Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse

by Stephanie Osborn

  “I will send Sati to see to you,” Watson offered, watching the others go, and Holmes turned to him as Udail and his men took up stations around the vault to maintain their vigil.

  “Come along, Watson. Get Leigh, and let us begone from this Godforsaken place.”

  * * *

  “Take Leigh to our tent, Watson, and stand guard over her until she awakens,” Holmes ordered as they left the erstwhile tomb and climbed the earthworks incline. “Keep your revolver in your hand. I have somewhat to accomplish before I return thence. And it may be that whoever killed Professor Whitesell will not stop with Papa Whitesell. Or with us. So watch your back, old boy. And if you have a few moments, and can divide your attention between guardian, physician, and errand-boy for me, do you please set up the rest of my chemical apparatus on the camp table in the back of the tent. It is all in the mahogany trunk.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I must go quickly and ascertain if the remains of the professor’s dinner have yet been disposed-of,” Holmes explained. “At the least, perhaps some residue of food or drink may tell me what we need, so desperately, to know.”

  “You think…” Watson stopped dead, the unconscious Leigh still in his arms, “you think Professor Whitesell was… poisoned?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “But why on earth would you think such a thing? He was beheaded!”

  “Several reasons, Watson,” Holmes responded, gesturing him to follow, as he urged them farther away from the underground crypt. “It is highly improbable that the decapitation was what killed him, for there was insufficient blood drained from the corpse for that, implying that he was already dead when beheaded. Had he been still alive, that chamber would have been a veritable charnel-house of gore. And if you will recall, he left the dinner table somewhat early, complaining of dyspepsy…”

  “True…”

  “Then there is the fact that his footprints, left in the sand leading up to the vault’s entrance, showed most decided evidence of a severe lack of co-ordination and possibly blurred vision into the bargain, though the latter can be somewhat difficult to tell from the former…”

  “You discerned his footprints in all that sand?”

  “You did not? Tch, Watson,” Holmes tsked, “you see, but you do not observe.”

  “Well, but what else?”

  “The eyes were open; it was patently obvious that the pupils were severely dilated, and mildly uneven as well.”

  “Mm, yes. I recollect that.”

  “There is also the puddle of stomach contents which was beside the stone slab, where he vomited, as well as evidence that he then fell, alongside the slab; and… did you happen to get close enough to notice the smell, Watson?”

  “Yes, but I took it to be the vom— ah. There was more, then? Soiled trousers, perhaps?”

  “Rather. It appeared his bowels had released. All taken together, I think we may proceed on the likelihood that he was poisoned.”

  “Well, well. As a medical man, presented with those symptoms, I must agree.”

  “More: his footprints were not alone, at least not along the ramp into the crypt.”

  “They weren’t?!”

  “No; he was followed, without doubt. And whoever followed him was undoubtedly the murderer, for no one but the murderer could have known what was happening. Only after Whitesell had expired of the toxin was he lifted to the top of the slab, his head removed from his shoulders, and the, ah, vegetable ‘adornments’ added, in the form of the various sprigs of foliage. And perhaps you remember one of the curses I translated from the outer lintel?”

  “I remember you did, and that they were horrid. I don’t recall them precisely, no.”

  “Then think about this and consider Professor Whitesell’s state, and who was first into both chambers,” Holmes said, then quoted, “‘…First bit by the haje-snake, to whom was given your head after it had been cut off. Even so shall you be if you breach what lies within.’”

  “Damnation! It is the curse, fulfilled! Poison, then decapitation!”

  “Precisely.”

  “But surely… I mean, the curse…”

  “Was enacted by a very human agency, Watson. So it should be no surprise that said human agency took the curse as inspiration… and subterfuge. What we must now determine are how, and with what,” Holmes explained. “Which will, in turn, lead us to who.”

  “I’ll have everything ready when you return, then,” Watson agreed. “Good hunting.”

  “Hurry back to the tent. Do not dawdle, and under no circumstances permit Leigh to leave. Stay safe.”

  And they parted ways.

