The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (45 page)

David's decision to bring the matter of the forgeries out into the open had cut the Gordian knot: how to pursue our inquiries without admitting what we were inquiring about. It would be some time before he could expect to receive replies to the letters he had written, but now there was no reason for us to maintain reticence with our professional acquaintances. Some of them might be able to contribute useful information; one, caught off guard by my unexpected candor, might betray himself by a start of surprise or a look of guilt.

Thus far no one had. On this occasion there was a good deal of surprise, but nothing I could view as guilt. The surprise stemmed in part from my assertion that Abdullah had not collected antiquities. The truth is, some of them were sorry he had not. A good many of our acquaintances were enthusiastic collectors, for themselves or for various institutions. They agreed in theory that illegal excavations ought to be stopped, but took a pessimistic view of the chances of doing it.

Mr. Lawrence, continuing his exercise in tactlessness, was the first to voice aloud a view held by many. "The chap can't have been English! He must be an Egyptian—educated abroad, perhaps, with some superficial knowledge of the antiquities business. There aren't that many such persons. He should be easy to identify!"

"He might be if your assumptions were correct," I replied. "They are not. You must learn not to leap to conclusions, Mr. Lawrence, if you wish to succeed in your profession."

Work on our cemeteries continued. The tombs were small and poor in grave goods, but even they had been robbed and the bones of their occupants scattered. It was extremely boring. Cyrus grew bored too; eventually he announced that since nothing untoward had occurred for some time, he and Katherine thought they could risk leaving us long enough to make a quick trip to Luxor. Emerson encouraged this decision, since he had not believed he needed Cyrus's protection anyhow. So we saw them off and went back to our rubbish heaps.

One afternoon as we were packing the scraps for removal to the house, I allowed myself to express my increasing frustration.

"Emerson, if I have to put together one more early dynastic beer jar I will scream. Why can't we investigate the substructure of the pyramid?"

Geoffrey looked up from the box in which he was packing potsherds. His fair hair was wet with perspiration. Pushing it back under his pith helmet, he said, with a smile, "Your penchant for the interiors of pyramids is well known, Mrs. Emerson, but exploring this one would certainly be a waste of time."

"I will determine what is a waste of time," Emerson grunted. He sat down on a rock and took out his pipe. As usual he had misplaced his hat, and the sun beat down on his bare black head.

"Come back to the shelter and have something to drink," I said. "The rest of you had better do the same; you are looking very warm."

We withdrew to the shade, therefore, leaving Selim to finish packing the objects, and I made everyone take a glass of tea.

Nefret removed her hat and wiped her wet forehead. "I agree," she declared.

"What with?" Emerson's mind was already on something else.

"That we ought to shift to another location. Haven't you taught us that we must leave something to be excavated by future archaeologists, who may have developed more advanced techniques? We've done enough to know that this cemetery is purely early dynastic. There are later graves elsewhere; they might give us a clue as to the identity of the builder of the pyramid."

"We already know that, darling," Geoffrey said. "The vases in the mastaba we found last year have the name of a King Khaba."

"Whoever
he
was," Nefret said dismissively. "He's not mentioned in any of the king lists. Anyhow, you can't attribute a pyramid to a particular king by means of objects found in a nearby tomb."

"Sometimes it's the only indication, sweetheart," Geoffrey said mildly. "Third and Fourth Dynasty pyramids aren't inscribed. This one is probably even earlier. Mr. Reisner believes—"

"But you only excavated one mastaba. There are others on the north side."

Geoffrey sat up and clasped his arms around his bent knees. A few weeks working with Emerson had toughened the lad; his bare forearms were evenly tanned and his wet shirt molded well-shaped shoulders. "Your point is well taken, dearest. So long as there aren't any more accidents like the one that came close to injuring Ramses. When I think that it might have been you down there, my blood runs cold."

Nefret's lips tightened. Geoffrey's concern was natural for a bridegroom, but he would have to learn that she would not tolerate being treated like a fragile blossom. I could see a quarrel building, so I intervened.

"I assure you, Geoffrey, that Emerson does not take unnecessary risks or allow his people to do so. That was an unfortunate accident. I still cannot account for it."

Emerson brushed this distraction aside. "I would like to settle the question of the ownership once and for all," he admitted. "And perhaps get some clue as to why there are no signs of a burial in the pyramid. They must have buried the rascal somewhere, you know; if not in the pyramid, where? And why not in the pyramid?"

"Well, sir ..." Geoffrey began.

Emerson bent a hard blue gaze upon him and he closed his mouth. The rest of us had known the questions were purely rhetorical. Emerson was about to lecture. He does not care to be interrupted when he is lecturing.

"The other so-called pyramid here at Zawaiet el 'Aryan was also empty. Admittedly it was never finished; there's no sign of a cursed superstructure. There was a burial chamber, though, with a sarcophagus in place at the bottom of a pit that had been painstakingly filled with huge stone blocks. The lid of the sarcophagus was still in place, and there wasn't a scrap inside it. Which leaves us with the same question: Where did they put the bas—er—the king's mummy?"

"What is your theory, my dear?" I inquired, knowing that he was going to tell us anyhow.

"I haven't got a theory," said Emerson aggravatingly. "But I will tell you one thing, Peabody: I am not finished with the pyramid yet."

"Oh, Emerson," I exclaimed, clasping my hands to my breast. "You believe that the burial chamber may be a blind—that there are passages and chambers as yet undiscovered?"

"Control yourself, Peabody," said my affectionate husband. "You are always hoping for unknown passages and chambers; it comes of reading sensational fiction. Such devices are singularly lacking in real life." He turned to Geoffrey, who started nervously. "You weren't one of the ones who entered the place last year?"

