Children of the Storm (29 page)

“But he wasn’t.”

“He was alive and fully conscious,” Nefret said somewhat sourly. “François wouldn’t let me examine him. I didn’t insist, since the little wretch was as happy as a schoolboy on holiday, laughing exultantly and crowing about how the goddess had smiled and held out her hands to bless him.”

“Did she?”

“Damned if I know. I lost my head,” Nefret admitted. “I took my bow because . . . Well, because I felt someone ought to be armed with something, just in case. You know how Ramses feels about guns.”

“A firearm would have been excessive.”

“One couldn’t have shot the woman in cold blood,” Nefret conceded. “I’m better with a bow than with a gun anyhow, and I aimed at her feet, or rather, at the ground in front of where I thought her feet must be. Ramses snatched the bow from me—he had to detach Maryam first, she was hanging on to him and screaming. By the time we reached the temple entrance she was gone. Ramses and David searched, but she had plenty of time to get away if she knew the plan of the place, which she obviously does.”

I filed this fact away for future consideration. By itself it meant nothing—or rather, it might mean a number of different things. Once all the facts were put together, a picture might emerge. I would have to find the time to make one of my little charts, which had proved useful in earlier investigations.

“I expect we had better get out to the dig,” I said. “Emerson’s initial reaction to any annoyance is to blame me, but once he cools off he is the most reasonable of men. Don’t worry, my dear, I will get everyone back on track tomorrow, and Ramses will have the chance to work on his texts.”

“You think of everything, Mother.”

“I have let one or two matters slip of late,” I admitted handsomely. “For one thing, I am concerned about Sethos. I hope he is well enough to travel soon; I want to get Maryam away from that unpredictable boy and his grandmother, but I would rather not beard Mrs. Fitzroyce in her lair until Sethos is here. She was most uncooperative when I asked if Maryam could visit us.”

“Perhaps you can catch the old lady in one of her senile moods,” Nefret suggested.

“That would be convenient. Then there is M. Lacau to be dealt with,” I continued, as we strolled slowly along the path. “The missing jewelry is now a dead issue, in my opinion. It, and the thief, are probably out of the country and there is no possibility of recovering it. I will break the news to Lacau myself, when he condescends to turn up, but I see no advantage in inviting him to do so.”

Nefret nodded agreement. Her brow was still furrowed, however, so I endeavored to make her look on the bright side. “That leaves only the matter of Maryam to be settled, and we can do nothing until her father comes—which he will, in his own good time. I will, of course, turn my analytical talents to bear on the identity of the imitation Hathor, but in my opinion she is only a red herring—a nuisance, a distraction. What actual harm has she done?”

“Until we know who she is and why she is doing this, we cannot predict what harm she is likely to do.” Nefret stopped. Avoiding my eyes, she plucked a bright-yellow zinnia and began pulling off its petals. “Mother, I can’t discuss this with Ramses, but you must have thought of the possibility that she is a past . . .”

“Lover? Don’t be afraid of shocking me, Nefret, I am quite familiar with the word and tolerably familiar with Ramses’s—er—history along those lines.”

“How familiar?” She looked up from the poor mutilated flower.

“Perhaps ‘suspicious’ would be more accurate. Naturally he never admitted anything. All of it took place before you were married. Surely you have no reason to doubt his fidelity. He loves you—”

“Madly, passionately, not at all,” Nefret murmured, plucking a petal with each word. “I don’t doubt him, Mother. I only wondered if there was one in particular. But I wouldn’t ask you to talk about him behind his back.”

She tossed the flower away without finishing the little verse.

“That would not be fair or well-bred,” I said. “But I will give the matter some thought.”

She took my arm and we walked on. On the path behind us the golden petals of the flower shone bright in the sunlight.

