Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (102 page)

‘To be honest, I would not be able to put my hand on it just at the moment,’ I admitted. ‘I have not had occasion to look at it since we left Cairo.’

‘But you do have it?’ The reverend’s tone was oddly intense.

‘Yes, to be sure. It is somewhere about.’

‘I would not want to trouble you – ’

‘Then don’t,’ said Emerson, who had been watching the little man curiously. ‘You don’t expect Mrs Emerson to turn out all her boxes and bags at this hour of the night, I suppose.’

‘Certainly not. I only thought – ’

‘Look in again on your way upriver,’ Emerson said, like a genial host suggesting a call, ‘when you are in the neighbourhood. We will try to locate the scrap and then consider your request.’

And with this the reverend had to be content, though he did not look pleased.

We stood in the door watching our visitors ride away. Stars spangled the heavens in glorious abandon and the desert lay silver under the moon. Emerson’s arm stole around my waist. ‘Peabody.’

‘Yes, my dear Emerson?’

‘I am a selfish brute, Peabody.’

‘My dear Emerson!’

Emerson drew me inside and closed the door. ‘Though thwarted in your heart’s desire, you defend me nobly. When you told de Morgan the other day that you doted on Roman mummies, I could hardly contain my emotion.’

‘It is kind of you to say so, Emerson. And now, if you will excuse me, I had better finish my amphora.’

‘Damn the amphora,’ Emerson cried. ‘No more Roman pots or mummies, Peabody. Tomorrow we begin on our pyramids. To be sure, they are not much in the way of pyramids, but they will be an improvement over what we have been doing.’

‘Emerson, do you mean it?’

‘It is only your due, my dear Peabody. Spite and selfishness alone kept me from beginning on them long ago. You deserve pyramids, and pyramids you will have!’

Emotion choked me. I could only sigh and gaze at him with the wholehearted admiration his affectionate gesture deserved. His eyes sparkling like sapphires, Emerson put out his hand and extinguished the lamp.

E
MERSON’S
demonstrations of marital affection are of so tempestuous a nature that as a rule we succumb quickly to slumber when they are concluded. On this occasion, however, I found myself unaccountably wakeful long after my spouse’s placid breathing testified to the depth of his repose. Starlight glimmered at the open window, and the cool night breeze caressed my face. Far off in the stilly night the lonely howl of a jackal rose like the lament of a wandering spirit.

But hark – closer at hand though scarcely louder – another sound! I sat up, pushing my hair back from my face. It came again; a soft scraping, a scarcely audible thud – and then – oh heavens! – a cacophony of screams scarcely human in their intensity. They were not human. They were the cries of a lion.

I sprang from bed. Despite my agitation a sense of triumph filled me. For once a nocturnal disturbance had found me awake and ready; for once no cursed netting interfered with my prompt response to the call of danger. I snatched my parasol and ran to the door. Emerson was awake and swearing. ‘Your trousers, Emerson,’ I shouted. ‘Pray do not forget your trousers.’

Since there was only one lion on the premises, it was not difficult for me to deduce whence the sound came. Ramses’ room was next to ours. On this occasion I did not knock.

The room was dark. The light from the window was cut off by a writhing form that filled the entire aperture. Without delaying an instant, I began beating it with my parasol. Unfortunately the blows fell upon the wrong end of the intruder, whose head and shoulders were already out of the window. Stimulated, no doubt, by the thrashing, it redoubled its efforts and made good its escape. I would have followed, but at that moment an excruciating pain shot through my left ankle and I lost my balance, falling heavily to the floor.

The household was now aroused. Shouts and cries of alarm came from all directions. Emerson was the first to arrive on the scene. Rushing headlong into the room, he tripped over my recumbent form and crushed the breath out of me.

Next to appear was John, a lamp in one hand and a stout stick in the other. I would have commended him for thinking of the lamp if I had had the breath to speak, for by its light he was able to recognize us just in time to arrest the blow of the cudgel which he had aimed at Emerson’s anatomy. The lion cub continued to gnaw at my foot. It had identified me, I believe, after the first impulsive attack, and was now merely playing, but its teeth were extremely sharp.

