The Ape Who Guards the Balance (21 page)

“Good gracious,” I exclaimed. “That reminds me—Fatima! We promised we would find a teacher for her. She is so timid she would not venture to ask again.”

“She has more enterprise than you suppose, Aunt Amelia,” Nefret replied. “She has already made her own arrangements. It seems there is a lady in Luxor who holds private classes.”

The reference was of course lost on Katherine, who requested elucidation. She responded to my explanation with the sympathetic enthusiasm I had come to expect of her.

“To think of that humble little woman harboring such aspirations! She makes me feel thoroughly ashamed of myself. I ought to be conducting such classes myself.”

“Why not start a school?” Cyrus suggested. “Find a suitable building and hire teachers.”

“Do you mean it?” Her face lit up. Katherine had always reminded me of a pleasant tabby cat, with her gray-streaked hair and rounded cheeks and green eyes. One would never have called her beautiful, but when she looked at her husband as she was looking now, she appeared quite beautiful to my eyes—and, it was clear, to his. “Do you mean it, Cyrus? In addition to reading and writing, we could instruct the girls in household management and child care, train those who show ability in a particular area such as typewriting and—”

Cyrus burst out laughing. “And provide college scholarships for the lot! My dear, you may start a dozen schools if it will make you happy.”

After dinner we retired to the drawing room, where we were affectionately greeted by the Vandergelts’ cat, Sekhmet. She had belonged to us originally; we had brought her to Egypt in the hope that she would compensate Ramses for the loss of his longtime companion, the cat Bastet. He had not taken to Sekhmet, referring to her contemptuously as “the furry slug.” It is true that Sekhmet was so fatuously and indiscriminately affectionate she did not care whose lap she occupied, but this very trait had endeared her to Cyrus. She now lived like a princess in “the Castle,” fed on cream and filleted fish by the majordomo when the Vandergelts were in America, and never leaving the walled borders of the estate—for Cyrus would not allow her to mingle with common cats.

She settled down on David’s knee, purring hysterically, and Nefret went to the pianoforte. Cyrus took me aside.

“Thank you, Amelia, my dear,” he said warmly. “You have given Katherine a new interest. She was moping a bit before you arrived; missed the kiddies, you know.”

“And so did you, I daresay.”

Katherine’s children by her first, unhappy marriage were at school in England. I had not met them, since they spent their holidays in America with their mother and stepfather; but Cyrus, who had always wanted a family of his own, had taken them to his generous heart. He sighed wistfully.

“Yes, my dear, I did. I wish you could persuade Katherine to let them come out with us next season. I’ve offered to hire tutors, teachers, anything she wants.”

“I will talk to her, Cyrus. It strikes me as an excellent idea. There is no climate so salubrious as that of Luxor in winter, and the experience would be extremely educational.”

He took my hand and pressed it warmly. “You are the best friend in the world, Amelia. We could not get on without you. You will—you will take care of yourself, won’t you?”

“I always do,” I said, laughing. “And so does my dear Emerson. What makes you say that, Cyrus?”

“Well, I just sort of figured you were up to something, since you always are. The quieter things look, the more I expect an explosion. You wouldn’t refuse me the chance to help, would you?”

“Dear Cyrus, you are the truest of friends. At the moment, however, I am not up to anything. I only wish—”

But at that moment Emerson called my name, ostensibly to request that we come join in the singing. Emerson had quite got over his jealousy of Cyrus, but he does not appreciate having other men hold my hand quite so long or quite so warmly.

I am extremely fond of music, but it was the genial company rather than the quality of the performances that made our little impromptu concerts so enjoyable. Emerson cannot carry a tune at all, but he sings very loud and with great feeling. His rendering of “The Last Chord” was one of his best. (A good deal of the melody is on the same note, which was all to the good.) We did a few of the jollier choruses of Gilbert and Sullivan, and Nefret badgered Ramses into joining her in a song from the new Victor Herbert operetta. Cyrus always brought the latest American music out with him, and none of us had heard this one.

