Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse (31 page)

“No!”

“Indeed.”

“Udail, what of my nurse Alimah?” Watson asked then, concerned. “She was tending Beaumont in the hospital tent…”

“I am sorry to say, she is dead also, Doctor,” Udail replied morosely. “We found a knife in her chest, where she lay on the surgery floor. Dr. Beaumont must have killed her in order to try to capture you. Her death cry was the first inkling we had that something was wrong.”

“Damnation,” Watson cursed bitterly. “I had great respect and liking for her. She was an excellent nurse and an exceptional woman.”

The men on both sides of the chasm were silent for long moments, out of respect to the dead nurse. Finally Udail turned to the others.

“We must get them out. Fetch the longest ladder we have,” he ordered.

* * *

It was not a particularly pleasant experience, especially having seen the fate that awaited them should they slip, but once Udail and his comrades succeeded in finding a ladder long enough to anchor across the opening, first Watson, and then Holmes, managed to crawl across the chasm and exit the crypt. Holmes promptly ordered the outer door closed and latched, and the sticks of dynamite carefully removed.

“For it would not do for someone to accidentally fall in,” he said. “There is no return from that pit, as Watson and I have seen. Nor is blowing up the mountainside a wise plan, in my opinion. For if one man falling into the cobra temple angered them, what might that do?!”

Then they made their slow, weary way to the tent of the geologist, where the remaining scientists of the expedition team—and the expedition leader’s daughter—awaited news.

* * *

Nichols-Woodall took one look at the two ashen-faced men and opened his tantalus, pouring them both stiff shots of brandy. Without hesitation, they both knocked the drinks back, then took the extra camp chairs that the geologist hurried to bring from Professor Whitesell’s tent nearby. The others sat quietly, watching, until Holmes and Watson could regain a measure of composure. Finally Leighton leaned forward and laid a hand firmly upon Holmes’, squeezing gently.

“Who killed my father?” she demanded.

“Beaumont,” Holmes replied, succinct. “He is dead.”

“What?!” Phillips gasped.

“It is true,” Watson vouched.

“Tell us everything,” Nichols-Woodall said.

* * *

It took the rest of what was left of the night. Watson noted that Holmes omitted most of the details about the supposed scroll and Atlantis, merely alluding to Beaumont’s wild hallucinations, fever dreams, and nonsensical babblings about ancient civilisations. Then he urged Watson to explain the malarial infection of Beaumont’s brain. Finally, as the sun was rising over the Nile in the distance, Holmes told of Udail’s improvised scaffolding which had enabled their escape from what had earlier promised to be their tomb. Leighton paled and gasped.

“He nearly took the both of you with Da,” she whispered. “How… horrible!”

“But he did not, Leigh,” Watson soothed. “We are here, and we are safe, and the man who killed your father over some crackpot notion is the one who died a horrible death, in the end.”

“And now, if you do not mind,” Holmes murmured, “I think Watson and I have rather earned a rest.”

“I should say so, old boy,” Nichols-Woodall agreed, rising and offering Holmes a strong hand to stand. “More than, I’d think. I’ll lay odds you’ve hardly slept since you found the Professor.”

“And you would be correct,” Watson averred. “I slept for a couple of hours… was it yesterday in the wee sma’s? And I don’t think Holmes has slept at all.”

“Then by all means, rest now,” Nichols-Woodall recommended.

“Absolutely,” Phillips concurred. “Leigh is safe here with us, I swear. Why don’t the two of you go back to your tent and get some sleep? We’ll have someone bring you a tray of food in a bit; the breakfast gong should ring any minute now. You can eat, then collapse.”

“A capital plan,” Holmes said, rising. “Come, Watson.”

They went.

* * *

After a largish breakfast, which Nichols-Woodall sent to their tent on a tray, the pair retired to their camp cots and slept the deep sleep of the just. They missed luncheon entirely, but Watson woke from a nightmare, in which cobras featured heavily, shortly before tea-time.

Leaving Holmes sleeping soundly, Watson freshened up and dressed properly, then slipped out of the tent and made for the mess tent, having decided that his belly could stand a bit more in it. Leighton was sitting at the table, a teacup in hand, a tea tray at her elbow, and a plate of dainties before her. On either side sat Phillips and Nichols-Woodall, still dutifully watching over her, vigilant body-guards. At a meaningful glance from her, they rose, nodding affably to Watson, then stepped just outside the awning. Leighton patted the seat that Nichols-Woodall had just vacated, and he sat down. Immediately she began preparing him a cup of tea, as he took a plate and started helping himself to the fruit, tea sandwiches, and biscuits.

