The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (14 page)

They passed the Coptic Church—another of the juxtapositions moralists appreciated—and walked toward the Ezbekieh and the Sharia el Kamal. Ramses took out his watch.

"We're late. They'll be waiting."

But they weren't. As the minutes passed, Nefret began to fidget. "Something is wrong," she declared.

"They can't have got into trouble already," Ramses argued, trying to convince himself as much as her. He knew his mother. "Selim is with them—"

"Aunt Amelia can get into trouble anywhere, anytime." Her eyes narrowed as a new idea struck her. "You don't suppose she lied to us, do you? Maybe they didn't go to Zawaiet el 'Aryan. Maybe they went hunting for the forger!" She pushed her chair back. "We'd better look for them."

"Where? Be sensible, Nefret. It's more than likely that Father came across something interesting and lost track of the time. You know how he is when he's working, and Mother is almost as bad. He won't let her get into mischief."

An Englishman in the East who shows a yellow streak lets the whole side down and endangers every other Englishman. Our innate moral superiority is our only defense against a mob of howling savages.

K
nowing that Ramses would be with her lessened my anxiety about Nefret's venture into one of the most noxious regions of the city, though in fact she was probably safer in any part of Cairo than she would have been in London or Paris. There was not a miscreant in Egypt who did not dread the wrath of the Father of Curses, not a villain who did not know Emerson's wife and daughter were sacrosanct. As Emerson had once put it in his poetic fashion, "Should a hair on her head be ruffled or a fold of her garment disarranged, I will tear out your liver."

So that was all right. With my mind at ease about Nefret, I rose before dawn so that we could leave for Zawaiet el 'Aryan as soon as the sun was up. The old thrill of archaeological fever ran through me as I assumed my working attire of boots and trousers and multi-pocketed jacket, and buckled on my belt with its fringe of useful accoutrements—brandy in a small flask, water in another, matches and candles, scissors, twine, to mention only a few. Emerson still complained about the—as he expressed it—superfluity of them and the noise they made banging against one another, but I knew he was only teasing. How often had one or another of those useful devices saved us from a terrible fate!

I tucked my little pistol into one pocket, a nice clean white handkerchief into another, and took up my parasol. I was ready!

Emerson had already gone up to breakfast. Ramses was with him, his coffee cup in one hand and a book in the other.

"What is that?" I asked, for I thought I recognized the volume.

"Annales des Service,"
said Ramses, without looking up.

"Signor Barsanti's report on Zawaiet el 'Aryan?"

"One of them."

"Well?"

"Well what? Oh. There are some points of interest."

"What points?"

"Finish your breakfast, Peabody," said Emerson.

"I haven't begun yet."

"Then begin. I want to get off. You should read the report for yourself."

"I would have done had I been given sufficient warning of your intentions."

Emerson pretended he had not heard. "Where is Nefret?"

Ramses closed the journal and put it aside. "Getting dressed, I suppose. There is no hurry; we needn't leave for a while."

"Then she has not changed her mind about visiting her clinic?"

"No, sir, I believe not. It will be all right, Father."

"Hmph," said Emerson, stroking his chin. "Yes. We will see you at Shepheard's for luncheon, then. Don't be late."

One of our men took us across the river, to where Selim was waiting with the horses we left in his care each summer. The original pair of thoroughbred Arabians had been gifts to David and Ramses from our friend Sheikh Mohammed; over the years they had produced several equally beautiful offspring. Selim had brought Risha and Asfur for us, and was mounted on Nefret's mare Moonlight. I thought our youthful reis appeared a trifle hollow-eyed and said as much to my husband.

"It really was inconsiderate of you, Emerson, to get Selim out so early. He has probably been up till all hours these past nights, celebrating and being welcomed home by his friends—"

"And his wives," said Emerson. "I wonder if he taught them to waltz?"

I deemed it advisable to drop the subject.

The inundation had begun to recede, but sheets of water still covered some of the fields, reflecting the sky in a shimmer of light.

Herds of buffalo grazed among the reeds and white herons floated in the pools. In the distance the pale limestone of the desert plateau was crowned by the majestic shapes of the pyramids of Giza.

There were two routes we might have followed. As I believe I have pointed out (and as every informed Reader ought to know anyhow), a strip of fertile soil borders the river on either side. Since cultivable land was precious (and, at some seasons, actually under water), the ancients built their tombs in the desert. We could follow the coastal road south and then turn inland to reach Zawaiet el 'Aryan, or we could climb the slopes of the plateau at Giza and then ride south across the desert. As I pointed out to Emerson, it would not be much out of our way to pay a little visit to
the
pyramids. Emerson replied that this was quite true, so long as we had a little look and not a prolonged stop.

We were, in fact, past the Great Pyramid and proceeding around that of Khafre, when an exclamation from Emerson drew my attention toward an approaching form which hastened to intercept us, waving and calling out as he came.

"Why, Karl," I exclaimed as he came panting up. "How nice to see you. I didn't know you were coming out this year."

Karl von Bork whipped off his pith helmet, mopped his perspiring face, and made each of us a formal, Germanic bow. He was a bit stouter than he had been when we first met him, but his smile was as broad, his mustaches as luxuriant and his speech as effusive.