“It’s a duet,” Nefret pointed out. “I can’t sing two parts simultaneously, and you’re the only other one who can sight-read.”

Ramses had been reading the words over her shoulder. “The lyrics are even more banal and sentimental than usual,” he grumbled. “I won’t be able to keep a straight face.”

Nefret chuckled. “What’s wrong with golden hair and eyes of blue? It’s hard to find words that rhyme with ‘brown.’ You come in on the chorus: ‘Not that you are fair, dear . . .’ ”

I must confess they sounded very well together, even though Ramses could not resist breaking into a tremulous falsetto on the last high note.

After the impromptu concert had concluded with Cyrus’s rendition of his favorite “Kathleen Mavourneen”—making calf’s eyes at his wife the whole time, as Emerson inelegantly expressed it—we went out to the courtyard to wait for the carriage. The night was beautifully cool and the stars blazed as bright as Mrs. Stephenson’s diamonds. Katherine, all afire with her new scheme, suggested we go to Luxor next day to call on Fatima’s teacher.

“Impossible,” said Emerson.

“Why?” I demanded. “You can certainly spare me for a few hours. That nasty number Fifty-three—”

“We are not going to work at Fifty-three. I have a little surprise for you, Peabody. Great news! Tomorrow we start on tomb Five!”

“How exciting,” I said hollowly. There could be nothing of interest in that rubble-filled tomb, and the labor involved would be monstrous.

“How’d you manage that?” Cyrus asked. There was a note of envy in his voice. He missed the Valley where he had excavated for so many years without success, but with great enjoyment.

“Tact,” said my husband smugly. “I simply pointed out to Weigall that nobody else would ever bother with the confounded place, especially Davis, who is such an egotistical ignoramus—”

“You didn’t say that!” I exclaimed, as a ripple of laughter ran through the group.

“What difference does it make what I said? Weigall has agreed, and he is the man in charge.”

“It was very kind of him to overlook your knocking him down the other day.”

“I did it for his own good,” said Emerson hypocritically. “Never mind that. We are going to need more men than we have been using with the smaller tombs. I will need Nefret and David as well, for I mean to take quantities of photographs.”

Emerson sent us all off to bed after we got home, since he meant to make an early start next day. After I had brushed and braided my hair I put on my dressing gown and slipped out of the room, leaving him bent over his notes.

Nefret responded at once to my soft tap on the door. She was alone except for the cat, who occupied the precise center of her bed. “Is something wrong, Aunt Amelia?” she asked.

“Nothing. I am only a little curious. Was it you who persuaded Mr. Weigall to give in to Emerson’s request? I do hope, my dear, that you did not resort to underhanded means. Mr. Weigall is a married man, and—”

“Quite devoted to his Hortense,” said Nefret, trying not to smile. “I never flirt with married men, Aunt Amelia. I am shocked that you should suggest such a thing.”

“Ah,” I said. “Mr. Davis is not a married man, is he? And Mr. Weigall does whatever Mr. Davis tells him to do. I noticed the other evening—”

Nefret burst out laughing. “So did Ramses. He accused me of flirting with Mr. Davis. Mr. Davis is quite harmless, Aunt Amelia, but like many older men he is particularly susceptible to flattery and compliments. I did it for the Professor.”

“Hmmm. Do you have an idea as to why he is so set on working in that part of the Valley?”

“An idea did occur to me. It must have occurred to you as well.”

“Yes.” I sighed. “We must hope Mr. Ayrton does not come across any interesting tombs this season.”

I refer the Reader to my plan of the Valley and invite him to note the relative areas of tomb Five and the area in which Mr. Ayrton was working. If there were unknown tombs in the Valley of the Kings, such areas were precisely where one might expect to find them. And if Ned did find such a tomb, Emerson would be there, watching every move he made and criticizing everything he did.

I expected trouble and I was (of course) right. But not even
I
could have anticipated the magnitude of the disaster that actually occurred.

•

BOOK TWO

THE GATES OF THE
UNDERWORLD

•

O great apes who sit before the doors of heaven:
take the evil from me, obliterate my sins,
guard me, so that I may pass between
the Pylons of the West.

