The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (30 page)

Percy's, which is of course the one I cherish most. Yes, Jack Reynolds took the plunge, emboldened, I do not doubt, by Mr. Vandergelt's champagne. I refused him cheerfully and amiably and he informed me, cheerfully and amiably, that he would try again. Why can't men take no for an answer? He was a perfect gentleman, though, so I let him kiss me
—
on the cheek.

I'm not going to make fun of Geoffrey even to you. He didn't so much propose as tell me he knew I wouldn't accept him; nor should I, he wasn't nearly good enough for me, no one was ... You know the sort of thing. I've heard it before. There was something oddly impressive about him, though
—
his quiet, well-bred voice and pale, controlled face. "I only want you to know," he said, "that if you ever need me, for any reason, at any time, it would be the greatest honor and pleasure to serve you." I was so moved I let him kiss me
—
not on the cheek. It was very sweet.

W
e had a nice long gossip with Howard next day. He was very proud of the new house he had built near the entrance to the Valley of the Kings, and showed me innumerable pictures of it—a pleasant little domicile with a domed central hall. This indicated to me that he meant to go on working in the Theban area, and he admitted, when I inquired, that he and Carnarvon had not given up hope of getting the firman for the Valley of the Kings one day. Mr. Davis had lost some of his enthusiasm; he felt that the Valley was exhausted.

"Not true," said Emerson.

"Are you considering a return to Thebes?" Howard asked.

Emerson shook his head. "Not while Weigall is Inspector there. Can't stand the fellow."

"He hasn't been particularly cordial to me either," Howard said. "But what is one to do?"

Having no answer to this, Emerson relapsed into moody silence and allowed me to turn the conversation in the direction I desired.

"I understand that Mr. Weigall has been making a fuss about the sale of antiquities," I said cunningly.

Howard's long face lengthened even farther. "He accused
me
of negligence, if you can believe such a thing! The fellow sneers at everyone, even Maspero, who has been so kind to him."

"I find myself in sympathy with certain of his views, however," I continued. "It is a pity to see fine objects sold to private collectors."

This touched a tender spot, for Howard had become skilled at acquiring valuable antiquities for wealthy collectors—one of whom was his current employer. He looked a little chagrined, but defended himself spiritedly. "That's all very well, Mrs. E., and I agree in principle, but there's not the manpower for proper supervision, and Weigall knows it. As many priceless pieces have slipped through his hands as was the case when
I
was Inspector for Upper Egypt."

Howard mopped his perspiring brow, smiled apologetically at me, and dropped his bombshell. "Speaking of antiquities, what's this I hear about Abdullah's collection?"

I spilled my tea, Emerson swore, and Ramses said, "What have you heard, Mr. Carter?"

"That it was being sold through various European dealers." His eyes moved from my face to that of Ramses, found nothing in that enigmatic countenance to assist him, and went on to that of Emerson, which expressed his emotions as clear as print. "I see I've spoken out of turn. Was it supposed to be a secret? Don't see how it can be, though."

Ramses did not say "I told you so," though he must have been sorely tempted. Glancing at his father, he said, "We have been meaning to take you into our confidence, Mr. Carter."

"Curse it, we may as well," Emerson grumbled. "It's going to come out anyhow. Abdullah had no collection, Carter. The objects purporting to have belonged to him are forgeries. The man who sold them gave David's name, but it was not David."

This statement was typical of Emerson—the bare facts, without elaboration or explanation. They had the same effect as a series of blows from a hammer. I therefore took it upon myself to add a few words, describing how we became involved with the business and what we had done to investigate it.

Emerson, of course, cut me off before I had half done.

"Enough, Amelia. Well, Carter, you may now express your skepticism and ask the usual idiotic questions. Are we sure the objects are fraudulent? How do we know the seller was not David? Have we—"

"No, sir," Howard said firmly. "If you say they are fakes, then I take your word. D'you know, I couldn't help wondering. I knew Abdullah pretty well—not as well as you, but I'd be likely to know if he had been involved in the antiquities game. I never had the slightest hint of such a thing. I should have known it wasn't true."

I got up from my chair and put my arms around Howard and gave him an affectionate hug. "Thank you."

