Lord of the Silent: A Novel of Suspense (27 page)

implied." "Poor darling. We'11 see if we can't find him another tutor." Ahead the ruined walls of the temple of Seti I shone in the starlight. Remembering the night she and "the parents" had searched the crumbling precincts for Ramses and David, and the long hours of waiting before they found out what had become of them, Nefret clung more tightly to her husband's arm. Ramses appeared unaffected by painful memories-after all, she reminded herself, there was hardly a site on the west bank that didn't hold them. "Am I going too fast for you?" he asked, slowing his steps. "A little. Let's not hurry, it's a lovely night." The road to the public ferry landing turned south. Leaving it, they struck off across the cultivation, following the raised pathway Cyrus had built so that he could reach his private dock by carriage. The original owners of the land were still living off the generous price he had paid. They went on in silence for a while. Ramses began to whistle softly. Recognizing the melody, Nefret smiled to herself. They had waltzed to that song once. For the moment at least he had put aside his worries and was simply enjoying the night air and her company. The lights of the Amelia were visible when a dark form burst out of a grove of palm trees and ran toward them. Ramses whipped around. Fortunately the moon was bright; he was able to stop himself before his raised hand caught her across the throat. "Don't, it's Miss-it's Margaret," Nefret exclaimed. "What on earth are you doing here?" Gasping for breath, the journalist took her arm in a hard grip and tugged at her. "Come with me. I've been waiting for hours." "Come where?" Ramses asked, holding tightly to Nefret's other arm. "What's wrong?" "Oh, don't ask questions, just hurry. I had to leave him-I don't think he can move, but if he can, he will .. ." A feeling his mother would have described as a hideous foreboding came over Ramses. His fingers relaxed their hold on Nefret. She didn't have to ask who "he" was either. "Of course we'll come," she said, in her dispassionate, reassuring physician's voice. "Where is he?" He was lying on the ground under one of the trees, flat on his back and unmoving. Trunk and branches diffused the moonlight; shadows hid his face and blurred his form, but there was no mistaking his identity. "I can't see," Nefret said, dropping to her knees. "It's too dark. Is he injured?" "I don't think so." Margaret leaned against one of the trees. "He's ill. At first it was chills, he was shaking and his teeth were chattering, but he could still walk, and I got him this far, but he wouldn't go to the dahabeeyah, and I did, and they told me you were out for the evening, and when I came back he was like this, and-" "Slap her," Nefret said curtly. "She's hysterical." "You slap her. I'm not awfully keen on hitting women." "Delighted to hear it." Margaret took a deep breath. "I'm not hysterical, I was just trying to tell you everything at once. What's wrong with him, Nefret?" "Damned beard," Nefret muttered. "How the hell can I make a diagnosis when I can't see him, and most of his face is covered with hair? He's not shivering now, his skin is dry and hot and he's comatose. It could be ... Let's take him to the boat." "Yes, right," Ramses said resignedly. "Nefret, go on ahead and get the crew out of the way." She obeyed without hesitation or question. Ramses lifted his uncle and heaved him over one shoulder. The gangplank was down and the man who usually kept guard was not there. So far, so good, Ramses thought. As he turned into the corridor leading to the sleeping quarters, he heard Nefret's voice in the saloon. She was chattering cheerfully in Arabic, presumably to Nasir. None of the cabins was occupied except theirs; he had a choice of rooms. He chose the nearest, edged in, dumped the unconscious man onto the bed, and rubbed his back. Sethos wasn't as heavy as Emerson, but he was a big man and at the moment, a deadweight. Margaret had followed him in. "What can I do?" she asked. "Draw the curtains." By the time she had done so he had found the oil lamp and lit it. Nefret soon joined them, carrying her medical bag. She hadn't taken the time to change, and her filmy frock contrasted oddly with her brisk, professional manner. "Get some water," she ordered. "Margaret, sit over there and keep out of the way." When Ramses came back from the bathroom she looked up. "Temperature a hundred and three, pulse rapid. Lift him up, Ramses, and let's see if we can get these pills down him." "What are they?" Margaret asked. "Quinine. I think he's got malaria." "You think? Can't you tell?" "Oh, certainly," Nefret said sarcastically. "Just give me a microscope and a few slides and the chemicals to fix them, and I'll give you a firm diagnosis-assuming I can remember from my lectures on tropical medicine what the bloody parasite looks like. Damn it, he's dribbling into his beard. Hang on a minute." She got her fingers under one corner of the beard and ripped it off with ruthless efficiency. Her patient reacted with a querulous mutter and a louder comment. "Damned women." "Open your mouth," Nefret ordered. "Now swallow. Well done! He can lie back now, Ramses." Ramses lowered him down onto the pillow. With those curiously colored eyes closed and the mocking mouth relaxed, the resemblance to his brother was even stronger. "That's all we can do