Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (131 page)

There was no lock on the crude wooden door, but Nemo had attempted to barricade it with the packing case that served as his table. People often underestimate my physical strength. I am only five feet tall and rather on the thin side (in most areas), but I keep myself fit; when I put my shoulder to the door, I had no difficulty shoving the empty case out of the way.

Nemo lay on his side, facing the door. A slight, sweet smile curved his lips; the flame of the tiny lamp on the floor in front of him was reflected in his unblinking eyes.

He had brought the vile instrument of his destruction with him. I reproached myself for neglecting to search his belongings, though in fact I had not seen that he had any. But it would have been easy for him to conceal the pipe and the opium in the folds of his robe. I found them almost at once; sunk in the euphoria of the drug, he had not thought to conceal them again. The pipe lay beside him, where it had fallen from his lax hand. Near it were a small tin box half-filled with a dark, treacly substance and a thin metal dipper, which was used to scoop up a small quantity of the opium. Dipper and opium were then held over a flame until the substance was cooked and reduced in size, after which it was dropped into the bowl of the pipe.

I knew the futility of attempting to speak to Nemo. He was far away, wandering in fields of illusion. I gathered up the tin of opium, the pipe, and the metal dipper; blew out the lamp; and went quietly away.

The rest of the night passed without incident. Emerson snored. He seldom snores. When he does, it is usually deliberate.

I was up with the dawn, filled with my usual boundless energy. There was a great deal to be done that day, and I looked forward to it as a pugilist rejoices in the prospect of testing his strength against a worthy opponent. I moved quietly about my morning tasks, trying not to wake Emerson, for I thought it would be a good idea to have his breakfast ready when he woke. His temper would be tried often enough in the hours to come.

The absence of wooden flooring was annoying, for it enabled people to creep up on one unheard. My trained sixth sense, however, warned me that someone was watching me; expecting to see my ubiquitous son, I looked up with a frown and beheld instead the countenance of Mr Nemo peering warily through the curtain we had rigged to give us a modicum of privacy.

He inspected the room from one corner to the other, as if he expected to see monsters lying in wait. ‘Will you step outside with me, Mrs Emerson?’ he asked in a whisper.

I had been about to suggest the same thing. A long, serious conversation with Mr Nemo was high on my list of activities for the day. I was only surprised that he made no effort to avoid the scolding he must have known was coming. But perhaps instead of asking forgiveness he meant to go on the offensive and demand the return of his abominable drug apparatus. His grave expression and the firm set of his lips indicated determination rather than repentance.

Once outside, he beckoned me to follow him to the north side of the house, where we could not be seen from the doorway. Then he faced me.

‘Mrs Emerson, I am leaving your employ.’

He had not shaved that morning, nor used a comb and brush on his tumbled golden locks. (In fact, so far as I knew, he did not have a comb or brush.) The effects of the drug showed in his shrunken pupils and pale cheeks. But months of degradation had not eradicated all traces of the splendid young Englishman (or Scot) he had once been. Shaved and brushed, dressed in a proper suit, he would turn any woman’s head.

‘No, Mr Nemo, you are not,’ I said.

His lips twisted. ‘How do you propose to stop me?’

‘By force, if necessary.’ I leaned against the wall and folded my arms. ‘A shout from me would bring ten sturdy men who are sworn to obey my slightest command. I do not include Emerson, since, although his strength and devotion exceed all the others, he is rather disoriented when he is suddenly roused from sleep, and you might well elude him before he gets his wits in order. I doubt, however, that you could fight off Abdullah and his sons. No,’ I went on calmly, as he took a step toward me, his fists clenched. ‘Don’t try to intimidate me, for I know you are incapable of laying violent hands on a woman.’

‘You are not leaving my employ, Mr Nemo. What – do you suppose that, having once placed my shoulder to the wheel and my nose to the grindstone, I will leave the furrow unploughed? I have sworn to redeem you and redeem you I will, with your cooperation or without it. In principle, I am in full sympathy with the right of every Englishman – or woman – or, come to that, any man or woman of any nation … What was I about to say?’

Nemo’s frown had been replaced by a blank, almost imbecile stare. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ he mumbled.