•

Seven

•

T
he approach to the Valley had changed a great deal since our first days in Egypt. A rough but serviceable road led through the forbidding cliffs and a wooden barrier now barred the entrance to those who lacked the requisite tickets. Our horses were among the first occupants of the donkey park, for the sun had not yet risen over the eastern hills when our caravan left the house. We had taken this longer but less arduous route, instead of the footpath that led over the hill from Deir el Bahri, because tomb Five lay near the entrance, just outside the barrier.

Ramses and David were not with us. I had, quite by accident, happened to overhear part of a conversation between them that morning. They were in Ramses’s room; the door was slightly ajar and both their voices were rather loud, so inadvertent eavesdropping was unavoidable.

The first words I heard were David’s. “I am going with you.”

“You can’t. Father has asked—excuse me, demanded—your help today.”

“He will change his mind if we ask him. You promised you would not—”

Ramses cut him off. “Don’t be an old granny. Do you think I can’t take care of myself?”

I had never heard him speak so brusquely to David, or sound so angry. Intervention was obviously in order. I tapped lightly at the door before pushing it open.

They were both on their feet, facing one another in attitudes that could only be described as potentially combative. David’s fists were clenched. Ramses appeared unmoved, but there was a set to his shoulders I did not like.

“Now, boys, what is this?” I asked. “Are you quarreling?”

Ramses turned away and reached for his knapsack. “Good morning, Mother. A slight difference of opinion, that is all. I will see you this afternoon.”

He slipped neatly out of the room before I could inquire further, so I turned to David, who was not as quick or as rude as my son. When I questioned him, as I felt obliged to do, he insisted that he and Ramses had not been quarreling, and that nothing had happened to give him cause for concern.

Except for Ramses’s ungovernable habit of getting himself in trouble, I thought. A stentorian shout from Emerson summoned us to our duty, so I allowed David to depart and followed him into the sitting room in time to overhear another loud exchange. This time it was between Ramses and Nefret, and I must admit that she was doing all the shouting. She broke off when I entered, and I said in exasperation, “What is wrong with you three? It must be Ramses who is responsible for all the arguing, since—”

“We were not arguing, Aunt Amelia.” Nefret’s face had turned a charming shade of rosy brown. “I was just reminding Ramses of a certain promise he made me.”

Ramses nodded. He was wearing what Nefret calls his stone pharaoh face, but his high cheekbones were a trifle darker than usual—with pure temper, I supposed. “If you are coming with me, David, let us go.”

He strode out without waiting for a reply. David and Nefret exchanged one of those meaningful glances, and David hurried out. I decided not to pursue the subject. Even the best of friends have little differences of opinion from time to time, and I would have enough on my mind trying to keep Emerson from harassing poor Ned Ayrton—for I felt certain that was what he intended to do.

The young man arrived with his crew shortly after us. He had to pass us in order to reach the area where he had begun work the day before, on the west face of the cliff along the tourist path. As I had expected—and hoped—Davis was not with him. The American was not interested in the tedious labor of clearance; he only turned up when his “tame archaeologist” sent to tell him something interesting had been found.

Ned’s innocent countenance brightened with surprise and pleasure when he saw Emerson, who had been lying in wait for him.

“Why, Professor—and Mrs. Emerson, good morning to you, ma’am—I thought you were working at the other end of the Valley. Tomb Five, is it?”

“As you see.” Emerson moved out of the way of a man carrying a basket of rock chippings. “Weigall
kindly
gave me permission to investigate it.”

“I don’t envy you the job, sir. The fill is packed as hard as cement.”

“As it was in the tomb of Siptah,” said Emerson, “which you never finished clearing. Left the job half-done. Well, young man, let me tell you—”

“Emerson!” I exclaimed.

Ned flushed painfully, and Nefret turned from the camera she was inspecting. “Don’t scold Mr. Ayrton, Professor, you know the decision was not his. How are you getting on, Mr. Ayrton? Any sign of a tomb?”