now," Nefret said. "Except make him comfortable. When the fever breaks he'll start to sweat and then he'll sleep till morning." "And then?" Margaret demanded. "Then he'll feel reasonably well and we'll have to keep him here, by force if necessary, because if it is the commonest form of malaria the apyrexia will only last for a few hours. The next paroxysm will hit tomorrow-the same pattern, chills and fever. In other forms of the disease the interval is forty-eight hours or seventy-two." "You keep quinine on hand?" "Yes. Thanks to Mother, we have a well-stocked medicine chest, including laudanum and arsenic." Margaret's expression seemed to amuse her. She went on, "Some researchers believe that prophylactic doses of arsenic prevent malaria. I don't. He'll get a grain of quinine three times a day for three days, and half a grain for another five days. Have I convinced you that I know what I'm talking about, Margaret, or would you care to question me further?" "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-" "Never mind." Nefret inspected her. "Ramses, take her to the saloon and give her a glass of brandy." "I want to stay here with-" "You can relieve me later. Do as I say." "What about Nasir?" Ramses asked. "I sent him to bed. You'll have to wait on yourselves. Now get out of here, both of you." She wrung out a cloth and began wiping away the perspiration that was now running freely down Sethos's face. Margaret accepted Ramses's hand and let him lead her out. "Your wife is a remarkable woman," she said. "I had underestimated her. People do, don't they? She's so young and pretty." "They seldom make that mistake twice." The lamps in the saloon were still lit. He settled Margaret onto the divan and got out the brandy. He had intended to question her, but when he got his first good look at her he decided he had better give her a little time to recover. Her face was streaked with dirt and pinched with strain, and her stockings were in shreds. She wasn't wearing a coat. The once white shirtwaist was the color of mud. "Were you hurt?" he asked. She shook her head. A few sips of brandy brought some of the color back to her face. "I suppose you want to know what happened." "Well, yes, I do. Take your time." "But not too much time?" Her mouth curved and widened. "I won't lie or equivocate. Just tell me one thing before I begin. You knew he was still alive, didn't you? You weren't surprised, or uncertain as to his identity." "Yes." After a moment he added, "Mother doesn't know. She told you what she honestly believed to be the truth." "Ah." She leaned back against the cushions. "It would appear I did her an injustice. I hope you won't think me rude if I say that I think your mother capable of lying if it would serve her ends." "Wouldn't most people?" "I certainly would." She sounded quite her old self. "She had told me his name, or rather, his sobriquet, so I spent several days finding out everything I could about him. You'd be surprised how many sources I uncovered. And of course I remembered that outrageous letter he wrote, and the subsequent investigation; Kevin O'Connell gloated over me unmercifully because he got the story first." She took another sip of brandy. "So?" Ramses prompted impatiently. "So I began to wonder whether your mother had lied to me. Her attempt to discourage me from coming on to Luxor was also suspicious. I decided to investigate. At worst I'd get the material for an interesting feature story. I did, too!" she added, with almost her old complacency. "I had little difficulty in extracting information. People like to see their names in the newspaper. The police weren't very forthcoming, but your Egyptological friends saw no reason why they shouldn't tell me what they knew. Howard Carter was a mine of information, after I had plied him with drinks and convinced him that his friends the Emersons wouldn't mind his talking to me. They hadn't sworn him to silence, had they? Everybody who was anybody already knew the stories, didn't they? "Well, yes, they did, he admitted. The Emersons had spoken freely about their beet noire. Had I heard about the time he took on the identity of a Coptic priest while his men were excavating illegally at a nearby site? I also got an earful about the recent increase in illegal excavations and theft. Most of it centered around the Luxor area, and Amelia's attempt to dissuade me from coming here made me all the more determined to investigate. What did I have to lose, after all? "It was Sayid who gave me the final clue. Ninety percent of what he told me was pure fabrication, and I had to spend a long tedious day listening to his fantastic stories about the Master- whose right-hand man he claimed to have been-before I got what I wanted out of him. Is there anything that man won't sell?" "No one's found it yet," Ramses said. "That's why those who know his habits make certain he won't be tempted to betray them. He told you where to find Sethos? How did he know?" "It is known in Luxor that the Master has returned." She sounded as if she were quoting. "His whereabouts no man knows. His true appearance no man knows. He has a thousand faces and ten thousand names." The night was very silent. There was no sign of life, no sound of movement outside, on the deck or on the dock. Nevertheless, Ramses's scalp was prickling. "Never mind the picturesque details," he said somewhat brusquely. "Just tell me what happened."