AFTER FATIMA HAD PUT THE finishing touches on one of her extravagant picnic lunches, Nefret and I rode to Deir el Medina. Upon our arrival we had to avoid a large group of Cook’s tourists and their morose little donkeys. We did not avoid their attention, however; I heard one of the cursed guides proclaim our identities in a loud voice. Cameras began to click, and one very stout lady shouted, “Stop for a moment, Mrs. Emerson, so that I can get a good picture.”

Needless to say, I went on without halting or replying.

“You ought to be used to it by now, Mother,” Nefret said with a chuckle. “We are among the most popular sights of Luxor.”

It was Emerson’s fault that we were. As one of our journalistic acquaintances had once observed, he made splendid copy, always shouting and hitting people. He hadn’t actually hit anyone lately, but he had made quite a spectacle of himself during our clearance of Cyrus’s tomb, waving his fists at tourists and threatening importunate journalists—who delightedly wrote down every bad word.

I was relieved to observe that none of the tourists had dared come near the area which Emerson had roped off. Within its parameters the rudiments of a plan had begun to emerge, though only a trained eye (like my own) could have made sense of the fragmentary walls and occasional column bases. Nefret and I left our horses with the others and approached Emerson, who was standing over Bertie, his hands on his hips, while the boy plotted out the fragments on his drawing paper.

“Coming along nicely, I see,” I observed amiably. “This must have been the forecourt of the Seti the First temple.”

“As a matter of fact, it is the pillared hall of an even older temple,” Emerson replied. “Where have you been, Peabody? The debris is piling up.”

“I will get to it at once. Well done, Bertie. How neatly you have drawn all those bits and pieces!”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Bertie pushed his pith helmet back and wiped his perspiring brow. “Selim and David have been helping with the measurements, but it’s a tricky plan.”

“Where is Ramses?” Nefret asked.

“Over there.” Emerson gestured. “Running a test trench along the north side of the enclosure wall, to see if he can find a place that wasn’t disturbed by our bloody predecessors digging for artifacts. I don’t know which are worse, local thieves or cursed Egyptologists. How can I make sense out of the stratigraphy when they’ve jumbled everything together?”

“All the more credit to you, my dear, for making sense out of the chaos they have left.”

Emerson gave me a rather self-conscious look, and drew me aside. “I apologize, Peabody,” he said, squaring his magnificent shoulders. His black hair shone like a raven’s wing. This did not seem the time to ask what he had done with his hat.

“It is forgotten, Emerson.”

“Oh, really? Are you sure,” inquired Emerson, “that you have not filed it away for future reference, along with my other sins?”

“My dear, I couldn’t possibly keep track of them all.”

Emerson chuckled, reached for me, glanced at Bertie, and let his arm fall to his side. “We gave the place a thorough search, Peabody. The ground had been trampled by bare and shod feet. The only thing we found was a scrap of fabric caught on the enclosure wall, on a section where it would be fairly easy to scramble over it. There is debris piled on both sides.”

He searched his pockets, and after removing pipe, tobacco pouch, scraps of pottery, and a variety of the odd items men carry about with them, produced a strip of white stuff, which he handed to me.

“Hmmm,” I said, examining it. “Fine linen, with, I do believe, the remains of pleating. I will keep this, if I may. Put your pipe away, Emerson, before you drop it. Why do you have a pocketful of nails?”

“I was putting up a sign,” Emerson explained, pricking his finger on one of the nails. He sucked it, and then went on, “A more emphatic sign, warning the cursed tourists off. One of them actually offered me money to pose for a photograph.”

“Kodaking has become another curse of the working archaeologist,” I agreed. “But I hope you didn’t strike him, Emerson.”

“It was a female,” said Emerson gloomily. “I couldn’t even swear at her. Lia had to do it for me, since you weren’t here.”

I decided I had better have a look at the sign. It began, “I will kill with my bare hands . . .” and went on in the same vein for several more sentences. While I was inspecting it, Selim, relieved of his surveying duties, joined me.

“I am to make another one, in Arabic,” he announced with a grin. “With the exact words.”

“We may as well do German and French too. Find more boards, Selim. Is there any news?”

