The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (9 page)

Jumana did not return. After Fatima announced that dinner was ready, I went looking for the girl. I found her in her room, her sleek black head bent over a book. “I am glad to see you applying yourself to your studies,” I said, for I had observed that the book was the fourth volume of Emerson’s History of Egypt. “But you must not be late to meals. Dinner will be served in a few minutes.” Her long lashes veiled her eyes. “If you don’t mind, I would rather eat with Fatima and the others.” “I do mind, though,” I said pleasantly but firmly. “You are a member of our archaeological staff. Do you wish to resign from that position?” “No. It is a privilege, an honor, to work with Ramses and the Father of Curses . . . and you,” she added hastily. “Come along, then.” “Yes, Sitt Hakim. I will come at once.” Naturally we did not discuss the body at dinner. Deteriorating corpses are not a suitable subject for conversation at the dinner table in any case, and Jumana’s behavior reinforced my doubts about her. She spoke only when she was spoken to, and she kept her eyes fixed on her plate. Even if she had not eavesdropped on our discussion — and I wouldn’t have put it past her — she was too intelligent to miss the implications of our discovery. Jamil had more or less admitted to her that he had been involved with the looting of the princesses’ tomb, and he had accused the others of cheating him. I considered asking her directly whether she and Jamil had arranged to meet again, but decided to wait and give her an opportunity to confess. Assuming, that is, that she had anything to confess. And, with any luck, Jamil would do something that would open her eyes — another murder, perhaps, or an attack on one of us. The children excused themselves immediately after dinner, and I said I would go with them, since there were a few domestic matters with regard to the new house that I wanted to discuss with them. “You haven’t had time to settle in or decide what additional furnishings you need,” I pointed out. “And if I know Emerson, he won’t give you a chance. If I can help in any way —” “That is very kind of you, Mother,” Nefret said. Ramses said, “Thank you, Mother.” We went through the house room by room. I took copious notes and made a few little suggestions. I had not expected Ramses would be of much assistance, nor was he. “Now then,” I said, referring to my list. “What about household help? Fatima’s girls have been doing the cleaning, but in my opinion it would be advisable for you to select two of them to work for you on a regular basis. If you prefer to take certain of your meals alone, a cook —” “We’ll worry about a cook later, shall we?” Nefret glanced at her husband, who was staring off into space. “As for the maids, I will leave that to Fatima. One of the girls who’s been working here asked me yesterday if she could continue doing so; she is very hardworking, if a little shy, so I told her that would be fine. Her name is Najia.” “Ah, yes, Mohammed Hammad’s niece. Or is she his stepdaughter? Never mind. The poor girl is somewhat self-conscious; it is that liver birthmark, I suppose.” “It won’t bother us,” Nefret said. “Of course not. Now, concerning the garden . . .” Finally Nefret said, “I think that’s everything, Mother. We will probably have to run up to Cairo to find some things, but I will talk with Abdul Hadi about making a few chairs and tables. He is the best woodworker in Luxor.” “And the slowest,” I said. Nefret smiled. “I can hurry him up.” I observed that Ramses was yawning, and took the hint. He insisted on walking back with me, despite my objections. “Nothing can possibly happen to me between your door and mine,” I declared. “Ah, but you don’t have your parasol,” Ramses said.

