Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (64 page)

O’Connell was in some distress, having cut his hand rather badly during the climb. Since time was of the essence, I had not paused to attend him, except to wrap a handkerchief around the injured member. Abdullah was now close behind me, his quickened breathing betraying his agitation. He had ample cause for concern – the natural dangers of the terrain, the possibility of ambush, and the uneasiness of our own men, fearful of night demons and efreets.

Trotting along several feet ahead of me, Ali Hassan was singing, or keening, to himself. He showed no signs of fearing the supernatural terrors of the night; and indeed a man who practised the sinister trade of robbing the dead might not be expected to be susceptible to superstition. His good spirits had precisely the opposite effect on me. Whatever pleased Ali Hassan was likely to prove unpleasant for me. I suspected he was deliberately leading us astray, but without proof I could hardly accuse him.

My eyes were fixed on the tattered robe of Ali Hassan, alert for the first sign of treachery; I did not see the creature until it brushed against my ankle. One’s first thought, in that region, is of snakes; automatically I took a quick sideward step, catching Mr O’Connell off balance, so that he went sprawling. Reaching for my parasol, I turned to confront the new danger.

The cat Bastet perched atop a nearby boulder. It had leaped out of my way, as I had leaped away from it, and its outraged expression showed how little it approved of my rude greeting.

‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘But it is your own fault; you ought to give notice of your approach. I trust I have not hurt you.’

The cat only stared; but Ali Hassan, who had come back to see why we had stopped, invoked the name of Allah in a voice fraught with emotion.

‘She speaks to the cat,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is a demon, a spirit; and she is its mistress.’ He turned so quickly that his robe ballooned out; but before he could flee I hooked him around the neck with the crook of my parasol.

‘We have played this game long enough, Ali Hassan,’ I said. ‘You have been leading us in circles. The cat, who is indeed the spirit of the goddess Sekhmet, came to tell me of your treachery.’

‘I thought as much,’ Abdullah growled. He tried to seize hold of Ali Hassan. I waved him away.

‘Ali Hassan knows what Emerson will do to him if I report this. Now, Ali, take us directly to the place – or I will send the cat goddess to tear you in your sleep.’

I released the miscreant and Abdullah moved forward ready to seize him if he tried to run. But there was no need. Ali Hassan stared wild-eyed at the cat, who had leaped down from the rock and was standing by my side, its tail lashing ominously.

‘She was there, when I found the dead man,’ he muttered. ‘I should have known then. I should not have tried to strike her with a stone. O Sekhmet, lady of terror, forgive this evildoer.’

‘She will if I ask her,’ I said pointedly. ‘Lead on, Ali Hassan.’

‘Why not?’ Ali shrugged fatalistically. ‘She knows the way; if I do not lead, she will show you.’

When we went on Abdullah accompanied Ali Hassan, his big hand firmly clamped over the Gurneh man’s arm. Ali Hassan sang no more.

‘How did you know?’ O’Connell asked respectfully. ‘I had no suspicion at all.’

‘I simply acted on my suspicions, knowing the man’s character, and he was stupid enough to confess.’

‘You are a wonder, ma’am, and that’s the truth,’ O’Connell exclaimed.

I smiled in acknowledgment of the compliment, well deserved though it was. ‘Hurry, Ali Hassan,’ I called. ‘If darkness falls before we reach the cave …’

The cat had disappeared, almost as if, having completed her mission, she had no need to stay. Ali Hassan’s pace increased. I was not at all surprised to see that our path now led eastward, in the direction from which we had come. The lower rim of the sun dipped below the horizon. Ali Hassan broke into an undignified trot, his blue robe flapping. Our shadows rushed along before us, elongated grey-blue shapes like the protective
kas
of the ancient Egyptians.

Though the lengthening shadows made it easier to see obstructions in the path, it was necessary to keep a sharp lookout to avoid falling. I was aware that our general direction was eastward, but because I had to watch my footing I did not realise where we were heading until Ali Hassan came to a stop.

‘We are here, oh, Sitt Hakim,’ he said, between pants. ‘We have come to the place and the sun is not down; I have done what you asked. Tell this man to take his hands from me and assure the divine Sekhmet that I have obeyed her command.’

