Children of the Storm (40 page)

Nefret’s fingers were pressed to his wrist. “You have a number of broken bones and your head was hurt,” she said. “You must not move it. I will give you something for the pain now.”

Selim’s eyes opened wide, the whites showing all round the pupils. “A needle? No! I do not want—”

“All right, no needle,” Nefret said quickly. “Don’t get excited.”

Selim grunted. Then his expressive orbs rolled in my direction. “Who took my clothes off?”

Nefret began to laugh. It was the sort of laughter that is often followed by tears, so I was relieved when the door opened and Ramses looked in. “What—” he began.

“He asked who undressed him,” Nefret gasped. She turned blindly into Ramses’s arms, her face streaked with tears.

“I did, Selim,” said Ramses, over her bowed head. His voice was steady, but his black eyes shone suspiciously as he gazed at his friend. “With you be peace and God’s mercy and blessing, my friend.”

“No needle,” Selim whispered.

“Not if you behave yourself,” Ramses said. “Sleep now.”

Selim’s lids snapped shut. I looked at Kadija. She smiled her beautiful, kindly smile, and nodded. I noticed that under the bandages Selim’s shaven head was green.

WE HAD A GENUINE CELEBRATION, for even Nefret admitted to cautious optimism about her patient. She looked exhausted but radiant, the violet smudges under her eyes intensifing their blue. “There is always danger of a relapse, but his recuperative powers are astonishing. If I believed in miracles . . .”

“Miracles be damned,” said Emerson predictably. “It was your skill that saved him. Well done, my dear girl.”

“Well done indeed,” Katherine agreed. “I sent messages this morning, postponing our soiree.”

“Right. How could we hold a soiree without Selim to waltz with the ladies?” Cyrus demanded. “We’ll have a real party once he’s fully recovered—and the villain who tried to kill him is dead or in prison.”

“Are you sure Selim was the intended victim?” Sethos asked.

Naturally the same question had occurred to me. “A number of people knew that Selim meant to drive the motorcar to the fantasia,” I replied. “However, the miscreant could not be certain Emerson would not take it into his head to operate the thing before Selim did.”

“Just as the miscreant who sank the boat could not be certain who would be harmed,” Ramses said thoughtfully. “There’s a nonchalance about all this that is extremely strange. If the fellow is trying to commit murder, he’s not very good at it.”

Fatima came in with another platter of her famous spiced lamb and rice. Sethos leaned back and folded his hands over his flat stomach. “Thank you, Fatima, but I have already eaten more than I ought. I will be getting stout if I stay much longer.”

“How long will that be?” I asked. Maryam, who had eaten in silence, head bent, looked up.

“However long it takes to find your antagonist” was the reply. “You lot are exhibiting less than your usual efficiency. What’s the difficulty? I’d have expected Amelia to come up with a suspect or two long before this.”

“The difficulty is that we don’t know which incidents are relevant and which are accident or coincidence,” I replied indignantly.

“It is like finding the original pattern in a jumble of loose beads,” David added. “Some of which belong to another piece of jewelry altogether.”

Sethos’s curiously colored eyes studied him. “An interesting analogy. You are something of an expert on restoration, David; how would you go about separating the disparate elements?”

“Lay them all out on a table, examine them, and try them in different arrangements” was the prompt reply. “After long experience, one acquires an instinct for such things.”

“Like Amelia’s instinct for crime,” said Walter eagerly. “And—er—that of—er—”

“Mine?” Sethos’s brows rose. “You forget, Walter, that I have investigated fewer crimes than I have committed. However, I have no intention of leaving you without my protection.”

Emerson growled.

SELIM CONTINUED TO IMPROVE. He was able to sit up for short periods and his appetite was good—though no one, not even Daoud, could have consumed all the food Fatima tried to force on him. He ought to have been a pathetic sight, encased in sticking plaster, with a miniature turban of bandages covering his shaven head; however, his cherished beard had been left intact, and that seemed to cheer him a great deal. At first his speech was a trifle slurred, but that did not prevent him from asking innumerable questions, most of them about the motorcar.

