The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (15 page)

6

I cannot recall ever seeing Cyrus Vandergelt so angry. Even Emerson sat in silence, without attempting to interrupt, while our old friend paced up and down uttering incoherent American ejaculations. Nefret and I arrived at the house shortly after the others. From what I could make out, amid his cries of fury, Cyrus had met the other four on the homeward path. He had been searching for Bertie and Jumana for hours, after discovering that both had left Deir el Medina, and was at Medinet Habu, still in quest of them, when they appeared, with Ramses and Emerson supporting Bertie. Whether Cyrus had harbored the same suspicions that would have occurred to his wife upon finding two young persons of opposite genders unaccountably missing from their designated places, he never said. Relief was immediately succeeded by outrage, as is usually the case. When Cyrus found out where they had been, a good deal of the outrage was directed at Emerson. At the latter’s suggestion they had brought Bertie straight to our house, and it was obvious from their appearance that none of them had had the time, or perhaps the inclination, to make themselves tidy. Their dusty, sweat-stained garments were sufficient proof of a somewhat arduous day, but a quick yet comprehensive survey assured me that Bertie appeared to be the only casualty. He had his foot up on a hassock and Kadija was smearing it with her famous green ointment. Fatima ran in and out with plates of food — her invariable solution for all disasters; Gargery demanded to know what had happened — Jumana tried to tell him; and Cyrus raved. It was very busy and loud. Nefret went to Ramses. He shook his head, smiling, in response to her unvoiced concern. I removed my hat, put it neatly on a table, and proceeded to bring order out of chaos. “Cyrus!” I said, rather emphatically. “Of all the consarned, low-down . . .” He stopped and stared at me. “Amelia. Where’ve you been? Why weren’t you here? Do you know what underhanded, contemptible stunt this bunch of crooks played on us?” “I am beginning to get an idea. Sit down and stop shouting, Cyrus. Fatima, will you please bring the tea tray? Thank you. Let us now have a coherent narrative, from . . .” Jumana was waving her hand in the air and bobbing up and down, like an eager student volunteering to recite. I observed that the jangling noise accompanying her movements came from several articles attached to her belt. I was somewhat flattered but not inclined to encourage her; she looked a little too pleased with herself. “Emerson,” I said. Jumana subsided, pouting. I had to shush Cyrus more than once during the course of Emerson’s tale, but the genial beverage, which I forced upon everyone present, had its usual soothing effect — even on me. I was extremely put out by Emerson’s duplicity. However, I confined my expressions of chagrin to a few reproachful looks, which Emerson pretended not to see. “All’s well that ends well, eh, Peabody?” he inquired. “Hmmm,” I said. “Nefret?” She was conferring with Kadija. “No broken bones,” she announced. “He was lucky. But he’ll have to stay off that foot for a few days.” “Lucky!” Cyrus burst out. “He had no business going off like that. He —” “Is not the only person present who has ever been guilty of reckless behavior,” I interrupted. Ramses gave me a wide, unself-conscious grin, and then sobered. “We’d have found him eventually, Cyrus, even without Jumana.” The girl must have been even more annoying than usual that day, or he would not have minimized her effort. We would certainly have looked for Bertie, but we might not have found him in time. It might well be said that the young man owed her his life. “Who bandaged his hand?” Nefret asked. “I wish everyone would stop talking about me in the third person,” Bertie said stiffly. “Jumana —” “Yes, I did it!” She jumped up, jangling. “You see, I have my belt of tools, too, like the Sitt Hakim! I washed his hand and bandaged it and I took care of him. He was very stupid to go there alone.” Bertie turned red, but he didn’t have a chance to defend himself; he had not yet learned that in our circle it is necessary to shout in order to be heard. Emerson did it for him. Men always close ranks when women criticize one of them. “And so were you, Jumana.” Emerson slammed his cup down in the saucer. “Any man or woman, even the most experienced, could suffer an accident in that terrain, and die of exposure before he was found. No, young