"I had a look. We all did. I was in charge of the cemetery, though. It was Mr. Reisner and Jack who investigated the pyramid."

"Hmph," said Emerson. "We'll go on with the excavation of the private tombs. I also want a closer look at the outside of the structure. I cannot believe there was not a casing of some sort, though you say you found no traces of such a thing. There is a slight overhang on the face of the seventh layer ..."

The young men listened with a convincing appearance of interest as Emerson continued to expound on construction techniques. Lia's blue eyes were fixed on David with that look of tenderness one likes to observe on the face of a young bride. Nefret was not looking at anyone. Head bent, brow frowning, she stared at the toes of her scuffed little boots. I wondered if she was thinking of those other little boots and the girl who had worn them. Though Emerson would never have admitted it, since he does not like to be considered sentimental, I knew that one of the reasons why he had postponed returning to the interior of the pyramid was his reluctance to return to a scene that held painful memories. How difficult would it be for Nefret?

I reminded myself to ask Emerson whether all evidence of the tragedy had been cleared away. Ramses had said there had not been much blood. He had not mentioned other things.

From Manuscript H

Ramses had told David about his meetings with Wardani. David hadn't liked it one damn bit.

They were sitting on the upper deck of the
Amelia
when the conversation took place. It was not late, but Lia had gone to bed, and the last of the tourists had left long ago. Only the stars and a slim crescent moon, and the crimson glow of David's pipe broke the darkness.

"I grant you your right to a certain interest in my affairs," David said, after he had cooled down. "But I don't need you to look after me, Ramses. Not in this, at any rate."

"I know you don't need me to look after you, but couldn't you consider lending your support to one of the more moderate organizations? You have a wife—"

"Don't bring her into this. Would you allow a woman—or a man—to keep you from what you consider your duty?"

Ramses signed. "David, I know how you feel—"

"No, you don't. You try, but you can't know! You've never been in danger of being imprisoned or beaten half to death because you expressed unpopular opinions. You are sacrosanct because of your nationality and your class. Have you ever seen a man flogged, as they were at Denshawai?"

"Once."

The silence lengthened uncomfortably. "In case you wonder why I didn't stop it," Ramses said, biting the words off, "it is because I was tied to a post waiting my turn."

David didn't make the mistake of apologizing. "You never told me. What happened?"

Ramses took out a cigarette and lit it. "Oh, Father arrived, hurling thunderbolts. He always does, you know." Even in the dark he could sense David's distress. In a gentler voice he went on, "You were in Paris that summer. The business was hushed up. It was, as the diplomatists say, a matter of some delicacy."

"You were in Palestine. So that's why you—"

"No, that's not why I was ill last year. I told you, Father appeared before they'd got well started. However, the incident did rather lessen my tolerance for the Ottoman Empire. Wardani is soft on the Turks. It's understandable—co-religionists and all that—but there's an awful lesson to be learned from the Young Turks. They started out as reformers and revolutionaries too. Now they've been in power awhile, they are becoming as corrupt as the old regime, and the penal system in the provinces is unchanged. It's still the kurbash, and execution without trial, and absolute power for the local magistrates, some of whom have extremely ugly habits. I won't see that happen here, David, not if I can prevent it. Britain has a lot to answer for, but not as much as the Sultan."

There was another thing the experience had taught him, but he couldn't admit it even to David. Watching a man beaten to death by an expert who carried out his duties with cold-blooded skill had been a new experience. The business had taken quite a long time, and they had made sure he saw every stroke of the kurbash and heard every scream. By the time they removed the bloody remains and fastened him up in their place, he had been ready to scream or beg for mercy, and he'd have done it too, if his father hadn't arrived. To say the kurbash was the only thing he feared would have been a lie; he was afraid of a lot of things. But it was the only thing he feared more than death.

David began, "There's surely no danger of—"

"Egypt becoming an Ottoman province again? Legally it still is, you know. Why do you suppose they call it the
Veiled
Protectorate? Britain has never formally annexed the country; Cromer's titles were Consular Agent and Minister Plenipotentiary even though he was the ultimate power in Egypt for thirty years. Now Kitchener is in the same position. He's out to crush the Nationalists, and he's done a damned thorough job of it. Wardani is the only leader who isn't in prison or in exile, and he can't elude the authorities much longer. If he succumbs to the temptation to assassinate someone, he won't go to prison, he'll be executed. And so may you be, if you are known to be one of his lieutenants."

His voice had risen and he had talked himself breathless. He stopped, struggling to regain control.

"I hadn't thought of it that way," David said in his quiet, gentle voice. "I know it was your concern for me that prompted you to seek out Wardani—"

"Not entirely. We are hoping to use one another for our own selfish ends." Ramses smiled cynically. "He wasn't able to help with the business of the forgeries, except in a negative way—but even that is something."

He knew what the next question would be, and put an end to the conversation by yawning and getting to his feet. "Lia won't thank me for detaining you any longer, and I have some notes to write up before I get to sleep. Good night."

The notes were not written up that night. He had other business and it was almost morning before he returned to his room through the window he had left open.

He had been at it for over a week before Nemesis, in the shape of Wardani, caught up with him. Returning from Giza that afternoon, he found a charming little note from Lia inviting him to supper. "David says if you don't turn up he will come and fetch you."

He'd hoped he could snatch a few hours' sleep before going out again, but he knew better than to refuse the invitation. The message was clear. The only thing he didn't know was what particular piece of bad news David wanted to discuss with him.

David didn't leave him in doubt for long. Ramses had asked for coffee instead of tea, hoping it would keep him from falling asleep, and Lia had gone down to tell Karima, leaving them alone on the upper deck. The sun was low in the west, and the shapes of the Giza pyramids were framed in gold.