He had spoken the literal truth. A last thin crescent of fiery red marked the place where the sun had sunk. Dusk was gathering fast. Not until I raised my eyes from the immediate surroundings did I realise that we were near the edge of the cliff, only a few hundred yards north of where we had ascended.

‘Son of a rabid dog,’ snarled Abdullah, shaking Ali Hassan till his teeth rattled, ‘you have led us in a circle. There is no cave here. What trick are you playing?’

‘It is here,’ Ali Hassan insisted. ‘I lost my way at first; anyone might lose his way; but we have come to the place. Give me my money and let me go.’

Naturally we paid no attention to this ridiculous demand. I ordered the men to light the lanterns. By the time they had done so only a faint lingering afterglow relieved the black of the star-sprinkled heavens. In the lamplight Ali Hassan’s malevolent countenance might have belonged to one of the night demons whose baleful influence he flouted so contemptuously. His open mouth was a cavern of darkness, ringed by rotting fangs of teeth.

Abdullah took a lantern and led the way, pushing our reluctant robber ahead of him. The path led down the cliff. It proved less hazardous than I had feared; but the descent was breathtaking enough, in almost total darkness and with an inexperienced companion. Poor Mr O’Connell had lost his Gaelic joie de vivre; groaning and swearing under his breath he followed me down, and when the light shone on the bloodstained bandage that covered his hand I had to admire his courage, for I knew the injury must pain him considerably. We were close to the bottom of the cliff when Ali Hassan turned to one side and pointed.

‘There. There. Now let me go.’

Trained as I am, I would never have seen the opening without the aid of his pointing finger. The cliffs are so seamed by cracks and fissures, each one of which casts its own shadow, that only prolonged investigation can tell which leads to an opening. While Abdullah held the lantern – and Ali Hassan – I investigated the indicated crevice.

It was low and very narrow. My height is not much over five feet and I had to stoop in order to enter. Once under the rock lintel the space opened up; I could tell by the feel of the air that a cave lay before me, but it was as black as ink and I am not ashamed to admit that I had no intention of proceeding without light. I called to Abdullah to hand me the lantern. Advancing, I held it high.

Imagine a hollow sphere, some twenty feet in diameter. Bisect the sphere and close off the open section, leaving only a narrow slit for entrance. Such was the extent and the shape of the space I now beheld, though the interior was as jagged and rocky as a hollowed sphere would be smooth. These observations were made at a later moment; just then I had no eyes for anything but the object that lay crumpled on the floor at my feet.

It lay on its side, with its knees drawn up and its head back. The tendons in the bared throat looked like dried rope. One hand was so close to my shoe that I was almost treading on it. My hand was not as steady as it might have been; the tremor of the lantern I held made the shadows shift, so that the bent fingers seemed to clutch at my ankle.

I had seen photographs of Armadale, but if I had not known the body must be his I would not have recognised this ghastly face. In life the young man had been boyishly attractive rather than handsome, with a long, narrow face and delicate features that explained the Arabs’ nickname for him. He had attempted to conceal the almost feminine structure of his face with a cavalry-style moustache. This facial adornment was now missing. A heavy lock of brown hair concealed the eyes, and I cannot say I was sorry for that.

As I stood attempting to control the uncharacteristic tremors that passed through my frame, an eerie event occurred. From the shadows at the back of the cave, pacing with slow dignity, came the cat Bastet. She walked to the head of the corpse and sat down, ears pricked, whiskers bristling.

Abdullah’s increasingly agitated cries finally roused me from the paralysis that had taken hold of me. I called back a reassuring reply; and my voice, I think, was steady. But before summoning my faithful reis or the inquisitive young reporter, I knelt by the pitiful remains and made a brief examination.

The skull was intact and the visible parts of the corpse were without a wound. There was no blood. Finally I forced myself to brush the dry, lifeless hair from the forehead. No wound marred its tanned surface. But traced in flaking red paint was the rough sketch of a snake – the royal uraeus serpent of the pharaoh.

I cast a veil over the hour that followed, not, I assure you, because the memory is intolerable – I have had worse hours, many of them – but because so much happened in such a short time that a detailed description would be interminably long.

