Children of the Storm (35 page)

“He was looking for Sennia,” I explained. “I hope you are not frightened of cats.”

“I like them very much. I never had one.”

“Don’t waste your time trying to make friends with Horus. He detests all of us except Sennia and Nefret. He won’t bother you again tonight. Can you sleep now?”

“Yes.” Impulsively she put her hand on mine. “Thank you. You have cleansed my mind of some very ugly thoughts.”

It was a pretty gesture and a pretty little speech. “You do believe me, then?” I asked. “It is a sad story, but we must not judge others or feel guilt for their actions. Each of us has enough on our consciences without taking on the guilt of others.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

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Emerson’s hopes of resuming his full work schedule were doomed from the start. Only he, as his wife acerbically remarked, would have trotted blithely off to Deir el Medina when so many duties, domestic and investigative, took precedence. Immediately after breakfast she intended to help Evelyn and Walter pack for their removal to the Castle, and arrange for Maryam to move into their rooms. Lia was ordered (it was couched as a request, but no one doubted it was an order) to go through her wardrobe to see if she could find something for Maryam to wear. A long monologue, to which Ramses listened with only half an ear, explained her reasons—something about relative sizes and the absence of practical garments in the girl’s wardrobe. At the last minute Nefret received an urgent summons to the clinic; the word of its opening had spread and her services were increasingly in demand.

Emerson listened openmouthed to this ruthless depletion of his work force. “Curse it,” he exclaimed. “The fill is piling up, Peabody. How long is it going to take you to pack a few clothes?”

“You know nothing about it, Emerson, so kindly refrain from putting your oar in.” Obviously pleased with this bit of slang, she added, in a more amiable voice, “I will be along later, perhaps. You can have Ramses and David, if you like.”

“Good of you,” muttered Emerson. “Let’s go, boys, half the morning is gone.”

It was just after 7 a.m.

Despite Emerson’s complaints they had managed to make some progress in deciphering the plans of the various shrines north of the village and the Ptolemaic temple. Some were better preserved than others, but all had been damaged by time and amateur diggers, and it required skill and experience to untangle the original plan. Bertie, the best draftsman of the group, had been faithful in his attendance. He arrived soon after they did, apologizing for his tardiness, and produced the latest of the plans he had been working on for over a week.

“Ha,” said Emerson, studying it. “Yes, that seems to be acceptable, so far as it goes. I want to identify the deity to whom this structure was dedicated.” He took out his pipe and stabbed at the incomplete outline of what appeared to be a smallish chapel.

It was, in Ramses’s opinion, a futile task. The little private shrines had not been constructed of stone but of mud brick, plastered and painted. By now the plaster had flaked off and disintegrated. They hadn’t found a flake larger than a thumbnail.

He took the liberty of pointing this out to his father. “A votive stela,” said Emerson dogmatically. “That’s all we need. Even an ostracon inscribed with a prayer. Something may yet turn up in the area we haven’t finished clearing. Anyhow, the plan isn’t complete. Where’s the back wall? Selim!”

Selim hadn’t been listening. His head thrown back, he was staring at the brightening blue of the sky with a bemused expression. Looking for another aeroplane, Ramses thought, with inner amusement. Emerson had to call him twice before he responded.

Emerson’s luck was proverbial. They found his votive stela, or part of it, dedicated by the workman Nakhtmin to the deified king Amenhotep I and his mother, Ahmose Nefertari. Emerson carried it off in triumph to the shelter while Selim’s crew went on clearing the sanctuary.

“Where the devil is your mother?” Emerson demanded, delicately brushing encrusted sand from the brief inscription. “The rubble is piling up!”

She arrived a little before midday, bringing the hamper of food Emerson had forgotten, and accompanied by Lia and Sethos. Emerson hurried to meet them.

“The rubble,” he began.

“Yes, Emerson, I know. You may as well stop for luncheon now. As you see, we have a guest.”

“Ha,” said Emerson, studying his brother’s elegant tailoring and spotless pith helmet. “He can help you with—”

“Not today,” said Sethos amiably. “I only came along to keep the ladies company and have a look round. There’s not much here to interest an enthusiast,” he added, with a disparaging survey of the monotonous grayish-brown foundations and scattering of stones.