  * * *

  Holmes was in luck: As Professor Whitesell had been the first to leave the table, his dishes and utensils had been the first collected, therefore were on the very bottom of the stack to be cleaned. He appropriated a large wicker basket and loaded everything in it that he could ascertain had held Whitesell’s food, including his wine goblet with a few dribbles of wine still in the bottom, and carted it all away.

  * * *

  Watson had just set up the last of Holmes’ chemical apparatus, and Leighton, lying on Watson’s camp cot, was only beginning to stir, showing evidence of coming around at last, when Holmes fairly staggered into the tent with the huge basket laden with soiled eating utensils.

  “For the first time,” Holmes panted, setting the basket down on his own cot, “I believe I may regret the good Professor’s preference for multi-course meals! I thought I should drop something before I got it here.”

  “Mmh. What’s all that?” Leighton wondered, sitting up despite Watson’s mild protestations.

  “The… remains of your father’s dinner, Leigh,” Holmes admitted. “I am sorry, my dear. I had hoped you might still be… sleeping.” The girl studied Holmes’ face, seeing the paleness that still lingered, as well as the lines of strain and grief the detective was still exerting effort to control. Then she seemed to slump inward on herself.

  “Oh,” Leighton replied, very subdued; she sighed, a weary, disconsolate sound, and her eyes filled with tears. “I… hoped, for a moment… I thought it might… all have been a, a nightmare.”

  “I fear not, my dear,” Watson said softly, placing a gentle, affectionate arm around her shoulders. “I only wish it were.”

  “B-but why,” she stammered, confusion in the emerald gaze, watching Holmes, “why are you…why do you have his d-dishes from dinner?”

  “To search for the poison,” Holmes admitted frankly, extracting each plate and utensil in turn and arranging them on all the available horizontal surfaces, in some semblance of an order. Watson, watching silently, decided that it had something to do with the sequence in which Holmes adjudged the likelihood of poisoning, and in which he must intend to test them.

  “Poison!” Leighton exclaimed in surprise. “But Da was— he was… his head, whoever it was… I mean… didn’t he…?” She could not bring herself to say the words, but she gazed at Holmes in distress.

  “Hush, Leigh,” Watson murmured. “Let ‘Sherry’ work. He and I discussed it earlier, while you were unconscious. And as a physician, I am in full agreement: your father’s actual death was surely caused by poisoning. And the only means of introducing it must have been in his food at dinner, for he showed no symptoms prior to that time, and grew ill quickly thereafter.”

  “Oh, thank God!” To both men’s surprise, Leighton sighed in what sounded like immense relief. Holmes spun, abandoning his sorting task, and both men scrutinised the girl. She stared at them blankly, blinking a few times, then seemed to understand their scrutiny, for she offered, “Oh. No, I… I mean, well, it is simply good to know that… that who-whoever did… it,” she paused, and apparently dredged up courage from a well deep within, “that Da was… already gone… when they c-cut off his…”

  “Ah,” Holmes said in understanding, nodding before he returned to his dish organisation. Watson, meanwhile, briefly pulled Leighton close, offering
a consoling hug, before easing his hold.

  “Yes, I think we can all agree to that,” he concurred. “Now, do you try to relax while I help Holmes.” Watson rose and moved to assist Holmes in extricating cups and forks from their wicker container, placing them where the detective pointed.

  “All right,” Leighton mumbled, and stood. Again, both men stopped what they were doing and turned.

  “Leigh—where are you going?” Holmes asked, tone sharp.

  “Back to my tent to rest, like John told me,” Leighton said, headed for the tent flap.

  “No, no, no,” Holmes said firmly, moving to intercept her. “It will not do. You must stay here. We must be able to protect you.”

  “But…” Leighton paused, and gazed up into Holmes’ grey eyes with an empty stare, “why?”

  “Because we do not know the reason they killed your father,” Holmes allowed, having gentled his tone as he took her elbow and guided her back to Watson’s cot. “Until we do, we may all be in grave danger.”

