The Ape Who Guards the Balance (30 page)

“Unless you think he will want to come round this evening, you had better stop, then.” Ramses ran an expert eye over the rough opening. “It’s likely there are not more than a dozen steps, and the fill is loose here.”

“Yes, of course.” Ned smiled apologetically. “You must think me a blundering fool. I suppose I was a bit excited. It is always rather exciting, isn’t it—a new tomb? Not knowing what might be there?”

“Yes,” said Emerson morosely. “It is. Rather.”

Ned went with us as far as the donkey park and then struck off on foot, heading for the house Davis had had built for him near the entrance to the Valley. No wonder he was pleased. Even if the tomb turned out to be unfinished or completely plundered in ancient times, it was a good sign to find one at all.

We had been invited to attend one of Cyrus’s Sunday-evening soirees that night. He was a sociable individual, and took even greater pleasure in entertaining now that he had Katherine as his hostess.

I was of two minds about going. Ordinarily I take pleasure in respectable social events, and Cyrus’s entertainments were always elegant and refined. Many of our friends would be present, including two of the best—Katherine and Cyrus themselves.

Yet I found myself disinclined that evening for pleasure. My thoughts were otherwise engaged, following in imagination the activities of those who were far away. Selim and Daoud were still on the train. They would not arrive in Cairo until later that evening, with the briefer journey to Alexandria still ahead. If it was not delayed, the steamer would soon arrive in the harbor, where it would drop anchor; the passengers would disembark the following morning. We could not expect news until later that same day, for explanations and decisions would take time, and it was possible Walter would decide to go on to Cairo, where we had booked rooms for them at Shepheard’s. To take Lia home without a glimpse of even the pyramids and the Sphinx would be too cruel, after her high expectations; a father as fond as Walter would surely be unable to resist her pleas. If they remained in Cairo for a time, perhaps I could just run up to see them, and have a little look round . . .

Too many ifs! I would have to wait another twenty-four hours, at least, before I knew what they intended.

I came to the logical conclusion that brooding would not be good for us. There was nothing we could do that evening anyhow.

I discovered that the others had expected we would go and that even Emerson was resigned, if not enthusiastic. He gave me the usual argument about wearing formal dress, which, as usual, I won. Cyrus had sent his carriage for us. Since it would have been a bit of a squeeze for our entire party, Sir Edward announced he would ride horseback. Emerson had cast a reproachful glance at me when he found that Sir Edward and the boys were not in evening kit. I was hardly in a position to lecture Sir Edward; when I lectured Ramses, he explained disingenuously that studs and links were too difficult to attach with only one hand.

I decided to let him off this time, but there was another question I wanted to ask. I had feared he might use his damaged hand as an excuse for letting his beard grow; men seem to favor the cursed things. He had remained clean-shaven, however, and as I straightened his cravat and tucked his collar in I asked how he managed it.

“I have been using a safety razor for several years now, Mother,” was the reply. “I am surprised you did not know.”

“I am not in the habit of searching your personal belongings, Ramses,” I said.

“Of course not, Mother. I didn’t mean to imply—”

Emerson interrupted with the remark he always made on such occasions—“If we must do this, let’s get it over with.”

The electric current, which was notoriously erratic, appeared to be functioning that evening. The windows of the Castle shone hospitably through the darkness, and Cyrus was waiting to greet us. There was only time for his question—“Anything new?”—and my brief reply in the negative before the arrival of other guests recalled him to his duties as host.

Familiar faces and forms filled the great drawing room; familiar voices were raised in laughter and conversation. Yet as I stood a little to one side, sipping my wine, I found myself studying those faces with a new interest. Was there among them a new, unknown enemy—or an old one?

There were always a good many strangers in Luxor during the season. Some of them I knew slightly. Emerson was engaged in conversation with one, a certain Lord . . . for the moment the name escaped me, but I remembered that he had recently come to Egypt for his health and had become interested in excavating. He was tall enough, but since he was a married man I assumed his wife would notice a substitution. Unless she was also . . .

Nonsense, I told myself. Sethos could not be among those present. I had known him in London; I would know him in Luxor, in any disguise he could assume.

