Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse (21 page)

“Is there anything I can do to help ease your back? How much longer do you have to go, do you think?”

“Oh, I am finished.” He stood and stretched.

“You have it, Holmes? The translation?”

“I do. At least the entryway text. It will take a good deal longer to copy down and translate the extensive inscriptions of the anteroom.”

“What does it say, then?”

“It appears to be a variant on the ancient Book of the Dead, which is believed to have been collected and come into common use in ancient Egypt during the so-called New Kingdom, though many parts of it are far, far older. Much, I suppose, as we would use a modern hymnal, which is a collection of works of varying ages. This could be one of the original sources for the text. And as I said when it was discovered, it consists of numerous curses to the effect of, ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,’” Holmes noted. “Here is one example.” He picked up his note-book and read,

“Get back, you crocodile of the North! The haje-snake
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is in my belly, and I have not given myself to you, but you to me! So your flame shall never be upon me! Enter here and die, oh you crocodile of the North!”

“What is an haje-snake?” Watson wondered.

“I cannot be completely certain, but it is most likely an Egyptian cobra; it is not an asp that I can tell, judging from the context of some of the other inscriptions, for there are symbolic references that seem to point to the hood of a cobra in a few,” Holmes noted, somewhat abstracted as he studied his rendering of the lintel inscription. “It is not an uncommon term in the Book of the Dead, but scholars have not decided upon its exact meaning there, as yet, either. Here is another curse, even more ominous.

“Thou art a flame, the son of a flame, 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. But the head of Osiris shall not be taken from him, and my head shall not be taken from me.”

“Good Lord, Holmes!”

“Indeed, Watson. But not Osiris.”

“Wh-what? Osiris? What—”

“Oh, that was intended to be a joke,” Holmes said, glancing up with a rueful grin. “The expression ‘Good Lord’ standardly references the Judeo-Christian God Jehovah, not Osiris… never mind. Listen to this:

“Go back! Retreat! Get back, you dangerous one! Do not come against me, do not live by your magic; may I never have to tell this deed of yours to the Great God! The crocodile speaks: ‘The sky encloses the stars, magic encloses their settlements, and my mouth encloses the magic which is within it. My teeth are a knife, my tusks are the Cobra Mountain. Woe to all who enter here!’”

Watson blanched.

“Is… is that the name of the mountain the tomb was in?” he asked.

“It would appear that is how the ancient Egyptians knew it, yes.”

“And we marched right in, every last blessed one of us,” he whispered. “What does it mean, Holmes?”

“It means, my dear fellow,” Holmes said in wry whimsy, the corner of his lips quirked, “that whoever put that stone slab inside didn’t want anyone bothering it.”

* * *

“I am afraid I simply don’t recognise it, Will,” Nichols-Woodall told Whitesell the next morning after breakfast, as they all sat talking over the remnants of that meal. Watson had already long since headed for the hospital, earlier than regular surgical hours; there were a few minor patients to care for, though nothing serious, he had assured Whitesell. Leighton opted to go with him to help out, and she left on his arm, as Phillips glared daggers at their retreating backs. “I’ve never seen a stone like that before in my life, though from the crystalline structure I might take it as being perhaps a granite or a gabbro, depending upon its chemistry.”

“But you’re the geological expert here, Parker,” Whitesell protested. “Surely you know what it is, and where it came from. As large as it is, it cannot possibly have been transported far.”

Nichols-Woodall spread his hands in frustration.

“Any ideas, Thomas?” Whitesell tried.

“I am the archaeologist, like you,
mon ami
,” came the reply. “I am no expert with the stones, as is our friend Parker, here. If he does not recognise it, who am I to say otherwise?”

“Holmes?” Whitesell queried then. “You’re not a geologist,
per se
,
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but Dr. Watson’s stories indicate you have a wealth of knowledge on the subject, nonetheless…”

Holmes bit his lip, thinking; finally he shook his head.

“I recognise it,” Lord Trenthume remarked. “I just wish I could recall where I’ve seen it before.”

“No offense, Cortland, old fellow,” Nichols-Woodall pointed out, “but that isn’t much help.”

“I know,” Cortland complained. “I’ve racked my brains, trying to remember. But I just can’t bring it to the front.”

“Perhaps,” Holmes suggested, “a divertissement is in order, milord.”

“What did you have in mind?” Cortland wondered, raising an intrigued eyebrow.