lady, don’t talk back to me! Why didn’t you tell Vandergelt where you were going?” Jumana bowed her head. “I wanted to find him myself,” she murmured. “I see.” Emerson’s voice softened, and Bertie’s face went even redder. Men are such innocents; they had taken her statement as a declaration of affectionate interest. I, who had once pointed out to Jumana that wealthy and powerful Cyrus Vandergelt would think well of anyone who looked after his adopted son, suspected that self-interest had been her primary motive. “Enough of recriminations,” I said. “We must —” “I’m not finished recriminating,” Cyrus declared. “Not by a damned sight. Excuse my language, ladies, but I’ve got a few words to say to my old pal here. Emerson, you deliberately and with malice aforethought pawned Deir el Medina off on me so you could do what I would have done if you hadn’t told me not to do it! And by the Almighty, there is a tomb out there! We’ve got proof now.” Emerson looked sheepish and drank out of his cracked cup. Tea dribbled down the front of his shirt, but I cannot say its condition was appreciably worsened thereby. “If we had found anything of interest, I would have let you in on it, Vandergelt,” he mumbled. “I only wanted to — er — save you time and effort.” “Oh. All right, then,” Cyrus said, mollified. “But now we know there is a tomb —” “I’m afraid not, Cyrus,” Ramses said. “Jamil may not be the most intelligent opponent we’ve ever faced, but he isn’t stupid enough to give away the location of the tomb — if there is one.” “The gold Bertie saw —” Cyrus began. “He said it glittered like gold,” Ramses interrupted impatiently. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that the boy has been deliberately leading us astray?” “It had occurred to me, of course,” I said. Ramses’s sober face relaxed into a grin and Emerson snarled wordlessly. “Where is the tomb, then?” Cyrus demanded. “Like Ramses, I am not convinced there is one,” I replied. “I can think of a number of reasons why Jamil might want to lead us on a wild-goose chase. ‘He only does it to annoy, because he knows it teases.’ Or he may want to lure us into a trap. It is wild country, and Bertie’s accident today is a grim reminder of what can happen if he catches one of us alone.” Jumana lifted her chin and stared defiantly at me. The rather pathetic collection of tools on her belt jingled as she shifted position. I wondered if she had also acquired a parasol. “He didn’t mean to hurt Bertie,” she declared. “It was an accident.” “That’s right,” Bertie said quickly. “Perhaps he didn’t intend to,” I said. “But the result might have been disastrous. He’s been watching us — spying on us.” “Damnation!” Emerson exclaimed. “Jumana — Bertie — all of you — don’t take any more chances, do you hear? Even if Jamil appears decked out in the Double Crown and the full regalia of a pharaoh, blowing kisses, don’t follow him.” “Here!” Cyrus exclaimed, his eyes brightening. “Do you think it’s a royal tomb he’s found?” “Good Gad, Vandergelt, is that all you can think of?” Emerson gave him a rueful smile. “I thought of it, too, I admit. But there won’t be a king’s tomb in that area. My point is that none of us must go into a remote area alone. It is too dangerous, as Bertie discovered today.” “Oh.” Cyrus glanced apologetically at Bertie. “Sorry, son, I was forgetting about your foot. Guess I’d better get you home. I’ll go to the Castle and send the carriage.” “I can ride,” Bertie said, trying to push himself to his feet. “Take Risha,” Ramses said, before any of us could voice an objection. “Jamad can go with you and bring him back. Here, let me give you a hand.” “Don’t put your weight on that foot,” Nefret called, as they left the room, Bertie hopping and leaning on Ramses’s arm. Neither of them replied. Closing ranks, I thought. Closing ranks! “A word of advice, if I may, Cyrus,” I said. He had been about to go after them. He stopped and turned to me. From his expression and that of my husband I suspected one of them was about to make a sarcastic comment, so I went on before either could do so. “Don’t treat him like a child. He is a grown man and must make his own decisions. He did it for you, you know.” “I know.” Cyrus tugged at his goatee. He turned a challenging look on Emerson. “So, old buddy, where are we going tomorrow?” Emerson mumbled something. “Hey?” said Cyrus, cupping his hand round his ear. “Not,” I said, “to the Cemetery of the Monkeys. We will meet you at Deir el Medina tomorrow, Cyrus. All of us.”