“We have just found evidence that Amenhotep the First and his mother were worshiped here,” Emerson exclaimed. “A stela fragment.”

“How exciting,” Sethos drawled. “If it had been a statue—”

“You’d try to steal it,” said Emerson, glowering.

“Your finds are safe from me,” Sethos said, emphasizing the pronoun.

Emerson wisely decided not to pursue this. “Where is everybody?” he demanded.

His wife began unpacking the hamper. “Where I told you they would be, Emerson. Evelyn and Walter are settling in at the Castle, Nefret is tending to a patient, and the children are running wild as usual. I was under the impression that you meant to spend more time with them.”

The blow was expertly calculated. Emerson closed his mouth, rubbed his chin, and looked self-conscious. “Never mind, never mind.” He raised his voice to a shout that made everyone jump. “Selim! Rest period. A quarter of an hour.”

They were still eating when another rider approached. It was Cyrus Vandergelt, urging his reluctant mare to a trot and waving a large envelope. He dismounted with more haste than grace and ran toward them.

“Just got this from Lacau,” he panted. “It has to be a list of the objects he wants. Look at the thickness of the envelope! I came here for moral support, didn’t have the nerve to open it.”

“Get a grip on yourself, man,” said Emerson, taking the envelope from him and ripping it open.

The sheaf of papers inside was indeed depressingly thick. Emerson scanned the pages. “He wants the coffins and the mummies. Well, we expected that. The robe Martinelli restored, the storage chests with the rest of the clothing, the canopic jars—”

“All of them?” Cyrus cried in anguish.

“Hmph,” said Emerson in acknowledgment. Concluding that it would take less time to read out the objects Lacau did not want, he proceeded to do so. “Half the ushebtis—his choice, naturally—three small uninscribed cosmetic jars, an ivory headrest . . .”

Everyone waited with bated breath until he finished, “Two beaded bracelets and two rings.”

Cyrus groaned and dropped onto a stone column base.

“Rotten luck, Cyrus,” Ramses said sympathetically, while his mother patted the afflicted American’s bowed shoulder.

“He says he is being excessively generous,” Emerson reported, after reading the enclosed letter. “By rights the Museum ought to keep everything. Except for Tetisheri, this is the only royal burial that has been found, and the Museum has few pieces from this period.”

“It’s a reburial, though,” Bertie said. “Doesn’t that change the terms?”

“Lacau defines the terms. He requests that we begin packing the objects. He is sending a government steamer for them.”

“Why not ship them by train?” Bertie asked.

“Too rough a ride,” Ramses replied. “They will be jostled less in the hold of a boat. When will the steamer arrive?”

“He doesn’t say.”

“Let him send his damned steamer,” said Emerson through his teeth. “He can sit here twiddling his thumbs until we have finished the job, which we will do at our leisure.”

“No.” Cyrus rose slowly to his feet. “What’s the use? May as well get it over with, the sooner the better. I can count on your help, I know, Amelia.”

“I commend your fortitude, Cyrus,” she said. “We will all help, of course.”

Emerson’s black brows drew together. “Now see here, Peabody!”

“No one expects you to assist in such menial tasks,” she informed him. “It is woman’s work, as usual. At least this will be one thing off our minds. I believe we still have the packing materials we used when we transported the objects to the Castle. I will begin tomorrow morning, with Lia and Evelyn, and Nefret, unless she has a patient.”

“You’ve got it all worked out,” David said with a smile, while Emerson mumbled discontentedly. “What about me, Aunt Amelia? I’m fairly good at this sort of woman’s work.”

“Yes, my dear, you are. Very well. Sennia too; under supervision, she can handle the less fragile objects. And Maryam, if she is willing.”

“Come back to the Castle with me now, Amelia,” Cyrus begged. “We can make a start, anyhow.”

“I have another appointment this afternoon, Cyrus. There is the little matter of the bones of Martinelli.”

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CHAPTER NINE We have to do something with him,” I pointed out, after Emerson had run out of expletives. “It would be indecent to leave him lying round the police station. I asked Father Benedict to make the arrangements, and to meet us at the cemetery this afternoon. Since Martinelli was Italian, I assume he was of the Roman Catholic faith.”