FROM MANUSCRIPT COLLECTION M (The Editor has determined to substitute for the hurried account given Ramses by Miss Minton, and repeated by him, one must suppose, in even more abbreviated form, the version written by Miss Minton herself at a somewhat later time. It is much more interesting.) I might have known that when I encountered him again, it would be under circumstances as wildly theatrical as before. This time he didn't do it deliberately. Like certain other people of my acquaintance, he moves in melodrama, drawing it about him like a villain's black cloak. I looked up Ramses and Nefret Emerson as soon as I got to Luxor. They weren't awfully pleased to see me. I couldn't take that as confirmation of my suspicions (or hopes), but I could tell I wasn't going to get any help from them. I went the rounds of the Egyptologists in Luxor. M. Legrain amiably admitted that it would have taken a lot of skill and knowledge to loot his storage magazines; Mr. MacKay informed me that the whole thing was poppycock and that the Emersons were known for inventing wild stories; Kuentz had a wonderful time telling me even wilder stories. He thought he was being clever, but the things he told me confirmed my suspicions. Someone was behind the recent rash of thefts here in Luxor. Someone had been using the German House for illegal purposes. I carefully wrote it all down, lies and all. I had been besieged by hopeful dragomen ever since I arrived. I can't remember who it was who suggested Sayid; he'd been there from the first, and one couldn't help noticing him. He is one of the ugliest human beings I have ever seen and as persistent as a fly. I spent a long tedious day listening to the old rascal's lies about the Master, whose trusted lieutenant he claimed to have been, before I got what I wanted out of him. I'll never forget the look on the poor devil's face when I offered him a hundred English pounds if he would tell me where I could find the Master. It was an outrageous amount, more than he could earn in a lifetime. He didn't hesitate long. Not until later did it occur to me that it had been too easy. I waited until late afternoon next day before I set out. The house Sayid had told me about was on the west bank. It was only one of several places the Master used, but Sayid considered it to be the most likely. "It is the largest house in the village and the others do not approach it, because they believe he is a holy man, a Haggi and a descendant of the Prophet. When you knock on the door, Sitt, make sure he knows it is you. He is always on guard, and quick with a knife. I would not want you to be harmed, Sitt." I believed that. I still owed him fifty pounds. Knowing that a tourist would be besieged and harassed by hopeful guides the moment she set foot on the west bank, I acquired women's clothing from Sayid (he charged me an extra pound) and put it on in the boat while he took me across. (Five pounds.) He landed me as close as he could, but I had a walk of almost two miles ahead of me. I had taken the risk of wearing my own clothes, including my shoes, under the robe. Authenticity is all very well, but I knew I couldn't walk that far barefoot, or in the clumsy sandals some of the locals wore. I felt somewhat self-conscious at first, and very awkward in all those layers of cloth. It is not only demanded of women to conceal their faces; heads, bodies, and even hands are covered whenever they walk abroad. Sayid had informed me that my costume, which included a voluminous outer garment of black cotton, was what would be worn by a rigidly respectable, somewhat old-fashioned female of moderate means, but I'm sure he enjoyed watching me stumble and trip over my skirts. Sayid had quite a sense of humor. Apparently I did look respectable, for no one accosted me or even gave me a second glance. My progress was slow, but I was in no hurry. I didn't want to approach the house until dusk. I had no trouble finding it. Larger and more pretentious than the others, it stood a little apart from them, backed by a low undulating ridge of rock. I squatted down, knowing I was invisible in the twilight, and waited until most of the lighted windows in the houses of the village had gone dark. No lights showed in the house I wanted, and I began to wonder, not for the first time, if Sayid had sent me on a wild-goose chase. He had already squeezed fifty pounds out of me. He would probably consider it a fine joke if I found myself trying to explain to a genuine holy man, a Haggi and a descendant of the Prophet, who the devil I was and what I wanted. Having come this far, I had to go on. Followed by two of the village dogs growling and snapping at my heels, I went to the door and knocked. "It's me," I said. "Margaret Minton. Please let me in." At first there was no answer. Then I heard a scrape of wood against metal, and the door opened onto darkness. "By God, it is," said a voice I knew. "Are you out of your mind? Get the hell away from here." "Don't