The young man gave her a grateful look. “Not yet, Miss Forth, but we have only been at it for two days. There is quite a large accumulation of limestone chips along the face of the cliff, probably from another tomb—”

“Ramses VI,” said Emerson.

“Er—yes, sir. Well, I must be off.”

The area in which he was working was only a few hundred feet south of us, on the same side of the path, but a shallow spur of rock cut off our view. As the sun rose higher and the first influx of tourists streamed through the barrier, their foolish laughter and babble drowned out the voices of Ned’s crew, to the visible annoyance of Emerson, whose ears were practically standing out from his head. (I speak figuratively; Emerson has particularly handsome ears, somewhat large but well-shaped and lying flat against his skull.) He knew, as did I, that a new discovery might be heralded by cries of excitement from the workmen.

There was really nothing for me to do, since several tons of rock had to be removed before the entrance could be fully exposed. Howard had told us he had done some clearing in ’02, but all evidence of his work had been filled in since by rockfalls and debris. I had leisure therefore to indulge in my favorite occupation of watching my husband. Booted feet wide apart, bare black head shining in the sunlight like a raven’s wing, he directed the work with cries of encouragement or advice. My attention being on him, I observed him sidle away and called to ask where he was going.

“I thought I would ask Ayrton to join us for our mid-morning tea,” said Emerson.

“What a kind thought,” I said.

There may have been just the slightest edge of sarcasm in my voice. Emerson shot me a reproachful look and went on his way. I decided I had better go after him. Not that
I
was at all curious about what Ned was doing, but I knew Emerson would not proffer the invitation until after he had inspected the excavation and lectured at length on methodology.

The task the young fellow had undertaken was indeed formidable. The Valley, as I have explained, but will repeat for the benefit of Readers unfamiliar with it, is not a single flat-floored canyon but a complex of smaller wadis running off at all angles from the main path. The paths wind round outcroppings of stone, some natural, some formed by the stone removed from nearby tombs. One such rocky mound formed the western face of the central path, and against it lay a pile almost fifty feet high of limestone chips. It is under such piles of man-made debris that excavators hope to find forgotten tomb entrances.

The sun, now near the zenith, reflected off the pale rock in a blinding dazzle, unrelieved by vegetation or shadow. The fine dust stirred up by tourist boots resembled pale fog. As I approached the site, the cloud rose into a towering cumulous cloud. Ned’s men were hard at work piling the loose rock into baskets and carrying them away to a dump site nearby.

He had dug a trench straight down the rock face, obviously without result, since he was now in the process of extending it. As I had anticipated, Emerson was giving the young man the benefit of his advice. I put an end to that, and removed both of them. The sweating workers were glad to stop for a while.

I make it a habit to set up a little shelter near our place of work with a rug on the ground and a small folding table, for I see nothing wrong with comfort if it does not interfere with efficiency. On this occasion I had taken advantage of a nearby tomb entrance, that of Ramses II. Choked with rubble and dismissed by Baedeker, it was not approached by tourists, so we could count on a modicum of privacy while we rested and refreshed ourselves.

Ned was visibly disappointed to find that Ramses was not with us, but he appeared to enjoy the brief interlude. Emerson behaved himself very well, but when Ned rose to leave, my spouse could not resist a final shot.

“If you find a tomb, Ayrton, do me the favor of clearing the cursed place out completely. I am tired of tidying up after you and the others.”

There is a saying: “Take care what you wish, for it may be given unto you.” Emerson got his wish, and he did not like it at all. In later years he was to refer to the business as “one of the greatest disasters in Egyptological history.”

It began that same afternoon, when Ned’s perspiring workers came upon a niche containing several large storage jars. The discovery was not in itself exciting enough to warrant a shout of triumph from the men who found it; we did not learn of it until Ned came by with his crew on their way home.

“Stopping already?” asked Emerson, advancing to meet them.

“Yes, sir.” Ned removed his hat and pushed the damp hair back from his brow. “It is very warm, and I have—”

“Any luck?”