Howard turned red with pleasure and pale with alarm—for he was only too well aware of my husband's jealous temperament. Emerson said only, "Hmph."

I had never
really
suspected Howard, and I was delighted to be able to enlist his aid. The theories he put forth were not especially useful, but they testified to his excellent heart.

Howard left us after dinner, with assurances of affection and support and a promise to stop for a longer visit at a later time. After a quiet evening with our dearest friends we parted for the night, with no forebodings of the tragedy drawing inexorably nearer.

Having "wasted" three days Emerson was wild to get back to the dig. He had us up at the crack of dawn. Cyrus and Katherine meant to spend the day in Cairo, so we let them sleep, though why Emerson's loud demands for haste did not rouse them I do not know. We were off soon after sunrise. Greatly as I had enjoyed the interval of amiable social intercourse and communion with friends, it was sheer delight to be abroad in the fresh morning air. We took the road along the cultivation (Emerson refused to allow me to get any closer to the Giza pyramids); the smooth ripples of the river were pink-tinged by reflected sunrise, and waterfowl splashed in the irrigation ditches. Nefret's high spirits demanded an outlet; she challenged Ramses to a race, and the two of them set off at a run. Our pace was slightly more sedate, but only slightly; I was mounted on David's lovely mare Asfur, and she moved like the bird after which she was named.

Increasing my pleasure was the prospect of another visit to the interior of our pyramid. Under Emerson's direction the men had braced the stones in the shaft above the passageway. In fact, I was fairly sure Emerson had carried out this hazardous task with his own hands, since he had come home one day with a mashed thumb which he vainly attempted to conceal from me. He was eager to try out his latest toy, a new and powerful electric torch which had been one of the Vandergelts's gifts to him. (Honesty compels me to admit that it was American-made.)

We were there so early that our men had not yet arrived, which of course made Emerson grumble and revert to his threat of camping on site. I assured him I would think seriously about it. (I had.) Nefret said she would like to have a look below, since Ramses had not found her any more bones, and then Ramses said he would go along too. He would have preceded the rest of us had I not demanded the support of his arm.

"Your father is quite capable of looking after Nefret in the event of an emergency," I said. "Have you any reason to expect something of the sort?"

"Only the fact that we have had several already. The site has been left unguarded." He hesitated for a moment and then said, "There were signs of the presence of a horse. Fresh signs."

"Surely not hoofprints in this sand."

"No."

"Oh. Well, I cannot imagine an enemy could arrange a trap your father would not detect immediately."

The passage ahead looked like a lightning storm, as Emerson flashed his splendid new light wildly from side to side. We caught him and Nefret up and he turned a radiant face to me. "Excellent. We must have a dozen more of them, eh? I wonder if the beam will reach all the way down to the bottom of the shaft. It's almost twenty feet now."

Selim had replaced the windlass that had been destroyed by the rockfall, and the wooden cage hung empty from the supporting ropes. Emerson leaned over the edge and shone his torch down into the depths.

Ramses's vision is as keen as his hearing. He breathed out a single word. Before any of the rest of us could move, he kicked the bar aside and leaped onto the cage. It went down like a plummet, and Ramses with it.

Reason told me he would not crash to the bottom, since the length of the rope had been carefully measured. Reason did not prevent me from letting out an involuntary cry. Emerson let out a flood of bad language and jumped for the spinning handle of the windlass. By sheer brute strength he managed to stop the rope
unwinding; but by that time most of it was already in the shaft, and Ramses was at the bottom.

A light appeared below. It was the beam of the candle Ramses carried in his pocket, and it illumined the chair frame and a huddled, featureless shape beside it.

There could be no doubt that the shape was that of a human body, or the remains of one. If the individual had fallen clear from the top, there was little chance he had survived, but I clung to the hope that he had been partway down before he lost his hold. I believed—how could I have assumed otherwise?—that some poor deluded villager had penetrated the burial place of the pharaoh by night as his ancestors had done, in a search for treasure.

I do not know precisely when the truth began to dawn. Perhaps it was Ramses's rigid pose as he knelt beside the crumpled form. He had placed his candle on the floor beside him. His body was in shadow; the glow illumined only his motionless hands. When he spoke he pitched his voice low. It came up the hollow shaft like a series of groans, with long intervals between the words.

