Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse (3 page)

“The entire caravan team is in this condition?”

His only answer was a nod of the head and another dry retch.

“Perhaps I may be able to help you…” Holmes offered.

“Perhaps I m-may ta-ake you up… up on it,” Watson panted.

Holmes sat silently and watched his friend until Watson settled and slumped against the side of his cot, sitting on the tarpaulin floor. Then the detective rose and moved to Watson’s side.

“Here, Watson,” he murmured, “let me help you lie back down for a few minutes, while the paregoric takes effect.”

“I… I’ll be fine, Holmes,” Watson protested weakly. “YOU need to lie down and let the paregoric take effect, else you’ll be in the same shape.”

“And I shall… right after I get you back into your bed.”

The sleuth would not be dissuaded, and soon Watson was lying quietly in his army cot as relief washed his features. Holmes nodded in satisfaction, then betook himself back to his own cot to lie back down, glad to do so as another gut cramp hit.

But within minutes, Watson was dozing lightly, and Holmes felt his belly relax as the paregoric, so close akin to morphine, took effect. He smiled to himself and drowsed, vaguely aware when Watson roused himself a few minutes later, took the bottle of paregoric and the dosing cup, and left the tent.

* * *

After a bit, Holmes was able to gain control of his responses to the drug and rose, finding himself relieved from the previously impending intestinal issues. Having slept in his trousers and vest, he rose, donned his stockings and shoes—after first checking them for scorpions and other such unpleasant creatures—and went to the small washbasin in the corner of the tent. There he freshened himself somewhat before putting on his shirt, shrugging into his braces, and donning his waistcoat. Then he went out in search of Watson.

Holmes found him at Omar’s tent; all of the caravaneers, in various stages of disability, lay on pallets nearby, shaded by tarpaulins stretched overhead. Watson sat slumped on a suitably-sized rock close at hand, pale and worn, but functioning. He looked up at Holmes with a wry, weak excuse for a smile.

“I got a dose of paregoric into everyone,” he said, “including Omar’s son, just in case; the lad was the only one of the lot of us who hadn’t got ill, I think because he ate left-overs from the previous night. I scrubbed out the dose cup with sand and water in between each of my patients. It is hardly my preferred cleansing method, but it will have to do in the circumstances. Omar has been extremely apologetic, and swears that he will have his wife clean their kitchen upon his return, upon pain of a beating or some such, though I don’t think he’s actually serious about THAT. He seems very devoted to his wife. He is quite upset, however.”

“Is he in his tent?”

“Yes.”

“Awake?”

“The last I checked.”

“May I speak to him?”

Watson nodded. “Just don’t get him stirred up or he might start vomiting again.”

“Of course,” Holmes agreed, and stepped inside.

* * *

As soon as Holmes entered the tent, he saw Omar lying on a pallet, his son sitting beside him and watching over him. Omar’s eyes glittered in the dim light of a tiny lantern, and he fixed his gaze on the sleuth.

“Holmes, my friend,” Omar murmured. “I am glad to see you on your feet. My most fervent apologies. I shall have strong words with my wife when we return. I swear to you, by the beards of my fathers, that this has never happened before.”

“I believe you, and I think your wife is not to blame, old friend,” Holmes told the caravaneer in an understanding tone, utilising that unique way he had about him to soothe. He moved to the side of Omar’s pallet, opposite the man’s son, and crouched. “Do not treat her unjustly. Save your words for another time, another place, and another person.”

“What do you mean? Khalil, your father thirsts. Fetch my water bag.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I mean, Omar, that I have reason to believe that there is a delaying tactic going on, with its intent being to discourage Watson and myself from proceeding to Professor Whitesell’s dig site.”

“What? Holmes?” Watson said, coming into the tent to see to his patient. “Why would you think that?”

“Because, my dear Watson, this is not the first attempt.”

Khalil brought the water bag to his father, and helped him take several sips. Refreshed, Omar pushed up to one elbow.

“Say on, my friend,” he told Holmes, waving a weak hand. “Tell us what is happening.”