“Whenever there is ‘something sitting right under my nose,’ as Watson likes to put it, and I know it is there but cannot pull it to the fore, I do something—anything—to take my mind OFF it,” Holmes explained. “I play my violin. We decamp for a concert or an opera. Read a book. Go for a walk. Do whatever suits your fancy and your resources out here in the desert; but make sure it will take your conscious mind completely off the subject at hand. This allows for the subconscious to do its work and identify the pertinent fact for you. For that matter, we might as well all do. It is almost time for luncheon as it is, and I note that the wait staff are becoming anxious to clear the table and prepare it for that meal in any event, so we should probably all escape for a bit of recreation, or work, of some sort.”

“But if any of you go for a stroll, and especially the Earl,” Phillips interjected, “in the name of all that is holy, milord, take your revolver with you. I never saw the lot of cobras in the area! They seem to have fairly come out of the woodwork in the last two days. I saw three this morning, just while I was, ah, well, emptying the jordan
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into the trench in the brake.”
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He flushed.

“There is likely an underground stream flowing down from the mountains around which they have nested, and our dig has disturbed their dens,” Whitesell said, serene. “Cobras are, for the most part, placid creatures, else the Hindi would not be able to so easily tame them. Pay attention to your surroundings, take your revolvers as Landers recommends, and you will be fine.”

“But it is a recommendation that we would all do well to heed,” Nichols-Woodall pointed out.

“True, true,” Beaumont agreed. “Whitesell, you are more the expert of Egyptology: is it not so that the cobras may be using nearby tombs as dens and nests? Might not they lead us to the tombs?”

“Well, it is certainly possible, I suppose,” Whitesell decided. “They may have found small natural crevices in the stone, even down into the rooms. I have heard of it happening. But even if they have not, their lairs will certainly be in amongst the rocks and stones, and the vibrations produced by our picks and spades will have agitated them.”

“Then Phillips is indeed correct, and we should all take heed,” Holmes averred. “Lord Trenthume, do you betake yourself off for whatever diversion best suits you—but be sure to carry a loaded revolver. I think my time may best serve by transcribing the engraving within the antechamber, for later translation.”

“Well done, Holmes,” Whitesell said, pleased. “Now let us all return to our tents and load our pistols.”

“And I shall contact some of my colleagues and see if I cannot identify this blasted blue stone,” Nichols-Woodall declared. “Will, would you object if I took a small sample of the slab, for identification purposes?

“You want to whack it with that bloody damn hammer of yours?!” Whitesell said in horror. “Knock a chunk off it? Certainly not, Parker! We don’t know what this thing is, or what kind of importance it had, or may have. And there are aesthetics to consider!”

“But, Will, if I am to identify it…”

“No, Parker. I’ll not hear of it. There’s an end of the matter.”

“All right, Will, but you do make it damnably hard to do my blasted job,” Nichols-Woodall complained. “Phillips, would you have someone bring the dog-cart around? I need to run into town and send some telegraphs…”

“Certainly, sir,” Phillips agreed.

* * *

Watson was, with the assistance of the assigned nursing staff, attempting to teach a willing Leighton Whitesell some of the finer points of nursing, specifically the proper administration of hypodermic syringe injections, when a loud male scream rent the air from somewhere across the camp, though it sounded to be relatively nearby to Watson’s experienced ear. The entire hospital staff froze in shock, and within moments, a babel of voices outside rushed toward the infirmary. Over the babel, he heard Udail calling his name.

“Dr. Watson! DR. WATSON! Help us!”

Watson dropped what he was doing and rushed to the door of the hospital tent, just in time to meet Udail at the head of a yammering, agitated procession of men. In their midst, one of the diggers, pale even through the sweat and dirt that coated his face, lay on a cobbled-together stretcher made of several spade handles lashed together with sashes and scarves, being carried by the others. His expression was contorted in pain; his knee was drawn up, and he clutched his calf, rocking back and forth and groaning.

“What happened?” Watson demanded of Udail.

“Snake,” Udail said simply. “Cobra.”

“It bit him?!” Watson cried, motioning the jabbering, upset gaggle of men to put his newest patient on the nearest empty bed.

“Yes, Doctor, there on the leg, where he is holding. He was, ah, relieving himself, and did not see it in time.”

“What is his name, and can he speak English?” Watson directed the question at Udail, while turning to his staff and firing off orders. “Leigh, fetch the alcohol and some clean cloths. Sati, I need the tourniquets and some gauze bandaging. Alimah, do you find the scalpels and the cups. Wahbiyah, the topical cocaine. Hurry.”