"Get something ... to cover her. I'll... bring her up."

"Her," Emerson repeated. "Ramses. Who ..."

He told us. "She's dead."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes. God, yes."

"Call out when you are ready," Emerson said. He gave me the torch and grasped the handle of the windlass.

Ramses removed his coat and bent over the body. Nefret was already running up the sloping passage that led to the surface.

The girl was—had been—small and slight, but only Emerson's phenomenal strength could have raised her weight and that of Ramses. When I moved to help him he grunted at me to get out of his way. Nefret came back, carrying one of the rugs from the shelter. She reached out to steady the cage and its burden, and Ramses swung himself onto level ground.

His coat concealed the head and the upper part of the body, but it was not long enough to cover the torn skirt or the small scarred boots. It was Ramses who lifted the half-shrouded form onto the rug and folded the sides over to cover it, but when he would have raised the pathetic bundle Emerson put a firm hand on his shoulder.

"I'll take her from here," he said gruffly. "Damnation, my boy, you are only human!"

Ramses turned his face toward the wall. I unhooked the flask of brandy and handed it to Nefret. We left them together, her arm round his bowed shoulders.

I was an object of interest to the women of the tribes, who seemed fascinated by my golden hair and fair skin . . .

T
hey did not remain below for long. Ramses was himself again, his countenance no more expressive than that of the Sphinx; but when he saw me kneeling by the roll of carpet he caught me by the shoulders and pulled me away. "No, Mother. Don't. Not here, and not now."

"And not you, Aunt Amelia," said Nefret.

Ramses turned to face her. "Nor you, Nefret. What are you trying to prove—that
you
are more than human?"

"I have done my share of autopsies and dissections," Nefret said steadily. "How did she die?"

"Take your choice. Fractured skull, shattered spinal cord, broken neck, pelvis, ribs ..."

Emerson breathed out a string of curses. I said, "The face?"

"You would not care to see it."

"Then how can you be certain of her identity?"

After a long moment Ramses said, "Trust you to think of that, Mother. I fear there can be little doubt. The hair was the same, and the clothing."

"Especially the boots," Nefret said in a cold, dry voice. She was looking down at the foot I had exposed. "They were specially made for her in London. I doubt many women could get them on. I certainly could not. She was proud of her tiny feet."

We were no longer alone. Selim and Daoud, Ali and Hassan, had come; at a little distance, huddled together and watching in silence, were the local men we had hired.

"Enough of this," said Emerson, in the quiet voice no one ignored or disobeyed. "Selim, as you see, a sad accident has occurred."

Selim's wide dark eyes were fixed on the single small boot I had uncovered before Ramses pulled me away. "Is it the young American lady? God be merciful! How did it happen? What was she doing here?"

"It was an accident," Emerson repeated. "There was no negligence on your part or that of anyone else. Her brother must be sent for, and we must make arrangements to remove the—to remove her. Can you find a cart or wagon, Selim? It is not very dignified, but—"

"But it is better than some of the alternative methods of transport," said Ramses coolly. "As for Jack, it won't be necessary to send for him. He's come looking for us. Interesting. I wonder why? He cannot be aware of what has happened."

Nefret gasped, "Head him off, for heaven's sake! He mustn't see her."

She ran toward the approaching rider. I pulled the rug over the small boot and went after her. The news must be broken gently and the poor young man prevented from viewing the sad sight until he had had time to accept the truth.

We were all together, waiting, when Jack reined up, pulling the unfortunate horse back on its haunches. He flung himself from the saddle. Pushing past Nefret, he caught Ramses by the front of his shirt.

"Where is she? What have you done with her?"

He was several inches shorter than Ramses, but quite a bit bulkier, and he was very angry. Ramses did not move. Looking down his nose at Jack's red, distorted face, he said, "You had better explain what you mean."

"She's gone, that's what I mean! Last night! And you have the goddamned gall to stand there pretending you didn't... What the devil have you done? Where did you leave her?"

Ramses freed himself from the other man's grasp with a single sweep of his arm. "Control yourself," he said sharply. "I don't know where you got the idea that Maude and I were together last night; it's not true, but that is not important now. There is bad news, Reynolds. The worst kind of news."

