Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (95 page)

The one person I expected to see was not present, and during a lull in the ensuing conversation I inquired of the baroness, ‘Where is Ramses?’

‘Locked in one of the guest chambers,’ was the reply. ‘Oh, do not concern yourself, Frau Emerson; he is happily engaged with a papyrus. But it was necessary for me to confine him. Already he has fallen overboard and been bitten by a lion – ’

‘Lion?’ Emerson turned, with a cry, from the granite statue of Isis he had been examining.

‘My lion cub,’ the baroness explained. ‘I bought the adorable little creature from a dealer in Cairo.’

‘Ah,’ I said, enlightened. ‘Ramses was no doubt attempting to free the animal. Did he succeed?’

‘Fortunately we were able to recapture it,’ the baroness replied.

I was sorry to hear that. Ramses would undoubtedly try again.

The baroness reassured my snarling husband. The bite had not been deep and medical attention had been promptly applied. It was tacitly agreed that we would leave Ramses where he was until it was time to take him home. Emerson did not insist. He had other things on his mind.

These were, I hardly need say, the illicit antiquities collected by the baroness. He kept reverting to the subject despite the efforts of the others to keep the conversation on a light social plane, and after we had dined he finally succeeded in delivering his lecture. Striding up and down the salon, waving his arms, he shouted anathemas while the baroness grinned and rolled her eyes.

‘If tourists would stop buying from these dealers, they would have to go out of business,’ he cried. ‘The looting of tombs and cemeteries would stop. Look at this.’ He pointed an accusing finger at the mummy case. ‘Who knows what vital evidence the tomb robber lost when he removed this mummy from its resting place?’

The baroness gave me a conspiratorial smile. ‘But he is magnificent, the professor. Such passion! I congratulate you, my dear.’

‘I fear I must add my reproaches to those of the professor.’ The statement was so unexpected it halted Emerson’s lecture and turned all eyes towards the speaker. David continued, in the same soft voice, ‘Carrying human remains about as if they were cordwood is a deplorable custom. As a man of the cloth, I cannot condone it.’

‘But this poor corpse was a pagan,’ said Kalenischeff, smiling cynically. ‘I thought you men of the cloth were only concerned about Christian remains.’

‘Pagan or Christian, all men are the children of God,’ was the reply. All the ladies present – except myself – let out sighs of admiration, and David went on, ‘Of course, if I believed the remains were those of a fellow-Christian, however misled by false dogma, I would be forced to expostulate more forcibly. I could not permit – ’

‘I thought he was a Christian,’ the baroness interrupted. ‘The dealer from whom I bought him said so.’

A general outcry arose. The baroness shrugged. ‘What is the difference? They are all the same, dry bones and flesh – the cast-off garments of the soul.’

This shrewd hit – it was shrewd, I admit – was wasted on David, whose German was obviously poor. He looked puzzled, and de Morgan said soothingly, in the tongue of Shakespeare, ‘No, there is no question of such a thing. I fear the dealer deceived you, Baroness.’

‘Verdammter
pig-dog,’ said the baroness calmly. ‘How can you be sure, monsieur?’

De Morgan started to reply, but Emerson beat him to it. ‘By the style and decoration of the mummy case. The hieroglyphic inscriptions identify the owner as a man named Thermoutharin. He was clearly a worshipper of the old gods; the scenes in gilt relief show Anubis and Isis, Osiris and Thoth, performing the ceremony of embalming the dead.’

‘It is of the Ptolemaic period,’ said de Morgan.

‘No, no, later. The first or second century
A.D.
’

De Morgan’s lean cheekbones flushed with annoyance at Emerson’s dogmatic tone, but he was too much of a gentleman to debate the point. It was young David Cabot who peppered my husband with questions – the meaning of this sign or that, the significance of the inscriptions, and so on. I was surprised at his interest, but I saw nothing sinister in it – then.

Before long the baroness became bored with a conversation of which she was not the subject.
‘Ach!’
she exclaimed, clapping her hands. ‘So much fuss over an ugly mummy! If you feel so strongly, Professor, you may have it. I give it as a gift. Unless Brother David wants to take it, to bury it with Christian rites.’

‘Not I,’ David said. ‘The professor has convinced me; it is pagan.’

‘Nor I,’ said Emerson. ‘I have enough damned – that is, er … Give it to the Museum, Baroness.’