As for unknown enemies—well, that offered infinite possibilities. Most of the dealers in illegal antiquities were Egyptians or Turks, but as painful experience had taught me, Europeans also engaged in that ugly trade, and they were likely to be more dangerous and unscrupulous than their native counterparts. Since Sethos’s retirement a number of people had attempted to take over all or part of his organization. The stout German baron, the elegant young Frenchman who was gazing soulfully at Nefret, the red-faced English squire—any one of them could be a criminal.

A touch on my arm roused me from my thoughts, and I turned to see Katherine beside me. She was wearing a gown she had had made up in London, incorporating panels of Turkish embroidery and green silk, and the parure of emeralds that had been Cyrus’s wedding gift.

“No corsets,” she whispered with a conspiratorial smile. “Come and sit down for a moment, I have been on my feet for hours.”

We withdrew into a retired corner, and Katherine said, “I want to talk with you about my new project, Amelia. I spoke with Miss Buchanan at the American School for Girls a few days ago. It made me feel quite ashamed of my nationality. The Americans have done so much more than we English to improve the lot of Egyptian women—schools and hospitals all over the country—”

“As well as churches,” I said. “I would be the last to deny the great good these dedicated persons have done, but they are missionaries and their primary aim is to convert the heathen.”

“Wasn’t it Henry the Fourth who remarked that ‘Paris is worth a mass’ when his claim to the throne of France was made dependent on his conversion to Catholicism? Perhaps education is worth a prayer.” I smiled wryly in acknowledgment, and Katherine went on, “However, there is certainly room here for a school that makes no such demands, and that opens education even to those who cannot afford the fees of the Mission School. Miss Buchanan amiably agreed, and offered to assist me in any way she could.”

“Splendid,” I said heartily. “I am delighted that you are going ahead with your project, Katherine, and I promise I will do my part. I meant some days ago to make the acquaintance of Fatima’s teacher, but I have not had the time to do so.”

“I have. Fatima gave me her name, and I called on her yesterday. She is an interesting woman, Amelia—handsome and well-educated and obviously of a superior class. Admirable as are the methods of the Americans, we can learn something from teachers like Sayyida Amin.”

“Ah, so she prefers the title Sayyida to that of Madame? That suggests she is not in sympathy with Western ideas of emancipation.”

“A good many educated Egyptians, male and female, resent our presence and our ideas,” Katherine said soberly. “It is not surprising that they should.”

“Quite. Kindly condescension can be as infuriating as outright insult. Not that either of us would fall into those errors! I am sorry I was unable to go with you, Katherine. I have been just a little preoccupied recently.”

“You certainly have!”

I told her of the present progress of the investigation—or, to be more accurate, the lack of progress. I would not have ventured to tell any other woman of my acquaintance about Nefret’s visit to the house of ill fame, but I felt certain Katherine’s unorthodox background would make her more tolerant of those who have, often through no fault of their own, strayed beyond the bounds of conventional society. As usual, my judgment was correct.

“She is a remarkable girl, Amelia. One can only admire her courage and compassion—and fear for her well-being. You are going to have your hands full.”

“They are already full. Ramses is enough to drive any parent over the brink of sanity, and I daresay even David will have his problems.”

I had observed him talking with a girl who was a stranger to me—one of the recent crop of tourists, I assumed. She was fair-haired and elaborately dressed in a frock of azure blue embroidered with rosebuds that bared plump white shoulders. It was unusual to see David without Ramses or Nefret or both; he was rather shy with strangers, but he appeared to be responding to this young woman, who was flirting with him over her fan.

At that moment a stocky older lady, whom I took to be the girl’s mama, bustled up to them. Taking the girl firmly by the arm, she drew her away, without so much as a nod at David.

“I daresay he already has a good many,” Katherine said thoughtfully. “He is a handsome young fellow, and those exotic looks of his cannot but be intriguing to the girls; but what responsible mama would allow her daughter to become seriously involved with him?”

“She needn’t have been so rude about it. Goodness, Katherine, we sound like a pair of empty-headed gossips.”

At that point Katherine was called away by guests who were about to take their leave. I remained where I was, observing that Ramses had joined David, and that Emerson had collared Howard Carter and was lecturing him about something, and that Nefret was . . . Where was she?