  Leighton’s knees gave way at that, and she sat on the cot with a plop.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Curse Walks

  —::—

  Holmes bent over his chemical apparatus in his shirtsleeves, waistcoat unbuttoned and necktie having been discarded altogether, sleeves rolled up, hard at work isolating the poison he had established from Professor Whitesell’s wineglass; the butt of his revolver protruded from the rear waistband of his trousers, right next his braces buttons. Behind him, a staunch Watson, indignant over the murder of Leighton’s father, stood guard at the door-flap with his own revolver, a loaded shotgun lying close at hand. Leighton Whitesell sat on the end of a cot in a corner of the tent, huddled in frightened, grieving misery, and trying hard not to cry. Her gaze shot from Holmes to Watson and back.

  “S-Sherry, listen: someone k-killed Da,” she finally broke the silence. The statement caught the attention of both men; it was the first thing she had said in several hours. “Viciously, cruelly. Without mercy. I have to know. Tell me: who was it, and why?” Her tone was no longer soft, but demanding; her gaze was hard, despite being tear-filled. It did not take a detective of half Holmes’ skill to realise she had processed the events of the evening and had passed from shock to anger.

  “That is precisely what I am attempting to ascertain, Leigh,” Holmes answered without looking up from his work. “I do not yet know, nor yet have I determined the specific means, nor the poison used. But until we know the who, and the why, and the how, we must keep you where we can protect you. It is very late—or early, rather; I have no doubt you would prefer to release your grief, anger, and fear alone in your tent. I am sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “NO!” Leighton exclaimed. “No, Sherry, I… I am very glad to be under your—and John’s—protection.”

  “We are very glad to do it,” Watson offered over his shoulder, gruff. “Now, that’s my cot you’re perched on, Leigh, and I’ll not be needing it for quite some few hours. I must guard Holmes’ back, while he works—and yours too, while I’m about it. It’s getting quite late—”

  “Yes, it is well past midnight now, fast approaching one in the morning,” Holmes interjected.

  “—Why don’t you lie back there and try to get some rest?” Watson shoved his revolver into his own trousers and turned toward the girl. “Here, let me get a blanket for you. It won’t do for you to catch a chill from the desert night air—it will be very cool soon, even within the tent.”

  “Yes, this tent catches the breeze coming down off the mountain, here, I’m afraid,” Holmes agreed, still focused on his analysis. “In the day, it is rather pleasant. At night, it can be very chilly.”

  “Though it is useful, to disperse the tobacco smoke,” Watson offered the bleak attempt at humour, and the girl gave him a wan smile as reward. A snort came from Holmes’ general vicinity, and that, on top of Watson’s wry observation, elicited a weak giggle from the girl. With that, Leighton settled into the army cot and allowed herself to be covered by Watson’s blanket, gently spread by his own hand.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, gazing up at him, vulnerable.

  “You are quite welcome, my dear,” Watson replied in a soft tone. “You just stay right there and sleep. I swear to you upon my honour, you are safe.”

  Holmes smiled fondly to himself, an absent expression, and continued work.

  * * *

  It was well into the wee sma’s, nearing dawn, when Holmes finally finished his chemical analysis. He sighed, then sat back and stretched. Without turning from his guard position, Watson said, “Well?”

  “Hush, my dear chap. Keep your voice down. Leigh is still asleep.”

  “Oh, sorry. Didn’t think.”

  Holmes tiptoed to Watson’s side, the better to murmur into his ear without being overheard.

  “Yes, I have it, Watson. It took a bit of doing, especially out here in the desert, but I would have it at last. There was extract of Viscum album—European mistletoe or devil’s fuge—in his drink last night at dinner. From what I can tell, it was almost certainly from the same source as the twig found in his mouth, though the latter was placed there post-mortem. The preliminary analysis, upon one or two leaves I found fallen by the Professor’s shoulder, confirmed the same chemicals in both, in the same quantity… though I probably should do a more rigorous analysis with a bigger sample. Likely the extract was made from the original, and larger, sprig, and the remainder used to put into the corpse’s mouth. Note, Watson, that it was the EUROPEAN species, not the African, Viscum cruciatum. Telling, that.”

  “Yes, it is. For an Egyptian would have used the local herb, surely. It would have been far easier to obtain than the European variety.”

