The Last Camel Died at Noon (6 page)

'Fascinating,' Evelyn breathed. 'But the Book of Hidden Pearls?'

'Ah, there we enter into pure legend,' Emerson said, smiling affectionately at her. 'It is a magical work, written in the fifteenth century, containing stories of buried treasure. One such location is in the white city of Zerzura, where the king and queen lie asleep on their thrones. The key to the city is in the beak of a bird carved on the great gate; but you must take care not to wake the king and queen if you want the treasure.'

'That is simply a fairy tale,' Walter said critically.

'Of course it is. But Zerzura is mentioned in other sources; the name probably derives from the Arabic zarzar, meaning sparrow, so Zerzura is "the place of the little birds." And there are other stories, other clues...' Emerson's face took on the pensive, dreamy look few of his acquaintances are privileged to see. He likes to be thought of as a strictly rational man, who sneers at idle fancies, but in reality the dear fellow is as sensitive and sentimental as women are purported to be (though in my experience women are far more practical than men).

'Are you thinking of Harkhuf?' Walter asked. 'It is true that that mystery has never been solved, at least not to my satisfaction. Where did he go on those expeditions of his, to procure the treasures he brought back to Egypt? Gold and ivory, and the dancing dwarf that so delighted the child-king he served... Then there are Queen Hatshepsut's voyages to Punt -'

'Punt doesn't enter into it,' Emerson said. 'It must be somewhere on the Red Sea coast, east of the Nile. As for Harkhuf, that was over four thousand years ago. He may have followed the Darb el Arba'in... There, you see the fascination of such idle speculation? We speculated, and had those friendly drinks, and drew meaningless lines on a piece of paper. If Forth was fool enough to follow that so-called map, he deserved the unpleasant death that undoubtedly came to him. Enough of this.

Peabody, why are you sitting there? Why haven't you risen from your chair to indicate that the ladies wish to retire?'

This question was mean to provoke me; Emerson knew quite well that the custom to which he referred was never followed in our house. 'We will all retire,' I said.

Walter hastened to open the door for me. 'It is an odd coincidence, though,' he said innocently. 'The Dervish uprising had just begun when Mr Forth disappeared. Now it appears to be almost over, and the message arrives - '

'Walter, don't be so naive. If fraud is contemplated, the timing is no coincidence. The news of Slatin Pasha's escape, after all those years in captivity, may well have inspired some criminal mind -'

He broke off with a choking sound. The blood rushed into his cheeks.

I knew what he was thinking. I always know what Emerson is thinking, for the spiritual bond that unites us is strong. The dark shadow of the Master Criminal, our old nemesis, would always haunt us - me, especially, since I had (much to my astonishment, for I am a modest woman) inspired an intense passion in that warped but brilliant brain.

'No, Emerson,' I exclaimed. 'It cannot be. Remember his promise, that never again would he - '

'The promise of a snake like that is worth nothing, Peabody. This is just the sort of scheme - '

'Remember your promise, then, Emerson. That never again would you -'

'Oh, curse it,' Emerson muttered.

Though she did not (at least I hoped she did not) know whereof we spoke, Evelyn tactfully introduced another subject. 'Explain to me, dear brother, what it is you hope to accomplish at Meroe, and why you can't work in Egypt as you have always done? It terrifies me to think of you and Amelia running such risks.'

Emerson responded, though he kept tugging at his collar as if it were choking him. 'To all intents and purposes, ancient Gush is an unknown civilisation, Evelyn. The only qualified scholar who visited the site was Lepsius, and he could do little more than record what was there in 1844. That is the most important task awaiting us - to make accurate records of the monuments and inscriptions, before time and treasure hunters destroy them completely.'

'Especially the inscriptions,' Walter said eagerly. 'The script is derived from Egyptian hieroglyphs, but the language has not been translated. When I think of the rate at which the records are vanishing, never to be recovered, I am tempted to come with you. You and Amelia cannot possibly -'

At this Evelyn let out a cry of alarm and clutched at Walter's arm as if he were about to depart instantly for Africa. Emerson reassured her in his usual tactful fashion. 'Walter has grown soft and flabby, Evelyn. He wouldn't last a day in Nubia. A strict course of physical training, that is what you need, Walter. If you work hard at it this winter, I may allow you to accompany us next season.'

