Read He Shall Thunder in the Sky Online
Authors: Elizabeth Peters
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #History, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective, #Suspense, #Horror, #Crime & Thriller, #Historical, #Fiction - Mystery, #Detective, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Women Sleuths, #American, #Mystery fiction, #Adventure stories, #Crime & mystery, #Detective and mystery stories, #Women archaeologists, #Archaeologists, #Mystery & Detective - Historical, #Traditional British, #Mystery & Detective - Series, #Middle East, #Egypt, #Ancient, #Egyptologists, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictitious character), #Detective and mystery stories; American, #Peabody; Amelia (Fictitious character)
He Shall Thunder in the Sky (10 page)
“Is that wise?” I inquired, indicating the shod foot. “A tight boot will be painful if her foot swells. Perhaps you would like Miss Forth to have a look at it. She is a physician.”
“Not necessary,” said Miss Nordstrom, looking at Nefret with shocked surprise.
Nefret smiled. She was accustomed to having people react to that announcement with disbelief or disapproval. “I would be happy to.”
When the offer was again rejected she did not persist. A cup of tea removed the governess’s ill humor. She began to apologize for inconveniencing us.
“Think nothing of it,” I said. “You are newcomers to Cairo, I believe? How do you like it?”
“Not at all,” said Miss Nordstrom bluntly. “I have never seen so many beggars and so much dirt. The guides are impertinent. And none of the wretches speak English! I was against our coming, but Major Hamilton was determined to have his niece with him, and duty brought him here. Are you acquainted with him?”
“I have heard his name,” Emerson said. “With the Corps of Engineers, is he?”
“He was called in to consult on the defenses of the Canal and reports directly to General Maxwell,” Miss Nordstrom corrected. She was obviously proud of her employer; she went on to tell us in tedious detail about his past triumphs and present importance.
Miss Molly was unimpressed. More — she was bored. She brightened, however, when the only missing member of the family sauntered in, tail swinging. Seshat went straight to Ramses, who held out his hand.
“So you finally woke up?” he inquired. “Good of you to join us.”
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Miss Molly exclaimed. “Is it yours, Ramses?”
“Molly!” Miss Nordstrom exclaimed. “You are being familiar!”
“That’s all right,” Ramses said, with a reassuring smile at the girl. “This is Seshat, Molly. She, not it, if you don’t mind.”
Seshat condescended to be introduced and have her back stroked — once. She then returned to Ramses. Seeing Molly’s face fall, Nefret said, “Are you fond of animals? Perhaps you would like to visit my menagerie.”
Miss Nordstrom declined the invitation, and since I found the woman very tedious, I went off with Nefret and Miss Molly. The poor little thing perked up as soon as we were out of the room.
“Miss Nordstrom is rather strict,” I said sympathetically.
“Oh, Nordie means well. It’s just that she won’t let me do anything interesting. This is the best time I’ve had since we got here.”
“What do you usually do for entertainment?” Nefret asked.
Molly gave a little skip. “Do my lessons and take drives around the city while Nordie reads out of Baedeker. Sometimes we have people to tea. Children, I mean. I’m not out yet, so I’m not allowed to associate with young ladies. And the children are so young!”
Nefret laughed. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.” She looked from Nefret to me and back to Nefret, and realized that little fabrication was not going to be believed. “Well . . . I will be sixteen in a few months.”
“Fifteen?” Nefret inquired; her brows were arched and a dimple trembled at the corner of her mouth. “Are you sure you don’t mean fourteen — or thirteen — or —”
“Almost thirteen.” Molly admitted defeat with a scowl at Nefret.
She forgot her grievance when Nefret showed her round the “menagerie.” Narmer, the unattractive yellow mongrel whom Nefret persisted in calling a watchdog, greeted us with his customary howls and bounds, and had to be shut in the shed to keep him from jumping at everyone. Miss Molly did not care much for him (neither did I), but a litter of puppies brought her to her knees, and as the little creatures crawled over her she raised a face shining with pleasure. “They’re so sweet. I do wish I could have one.”
“We’ll ask your uncle, shall we?” Nefret suggested. “I’m always looking for good homes for my strays.”
“He’ll say it’s up to Nordie, and she’ll say no. She thinks animals are dirty and make too much trouble.”