“About last night? It is a great mystery, Sitt Hakim. The other men were as astonished as I.”

“Was it known in Gurneh that Ramses and the others were to be here?”

“Oh, yes, Sitt. They made no secret of it.” Selim delicately scratched his beard and glanced at me from under his lashes. “It is also widely known that the White Lady has come before, on the night of the full moon.”

“How many people have actually seen her?”

Selim thought about it, frowning. “It is a good question, Sitt. I have not spoken with any who saw her; they heard the stories, as did I, from others.”

“The women do not come here, seeking her favor? The ancients prayed to Hathor for happiness in love, and for children.”

“They would be afraid to come after dark, Sitt. They fear demons and ghosts.”

“Interesting,” I said thoughtfully.

“Yes, Sitt. But what does it mean?”

Another good question, and one to which I had no answer.

Selim had one piece of relatively good news. The boat had been located a few hundred yards downstream, run up against the bank. The men who had found it had immediately reported the discovery to Daoud; though the damage was extensive, it was not beyond repair, and the boat had already been towed to the landing near Luxor.

“Until the repairs on the boat are completed, Sabir is without a means of income,” I said, after we had all gathered round the luncheon basket. “Tell him to purchase another vessel, Daoud. We will pay for it, of course.”

“It will be a loan,” said Daoud firmly. “He will repay you.”

“Bah,” said Emerson. “It is our responsibility—unless Sabir had a business rival who resented his success. Can you think of any such man?”

“They are all jealous,” said Daoud proudly. “All the boatmen. Because Sabir made more money than they. But none would destroy another man’s boat, it would not—it would not be . . .”

“Honorable,” I suggested, as Daoud groped for the right word. “A matter of professional ethics.”

“Yes,” said Daoud, relieved. He looked inquiringly at the last of the sandwiches and I said, “Take it, Daoud, the rest of us have finished. Even if your assessment is not correct—and I feel certain it is—I cannot imagine anyone daring to risk injury to us.”

“The wrath of the Father of Curses is more dangerous than a sandstorm in the desert,” Daoud agreed.

EMERSON IS ALWAYS IN A better state of mind after he has been fed. After Fatima’s excellent luncheon he agreed without demur to the dispersal of his staff. Ramses said he would stay to finish excavating the trench, and I returned to my rubbish heap, with Lia to help. When we returned to the house that afternoon I fully expected Emerson would retreat to his study with Bertie’s plan and his own field notes, but he declared he did not want to miss his time with the dear children.

“We don’t see enough of them,” he complained, returning from the bath chamber and hastily assuming clean garments. “You won’t let them take breakfast with us, and they go to bed so early—”

“The amount of time we spend with them is entirely up to you, Emerson. If you would give up a few hours each day we could take them sightseeing and visiting, arrange little games, teach them to ride, and so on. Evvie and Dolly haven’t been to the Castle, or to Selim’s house, or even to Luxor.”

“You are an absolute genius at putting the blame onto a fellow,” Emerson grumbled.

I went to the veranda, where Evelyn was chatting with Fatima as she set out the tea things. Walter was sorting through a pile of letters.

“I hope you don’t mind, Amelia,” he said. “I was looking to see if there is anything for Evelyn or me.”

“Pray continue sorting it, Walter. The post has rather piled up the last few days. I haven’t had time to look at it.”

After extracting several letters, one of which he handed to Evelyn, he passed the basket with its overflowing contents to me.

“From Raddie,” Evelyn said, and began reading with a happy smile.

“A brief note from Willy,” said Walter. “And a letter from Griffith. He wants more Meroitic inscriptions.”

“Why the devil does he suppose we will find them in Luxor?” Emerson demanded.

“One never knows what the dealers may have,” Walter said mildly. “I’ve given up Meroitic, as you know, so anything I find will go to Frank.”

“You and Mr. Griffith have a remarkably cordial relationship,” I remarked, handing Emerson a pile of letters. “Most Egyptologists are quarrelsome and possessive.”