My agitated gaze soon found her, the center of a group of young gentlemen, but that pang of alarm, brief though it had been, made me decide we had better return home. I do not often suffer from nerves, but I did that night.

I collected my family and Sir Edward and we made our excuses. As we stood waiting for the carriage, Cyrus’s gatekeeper, an elderly Egyptian who had been with him for many years, came up to me.

“A person gave me this, Sitt Hakim. She said it was for Nur Misur, but—”

“Then you should give it to me, Sayid,” Nefret exclaimed. She reached for the grubby little packet, barely an inch square, that rested on the gatekeeper’s palm.

Ramses’s hand got there before hers. “Hold on, Nefret. Who was it who gave you this, Sayid?”

The old man shrugged. “A woman. She said—”

We extracted a description, such as it was. Veiled and robed, the anonymous figure had not lingered or spoken more than a few words. She had not given him money, but he assumed . . .

“Yes, yes,” said Emerson, handing over a few coins. “Let me have that, Ramses.”

Nefret let out an indignant exclamation.

“I suggest,” said Ramses, closing his fingers tightly over the packet, “that we wait until we get home. It is too dark to see clearly, and too public.”

The sense of this could not be gainsaid, but we were all on fire with curiosity by the time we reached the house, and without a moment’s delay we hurried into the sitting room. Fatima had lit the lamps and was waiting to see if we wanted anything.

Ramses put the packet down on the table in the glow of a nearby lamp. The cheap coarse paper had been folded tightly into multiple layers. It was very dirty, but I thought I saw traces of writing.

“I recommend it be handled with care,” Ramses said. “Father?”

I felt certain he would not have left it to Emerson if he had had the use of both hands. For once I did not volunteer. The folded paper filled me with a strange revulsion. I did not believe it contained anything dangerous, but I did not want to touch it.

With the same delicacy of touch he displayed when handling fragile antiquities, Emerson unfolded the paper, placed it on the table and smoothed it out. There was writing on it—only a few words, in crudely formed Arabic letters.

“ ‘Sunrise,’ ” Emerson read. “ ‘The Mosque of Sheikh el . . . Graib,’ is it?”

“Guibri, I think,” Ramses said, bending over the paper. “There are two more words. ‘Help me.’ ”

For a moment no one spoke. The lamplight shone on the strong hands of Emerson, flat on the table, the crumpled paper between them, and on the intent faces bent over the message. Nefret let out a long breath.

“Thank heaven. I hoped she would trust me! Now I can—”

“There were a dozen women there,” Ramses said flatly. “Which one are you talking about?”

“She was wearing . . . Oh, never mind, you wouldn’t have noticed. It was the way she looked at me.”

“Hmph,” said Ramses.

“Er—yes,” said Emerson. “Does it matter which one it is? One of them, it seems, is asking for our help—and, it may be, offering hers. I will go, of course.”

“
My
help,” Nefret said. “It was I to whom she directed the message.”

“Damn it,” said Ramses. “Excuse me, Mother. Stop and think, all of you. This message cannot have come from one of those women. None of them knows how to write!”

“You don’t know that,” Nefret said.

“It is a reasonable assumption, however,” Emerson agreed. He stroked his chin. “A public letter writer?”

“She wouldn’t risk it,” Ramses insisted. “Anyhow, it’s too crudely written.”

“It reminds me,” David began.

He was not given the opportunity to finish. Emerson declared that someone must keep the assignation. Nefret insisted it must be she. The table shuddered; Horus, returning from one of his nightly strolls, had leaped onto it and was trying to get Nefret’s attention. Failing in this, he sniffed curiously at the note.

“Get it away from him, Nefret,” I ordered.

It was too late. Horus hissed and spat and shredded the paper with his claws.

“I hope,” said Emerson, “that you won’t take this as one of your confounded omens, Peabody.”

It would have been difficult to interpret Horus’s actions as symptomatic of anything in particular. I needed no such portent to make me regard the forthcoming expedition with extreme trepidation. We had agreed it must take place; if the appeal was genuine it could not be ignored. Ramses insisted it must be a trick, but even he admitted the place and time of the assignation were those such a woman might have chosen. The mosque in question was not far from the house they had visited, and early morning, while the others were resting, offered the best opportunity for her to slip away.