When his hunger had been sated, he smiled at his companion.

“Thank you, Leigh,” he said. “I was surprisingly hungry when I awoke, given how much food you sent over to our tent this morning.”

“I knew you would be,” she said, sanguine, nodding. “Stressful events tend to increase the appetite, Da… used to say.”

They paused. Watson studied Leighton’s face, deciding it looked pinched and pale. She cast him a sorrowful glance, and he averted his gaze, not knowing what to say.

Finally she continued, “Did you sleep well, John?”

“Reasonably so,” he admitted, rueful, “if dreams full of cobras can be said to permit sound sleep.”

“Ew,” she murmured, wincing. “Yes. It was dreadful, wasn’t it?”

“I have seen worse, I suppose. But… yes, it was dreadful.” He reached out and took her hand in his. To his surprise, she withdrew it gently.

“Leigh?”

“John, we… need to talk,” she confessed.

“What is wrong?”

“This has been… all too much,” she said, shaking her head with a weary, disconsolate sigh. “First Da, then Dr. Beaumont—though he received his comeuppance, I must say—and… John, he killed… Alimah is dead. Dear, sweet Alimah. Did you know?”

“Yes,” Watson said, deeply regretful. “Udail told me, last night, when I asked after her. I was afraid, when Beaumont turned up in the vault, that, well, you know…” he broke off, then finally added, “…and it seems that fear was justified.”

“I cannot… it is all too much,” Leighton reiterated, visage forlorn. “I cannot face it, dear, dear John. Not yet.” She paused, drew a deep breath. “Nor can I face you, nor Sherry. I… am sorry; in time, my feelings may change. I sincerely hope they do, for you are both dear to me. But for now, you both cause me to… to recall too much. Sometimes I think I shall never be able to erase the memory of Da’s body lying there, with his head… dear Lord forgive me, his head… with his eyes staring so blankly…” She rose abruptly and took several deliberate steps away, then turned, face paler than ever. “I must leave here, John. I must get away. I must go home, where I can… begin to forget… all I have seen. And I must ask you not to come to visit me for some time to come. You… I love you both deeply, you and Sherry, but it will be many months, possibly years, before I can see either of you and not immediately think of, of what we… of finding Da, in the, the tomb…”

“I… see,” Watson murmured, dismayed. “What will you do?”

“I talked it all over last night with Uncle Parker and Landers—mostly Uncle Parker, because he wouldn’t let Landers say much,” Leighton revealed. “While you and Sherry were… nearly getting killed, I suppose. I am so very glad you are both safe! But, but, they have offered to escort me back to London, and I have accepted. We will depart as soon as we can get all of Da’s things packed. If Udail is willing to send Da’s stuff on, we may depart even sooner. Under the circumstances, I should like to be home in time for the holidays. If I could leave this very instant, I would.”

“What of Holmes? Do you need me to convey this message to him?”

“No, no, I… I will tell him later, when he is up and about,” Leighton said, straightening with determination, then she gave a wry chuckle. “Somehow, I suspect he may actually be glad to see the back of me.”

“I think you might be surprised, Leigh,” Watson said, swallowing his hurt and disappointment. “But… do try to stay in touch, won’t you? At the least, drop a letter in the post from time to time. And if you should ever need—or want—me back in your life…”

“I will, John,” Leighton murmured. “But… too much has happened. I hope you understand.”

“I do,” Watson conceded with a doleful sigh. “I could easily wish I did not. I had hoped for more out of our relationship, Leigh.”

“I know, John. I did, too. But I fear it was not to be.”

She left the tent, where Phillips and Nichols-Woodall fell into step on either side of her, dutiful guardians, and Watson was left staring into the bottom of his empty teacup.

* * *

Late that evening, before sunset, Watson saw Leighton approach Holmes as he left the mess tent, and say something to the detective. Holmes nodded, and followed her away from the camp, chatting with her.

Some half an hour later they returned. There were tear stains on Leighton’s face, and Holmes’ expression was closed, giving nothing away. But by now Watson knew his friend well enough to see the pain hidden deep in the grey eyes, and he nodded to himself.

