The Ape Who Guards the Balance (42 page)

I was acquainted with Miss Buchanan, but had not met her companion, a Miss Whiteside from Boston. Like Miss Buchanan, she had trained as a nurse. Neither lady was a model of fashion; they wore rather severe dark gowns, with nice neat white collars and cuffs. They were amiable and interesting women, though rather given to introducing God into the conversation more often than was strictly necessary. This did not sit well with Emerson, but he behaved like the gentleman he is, confining his objections to an occasional grimace. The subject of education for women was of course the primary topic. My interest in the subject was considerable, but I found my thoughts wandering—not altogether surprising, after the revelation that had come to me earlier.

Was it indeed Bertha who had returned to torment me? It had been years since I had seen or heard from her, and I had honestly believed she had given up her evil ways.

I had one advantage with her that I had never had with Sethos. I was familiar with her true appearance, for I had been in close contact with her day after day for several weeks. No—two advantages. She might have learned something of the art of disguise from Sethos, but she had not his natural talents.

And yet . . . No one who has seen a society beauty in the full bloom of her evening toilette and seen that same woman when she wakes in the morning with puffy eyes and sallow cheeks could doubt a female’s ability to alter her appearance. Bertha had been young and handsome. Would I recognize her if she had made herself look older and plainer?

My eyes moved from Miss Buchanan to her assistant. The latter was considerably younger than her superior, but neither could be called handsome. Both had scorned the use of cosmetics. No, I thought. Impossible. Bertha would be a fool to show herself to me or Emerson, who knew her as well as I did (but no better). A crafty villainess would lurk in the shadows, carrying out her evil schemes through intermediaries. If she had to appear in public, what better disguise than one of the ubiquitous black robes worn by middle-class Egyptian women? With her fair complexion darkened and only her eyes visible over the face veil, she could pass within a few feet of me unnoticed.

I came back to myself with a start, realizing that Miss Buchanan had asked me a question. I had to ask her to repeat it. After that I forced myself to behave like a proper hostess, but after dinner I took pity on Emerson and allowed the subject to turn to Egyptology.

No one who lives in Luxor can remain completely indifferent to the subject. Miss Buchanan was acquainted with Mrs. Andrews, and she had heard of the new tomb. She asked if we had been inside and requested a description. “It is true that the queen is wearing a golden crown?” she inquired.

Ramses immediately launched into an interminable monologue. Happily, this prevented Emerson from launching into an interminable tirade against all the persons involved with the tomb; but as Ramses went on and on and on, listing every item in the burial chamber, even Emerson stopped scowling and listened openmouthed.

“The so-called crown is in fact a collar or pectoral,” Ramses concluded. “Why it was placed on the head of the mummy is open to conjecture. It was of thin gold in the shape of a vulture—the vulture goddess Nekhbet, to be precise—so it could be bent to fit the contours of the skull. Oh—I neglected to mention a heap of approximately forty beads which had apparently fallen from a necklace or bracelet.”

Cyrus eyed him askance. “Now see here, young fellow, you can’t possibly remember all that. How many times were you in the burial chamber?”

Ramses’s reply—“Once, sir, for approximately twenty minutes”—made Cyrus look even more skeptical. However, I recalled the time Ramses had rattled off the entire inventory of an antiquities storeroom after having been in the place for less time than that. I had forgot about this attribute—natural talent or acquired skill, as the case may be—and apparently Emerson had too. He gazed at his son in dawning speculation.

“A word with you later, Ramses,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

The ladies from the Mission left early, in order to be safely removed from worldly temptation before midnight, when the Sabbath began. Miss Buchanan repeated her invitation to visit the school, which I promised I would do.

The Vandergelts were driving the ladies back to the boat landing in their carriage, but I managed to draw Katherine aside for a few words in private.

“We must make a formal appointment, it seems,” I declared. “I have seen too little of you, and I have much to tell you.”

“I feel the same,” Katherine replied. “I believe Cyrus means to go to the Valley tomorrow. I will come with him, and perhaps we can find the opportunity for a chat.”

