Sherlock Holmes and the Mummy's Curse

SHERLOCK HOLMES

AND THE MUMMY'S CURSE

SHERLOCK HOLMES: GENTLEMAN AEGIS, BOOK 1

by Stephanie Osborn

Published by Pro Se Press

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Copyright © 2015 Stephanie Osborn

All rights reserved.

Contents

Prologue

Machinations

Chapter 1

Planning Expeditions

Chapter 2

Introductions and Reacquaintances

Chapter 3

The Work Commences

Chapter 4

The Curse Rises

Chapter 5

Something Old, Something New

Chapter 6

Shuffling the Deck

Chapter 7

Homing In on A Mystery

Chapter 8

The Mineralogical Enigma

Chapter 9

Revelations and Ramifications

Chapter 10

The Curse Walks

Chapter 11

A Royal Alliance

Chapter Final

Confederations and Councils

Author’s Notes

About the Author

Prologue

Machinations

—::—

Two sinister figures leaned close in the dark room, whispering intently. The small fire in the corner fireplace, intended to take the edge off the wet, raw night, was the only illumination; it threw eerie, flickering shadows across the room, and occasionally cast the pale faces of the conversing men in an almost demonic, hellish red glow.

Are you certain? the first man asked in clipped, precise English, taking a sip from his old-fashioned glass.

"Sim, o meu amigo,¹ as certain as it is possible to be." The second man, somewhat younger, had an odd, blended accent, indiscernible as belonging to any one particular language, though his Portuguese was flawless. He largely ignored the glass at his elbow, though he had taken a single sip earlier, after shrewdly observing the other man drink first.

I am not your friend. The first man’s voice was as cold as his manner.

"Desculpe-me,² Professor. I meant no disrespect, I assure you. It is, mm, a turn of phrase. I have been long in another country."

Then you would do well to, shall we say, re-cultivate your native tongue.

Your point is well taken. There was a pause before the second man continued. "We cannot let him find the thing. O acordo ainda está em vigor.3 Ehm, how to say it, ah! She is—"

Never mind. No, we cannot. The older man leaned back in his armchair. And yes, the agreement is in effect. Is it possible… mm, yes, that might work. Do you have anything planned for this winter?

"Não.⁴ I have postponed everything, em vista destas novidades.5 Eh, desculpe-me, I am in England, I must speak English."

Very good. No matter; I can follow you without difficulty. I am also a man of the world. It is rather my plan which would require you to resume your native fluencies. Can you join his party without suspicion?

"Perhaps. We are known as… rivais.6 But he has a soft side, which I may be able to exploit to our advantage. But you are right, I must definitely brush up the English if I do."

Excellent. Do so, then, and see what you can accomplish, thus.

What CAN I accomplish? What difference can it possibly make, if I join him?

Talk him out of the entire thing, if you can, was the dispassionate reply. The less effort expended, the less likely the effort is to draw attention to… the cause. No one can do that so effectively as you, all other things being equal. Barring that, I am sure you know how to sabotage his operations, and do so… subtly.

"Of course. But… he is a very determined man. Mi curador de yage⁷ would call him accursedly stubborn. It may only make him more determined. And he has hired… a detective."

A detective?! Who?

Some former student.

The name, dolt! What is his name? Do you have it?

Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.

Mm. I have never heard of him. The older man drew over a large note-book which lay on the nearby desk and leafed through it. No, my records do not show a Holmes at Scotland Yard.

He does not work at the Yard. He is a private consulting detective.

Really? Private consulting? How very… unique. I shall have to look into the matter. And why do you think he has hired a detective?

Holmes was once his student, and is learnéd in ancient manuscripts, I have it to understand. They wish him to translate for them.

Ah, well then. This… Holmes… is not along in a professional capacity, but as a mere academic dilettante. He shrugged. Stop Holmes’ arrival. Whatever it takes. You know how. I will back you if you require it. In the Council, and with my… mm, ‘machine,’ we will call it.