I took Gargery into our confidence next morning at breakfast, while Sennia was dawdling over her preparations for departure. He and Fatima took it in turn to serve meals; it had been a compromise proposed by me, to prevent them from quarreling over which of them had that right. It was his turn that morning, and he followed my well-organized account with such interest that I was forced several times to remind him to serve the food. He then straightened to his full height — five feet six inches or thereabouts — and stood at attention. It would have required more than that to make him appear impressive; his frame was meager, his face lined, and he had taken to combing his hair across his forehead in an unconvincing attempt to conceal a receding hairline. He looked like a butler, which is what he was, but he possessed a number of qualities that are not often found in persons of that position. At the moment he was a very happy butler. As he had once observed to me, “If there’s got to be a murder, madam, it might as well be us that gets the use of it.” “I depend on you, Gargery, to keep a close eye out when you take Miss Sennia to the Castle for her lessons with Mrs. Vandergelt. I doubt there is any reason for concern, but it would be foolish to take chances.” “I agree, madam,” said Gargery, standing stiff as a wooden soldier and smiling broadly. “How good of you to say so, Gargery. Where the devil is that girl? Gargery, please go and . . . Ah, there you are, Jumana. Sit down and eat something and be quick about it.” We were to meet Daoud and Selim at Gurneh and go on from there to the Cemetery of the Monkeys, taking with us the necessary equipment for the ghoulish task that lay ahead. Since no one was keen on carrying the dreadful burden any farther than they had to, we planned to go the long way round, by way of the road which would enable us to bring a donkey-drawn cart part of the distance. The cart was ready when we arrived at Selim’s house, to find him and Daoud and Hassan, another of our fellows, waiting. I could see by their faces that they had been warned of what they were supposed to do, and I didn’t blame them for looking gloomy. “I have everything we will need,” Selim announced. “But before we go, I think you will wish to talk with Mohammed Hammad. He is here.” “Ah,” said Emerson. “The disappointed bridegroom. Have you told him of our discovery yesterday?” “No, Father of Curses,” said Selim, looking as demure as a husky young man with a large black beard can look. Emerson laughed aloud and clapped him on the back. “Good. It will be an even greater shock coming from me.” Mohammed Hammad was a wiry little man with a face as wrinkled as a raisin and a graying beard. Like most Egyptians of the fellahin class, he was probably younger than he looked. Inadequate diet, insanitary living conditions, and an absence of proper medical care can age an individual rapidly. Now there, I thought, is a cause that might attract Nefret, and allow her to use her medical skills in the place where I intended she should be — a clinic on the West Bank, to treat common ailments such as parasites and infections. Not a stimulating practice, perhaps, for a trained surgeon, but one thing might lead to another . . . I put the matter aside for the moment, so that I could concentrate on our suspect. Expecting to be lectured by Emerson about the tomb, and prepared to deny everything, he greeted us with a certain reserve. Emerson did not beat around the bush. “We found one of your friends yesterday, in the tomb you robbed. Dead. Murdered.” It was an effective, if somewhat brutal, method of shocking Mohammed into an admission. I thought for a moment the poor man would have a stroke or a heart attack. He finally managed to gasp out a word. “Who . . .” “You would know better than we,” Emerson said. “Selim tells me that Abdul Hassan has not been seen for a week. He was one of your . . . Damnation,” he went on, in English. “He’s about to have a fit. Give him some brandy, Peabody.” Mohammed accepted the brandy (one of the little items I always carry attached to my belt) with an eagerness unbecoming a good Moslem (which I had never thought he was). He was ready to talk; the words poured out of him, and a disturbing story it was. Of the original thieves, two were now dead. The other death had been attributed to accident; the body had been found at the base of the cliffs and it was assumed he had fallen. “The curse of the pharaohs,” said Emerson, unable to resist. “Death to those who defile the tombs.” The brandy had restored Mohammed’s nerve. He gave Emerson a cynical look. “It took the pharaohs a long time to act, Father of Curses. Abdul has been robbing tombs since he was a boy.” “He won’t rob any more,” Emerson pointed out. “Who were the others?” Mohammed rattled the names off without hesitating. Everyone in the village