“It was not your fault,” said Emerson, who had been allowed to visit Selim for a few minutes. “Someone deliberately loosened the bolts on the front wheel. As soon as you are fit, we will repair it. By that time we will have found the man responsible.”

“Daoud is looking after your family,” I added, “and so are we all. You are not to worry about anything except getting well.”

“The excavations,” Selim said. “You must not allow—”

“Don’t worry about that either,” Emerson said. “We will carry on as best we can until you are back on the job.”

Knowing how trying it would be for a man of Selim’s energy to remain quiet, I arranged a schedule of entertainment. In my opinion Emerson was not a soothing companion for a sick man, but Ramses and Bertie came by every day to report on the excavations, and Sennia and Evelyn read to him. I knew he was on the road to recovery when he gravely asked Evelyn to read from a manual on the maintenance and repair of motorcars.

Never suppose, Reader, that my attentions to our friend had kept me from other duties. Unfortunately and infuriatingly, the most imperative of those duties took very little of my time. Emerson brooded morbidly over the wreckage of the motorcar, which had been transported to the stableyard. Even he admitted there was nothing more to be learned from it. Daoud instigated another, more intensive search for Maryam’s first attacker, and dragged several quaking strangers to the house to confront Maryam and Ramses. Neither was able to make an identification.

To say that we were watchful and wary is to understate the case. Fatima went through both houses several times a day brandishing a broom, on the lookout for venomous creatures. Kadija and two of her daughters took up permanent residence, sitting with Selim and keeping the children under close surveillance. I refused to allow Emerson to go alone to the dig, which provoked him into furious protests—though he insisted I follow the same precaution. The inevitable result was that everyone became twitchy and irritable, especially the children.

We got on with packing the artifacts. As Emerson continued to point out, with increasing acrimony and inventive swear words, Lacau would damn well have to sit and wait until we finished the job, but I had reasons of my own for wanting it completed before he got there. One of them—I feel no shame in admitting it—was that I had no intention of mentioning the stolen jewelry, or of allowing the others to do so. Lacau was unlikely to demand that the carefully packed cases be opened. He would have his lists and his inventory, and would doubtless go over them painstakingly when he unpacked the cases in the Museum. If at that time he realized several pieces were missing . . . sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, as Scripture so wisely reminds us. We would confess if we had to, but not until we had to—and there was still a chance, however unlikely, that we might yet find the thief and murderer. In fact, as Emerson would have expressed it, we had bloody well better find him, before he decided to strike again.

At least the packing process kept us occupied. Everyone pitched in with a will, including Maryam. She had a delicate touch, and demonstrated a genuine interest in the precious things.

“You can help me with this, if you will,” I said, indicating a painted chest. “I really do not know what we are going to do about packing materials. I have used up all the fabric and most of the cotton wool, and even so I fear the garments in this chest will shatter when it is moved.”

“What does the writing say?”

“It is a list of the contents—gloves, sandals, two robes, and a few other articles. Ramses has already copied and translated it. He reads hieratic as easily as he does English.”

“I would like to learn more, so that I can help with your work. Perhaps he would give me a lesson?”

“If you are truly interested, we can arrange for you to study the subject.” I added, with a laugh, “Though it will take more than a few lessons. You have already been very useful, Maryam. I have been meaning to thank you for your help with the children.”

“I want to be useful. And I love being with the children.” The next words were so soft I had to strain to hear them. “I am very happy here. I will be sorry to go.”

“That won’t be for a while. We must have you here for Christmas, at least.”

“And afterward? I know it is a great deal to ask. But . . . could I stay with you for a while? You have all been so good to me, and I think I could be useful—with the children, even on the dig, if you will teach me.”

It was not only that she was happy with us; she was still uncomfortable with him. I had wondered what on earth he meant to do with her. He traveled a great deal, and so did Margaret. They had no permanent establishment where she could receive the attention she needed. And how in heaven’s name would Margaret respond to the role of stepmother? Not well, if I knew Margaret.

