The Ape Who Guards the Balance (28 page)

It did hurt. He set his teeth. “So that occurred to you, did it?”

“Really, Ramses, you are so exasperating! You might at least look surprised when I announce a startling theory. I’ve been thinking about the fortuitous appearance of the gallant Sir Edward. The last time we saw him was the year we had all that trouble with Riccetti and the rival gang of antiquities thieves. It was Sir Edward who rescued Aunt Amelia from one of the latter group. He had followed her that day for reasons that have never been satisfactorily explained—”

“That was just Father being sarcastic,” Ramses said impatiently. “He thinks every man Mother meets falls madly in love with her.”

“But Sir Edward wasn’t madly in love with her, was he? So why
did
he follow her that day? Riccetti was trying to reestablish his control over the illegal antiquities game in Egypt. So were other people. Why should not one of them have been the Master Criminal himself?”

“It’s an interesting idea,” David said thoughtfully. “Sir Edward does match her description, doesn’t he? Just under six feet tall, well-built, athletic. And an Englishman.”

“He’s too young,” Ramses objected.

“Too young for what?” David asked. “He appears to be in his middle to late thirties, but the man is an expert at disguise. And you don’t know how old Sethos was when you first met him. A very young man can be brilliant, and be capable of a grand passion.”

Ramses stiffened. Nefret paused in the act of winding the bandage round his hand. “Too tight?”

“No. Get it over with, can’t you?”

“Ungrateful brute,” said Nefret without rancor. “There’s another suspicious point about the gentleman. When we first knew him, he called himself a poor relation, a younger son who had to work for a living. You heard what he said the other night, about an inheritance from an uncle that had made him financially independent. So what’s he doing in Egypt? He did demonstrate some interest in and talent for archaeology, but if that interest had been sincere he’d have come back before this, wouldn’t he? Why has he turned up now? There you are, my boy. All done.”

“Thank you.” He wriggled the fingers she had left protruding. “Far be it from me to cast cold water on an intriguing theory, but I can think of another reason for Sir Edward’s reapparance that has nothing to do with criminal activities.”

Nefret sat back on her heels and smiled at him. “Me.”

“You. Yes.”

“Oh, he’s interested,” Nefret said calmly. “He might be even more interested if I gave him any encouragement.”

“You’ve flirted outrageously with him!”

“Of course.” Nefret chuckled. “It’s fun. Ramses, you are such an old Puritan! If it will relieve your mind, I am not in love with Sir Edward. He’s extremely attractive and utterly charming, but I don’t care for him that way.”

“Then he wasn’t the man you were seeing in . . . Sorry. None of my affair.”

“In London?” The soft chuckle deepened into a laugh. “No, it isn’t your affair, but if you hadn’t been so confounded inquisitive I’d have told you. He was one of the medical students from Saint Bart’s. I thought, innocent creature that I am, that he was interested in my
mind
. He wasn’t. Now can we get back to business?”

Ramses nodded. A few days earlier he would have been delighted to learn she wasn’t interested in Sir Edward or the unfortunate medical student (he wished he had been on the scene when Nefret dealt with the fellow’s advances). Now there was another, far more dangerous rival. Or was there? He wondered if he was losing what was left of his mind.

“I suppose he can’t be Sethos,” Nefret admitted. “It’s a pity. Aunt Amelia needs all the protectors she can find. Sethos would die to keep her from harm!”

“My God, you’re beginning to romanticize the fellow,” Ramses said in disgust.

“He is romantic,” Nefret said dreamily. “Suffering from a hopeless passion for a woman he can never have, watching over her from the shadows . . .”

“You’ve been reading too many rotten novels,” Ramses said caustically. “If Sethos is still in love with Mother, he’ll be after her himself. If he isn’t, he won’t bother defending her.”

“Goodness, what a cynic you are!” Nefret exclaimed.

“A realist,” Ramses corrected. “Disinterested passion is a contradiction in terms. What man outside a romantic novel would risk his life for a woman he can never possess?”

“Didn’t you risk yours, for Layla?”

Ramses shifted uncomfortably. “How the devil do we get onto such subjects? What I meant to say was that a second party who has designs on Mother is a complication we don’t need. When is Sir Edward joining us?”

“Tomorrow. There’s plenty of room if Uncle Walter and the others don’t come.”