"Muito bem.8 But if… HE… the master… cannot be dissuaded?"

The older man’s voice was icily calm as he replied.

Kill him. Under no circumstances must he be allowed to succeed. Now go.

Yes, Professor.

As the younger man departed, the older turned back to his desk and lit the small lamp on it. He paused in thought, tapping the side of his index finger lightly to his lips; he nodded to himself, then tugged the bell-pull nearby and waited patiently. When the manservant arrived, he issued an order.

Charles, find Walker and tell him to see what he can find out about this Sherlock Holmes person. Tell him to activate his group if need arises. I want a complete dossier by the end of the week, sooner if possible. Everything he can find on the man.

Right away, sir. And the manservant departed.

This will not do, the professor murmured to himself. Quite aside from the complexities to my own endeavours, the danger, should they find it and recognise its import, does not bear consideration. It would be disastrous. He drew a deep breath, then shook his head, dismissing the thoughts for the time.

The professor turned back to his desk, where lay some unfinished papers pertaining somewhat to the discussion so recently completed. He pulled them closer and studied them for long moments, then started briefly as an eureka moment struck. Reaching for his pen, he dipped it and wrote a title across the first page.

It read, The Dynamics of an Asteroid.

Then he leafed through the pages and resumed his calculations.

Chapter 1

Planning Expeditions

—::—

Watson, old boy, how would you feel about a trip to Egypt?

Doctor John H. Watson, M.D., late of the medical department of Her Majesty’s Army, looked up from his book in some surprise.

Egypt? Why on earth would we be going to Egypt? I assume it IS ‘we,’ is it not? Or are you sending me in your stead for a case?

It is ‘we,’ and it is not a case, Sherlock Holmes averred with a slight smile, in which was a hint of ruefulness. "London crime is slow at the moment, and my reputation is still but budding, in any event. But as you know, I have some small enthusiasm for antiquities, especially in the deciphering of old, or even ancient, texts. And I received a letter to-day⁹ from an old professor of mine. Doctor Willingham Adelbert Whitesell holds the Quatermain Chair of Archaeology at Oxbridge; he is returning to Egypt to complete a dig begun last season and wishes me to accompany him. Strictly speaking, the actual dig did not commence last season, I adjudge by his missive; he merely found the general location of what he believes will be the tomb of one of the earliest pharaohs, Ka, or Sekhen, as some make it. Most likely it is a hyphenation of the sort that the ancient Egyptians sometimes did, Ka-Sekhen. He expects to come upon some fascinating inscriptions if the tomb is indeed there, and thought I might be interested, which I am. And I, in turn, thought the climate might be more suited to your healing; the frigid damp of London’s colder seasons is hardly conducive to the proper mending from those Jezail bullets, my dear fellow. Why, you were in considerable pain only two days ago."

How did you know that?! I was at my club all day!

My dear Watson, surely by now you know my methods, even if you have not learned to use them yourself to great effect as yet. We have worked no less than half a dozen cases, large and small, together at this point.

Watson paused in thought, then looked up.

It was raining that day, as I recall. I suppose that the sole of one shoe was more scuffed than the other, and one trouser cuff more sodden? Because of my limp?

Well done, my friend! Yes, you were undoubtedly dragging that foot a bit, and the walkway outside your club is in dire need of maintenance; it is positively riddled with puddles in foul weather. Also, your shirt was more wrinkled on the side of your sore shoulder, indicating you had stooped over considerably; a not-infrequent habit when it troubles you, I’ve noticed.

Aha. I see. Well, yes, Watson admitted. This accursed cold, wet autumn we are having is certainly not comfortable for one with my particular injuries, and I fear it bodes ill for the winter, as well, especially as it is still more than a fortnight to the equinox. And while said wounds have long since knit closed, it will be at least a year or more before the sensitivity has left them… if it ever does. But are you certain I would be welcome? I do not wish to intrude. After all, the professor invited YOU.