“I will discuss it with your father,” I promised, though I felt like an overburdened donkey who has just had another sack of grain added to his load. “Perhaps something can be worked out.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

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Ramses was sitting with Selim reading from the motorcar manual (his aunt Evelyn having admitted defeat) when the door opened and Sethos put his head in. “Are visitors allowed?”

It was the first time he had seen Selim since the accident. Selim’s black eyes brightened and his hand went to his beard. It was certainly more impressive than that of Sethos, though the latter’s was coming along nicely. His face was almost back to normal except for a few faded bruises.

“Yes, come,” Selim said eagerly. “You are still here!”

Leaning against the doorframe, a picture of sartorial elegance in well-cut tweeds, Sethos gave him a friendly grin. “You didn’t suppose I would abandon the family at a time like this? With you out of commission, they need all the help they can get.”

“That is true,” said Selim, starting to nod and then remembering he wasn’t supposed to.

“Thank you both for your confidence,” said Ramses.

“You are too honorable,” Selim explained. “He is not.”

Sethos threw his head back and shouted with laughter. “Right on the mark, Selim. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Tell me about the aeroplane,” Selim said eagerly.

“Another time. Fatima said I wasn’t to stay. She’s bringing your dinner.”

Selim groaned. “She brings me food, Rabia and Taghrid bring me food, Kadija brings me food. Soon I will be fat.”

“So what are you after, really?” Ramses asked, as they strolled along the path toward the main house. “Visiting the sick isn’t your style.”

“How cynical. I like Selim.” Sethos paused to sniff at a pink rose. “You’re right, though. It was you I was after. Would you care to join me in a visit to the gay and glamorous night life of Luxor? Lovely spot, this,” he added, gazing sentimentally at a vine covered with blue flowers. “Perhaps when I retire I’ll settle down in Luxor. The whole family together, eh?”

Ramses refused the bait. “Why?”

“To pass my declining years in the company of my nearest and dearest. Oh—you mean why go to Luxor. I think I may be on to something.”

He refused to elaborate, claiming that he wanted an independent judgment. His announcement of their intentions was met with raised eyebrows, but without comment, at least not at dinner. When Ramses went to change, Nefret went with him.

“What is this about?” she asked.

“He says he’s on to something.”

She watched curiously as he selected the suit he intended to wear. “Black tie? Where are you going?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

“Someplace respectable, at least,” Nefret said, “That’s a relief. Are you going to take your knife?”

“It doesn’t go with evening kit.”

She did not return his smile. “It goes with Uncle Sethos. Please.”

THE SO-CALLED NIGHT LIFE of Luxor ranged from the repellent to the respectable. The cafés and drinking establishments that catered to tourists were located along the corniche; a few were relatively harmless, but evening clothes would have been glaringly out of place in any of them. The hotels, especially those of the top category, were the centers of social activity for upper-class visitors and residents. The tourist steamers and dahabeeyahs drawn up along the bank formed a narrow floating residential street. Lights shone from the decks and saloons.

Their first stop was the Winter Palace, where Sethos was obviously known and welcome. He was choosy about which table to select, and when the waiter hurried up to take their order he said, “Nothing tonight, Habib. But there will be baksheesh for you if you tell the Brother of Demons what you told me.”

“About the Italian gentleman and the lady?” Habib asked, with a nod of greeting for Ramses. He extended a thin brown hand.

They visited two other hotels, the Savoy and the Tewfikieh, on the road to Karnak, and got the same story, though not the same description of the “lady.” At the latter establishment, which claimed the optimistic designation of “Grand-Hotel,” Sethos ordered whiskey and invited Ramses’s comments.

“One Titian-haired, one dark, one fair,” Ramses said. A breeze rustled the leaves of the arbor over their heads. “Martinelli was quite a ladies’ man.”

“Come now,” said Sethos, with a grin.

“The same woman?”

“He acquired female acquaintances in other places. I’ve already eliminated them, and a damned tedious chore it was. This one was different. A lady, well-dressed, quiet and very retiring. Except for the hair, the descriptions were the same. Approximately five feet three inches, shapely figure, young.”

“None of the waiters recognized her?”