Ramses nodded. “I only hope . . .”

“What?”

“That they can be persuaded to return home.” Absently he rubbed his side.

Nefret put her hand over his. “Does it hurt? Let me give you something to help you sleep.”

“It doesn’t hurt, it itches. I don’t need anything to help me sleep. I think I will turn in, though. It’s been rather a long day.”

It was a longer night. He dreamed again of fighting blindly in the dark, of hands that clawed and pounded at his face, of his own hands fumbling and flailing, and finding at last the only hold that might save them. Again his stomach turned at the sound of shattering bone, again the brief flare of a match illumined the dead face. But this time the face was David’s.

•

Nine

•

W
hen I approached the verandah next morning I heard the murmur of voices and wondered who was up so early. Emerson had been splashing and sputtering over his ablutions when I left the room, so I concluded it must be the children.

I was in error.

“Good morning, Sir Edward,” I said, surprised. “And—Fatima?”

“I intended to creep onto the verandah without disturbing anyone,” he explained, rising to his feet. “But this kind woman found me and brought me tea.”

Fatima ducked her head. “She has been good enough to allow me to practice my Arabic,” Sir Edward went on easily. “I hope I am not too early? I wanted to be in time to accompany you to the Valley, and I know the Professor’s habits.”

“Excellent,” I said. “The others will be here soon, Fatima; you may serve breakfast. Thank you.”

“She understands English?” Sir Edward laughed ruefully. “I might have spared her my appalling Arabic had I known.”

“She has been studying English, and learning to read as well. Ambition and intelligence and the love of learning are not limited to the masculine gender, or to a particular race, Sir Edward. We are all brothers and sisters in the eyes of heaven, and if education were available to Egyptians—”

“Lecturing again, Peabody?” said Emerson from the open door. “Good morning, Sir Edward. Come and have breakfast, we must be off in a quarter of an hour.”

It was nearer half an hour before we left the house, primarily because Ramses and Nefret got into another argument. She wanted him to wear the sling and he said he would not.

“You will keep hitting your hand,” she insisted.

“It will be my own damned fault if I do,” said Ramses.

I told Ramses not to swear and Nefret said he was a damned stubborn fool, and everyone added his opinion, except Sir Edward, who would have feigned a courteous deafness had that been possible, which it was not, since all their voices were quite loud. Emerson finally put an end to the discussion by shouting louder than anyone else and demanding that we get off at once.

I was especially glad that day that we had got into the habit of hiring horses for the season instead of relying on donkeys and our own feet. One feels—and is—much more vulnerable mounted on a little animal not much taller than oneself, which does not take kindly to moving faster than a trot. The boys’ splendid steeds could outrun anything on four feet, and even the horses we had hired were in excellent condition, especially after I had attended to them as I always did animals that came under my care.

Sir Edward had borrowed one of Cyrus’s mounts. It and the other horses were waiting when we emerged from the house. I watched Ramses out of the corner of my eye, wondering how he would manage; he had of course lost the argument and his right arm was enveloped in what appeared to be a bedsheet, for Nefret did nothing by halves. Risha snuffled inquiringly at the fabric, and, with an uncanny appearance of understanding the difficulty, adjusted his hindquarters in the position required for the spectacular flying mount Ramses used when he wanted to show off. Success depended in part on the strength and length of the rider’s lower limbs, and Ramses accomplished it without visible effort.

We left the horses at the donkey park in charge of one of the attendants. The men, headed by Abdullah, were already at work. A cloud of pale dust surrounded the entrance of number Five, from which one of our brave fellows emerged carrying a basket of broken rock. The sound of pickaxes could be heard from within. Cursing, Emerson stripped off his coat and threw it on the ground. “Late!” he cried, in poignant, generalized accusation, and without further ado plunged into the dark opening. Ramses promptly followed.

“Doesn’t the Professor trust Abdullah to direct operations?” Sir Edward asked.

“As much as he trusts anyone. He believes he should be the one to make the decisions and take the risks.”

“Risks?” Sir Edward glanced betrayingly at Nefret, who was helping David with the cameras.

“There are always risks entering a new tomb,” I replied, dusting off Emerson’s coat and putting it over my arm. “And this one is quite nasty—filled to the ceiling with broken rock and debris.”

“Why bother with it, then?”

