The Last Camel Died at Noon (4 page)

'What? Oh - yes, I beg your pardon. Grandfather has never accepted the fact that his beloved son is dead. He must be, Professor! Some word would have come back, long before this -'

'But no word of his death has come either,' Emerson said.

Forthright made an impatient gesture. 'How could it? There are no telegraphs in the jungle or the desert wastes. Legally my uncle and his unfortunate wife could have been declared dead years ago. My grandfather refused to take that step. My father died last year - '

'Aha,' said Emerson. 'Now we come to the crux of it, I fancy. Until your uncle is declared to be dead, you are not legally your grandfather's heir.'

The young man met his cynical gaze squarely. 'I would be a hypocrite if I denied that that is one of my concerns, Professor. But believe it or not, it is not my chief concern. Sooner or later, in the inevitable course of time, I will succeed to the title and the estate; there is, unhappily, no other heir. But my grandfather -'

He broke off, with a sharp turn of his head. This time there was no mistake; the altercation in the hall was loud enough to be heard even through the closed door. Gargery's voice, raised in expostulation, was drowned out by a sound as loud and shrill as the trumpeting of a bull elephant. The door exploded inward, with a shuddering crash; and on the threshold stood one of the most formidable figures I have ever seen.

The mental image I had formed, of the pathetic, grief-stricken old father, shattered like glass in the face of reality. Lord Blacktower - for it could be no other than he - was a massive brute of a man, with shoulders like a pugilist's and a mane of coarse reddish hair. It was faded and liberally streaked with grey, but once it must have blazed like the setting sun. He seemed far too young and vigorous to be the grandfather of a man in his thirties, until one looked closely at his face. Like a stretch of sun-baked earth, it was seamed with deep-cut lines - a map of violent passions and unhealthy habits.

The suddenness of his appearance and the sheer brute dominance of his presence kept all of us silent for several moments. His eyes moved around the room, passing over the men with cool indifference, until they came to rest on me. Sweeping his hat from his head, he bowed, with a grace unexpected in so very large a man. 'Madam! I beg you will accept my apologies for this intrusion. Allow me to introduce myself. Franklin, Viscount Blacktower. Do I have the honour of addressing Mrs Radcliffe Emerson?' 'Er - yes,' I replied.

'Mrs Emerson!' His smile did not improve his looks, for his eyes remained as cold and opaque as Persian turquoise. 'I have long looked forward to the pleasure of meeting you.'

Advancing with a ponderous rolling stride, he extended his hand. I gave him mine, bracing myself for a bone-crushing grip. Instead he raised my fingers to his lips and planted a loud, lingering, damp kiss upon them. 'Mmmm, yes,' he mumbled. 'Your photographs quite fail to do you justice, Mrs Emerson.' I fully expected Emerson would object to these proceedings, for the mumbling and kissing went on for a protracted period of time. There was, however, no comment from that source, so I withdrew my hand and invited Lord Blacktower to take a chair. Ignoring the one I had indicated, he sat down on the couch beside me, with a thud that made me and the whole structure vibrate. There was still no reaction from Emerson, or from Mr Forthright, who had sunk back into the chair from which he had started when his grandfather burst in.

'May I offer you a cup of tea, or a glass of brandy, Lord Blacktower?' I asked.

'You are graciousness itself, dear madam, but I have already taken too great advantage of your good nature. Allow me only to explain why I venture to burst in upon you so unceremoniously, and then I will remove myself - and my grandson, whose presence is the cause, if not the excuse, for my rudeness.' He did not look at Mr Forthright, but went on with scarcely a pause. 'I intended to approach you, and your distinguished husband, through the proper channels. Learning by chance, this afternoon, that my grandson had taken it upon himself to anticipate me, I was forced to act quickly. Mrs Emerson...' He leaned towards me and placed his hand on my knee. 'Mrs Emerson! My son lives! Find him. Bring him back to me.'

His hand was heavy as stone and cold as ice. I stared at the veins squirming across the skin like fat blue worms, at the tufts of greyish-red hair on his fingers. And still no objection from Emerson! It was unaccountable!

Only maternal sympathy for a parent driven into madness by the loss of a beloved child kept me from flinging his hand away. 'Lord Blacktower,' I began.