“There’s an end of it, then,” he murmured, and joined Holmes as Leighton departed.

* * *

Two days later, Leighton Whitesell left the expedition camp in company of Landers Phillips and Dr. Parker Nichols-Woodall. Michael McMillan Cortland, Earl of Trenthume, chose to accompany them, as well.

Holmes decided to stay for a few more days, issuing final orders and seeing to the equipment and payrolls. Then he and Watson packed their things as the campsite was dismantled around them. Udail helped them load their trunks, and he personally drove the baggage cart, while Holmes drove the dog-cart down to the village, where they hired a steam launch to carry them down the Nile to Cairo.

CHAPTER FINAL

Confederations and Councils

—::—

“Well, that is that, Watson,” Holmes sighed. It was a melancholy sound.

The pair sat in a small, cool upper room in the
Zhalam Al-Qamar
66
Inn in Cairo; the screened windows were open to the refreshing evening breeze off the Nile, gauze curtains billowing gently. They had gone across the street to a food stall earlier, for a delicious, exotic, and filling meal of
koshary
,
67
and now relaxed with their pipes.

“I am sorry, Holmes.”

“So am I. I shall miss Professor Whitesell, but there it is. And in the end, he failed in his quest to find the first Pharaoh. That, in itself… pains me.”

“Will Miss Leighton… Whites-…” Watson broke off, tried again, “will Leigh be all right, do you suppose?”

“I’ve no doubt. The Professor left everything to her, you know, and it has been a prosperous family for generations, so she is quite well off now. That young lady has the wit of her father and the passion of her mother. In all likelihood Phillips will find himself with a handful for a wife, I should think. In about a year’s time, look for wedding invitations in the post, I expect.”

“But Holmes! He is beneath her,” Watson protested. “His behaviour leaves considerable to be desired!”

“Oh, Leigh will take care of that in a very short time, I am sure. The lady is EXTREMELY determined, as you may have noticed.”

It was Watson’s turn to sigh. Holmes cast him a sympathetic glance.

“Watson, as much as I care for Leigh, I think you likely got the better end of that deal,” he offered. “She was a veritable ball of fire as a child, and is just as headstrong as an adult. I cannot think that she would have been happy to have a husband with the freedom to which YOU are accustomed.”

“You are probably right, Holmes. But I should have liked more of an opportunity to find out for myself.”

“No doubt, old chap. I am sorry—on many levels.”

“So am I.”

They sat for a time in silence, puffing upon their pipes, thoughtful. At last Holmes laid his spent pipe aside and stood, hefting his satchel from the floor and placing it upon his bed.

“Now, pack the rest of your things, my dear fellow. The boat train to Alexandria leaves early on the morrow. Thankfully, our trunks are already upon it, with no misdirection, and I shall be glad to see Baker Street once more.”

* * *

The trip home proved far less eventful than the trip out had been. There were no cases of tainted food, no misrouted baggage, no problems with ticketing. In good time, they found their carriage pulling up in Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson emerged to welcome them home to a holiday-festive flat, as the driver unloaded their trunks, enlisting the boots to help him carry them upstairs.

* * *

After Watson went to bed, Holmes extracted the leather cylinder containing the strange parchment from the secret compartment of his trunk and examined it carefully.

“Interesting,” he murmured to himself, gingerly turning it over in his hands, lest he damage it. “Archaic cuneiform, but it is on parchment, not clay. Yet pulled from its hiding place in the depths of an ancient Egyptian construct… containing a bluestone from Celtic lands. And according to its possessor, a virtual duplicate to some which were found in the jungles of South America. How very… unique. This will take some time to translate…”

Removing several large reference tomes from a lower shelf, he spread the parchment out on his desk, laid the books beside it, and began work.

* * *

The next day, Billy came into the sitting-room while Watson was at his club.

“Mister Holmes, suh, it’s Wiggins, suh. He’s downstairs, waitin’. He has that information you wanted afore ye left.”

“Ah yes, excellent. I’d almost forgotten. Send him up, please; there’s a good lad.”

Billy scampered down to the front door, and moments later another pair of small feet, clad in tatty, oversized leather shoes patched with pasteboard—Holmes decided by the sound—came pounding up. Wiggins entered and saluted.