‘Oh, yes. I believe firmly in the right of the individual to seek or leave employment whenever he or she chooses. Any infringement of that choice constitutes serfdom, and liberty is the inalienable right of humankind. However, in this case your right to liberty must be laid aside temporarily in favour of a higher good.

‘Having made that plain, Mr Nemo, I will proceed to the next point. Pay close attention, if you please. My determination to lift you out of the gutter was reinforced last night when I discovered you in the loathsome clutches of the devil’s weed. It is not what you think,’ I went on, more gently, as he turned his head away, a flush of shame mantling his bristled cheeks. ‘That discovery proved to me that I had been mistaken in another, more important assumption. I am not often mistaken. In this case there was some excuse for me, since the circumstances were suspicious in the extreme.

‘I knew full well that the man whose confederate I suspected you of being would never choose as a trusted aide any man whose loyalty or efficiency could be weakened by opium. You had said you were addicted, but in fact I had never seen you indulging in drugs. It makes a neat syllogism, you see. You are, as I know firsthand, a user of drugs. The Master Criminal does not admit drug addicts into his inner circle. (I make that assumption because only a fool would commit that error, and the Master Criminal is not a fool.) Therefore you are not –’

‘The – who?’ Nemo stammered.

‘The Master Criminal. The mysterious individual who controls the illicit antiquities trade in Egypt. Don’t tell me that during your sojourn in the underworld of Cairo you never head of him.’

‘A beggar and drug addict is not taken into the confidence of a professional criminal,’ Nemo said thoughtfully. ‘But what you say is true; there is such a man. I have heard rumours of him. It was – er – the name you used that surprised me. I certainly never heard him called that.’

‘He has a name, then? What is it?’

‘He has no name, only a variety of appellations. Those in his employ, I believe, refer to him as the Master. To others, less intimately associated with him, he is known as Sethos.’

‘Sethos! A curious name. You know nothing more?’

Nemo shook his head. ‘The men who work for the Master are the cream of the criminal crop; to be chosen by him is a mark of honour. Even those who are not in his employ are in deadly terror of him, and it is said that his revenge on a traitor is swift and horrible.’

‘Fascinating,’ I exclaimed. ‘I am deeply indebted to you for the information, Mr Nemo. Please forgive me for suspecting you. Though it now appears I was, in a sense, paying you a compliment!’

Nemo did not return my smile. ‘You owe me no apology. What you have told me changes nothing, Mrs Emerson. You are right, I would not touch a hair of your head, and your men could certainly overcome me; but you will have to bind me or imprison me to keep me here. I must and will go.’

‘I understand, Mr Nemo. I know what has moved you to this decision. It is the arrival of the young lady.’

Nemo’s tanned cheeks paled. ‘You – you –’

‘Looking from the window last night you saw her,’ I went on. ‘A flower of English womanhood, with the grace and charm that achieves its fullest perfection in our favoured nation. Seeing her must have reminded you of your shame and of what you have lost.’

Nemo raised a trembling hand to his brow. ‘You are a witch, Mrs Emerson!’

‘No, Mr Nemo; only a woman, with a woman’s heart. Our intellectual powers, never doubt it, are fully equal to those of the so-called stronger sex, but we have a greater understanding of the human heart. It was a woman who brought you to this, was it not?’

A muffled voice from the house interrupted the conversation at this interesting juncture. I took my watch from my pocket and inspected it. ‘Time is passing, Mr Nemo. I must be about my business. We will discuss your situation at a future time. Until then I count on you to remain. The young lady will keep to her room today. You won’t have to face her until I have spruced you up a bit and decided on a story to tell her. Have I your word not to run away?’

‘You would take my word?’ Nemo asked incredulously. ‘After I broke it?’

‘You did not break it. You said you would try not to succumb.’ Another, more irate shout from within reminded me of my duties. ‘I must be off. I am going to Cairo today. I will see you this evening.’

Nemo shrugged. ‘Until tonight, then. Beyond that –’

‘That will do. Yes, Emerson. I am here; I am coming.’

I hastened within.

