his own tent, where he apparently cleaned up a bit and changed into fresh clothing before dinner, then arrived at the dinner tent early. There he tided himself over until dinner was served with some biscuits and tepid beverage left from tea, earlier in the afternoon. So he was seated at table already, having convinced Abraam to go ahead and pour the wine, by the time the others arrived. He even appeared to be on his second glass of the alcoholic libation.
That night at dinner, the mood was quiet and thoughtful, if somewhat listless; the unusually sultry weather which had moved in that morning with the snakes had sapped the strength of all. Little was said, for a wonder, even between Beaumont and Nichols-Woodall, and Phillips did not bother to attempt afflicting Watson with his glares, but merely stared at his food. Everyone was simply hot, out of sorts, weary, and above all, puzzled over the remarkable, enigmatic find in the vault in the mountainside.
“It is likely the earthquake,” Nichols-Woodall remarked, offhand. “Some researchers are theorising that such seismic activity is connected to hot weather. It may even be triggered by it. We may have another, and larger, quake coming.”
“I should be interested in seeing the coupling mechanism,” Holmes noted. “I have heard of the hypothesis, but I have never seen the logic in it.”
“It is an ancient notion, dating back to the Greeks around the time of Aristotle, at the least.”
“That does not necessarily imply causality, in either direction,” Holmes replied. “No more than the presence of a tidal whirl off the coast of Sicily in the Straits of Messina proves the existence of the sea monster Charybdis—or any monster, sea or otherwise, for that matter.”
This triggered a sporadic discussion for a few moments, but not even that could raise the energies of the diners sufficient to maintain a conversation.
As the meal progressed, Professor Whitesell’s mood, so ebullient at luncheon, seemed to deteriorate. Several times he passed his hand over his eyes, finally rubbing his forehead with his fingers.
“Is something wrong, Da?” Leighton wondered solicitously.
“Oh, no, my dear, I’m fine,” the archaeologist blustered. “It was an unusually hot day to-day, and I probably just got a bit overheated. I was quite excited, you know.”
“Perhaps you should go lie down, Professor,” Watson suggested. “I can come by later with something, if you need it.”
“That may be wise,” Whitesell agreed. “I have a bit of dyspepsia in any event. I think I shall pass on dessert. Watson, young man, see my daughter back to her tent after, would you?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Whitesell rose and left the table, but Holmes noticed he appeared a bit unsteady.
* * *
Moments later, a very pale Beaumont rose from the table also.
“Pardonnez-moi,”57 he murmured. “I am also unwell. I fear I may have overdone in the heat to-day.”
“It WAS damnably hot—oh, forgive me, Leighton,” Nichols-Woodall apologised. “It was very hot to-day, earthquake or no. Perhaps you should lie down too, Thomas?”
“I should, perhaps,” Beaumont agreed. “I contracted malaria some years ago, and when I over-exert, it sometimes recurs upon me. It rendered me comatose initially, so I am told, and prolonged unconsciousness sometimes occurs with the relapses. I should not like that to happen in this desert region. Dr. Watson, perhaps you might be so kind as to come by my tent, when you have finished with the good Professor?”
“I will, Dr. Beaumont, and I’ll get the quinine from the infirmary, just in case,” Watson promised.
Beaumont left the dinner table as well.
* * *
Having seen to both Whitesell and Beaumont, prescribing plenty of water for both and a dose of quinine for the latter, Watson returned to the tent he shared with Holmes. Over their tobacco pipes, Holmes and Watson chatted softly about the matter, late into the night.
“So you have already done all of the necessary chemical analyses that the geologist mentioned?”
“I have, Watson. And though I understand Nichols-Woodall’s reluctance to make such a bold statement, I must admit that the evidence indeed points to Professor Whitesell’s assertion—that this is really a piece of Stonehenge, or a slab of rock taken from the exact same quarry, contiguous with the henge’s stones—as true. The elemental percentages I was able to determine, both from the fragment of Leigh’s necklace, and from the sample I took of the slab, are identical to well within the error bars of the measuremen
ts.”
“But how?”
“That would seem to be the new mystery.”
Just then a frantic Leighton Whitesell burst into their tent.
“Oh! John! Sherry! Come quick! I can’t find Da!”
“What?” Both men jumped to their feet. Holmes extracted his pocket-watch. “It is a quarter-past ten,” he noted. “Why cannot you find him, Leigh? Is he no longer in his tent?”
