Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (140 page)

‘You are quite right,’ Enid said. ‘I had not been in Cairo two days before Kalenischeff approached me. He offered his assistance – for a price, of course – in finding Donald, who, Kalenischeff assured me, had slunk off like a whipped cur and hidden himself in Cairo’s foul underworld.’

Donald winced and covered his face with his hand. Enid went on remorselessly, ‘Alone I had no hope of entering that disgusting ambiance or approaching its denizens. Kalenischeff persuaded me that we should pretend to be – to be interested in one another in order to conceal my true purpose and lull Donald and his criminal associates–’

‘That was rather credulous of you,’ Emerson said critically. ‘But never mind; I take it you did not, in fact, murder the rascal in a fit of pique or in defence of your virtue? No, no, don’t lose your temper; a simple shake of the head will suffice. I never believed a woman could strike such a blow, penetrating the muscles of the chest and entering the heart–’

‘Emerson, how can you!’ I cried indignantly. ‘You told me–’

‘You misunderstood,’ said Emerson, with such sublime indifference to truth that I was struck dumb with indignation. He compounded the insult by continuing, ‘Well, well, we are in a confused situation here, but that is nothing new; and at least the story these two young idiots – excuse me, young people – have produced puts an end to your theory that Sethos was responsible for Kalenischeff’s death. There is no evidence–’

‘But there soon will be,’ I assured him. ‘Abdullah and Hassan are bringing it – the body of one of the Master Criminal’s henchmen, dead by his own hand after he had failed his dread master in the assignment of abducting me. That is to say, he did not know it was me; I was disguised as Enid, and he–’

‘You were disguised,’ Emerson repeated slowly, ‘as Miss Debenham?’

I explained. Emerson listened without interrupting once. Then he turned to Nemo – or Donald, as I must call him.

‘You, sir, were present, when these remarkable events occurred?’

‘Emerson, do you doubt my word?’ I demanded.

‘Not at all, Amelia. The only thing I doubt is that anyone could mistake you for Miss Debenham.’

‘Donald did,’ I declared triumphantly. ‘Is that not true, Donald? You followed me, believing I was Enid. No doubt you were trying to work up courage enough to reveal yourself.’

But the untenability of this assumption was apparent as soon as I voiced it, for Nemo had remained in concealment for an hour and a half without making his presence known. The deep flush of shame that dyed his manly cheeks betrayed his true motive. He loved her – deeply, hopelessly, desperately – and his only joy was to worship her dainty form (or what he believed to be hers) from afar.

Tactfully I turned the subject. ‘The evidence will soon be forthcoming, Emerson. I believe I hear Abdullah coming now.’

It was indeed Abdullah, with Hassan close on his heels.

‘Where have you put the body?’ I asked.

Abdullah shook his head. ‘There was no body, sitt. We found the spot you described; there were signs of a struggle, and bloodstains upon the ground. We searched far and wide, thinking the man might have recovered and crawled away–’

‘Recovered from being dead?’ I exclaimed. ‘Abdullah, do you think I don’t know a corpse when I see one?’

‘No, sitt. But dead or alive, he was gone. No doubt he was dead, as you say, for we heard his ghost calling in a high, thin voice, as spirits do.’

Hassan nodded in emphatic confirmation. ‘We ran away then, sitt, for we did not want the dead man to mistake us for his murderers.’

‘Oh, good Gad,’ I said disgustedly. ‘That was not a ghost you heard, you foolish men. There are no such things. It must have been a bird, or a – or a –’

‘Never mind, Peabody, I will conduct my usual exorcism,’ said Emerson. The use of that name instead of ‘Amelia’ indicated that he had forgotten his annoyance with me in the pleasurable anticipation of the theatrical performance to which he had referred. Emerson had often been called upon to perform exorcisms, Egypt being, in the opinion of its citizens, a particularly demon-ridden country. He has quite a reputation as a magician and is deservedly proud of it.

‘Emerson,’ I said, interrupting his description of how he meant to go about the ritual. ‘Emerson –
where is Ramses
?’