'I know what you are about to say.' His fingers tightened. 'You don't believe me. Reginald there has probably told you that I am a senile old man, clinging to an impossible hope. But I have proof, Mrs Emerson - a message from my son, containing information only he could know. I received it a few days ago. Find him, and anything you ask of me will be yours. I won't insult you by offering you money -'

"That would be a waste of your time,' I said coldly.

He went on as though I had not spoken.' - though I would consider it an honour to finance your future expeditions, on any scale you might desire. Or a chair in archaeology for that husband of yours. Or a knighthood. Lady Emerson, eh?'

His accent had coarsened, and his speech, not to mention his hand, had grown increasingly familiar. However, it was not the insult to his wife but the implied insult to himself that finally moved Emerson to speak.

'You are still wasting your time, Lord Blacktower. I don't buy honours or allow anyone else to purchase them for me.'

The old man let out a rumbling roar of laughter. 'I wondered what it would take to rouse you, Professor. Every man has his price, you know. But yours - aye, I'll do you justice; none of the things I've offered would touch you. I've got something I fancy will. Here - have a look at this.'

Reaching into his pocket he drew out an envelope. I re-arranged my skirts; I fancied I could still feel the imprint of his hand, burning cold against my skin.

Emerson took the envelope. It was not sealed. With the same delicacy of touch he used on fragile antiquities, he drew from the envelope a long, narrow, flat object. It was cream-coloured and too thick to be ordinary paper, but there was writing on it. I was unable to make out the words.

Emerson studied it in silence for a few moments. Then his lip curled. 'A most impudent and unconvincing forgery.'

'Forgery! That is papyrus, is it not?'

'It is papyrus,' Emerson admitted. 'And it is yellowed and brittle enough to be ancient Egyptian in origin. But the writing is neither ancient nor Egyptian. What sort of nonsense is this?'

The old man bared his teeth, which resembled the papyrus in colour. 'Read it, Professor. Read the message aloud.'

Emerson shrugged. 'Very well. "To the old lion from the young lion, greetings. Your son and daughter live; but not long, unless help comes soon. Blood calls to blood, old lion, but if that call is not strong enough, seek the treasure of the past in this place where I await you." Of all the childish -'

'Childish, yes. It began when he was a boy, reading romances and tales of adventure. It became a kind of private code. He wrote to no one else in that way - and no living man or woman knew of it. Nor knew that his name for me was the old lion.' He resembled one at that moment - a tired old lion with sagging jowls and eyes sunk in wrinkled sockets.

'It is still a forgery,' Emerson said stubbornly. 'More ingenious than I had believed, but a forgery nonetheless.'

'Forgive me, Emerson, but you are missing the point,' I said. Emerson turned an indignant look upon me, but I went on. 'Let us assume that the message is indeed from Mr Willoughby

Forth, and that he has been held prisoner, or otherwise detained, all these years. Let us also assume that some daring couple - er - that is to say, some daring adventurer - were willing to go to his aid. Where would that adventurer go? A man asking for help ought at least give directions.'

'I,' said my husband, 'was about to make that very point, Amelia.'

The old man grinned. "There is something else in the envelope, Professor. Take it out, if you please."

The second enclosure was more prosaic than the first - a single sheet of ordinary writing paper, folded several times - but its effect on Emerson was remarkable. He stood staring at it with as much consternation as if it had been a death threat (a form of correspondence, I might add, with which he was not unfamiliar). I jumped up and took the paper from his hand. It was grey with age and dust, tattered with much handling, and covered with writing in the English language. The handwriting was as familiar to me as my own.

'It looks like a page from one of your notebooks, Emerson,' I exclaimed. 'How on earth did this come into your hands, Lord Blacktower?'

'The envelope and its contents were left on the doorstep of my house in Berkeley Square. My butler admitted he had half a mind to pitch it into the trash. Fortunately he did not.'

'It didn't come through the post,' Emerson muttered, inspecting the envelope. 'So it must have been delivered by hand. By whom? Why didn't the messenger identify himself and claim a reward?'

'I don't know and I don't care," the old man said irritably. 'The handwriting on the envelope is my son's. So is the writing on the papyrus. What more proof do you want?'