“I do not know as yet,” Holmes said, shaking his head. “But the letter of invitation from Whitesell to myself was delayed by close to a fortnight, and for no reason that I could discern. There were… problems… with our tickets for the Channel crossing; in France, our baggage was nearly shipped off to the Baltic Sea—”

“But that was a simple error,” Watson protested.

“No, it was not.” Holmes shook his head even more vehemently. “You did not see the orders in the porter’s hand.”

“Nor did you.”

“On the contrary. Though he tried to hide it—a suspicious gesture in itself—I was able to get a very clear reflection in the polished brass railcar plaque behind him. And it very plainly noted that OUR trunks, Watson—yours and mine—were to be redirected to Danzig, while you and I took the mail route. It was no accident. And now this,” he pointed out.

“Damnation!” Watson exclaimed. “We’re being crabbed,
13
as young Wiggins would say.”

“Indeed, something like,” Holmes agreed.

“
Mish maquul
!”
14
Omar cried.

* * *

Holmes helped Watson tend the sick caravaneers the rest of that night and on into the next morning. The men were weak, and in need of some sustenance, but after Holmes’ revelation, it was agreed that it was not worth risking consuming more of their potentially-contaminated foodstuffs until they got to their destination in Qina, and could get fresh supplies. Holmes considered this plan with all due diligence, eventually concluding that whoever was attempting to dissuade their further travels was unlikely to know from whence they would purchase fresh food in Qina, and thus untainted food could truly be obtained. Then he unpacked some of his scientific equipment and ascertained that the water they carried was indeed safe to drink, and this provided the refreshing they needed to rest and recover.

“Do you suppose we could try to make Qina to-night?” Watson wondered, as they sat in Omar’s tent and discussed the situation with that worthy. “And, once there, should we go on, or go home?”

“Go on, by all means,” Holmes declared, firm and not a little angered. “Aside from the fact that no miscreant has ever, nor will ever, make me cow, I will not waste the efforts of Omar and his companions. For this attempt certainly targeted them as well.”

“True,” Omar agreed, “and we thank you, friend Holmes, friend Watson. Know that the both of you will always have a cup of cool water, and the sanctuary of my tent, when you are in Egypt.”

Holmes sketched a half-bow; a weaker Watson simply nodded in appreciation.

“For this, I thank you, old friend,” Holmes replied, voice soft. “If ever I may be of service, you have but to ask. Do you think you and your men will be able to depart to-night?”

“Yes, we will see you safely to Qina while the stars are yet out and the moon is high.”

* * *

They did, though it was well past midnight when they arrived, and the moon not quite so high; their small caravan had not packed and departed camp until sunset was very near, for they were still too weak to risk departure in the daytime heat. The camels plodded around the edge of the town in the dark, Omar leading them unerringly through the back streets of Qina.

“Where are we going, Holmes?” Watson asked.

“I have it to understand there is a small hostelry awaiting us not too far off the river, Watson. It will have proper beds, though I cannot speak for the coolness of the rooms. Nevertheless, most such about here are composed of thick clay masonry, which resists even the heat of the day, so perhaps it may be comfortable, especially so near the Nile. And there should be food, safe food. Omar will see to that. You may not be able to tell, but I can: he is quite angry at whoever did this. So, too, are his handlers. I think we may safely conclude that the contamination was done by an outside party, back in Safaga. And I pity them, should Omar and his company ever find them out.”

A curious Watson twisted and turned to look about him in the moonlight; there were no street lamps, at least in the region of the village where they were. Off to one side could just be seen the minarets of the mosque, black silhouettes against a deep cerulean blue sky, spangled with stars.

“There is considerable stonework. Most of the buildings seem to be stone or stucco. A bit of brickwork, but it seems crude.”

“Indeed. That is the, mm, the most convenient, building material here.”

“Precious few trees in a desert, I suppose. And what are there, are probably better used for other things than building timbers,” Watson decided. The front of the small caravan stopped before a two-storey stucco building. A small sign hung over the front entrance.

“Quite. Ah, here we are,
An Alenwem Alejyed Leylaan
.
15
That sounds promising.” Holmes nodded at the sign

“You read—and speak—Arabic?”

“Of course. Do you not?”

“A bit. I’m hardly fluent, but I can get by in an emergency. And you?”

