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ascertained their identities in any event. We have previously met Mr. Phillips, so I may eliminate him from the equation, though he would have been easy to deduce, merely on the basis of his age. That leaves the other archaeologist, the geologist, and your Egyptian foreman Udail… who is hovering behind you, Professor, awaiting your instruction to have the meal served.”
    Udail looked startled, and stepped from behind Whitesell. The others laughed again, delighted, and Whitesell instructed, “Yes, go ahead and have the workers served, Udail. We will be ready here ourselves in about five minutes. Feel free to take your own meal with your sons.”
    “Very good, Professor,” Udail said, bowing before departing.
    “All right, Sherry,” an enchanted Leighton said, clapping her hands, “the other two?”
    “Dr. Parker Nichols-Woodall,” without hesitation Holmes pointed with one hand, “and Dr. Thomas Brockingthorpe Beaumont.” He pointed with the other hand.
    “Very good!” Phillips exclaimed, impressed despite himself, as they all applauded again.
    “What gave us away?” Beaumont wondered, a hint of French accent lilting his proper English speech.
    “The well-used whisk and brush in your back pocket, used for delicately removing dust and dirt from an artefact,” Holmes told Beaumont. “I learned their operation well myself under Professor Whitesell, and they still find convenient use in my repertoire, when I am investigating crime scenes that are… mm, older in nature, is perhaps a good way to phrase it. And your accent, obtained from your Occitan father, confirms my deductions… for do you not speak fluent French, Dr. Beaumont?”
    “Indeed. I was reared bilingual; my mother was English.”
    “And per your curriculum vitae , have added to those languages. Very good. As for Dr. Nichols-Woodall, he has a specialised hammer, of the type known as a ‘rock pick,’ hanging from his belt, for chipping off smaller specimens of stone outcrops. More, it shows signs of heavy wear, so I deduce it is likely his favourite hammer.”
    “You saw all that?!” Nichols-Woodall exclaimed in some startlement. “Why, the thing is half-hidden by the tails of my waistcoat!”
    “Excellently done, my boy,” Whitesell praised. “And entirely correct in every point. Professor Bell would be quite proud of you, I’ve no doubt. In fact, I think I shall sit down to-night and compose a letter to him, detailing this little introduction!” At this Holmes’ lips compressed, and he nodded, pleased; Whitesell continued. “Gentlemen, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, normally a private consulting detective, who will, as you already know, be our expert in hieroglyph translation on our little excursion; and with him, his friend and companion—and our physician for this expedition—Dr. John. H. Watson.”
    * * *
    On that note, Leighton again towed Holmes, this time to his seat at table, and motioned to Watson to follow, smiling happily. Then she moved around the head of the table to the seat across from Holmes. Phillips pulled out her chair, and her father saw her seated.
    Once Leighton was seated, the men took this as their cue to sit as well. Watson noted that Whitesell took the head of the table, as the expedition lead; the financier, Lord Trenthume, took the foot. His daughter sat at Whitesell’s right hand, with Phillips next her, and Beaumont sat between Phillips and Lord Trenthume.
    Holmes, meanwhile, sat on Whitesell’s left hand, a position Watson found subtly significant, especially given the daughter’s position. The physician privately wondered if Holmes had realised the social implications, and suspected that the sleuth was being considered—whether willingly or unwillingly; most likely unwillingly, by his earlier behaviour—as a potential family addition. Then again, Watson pondered, it might simply be the position awarded to a favoured former protégé.
    Watson sat in his turn next to Holmes, and the geologist,