I stood on the verandah waving farewell until the carriage disappeared into the darkness. I hoped the others would have gone to their rooms by the time I returned to the parlor, but they were still there, and I braced myself for additional questions and reproaches.

“We were wondering, Mother, whether you had heard from Uncle Walter.”

Ramses was the speaker, but I knew who had prompted him to ask. My reply was directed impartially at them all.

“I am sorry I neglected to mention it. Yes, Walter telegraphed from Cairo this afternoon, and for a wonder the message was promptly delivered. They had a safe journey and they have booked passage on the steamer from Port Said on Tuesday next.”

“All of them?” Nefret exclaimed. “I thought Uncle Walter intended to return to Luxor.”

“I persuaded him not to do so,” said Emerson, looking particularly smug.

None of us asked how he had accomplished that. I really did not care how. I did not doubt Walter’s courage or his devotion to us, but it would have been deuced awkward to have him underfoot. He was a scholar, not a man of action, and every mention of Lia’s name would have been—well—awkward.

“Well done, Emerson,” I said.

Emerson looked pleased. David murmured a few words that might have been “Good night,” and left the room.

Emerson does not brood. He has a happy facility for concentrating on the business of the moment and ignoring the things he can do nothing about. He was up next morning full of energy and ready to go back to work.

By the time Katherine and Cyrus joined us in the Valley we had put in two good hours’ work. Cyrus inspected number Five without great enthusiasm. “It’ll take years to get through that debris, and then the ceiling will probably fall in on you,” he declared.

“It is not like you to be so pessimistic,” I said.

“Well, consarn it, Amelia, I’m getting discouraged. All those years here in the Valley without any luck, and I’m having the same kind of thing over at Dra Abu’l Naga, right near where you-all found Tetisheri. Seems as if I should be due for something.”

“I told you you should have hired Carter,” Emerson said unsympathetically.

“Couldn’t let Amherst go, could I? He’s doing the best he can. How about having a look at Davis’s tomb?” Cyrus added emphatically, “Darn the fellow!”

So we all went to have a look. No one was there but Ned, standing guard, or so I assumed, since nothing was going on. He explained that Mr. Paul was still photographing, so no visitors were allowed.

“Is Sir Edward with him?” I asked. I had not seen the young man that morning; he had come in late and left early.

“Yes, ma’am, he was here at the break of day,” Ned said poetically. “It certainly is good of you to spare him.”

“I would have been happy to spare other members of my staff,” said Emerson snappishly. “Is that fellow Smith painting? Can’t imagine why Davis uses him when David and Carter are available.”

He went on grumbling while Cyrus, at Ned’s invitation, descended the steps and peered into the entrance corridor. When he came back his face was alight. Cyrus was a true enthusiast, and very well informed for an amateur. It did seem a pity he had never found anything worthwhile.

“When will you open the coffin?” Cyrus asked greedily. “Consarn it, I’d give a thousand dollars to be present!”

Katherine gave me an amused smile. “He would, too,” she said. “But Mr. Ayrton is incorruptible, Cyrus, you cannot bribe him.”

“Now, Katherine, Mr. Ayrton knows I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Ned said. “That is—yes, sir, I do know. M. Maspero is arriving tomorrow; I’m sure he would give you permission.”

Emerson groaned. “Maspero? Well, curse it, that will be the end of the tomb. He’ll want to go in, and he will invite everybody he knows to go in, and by the time they finish stumbling about there won’t be a scrap left in its original place. How much longer will the photography take?”

Ned shrugged. “I don’t know, Professor.”

“He doesn’t know much, does he?” Emerson said disagreeably—but not until after we were on our way back to our own tomb.

Ramses was quick to defend his friend. “He is not the one who makes those decisions, Father. Once Maspero gets here he will be officially in charge.”

“We can ask Sir Edward about the photographs,” I suggested. “This evening, perhaps.”

“Hmm, yes,” Emerson said. “That young man has been conspicuous by his absence of late. I want to have a talk with him.”

Since the hour was past midday, Cyrus suggested we go back to the Castle for lunch. This was agreeable to all. The only question was what to do with Horus, whom Nefret had brought with her. He had stayed with us, for a change; usually he went off on his own, hunting . . . something or other . . . and we always had a hard time collecting him when it was time to go home. Now she asked Cyrus if the invitation included the cat.

