Chapter Text
In what I am inclined to believe was nothing less than some devilish form of retribution for my successful retrieval of Lady Constance Withers from the clutches of a gang of Egyptian artifact smugglers, her husband, Sir Eustace, sent Watson and I an invitation to a gala to be hosted in celebration of her safe return. The doctor assured me the invite was nothing more diabolical than the token of an elated man’s gratitude, though how on earth a fellow can claim greater happiness in the company of a woman who chattered so incessantly I should be prepared to swear her face at one point tinged blue from deprivation of oxygen, is a mystery beyond even my comprehension.
Be that as it may, my companion insisted we attend, and thusly petitioned, I relented, if for no other reason than Sir Eustace was a private collector whose archaeological acquisitions rivaled even that of the British Museum, and meant to hold one of those morbid mummy unrollings the public seem to hold in such favour.
This blighted event certainly qualified as punishment, for upon its being made known my status was that of a bachelor, never-mind I have never prefixed it with the adjective ‘eligible’, the flocks of giggling, coquettish, and altogether insufferably forward members of the fair sex clamped onto my person more tenaciously than Victor Trevor’s bull terrier once froze onto my ankle. Watson’s condition as a widower, at least, granted him some small measure of peace; yet for some unfathomable reason he appeared to delight in the company of those eyelash-batting ladies who asked an interminable number of questions regarding his fanciful accounts of my methods.
Inevitably, when his admirers get worked up into a dither over his embellishment of our cases, unwanted attentions that have naught to do with the science of analysis and deduction are prone to ensue. In conjunction with the silly, twittering females near shocking me into apoplexy with their whispered nothings in my ear, had not Sir Eustace himself come to the rescue that very moment, it is likely I should have taken drastic measures of the sort that cause the doctor to lecture me hotly until such time as sufficient appeasements are made.
The man in question was keen to show us his most recent collection of Egyptian artifacts from the tomb of Ramesses The Great, whose safe return I had also been responsible for. The venture was not without some interest, but the prospect of detaching myself from the limpets of society held the greater appeal.
Sir Eustace’s collection room was adorned in dark wood paneling and rich claret velvets, the picture of a tasteful aristocratic study. Several other men whose conversation indicated they were enthusiasts in the field of Egyptian archaeology were already present, smoking cigars and nursing brandies as they expounded on the inherent similarities between hieratic and hieroglyphic scripts. Others were engaged in openly admiring a tabletop cluttered with stone statuettes, many of which retained remnants of their original paints.
One device in particular caught my eye.
At first glance, it strongly impressed upon the observer how it was simply an ordinary, if magnificently carved, bracelet. Solid gold, it weighed no less than a brick of lead, its copious proportions obviously making it clear it was meant for the wider wrist of a man. It was adorned with a scorpion whose eyes were rubies and stinger a diamond, and to either side were carved a series of hieroglyphs. Herein lie the interest, for upon closer inspection one could just discern they were not mere decorative carvings, but were of a mechanical nature. Sir Eustace delighted in showing us how, when the bracelet was opened, the hieroglyphs, by the power of what he supposed to be an intricate inner network of cogs and gears, would shift and turn out of place, then return to their former positions when the bracelet was again clicked shut.
Of course, the Scorpion Bracelet of Ramesses was subject to the obligatory curse of ‘whomsoever weareth this outside the Pharaoh’s tomb shall be cursed to a living death’, unless, that is, they were to take advantage of the curse loophole in the form of a key, which would unlock the bracelet from the wearer’s wrist, thereby rendering the curse, such as it was, null and void. Not a very frightful curse, then, or one apt to discourage tomb robbers.
Whilst my curiosity was piqued only by the scientifically advanced internal mechanisms, Watson was transfixed by its weight and splendour. When he held the bracelet aloft, it caught the electric lighting just so, and even I had to admit whoever designed it must have been a master of his trade.
Taking care not to touch the unclasped sides so as to inadvertently cause it to clasp about his wrist, Watson placed it on his arm for a lark, and just as he made some remark about how deucedly heavy the thing was, Sir Eustace let out a cry of horror.
“For heaven’s sake man, you mustn’t wear the bracelet!”
Abashed at having caused our host no little discomfort, he made his apologies and was already sliding it off his arm when, of its own volition, the bracelet snapped shut, causing the doctor to let out a howl of pain and fall to his knees.
“Watson!” I flew to his side, kneeling before him as he desperately clutched at the bracelet.
“Poison…” he finally managed, though somewhat breathlessly. “A poison dart… inside the bracelet…stuck me when… when it closed around my arm.”
His pallor was turning quite ashen, and the veins in his hand protruded grotesquely, the blood within them darkening to a shade of grey as the poison flowed freely through his bloodstream. Why the logical course of action did not at first occur to me remains to be seen, yet at that moment I could think only of wrenching that infernal thing off my companion’s arm
“By Jove, the curse,” Sir Eustace breathed, backing away from Watson as though millennia old Pharaonic curses were contagious. Meanwhile, the small gathering present had abandoned their cigars to assist me with the removal of the bracelet.
“It cannot be pried off,” Sir Eustace found his voice. “It locks around the wearer’s arm, and nothing can open it, save for the key.”
“Then give me the key!” I shouted, though not in as many words or anything that might be repeated in the presence of a lady.
“I am afraid that will be quite impossible.”
Snarling, I leapt up and clutched him by the lapels demanding why he should keep the very elixir of life from a man who slowly dying by increments.
“If it were in my power to do, I should surely help your friend, but you must understand… the key remains in the tomb of Ramesses. It is in Egypt, Mr Holmes.”
I went rigid with sudden understanding. My dearest friend lay writhing on the carpet, his only hope for survival thousands of miles away, buried in the desert sands.
There was nothing else for it.
“Then we leave for Egypt to-night.”