worry. I'm alone." "So you think. Oh, Christ, it's probably too late. Come in and bar the door." His voice sounded strange. "Are you all right?" I asked. "No. But I'll be in far worse shape shortly if I don't-"A match flared and wavered wildly before it went out. "Here," he said, thrusting something into my hand. "Light the candle. It's on the table." In the brief flare of the match I had managed to close and bar the door. My hands were almost as unsteady as his; I spilled several matches onto the floor when I opened the box, but I managed to get the candle lighted. I'm rather proud of my literary skills, but I find it almost impossible to describe my feelings. Start with disbelief, excitement, triumph, confusion . . . and now, as the import of his words sank in, mounting apprehension. I wouldn't have known him. He was wearing the ubiquitous and usefully enveloping Egyptian dress; his galabeeyah was of fine quality and his beard was grizzled, and he wore the green turban restricted to descendants of the Prophet. He was the picture of the dignified holy man Sayid had described, except for his pale face and shaking hands. "You are ill," I said, moving toward him. "Let me-" "Shut up." He dropped to his knees and tugged at something on the floor. "We've got a few seconds. Maybe a minute. Damn, I can't do this. Give me a hand." There had been no attempt to conceal the trapdoor; it covered the entrance to a small underground room that was used for storage. Between us we got it up, and I saw the top of a rough wooden ladder. "You first," he said. "Hurry." "But it's a dead end!" "You don't take orders well, do you?" He was still on his knees. A violent fit of trembling seized him and his teeth began to chatter, and at that strategic moment the door shuddered under the impact of a heavy object. I got down the ladder without touching more than three of the rungs and reached up to steady him as he followed me down. He pushed my hands away. I couldn't see what he was doing, it was too dark; I heard scraping noises and a few muffled oaths, and then he fumbled for my hand. "Through there. Get rid of your tob and habarah, you'll have to crawl. Hands and knees. Keep moving. It's about ten yards. When you can't go any farther, wait for me." It was a tunnel, and I didn't like it one bit. Though walls and ceiling had been braced with pieces of wood, sand kept trickling through them. It inspired me to move more quickly than I might otherwise have done, but I hadn't gone more than a few yards before I heard his hard breathing and felt his hands pushing on the soles of my shoes. "Forty-one, forty-two-can't you move any faster?" I said, "Ouch." My head had just come into painful contact with a solid surface. "Right-angle turn," said my invisible companion. "Forty-six . . . Faster." He went on counting. When he reached sixty he grabbed hold of my ankles and pulled. I fell hard, flat on my stomach, and he fell on top of me. I had once been in an air raid in London, when a shell landed within a hundred yards of the Underground station. It felt and sounded like that: a muffled blast and a horrible vibration. The slow dribble of earth increased to a steady rain. "The ceiling's coming down," I said, through a mouthful of sand. "Not just yet, I hope. Go on, we're almost out." When I raised my head I saw starlight. The opening was only a few feet away. I squeezed through, encouraged by an occasional shove and a stream of muttered expletives, and found myself in the open air behind a tumble of mud-bricks that had once been a house or storage shed. Sethos followed me out. He was bareheaded; either he'd discarded the distinctive green turban or it had been pulled off. He sat down and wrapped his arms around his raised knees. "Go on." "Where?" "Anyplace where there are bright lights and hordes of people. Or you might cast yourself on the tender mercies of my ... of the Emersons. Their dahabeeyah is a mile away. In that direction." "What about you?" "I'll be all right here." Dancing lights, the flames of candles or lamps, surrounded the pile of rubble where the house had stood, and a cloud of dust was still settling. People were shouting. The sound of the explosion would have brought the villagers out of their houses, and I had an unpleasant suspicion that they weren't the only spectators. "The devil you will," I said. "Blowing up the tunnel will only delay them. They'll spread out in all directions. Stand up." A mile isn't really a great distance. It is very long when one is encumbered with an unwilling, increasingly helpless companion, and when every sound makes one's heart stop. We had not been far from the edge of the cultivated fields, a line as sharp as if it had been drawn by a straight edge, and there was some cover in the form of trees and irrigation ditches and fields of growing crops. I took advantage of it when I could. I can't deny that I was frightened for myself as well as for him. If they meant to kill him or take him prisoner they