O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [131]
After five minutes Holmes took out his pipe. I nearly roused myself to object, then decided, The hell with it. The scent of tobacco was a common enough thing, and could enter the nether reaches from any place.
After too few more minutes I heard the familiar sound of the revolver being inspected and given a cursory wipe, then the rustle of the bag. I sighed, and sat up to receive a swallow of the water and a handful of nuts.
“We’re going to be down here forever, Holmes,” I said drearily. I had intended it to be a dry jest, but it came out a flat statement; at least there was no fear in it. I was too exhausted to worry about the roof caving in on me any more.
He spat a date pip into his hand. “I have had failures before, but none quite so spectacular as the Rock of Abraham flying into the air.”
“You haven’t had many failures.”
“Too many.”
“Such as?”
“This is a delightful conversational topic you’ve chosen, Russell. No, no; you wish to know my failures. Very well, let me think. I have had at least four men come to me for help, only to be murdered before I could do a thing for them. Granted, I later solved the murders, but that hardly mitigates the fact that from my clients’ point of view, the cases were not precisely successful. Irene Adler beat me, although that was a silly enough case. And that one with the submarine boat plans, what did Watson call that tale of his? Scott something? Howard?”
“Bruce,” I said. “Partington. And that wasn’t a failure, you did retrieve the plans.”
“I might as well have burnt them, for all the good it did. Twenty-five years ago, that was, and how many submarine vehicles did Britain have in the water during the war? We left the depths of the sea to the U-boat.”
“You think Germany stole the plans later after all?”
“I believe those plans are sitting in the War Office somewhere with a thick layer of dust on them. Yes, I do recall that story now—it also began as an act of treason by a government clerk. Wasn’t that the one into which Watson inserted some romantic claptrap about a rose?”
“I think that was in the story about the naval treaty,” I said.
“Was it? What does that matter? Why on earth are you talking about this nonsense?” He stood up and began to shovel things back into the bag.
“I didn’t—”
“On your feet, Russell. Your present surroundings are bringing out an unpleasantly morbid streak in you.”
“My present—why? Where are we, aside from being buried alive?”
“You are in a tomb, Russell. I believe you’ve been stretched out on top of a sarcophagus.”
Our obstacle course continued, turning west, south, occasionally doubling back north, but maintaining a general direction along the Haram. I thought we must have come right through the city, but Holmes said no, we had not even reached David Street, some three hundred fifty yards (on a direct line) from the Antonia cistern. We went on, and on.
Then in a dry, snug space created by the fall of some huge quarried stones we found a cache of tinned goods, some of them still in their shipping crates. They were thick with dust, those that hadn’t been kicked to one side, though their labels were still bright.
“I thought so,” Holmes muttered. “Bey must have caught himself some smugglers and learnt the route from them. Under interrogation in the Old Serai, no doubt, during the war. Food was scarce, and smugglers sprang up by the dozen—we may find who they were when we investigate the house with the cellar door above the Cotton Grotto. Bey tucked the route away in the back of his mind, waiting until he might need it. By the looks of it, he’s not been down here more than half a dozen times.” He stopped, and held up a hand. “Did you hear a voice?” he asked, then turned out the lamp.
I strained my ears, and was about to say that I hadn’t, when