Children of the Storm (33 page)

“She did seem chastened. She spoke gratefully of you.”

“All the more reason to clear the air. I will do it if you shirk the task.”

“Better you than I. You are very good at setting people straight.”

“I will find a suitable opportunity,” I promised. “So you took her back to the Isis last night?”

“Yes. The old lady had retired, so I did not present myself. I am to fetch Maryam and her belongings, such as they are, later today, and bring her back to the dahabeeyah.”

“It would not be proper for her to stay there with you.”

“For God’s sake, Amelia, she’s my daughter!”

“Do you want everyone in Luxor to know that?”

Sethos scratched his chin. The scruffy beard and the healing cuts itched, I supposed. “I am becoming weary of inventing new identities and preposterous plots, Amelia. So far as her employer is concerned, I am an old friend of her father. Maryam says the old lady is a trifle vague, so she won’t ask awkward questions; the busy gossips of Luxor certainly will, however. I have decided to be Major Hamilton again. Retired, of course. There’s an outside chance that someone may remember Maryam as Molly, and that’s the easiest way of explaining my interest in her.”

“Hamilton was red-haired,” I said, with a critical look at his streaked hair.

“I’m going gray. Sad, isn’t it, how the years take their toll?”

“Hmph,” said Emerson, appearing in the doorway. “Er—everything all right with the girl?”

“Yes, quite,” I said, for I knew he did not want explanations, only assurance that he wouldn’t have to do anything. “Is breakfast ready?”

“Yes. I assume,” said Emerson morosely, “that it would be a waste of breath to ask you not to come to the zabtiyeh.”

“You are correct. It would be advisable for Sethos to join us, since he was well acquainted with the corpse.”

Sethos’s only response to the news of Martinelli’s death consisted of raised eyebrows and a silent whistle. I did not elaborate on the bare facts, nor was the subject discussed during breakfast. Evelyn asked after Maryam, Walter made several unsubtle attempts to find out Sethos’s real name, and Ramses, in an effort to divert us, described Selim’s fascination with the aeroplane. “He stroked the dirty canvas like a lover, and asked the lieutenant how hard it was to drive.”

Most foreigners had nothing to do with the native police. They were not subject to the laws that governed Egyptians, and preferred to deal with occasional cases of theft and extortion through their dragomen or tour agencies. In Cairo the police—like everything else in Egypt—was headed by a “British adviser,” but for the most part the provincial police were under the jurisdicion of the local mudir. I had visited the zabtiyeh (police station) in the past, and I was pleasantly surprised at its changed appearance. The broken stairs and windows had been repaired; two constables, in smart white uniforms and red tarbooshes, stood at attention at the door, instead of sleeping on the steps as they had been accustomed to do. It was a sign of the changing times, of the new wind that was blowing through Egypt, and the young man who rose to his feet when we were shown into his office was another symbol of those times. Taller than most Egyptians, his sable beard and mustache trimmed close, he had the smooth dark skin of a Sudanese and the manners of a Frenchman, though when he respectfully kissed the hand I offered, I detected a glint of irony in his keen black eyes.

“This is an honor I had not expected, Sitt Hakim,” he said.

Taking this as the subtle rebuke that was intended, I replied in my best Arabic, “I could not resist the opportunity of meeting one whose praises I have heard sung.”

“With you be peace and God’s mercy and blessing,” Emerson added. The formalities having been concluded, so far as he was concerned, he went on, “You have met my son. This is my daughter-in-law—a genuine Sitt Hakim—and—er—”

“A friend,” said Sethos, bowing. “Sabah el-kheir, effendi.”

Ayyad’s eyes rested on him for a moment and then returned to Nefret. “I thank you for coming. I have ordered the objects to be brought here. The mortuary is not pleasant for a lady.”

Nefret might have reminded him that her acquaintance with unpleasant cadavers was almost certainly greater than his, but she recognized the courtesy and acknowledged it with a smile.

The room was fairly large and crowded with shabby furniture—a red plush settee, several chairs of European style (the cushions worn and faded), a large desk, and two battered wooden cabinets. Under the windows on the east wall was a long table, covered with cotton sheeting. Without ceremony Ayyad whisked it off.