Emerson struggled to his feet. ‘Ramses!’ he shouted. ‘Ramses, where are you?’

It struck me then that I had not heard from Ramses, which was unusual. His cot was a mass of tumbled blankets, but the boy himself was nowhere to be seen.

‘Ra-a-amses!’ Emerson shrieked, his face purpling.

‘I am under de cot,’ said a faint voice.

Sure enough, he was. Emerson yanked him out and unrolled the sheet in which he had been wrapped so tightly that it had the effect of a straitjacket. Crooning endearments, he pressed the boy to his breast. ‘Speak to me, Ramses. Are you hurt? What has been done to you? Ramses, my son …’

Having heard Ramses speak, I had no apprehension concerning his safety. I therefore returned the lion to its cage before saying calmly, ‘Emerson, he cannot talk because you are squeezing the breath out of him. Release your grip, I beg you.’

‘T’ank you, Mama,’ said Ramses breathlessly. ‘Between de sheet, which I only now succeeded in getting off from over my mout’, and Papa’s embrace, which t’ough it is appreciated for de sentiment dat prompted it, neverdeless –’

‘Good Gad, Ramses,’ I exclaimed. ‘For once will you give over your rhetorical orotundities and get to the point? What happened?’

‘I can only guess as to de origin of de difficulty, since I was soundly sleeping,’ said Ramses. ‘But I presume a person removed de screen and entered by way of de window. I did not awaken until he – or she, for I was not able to determine de gender of de intruder – was wrapping me in de sheet. In my attempt to free myself I fell off de cot and somehow, I cannot tell how, found myself beneat’ dat object of furniture.’

Being somewhat short of breath, he had to pause at this point, and I demanded, ‘How did the lion cub get out of its cage?’

Ramses looked at the cage. In the manner of all small creatures the cub had rolled itself into a furry ball and dropped off to sleep.

‘Apparently I neglected to close de door of de cage,’ said Ramses.

‘And very fortunate it was, too,’ said Emerson. ‘I shudder to think what would have happened if the noble beast had not warned us you were in danger.’

‘It could have roused us just as effectively
in
the cage as
out
of it,’ I said. ‘The only person it seems to have attacked is me; and if it had not done so I might have succeeded in apprehending the burglar.’

Father and son looked at me, and then at one another. ‘These women!’ they seemed to remark, in silent unanimity. ‘They are always complaining about something.’

Next morning at breakfast I reminded Emerson of his promise to give me a pyramid. He looked at me reproachfully. ‘I do not need to be reminded, Amelia. An Emerson never breaks his word. But we can’t begin today. I need to do a preliminary survey of the surrounding area and close down our excavations at the cemetery.’

‘Oh, quite, my dear Emerson. But please don’t bring me any more bones. The last lot was frightfully brittle. I set them in a stiff jelly to remove the salt, but I am running short of suitable containers.’

‘We have not the proper facilities to deal with bones,’ Emerson admitted. ‘To expose them without being able to preserve them would be a violation of my principles of excavation.’

‘Brother Ezekiel will be pleased you have given up the cemetery,’ I said, helping Emerson to marmalade.

‘I only hope he won’t think I was influenced by his outrageous demands.’ Emerson looked sheepish. ‘I went on with the cemeteries longer than I ought to have done only because he told me to stop.’

‘Since it will be several days before we can begin on the pyramids, I may as well make my trip to Cairo at once.’

‘Go away, now?’ Emerson cried. ‘After the murderous attack on our son last night?’

‘I must go, Emerson. The lion has eaten every pair of slippers we own. There is no question of leaving Ramses unprotected; I can go and come in the same day. Besides, I don’t believe an assault on Ramses was intended. The intruder was after something – was, in short, a burglar, not a murderer.’

‘After something? In Ramses’ room?’

‘He may have mistaken the window. Or used it as a means of reaching the storage rooms, which are windowless, or the parlour, whose outer door was guarded by Abdullah.’

‘And a fine help Abdullah was,’ Emerson grunted. ‘He must have been dead asleep or he would not have been so late in arriving on the scene. Well, well, if you are determined to go, you will go – but I entertain some doubts as to your real motive. Slippers, indeed! Don’t deny it, Amelia – you are still on the trail of your imaginary Master Criminal.’