Emerson reappeared in time to hear the question. His black hair looked as if it had been powdered. “Why bother?” he repeated. “That, sir, is a stupid question from someone who claims to have an interest in Egyptology. However—” He turned and shouted, “Ramses! Come out of there!”

When Ramses had done so, Emerson said, “I am about to explain the interesting features of this tomb to Sir Edward. You and David have not been with us, so you may as well listen too.”

Ramses opened his mouth, caught his father’s eye, closed his mouth, and nodded.

“Ahem,” said Emerson, removing a sheet of paper from his notebook. “This tomb is described by Baedeker and other sources as a short corridor tomb without inscriptions. This is not correct. Burton actually entered the place in 1830. His plan shows an arrangement quite unlike any other sepulchre in the Valley: a great sixteen-pillared hall, with smaller rooms on all four sides, and an extension of unknown length beyond. Burton couldn’t get any farther. However, in two places he found traces of the prenomen of Ramses II. Wilkinson—”

“Emerson,” I said, anticipating the interruption I could see hovering on the lips of my son, “you needn’t go into such detail. You are boring Sir Edward.”

“Not at all,” said that gentleman with a winning smile. “The Professor is playing a little game with me, I think, or perhaps testing me. This cannot be the tomb of Ramses II, for his lies just across the way. Number Seven, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Emerson. “As I was saying before my wife interrupted me, the unusual plan and certain other evidence suggest this was a multiple burial. We have begun the clearance of the first chamber. It is slow going, since the cursed place is packed hard with rubble. I won’t be needing you for a while, Ramses; you might—er—just go along and say hello to Ayrton. He missed you the other day. And,” he added emphatically, “we missed him this morning because of being so confounded late.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ramses.

He and David, who of course accompanied him, were gone quite some time. We were about to stop for our mid-morning tea when they turned up, and Emerson immediately demanded to know what was going on.

“Nothing of interest,” said Ramses, accepting a glass of tea. “Ned sent off a message to Mr. Davis yesterday informing him he had found a tomb, but—”

“What?” Emerson exclaimed. “Not that niche with the storage jars? That is obviously—”

“Yes, sir,” said Ramses. “Some feet below that niche was a surface that had been squared off and smoothed, suggesting that a tomb might have been begun. That was why I remained, to see what came of it, but there was no entrance. Ned has just dispatched another messenger to tell Mr. Davis it had been a false alarm.”

“What’s he done with the jars?” Emerson asked greedily.

“Sent them to his house, I believe. Mr. Davis,” said Ramses without expression, “will want to investigate them himself.”

“Curse it,” said Emerson.

The day passed without further discoveries by Ayrton or ourselves; there were reliefs on the walls of the first chamber, but not until later in the day, after the dust raised by the feet of the men had settled, were we able to examine them by candlelight. Though damaged, enough remained to arouse the interest of my hypercritical son.

“The scenes are reminiscent of those in the princes’ tombs S. Schiaparelli found in the Valley of the Queens,” he remarked. “We ought to get at them as soon as possible, Father, the plaster is loose and the least vibration—”

“Confound it, Ramses, I am only too well aware of that,” Emerson replied. “It will have to wait until we have got the place cleared out a bit more. We will need better light. Reflectors might do it, but if I can run an electric wire . . .”

He stopped speaking, his face glum. He was remembering the happy days when Howard Carter held the post of Inspector. Emerson’s slightest wish had been Howard’s command, and Mr. Quibell, his successor, had been almost as obliging. It remained to be seen whether Mr. Weigall would agree to Emerson’s request for a wire to be run from the electric engine in the tomb of Ramses XI. I was not particularly sanguine about it.

We returned to the house and dispersed in various directions—the children to the stable with the horses, Emerson to his desk in the sitting room. Sir Edward’s luggage had been brought over from the hotel, so I showed him to his room and left him to unpack. After refreshing myself and changing my dusty clothes I told Fatima to serve tea and settled down on the verandah to read the messages that had been delivered.

There was only one of particular interest. After the others had joined me, I handed it to Emerson, to whom it had been addressed. With a sour look at me, he tossed it onto the table.

“I see you have already read it, Peabody. Why don’t you just tell us what it says?”

“Certainly, my dear. It is a telegram from the Cairo police. They met the train, as we requested, but found no woman answering to Layla’s description.”