We looked in Ramses’ room, purely as a matter of form; I knew, as did Emerson, that if he had been anywhere about, he would have come to see what the commotion was, talking and interrupting and asking questions and making comments.

We set out en masse for the Bent Pyramid. Emerson soon outstripped the rest of us, but Donald was not far behind him. The young man’s look of haggard remorse was so poignant I had not the heart to reproach him for neglecting his duty. Love, as I reflected philosophically, has a corrosive effect on the brain and the organs of moral responsibility.

Since I had not mentioned to Emerson the collapse of the subsidiary pyramid, he had no idea where to start looking; when I arrived on the scene he was rushing around like a dog on a scent and making the evening hideous with his stentorian repetitions of Ramses’ name.

‘Be silent a moment,’ I begged. ‘How can you hear him reply if you keep shouting?’

Emerson nodded. Then he turned like a tiger on poor Abdullah and clutched him by the throat of his robe. ‘From what direction did the cry you heard come?’

Abdullah gestured helplessly and rolled his eyes, finding speech impossible because of the constriction of the cloth around his throat.

‘If you will forgive me, Emerson, that was a foolish question,’ I said. ‘You know how difficult it is to determine the origin of a faint, muffled cry in this barren region. I have, I believe, more pertinent information which I will produce as soon as you are calm enough to hear it. Look there, Emerson. Look at the small pyramid.’

One glance was all that trained eye required. His hand fell in nerveless horror from the throat of our devoted reis; his eyes moved with mingled dread and deliberation over the new-fallen debris at the base of the small structure. None knew better than the dangers of a careless attack on the unstable mass.

It was young Selim who gave a heartbreaking cry and flung himself onto the debris, where he began digging frantically. Emerson dodged a perfect rain of broken stone and lifted Selim up by the scruff of his neck. ‘That won’t do, my lad,’ he said in a kindly voice. ‘You will bring the rest of the heap down on your head if you aren’t careful.’

Contrary to popular opinion, Arabs are very soft-hearted people and feel no shame in displaying emotion. Selim’s face was wet with tears, which mingled horribly with the sand to form a muddy mask. I patted him on the shoulder and offered him my handkerchief. ‘I don’t think he is under there, Selim,’ I said. ‘Emerson, do call again. Just once, my dear, and then wait for an answer.’

No sooner had the echoes of Emerson’s poignant cry died into silence than there was an answer, high and faint and far away, quite easily mistaken by superstitious persons for the wailing of a lost spirit. Abdullah started. ‘That was it, O Father of Curses. That was the voice we heard!’

‘Ramses,’ I said, sighing. ‘He has found the entrance, curse – I mean, bless him. Emerson, do you see that shadow ten feet above the debris and slightly to the right of centre?’

A brief and, on my part, rational discussion of the situation resulted in the conclusion that the opening might indeed be the long-concealed entrance, and that it would be possible for us to reach it if we exhibited a reasonable amount of care. Emerson kept interrupting me with whoops of ‘Ramses!’ and Ramses kept answering, in that uncanny wail. I finally put an end to the procedure by reminding Emerson that shouting used oxygen, a commodity of which Ramses might be in short supply if indeed, as one could only assume, he was shut into a place from which he could not extricate himself unaided. Emerson at once agreed, and I must say I found it much easier to cogitate without him bellowing.

Like the larger stone pyramids, this smaller version had been built of blocks that ascended like a giant, four-sided staircase. However, this structure was – as we had evidence – much less stable than its neighbour; it would be necessary to ascend with extreme caution, testing each block before putting one’s weight upon it. Emerson insisted upon leading the way. As he correctly (but, I thought, depressingly) pointed out, if the block would not hold his weight, I would know if it was not safe to step on it.

At last we reached the level of the opening and discovered that it was indeed the entrance – or, at least, an entrance – to the interior. Nothing but blackness showed within. Emerson took a deep breath. I stopped him with a soft reminder. ‘Even the vibrations of a loud shout …’

‘Hmmm,’ said Emerson. ‘True, Peabody. Do you think he is in there?’

‘I am certain of it.’