And he says I am welcome to bring you along, if you are available and so inclined—he read your first few stories, the ones that your colleague Doyle placed for you—and is looking forward to seeing what you make of his dig. Ah, there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. Holmes threw his friend a sharp glance with twinkling grey eyes, just before going off into a gale of the silent laughter with which Watson was, by now, so familiar.

Hmph. Well, Watson harrumphed, pleased, but raising a peeved eyebrow nonetheless at Holmes’ jibing addendum, good-natured though it was. In that case, yes, I should be delighted to accompany you, Holmes.

Then do you have the boots fetch our trunks down from the lumber-room and gather your old Afghan campaign equipment, whilst I telegraph Professor Whitesell that we shall join him there as soon as may be! Holmes studied the letter in hand. Hm. Perhaps not. He snatched up the envelope and studied it carefully, catching a lens from his desk nearby with which to scrutinise it.

What’s wrong, Holmes?

Mm? Holmes said, glancing up. Oh, it seems that his letter was delayed in the post. It may well be that our notification and ourselves shall arrive at the same time.

He has already departed, then?

He evidently decamped London as soon as the worst of the heat left the area in Egypt, Holmes said, re-reading the letter with care. No doubt afraid someone else would find the tomb and rob it before he could get to it, which is a valid concern. And it looks as if he is well to the south of Luxor, though perhaps not quite so far as Assuan. It is not— He paused, biting his lip in thought, then reached for the large tome of the world atlas on the shelf, flipping through it, studying several pages as he referred to the letter. Finally he continued. It does not appear to be precisely along the Nile, as so many of the ancient Egyptian sites were. No, it is inland a fair bit, and it does not appear—per the terrain—that this is due to the meanders of the river over the centuries, as it is well out of the reach of such meanders. Most unusual.

Indeed! It will be quite hot there, then, even in winter! We shall want pith helmets, and cotton and linen clothing, I should think, Watson decided. "I did not make it home with my helmet, and you have none; I will contact my old unit clark¹⁰ and see about the best place for procuring a couple of proper topees for the pair of us. Would you like for me to acquire a couple of sets of Foreign Service togs for your use? I’m quite sure I could lay my hands upon some surplus uniforms which would be entirely suitable…"

Capital notion, Watson, Holmes murmured absently, still studying the letter and comparing it to his maps. That, mingled with my own summer wardrobe, should be sufficient. Let me see about the best way of replying. And Watson?

Yes, Holmes? Watson turned, already headed out of the room to see the boots.

Run down and see if young Wiggins is loitering about in Baker Street, would you? If he is, wave him over and send him up, please.

But why?

Oh, Holmes shot his friend a quick, reassuring smile, nothing much. Just something I should like him to look into, while we are gone…

* * *

Less than a week later, the pair were on a train heading across France for Marseille, having made the Channel crossing at Folkestone to Boulougne-sur-Mer, following the mail routes. At Marseille they picked up a steamship across the Mediterranean and through the canal to the port of Suez. There, they transferred into a much smaller steamship for the short run down the Red Sea.

The only event which marred the trip occurred when their gear was nearly misrouted to Danzig. Holmes spied their trunks being trundled across the station platform in the wrong direction, however, and quickly accosted the baggage handler, correcting his error.

After that, Holmes was careful to oversee the transfer of their baggage himself, with no further difficulties.

* * *

Well, Watson, an exuberant Holmes said as the tiny steamship sidled alongside the dock at Safaga in Egypt, I should say we have arrived in the desert, without doubt!

Indeed we have, Holmes, Watson agreed, mopping his brow with his kerchief as he patently tried to take it all in. Look—just here, by the minarets. Why, it’s as flat as any skillet.

Only the coastal plain, Watson. Look farther back, over there, well past all the buildings and date palms, about four or five miles in—see the mountains? Holmes stretched out an arm, pointing. Those are known simply as the Eastern Mountains—because they are east of the Nile, I suppose.

Great Scot, Holmes! I did not realise—! How shall we ever get through all that to Luxor, let alone up the Nile? We should have stopped in Alexandria and taken ship upriver! Watson’s forehead creased in worry.

