Children of the Storm (46 page)

“Wait,” Nefret said desperately. The door was closing. “I need light—water—my medical bag . . .”

“You surely don’t expect me to hand over that bag with its nice little collection of scalpels and probes.” Another giggle. God, she thought, the man is as mad as Justin. Madder. He’s reveling in this.

“Please,” she whispered.

“I suppose I could leave you a lamp,” the doctor conceded. “There is water here. You will have to manage with that until we can make other arrangements. We weren’t expecting him, you see.”

He issued a low-voiced order in Arabic. One of the men put the lamp down on the floor. The door closed.

Nefret looked wildly round the room. There was a jar, presumably containing water, in one of the corners she had not reached in her blind exploration, and a crude clay cup next to it. She didn’t look for anything else. Splashing water into the cup, she wet her handkerchief and went back to Emerson.

“Father. Father, please say something,” she whispered.

The blood came from a single cut, which had bled profusely, as scalp wounds do. Her fingers probed the spot, finding only a rising lump. Anxiety hardened her touch, and Emerson stirred.

“Hell and damnation,” he remarked.

“It’s me, Father.” She heard herself laugh, as insane a sound as the doctor’s. “Oh, Father, are you all right?”

“I am,” said Emerson, flat on his back and scowling like a gargoyle, “a bloody fool. Rushing in where angels fear to tread. Peabody will never let me hear the end of this. Nefret, my dear, are you crying? Don’t cry. I can’t stand it when you cry. Did they hurt you?”

“No. I’m sorry, Father, I’m just so relieved that you aren’t . . .”

“Takes more than a bump on the head to kill me,” said Emerson with satisfaction. “I am the one who should apologize. I walked right into it, like a rabbit into a snare, and now they’ve got both of us. What sort of place is this? Let’s have a look.”

“Don’t move yet.” Her handkerchief was saturated. She threw it aside and began unbuttoning her blouse.

“Time to tear up some extraneous garment or other,” said Emerson coolly. “Not your garments, though, your mother would not approve. My shirt. It’s too cursed hot in here anyhow.”

She bandaged the cut, but Emerson refused a drink. “Better not. It may be drugged. Let us see what we have here.”

He got to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the wall as the boat dipped. “They were prepared for you,” he said, looking round. “Or for someone. This isn’t a stateroom, it’s a prison.”

The small room had been stripped of all furnishings except a piece of matting, six feet long and several feet wide, the water jar, and another, larger vessel. The windows were covered with heavy boards. The nailheads, fresh and unrusted, shone in the light.

“They might have left an airhole,” said Emerson, running his hands over the boards. “Have you anything we could use to prize up these nails?”

Nefret shook her head. Emerson unfastened his belt. “Not strong enough,” he said, examining the buckle. “But we may as well give it a try. Tell me what happened. Did you see the boy or the old lady?”

“No.” She knew what he was doing—keeping her mind active and her hopes up, and, at the same time, searching for some clue that would help them. “The damned doctor met me and brought me straight here. Justin and Mrs. Fitzroyce may not know what is going on, but Maryam must. The attacks on her are the extraneous parts of the pattern. They were staged. She stabbed poor Melusine herself, with a heavy needle or a nail.”

“Hmmm.” The metal rasped like a file as he dug away the wood around one of the nailheads. “But what about the second appearance of Hathor?”

“Perhaps she hired some local girl to play the part. That incident was designed to provide her with an unbreakable alibi.” Nefret sat down cross-legged on the mat. There was nothing she could do but watch, and as her eyes moved over the impressive form of her father-in-law her spirits lifted. It did take more than a knock on the head to kill Emerson, or discompose him for long. He began to hum under his breath. She recognized the melody, though it was horribly off-key. “ ‘She never saw the streets of Cairo; she never saw the kutchy-kutchy . . . ‘ Curse it,” said Emerson. He tossed the broken buckle aside and sat down beside her.

Nefret wrapped both hands around his upper arm and laid her cheek against his shoulder. “I’m not glad you’re here, Father, but there’s only one other man on earth I’d rather have with me.”

“Well, now,” said Emerson self-consciously. “Not my ingenious brother?”

“He’s good,” Nefret conceded. “But he’s not you. Or Ramses.”

“He’s charming, though,” Emerson said gloomily. “I’m not.”

“I think you are.”

“Your mother doesn’t.”