“When I was here before with Professor Whitesell, it was essential. At that time I was his assistant, trusted with probably half the logistics, and a great deal of the linguistics; I could not have got about without at least a fundamental knowledge of the language. I would not claim to be a scholar, but I did well enough. It has been a few years, but it swiftly came back to me in Safaga.”

“He speaks fluent Arabic, he reads Arabic as well as he speaks it, he rides camels as if born to it,” Watson grumbled under his breath. “In addition to being the best damn jack
16
in all of London; London just doesn’t know it yet. I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. His memory is a bloody steel trap. I’m the confounded nickey
17
about these parts.” Unseen by him, grey eyes cut to his face, studying it briefly in the dim light, then returned to the sign over the hostelry door.

“I expect we could both use a sound night’s sleep, after the last few evenings,” Holmes continued, as though he had never heard his companion. “Watson…”

“Yes, Holmes?”

“Our discussion this morning, in Omar’s tent…”

“Yes?”

“Would you feel safer going home to Baker Street? If you would prefer, I can make arrangements in the morning to send you down the Nile to a steamer ship in Alexandria. You could be home in a fortnight, if not sooner.”

“You intend to go on?”

“I do.”

“Then I will most certainly accompany you,” Watson said stoutly.

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely positive.”

“Very well, then; it be on your own head,” Holmes said, only half-whimsically. “This is likely to be the last sleep in a proper bed that we shall have for some months, Watson; enjoy it.”

“I fully intend to, old chap,” Watson offered cheerfully, as a handler coaxed their mounts to kneel. Swinging his bad leg awkwardly around the camel’s hump, the physician eased himself gingerly to the ground. “Ahh,” he murmured, stretching, “much better. Oop!” He staggered briefly, and the alert camel handler grabbed his shoulders, steadying him before he could fall.

“Are you well, Watson?” Holmes murmured with solicitude, dismounting his own camel with his usual grace and coming to his friend’s side. “Are your wounds troubling you? The journey hasn’t made matters worse, has it?”

“No, no, Holmes, I’m quite all right,” Watson brushed off Holmes’ concern with a slight smile. “My bad knee is just a trifle stiff, is all, and I’m afraid it failed to entirely straighten out just now. I’ll flex it a bit once we alight in our rooms, maybe rub it with liniment, and it will be as right as rain in the morning. It was only that second day I was in pain.”

“Ah yes. The first day, one is getting used to it. The second day is the one which hurts!”

“Exactly!”

And, chuckling, the two men entered the hostelry to be led to their beds.

* * *

After a substantial, relatively easily-digestible breakfast of
fuul
18
and hard-boiled egg stuffed in pita, all washed down with that same syrupy-sweet coffee which could be found throughout the country, they departed the quay at Qina, headed up the Nile on the steam launch
Akhenaten
, midmorning of the next day. Their rooms had been comfortably cool, the beds of softest goose down, and even Watson had to admit there were no kinks remaining in his anatomy as he boarded the steam launch.

“I say, Holmes, this is quite pleasant,” he noted from his seat at the rail when once they were well under way.

“It is, Watson,” Holmes said, standing next to him at the rail and pensively looking out westward. “And it’s about time! The breeze is deliciously cool and damp off the water, and the canvas over the launch provides welcome shade against that deucedly hot Egyptian sun! Whenever I am here, I have no doubt why the pharaohs worshipped the sun, for surely the sun controls everything hereabouts!”

“Ha! Excellent point, old man! Listen, do you suppose the captain would mind if I smoked?”

“I shouldn’t think so, but perhaps you ought to ask him first.”

“Er, I rather ascertained, while we were boarding, that he only spoke Arabic.”

Holmes hesitated, then spun and sat on the railing bench beside Watson.

“Old chap, are you requesting of me to ask him FOR you?”

“You’re the fluent linguist in this region, not I.” Watson shrugged.

“Watson…” Holmes paused, mentally debating his phrasing. “It has not escaped my attention that you seem to feel… inadequate, in this environment, especially as regards my experience in it. Perhaps this is the way to start…?” Watson let out a soft, rueful chuckle, then leaned toward his friend, dropping his voice.