Children of the Storm (22 page)

“I strictly forbade him to do that,” I said indignantly.

“It doesn’t seem to have bothered them,” David said.

“What did you tell Evvie?” I asked.

“I said no, they didn’t. And changed the subject before she could inquire further,” David added with a laugh.

I decided I would do the same, for I did not want to fall into the error of some doting females, who assume that others enjoy an entire evening of stories about their grandchildren.

“We had an interesting visitor this afternoon,” I said. “Katherine, do you remember a young person called Molly Hamilton?”

Katherine nodded. “That spoiled child who raised such a fuss when her uncle wanted to—” She broke off, her green eyes narrowing. “Major Hamilton’s niece . . . but he wasn’t . . . He was . . .”

“Not Major Hamilton,” I said. “And she was not his niece. She was his daughter. And still is.”

They listened to my brief summary in fascinated silence. “The plot thickens,” said Cyrus, shaking his head. “What are you going to do about her?”

“Take her into the bosom of the family, of course,” said Emerson from the doorway. “As my—er—other brother once remarked, it is Amelia’s habit to adopt every unfortunate innocent she comes across, by force if necessary.”

“You are very late, Emerson,” I said reproachfully. “Really, it is a shame! And have you been showing those children pictures of disgusting mummies, after I strictly forbade . . . after I requested that you refrain from doing so?”

Not at all discomposed by this double-barreled attack, Emerson addressed a general smile and mumble of greeting at our guests and went at once to the sideboard, where he began pouring from various decanters. He had not abandoned the argument, however. Over his shoulder he remarked, “I am not the latest, my dear. Ramses and Walter are still to come.”

“That only makes it worse, Emerson. Why don’t you go and find them?”

“Such a fuss about nothing,” said Emerson, handing me a glass. “There you are, Peabody; drink your whiskey and behave yourself. I hear them coming now.”

They came in together, so absorbed in conversation that I verily believe Walter was unaware of his surroundings until Ramses, who had him firmly by the arm, brought him to a stop and directed his attention to the others.

“I say, I am sorry,” Walter exclaimed, blinking. “Have we kept you waiting? It is entirely my fault. I came across a particularly fascinating text, and wanted to consult Ramses about one or two obscure words. It seems to be—”

“Sit down, Walter, and be quiet,” said Emerson amiably. “No one wants to hear about your obscure philological interests. Vandergelt, I was surprised not to see you at Deir el Medina in recent days. Are you abandoning your part of the concession?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” said Cyrus, stroking his goatee. “Those tombs are mine, and I’ll be back at work pretty soon. We’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?” Emerson demanded in honest surprise.

Fatima announced dinner and we withdrew to the dining room. Cyrus began explaining to Emerson in a somewhat indignant voice that the preservation and recording of the treasures of the God’s Wives took precedence over other activities at this time—facts Emerson knew perfectly well, but preferred to ignore because he had his own plans.

The only thing I have against large parties is that it is impossible to keep track of everything that is being said. We are—I say it without apology—a wordy lot, and since we are also an intelligent lot, our conversations are worth listening to. Even Bertie had perked up and was talking animatedly to Lia. (I had seated him next to her, since she was less likely to interrupt him than some of the others.) Then I heard an isolated phrase and realized he was extolling the virtues of his absent beloved, Jumana.

Not until the end of the meal did the discussion become general. It was a comment of Emerson’s, delivered in his usual ringing tones, that caught everyone’s attention.

“I see no reason why we should do anything about it.”

“About what?” I inquired.

Emerson had addressed Ramses, who took it upon himself to answer me. “About the attack on Molly—Maryam—this afternoon. I suggested to Father that we must make an attempt to locate her assailant.”

“Right,” Cyrus agreed. “We can’t have that sort of thing going on. With all respect to your theories, Amelia, the most likely explanation is that the fellow is demented. He may attack other tourists. How do you propose to go about it?”

“For one thing, the police must be notified,” Ramses said, over Emerson’s grumbles. “And Father is the one to do it. They’ll listen to him. I also suggest offering a reward, starting with our fellows tomorrow morning. They know everyone on the West Bank and they will spread the word.”

“That makes sense,” I agreed. “Emerson?”

“Oh, curse it, I suppose I must,” Emerson muttered.

“Tomorrow morning,” I said.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” said Emerson.