could not leave witnesses. Who were they? A gang of rival thieves? Surely not local men. They were pretty sure of getting off if they were caught stealing antiquities; nobody was going to make a fuss about that except a few narrow-minded Egyptologists. Murder was something else. No, not local men. They wouldn't have the guile to use me as a means of getting at Sethos. They had used Sayid too. He must have been laughing in his ragged sleeve while he bargained with me. He'd been paid to give me that information, and I thought I knew why. They must have tried to trap him before. They had failed because he was too quick for them, and too well-prepared. But if I turned up at his door, innocent and stupid and incompetent-a woman, in other words-I might delay him just long enough. We were lying flat in one of the muddier irrigation ditches at the time, while footsteps passed slowly along the raised embankment and faded. I hated to leave that ditch. For a few minutes I didn't believe I could, but I finally managed to get him to his feet and moving. He hadn't spoken for quite a while. He didn't speak again until I finally saw the lights of the dahabeeyah ahead and made the mistake of offering what I thought was a word of encouragement. "There it is. Just a little farther." The violence of his reaction caught me off guard. He pulled away from me and staggered back. "Where are we?" I told him. He wrapped one arm round a tree trunk and fended me off with the other hand. "No." "You need a doctor. Would you rather I found a boatman to take us across to Luxor?" "You would, wouldn't you?" "Yes. Make up your mind. It seems to me this is the lesser of two evils." He let out an odd, choked laugh. "Lesser of ... three evils. No, that's wrong. Least of three. Staying here ... the worst ..." He slid through my outstretched hands and fell heavily to the ground. I knew I'd never get him up again; except for the spasms of shivering that shook his body, he lay unmoving and unresponsive. I took off my coat and put it over him. He'd been thinking more clearly than I; with the goal I had sought so close, I might have made the mistake of trying to drag him across the dock and up to the gangplank, and then everyone in Luxor would be gossiping about it next day. A visit from me, even at this hour, would not arouse surprise, though. I had already acquired a local sobriquet: "the woman who looks for secrets." Though I tidied myself as best I could, brushing the dried mud off my skirt and coat and tucking straggling locks of hair into what remained of my once neatly coiled chignon, the man on watch by the gangplank was visibly taken aback by my appearance. "Was there an accident, Sitt?" "Oh, good, you speak English," I said gratefully. "I lost my way and fell into an irrigation ditch. Will you tell Mr. and Mrs. Emerson I would like to see them?" "They are not here." The fact that the gangplank was still out should have warned me, but I felt as if I had been hit a hard blow in the stomach. "When will they be back?" "I do not know, Sitt. They are at the Castle of Vandergelt Effendi," he added somewhat doubtfully. My appearance clearly had not inspired confidence. I thanked him and turned away. I hadn't realized how I had looked forward to thrusting my responsibility on someone else; it was like a heavy burden settling back onto my shoulders. There was nothing I could do but wait. The Vandergelts were old friends of theirs, they might not come back for hours. It seemed like days. FROM MANUSCRIPT H Ramses said, with grudging respect, "You got him all the way from the Tarif ? No wonder you look as if you'd been dragged behind a cart. Sorry-I didn't mean-" "Don't apologize." Margaret finished her brandy. "I know I look like the wrath of God, and I don't care. May I-may I go back to him?" "One or two more questions." She sank back onto the settee, her lips curving in a sardonic smile. "Is that all?" "For the moment. Why did you bring him here?" She hadn't expected that. Ramses realized she hadn't even thought about it. Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "Where else could we go? He needed a doctor and I could never have got him across the river ... I suppose it ought to have occurred to me that I might be putting you and your wife in danger. I'm sorry about that." Ramses shook his head. "If you had been followed this far, they had ample time to dispose of him while you were waiting for us to return. Perhaps I ought to have expressed myself differently. What made you suppose we would take him in?" "Another interesting question," Margaret said thoughtfully. "Bear in mind I wasn't thinking too clearly. I simply assumed you would do the decent thing." "Yes, of course," Ramses said wryly. "Noblesse oblige and all that." "Your mother said he had saved her life. You wouldn't-you aren't going to turn him over to the police?" "I haven't decided what the devil I'm going to do with him. Don't worry," he added, less forcibly. "So long as he's ill he's