In Egypt one inevitably thinks of mummies. However, a body left unburied has little chance to dry out before predators get to it—vultures, wild dogs, jackals, and, after them, a varied collection of insects. There was nothing left of this one but pale bones, splintered and gnawed and disarticulated. As Nefret bent over the unsavory ensemble, her face absorbed, Ayyad said, “They were widely scattered, and some we did not find, though we searched far.”

She heard the defensive note in his voice and gave him the compliment he wanted. “You’ve laid them out in the right order,” she said, without looking up. “I’m impressed that you found so many. The small bones of hands and feet are missing; that’s not unusual, in such cases. Some of the ribs . . .” As she spoke, she took a tape measure from the pocket of her skirt. “Without the feet I can only estimate his height.”

“How estimate?” Ayyad asked, edging closer.

“There are tables of proportions. I can show you someday, if you like.”

“You say ‘his.’ How do you know that?”

“But you knew that.” She gave him a comradely smile, as one professional to another. “From the clothing. Scraps of European-style trousers and coat and waistcoat, we were told.”

“Yes, they are in that box. But there are other ways—from the bones themselves?”

She gave him a little lecture, to which he listened attentively, his head close to hers. “The skull also indicates a male,” she finished. “You see these ridges of bone over the eye sockets? In most women they are not so prominent, and the angle of the jaw is more rounded.”

“Age?” Ayyad rapped.

“Not a boy, not an old man. That’s just an educated guess. Based primarily on the teeth. The four back molars have erupted and show signs of moderate wear. I can’t tell you much more. The damned jackals haven’t left me enough to work on.”

She had spoken English, and he had replied in the same language, so absorbed that he spoke to her as directly as he would have addressed a man. I sympathize with the desire of any person to improve his understanding, but time was getting on, and Emerson was beginning to fidget.

“Enough to determine his identity,” I said, forestalling another question from Ayyad. “It is Martinelli. Look at his teeth.”

Stained brown and yellowish green, the chipped lower incisors bared by the fleshless lips, they grinned up at us.

THE SCRAPS OF THE CLOTHING confirmed my identification. The faded shepherd’s plaid was the same pattern as that of the trousers Martinelli had worn the night he disappeared. The only other objects in the box were a few buttons and metal fasteners from various articles of dress. His ostentatious stickpin and his pocket watch and chain were not there. Needless to say, neither were the gold bracelets and the pectoral.

Sethos stepped in to relieve us of the problem of what to do with the bones. Declaring himself to be an acquaintance of the dead man, he manfully struggled to conceal his shock and distress at the bad news. “How often have I warned him of the dangers of those long, solitary walks of his,” he murmured, passing a clean white handkerchief over his eyes. “His heart was weak; he must have collapsed and died, out there in the waste, under the cold, uncaring moon, and it would not be long before . . .” He shuddered. “He is at peace now.”

I was tempted to give him a hard poke with my parasol, but he prudently stayed at a distance.

After promising to collect the bones and notify the proper authorities, we left the office. Zabtiyeh Square was an ecumenical area, with a mosque and a Roman Catholic church and two modern hotels as well as the police station. Pretty gardens filled the center; the color and scent of the blossoms were especially refreshing after the sight we had seen.

“This certainly puts a new complexion on things,” I remarked. “Martinelli never left Luxor. He must have been killed the same night he disappeared.”

“You don’t know that it was murder,” Emerson muttered. He knew my conclusion was correct, he just didn’t want to admit it.

“A man of his sort was not in the habit of taking long solitary walks,” I retorted. “Some individual took him out there, by force or by guile, and left him dead. In my opinion that is a strong presumption of murder. As for his weak heart, you invented that, didn’t you?”

My brother-in-law met my gaze with a shrug and a smile. “There was no need to confuse the issue. So far as the authorities are concerned, it was a sad accident. How did he die, Nefret?”

She started slightly when he addressed her, and turned troubled blue eyes toward him. “You don’t miss much.”

“You have a very unguarded, expressive face, my dear. Something about the neck bones, wasn’t it?”

“There was some damage. I couldn’t swear to it under oath, but he might have been strangled. Or,” she added sourly, “he might have had his head bashed in—impossible to tell whether the breaks were post- or pre-mortem—or been fed poison, or stabbed or shot!”

I took her hand and patted it. “Shall we stop at the Savoy for a nice cup of tea?”