No, no, Watson, never fear! This will indeed be swifter, you have my word. When I made our itinerary, I knew what I was about. There is an established road inland from Safaga to Qina, you see, and thence to Luxor; or we can take a barge from Qina up the Nile to the professor’s dig, which would be my preferred transport, I think. One should never visit the Nile and not take a barge along it! Or at the least, a river launch, as pharaonic barges are in somewhat short supply these days. An enthusiastic Holmes smiled broadly. Once we debark here, I must find a telegraph office post-haste and notify the good professor of our imminent arrival; it is likely to take some hours for it to reach his dig site from the telegraph office on his end! Come, Watson, there’s the gangplank!

* * *

Holmes, I am really not at all certain which is worse—the heat, or the ride on these deuced beasts! Watson complained as their small caravan trudged through the dark, jagged mountains westward, two evenings later. The ride is rough, they smell to high heaven, and this is positively the meanest-spirited creature I have ever encountered!

You are the one who thought riding a camel would be ‘romantic,’ old chap, not I, Holmes retorted cheerfully, rocking along easily with the gait of his desert mount. And I told you not to stand there staring in its face, no matter how curious you are—they spit when annoyed! When we make camp, you should at least wet your handkerchief and clean your face a bit better. You still have a brown smudge in front of your right ear.

An irked Watson extracted that same handkerchief from his sleeve, removed his topee, and mopped his brow, drawing the kerchief down his right cheek before glancing briefly at the dark russet smear upon it. Then he reached for his canteen, wet the kerchief, and scrubbed away the offending residue on his cheek before pulling several deep swallows from the canteen. Only then did he reply.

You cannot tell me that you have expertise riding these nasty-tempered creatures, he grumbled, tucking the moist kerchief back into his sleeve, against his wrist, where it would provide some cooling effect. Let alone in these damned mountains.

Nonsense, Watson, the mountains of Afghanistan are much higher! And you have been in those before, Holmes pointed out. As a matter of fact, I do have some experience on camel-back, from my younger years working under Whitesell at Oxbridge.

When I was in Afghanistan, I had rather more on my mind, Watson retorted, in high dudgeon. Like not getting shot, for all the good it did me. Nor was it so hot! And nor so dusty! And NOR was I on a benighted, thrice-damned bloody CAMEL! Just then, his mount let out an offended-sounding bleat.

Patience, Watson, patience, my dear fellow. And lower your voice; these animals are highly prized by their owners. It would not do to insult them. I know it cannot be pleasant upon your old wounds, but try to relax as much as possible, and simply roll with the beast’s gait; that will be best, I think. This leg of the trip is fortunately short, and we are over halfway through it now. We are, at least, travelling at night, and with plenty of provisions, to include water. Admittedly, it is still very early in the season, so rather warmer than it should be in a few months; nevertheless here we are, and we must deal with it. Be glad we are not travelling in daylight hours, when it would be much, much hotter! In the heat of the day, these mountains can reach upwards of one hundred degrees!

I am thankful for that much, Watson admitted. But… are we certain that there are no highway robbers in these mountains? He glanced around in unease at the rugged landscape, the sharp edges of the dark mountain scarps illumined a pale silver by the light of a waxing crescent moon, low in the west. The sandy road ahead gleamed a pale gold in that same light. The camels in front of them kicked up a tawny cloud of dust with each plodding footstep, which did not settle until well after the entire caravan had passed; Watson could taste it upon his lips, which felt gritty.