knew, including his rivals in the business, so there was no profit in reticence. He demanded extralarge baksheesh for his candor, of course. “That is all I can tell you, Father of Curses. Can I go now?” “You have not told me everything,” Emerson said. “You gave me six names. There was a seventh man, wasn’t there?” “He was not one of us,” Mohammed muttered. “I know who he was.” “The Father of Curses knows all,” Daoud intoned. Emerson acknowledged this tribute with a gracious nod, and went on, “Was it Jamil who found the tomb?” “We all found it! We shared with him — we were generous.” Mohammed’s voice was shrill with unconvincing indignation. The falsity of his claim was obvious. Jamil was not a regular member of their little gang; they would never have shared the treasure with him unless he had been the one responsible for discovering it. “Have you seen or heard from him since you divided the money?” Emerson persisted. A look of calculation, not unmixed with fear, sharpened Mohammed’s features. “No, Father of Curses.” He clutched his chest and rolled his eyes. “Ah! The pain!” He was not too feeble to hold out his hand. Emerson dropped a few coins into it. “There will be more for you, Mohammed, if you bring us news of Jamil. Tell the others the same — and warn them to watch out for accidents.” “Hmmmm.” Mohammed scratched his neck. “Accidents.” “You should have asked him to break the news to Abdul’s family, Emerson,” I said, after Mohammed had scuttled off. “He will anyhow,” said Emerson. “Let’s go before the bereaved relatives descend on us.” After all, there is nothing like an early-morning ride in the brisk desert air to raise the spirits. We were taking the horses as far as they could safely go, and even the thought of the nasty job ahead of us faded as we went on. Admittedly, the worst part of the business was not something I had to tackle. I wondered what Abdullah would have thought of it. He would probably have remarked that it served the fellow right, and that we should leave it to his family to have the body out; but if he had been asked to take the responsibility he would have carried it out with his usual efficiency. I had not dreamed of him for a long time. They were strange dreams, unlike most others — as vivid and consistent as a real-life encounter would have been. I am not at all superstitious, but I had come to believe that in some way the profound affection Abdullah and I had felt for one another transcended the barrier of death, and I looked forward to those dreams as I would have anticipated another meeting with a distant friend. Perhaps now that I was back in Luxor, where we had shared so many unforgettable experiences, Abdullah would come to me again. After we passed Medinet Habu the road narrowed to a path and then to a track as it turned toward the hills. It was Ramses who halted our caravan and Ramses who was the first to dismount, swinging himself off Risha’s back in a single smooth movement. The rest of us followed his lead. It was over a mile to the end of the wadi. Leaving the cart and the horses there, we proceeded on foot for a few hundred yards, to the place where the wide mouth of the canyon narrowed and the hills began to rise, dividing the southern branch of the wadi from another tongue that ran off to the north. Ramses stripped off his coat and took one of the coils of knotted rope. We had discussed the best method of proceeding the night before, and had agreed, or so I believed; Emerson had not liked it then and he did not like it now. “My turn,” he insisted. “You’ve been in the stinking place already. Once was enough.” Ramses’s mouth tightened with annoyance. I knew how he felt; when there is a dirty job to be done, one wishes to get it over. He wanted to spare his father, who wanted to spare him, and neither of them would give in without a struggle. Then Bertie, who stood a little to one side, said suddenly, “I’ll go.” Taken by surprise, all of us turned to stare at him. Meeting my doubtful eye, he smiled. “I’ve almost certainly seen worse, you know.” It was almost certainly true. He had been in the trenches in France for almost two years before he suffered the wounds that sent him home, ill and embittered. I had heard stories . . . “You are not a good climber,” said Jumana, arms folded. “Ramses is much better.” I could have shaken the girl. Bertie flushed painfully, and I believe Cyrus was about to express his fatherly concern when Ramses cut him off. “Right, then. Here you go.” He handed Bertie the rope and gave Daoud an almost imperceptible nod. They started off, Daoud sticking close to Bertie, Hassan trailing at a slight distance. “Ramses,” I said. “Was that wise?” “He’ll be all right, Mother.” Hands on hips, he watched the men climb up out of sight. “He’s got that bad leg,” Cyrus said anxiously. “What’s needed for this job is strength in the