“I doubt he believed in anything beyond his own gratification,” Sethos murmured.

“He may have repented at the end,” I said firmly. “We must give him the benefit of the doubt. The rest of you need not attend, but I feel obliged to be present.”

“I don’t know how you do it, Aunt Amelia,” Lia said, shaking her curly head. “I admire your energy and goodwill, but I think I will beg off.”

“I suppose I ought to be there,” Cyrus said. “Should have made the arrangements myself.”

The only other volunteer was Sethos. At the last minute Cyrus—guided by a few gentle hints from me—decided he was not obliged to pay his last respects to the man who had robbed him so callously. He had only offered because he did not want me to go alone. “You’ll keep an eye on her,” he said to Sethos. “And don’t let her dash off on some private expedition. She does that.”

“Why else would I go?” Sethos inquired rhetorically.

The small Christian cemetery, on the road to Karnak, was somewhat more seemly than it had been when I attended my last funeral there. Distressed by the neglected graves and the feral animals who made it their home, I had formed a committee. My friend Marjorie, who headed it, had done her best to improve matters; the graves were clear of weeds and the headstones were straight. Not much could be done about the animals. If driven off, they returned as soon as the guards departed. One had to watch out for droppings and gnawed bones. It was a dismal place, despite—or because of—the wilting flowers on the graves of those who had friends or kin in Luxor. Flowers did not last long in the heat. The shade of my parasol was welcome. It was black—not for mourning, but for practicality. The parasol was one of the heavier ones.

The good father awaited us, his bald head bared to the bitter sunlight. He did his best, but he could not do much except repeat the formal prayers. Afterward, Sethos, who had not spoken except to acknowledge a distant acquaintance with the dead man, took out a handful of money.

“I beg you will add to your kindness by saying a few Masses for his soul,” he said. Not until we had turned away, followed by the dismal drumbeat of soil landing on the simple coffin, did he add, “If anyone is in need of them, it’s Martinelli.”

I did not respond. I was thinking of certain other graves in that cemetery—reminders of several of our earlier encounters with crime. Poor young Alan Armadale and Lucinda Bellingham. I had been unable to save them, but I had avenged them. (With a certain amount of assistance, in the latter case, from Ramses.) There was another such burial, and when Sethos would have headed for the entrance I took his arm and led him back, to the far end of the cemetery. A feral dog, sprawled across the untended grave, rose as we approached and backed off, snarling. It was a female, heavy with young.

“Fitting,” said Sethos. “Why did you bring me here, Amelia?”

“You have never visited her grave?”

The arm I held was rigid. “Once. I wanted to convince myself she was really dead. I suppose it was you who erected the headstone. Only her name? Couldn’t you think of a fitting epitaph?”

“There is one.” I knelt and pushed the dusty weeds away from the base of the stone. Under her name were the carved words, “May she rest in Peace.”

“Oh, God.” He pulled me roughly to my feet and and put his arms round me. “You are unbelievable, Amelia. She tried to kill you and murdered one of your dearest friends. How can you forgive that?”

It was a brother’s embrace, not that of a lover, but I detached myself as gently and quickly as I could. Bertha would not have made the distinction, and although I do not share the ancient Egyptian belief that the soul lingers near the mortal remains, I preferred not to take the chance.

“Our Christian duty requires us to forgive those who have injured us,” I said. “It is easier to do that, I admit, when the individual in question is deceased.”

He let out a choked laugh and passed his hand over his mouth. “Does Maryam know her mother lies here?”

“I have no idea. Will you tell her?”

“No. I don’t know. Damnation, Amelia, don’t you ever weary of prodding people’s consciences? I can forgive Bertha for what she did to me—I assure you, you don’t know the half of it—but not for what she did to you and to Maryam. May we go now, or have you more to say?”

“Not to you.” I took his arm and we turned our backs on the desolate grave. “I believe I will have a few words with Maryam.”

He kicked at a clump of weeds. “Do you believe she is responsible for the accidents that have plagued you?”

“The possibility had of course occurred to me after the affair of the Veiled Hathor,” I said, fudging the truth just a little. Maryam had not been on my original list. “She was one of a number of females who might have believed herself badly treated by Ramses—”