…Not entirely, no, Holmes conceded then, sparing a surreptitious glance at their surroundings himself—not, Watson suspected, that he had been unobservant before; that would have been totally out of character for Holmes. "One can never be completely sure of such things, in such places as this. But I should think it is unlikely, given so much exploration in and around Luxor—this is one of the most direct routes to maritime shipping, as it happens. And it is an ancient road, having seen its own archaeological digs, as has its terminus on the Nile: Qina was known as Kaine by the ancient Greeks, and Maximianopolis to the Romans, and evidently was, or is, an eastern bank offshoot of the ancient Egyptian city of Ta-ynt-netert¹¹, or Tantere. So there has been much digging in the region. Traffic through these parts is heavy enough, with sufficient numbers of antiquities passing through, that even if the Egyptian authorities did not provide for such, which they do, I have it to understand that a rather prestigious group of archaeologists, including our host, have banded together to ensure this route is well-guarded. Or at least as much as is possible, in the circumstances. He paused, then placed a casual hand on his hip, before resting its opposite on a rather thick leather strap, part of the camel’s harness; it widened substantially at the end underneath Holmes’ hand, and might almost have been a hidden holster for a rifle, or a shotgun. Nevertheless, things happen. Which is why we are hardly… undefended, ourselves."

Watson brushed his own hip in response, then paused in thought. Finally he glanced around to see who might be nearby, then turned and leaned forward to speak privately to Holmes, whose camel was slightly ahead and to one side. Holmes, in response, twisted a bit in the saddle, the better to face the doctor.

The choice of our camel-puller was not random happenstance, was it, Holmes? Watson kept his voice low.

No indeed, it was not. Omar was known to me, back in the day, as a very trustworthy young camel-puller. Now he is a full-fledged caravaneer, though still young for his status: he owns most of these camels, and is very proud of the fact. Not that he has his own formal caravanserai as yet, though I am uncertain that the terrain is suited to it in any event. More, he remembered me from the time when we were both lads, and promised that both I and my, er, mildly invalided friend—pardon me, Watson, but I played up the nature of your injuries, and for good reason, as I desired you to have the best, most comfortable mount possible, in the circumstances—would arrive safely at Professor Whitesell’s dig camp. In fact, he pledged it upon his camel train, which is saying a good bit. Look, up there at the head of the file—he is himself leading us, though he did not have to; as the owner, he could have hired someone, and normally would have done.

Watson was touched by this rare evidence of Holmes’ consideration, though he hid it carefully. But the rest of the handlers?

Are hand-picked, known and trusted by Omar. And all are well-armed. We two, our baggage, and some half-dozen crates of imported goods, comprise the whole of his caravan’s lading on this trip. We are quite as safe as if we were in the midst of the British Army phalanx. Never fear. By this time to-morrow, we shall be safely at Qina, and may transition back to normal hours, as the trip up the Nile will be during the day, more comfortable, and much cooler on account of the water. I am sorry you are in pain, my friend, but our only other transport option was a dogcart pulled by a donkey, which would have been slower, dustier, and much rougher over mountain roads. Not even the most careless of antiquities experts would trust his treasures to such a conveyance; how much the more my closest friend, whose injuries still cause him pain?

Watson never said another word about the discomfort of his mount.

* * *

At dawn they camped; as they knew from the previous morning, the heat increased rapidly after sunrise, making it difficult to sleep. So instead, Holmes and Watson sat companionably on camp stools in the shade at the door of their tent, extracted pipes and tobacco, and puffed upon the soothing herb in the congenial silence that befitted a friendship such as theirs.

Half an hour later, a boy—Omar’s youngest, as they had discovered the day before—brought them small trays containing their meals: hot shawarma made of stuffed aish, a kind of pita or pocket-bread filled with roast mutton and mint, lightly smeared with tahini; and the thick, syrupy-sweet coffee of the region on the side. Sticky pieces of baklava, liberally soaked with honey and carefully wrapped in parchment, baked by Omar’s wife before their departure from Safaga, rounded out the meal. It was hardly a feast, but it was flavourful and sustaining, and as Holmes pointed out, it was as good as it was likely to get in that remote part of the world. Hungry, Watson tucked it away with alacrity, Holmes rather less so, as was his wont; and even Watson decided it was tasty. Though, he admitted, the mutton could have been a bit younger. It was a tad tough.

Then it would have been breeding stock, and a source of fleece, Holmes replied, using