"Worst kind? I don't understand." His eyes moved in bewilderment from Ramses to the tear-streaked face of Nefret. "Are you telling me ... Are you telling me she's dead?"

"I am sorry," Ramses said.

Men are, I suppose, comprehensible only to other men. I certainly would not have expected a newly bereaved and affectionate brother to relieve his feelings with vulgar violence, but Ramses must have anticipated the movement; he twisted aside so that the blow Jack had aimed at his face only grazed his cheek. Emerson started forward with a loud expletive, but the fight, if it could be called that, was over almost as soon as it had begun. Jack's second wild blow gave Ramses the opportunity he wanted. His hands snapped into place with clinical precision, bending the other man's arm back and forcing him to his knees.

"Now, Mr. Reynolds, that is quite enough of that," I said sternly. "Tragic duties lie before you; face them like a man!"

My admonition had the desired effect; the firm but kindly tone struck chords of memory and of duty. Jack's burly shoulders sagged.

"Yes, ma'am," he muttered.

The frozen calm of acceptance had replaced the frenzy of disbelief. His time of greatest suffering lay ahead, but for the moment he moved and spoke like an automaton. He asked if he might see his sister and accepted my emphatic negative with no more than a dull stare. I was administering sips of brandy from my flask when I saw another person approaching, this time on donkeyback. It was Karl von Bork, come, as he explained, to see what we were doing and lend a hand if we needed one.

"Aber," he went on, his happy smile fading as he looked at Jack, mute, white-faced and swaying, and at our grave faces. "Aber, was ist's? What has happened?"

So I had to explain again. The story was beginning to sound like the wildest sort of fiction; I could hardly believe myself that it was true. Sentimental, tender-hearted Karl was so affected he did not think to ask uncomfortable questions, such as why the girl had come there and what had prompted her brother to follow her. Tears trickled from his soft brown eyes and dampened his mustache. I would have given
him
a sip of brandy, but when I took the flask I discovered Jack had emptied it.

"I can't stand much more of this," Emerson remarked in a conversational tone. "Von Bork, stop blubbering and be a man. We need your assistance."

Karl wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and snapped to attention. I almost expected him to salute, but he did not.

"Ja, Herr Professor! Entschuldigen Sie, Frau Professor! I am your obedient servant, as always."

I was able to arrange matters in the most convenient and merciful fashion. Nefret and I arranged the crumpled body in a more seemly posture, for I had detected the first signs of rigor mortis. That meant that death had occurred at some hour in the early morning. It was not possible to be more exact, nor was the knowledge of much assistance. We did not linger over the unpleasant task, and it was not long before the donkey-drawn cart Selim had found set off for Giza with an escort of several of our men. Jack rode behind it; Karl trotted alongside Jack, looking a bit absurd on his little donkey, but full of sympathy and the desire to be of use. He assured me, in his high-flown Germanic fashion, that he would not leave "meinen Freund Jack" until someone relieved him.

Nefret had insisted on going with them. She was medically trained and she was a woman—in both capacities she could be of use, she claimed, and who was I to deny it? I promised I would come as soon as I could.

We returned to the shelter, and Emerson said, "Another day lost, curse it! We won't get any work out of those fellows today."

He referred to the local men we had hired; they had gathered in a group some distance away and were smoking and talking in low voices. The glances they kept shooting in our direction supported Emerson's pessimistic appraisal.

I knew, of course, that Emerson's offhand manner was only his way of hiding his real feelings, but I felt obliged to utter a gentle remonstrance. "How can you suppose that any of us are capable of going on with our work, Emerson? It would be callous in the extreme."

"Hmph," said Emerson. His brilliant blue eyes softened as he bent them upon his son. "Er—all right, are you, my boy?"

"Quite, sir. Thank you."

Ramses stood looking down at the bare ground, where the sand was disturbed and slightly indented. "There was very little blood," he said in a remote voice.

"Damnation," Emerson growled. "I was afraid of that." He raised his voice in a reverberant shout. "Selim! Send the men home and come here, you and Daoud."

"Please," I said.

"Please, curse it!" Emerson roared.

Selim joined us, with Daoud close on his heels. Daoud's heart was as large as his body; Maude had never responded to his gestures of friendship, but Daoud loved all small young creatures of all species, and his honest face was a mask of distress. At Emerson's gesture they squatted on the rug beside us, in the position they found most comfortable, and Selim said soberly, "The men are worried, Father of Curses. They ask how could this have happened?"