“No,” she said, verging on tears. “He isn’t there, and I can’t find him. He was ill earlier… I heard him, ah, purging his stomach, oh, perhaps an hour after John left him… so I went in to see about him. He was not at all well—very pale, and his eyes so big—and I put him to bed and gave him some of the medicine you left for him, John. And then I went back to my own tent and lay down for a few minutes, for it WAS very hot in the surgery to-day, as you know, John, and I just felt drained. Anyway, I must have dozed off, and when I woke, I went to see about Da. His chair was upended, the blankets from the cot dragged into the floor. The table with his books and such was overturned, and the books scattered all across the floor, too! I can’t think how I slept through it; it must have made a dreadful din! But Da was gone! Sherry, you’re a detective! Oh, please, help me find him!”
Holmes grabbed for the lantern, and both men rushed out of the tent, following Leighton back to her father’s tent.
* * *
There, Holmes veritably turned into the bloodhound that Watson sometimes facetiously accused him of being. Keeping Watson and Leighton well away from the entrance, he looked over the interior of Professor Whitesell’s tent with a practised eye, then stepped to the door and scanned the sandy soil just outside.
“Ah,” he said, bending over. “Here we are. I recognise the imprint of his hob-nailed boots quite readily over your daintier feet, Leigh. Mm…”
“What, Holmes?” Watson asked, keeping Leighton’s hand tightly in the crook of his elbow, partly to reassure her and partly to keep her from rushing off.
“…He was indeed unwell, Watson. We may be glad of having you along.”
“How do you know that?”
“His footsteps are very uneven. He is dragging his feet, and even staggering. Come; let us see where this leads, for at the end, we are certain to find him. Leigh, be prepared to run fetch Watson’s hospital staff, for we may well need them. Heat stroke appears to be a distinct possibility.”
Holding the lantern aloft, Holmes hurried on ahead of the pair, tracing the sandy indentations of Whitesell’s footprints. The erratic prints led them out of the camp and across the periphery of the dig field, hard by the northern spur. Glancing up, Holmes saw a faint light shining from the opening of the grotto, and let out an exclamation: the lanterns within should have been extinguished at sundown.
They ran forward, Holmes in the lead.
* * *
Holmes sprinted down the earthen ramp and through the outer door, holding up the lantern; Professor Whitesell was not there. The light he had seen from without, however, came from the interior chamber, and he hurried across to the inner door just as Leighton and Watson entered the outer door. Holmes abruptly blanched.
“Oh, dear God! Watson, grab Leigh, quickly! Keep her back there!” Holmes cried from his position just within the inner door, spinning and waving a hand in warning. Without question or pause, Watson swiftly caught the young woman as she sought to run past him, wrapping his arms firmly about her waist and holding her against him as she fought to get to her father’s side.
“Ah! Let me go! John, it’s Da! He’s sick! He needs me!” Leighton cried, struggling against his gentle but firm hold. “Let me GO!”
“Hush, Leigh. Wait a moment. What’s wrong, Holmes?” Watson asked then. When Holmes finally responded, it was in a tone Watson had never before heard his friend use: low, hoarse, and horrified.
“No woman should have to see her father in this condition, Watson.”
“What condition?! What’s wrong with him, Sherry??” Leighton called. “Let me help!”
“Hush, Leigh,” Watson murmured. “Let Holmes take care of him. If he needs help, I am far more able to provide medical assistance—”
“NO!” Leighton abruptly and unexpectedly twisted in Watson’s arms, head-butting him in the face just hard enough to startle him and cause him to release her. As he briefly saw stars, she darted out of his reach, and leaped across the inner threshold.
* * *
Holmes, who had already set down the lantern, lunged for her. But Leighton was just as nimble and swift as she had been as a child: she dodged Holmes’ long arms, and only stopped when she caught sight of her father’s body. Then she screamed.
For, illumined by the flickering light of a single torch—not a lantern—Professor Whitesell’s body rested on the bluestone in perfectly arranged repose, save for the fact that his head had been removed from his neck; it sat next to his right shoulder, blank, empty gaze staring across his own chest. Two pools of slowly congealing blood collected below the head and the open neck wound, respectively; a single scarlet rivulet trickled over the edge of the stone slab and down its side, like some macabre offering to the gods—whether Egyptian, Celt, or other, Holmes could not say.