She was still playing with the puppies when Ramses joined us. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked, smiling down at her. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Miss Nordstrom sent me to fetch you. She is anxious to get you home.”
“That dreary hotel isn’t home.” But she removed the puppies from her lap and held out her arms to Ramses. “It still hurts. Will you carry me?”
“There’s no swelling,” said Nefret, running experienced fingers round the small foot. “I think it would be better for you to walk it off. Here, let me help you up.”
She left Miss Molly little choice, lifting her to her feet and taking firm hold of her arm.
“Are you really a doctor?” the girl asked.
“Yes.”
“Is it very hard, to be a doctor?”
“Very,” Nefret said rather grimly.
Miss Nordstrom was pacing impatiently up and down the room, so we saw them to their waiting cab and parted with mutual expressions of goodwill.
“Why did you leave me alone with that dreadful woman?” Emerson demanded.
“Sssh! Wait until they are farther away before you begin insulting her,” I said.
“Well, I don’t care if she hears. She’s awfully hard on the child, you know. By her own admission she never takes her anywhere. Can you believe it, Peabody — this was their first visit to Giza, and they haven’t even been to Sakkara or Abu Roash!”
“A cruel deprivation indeed,” I said, laughing. “Not everyone is interested in ancient sites, Emerson.”
“She would be if she had the chance,” Emerson declared. “She asked me all sorts of questions when I was bringing her here. Why don’t you write to her uncle, Peabody, and ask if she can visit us from time to time.”
“You’ll have to have Miss Nordstrom too.”
“Damnation. I suppose that’s so.” Emerson brooded. “Ah, well. We might ask her and her uncle for Christmas dinner, eh? She’s a bright, cheerful little thing, and she seemed to enjoy our company, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes,” Nefret said. “No question about that.”
From Letter Collection B
Dearest Lia,
You have every right to reproach me for being a poor correspondent. Life is so dull and quiet here, there is very little to write about. Not that I wouldn’t talk for hours if you were here! We can always find things to talk about, can’t we? Never mind, the war can’t last much longer, and then we will all be together again, with a little newcomer to train up in archaeology! The Professor is moping a bit; he would never admit it, since he hates to be thought sentimental, but I think he is lonesome for Sennia. You know how he loves children. Something rather amusing happened yesterday; he came home from the dig with a new pet — a young English girl who had got herself marooned halfway up the Great Pyramid. She had panicked, as people sometimes do, and wouldn’t let her guides help her, so someone sent for Ramses. He brought her down safely, but she claimed she had hurt her foot and the Professor insisted she come to the house to have it looked after. She was accompanied by an extremely formidable governess, who snatched her away as soon as was decently possible. But I’m afraid we haven’t seen the last of her.
Why do I say “afraid?” Well, my dear, you know the effect Ramses has on females of all ages, especially when he lets his guard down, as he does with children, and gives them a real smile instead of that quirk of the lips that is his usual expression of mild amusement or pleasure. He has quite a devastating smile — or so I have been told, by various bemused women. This one isn’t a woman, she’s only twelve, but what female could resist being rescued by a handsome, sun-bronzed, athletic young man? There wasn’t a thing wrong with her ankle. I hope she isn’t going to be trouble.
Three
“M
usic,” Ramses remarked, “is one of the most effective tools of the warmonger.”
This sententious observation was overheard by all at the railing of Shepheard’s terrace, where we stood watching the military band marching past on its way to the bandstand in the Ezbekieh Gardens. Today the musicians had halted in front of the hotel, marking time and (one would suppose) catching their breaths before launching into the next selection. The brilliant crimson-and-white uniforms made a gaudy show, and sunlight struck dazzlingly off the polished brass of trumpets and trombones and tubas.
I caught the eye of Nefret, who was on Ramses’s other side. Her lips parted, but like myself she was not quick enough to head him off. Leaning on the rail, Ramses continued, in the same carrying voice, “Stirring marches confuse rational thought by appealing directly to the emotions. Plato was quite correct to forbid certain types of music in his ideal society. The Lydian mode —”
A blast of drums and brasses drowned him out as the band burst into “Rule, Britannia.” The loyal watchers attempted to join in, with only moderate success; as the Reader may know, the verse has a series of rapid arpeggios that are very difficult to render clearly. What the singers lacked in musicality they made up for in enthusiasm; faces glowed with patriotic fervor, eyes shone, and as soprano tremolo and baritone rumble mingled in the stirring words of the chorus: “Britons never, never, never will be slaves!” I felt my own pulse quicken.