“If that was meant for me, Peabody, I flatly deny it,” said Emerson, hastily looking through his letters and tossing them back into the basket.

“Wasn’t that a letter from Mr. Winlock?” I asked.

“I don’t care what the bastard has to say.”

Shrieks of childish anticipation prevented me from asking what Mr. Winlock had done to incur Emerson’s ire. The twins burst in, accompanied by their parents, and I lifted the post basket high in the air, out of reach of Davy, who loved letters and believed everything that came was directed to him. Emerson took the children on his lap. I handed Ramses and Nefret their messages and began opening my own.

“Nothing from . . . ?” Emerson asked.

“No. Most of these are the usual thing.”

“The usual thing?” Evelyn inquired.

I read a few aloud, for the amusement of the others. “ ‘My dear Mrs. Emerson. You don’t know me, but my brother is the son-in-law of Lady Worthington, and I would like to make your acquaintance. At what time would it be convenient for me to call on you?’ “

“Who is Lady Worthington?” Nefret asked.

“I have no idea. ‘My dear Mrs. Emerson. It would be a great privilege to be shown round the sites of Luxor by your husband. We will be at the Winter Palace this week.’ “

“More letters from impertinent visitors?” David asked. He and Lia came in with the two children and Sennia. Evvie ran to Davy and embraced him fiercely. He hugged her back, twittering melodiously, while Charla scowled at both of them.

“We get that sort of thing all the time,” said Sennia in a worldly manner. “Read some more, Aunt Amelia, they are quite amusing, really.”

“This is a particularly charming example,” I said. “ ‘We are two young American ladies who are anxious to meet your son. Mr. Weigall, whom we met in London last month, assures us he is very knowledgeable, and handsome, too.’ “

“I owe Weigall one for that,” Ramses muttered.

“I doubt he said any such thing,” I replied, tossing another half-dozen epistles into the wastepaper basket.

“He was certainly the social butterfly when he was inspector,” Nefret remarked. “Always bragging about Prince This and Lady That.”

“We mustn’t be uncharitable, my dear. In his official capacity Mr. Weigall had to be polite to important visitors. So do some of our colleagues who are dependent upon private contributions. We are under no such constraints, and people like that are only a nuisance if one allows them to take advantage. Gargery has been quite useful in that respect; if strangers turn up asking for us, we send him out in full butling mode. When he looks down his nose and intones, ‘The Professor and Mrs. Emerson are not at home,’ even the most importunate Americans beat a retreat.”

“Gargery can’t look down his nose at everyone,” said Lia with a laugh. “He’s only five— Oh, Gargery. I am sorry; I didn’t see you.”

“That is quite all right, Miss Lia,” said Gargery, putting her in her place by calling her miss instead of madam.

“Gargery can look down his nose at anyone,” I said. “It is not a matter of height, but of presence.”

“Thank you, madam,” said Gargery. “Shall I bring the drinks tray, Professor?”

“Yes, why not?” He sat down on the floor and beckoned the children to gather round. “See what I found today.”

It was a small statue of limestone, approximately six inches high. The workmanship was rather crude, but the face had a smiling, naive charm. “This was dedicated to the queen Ahmose Nefertari by a fellow named Ikhetaper,” Emerson explained, tracing the line of hieroglyphs with his finger. “You may look but don’t touch. It is not a dolly.”

“I would like to go and dig with you and Mama and Papa,” said Evvie. “If I find something, can I keep it?”

Charla shot her an evil look, which Emerson did not miss. He knew better than to accede to that request. “I’ll tell you what,” he said heartily. “Supposing I teach you all how to ride a donkey. As I said to your grandmother the other day, it is high time you learned.”

The offer was received with general acclamation. I am not a petty-minded woman. I did not mention that it had been my idea.