“Father, that’s not true.” She squeezed his arm, comforted by the feel of the hard muscles under her hands and by his monumental calm.

“I’ve been behaving like a boor,” Emerson muttered. “Ever since he arrived. He brings out the worst in me. And rouses the direst of suspicions.”

At first she thought he was referring to his long-held jealousy of his brother. Then she let out a gasp. “He can’t be a party to this.”

“I wish I could be sure. Nefret, that little girl cannot have planned this business, it’s too devilish and too complex. There’s someone else behind it, and some motive stronger than revenge for a long-past death.”

“What?”

“It is a fatal error,” said Emerson, obviously quoting, “to speculate without sufficient data. We’ve quite a bit of data, though. Speculation helps pass the time.”

“Is that what you and Mother do when you’re shut up in a place like this?”

“Generally we argue about whose fault it was.” Emerson chuckled as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Come, my dear girl, think. What motive leaps to mind where Sethos is concerned? What was he doing in Jerusalem? Not working for the War Office, Smith made that clear. Someone gave him a beating, which I do not doubt he well deserved—because he had tried to interfere with their business arrangements? Since the war, Palestine and Syria have become a paradise for looters and tomb robbers. What is in that room at the Castle, neatly packed and ready to be transported?”

It hit her like a blow in the stomach. “The treasure. Good Lord! No, I don’t believe it.”

“Lacau will arrive tomorrow and load the cases onto the steamer,” Emerson said, inexorably logical. “It won’t take him long. He’ll go straight back to Cairo. The Isis is a modern vessel with a large crew—easily large enough to overpower the guards on the government steamer and unload the cargo. There is unrest in Egypt because of the arrival of the Milner Commission. The theft of the treasure will be put down to radicals.”

“They’ll have to kill the witnesses,” she said numbly. “And sink the steamer.”

“Not necessarily. Sethos is not a violent man. But there is no one better equipped to get a load like that into the marketplace.”

The lamplight flickered. Their shadows rushed back and forth, as if frantic to escape. She felt his lips brush her hair, and then he gently detached her hands and got to his feet. “If Sethos is the ringleader, you’ve nothing to fear. He wouldn’t harm you. Better get hold of that lamp before it falls over. We are picking up speed.”

The motion of the ship was more pronounced. Emerson began going through his pockets. “Went off without my coat,” he said, removing a handful of motley objects and inspecting them. “No pipe, no tobacco—and no matches.”

“No gun, no knife,” said Nefret, trying to emulate his coolness.

“They overlooked these.” Emerson picked half a dozen nails out of the mess and shoved the rest of it back in his trouser pocket. “Did they search you?”

It came back to her then, the sensation of hands moving over her body. Big, fat hands. She grimaced. “Superficially. He was looking for a weapon. I didn’t have one.”

“Take these.” Emerson handed her three of the nails. “And hide them. Not in your pocket; they may decide to search you again.” He went back to the window and began scraping. “That fellow spoke of other arrangements,” he said over his shoulder. “If they separate us—”

“Oh, no,” Nefret whispered.

“If that happens . . . Well, my dear, a nail isn’t much of a weapon, but a sharp jab in the region of a man’s kidneys, or—er—elsewhere, will certainly give him pause. Not to worry; I’ll get you out of this somehow. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t been such a bloody idiot, there would be help on the way now.”

Nefret took a deep breath and steadied herself and her voice. “If you’re a bloody idiot, so am I. I ought to have suspected something when he brought me here.”

“Could you have done anything if you had?” Emerson inquired reasonably.

“Maybe not. He’s as strong as a bull, and even if I could have overpowered him, I’d have had to evade the crewmen. They must be in on this.”

“No doubt about that. Three of the bastards jumped me as soon as I was on board. Admittedly, my demeanor was not that of a gentleman paying a social call.”

Nefret hugged her knees and laughed, picturing him charging up the gangplank, fists clenched, shouting out accusations. “Stop blaming yourself. If you had delayed to get help, the boat would probably have sailed. Why did you come after me?”

Emerson went on chipping. “Well, you see, it suddenly came to me. When I was thinking of something else. I remembered who it was who lived in El-Hilleh, and why it— Damnation. Shove those things out of sight and come here.”

There was only time to push the nails into the tops of her shoes before the key turned in the lock and the door opened a crack.