‘I will consider doing so,’ said the lady, ‘if it will win your approval, Professor.’

I could have told her that her elephantine flirtatiousness would have no effect on Emerson. Tiring finally of a game in which she was the only player, she invited her guests to view her new pet, which was kept in a cage on the deck. Emerson and I declined; and when the others had gone, I turned to my unhappy spouse. ‘You have done your duty like an English gentleman, Emerson. I am ready to leave whenever you are.’

‘I never wanted to come in the first place, Peabody, as you know. As I suspected, my martyrdom was in vain. The confounded woman has no demotic papyri.’

‘I know. But perhaps your appeals on behalf of antiquities will affect not only the baroness but the other tourists who were present.’

Emerson snorted. ‘Don’t be naive, Peabody. Let us go, eh? If I remain any longer in this storehouse of disaster, I will choke.’

‘Very well, my dear. As always, I bow to your wishes.’

‘Bah,’ said Emerson. ‘Where do you suppose that dreadful female has stowed our poor child?’

It was not difficult to locate Ramses. One of the baroness’s servants stood on guard before the door. He salaamed deeply when he saw us and produced the key.

Darkness had fallen, but the room was well lighted by two hanging lamps. Their beams fell upon a table well supplied with food and drink, and upon another table that held a papyrus scroll, partially unrolled. There was no sign of Ramses.

‘Curse it,’ Emerson said furiously. ‘I’ll wager she neglected to nail the porthole shut.’ He pulled aside the drapery that concealed the aforementioned orifice, and fell back with a cry. Hanging from the wall, like a stuffed hunting trophy, was a small headless body culminating in shabby brown buttoned boots. The legs were quite limp.

Accustomed as I was to finding Ramses in a variety of peculiar positions, this one was sufficiently unusual to induce a momentary constriction of the chest that kept me mute. Before I could recover myself, a far-off, strangely muffled but familiar voice remarked, ‘Good evening, Mama. Good evening, Papa. Will you be so good as to pull me in?’

He had stuck, in actuality, somewhere around the midsection, owing to the fact that the pockets of his little suit were filled with rocks. ‘It was a singular miscalculation on my part,’ Ramses remarked somewhat breathlessly, as Emerson set him on his feet. ‘I counted on de fact, which I have often had occasion to establish t’rough experiment, dat where de head and shoulders can pass, de rest of de body can follow. I had forgotten about de rocks, which are interesting specimens of de geological history of – ’

‘Why did you not pull yourself back into the room?’ I inquired curiously, as Emerson, still pale with alarm, ran agitated hands over the child’s frame.

‘De problem lies in my unfortunate lack of inches,’ Ramses explained. ‘My arms were not long enough to obtain sufficient purchase on de side of de vessel.’

He would have gone on at some length had I not interrupted him. ‘And the papyrus?’ I asked.

Ramses gave it a disparaging glance. ‘An undistinguished example of a twentiet’-dynasty mortuary text. De lady has no demotic papyri, Mama.’

We found the rest of the party still on deck. The ladies crouched before the cage in which the lion cub prowled restlessly, growling and snapping. I kept firm hold of Ramses’ arm while we made our excuses and thanked our hostess. At least I thanked her; Emerson only snorted.

Brother David announced his intention of riding back with us. ‘I must arise at dawn,’ he intoned. ‘This has been a delightful interlude, but my Master calls.’

The baroness extended her hand and the young man bent over it with graceful respect. ‘Humph,’ said Emerson, as we left him to complete his farewells. ‘I presume the interval has been lucrative as well as delightful. He wouldn’t be ready to leave if he had not accomplished what he came for.’

‘What was dat?’ Ramses asked interestedly.

‘Money, of course. Donations to the church. That is Brother David’s role, I fancy – seducing susceptible ladies.’

‘Emerson, please,’ I exclaimed.

‘Not literally,’ Emerson admitted. ‘At least I don’t suppose so.’

‘What is de literal meaning of dat word?’ Ramses inquired. ‘De dictionary is particularly obscure on dat point.’

Emerson changed the subject.

After we had mounted, Emerson set off at a great pace in an effort to avoid David’s company, but the young man was not to be got rid of so easily. Before the pair trotted beyond earshot I heard him say, ‘Pray explain to me, Professor, how a man of your superior intelligence can be so indifferent to that one great question which must supersede all other intellectual inquiries…’

Ramses and I followed at a gentler pace. He seemed deep in thought, and after a time I asked, ‘Where did the lion cub bite you?’