The onlookers formed a cross-section of Anglo-Egyptian society, the ladies in filmy afternoon frocks and huge hats, the gentlemen in uniform or well-cut lounge suits. Down below, waiting for the street to be cleared so they could go about their affairs, were spectators of quite a different sort. Some wore fezzes and European-style suits, others long robes and turbans; but their faces bore similar expressions — sullen, resentful, watching. A conspicuous exception was an individual directly across the street; his well-bred countenance was tanned to a handsome brown and he was half a head taller than those around him. He was not wearing a fez, a turban, or a hat. I waved at him, but he was talking animatedly to a man who stood next to him and did not see me.
“There is your father at last,” I said to Ramses. “Whom is he conversing with?”
The band had moved on, and it was now possible to make oneself heard without shouting. Ramses turned, his elbow on the rail. “Where? Oh. That’s Philippides, the head of the political CID.”
I studied the fellow’s plump, smiling face with new interest. I had not met him, but I had heard a number of unpleasant stories about him. His superior, Harvey Pasha, had made him responsible for rounding up enemy aliens, and it was said he had acquired a small fortune from people he threatened with deportation. The guilty parties paid him to overlook their transgressions and the innocent parties paid him to be left in peace. He terrorized a good part of Cairo, and his shrewish wife terrorized him.
“Why on earth would your father spend time with a man like that?” I demanded.
“I’ve no idea,” said Ramses. “Unless he hopes Philippides will use his influence on David’s behalf. Shall we go back to our table? Father will join us when he chooses, I suppose.”
In point of fact, I was surprised Emerson had condescended to join us at all. He disliked taking tea at Shepheard’s, claiming that the only people who went there were frivolous society persons and tedious tourists. In this he was correct. However, in justice to myself, I must explain that my reasons for this particular outing were not frivolous.
Spying on Nefret without appearing to do so had driven me to expedients that were cursed difficult to arrange, much less explain. I could not insist on accompanying her wherever she went, or demand verification of her movements; and on the one occasion when I attempted to follow her disguised in a robe and veil I had borrowed from Fatima, the inconvenient garb handicapped me to such an extent that Nefret reached the station and hopped onto a departing tram while I was attempting to disentangle my veil from a thornbush.
Considering alternatives, I concluded that the best plan would be to fill our calendar with engagements that involved the entire family. The approach of the Yuletide season, with its attendant festivities, made this procedure feasible, and today’s excursion was one of that sort.
My other motive was one I was reluctant to admit even to myself. After all, what had we to do with spies? Rounding the rascals up was the responsibility of the police and the military. Yet the seed of suspicion Nefret had sowed in my mind had found sustenance there; whenever I stamped upon it with the boot of reason, it sent up another green shoot. If Sethos was in Cairo, we were the only ones who stood a chance of tracking him down — the only ones who were familiar with his methods, who had met him face-to . . . well, to several of his many faces.
Now I wondered if the same notion had occurred to Emerson. Jealousy, unwarranted but intense, as well as professional dislike, burned within him; nothing would give him greater satisfaction than to bring the Master Criminal to justice. Was he at this very moment on the trail of Sethos? Why else would he stoop to amiable converse with a man like Philippides?
I fully intended to ask him, but I did not suppose he would admit the truth. Good Gad, I thought, if I am forced to spy on Emerson as well as on Nefret, I will find myself fully occupied.
When he joined us a few minutes later, his noble brow was furrowed and his white teeth were bared in what was probably not a smile. Instead of greeting us properly, he flung himself into a chair and demanded, “What have you done now, Ramses?”
“Done?” Ramses repeated, raising his eyebrows. “I?”
“I have just been informed,” said Emerson, beckoning the waiter, “by that consummate ass Pettigrew, that you were making seditious remarks while the band played patriotic airs.”
“I was talking about Plato,” said Ramses.
“Good Gad,” said his father, in some bewilderment. “Why?”
Ramses explained — at greater length, in my opinion, than was strictly necessary. Having warmed to his theme, he developed it further. “We will soon be seeing a resurgence of sentimental ballads that present a romanticized version of death and battle. The soldier boy dreaming of his dear old mother, the sweetheart smiling bravely as she sends her lover off to war —”