  “Precisely. Well done, Watson; you are learning my methods. It eliminates the notion of superstitious obstruction by one or more of the diggers, and narrows our suspects to the leaders of the dig.”

  “Good Lord, Holmes. So they truly did kill him several times over.”

  “Whoever it was, yes,” Holmes agreed, nodding. “Just as we first postulated. Poison, then beheading, then poison again—which is a kind of murder in triplicate. Very Celtic, that. It was, for want of a better term, a ritualistic killing. And undoubtedly he was laid out as a warning to someone. The mistletoe in his mouth, the oak branch on his chest, the antique blade, which bears such a resemblance to the golden sickle of the Druids, all were placed there as a message to someone. Someone who would recognise that message. Who that someone is, remains in question.”

  “Might they also be after Leigh, do you think?”

  “I do not yet know, Watson. The data are insufficient, you understand. I shouldn’t think so, but it is possible. Some cultures visit ritualistic killings upon the family, as well as the intended victim. Consider La Cosa Nostra,58 the Sicilian Mafia; they have been known to use such a ritualistic modus operandi59 as we now postulate. Until we can ascertain the purpose of the murder, we simply cannot say for certain.”

  Watson shot a quick glance at the sleeping form in the cot before muttering, “Damnation.”

  “Exactly.” Holmes shifted his pistol from his back to his side, and extracted his pipe from his waistcoat pocket. “It is good, at least, to ascertain that the killer was not after one or both of us, on account of Leigh’s affections, and only got the dear old professor by mistake.”

  “That was an option?”

  “It was,” Holmes averred. “It had occurred to me… I suppose you noticed young Phillips’ extreme jealousy whenever one or the other of us was with the girl?”

  “Well, I did—it was hard to ignore, actually—but really, I thought little of the matter, Holmes. I presumed him to be enough of a gentleman to at least allow a young woman to make her own choice.” Watson paused. “At least after his multiple dressings-down for taking you on.”

  “A fair and just consideration, Watson, and one which proves you to be a gentleman yourself, but the heart has been known to rule the head in cr
imes of passion, on many more than one occasion,” Holmes pointed out. “What was it that Pascal said? ‘Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.’60 And I can tell you that, although the Professor gave him strictest instructions to apologise to me over that little affair, Phillips never did do so. And, judging by a few remarks the Professor let slip, possibly then lied to him about it.” Holmes shook his head, then sighed despite himself. “Go on to bed, old chap. You have been on alert for quite some few hours now, and I suspect I have a several-pipe problem before me. Take my bed, and get some rest. I expect Leigh will not object if you were to remove your waistcoat and shirt for the sake of comfort. And I will be here to observe the proprieties.”

  “Thank you, Holmes. But… are you certain? We can talk, if need be. I heard your sigh just now.”

  “Quite certain, John, my dear friend.”

  * * *

  Watson tucked his head slightly, deeply moved by Holmes’ use of his Christian name. It was the first time since they had met that the detective had been so familiar, or so affectionate, toward his friend.

  “It was grief, then… Sherlock?”

  “Yes, old fellow, I fear so. Yes, it was grief. I…” The detective sighed again, a world of pain in the sound. “I was fond of the old man, as much so as if he had been a cherished uncle. He was one of my favourite instructors when I was at Oxbridge. I shall miss him deeply. But that is neither here nor there right now; you need rest, John, and I need to think. Give me but a moment to light my pipe, and then you may put your revolver within easy reach, and retire.” Holmes waved a dismissive hand, and commenced packing and lighting his pipe while Watson was still available to provide defensive assistance should the need arise. Then he took the folding stool, placed it just outside the door flap, and settled in for what was left of the night.

  Within a few moments, the familiar sound of Watson’s soft snore emanated from the tent at his back.

  * * *

  After an uncomfortably silent breakfast the next morning, of which few actually partook, the digging did not resume. Holmes, Watson, and Leighton did not eat at all, and only drank water which Holmes himself fetched, fresh from the water butt, and then tested for poison and infection to ensure it was safe.