‘We had better devote some attention to criminals, master or otherwise; they are giving us
their
full attention. How many more of these burglarious episodes must we endure?’

Emerson shrugged. ‘Do as you like, Amelia. You will in any case. Only try not to be assaulted, kidnapped, or murdered, if you can possibly do so.’

Somewhat to my surprise, Ramses refused to accompany me. (The invitation was proffered by his father, not by me.)

‘So long as you are going, Mama,’ he said, ‘will you bring me back a Coptic dictionary?’

‘I don’t know that there is such a thing, Ramses.’

‘Herr Steindorff has just published a
Koptische Grammatik mit Chrestomathie, Wörterverzeichnis und Literatur.
Should that work be unobtainable, dere is de elementary Coptic grammar and glossary in Arabic of Al-Bakurah al-shakiyyah, or de
Vocabularium Coptico-Latinum
of Gustav Parthey – ’

‘I will see what I can do,’ I said, unable to bear any more multilingual titles.

‘T’ank you, Mama.’

‘What do you want with a Coptic dictionary?’ Emerson asked.

‘Dere are a few words on de fragment of papyrus Mama found dat continue to elude me.’

‘Good heavens, the Coptic papyrus,’ I exclaimed. ‘I keep forgetting about it. Mr Sayce was asking about it only last night – ’

‘He shan’t have it,’ Emerson declared.

‘Don’t be spiteful, Emerson. I wonder what I did with the other scrap I found the night Abd el Atti was killed.’

‘Anodder fragment, Mama?’ Ramses asked.

‘It appeared to be from the same manuscript, but it was much smaller.’

Ramses’ face became taut with excitement. ‘I would like to have it, Mama.’

‘I don’t remember where I put it, Ramses.’

‘But, Mama – ’

‘If you are a good little boy and do everything your Papa tells you, Mama will give you your treat when she returns.’

I regretted my promise to Ramses, for I had a great deal to do, and finding a given book in the shops devoted to that trade is a time-consuming process. Instead of being neatly arranged on shelves, the merchandise is piled in stacks; and since the book-dealers are scholarly gentlemen whose shops are frequented by the learned world of Cairo, I was tempted to linger and talk. I managed to find one of the volumes Ramses had requested. Then I left the Sharia ’el Halwagi and went to the bazaar of the shoemakers, where I purchased a dozen pairs of slippers, two each for myself, Ramses and Emerson, and six for the lion. I hoped, by the time he had finished these, he would have done cutting his teeth.

Then, and only then, did I go to the Khan el Khaleel.

Abd el Atti’s shop was closed and shuttered. No one answered, even when I went to the back door and hammered on it. Somewhat disheartened, I turned away. I had the address of Mr Aslimi’s shop on the Muski and I was about to go in that direction when another idea occurred to me. I went on past the fountain and under an ancient arch, farther into the bazaar.

Kriticas was the best-known antiquities dealer in Cairo, a rival of Abd el Atti’s and an old friend. He greeted me with mingled pleasure and reproach. ‘I understand you are looking for demotic papyri, Mrs Emerson. Why did you not come to me?’

‘I would have done, Mr Kriticas, had I not been distracted by the death of Abd el Atti, of which I am sure you have heard.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Kriticas’ noble Greek brow furrowed. ‘A sad tragedy, to be sure. Now I happen to have an excellent specimen of a Twenty-Sixth Dynasty papyrus…’

I examined the merchandise, drank the coffee he pressed upon me, and inquired after his family before saying casually, ‘I see that Abd el Atti’s shop is closed. Who is the new owner – his son, or that charming old lady his wife?’

Kriticas had a characteristic silent laugh; his whole body shook, but not a sound came from his bearded lips. ‘You have met the lady?’

‘Yes. She appears to be a very determined woman.’

‘Yes, one might say that. She has no legal claim, of course. She has been acting on behalf of her son, Hassan. He is a bad hat, as you English say; a user of drugs, often in trouble with the police. But you know how these mothers are; the worse a son, the more they dote on him.’