Hanging from the open mouth was a sprig of foliage that looked like some varietal of mistletoe; across his chest lay a small, dried oak branch. A sickly-sweet stench filled the air; its source apparently came from the puddle of regurgitated matter near the base of the stone. An archaic Egyptian sword, the bronze blade sickle-shaped, honed to a fine edge, and heavily inlaid with gleaming gold, stained and smeared with fresh blood, rested across the bluestone at his feet. The overall effect was of some strange ritual burial of the old North peoples, rendered all the more macabre by the ancient Egyptian chamber around them.
Just then, the rest of the scientific team and several husky workers, led by Phillips, thrust through the outer door of the antechamber.
“STOP RIGHT THERE!” Holmes shouted, and one and all stopped dead at the command.
“I thought I heard Leigh scream,” a truculent Phillips demanded, jaw thrust out. “What have you lot done? Have you dared to hurt her? What’s going on?”
“It is murder,” a stern Holmes declared, succinct, just before Leighton Whitesell fainted, collapsing into his arms.
* * *
“Oh, for heaven’s—” Holmes grumbled under his breath, then turned. “Watson, come here and get her! I haven’t time for this! I must examine the scene and try to ascertain what happened!”
“I—” Phillips began, then subsided, as Watson carefully relieved Holmes of his feminine burden.
“You what?” Holmes barked then, out of patience as he spun on the younger man. The physician scooped up the young woman into his arms and bore her into the outer chamber, where he gently laid her on the floor in the corner, then reached for the carotid pulse.
“I… would have taken Leigh,” Phillips finished his aborted sentence with a sigh, watching Watson tend her. “But… she’s probably happier where she is, I guess.”
“Such are women, young Landers,” a still-pale Beaumont remarked, dry wit verging on cool. He leaned up against the wall near the outer door, and shivered noticeably. “They can be cruelly fickle. You will learn, soon enough.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow.
“Will someone tell me what the deuce is going on?” Lord Trenthume demanded. “You said it is murder, Holmes. Who is dead?”
“Look around you, Cortland. Who is missing?” Dr. Nichols-Woodall pointed out, sombre and a bit short with the Earl. “Will isn’t here. And Leigh’s passed out cold on the floor.”
“Good Lord,” Phillips expostulated fervently, horrified. “You cannot mean to say it is Professor Whitesell who is dead?!”
“He does, and it is,” Holmes snapped from the other room. “Do you all please remain where you are, try not to move, be quiet, and whatever you do, do NOT touch ANYthing! I am attempting to investigate the matter.”
* * *
> It only took a few minutes for Holmes to survey the crime scene with his characteristic thoroughness. Then he turned, removed the torch from its sconce, and went into the anteroom, closing the inner door behind him.
“He will rest there, well enough, until we are done with this,” he declared in a milder tone. “The bluestone makes a decent enough bier, I should think. Where is Udail?”
“Here, Mr. Holmes,” Udail said, sticking his head in through the entrance. “We heard the lady scream, and came running, thinking it was another cobra.”
“Good. Pick three or four of your most trusted men. Station one of them just in here, and the rest right outside the main entrance, within easy conversing distance. Under no circumstances is anyone to go into the inner chamber, and absolutely no one is to be let into even the outer chamber except myself or Dr. Watson, here… on pain of death. Is that understood?” Holmes’ grey, drawn visage was grim.
“Yes sir,” Udail nodded, accepting the torch from Holmes. “Professor Whitesell was a kind man. But you say he is dead?”
“He is, I am very sorry to say,” Holmes admitted, melancholy despite himself. “His body lies inside.” He waved a hand at the inner door.
“Is it… was it… the mummy?” Udail whispered. “The curses you said were on the door… did the mummy of the old pharaoh come back for him?”
“Nonsense,” Holmes responded, steadfast. “Even if it were a curse, there is no mummy here to begin with. There never was. Stay here, stand guard, and do not fear such superstition. Watson, fetch Leigh and let us go back to the tent. I have work to do. The rest of you… go back to your tents, and do not go far.”
“What? Why not?” Trenthume blustered.
“He means that one of us did it,” a pensive Nichols-Woodall explained, “and he wants us where he can reach us when he figures out who.”
“Precisely,” Holmes replied.
“Then he will have to find me in my bed,” a blanched and haggard Beaumont declared, “for I am returning there at once. I do not feel at all well. I only roused from it when I heard the clamour, and feared something dreadful had happened… as it appears to have done.”
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