In such animated and pleasant domestic intercourse the next hour passed. Both men had asked permission to smoke their pipes, permission which was, of course, granted; Evelyn was too kind to refuse anyone she loved and I would never dream of attempting to prevent Emerson from doing anything he liked in his own drawing room. (Though I have been forced, upon occasion, to request that he postpone a particular activity until a more appropriate degree of privacy could be attained.)

At last I went to the window to admit a breath of fresh air. The clouds had cleared away and moonlight spread its silvery softness across the lawn. As I stood admiring the beauty of the night (for I am particularly fond of nature), a sharp cracking sound broke the dreaming peace. It was followed in rapid succession by a second and a third.

I turned. My eyes met those of Emerson.

'Poachers,' said Walter lazily. 'It's a good thing young Ramses is asleep. He'd be out that door -'

Emerson, moving with pantherlike quickness, was already out that door. I followed, delaying only long enough for a quick explanation. 'Not poachers, Walter. Those shots came from a pistol. Stay here with Evelyn.'

Hitching up my crimson flounces I sped in pursuit of my husband. He had not gone far; I found him on the front lawn, gazing out into the darkness. 'I see nothing amiss,' he remarked. 'From what direction did the sounds come?'

We were unable to agree on that question. After a rather brisk discussion - in the course of which Emerson firmly negated my suggestion that we separate in order to search a wider area more quickly - we set out in the direction I had suggested, towards the rose garden and the little wilderness behind it. Though we investigated the area carefully, we found nothing out of the way, and I was about to accede to Emerson's demand that we wait until morning before pursuing the search when the sound of a wheeled vehicle came to our ears.

'That way,' I cried, pointing.

'It is only a farmer's wagon going to market,' Emerson said.

'At this hour?' I started across the lawn towards the belt of trees that bounds our property on the north. The grass was so wet it was impossible for me to attain my usual running speed in fragile evening shoes, and Emerson soon forged ahead, ignoring my demands that he wait for me. When I caught him up, he had passed through the gate in the brick wall - which constitutes a side entrance to the estate - and was standing still, staring down at something on the ground.

Turning, he put out his arm and held me back. 'Stop, Peabody. That's one of my favourite frocks; I would hate to see it ruined.'

'What -' I began. But there was no need to finish the question. We were on the edge of the belt of trees. A narrow track used by carts and farm vehicles ran along the side of the wall. On the beaten earth the pool of liquid was black as ink in the moonlight, which stroked its surface with tremulous silver fingers. But the liquid was not ink. By daylight it would be another colour entirely - the same shade as my bright crimson skirts.

®He Promised All the Ladies Many Sons¯

With the conspicuous absence of intelligence that marks the profession, our local constabulary refused to believe that murder had been committed. They agreed with me that no living creature could have survived the loss of such a quantity of the vital fluid; all the more reason, they declared, to assume that the crime had been perpetrated against one of the lower animals and was therefore not a crime, or at least not the crime of murder. When I pointed out that poachers seldom employ hand weapons, they only smiled politely and shook their heads - not at this self-evident fact, but at the idea that a mere female could have distinguished between the different sounds - and inquired, even more politely, why my hypothetical murderer should have removed the body of his victim.

They had me there. For no body had been found, nor even a trail of bloodstains. Clearly the perpetrator had carried it away by means of a cart or wagon, the sound of whose wheels Emerson and I had heard, but I was forced to admit that without a corpus delicti my case was considerably weakened.

Emerson did not support me with the ardour I had every right to expect. He was particularly annoyed by my suggestion that the fatality was in some way connected with the Forth family. I am sure the Reader will agree with this conclusion, as any sensible person would; two mysterious events on the same evening cannot be unrelated. Yet it appeared that they were. Inquiries, which I insisted upon making, resulted in the discovery that both Lord Blacktower and his grandson were in perfect health and at a loss to understand my concern.