“Stand back,” the doctor said. He sounded nervous. “I have a gun.”

“Very nice,” Emerson said. He stood in front of Nefret, seemingly relaxed, but she had seen him, and his son, in that pose before. They could both move with the speed of a charging lion.

“We all have guns.”

Someone pulled the door back. The opening looked like the entrance to the infernal regions, blocked by hulking bodies and redly lit.

“Don’t risk it, Father,” Nefret whispered, taking hold of his arm. She knew Emerson’s temper only too well and as her eyes adjusted to the light she saw that there were at least three of them in addition to the doctor.

“Hmph.” Emerson settled back on his heels. “They’re bound to hit something in this confined space. Might be you.”

The doctor took a step forward and then thought better of it. Obeying his curt order, two of the men edged cautiously into the room. Both held pistols and one carried a lantern. The doctor remained where he was.

“Leading your regiment from behind, I see,” remarked Emerson. “Now what?”

“Move forward. Slowly. One step at a time. Hold out your hands. No, madame, not you. Remain where you are.”

His voice shook, and so did the hand that held the pistol. There was nothing for it but to obey. The odds were too great and they were both weaponless. Emerson shrugged.

“You should have done this before you tossed me in here,” he pointed out, as one of the men fastened a pair of handcuffs over his wrists. “Saved yourself all this fuss and worry. Poor planning. Who’s in charge here anyhow?”

“I hate talk like that!” The doctor’s voice rose into falsetto. His lips drew back. “I hate you damned British, with your supercilious sneers and your superior airs! How dare you condescend to me? How dare you look at me that way? Don’t look at me that way!”

His hand lashed out. The barrel of the gun caught Emerson across the face. He fell back against the wall, his knees buckling.

“Please,” Nefret said. “Please don’t hurt him again.” Her hands were clenched, her nails digging into her palms, but if the man wanted her to beg, she would.

“You have better sense than he,” the doctor muttered. “You two, get him out of here.”

The men he indicated exchanged dubious looks. Coming within arm’s reach of an angry Father of Curses, even when he was barely able to stay on his feet, was not a job a sensible man relished. One of them got up sufficient nerve to grip Emerson’s left arm. The other jabbed the gun into his ribs.

“Go with them, Father,” Nefret said. “There’s no use resisting.”

Emerson raised his hands and wiped blood off his chin. “I wasn’t resisting,” he said in an injured voice. “Meek as a lamb.”

“Out!” The doctor shrieked. “Take him out of here!”

Emerson submitted without further comment to being led toward the door. I can’t let him go like this, without a word, Nefret thought. I may never see him again. To hell with stiff upper lips.

“Father, I—”

“Yes, my dear, I know.” He gave her a quick glance over his shoulder and smiled. “À bientôt.”

That said it all, really. Not good-bye. See you soon. “À bientôt,” Nefret said.

EL-GHARBI BADE US FAREWELL with unconcealed glee. We were deeply in his debt now, and I knew it was only a matter of time before we received a demand, couched as an obsequious request, for recompense. We cut his courtesies short and hurried away. I did not want to miss the train. Trains are always late when one is on time, and on time when one is late. I kept telling myself there was no need for haste but I failed to convince myself. Our discovery had altered the entire picture.

We arrived at the station at Esna in ample time. The train was late. There were only a few English persons on the platform—students, to judge by their youth and their casual clothing. The vendors of fake antiquities identified us at a glance (those who did not know Ramses personally recognized my parasol and my belt of tools) and left us alone. Other merchants were selling water, fruit, and vegetables. I took a seat on the single bench, next to a gray-bearded gentleman holding a rooster. The gentleman bared a mouthful of brown teeth and greeted me effusively. The rooster cocked its head and gave me a hot, mad glare. Ramses paced up and down, circling groups of squatting Egyptians who were accustomed to such delays and who whiled away the time nibbling on sweetmeats and gossiping. I too was accustomed to such delays, but as the sun sank into the west and the shadows lengthened, the knowledge we had gained that day lay more and more heavily on my shoulders.

The rooster stretched out its neck and gave me a sharp peck on the arm. I accepted the apologies of its owner but I could no longer sit still. Rising, I joined Ramses, who had stopped to chat with a small party consisting of a man and a woman and a babe in arms. The young mother was unconcernedly suckling her infant, while her husband talked with Ramses and scratched his stomach.