On the whole, the riding lesson was a success. That is to say, it was a success with the children. The donkeys were less than pleased and one of the adult persons present behaved rather badly. I refer of course to Emerson, who kept snatching the children off the little beasts whenever they (the latter) moved faster than a walk. Evvie fell off twice and Davy once—to express his solidarity, I believe, on the second occasion. The happiest of all was Dolly, who trotted round and round the courtyard like someone who had been riding all his life. When Emerson, puffing and dust-covered, declared an end to the lesson, Dolly obediently dismounted. He came to me and took my hand.

“That was very good,” I said. “We will keep this particular donkey for you.”

“Thank you, Aunt Amelia. When I am older I will ride a great white horse, like my great-great-grandfather.”

“Only one ‘great,’ “ I said, wondering what the devil Emerson had been telling him. Abdullah had never been an enthusiastic horseman.

“When will we go and see him again?”

“Soon. Run along now and wash up for supper.”

Charla did not want to get off the donkey. She stuck like a cocklebur until Ramses detached her and carried her away.

Since I had remained a safe distance from the circus it did not take me long to tidy myself. I treated myself to a brief stroll through the gardens, checking on my plantings. One of the roses appeared to me to be a trifle wilted; I made a mental note to remind Fatima to remind Ali to water it. What a restful place it was—the sweet scent of blossoms, the melodious songs of birds. A bee-eater flashed overhead, iridescent bronze and steel blue and green, and a dove let out its strange cry, almost like a human laugh. The cry ended in a squawk and I plunged into the shrubbery in time to detach Horus from the dove before he could do much damage. The dove flapped off and Horus swore at me. Such a peaceful place . . .

I had been guilty of a certain degree of hubris when I implied to Nefret that I had everything under control. I had not exactly lied to her—I never lie unless it is absolutely necessary—I had only applied the reassurance I thought she needed. However, things had happened so fast that it was hard to keep track of them. The infuriating Mr. Smith’s visit had added additional complications.

It was time to make one of my little lists.

As soon as dinner was over I excused myself, claiming I had work to do—which was the truth. Seating myself at my desk, I began by ruling my paper into neat sections and then headed one column “Annoying and Mysterious Events,” the next, “Theories,” and the third, “Steps to Be Taken.”

“The Veiled Hathor of Cairo” was the first event to be considered. Three possible explanations occurred to me: first, that she was someone out of Ramses’s past; second, that she hoped to be someone in his future; third, that her motive was something other than personal attraction. I could not think what on earth that motive could be. The only course of action open to me was a thoughtful consideration of the women who had been involved with my son at some time or other. Asking Ramses would have been the logical next step, but I knew that wouldn’t get me anywhere. I drew another sheet of paper to me and began another list.

After I had finished, I studied it in some surprise. I hadn’t realized there had been so many. Nor, I felt sure, was the list complete. However, several of the names merited investigation.

A hairpin dropped onto the desk and a lock of hair fell over my eyes. I brushed it back with a muttered “Confound it,” and shoved several other loose pins back into place. When I am deep in thought I have a habit of pressing my hands to my head. This has a deleterious effect upon one’s coiffure, but it does seem to assist in ratiocination.

The Affair at the Temple of Hathor came next to mind. Had it been the same woman? It is the duty of a good detective to consider all possibilities, but it seemed hardly likely that there were two resentful females in league. At any rate, Maryam could not have been the second Hathor.

The incident had, at least, supplied two physical clues. Nefret had given me the crumpled white garment found at the temple. I took it and the torn scrap of linen from the drawer and spread the robe out across the desk, determined to subject it to a closer analysis than I had been able to give it before.

It was of plain white cotton and simple pattern—two rectangles sewed up the sides and across the top, leaving spaces for arms and head. It had been sewn by hand, rather clumsily. There were several rents, one of them near the hem, where Nefret’s arrow had penetrated the fabric, the others along the seams where the stitches had parted, possibly as the result of a hasty removal of the garment. There was absolutely nothing distinctive about it. I felt certain it had not been purchased in the suk, but had been constructed by the wearer.