The viscount also took pleasure in telling me that no one had approached him demanding money for information or for equipping a rescue expedition. He seemed to think this was proof Emerson's analysis of the message had been mistaken, but to me it made the situation even more baffling. Certainly, if fraud had been intended, further communications were to be expected, but the same was true if the appeal was genuine. How had the message got from - wherever it was? - to London, and why did not the messenger make himself known to the recipient? And what bearing - if any - had the ghastly puddle in the lane upon the matter?

As for the documentary evidence - the scrap of papyrus and the page from Emerson's notebook - closer examination confused the situation even more. The papyrus was ancient; traces of an earlier text could be seen under the modern writing. This phenomenon was of frequent occurrence in ancient Egypt, for papyrus was expensive and was often erased so that it could be reused. Pieces of ancient papyrus were (I regret to say) easily obtained by any traveller to Egypt. Similarly, the page from Emerson's notebook might have come into the possession of a person or persons unknown. Emerson admitted that he could not remember what had happened to it; Forth might have put it in his pocket, or he might have left it on the cafe table.

The case, such as it was, appeared to have reached a dead end. Even I could think of nothing more to do. I decided reluctantly to abandon it, especially since other problems were trying Emerson's temper to the utmost.

Emerson likes to think that he is the master of his fate and the lord of all he surveys. It is a delusion common to the male sex and accounts for the sputtering fury with which they respond to the slightest interference with their plans, no matter how impractical those plans may be. Being ruled by men, most women are accustomed to irrational behaviour on the part of those who control their destinies. I was therefore not at all surprised when Emerson's plans received their first check. Instead of advancing towards Khartoum, the Egyptian Expeditionary Force settled into winter quarters at Merawi, not to be confused with Meroe, which is several hundred miles farther south.

Rather than resign himself to the inevitable, as a woman would do, Emerson wasted a great deal of time trying to think of ways to get around it. He also refused to accept the obvious arguments against working in a region where food was scarce and trained workmen were in exceedingly short supply.

'If we could find something to feed them, we would have workers enough,' he growled, puffing furiously on his pipe. 'These stories about the congenital laziness of the Sudanese are only European prejudice. I don't see how we can manage it, though. All transport south of Wadi Haifa is controlled by the military; we can hardly commandeer a railway carriage, load it with supplies.' He fell silent, his eyes brightening as he considered this idea.

'Not without being somewhat conspicuous,' I replied dryly. 'You would also have to commandeer an engine to pull the carriage, and wood to stoke the boiler, and an engineer, among other necessities. No, I fear the idea is impractical. We must give it up, Emerson, for this year at least. By next autumn our brave lads will have taken Khartoum and wiped out the stain of dishonour that has soiled the British flag since we failed to succour the gallant Gordon.'

'Gallant nincompoop,' said Emerson. 'He was sent to evacuate Khartoum, not squat like a toad in a puddle daring the Mahdi to come and murder him. Well, well, perhaps it is all for the best. Even if the country were pacified, it has suffered greatly. Not a fit place for our boy, hardy though he is.'

'Ramses does not enter into it,' I replied. 'He will be at school in Cairo. Where shall we excavate then, Emerson?'

'There is only one place, Peabody. Napata.'

'Napata?'

'Gebel Barkal, near Merawi. I am convinced it is the site of the first capital of Gush, which flourished for six hundred years before the Cushites moved upriver to Meroe. Budge is already there, curse him,' Emerson added, clenching his teeth so violently on the stem of his pipe that a cracking sound was heard. 'What he is doing to the pyramids I dare not think.'

Poor Mr Budge was at fault because he had had the audacity to be already in the Sudan. It was no use for me to point out that he had only done what Emerson himself would have done, given the opportunity - i.e., accept an invitation from the British authorities. 'Invitation, my - ' Emerson would roar, employing language that made me clap my hands over my ears. 'He invited himself! He bullied, pushed, and toadied his way into going. Good Gad, Peabody, by the time that blackguard finishes, there won't be one stone left on another in Nubia, and he will have stolen every portable antiquity in the country for his cursed museum...'