‘He did not bite me. His toot’ scratched my hand when I pulled him from de cage.’

‘That was not a sensible thing to do, Ramses.’

‘Dat,’ said Ramses, ‘was not de issue, Mama.’

‘I am not referring to your ill-advised attempt to free the animal from captivity. It appears to be a very young lion. Its chances of survival in a region where there are no others of its kind would be slim.’

Ramses was silent for a moment. Then he said thoughtfully, ‘I confess dat objection had not occurred to me. T’ank you for bringing it to my attention.’

‘You are welcome,’ I replied, congratulating myself on having headed Ramses off in the neatest possible manner. He scarcely ever disobeyed a direct command, but on those few occasions when he had done so, he had appealed to moral considerations as an excuse for failing to comply. I suspected the well-being of an animal would seem to him a sufficient excuse. By pointing out that he would only be worsening the unfortunate lion’s condition I had, as I believed, forestalled a second attempt at liberation.

How true it is that there are none so blind as those who will not see!

The night was utterly silent; the contentious missionary and his would-be prey had drawn far ahead. Sand muffled the hoofbeats of our steeds. We might have been a pair of ancient Egyptian dead seeking the paradise of Amenti, for I was absorbed in self-congratulation and Ramses was abnormally silent. Glancing at him, I was struck by an odd little chill, for the profile outlined against the paler background of the sandy waste was alarmingly like that of his namesake – beaky nose, prominent chin, lowering brow. At least it resembled the mummy of his namesake; one presumes that centuries of desiccation have not improved the looks of the pharaoh.

When we reached the house David bade us good night and rode off towards the village. It did not improve Emerson’s spirits to find the house dark and apparently deserted. John was there, however. We found him in his own room reading the Bible, and Emerson’s language, when he beheld that sacred Book, was absolutely disgraceful.

Next morning John was most apologetic about his lapse. ‘I know I ought to ’ave ’ad your beds made up and the kettle on the boil,’ he said. ‘It won’t ’appen again, madam. Duty to one’s superior is wot a man must do in this world, so long as it don’t conflict with one’s duty to – ’

‘Yes, yes, John, that is quite all right,’ I said, seeing Emerson’s countenance redden. ‘I shall want you to help me with photography this morning, so hurry and clear away the breakfast things. Ramses, you must – what on earth is the matter with you? I believe your chin is in your porridge. Take it out at once.’

Ramses wiped his chin. I looked at him suspiciously, but before I could pursue my inquiries Emerson threw down his napkin and rose, kicking his chair out of the way as is his impetuous habit.

‘We are late,’ he announced. ‘That is what happens when one allows social stupidities to interfere with work. Come along, Peabody.’

So the day began. Emerson had moved the men to a site farther north and west, where the irregular terrain suggested the presence of another cemetery. So it proved to be. The graves were quite unlike those of the Roman cemetery. These were simple interments; the bodies were enclosed only in coarse linen shrouds bound in crisscross fashion with red-and-white striped cords. The grave goods included a few crude stelae with incised crosses and other Christian insignia, proving what we had suspected from the nature of the burials themselves – that they were those of Copts. They were very old Copts, and I hoped this consideration would prevent the priest from protesting. He had left us strictly alone, but I feared he might object to our excavating a Christian cemetery. Emerson of course pooh-poohed this possibility; we would handle the bodies with the reverence we accorded all human remains and even rebury them if the priest desired. First, however, he wanted to study them, and if any superstitious ignoramus objected, he could take himself and his superstitions to Perdition or Gehenna.

Emerson wanted photographs of the graves before we removed the contents. That was my task that morning, and with John’s help I carried the camera, tripod, plates and other impedimenta to the site. We had to wait until the sun was high enough to illumine the sunken pits, and as we stood in enforced idleness I asked, ‘Did you enjoy yourself on your day out, John?’

‘Oh yes, madam. There was another service in the evening. Sister Charity sang divinely that touching ’ymn, “Washed in the blood of the Lamb.”’

‘And was it a good dinner?’

‘Oh yes, madam. Sister Charity is a good cook.’

I recognised one of the symptoms of extreme infatuation – the need to repeat the name of the beloved at frequent intervals. ‘I hope you are not thinking of being converted, John. You know Professor Emerson won’t stand for it.’