Removing Armadale’s body was not difficult, since we were only fifteen minutes’ walk from the house and our efficient reis had brought along materials with which to construct a makeshift litter. The difficulty arose from the reluctance of the men to touch the body. I knew both these persons well; in fact, I considered them friends of mine. Never before had I seen them daunted. Yet on this occasion it required all my eloquence to persuade them to do what was necessary; and as soon as the remains had been deposited in an empty storeroom the litter bearers fled as if pursued by fiends.

Ali Hassan watched them go with a cynical smile. ‘They will work no more in the accursed tomb,’ he said, as if to himself. ‘Fools they may be, but they are wise enough to fear the dead.’

‘A pity you don’t feel the same,’ I said. ‘Here is your money, Ali Hassan; you do not deserve it, after playing us such a trick, but I always keep my word. Remember this: if you attempt to enter the tomb, or interfere with our work, I will call down the wrath of Sekhmet upon you.’

Ali Hassan burst into loud protestations, which did not end until Abdullah started toward him with his fist clenched. After the Gurneh man had left, Abdullah said gravely, ‘I go to talk to my men, Sitt. The robber is right; it will be hard to make them return to the tomb once this news gets out.’

‘A moment, Abdullah,’ I said. ‘I understand your reasoning, and agree with it; but I need you. I am going to the Valley. Emerson must know of this at once. It may be that Ali Hassan was delaying us in order to give his friends a chance to attack the tomb.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ O’Connell said.

‘Is it the journalist speaking, or the gentleman?’ I enquired.

A flush spread over the young man’s face. ‘I deserved that,’ he said, with unusual humility. ‘And I confess that my reporter’s instincts yearn to observe the Professor’s reaction when you tell him the latest news. But that is not my reason for wishing to be of service to you. Abdullah is needed here.’

Under the cold moonlight the rocky cliffs might have been part of a lunar landscape, desolate of life for millions of years. We spoke little at first. Finally O’Connell let out a deep sigh.

‘Is your hand paining you?’ I enquired. ‘I apologise for not tending to your wound; concern for my husband must be my excuse.’

‘No, the wound, as you call it, is a mere scratch and does not trouble me. I am concerned about other things. Mrs Emerson, this situation was only a journalistic sensation to me before – the greatest story of my life, perhaps. Now that I find myself acquainted with all of you, and increasingly attached to some of you, my viewpoint has changed.’

‘May I assume, then, that we have your wholehearted cooperation?’

‘You may indeed! I only wish I could do more to relieve you. How did that poor chap meet his end? So far as I could tell there was not a mark on him – just like Lord Baskerville.’

‘He may have died a natural death from hunger and thirst,’ I said cautiously. I was inclined to believe O’Connell’s protestations, but he had tricked me too often to deserve my full confidence. ‘Remember,’ I went on, ‘you have promised to show me your stories. No more speculations about curses, if you please.’

‘I feel like Dr Frankenstein,’ O’Connell admitted with a rueful laugh. ‘I have created a monster which has come to life. The curse was my own invention, and a wholly cynical one; I have never believed in such things. But how are we to explain – ’

He did not finish the sentence. Breaking into his speech came the sharp crack of a gunshot.

In the silence the sound carried and echoed, but I knew whence it had come. Logic would have told me as much even if domestic affection had not sharpened my senses. I broke into a run. Another round of firing followed. Loosening my revolver from its holster and removing my parasol from its hook in order to prevent it from tripping me, I plunged down the slope into the Valley at a speed that would have been unsafe even in daylight. Perhaps it was my very velocity that prevented me from falling. My parasol in my left hand, my revolver in my right, I rushed on, firing the latter as I went. I shot most often into the air, I believe, though I would not care to take my oath on it; my aim was to assure the attackers that assistance was rapidly approaching.

I heard no more shots. What did the deadly silence presage? Victory for us, the robbers wounded or in flight? Or… But I refused to consider an alternative theory. Running ever faster I saw before me, pallid in the moonlight, the pile of limestone chips we had removed from the tomb. The opening itself was just ahead. There was no sign of life.

Then a dark form loomed up before me. Levelling my revolver, I pulled the trigger.

A click sounded as the hammer struck the empty chamber. The voice of Emerson remarked, ‘You had better reload, Peabody; you fired the last bullet some time ago.’