"Guten Morgen, Frau Professor, Herr Professor! A pleasure and an honor it is to see you again! Aber ja, I am with the so distinguished Professor Junker, assisting him work on the archives of the German Institute in Cairo and in supervising the excavating of the Western Cemetery, which, as you know—"

"Yes, we do know," said Emerson. "Hallo, von Bork. Read your article in the
Zeitschrift.
Bloody nonsense, you know, what you said about the early dynastic royal tombs being at Sakkara."

"Ach, so? Aber, Herr Professor, the Abydos monuments—"

I interrupted Emerson in the middle of an emphatic rebuttal. "Karl, you should not stand bareheaded in the sun; replace your hat at once. How is Mary? And the children? You have three, I believe? Or is it four?"

I ought to have known better than to ask; Karl whipped a thick sheaf of snapshots from his breast pocket. It took quite a while to examine them, since each image was accompanied by a detailed
commentary on the beauty, intelligence, and medical history of the individual depicted. I was pleased to hear that Mary had fully recovered from the illness that had affected her a few years earlier. I had always had a fondness for her; she had worked for us as an artist during the Baskerville case and her marriage to Karl was one of the few pleasant results of that unhappy business.

For a time Emerson politely endeavored to conceal his boredom—like most men, he is profoundly disinterested in all children except his own—but eventually he interrupted with a question about the season's work. Karl asked where we were working, expressed surprise that we had not selected a more interesting site, and offered to show us his new mastaba.

"Not today," I said firmly. "No, Emerson, I mean it. We must go on at once if we are to be back in time to meet Nefret and Ramses."

"Ach, ja, entschuldigen Sie, ich habe to ask forgotten. Sind sie gesund, das schone Madchen und der kleine Ramses?"

"He is not so kleine now," I said, laughing. "Thank you for asking, Karl, they are quite well. We will make arrangements to meet soon again. Come, Emerson. At once, Emerson!"

The pyramids are visible for miles around, and as we rode southward my wistful gaze followed them until Emerson, who was well aware of my sentiments, bade me rather sharply to stop looking over my shoulder and pay attention to where I was going.

"We are almost there," he cried, pointing.

I wondered what the devil he was pointing
at.

At that time Zawaiet el 'Aryan was one of the most obscure archaeological sites in Egypt. For obscure, read "boring." The two words are often synonymous in this context, since interesting sites are the ones visited by tourists. No tourists ever came to Zawaiet el 'Aryan.

I could not help but suspect this was one of the reasons why Emerson favored the site. My esteemed spouse is admirably indiscriminate in his antipathies, but, with the possible exception of certain of his fellow archaeologists, there is no group he despises more than tourists. It was fruitless to point out, as I often had, that many of them were moved by a genuine if uninformed interest in the antiquities, and that ignorance should be pitied, not condemned. Emerson's reply was simple and to the point. "They get in my way, curse them."

They would certainly not be in his way at Zawaiet el 'Aryan.

"There it is," he announced in sonorous tones. "The Layer Pyramid."

I believe I may say without fear of contradiction that no woman alive has a greater attachment to her husband than I to mine. Personally and professionally, Emerson is supreme. Just then, as my eyes fell upon the shapeless pile of rubble ahead, I had to bite my lip to keep from shouting at him. In some places a few layers of dressed stone were visible. The rest of the cursed thing was only a low rounded hill, about forty feet at its highest point.

"Is there a substructure?" I inquired hopefully.

"Hmmm? Oh, yes. A shaft, several passages, a presumed burial chamber. Empty. Hmmm. I wonder ..."

The last word floated back to me. Emerson was riding away.

"Where are you going?" I shouted.

"I want to have a look at the other pyramid. It's off to the northwest."

I am by nature an optimistic individual; I look on the bright side and hope for the best and find a silver lining in the darkest cloud. For some reason my rational good spirits failed me that day, and my mood passed from bitterness to extreme aggravation when I saw what Emerson was pleased to call "the other pyramid." Not even a pile of rubble marked its location. There had never been a superstructure of any kind, only a huge trench leading far down into bedrock. Drifting sand had almost filled it.

Emerson dismounted. Accompanied by Selim, he began prowling round the elongated hollow that marked the trench, and I heard him remark, "We'll want fifty men and the same number of basket carriers at the start. As soon as the survey is finished ... Peabody! Don't you want to have a look?"

He hastened to me and pulled me from the saddle with such impetuous enthusiasm that my foot caught in the stirrup and I toppled into his arms. "A little stiff, this first day out?" he asked.

Pressed against his broad chest, enclosed in his strong arms, I looked up at him and felt my wrath evaporate like raindrops in the sunlight of his smile, the warmth of his blue eyes. He was so happy with his wretched ruins of pyramids, so unquenchably (if inappropriately) romantic!

"Trim but nicely rounded," he murmured, embracing the region in question and tucking a lock of loosened hair under my hat. "You never change, my dearest Peabody. Your figure is as shapely and those jetty locks are as untouched by silver as when I first saw you in the Museum of Boulaq. Have you sold your soul to the devil in exchange for eternal youth?"

I saw absolutely no reason to mention the little bottle of hair coloring I kept in a drawer of my dressing table. A husband's illusions should not be shattered, and anyhow I didn't use it often enough to matter.

"I might ask you the same question, my dear Emerson," I replied. "But perhaps this is not the proper time—"

"Anytime is the proper time. Curse it," he added, as the bridge of his nose came into contact with the brim of my pith helmet.