“Why, sure, bring him along,” said Cyrus.

“My dear,” Katherine exclaimed. “Have you forgot that Sekhmet is in—er—a delicate condition?”

I knew the cat could not be expecting or Cyrus would have mentioned it, so I concluded that the condition to which Katherine referred was the one that often led to the other.

“We’ve got her shut up in her room like always,” Cyrus said cheerfully.

I had seen Sekhmet’s room. It had mesh screens on the windows and was furnished with cat beds, cat toys, and cat dishes. Many human beings do not enjoy quarters as comfortable.

“Don’t count on a locked door to keep that feline Casanova out,” said Ramses, giving Horus a hateful look.

Horus gave him one back. All Bastet’s descendants are unusually intelligent.

Cyrus studied the animal with a new interest. Horus sat at Nefret’s feet, his paws together and his head lifted alertly. His resemblance to the felines depicted in the ancient paintings was particularly strong just then; his long ears were pricked, his brindled coat glowed in the sunlight. He might have been the model for the painting of the Cat of Re that illustrated the portion of the papyrus I had recently translated.

Cyrus tugged at his goatee. “Hmmmm,” he said thoughtfully.

When the others started back to the Valley after an excellent luncheon, Horus was not with them. Cyrus had assured Nefret he would return the creature next day. I wondered whether Horus would want to be returned, after experiencing all the feline comforts available to him at the Castle, but that was not a subject I particularly wanted to discuss.

I intended to stay and have a comfortable private talk with Katherine. At first Emerson would not hear of it. He finally consented after I agreed to wait there until someone came for me.

“So you are still in danger,” Katherine said soberly. “Tell me what has been happening.”

Cyrus had gone with the others. We were alone in Katherine’s charming parlor, which her doting husband had completely redecorated for her. It combined the finest of Middle Eastern ornaments—rugs, brasswork, carved screens—with the most comfortable of modern furniture. I always felt hospitably welcomed in that room, and I settled down in an overstuffed chair and told her all about it.

Her plump, pretty face lengthened as I spoke. “I wish there were something I could do to help, Amelia. It is a desperate situation and I see no way out of it.”

“Something will no doubt occur to me,” I assured her. “We have been in situations as desperate, Katherine. I didn’t expect you to offer a solution, only the comfort of friendly interest, which you have done. Oh, and Evelyn asked me to pass on her fondest regards and her regrets that they were unable to say good-bye in person.”

“We heard they had left,” Katherine said. “Was there a reason for their sudden departure, or should I not ask?”

So I told her all about that, too. Her response was limited to a shake of the head and a murmured “What a pity. I am so sorry.”

I realized I had hoped she would say more. That surprised me, since I am not in the habit of relying on others for advice.

“It will all work out for the best,” I said firmly. “ ‘Hearts do not break; they sting and ache’—uh—”

“ ‘ . . . for old love’s sake, but do not die.’ ” Katherine dimpled. “
The Mikado
, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course. You know your Gilbert and Sullivan even better than I. Now tell me how your plans for the school are progressing.”

She accepted the change of subject and we had a very useful discussion. She could not decide whether it would be more sensible to construct a new building or refurbish an old one, and she was still in doubt as to the best location for the school. Luxor seemed the obvious choice, but she hoped to attract girls from the west bank villages and, as she pointed out, there were already two schools in Luxor.

“The Mission School and what other?” I asked.

“The one Fatima attends. She told you about it.”

“Oh, yes. It isn’t an actual school, though, is it?”

“Not by our definitions, perhaps, but it has an excellent location, and Sayyida Amin holds several classes each day. She admitted she has not the money to do more.”

It was a pleasure to get my mind off matters that were temporarily insoluble and concentrate on a subject that could be solved, with time and money and dedication—all of which Katherine possessed. When the little clock on the mantel chimed I was startled to realize how late it had become.

“I must get back,” I declared, rising.

“You mustn’t go, Amelia. Emerson told you to wait until someone came for you.”