“His name is Salah, Sayyid
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Doctor, and yes, he speaks English,” Udail responded, as Watson’s medical staff broke into a coordinated flurry of activity—except for Leighton, who responded quickly, but was a little more flustered than the others. The workers sat the makeshift stretcher holding the injured man down atop the nearest cot, sliding out the spades, then stepped back. “Out with you!” Udail told them. “Sayyid Doctor Watson will tend Salah, and he needs room to work! He cannot work well with you leaning over him at his elbows!” The men cleared out, and Udail crouched beside the stricken man. “All will be well, Salah, do not fear. Dr. Watson is a good man, a good doctor. He will take the best care of you. Sayyid Doctor,” Udail said, “this man is my cousin. I know a bit of medicine, so I understand…”

“Was that him screaming a few moments ago?” Watson asked, as Leighton set up a table for the instruments beside the patient, and the others placed the sterile implements he had requested upon it. Leighton then returned with a tray containing a basin, pitcher of water, clean towel, and soap, and Watson thoroughly washed his hands before she took it away again.

“It was,” Udail averred. “He was just outside the camp.”

“Good,” Watson declared, seating himself on the stool Sati placed for him by the bedside. “The quicker he gets medical attention after being bitten, the better the prognosis.” He nodded at Udail. “I will do my best, my friend. Was it a deep, hard bite?”

“It was deep enough,” Udail decided. “I cannot say how hard.”

“Hard,” Salah affirmed, the first coherent word he had spoken.

“Salah, khalil,
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try to relax. The good Dr. Watson knows what he is doing. I will wait just outside, and you have only to call to me.”

Salah nodded, grunting in pain, and Udail bowed and left the tent, but Watson could see him hovering just outside the opening. The cacophony of voices outside quieted immediately, however.

“Salah,” he said to his patient, “I do not wish to offend, but I need to see the limb where you were bitten.”

With little hesitation, Salah hitched up his garment to just below his knee. The leg had already started to swell and discolour rather badly, and the two puncture wounds were obvious on the outside of the lower calf, oozing blood. Leighton emitted a gasping sound that Watson absently suspected was a stifled scream, then was silent.
Good girl,
he thought in abstraction, focussing most of his attention on his patient.
It isn’t pretty, but such things never are. If you can stomach this, you will indeed make a fine nurse.

“Mm,” Watson hummed, studying the wound with swift precision. “Sati, my friend, can you remove the sandal on this foot without showing his sole?”

“I can, Doctor.”

“Do so. I’m worried of the foot losing circulation from the sandal straps if it swells much more. Let me see the tourniquet…” he said as Sati began work on the sandal straps. Within moments the tourniquet was skilfully tied just below Salah’s knee, its tightness carefully checked, and Watson looked up. “Leigh, let me see the soap and water again. I need to remove some of the dust and dirt from the area of the bite, before I proceed further.”

With Leighton’s help, Watson quickly cleaned the worst of the sweaty dirt from several square inches of the skin around Salah’s injury, then swabbed it with alcohol to sterilise it. Salah hissed loudly, then let out a stream of curses in Arabic. By this time Sati had the sandal off, and Salah’s feet draped with a sheet to avoid unintentional insult to the other Muslims in the room.

“I am sorry, Salah,” Watson murmured, examining the wound with care. “Alcohol does burn like fury, I know. My friend Holmes has told me so, often enough! Let me do something about that, because what I have to do next will hurt a lot worse, otherwise.” He picked up a swab and the bottle containing the topical cocaine solution, dipping the swab into the liquid before slathering the area of the bite with the drug-saturated swab, making sure that the solution also dribbled into the two fang marks. Within seconds, Salah eased, relaxing into the bed. Watson nodded to himself, disposing of the swab with care, then reached for the scalpel. Seconds later, two cross-shaped incisions had been made, one in each fang mark, and Watson turned to Alimah, who had the small glass cups waiting, a little tuft of absorbent cotton wool in the bottom of each one. Watson took the first; Alimah picked up one of the long medical swabs and struck a match, lighting the cotton wool on the tip of the swab, then shaking it through the air to extinguish it. She held it still for Watson to hold the cup upside-down over it, then Watson quickly placed the warm cup over one of the incised bite marks. Seconds later, he and Alimah had repeated the process, placing the second cup over the other fang wound.