Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

"Well, it's a rum show, but—you chaps watch out for yourselves, will you?"

Holmes, for the first time that I could remember, avoided my eyes, but his hand rested briefly on my shoulder and there was a reassuring pressure from his long, tremendously strong fingers. Then he and Gray were gone.

A young lieutenant, but recently from Sandhurst I judged, who really hadn't the vaguest idea of what was going on, also had the good taste not to try to expand his knowledge of the situation. He took me and my belongings to the Luxor Hotel and volunteered to show me round the modern city that stood in the place of the former capital, Thebes. I declined his kind offer and, after a bath and change of clothes, made my way to the hotel bar for a stiff brandy and soda, which I willed to stay peaceably in my stomach. There is much to be said for assertive action, and after several growls of protest, my intestinal tract reflected a comforting warmth. Since success had favored my efforts, I repeated the dosage and decided to have a look round on my own. There were no claims on my time until Gray and Holmes returned with what information they could glean from the distant hills.

Luxor was now a modern city and a far cry from the river port that had flourished as the capital of so many pharaohs of the old civilization. As I left the hotel in an aimless fashion, I determined to try to detect what remnants of former grandeur had withstood civilization's onrush and were still in evidence. However, my sightseeing was fated to be of short duration. I was passing the entrance to a mosque when a tall figure left the citadel of religion, turning in my direction so that we were face to face, and an acknowledgment of coincidence was impossible to avoid. It was the desert chieftain whom I had encountered near the Sphinx.

I confess being taken aback at this unexpected meeting, but the Arabian exhibited no surprise. Rather, his greeting was accompanied by a shrug, a gesture of his acceptance of Kismet.

"Ah, the good Doctor Watson. Our paths cross again. What brings you south from Cairo?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," I responded guardedly. Holmes chided me on occasion as being the most revealing of men, and I had grown more cautious through the years.

"My journey to Cairo was, as anticipated, a fruitless one. Another witless tale spewed from idle tongues in the bazaars." He sighed and shook his head. His bearded face and predatory, sharp features reminded me of a desert eagle owl, free and fierce.

"Men with idle hands and empty pockets do tend towards mischief. But come, Doctor, motivations are a subject you hear much of. Let us seek refuge from the fading sun, and I shall secure some coffee for you unless you prefer tea."

In a most casual manner, as though our meeting had been planned, the tall Arabian was ushering me to a table at a café nearby, and I admitted that the shade cast by its awning was welcome. Whoever my chance acquaintance was, he secured prompt, nay obsequious, service, and we were soon enjoying coffee served in the Turkish manner in small cups. It was viscous and thick, but strong with a sweetness my taste buds were unaccustomed to.

"We have now met twice, Doctor, and both times you were separated from your most illustrious companion. I trust that Mr. Holmes is in good health."

Well, I thought, this fellow is certainly well informed. My suspicions were aroused, of course.

"Holmes is, at the moment, on other business," I replied. Two can play the information game, and I decided to take a stab at it.

"Sheik, you are most familiar with me and my friend. Have we met at another time? In England, perhaps?"

The bearded face registered a negative. "As you easily deduced, I was educated in your native land. However, I did not meet Mr. Holmes there."

My nostrils quivered at this, and the scent was the musky odor of doubt. Where would Holmes have met an Arabian sheik, pray tell? I had used that title as a quest for a name, but my companion had accepted it without comment. Then, of a sudden, my thoughts reversed. During the period that Holmes was thought dead, his wanderings had taken him to Khartoum, where he had visited with the Khalifa, a meeting that resulted in information communicated to the Foreign Office. I had always entertained private thoughts regarding his being in the Sudan at that particular time. My friend had never gone into detail regarding this part of his mysterious absence from England, though he had often spoken of his explorations during the same period when he passed himself off as the Norwegian "Sigerson."

"You are then of the Sudan?"

An affirmative nod joined forces with a smile. "I see you have pieced some facts together, Doctor. I am from the south and do know Sherlock Holmes. I was able to be of some service to him at one time, and," he added with a candor unusual for those of these parts, "the reverse is also true. Do I detect some concern on your part for your friend's safety? This land is known to me and I am, if you recall, obliged to you."

This put matters in a different light, for I had heard that even the greatest rascals in Arabia were scrupulous regarding a debt of honor. I had an impulse to match his frankness and decided to give in to it.

"Holmes is with an expedition going to the Valley of the Kings."

"The Scottish soldiers," he said instantly. Conscious of the return of suspicion to my face, he explained. "My men are camped on the west bank awaiting my arrival. We noted the Highlanders there." He thought for a moment. "Now what would the king of sleuths wish to find in the gateway to Amenti?"

"Amenti?"

"An Egyptian word referring to the underworld. Though Wady Biban al-Maluk is certainly a place of mystery. Actually that desolate valley under the cliff at Deir al-Bahri was selected in a search for secrecy."

It was painfully obvious that I was following none of this, and the sheik poured me some more coffee.

"Forgive me, Doctor, but tales of the ancient land are endlessly told round campfires under the desert sky. It was the great king, Thutmose First of the Eighteenth Dynasty, who made the decision. The age of the pyramids was over, for their very size was a magnet to the grave robbers, and no secret doors or false passages could outwit them. So the great military pharaoh decided to construct a secret tomb wherein his mummy might remain, inviolate, for the after-life. He selected this valley beneath the cliff, which he could see from his capital, Thebes. His tomb, constructed by the architect Ineni was a hidden thing, and its secret was preserved until the nineteenth dynasty. How this was done but six miles from Thebes amazes me."

I had difficulty remaining in my seat. "Six miles! Why, I thought this Valley of the Kings was at least a day's march away!"

The sheik displayed his perspicacity. "Had you known it was so near, you would have attempted the journey?"

"Why—yes," I sputtered.

"Perhaps I've misled you, Doctor. The entrance to the valley is six miles from the west bank, but the place itself is sizable. Fully forty Egyptian monarchs were buried there, and some of the tombs are enormous. If I knew where Mr. Holmes was headed . . ."

"I don't think he knows himself."

"But you feel he may be in some peril?"

My memory stirred and I responded automatically. "All things are possible in the caravan of life. Holmes said that recently."

The man startled me with a burst of laughter, and he slapped a knee under his robe forcibly. "He has not forgotten. It was I who told him that." He seemed to reach a decision. "Come now, Doctor, you would be with your friend, if possible?"

"My dearest wish."

"Then it shall be fulfilled. Dearest wishes are the divining rods of destiny. The Scots are gone by now, for they would wish to reach the valley before dark, but even their ground-eating, in-cadence march cannot rival the swiftness of the finest Arabians on these plains. Let us depart, for we have an appointment with Anubis, the jackal god of the dead!"