As soon as Cyrus had taken his departure, Emerson fled to the bath chamber. He was well aware that this was only a temporary refuge; after arranging a few domestic matters, I followed him. I had intended to sit on the edge of the bath but he was splashing the water all about, so I leaned against the wall instead. Emerson gave me a cheerful smile. “Did you have a pleasant day, my love?” he inquired. “Quite pleasant. Emerson, why do you do this sort of thing? You know I will find out in the end.” “Certainly I know. I enjoy stirring you up, Peabody. And you enjoy ferreting out my evil schemes and scolding me.” He got to his feet. I always say there is nothing like a vigorous out-of-door life to keep a person in excellent physical condition. Emerson had changed very little since the days when I had first known him — except of course for the absence of the beard that had hidden his firm chin and strong jaw. His stalwart form was as trim, the pull of muscle across his broad shoulders just as distracting. “I will not be distracted, Emerson,” I informed him. “No?” He stepped out of the bath and reached for me. He has very long arms. After a time I said, “Turn round and let me dry your back.” “I can think of another way of —” “No, Emerson! I am soaking wet already and we have a great deal to do if we are to get everything ready for tomorrow. I sent a message to Selim, inviting him to dinner.” “Good thought,” said Emerson, sufficiently distracted by this reminder to release me. “I wonder what he will say about the latest development.” Seated next to me — a delicate attention I always paid him when he condescended to favor us with his company — Selim listened in frowning silence to Emerson’s account of the day’s adventure. Then he shook his head. “I am surprised, Emerson, that you should have been so thoughtless,” he said severely. “The temples and the workmen’s village are more important than searching for tombs in that dangerous place. And you, Ramses, ought not have let him go.” Emerson had become accustomed to Selim’s occasional criticisms, but having his own words quoted back at him silenced him momentarily. Ramses said meekly, “You are absolutely right, Selim, but when the Father of Curses speaks, the whole world obeys.” “Huh,” said Selim, just as Abdullah might have done. A thought occurred to him, and he said in a milder voice, “Well, perhaps it was meant to be. Had you not gone there, Mr. Bertie and that foolish girl might have come to harm.” “That’s one way of looking at it,” Emerson agreed, as Jumana glared at her cousin. “As for Jamil,” Selim continued, returning Jumana’s glare with interest, “he has caused us enough trouble and kept us from our work. Leave him to me.” Even Emerson was silenced by that flat demand, which had been delivered with a dignity and authority as great as Abdullah’s had been. Selim was becoming more and more like his father, his handsome, strongly defined features framed by a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Perhaps it is not surprising that I should have dreamed of Abdullah that night. He was waiting for me in the place we both loved best, the top of the cliff above Deir el Bahri, where the path went on to the Valley of the Kings; and the sun was rising over the eastern mountains. As I mounted the last steep slope, I wondered why I was beginning to find the ascent as difficult as I would have done in waking life. If it was a touch of realism, it was one I could have done without. I was extremely short of breath when Abdullah gave me his hand and assisted me to attain the summit. “They are all well in England,” he said. “My next grandchild grows strong in the womb of her mother.” “A girl this time?” I panted. Abdullah nodded. “Sit down, Sitt, and rest. Yes, it is a girl; that is already determined.” “Er — speaking of grandchildren, Abdullah . . .” He threw his head back and laughed heartily. As always in these dreams, he was youthfully handsome, without a single gray thread in his beard; his laughter was as merry as Selim’s. “What about them, Sitt?” “You aren’t going to tell me, are you?” “There is a time for all things, Sitt Hakim. When that time comes you will be among the first to know. How could it be otherwise?” Annoyed as I was at his teasing, I could not help smiling a little. He had said “when,” not “if”! That was hopeful. “I expect I will,” I said. “How could it be otherwise?” “There are other things I will tell you: The boy who is in France is safe still, but David is troubled because he feels he should be here with you. Do not let him come. The underwater boats will sink many ships this winter. You are wise to stay in Egypt until that danger is over.” Having recovered my breath, I rose from the extremely lumpy rock on which I had been sitting and stood beside him, watching the slow spread of sunlight across the landscape. Below us the columns of Hatshepsut’s temple were ivory-pale in the morning shadows. “I know better than to press you when you are determined to keep silent,” I grumbled. “But you haven’t said anything about our current plans. Where is that cursed boy, Abdullah, and what are we going to do about him?” “It is a matter of shame to me that Jamil is a member of my family.” Abdullah’s face was as stern as a bronze mask. “He will be punished, Sitt, but not by you. Leave him to me. Do not take foolish chances, here or elsewhere.” “Where else would I be? If you are referring to the submarine menace, we have already decided . . . Curse it, Abdullah, you are trying to get me off the track again. Where is the confounded tomb?” “It would be tangling the web of the future to tell you that,” Abdullah said dreamily. “Now, Sitt, do not swear. It will come right in the end, though not, perhaps, as you expect.” He took my hand and held it for a moment. Then he turned away. “Wait,” I said. “Please.” “No more questions, Sitt. I have told you all I am allowed.” “I only wondered how you liked your new tomb.” Abdullah turned back to face me. “It is well enough.” “Is that all you can say? David designed the structure, you know, and Selim got the men to work as soon as you asked me for it.” “I should not have had to ask,” said Abdullah, sounding as sulky as Sennia. It was so like him — so human — so like a man! Laughing, I threw my arms around him in an impetuous embrace. It was the first time I had ever done so, and for the first time he held me close — only for a moment, before he gently loosened my hands and stepped back. “Is there anything else you would like?” I asked. “No.” The corners of his mouth twitched, and he said, “It is a very fine tomb, Sitt. Fine enough for a pasha.” I did not follow him. I never had. Something held me back; perhaps it was the sure knowledge that I would see him again, or the comfort I always gained from speaking with him, even when he was at his most irritatingly vague. “Good-bye for now,” I called. “Maassalameh, my friend.”