So the news was told. “They are nothing to be excited about,” Ned added. “Plain storage jars—Twentieth Dynasty, I believe. Well, then, I look forward to seeing you all tomorrow.”

Emerson did not even have the decency to wait until he was out of sight. I followed my irritating husband around the rock spur and found him climbing up the rubble. The opening was a good thirty feet above bedrock and when I would have followed he waved me back.

Upon returning he remarked, “Eighteenth Dynasty.”

“Why are you making such a fuss about it?” I demanded. “One is always coming across isolated finds of that sort. Rough storage jars cannot contain anything of interest.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson. He turned and looked up the slope.

“Now, Emerson, leave them alone! They are not
your
jars. I suggest we follow Ned’s example and stop work. It is very warm, and I don’t want Abdullah having another attack.”

Emerson swore a great deal, but he has the kindest heart in the world and I knew the appeal would have its effect. It was late in the afternoon before we reached the house. The vine-shaded verandah looked very pleasant after our long hot ride. Horus, stretched out on the settee, examined us with a critical eye and began washing himself.

It seemed an excellent idea. I had a luxurious soak in my nice tin bath and changed into comfortable garments. When I returned to the verandah Fatima had brought tea. Nefret was pacing up and down, looking out.

“They are late,” she said.

“Who? Oh, Ramses and David. Not really. Ramses has no notion of time, he will go on working until it gets too dark for him to see anything. Come and have your tea.”

She obeyed, but even the bulk of Horus, who promptly spread himself across her lap, did not prevent her from fidgeting. I remembered the exchanges I had heard between the three that morning, and an unpleasant suspicion began to form in my mind. Since I do not allow such things to fester, I brought it out into the open.

“Nefret, are you concealing something from me? You are uncommonly edgy this evening; were the boys planning some expedition that is likely to lead them into danger?”

Emerson banged his cup into the saucer. “Curse it!” he exclaimed, but did not elaborate since Nefret spoke first.

“So far as I know, they are working at the Seti temple just as they said they would.”

“Oh.” Emerson’s rigid form relaxed. “I do wish, Peabody, you would stop looking for trouble. No one has bothered us since that wretched man’s body was found. He was the instigator of the other attacks; now that he has been—er—removed, we have nothing to fear.”

I settled back to enjoy myself, for our little detectival discussions are always stimulating. “You are of the opinion that there is no connection between those attacks and the one against me in London?”

“That was Sethos,” Emerson said. “He is still in England. I made the rounds of the cafés and coffee shops, as did Ramses. We found no indication that he has returned to his old haunts.”

“Sethos may not have been responsible for the original encounter, Emerson. I have other enemies.”

“You needn’t brag about it, Peabody.” Emerson reached for his broken cup, cut his finger, swore, and went to the table. Splashing soda into a glass, he said over his shoulder, “And don’t try to exonerate that bas——that man. We know it was he. The typewriter, Peabody. Remember the typewriter.”

“I don’t believe for a moment in Ramses’s egotistical deductions,” I replied, taking the glass Emerson handed me and nodding my thanks. “It is impossible to tell one machine from another, and furthermore, the incident in Fleet Street lacked Sethos’s characteristic touch. He is not so crude or so . . . My dear Nefret, what are you staring at? Close your mouth, my dear, before an insect flies in!”

“I—uh—I had just remembered something, Aunt Amelia. A—a letter I promised to write.”

“I hope Sir Edward is not your correspondent, Nefret. I do not approve. He is too old for you, and you have seen entirely too much of him lately.”

“Only half a dozen times since Christmas Day,” Nefret protested. “And once was at the party, with a hundred people present.”

Emerson got to his feet. “If you are going to gossip I will leave you to it. Call me when dinner is ready.”

The eastern cliffs shone in the last rays of the setting sun. There is no color anywhere on earth like that one, nor can words describe it—pale pinky gold with a wash of lavender, glowing as if lit from within. The lovely dying light lay gently on Nefret’s sun-kissed cheeks, but her eyes avoided mine and she cleared her throat nervously before she spoke.