‘Then I am going in.’

But he could not. The narrow opening would not admit the breadth of his shoulders, twist and turn them as he might. I waited until he had exhausted himself before I mentioned the obvious. ‘My turn, Emerson.’

‘Bah,’ said Emerson; but he said no more. An exclamation of distress came from quite another quarter. Donald had followed us; I had observed the skill with which he moved on the uneven surface, and deduced that he must have done some climbing. Now he said softly, ‘Professor, surely you don’t intend to let her–’

‘Let her?’ Emerson repeated. ‘I never
let
Mrs Emerson do anything, young man. I occasionally attempt to prevent her from carrying out her more harebrained suggestions, but I have never yet succeeded in doing so.’

‘I am narrower through the shoulders than you,’ Donald persisted. ‘Surely I am the one–’

‘Balderdash,’ Emerson said brusquely. ‘You have had no experience. Mrs Emerson has an affinity for pyramids.’

While they were discussing the matter, I removed my coat and lighted a candle. After discovering that Ramses was not in his room (and before leaving the house) I had dashed to the roof to retrieve my belt and my parasol. The latter I had of necessity left below, but the belt and its accoutrements had again proved their utility.

‘A
bientôt,
Emerson,’ I said, and wriggled head-first into the hole.

There was no reply, but a surreptitious caress upon the portion of my body yet exposed was sufficient evidence of his emotions.

I found myself in a narrow passageway lined with stone. It was high enough for me to stand erect, but in view of the steep angle at which it descended I considered it better to proceed in a crawling position. I had not gone far before I saw something unusual. The darkness ahead was broken by an irregular patch of brightness. The light strengthened as I moved slowly forward, and I found that it streamed through a narrow gap in a huge fall of stone and brick which had blocked the passage. Cautiously I assumed an upright position and applied my eye to the gap.

Seated on a large block of stone, his back against the wall of the passage, was Ramses. He had stuck a candle onto the stone with its own grease, and he was scribbling busily on a notepad. Though I knew he must have heard my involuntary gasp of relief at finding him unharmed, he did not stop writing until he had finished the sentence and ended it with an emphatic jab of his pen. Then he looked up.

‘Good evening, Mama. Is Papa with you, or have you come alone?’

No, dear Reader, the break in the narrative at this point is not intended to keep from your ears (or eyes) the words I spoke to my son. I did not dare shout at him for fear of disturbing the delicate balance of the stones around me. In fact, it was Ramses who spoke, describing in wearisome detail the method by which we ought to remove the fallen rubble in order to free him. He was still talking when I left.

My head had scarcely emerged from the entrance hole when it was seized by Emerson. In between raining kisses on my face, more or less at random, he asked questions I could not hear owing to the fact that his hands were covering my ears.

I was pleased but surprised; Emerson’s demonstrations of affection, though extravagant in private, are not often displayed before an audience. And indeed, if he had seen Donald Fraser’s grin, he would have desisted at once.

Having solved the auditory problem, I explained the situation. ‘I cannot shift the stones, Emerson; they are too heavy for me. I think we will have to take advantage of Mr Fraser’s offer after all.’

‘Is Ramses all right? Is the dear boy injured?’ Emerson inquired anxiously.

‘He is working on a manuscript which I presume to be his Egyptian grammar,’ I replied curtly. ‘Mr Fraser, if you will?’

Donald followed me into the passageway. At the sight of the obstruction he let out a soft whistle. In the dim flame of the candle I held, he resembled one of the ancient workmen crouching on hands and knees before the burial chamber in which he had left his royal master hidden (as he vainly hoped) for all eternity.

I said softly, ‘Study the situation, Mr Fraser, I pray, before you touch any of the stones. A careless move–’

‘I understand,’ Donald said.

Then we heard a thin, high voice. ‘I suggest, Mr Nemo – or Mr Fraser, as the case may be – that you endeavour to locate the pivotal point on which the relative mass of the rockfall is balanced; for according to my calculations the total weight of the portion of the pyramid over our heads is approximately eighteen and one-third tons, give or take a hundred weight…’