I agreed with a show of reluctance that persuaded Emerson he had won the argument. In fact, the timing suited me very well. There were several other matters I meant to attend to while we were in Luxor.

WE PUT PART OF RAMSES’S scheme into operation as soon as we arrived at Deir el Medina the following morning, gathering our men and telling them of what had happened. Shock and surprise and expressions of their readiness to cooperate were the only results, however. Selim summed it up by declaring that no resident of the West Bank villages could have been responsible. Moral considerations aside, they knew only too well that attacks on tourists would be severely punished. There were always a few harmless madmen wandering about; they were well known and watched over with the respect Muslims show to the mentally afflicted, and none of them was given to violence.

“We will pass the word,” Selim promised. “And ask about strangers.”

So that was that. David and Evelyn had gone to the Castle, but Bertie was with us and so was Sennia. Letting her come was a reward and a distinction to which I felt she was entitled. Unfortunately, bringing Sennia along meant that we also had to bring Gargery and Horus. They were both frightful nuisances. Horus growled and snapped at everyone who came near Sennia, and Gargery refused to admit that he was no longer quick enough and strong enough to guard her from danger. Watching Sennia dash around the site with Gargery hobbling after her, cursing at Horus, who swore back at him, would have been amusing if it had not been so inconvenient. I hadn’t the heart to deny Gargery, though—or the courage to deny Horus.

Sennia’s self-appointed task was to collect inscribed ostraca for Ramses, so I persuaded her to help me sift the debris the men had removed from the house we were clearing. She had keen eyes and had been trained to recognize the cursive hieratic writing. The shards of broken pottery, some small, some quite large, sometimes had sketches instead of inscriptions. Fortunately I was able to snatch one particular scrap away before she got a good look at it. Later, I handed it to Ramses.

“Thank you, Mother,” he said. “Is this . . . Oh. Good Lord. Did Sennia see it?”

“No, I sent her off to help Emerson. You have been allowing her to fit broken pieces together, I believe; I hope and trust she has not come across others of this nature.”

“So do I,” Ramses muttered, holding the fragment by the edges. “I don’t think so, Mother. Knowing Sennia, she would have shown them to me and asked me to explain them. I will go over the others again before I let her work on them.”

“This is part of a larger piece. You see where this lower limb—”

“Yes,” Ramses said quickly. He was visibly embarrassed, not by the subject matter of the drawing itself but by my discussion of it. Young persons never quite accept the fact that their parents—particularly their mothers—are familiar with the mechanisms of the human body.

“It reminds me,” I went on, “of the drawings on that papyrus in the Turin Museum.”

“How the hell—” Ramses almost dropped the scrap. “I beg your pardon, Mother. How did you get a look at that papyrus? Women aren’t supposed to—”

“Have you ever known me to be deterred from my research by a foolish convention? It is quite possible that though its origins are unknown, that papyrus was found here at Deir el Medina, early in the last century. The villagers seem to have been a—er—merry lot.”

“Quite,” said Ramses, flushed and perspiring. “If you will excuse me, Mother—”

“Not just yet. I want to discuss another matter with you.”

Resignedly, Ramses subsided into a sitting position. I did not doubt he would find this subject even more embarrassing, but if it had not already occurred to him he was no son of mine. I plunged straight in medias res.

“The reappearance of Maryam casts a new light on the Affair of the Veiled Hathor and lends greater credence to one of our theories. She was not on my list—”

“List?” His jaw tightened and his black eyes narrowed to slits as comprehension was succeeded by outrage. “What list? Mother, you didn’t!”

“It was a legitimate, indeed, necessary, part of my criminal investigation.”

Ramses pushed his hat back and covered his flushed face with his hands. “I suppose you consulted Nefret,” he muttered between clenched fingers.

“My dearest boy, how could you suppose I would do such a thing? I waited until I could get you alone before raising the subject. And,” I went on, “I beg that you won’t waste time with false modesty. Emerson will be shouting for you soon. Maryam, as Molly, fancied herself in love with you—”

“For God’s sake, Mother, she was only fourteen. It was a youthful fancy, nothing more.”

I did not need to remind him of what she had done; the picture was probably as clear in his mind as it was in mine: Alone with him in his room, her dress pulled down to bare a youthful but unquestionably mature shape. What had preceded that moment I had no need to ask. She had been the aggressor, and he had immediately summoned me.