'Anyone who knew your son, and had received a letter from him, could imitate his handwriting,' I said gently but firmly. 'To my mind, the page from my husband's notebook is a far more intriguing clue. But I don't understand what bearing it has on Mr Forth's disappearance.'

'Turn it over,' said Lord Blacktower.

I did as he directed. At first glance the faded lines appeared to be random scribbles, like those made by a small child. From Lord Blacktower's throat came a horrible grating sound. I presumed it was a laugh.

'Are you beginning to remember, Professor Emerson? Was it you or my son who sketched the map?'

'Map?' I repeated, studying the scrawl more closely.

'I remember the occasion,' Emerson said slowly. 'And under the present circumstances - taking into consideration the suffering of a bereaved father - I will make an exception to my general policy of refusing to answer impertinent questions from strangers.' I made a little sound of protest, for Emerson's tone of voice - especially when he mentioned the suffering of a bereaved father - made the speech even ruder than the words themselves convey. Blacktower only grinned.

'This is not a map,' Emerson said. 'It is a fantasy - a fiction. It can have no possible bearing on your son's fate. Someone is playing a cruel trick on you, Lord Blacktower, or is planning to perpetrate a fraud.'

'That is precisely what I told my grandfather, Professor,' Mr Forthright exclaimed.

'Don't be a fool,' Blacktower snarled. 'I couldn't be deceived by an impostor - '

'Don't be so sure,' Emerson interrupted. 'I saw Slatin Pasha in '95, after he had escaped from eleven years' starvation and torture by the Khalifa. I didn't recognise him. His own mother wouldn't have known him. However, that wasn't the kind of fraud I had in mind. How much were you prepared to offer me to equip and undertake a rescue expedition?'

'But you refused to be bribed, Professor.'

'I refused, period,' Emerson said. 'Oh, the devil with this! There is no point in my offering you my advice, because you wouldn't take it. As my family will tell you, Lord Blacktower, I am the most patient of men; but my patience is wearing thin. I bid you good evening.'

The old man heaved himself to his feet. 'I too am a patient man, Professor. I have waited for my son for fourteen years. He lives; I know it, and one day you will admit that I was right and you, sir, were wrong. Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening, Mrs Emerson. Don't trouble yourself to ring for the servant. I will let myself out. Come, Reginald.'

He went to the door and closed it quietly behind him.

'Good-bye, Mr Forthright,' said Emerson.

'Let me add one last word, Professor - '

'Be quick about it,' Emerson said, his eyes flashing.

'This may be precisely the sort of filthy game you described. But there is another possibility. My grandfather has enemies -'

'No! You astonish me!' Emerson exclaimed.

'If there is no further communication - if he can't find a qualified man to lead such an expedition - he will go himself. You look sceptical, but I assure you I know him well. He is convinced of the authenticity of this message. Believing that -'

'You said one word, and I have let you utter sixty or seventy.'

'Before I let my grandfather risk his life on such a scheme, I will go,' Forthright said quickly. 'Indeed, if I could believe there was the slightest chance -'

'Confound it,' Emerson shouted. 'Must I evict you bodily?'

'No.' The young man backed towards the door, with Emerson following. 'But if you should change your mind, Professor, I insist upon accompanying you.'

'A very pretty speech, upon my word,' Emerson declared, splashing whiskey into his glass with such force that it fountained up onto the table. 'How dare he suggest I might change my mind? I never change my mind.'

'I suspect he is a more acute judge of character than you give him credit for,' Walter said. 'I too detected something in your manner... You haven't been completely candid with us, Radcliffe.'

Emerson winced - whether at the unpopular appellation or the implied accusation, I cannot tell. He said nothing.

I went to the window and drew the curtain aside. The rain had stopped. Mist veiled the lawn, and carriage lamps glowed through the dark. They were obscured as a shapeless bulk heaved itself between them and my vision. It was Lord Blacktower, mounting into his coach. In his caped coat, wrapped round with wisps of fog, his shape was scarcely human. I had the unpleasant impression that I saw not a man or even a beast, but some elemental force of darkness.

Hearing the door open, I turned to see Evelyn. 'Cook is threatening to leave your service if dinner is not served instantly,' she said with a smile. 'And Rose is looking for Ramses. He did not come up with the others; is he... Ah, there you are, my boy.'