During the course of the day I had told Sir Edward about the steps we had taken, so he understood the reference. He shook his head doubtfully.

“She could easily have eluded them. You know what utter confusion reigns at the station—masses of people shoving and shouting, all trying to get on and off the train at the same time.”

I had requested Nefret to pour. She looked very dainty and ladylike in her white muslin frock, though the bulk of Horus filling her lap and overflowing onto the settee rather spoiled the picture. The cat raised his head and growled at Ramses when he approached the table to take the cup Nefret had filled for him; being accustomed to Horus’s little ways, he managed to get hold of it without being clawed. Retreating to the ledge, he said, “It is possible she never took the train, or intended to do so. She could have purchased the ticket as a blind, to mislead the others.”

“That possibility occurred to me, of course,” I said.

“Of course,” Ramses echoed. He fished something out of his cup. “Nefret, could you keep that cat from dipping his tail in the tea?”

Sir Edward laughed and removed another hair from his upper lip. “They do shed in warm weather, don’t they? That is a very handsome animal, Miss Forth. Yours, I presume?”

“If you are going to blather on about cats I am going to my study,” Emerson grunted.

“I assure you, Emerson, I have more serious topics in mind,” I told him. “But allow me to remind you that you were the one who complained the other day about conversation unsuitable for the tea table.”

“On that occasion we were discussing mutilated bodies and hideous wounds,” Emerson retorted, animation warming his tanned, well-formed features. “And murder cults. You were the one who brought up that absurd idea!”

“It has not been disproved. The crocodile god—”

“Has nothing to do with anything! Yussuf Mahmud—”

“Crocodiles!” Sir Edward exclaimed. He took a sandwich from the plate Fatima offered and gave her a smiling nod. “Forgive me for interrupting, sir, but I presume you are referring to the body drawn from the river last week. Do you believe that that bizarre incident is related to your present difficulties?”

“Not at all,” said Emerson. “Mrs. Emerson is always getting off the track.”

I would have pointed out the injustice of the charge had my mouth not been full of tomato sandwich. Before I could swallow, Ramses said coolly, “An interesting suggestion, Sir Edward. How much do you know about our presenter—difficulties?”

“Only what has occurred since my arrival in Luxor” was the prompt reply. “Far be it from me to inquire into matters of a private nature, but I would be better able to serve you if I were made cognizant of the relevant facts.”

“The difficulty,” I admitted, “is in knowing what facts are relevant. However, certain earlier incidents are almost certainly part of the business, and I agree you are entitled to hear of them.”

I waited for an objection, but there was none, though Emerson scowled and Ramses looked particularly blank. I therefore proceeded to narrate the adventure of the three comrades and the Book of the Dead.

“Good God!” Sir Edward exclaimed. “
You
went to el Was’a, Miss Forth?”

Nefret banged her cup into her saucer with almost as much force as Emerson would have employed when in a similar state of indignation. “You may as well get one thing straight, Sir Edward, if you are to join our company. I am an adult, independent woman, and I won’t allow any man, including you, to wrap me in cotton wool.”

He apologized, fulsomely and at length, and at Nefret’s request Emerson went and got the papyrus. Sir Edward studied it with the fascinated attention of a true scholar.

“Astonishing,” he breathed. “What are you going to do with it?”

Ramses, who was standing guard over the scroll, replied, “It will go to a museum eventually, but not until after I have copied and translated it.”

“It appears to be in excellent condition.” Sir Edward reached out his hand. Ramses slid the lid over the box.

“It will not remain in that condition if it is handled repeatedly.”

I resumed my narrative. When I had finished, Sir Edward said, “As I once mentioned, Mrs. Emerson, your narrative style is remarkably vivacious. You believe, then, that the papyrus is the object of the attentions you have received?”

“It is one possibility,” said Ramses.

“Yes, quite. What are your plans, then? For I feel sure you don’t mean to sit idly by until something else happens.”

“There is not a great deal we can do,” said Ramses, who had obviously appointed himself spokesman. “Layla is the only person we know about—the only one who isn’t dead, that is—and we have not yet succeeded in tracing her. She is not in Gurneh. Abdullah and his people conducted a house-to-house search, and I assure you, they were thorough.”

“Have you questioned her former—er—associates?”

He looked apologetically at Nefret, who said, “Prostitutes, you mean.”