When I set out shortly after breakfast, it was with the serene consciousness that I had dealt with all the outstanding emergencies. Enid had been warned that she must pretend weakness and keep to her room. We dared not risk her exposing her ignorance of archaeology, which would certainly occur within five minutes of her appearance at the dig. Mr Nemo had been measured for a suit of clothes and set off, with Ramses, to supervise the excavation of the causeway. Emerson had been soothed and fed and encouraged by my solemn promise that our bed that night would be under the open sky and the brilliant stars of the desert. (To be sure, a canvas roof would intervene between us and the open sky, brilliant stars, et cetera, but Emerson is particularly susceptible to poetic expressions of that nature. And I confess that I was myself peculiarly stimulated by the image thus evoked.)

I had sent Abdullah to hire a horse from the mayor of the village. It was the finest steed in the neighbourhood, a charming little brown mare that was reported to be the apple of the sheikh’s eye. Certainly the cost of her hire bore this out, as did her shining coat and the confidence with which she greeted me. I quite fell in love with her myself. Her high spirits matched my own; when she broke into a gallop I made no effort to restrain her, but abandoned myself to the joys of speed. I felt like one of the heroes of Anthony Hope or Rider Haggard, dashing to the rescue. (Their heroines, poor silly things, never did anything but sit wringing their hands waiting to be rescued.)

It seemed only a few moments before I saw the first of the monuments of Sakkara. Some energetic specimens of the tourist breed were already there, for next to Giza, Sakkara is the most popular excursion in the Cairo region. One of the guides told me where the archaeologists were working, and I was pleased to find Mr Quibell on his feet, notebook in hand, copying inscriptions. After I had lectured him on the impropriety of standing in the hot sun too long, following his indisposition, I asked after the young ladies.

Quibell replied, with proper expressions of gratitude, that, thanks to my assistance, all were recovering. They expected to finish their work at Sakkara within a day or two, after which they would join Petrie at Thebes. Miss Pirie had particularly asked him to express her thanks to me, if he should be fortunate enough to see me before they left. (Again the young man’s blush, as he mentioned the young lady’s name, told me she would not long retain it, if he had his way in the matter.)

I was relieved to hear of their imminent departure, and pleased that I had had the foresight to stop by in order to receive Quibell’s thanks, for otherwise he might have felt obliged to visit us again, and this would certainly have spelled disaster for Enid. I offered, in duty bound, to examine the ladies; Quibell assured me, with touching sincerity, that there was no need. Since I had a long ride ahead, I did not insist.

We parted with the friendliest compliments, and I proceeded northward to Giza, where I left the horse at Mena House and hired a carriage for the trip to Cairo. After completing my shopping, I arrived at Shepheard’s in time for a late luncheon, which I felt was well deserved.

Not that this pause in the day’s occupations was purely for sustenance and recreation – no, indeed. My principal errand to Cairo was yet to be accomplished, and as the first step, I needed to find out what the informed public knew about the murder. Even before ordering my repast, therefore, I told the waiter to ask Mr Baehler to join me, at his convenience, of course.

The dining room filled rapidly and I amused myself by watching the tourists. They were a variegated group – stout German scholars and smart English officers, shrill American ladies and giggling girls in the custody of sharp-eyed mamas. At a nearby table was a group of young Englishmen, and from the number of ‘your lordships’ and ‘my lords’ that sprinkled their conversation, it was not difficult to deduce that the pale, effeminate-looking young man to whom the others deferred was a sprig of the aristocracy. Their clothing was a bizarre combination of fine English tailoring and local costumery – a striped silk
sudeyree
, or vest, with riding breeches, or a gold-embroidered
aba
over a tweed shooting suit. None of them had removed their fantastic headgear – turbans of cashmere and white silk shawls, or tasselled tarbooshes – and several were puffing cigars, though there were ladies present.

I was ashamed to share their nationality, but after they had swaggered out I was able to console myself with the thought that bad manners are not restricted to any one country; not long afterwards an elderly American lady entered the dining room, and her strident voice and loud complaints turned all eyes toward her. She was attended by a plain, timid female, apparently a maid or companion, and by a young man whose arm she held more in the manner of a prison guard than a frail woman requiring assistance. She was tall and heavy-set, and her voluminous black gown and veils were many years out of date. Her antique bonnet was trimmed with tiny jet beads; with each ponderous step a little shower of them fell, rattling like sleet on the floor.