“All the same, she may have considered herself a woman scorned,” I said. “Fourteen is a difficult age, given to melodrama and long-held resentment.”

“Not for four years!” Ramses wiped perspiration off his forehead with his sleeve.

“Was there anyone else who might hold a grudge?”

Instead of protesting, he shrugged helplessly. “How the devil should I know what a woman considers . . . Oh, all right, Mother, since you insist. There was Dolly Bellingham. The fact that I murdered her father might reasonably prejudice her against me.”

“You acted in defense of yourself and of me,” I said. “I considered her, of course—”

“Of course,” Ramses muttered.

“But she was a thoroughly selfish little creature who cared nothing for her father. And easily distracted, would you not say?”

“Definitely.” An unwilling smile curled Ramses’s mouth. “She has probably been through a dozen men since.”

“I wouldn’t have put it quite that way, but I agree. Anyone else?”

“No. There’s Father, looking for me. May I be excused?”

I let him go, since I didn’t suppose I would get any more out of him—at that time. No doubt he was right about Maryam’s passing infatuation; but she had another, more compelling, reason for hating the entire lot of us. I wondered if Ramses had forgotten that her mother had met a violent end at the hands of one of our men—we had never ascertained which. Bertha had been in the process of attempting to kill me at the time, but Maryam might not see it that way. I remembered Sethos’s words: “If she blames me for her mother’s death, how do you suppose she feels about you?”

I gave myself a little shake and told myself to be sensible. I did not know how the girl felt about a number of things, and neither did her father.

I meant to add her to my list, though.

I managed to get Emerson away from the site and forced into a proper suit by mid-afternoon. Everyone had decided to come along. We were to dine at the Winter Palace after completing our various errands. Daoud had offered to take us across in his new boat. He had bought it for one of his sons and set him up in business, ferrying tourists back and forth from Luxor to the tombs and temples of the West Bank. Sabir was, his proud father informed us, one of the most successful of such entrepreneurs, which was not surprising, since his boat was the most attractive—brightly painted, immaculately clean, and fitted out with rugs on the floor and colorful cushions on the seats along both sides.

We pulled up to the dock amid a group of similar vessels, and Daoud announced he intended to visit relatives and would wait to take us back. I attempted to dissuade him, explaining that we might be late, but he was determined, and as the other boatmen gathered round I realized that he was looking forward to a good gossip with his friends. After disembarking we separated. David and Walter went off to look for antiquities and renew their acquaintances with various dealers; Evelyn and Lia decided to stroll about and perhaps visit a few shops. I declined their invitation to join them.

“I suppose you want to go to the police with me,” said Emerson resignedly.

“Why, no, my dear, I will leave that to you. Ramses, are you going with your father?”

Ramses nodded. “I believe we also ought to inform the police about the carelessness of the hunters. We will meet you at the hotel later.”

They started off down the dusty road side by side. “That’s got them out of the way,” I said to Nefret, who had remained with me.

“Yes. I presume you mean to call on Mrs. Fitzroyce. Father wouldn’t approve.”

“That is why I wanted him out of the way. You see the necessity of such a visit.”

“I see why you believe it to be necessary.”

“You don’t agree?”

“I don’t know,” Nefret said, frowning slightly. “I have nothing against the girl, and I would like to see her reconciled with her father, for his sake as much as hers.”

“But?”

“But . . .” Nefret’s brow smoothed out and she smiled affectionately at me. “No buts. You offered to assist her, and if I were in your place I would wait for her to make the next move. It’s your decision, though.”

The Isis was one of the few private dahabeeyahs moored alongside the tourist steamers. Nefret let out a low whistle (an unladylike habit she had got from Ramses) when she saw it. It was a steam-dahabeeyah, one of the largest and most ostentatious boats I had ever seen. Brass railings shone and gilt tassels adorned the gold-and-crimson awning that shaded the upper deck. Large gold lettering spelled out the name, and the British flag flew at the stern. A wide carpeted gangplank extended from the boat to the bank. There was no one in sight on deck or on the shaded upper deck, but as soon as I set foot on the gangplank, a man dressed in Egyptian style appeared and hailed me in English, asking what I wanted. I replied in Arabic that I had come to call on the Sitt. “Take this to her,” I went on, handing the fellow one of my cards. “And ask if she will see me.”