“Good Gad, no!” Emerson increased his pace. “I have work to do. Cyrus will have to be informed. I leave that to you, Peabody.”

“If theft was the motive for his murder . . .” I began.

“What other motive could there be?” Emerson demanded. “The fellahin who found the remains would have taken anything of value, but it is much more likely that he was robbed by someone to whom he had been fool enough to display the jewelry while he was swanking round the cafés and bars. The value of the prize was fabulous enough to move even a cautious Luxor thief to murder. The portmanteau he carried is probably at the bottom of the river, filled with stones. That’s how I would have disposed of it,” Emerson concluded. He took me firmly by the arm and hurried me on past the shops that lined the esplanade.

His obvious disinclination to continue the discussion did not prevent me from speculating. His theory (ours, I should say) was probably correct, but then what had become of the princesses’ jewels? Were they still in the house of the thief, in a secret hidey-hole like the one old Abd el Hamed had excavated under the floor of his house? Had they been sold to one of the Luxor dealers? The latter seemed to me unlikely. The jewelry was distinctive, its ownership and origin well known; were it to be offered to a buyer, we would hear of it sooner or later, and Emerson would come down on the unlucky dealer like a thunderbolt. Perhaps our original theory had been the right one: The treasure had been taken to Cairo, though obviously not by Martinelli.

Later that afternoon I sat alone on the veranda awaiting the arrival of Sethos and his daughter. I was grateful for an interlude of reflection. Shortly the entire family—et quelle famille!—would be upon me, and although I seldom have any difficulty keeping track of a plethora of problems, I found myself unable to concentrate. My thoughts fluttered as randomly as a butterfly from one thought to the next, some important, some utterly inconsequential. What to wear to the fantasia certainly fell into the second category, and so did the dinner menu, which I had already settled with Fatima, and the ostracon I had found that afternoon—another part of the one that had caused Ramses such embarrassment. The disposition of the lower limbs in this bit was really quite astonishing, but Ramses had refused to discuss the matter with me.

With an effort I forced myself to fix my thoughts on more important matters. I had not had the opportunity to tell Cyrus about Martinelli. I was in no hurry to see the Vandergelts, since we had yet to decide what to tell Cyrus about Sethos. All three of them knew of his relationship to Emerson. Selim was the only other person in Luxor who knew, but Selim was unaware that the drab companion was Sethos’s daughter. Or was he?

My head was aching. It was Emerson’s fault, for dragging me back to the dig before I could pin my elusive brother-in-law down. We had left him in Luxor, where, as he explained, he hoped to acquire a few basic necessities before collecting his daughter. They were to come directly to us, and I had expected them before this. Matters might not be so easily settled as Sethos had assumed. Mrs. Fitzroyce might reasonably make a fuss, and Justin was almost certain to do so.

Emerson was the first to join me. “Where is everybody?” he demanded.

“They will be here soon, I expect. All of them.”

They were. All of them except Sethos and Maryam. The children began clamoring for tea, so I told Fatima to serve.

“Shouldn’t we wait for our guests?” inquired Sennia.

My poor head gave a great throb. I had forgotten about Sennia, bright as a new penny and as “ ‘quisitive” as the elephant’s child. How much had I told her? How much should I tell her? She had met Maryam when Maryam was Molly. She had encountered Sethos, not as Major Hamilton but as “Cousin Ismail” . . . I gave it up.

“How do you know we are expecting guests?” I inquired feebly.

Sennia was a trifle vain and always insisted on dressing in her best for tea. She smoothed her ruffled skirt and rolled her eyes. “Fatima told me. Who are they? Is one of them Mr. Badger from the aeroplane?”

“It is a surprise,” I said, since I had not the least idea what Sethos would look like or what he would call himself. Surely she wouldn’t remember or recognize “Cousin Ismail.”

Knowing Sethos’s penchant for dramatic epiphanies—the aeroplane was certainly the most impressive to date—I might have expected he would wait until he had a large audience before he presented himself. We saw the carriage coming some distance away; it was the best of those for hire at the landing. It drew up with a flourish in front of the house, and Sethos got out. Then he swooped like a hawk on Davy, who was scuttling as fast as his fat legs could carry him toward the motorcar. The child was absolutely uncanny. I had just that moment opened the door.