"That is what we would like to know, Selim. It must have happened last night. Her brother is not the most conscientious of guardians, but he would surely have noticed her absence if she had not been at home last evening. What was she doing here alone in the dark?"

"Oh, Emerson, don't waste time discussing implausible, not to say impossible, theories," I exclaimed. "There is only one explanation that makes sense."

Emerson was filling his pipe. He put it down on the table (spilling tobacco all over the surface) and took my hand. "For once, my dear, I will not scold you for jumping to conclusions. I fear you are correct."

"All the same," said Ramses, "we had better examine the other possibilities, if only for the purpose of disposing of them. You may be certain they will be raised by others."

"An accident," Selim said, without much hope.

"It is possible, you know. The result of a wager or challenge." Ramses took a tin of cigarettes from his pocket. It was symptomatic of his state of mind that he neglected to ask my permission to smoke. He went on, "Maude and her set were playing a game of that sort one night a few weeks ago—daring one another to do various hazardous and pointless things. If Geoffrey and I had not restrained him, Jack, who had taken rather too much to drink, would have attempted to climb the Great Pyramid, in the dark and without assistance, in order to place the American flag on the summit. An investigative officer might be persuaded to believe Maude had come here to prove her 'pluck,' especially after ..."

He paused to light his cigarette, and I said helpfully, "Especially after she had—what is the slang? I cannot keep up with it!—funked it that other time."

"In the middle of the night, alone?" Emerson demanded.

"I agree it is out of the question," Ramses said. "But accident is a more socially acceptable verdict than suicide."

"Suicide?" Emerson repeated in an incredulous voice. "Good Gad, what possible reason could she have for ending her life, a young, healthy, wealthy girl like that?"

"None," I said. "Morbid mental instability may lead an otherwise healthy individual to commit such an act, but she was not that sort. I will not entertain such a notion for a moment. It was murder. She was dead when she was thrown down the shaft. A fall of that sort would account for a fractured skull or broken neck, or any other kind of fatal injury. Ramses said there was very little blood."

"It is the only possible answer," Emerson said, fingering the dent in his chin. "And it explains why she was brought here."

"Not entirely," Ramses said. He started and dropped his cigarette. It had burned down to his fingers. "I appreciate your tactful efforts to leave me out of this, but we had better face the facts. She could have been dropped from a height anywhere along the plateau if the murderer's sole motive was to hide the nature of the injury that killed her. Bringing her to this out-of-the-way place inevitably involves us—me, to be precise. No matter what the verdict, my name will certainly come into it. If it was an accident, she may have been trying to overcome her fear of the place in order to make me think better of her. If it was suicide, some will believe she was driven to despair by rejection, or even by—" He had done his best to be cool and dispassionate, but he could not quite manage this. The dark eyes that were so often half-veiled by lowered lids and long lashes met mine in direct appeal. "It's not true, Mother," he said desperately. "You heard what Jack said—you know what he accused me of. I don't care what he thinks, so long as you believe me."

His appeal had been to
me.
It was
my
understanding he sought. Some mothers would have gone to him, embraced him, murmured affectionate—and useless!—words of comfort. In all candor I must admit that I was strongly moved to do just that. I knew Ramses would not like it, though.

"I believe you, my dear. Even if it were true—I know it is not, but even if it were—any woman who is fool enough to end her life on account of a man has only herself to blame."

"Oh, Mother!" His rare, unguarded smile illumined his face. "You have an aphorism for any occasion."

Emerson cleared his throat noisily and picked up his pipe. "Bloody waste of time, all this," he grumbled. "No one could possibly suspect—"

"Some of them will, though," Ramses said. "All the old cats in Cairo, of both sexes, are ready to believe the worst of a woman like Maude—young, pleasure-loving, undisciplined. Whether the verdict is murder, suicide or accident, the assumption will be that a man was responsible."

"Knowing the old cats of Cairo as I do, I fear you are right," I said with a sigh. "But let us not cross any more bridges until we come to them. We must get home; I told Nefret I would come as soon as I could. Selim, will you and Daoud come back with us? You may be of assistance."