arms and shoulders,” Ramses said. “And nerve. He’s got them. Daoud knows what to do.” We went on to the end of the valley and the cliff in which the tomb lay hidden. The rope Ramses had descended the previous day was still there, but we had concluded it would be safer for the men to approach from above rather than climb the sheer face. They would then lower the remains down, and descend themselves. The first part of the procedure went as planned. His white handkerchief pressed to his face, Cyrus watched every move made by the small forms atop the cliff with a concern he was not unwilling to express. He had taken Katherine’s children for his own, and Bertie had repaid his affection, even adopting Cyrus’s name. “Have they got something to cover their faces?” he demanded, his voice muffled by the linen. “And gloves? And —” “Daoud knows what to do,” Ramses said again. He was watching, too, his brow furrowed. Jumana was the least concerned; having found a rock on which to sit, she was refreshing herself from a water bottle and humming under her breath. Bertie was the first to descend, and I was relieved to observe that he was being lowered by Daoud instead of going down hand over hand as Ramses had done. He disappeared into the cleft and was followed by Hassan, who was carrying a folded piece of canvas and a length of rope. I suppose it did not take more than ten minutes for them to finish what they had come to do, but it seemed longer. The first thing I saw was the neat white turban of Hassan. Emerging with some haste, he caught hold of the rope and slid to the ground. “Hell and damnation,” Emerson remarked, in a voice that echoed between the cliffs. “Did you leave him alone up there?” “It’s all right,” Bertie called. “Look out below.” The canvas-wrapped bundle swung as he lowered it, and kept banging against the rock face in a grisly fashion. The stench was really quite horrid, but not even Cyrus backed away. He was watching Bertie, who stood with feet braced, paying out the rope. Ramses’s assessment had been correct; he had strength enough for this. The bundle was not very large. It settled onto the rock-strewn ground with a flexibility I prefer not to describe, and Bertie immediately began to descend. Drawing his knife, Ramses cut the rope and would have lifted the body out of Bertie’s way had not Selim intervened. Hassan hastened to help him lift it onto a rough litter and carry it away. “Well!” I said, drawing the first deep breath I had taken for several minutes. “Thank goodness that is safely accomplished. Now let us . . . Nefret? Nefret, where are you going?” She had followed after Selim and Hassan and stopped them, far enough away so that the horrible smell did not reach us. “Hell and damnation,” Emerson ejaculated. “She isn’t . . . She surely won’t . . .” The men lowered the litter to the ground. Emerson emitted an even more blistering oath and started toward them. “No, Father,” Ramses said. “But — did she tell you she — aren’t you going to stop her?” Ramses shook his head. “She didn’t tell me, but I suspected she would, and no, I am not going to stop her. I played the masterful husband before. I ought not have done so. It is her decision and her right. Please don’t interfere.” He went to join Nefret and stood watching, his hands in his pockets. She looked up at him and spoke, briefly, before returning to her grisly task. “What is he doing?” Emerson demanded. “Just being with her,” I said. “Sharing the unpleasantness in the only way he can. It is really very sweet, Emerson.” “A sweet experience to share,” Emerson growled. “Well, curse it, I can do no less. I will just go and —” “No, Emerson. What about a spot of lunch while we are waiting? Bertie, I neglected to commend you on a task well done. Would you care for a cheese sandwich?” Bertie had removed the cloth that had covered his mouth and nose. “Good Lord, Mrs. Emerson, I . . . Well, yes, thank you, if it isn’t too much trouble, but she — Nefret — it is quite a horrible object, you know, and the sight of food —” “Don’t worry about her,” I said. Cyrus only shook his head. He had known Nefret longer than Bertie had. Though I am accustomed to corpses in all stages, from newly slain to long mummified, I was not particularly anxious to examine this one, or even to watch from a distance. I kept my eyes averted until Selim and Hassan rewrapped the bundle and replaced it on the litter. When Nefret and Ramses came back I observed that her hands and forearms were red, not with blood, but from the gritty sand with which she had cleaned them. She was perfectly composed — more so than Ramses, whose features were not so controlled as they usually were. At my suggestion he got out the bottle of alcohol and poured it over her hands. She then seated herself and asked for a sandwich. The others watched her with varying degrees of
admiration and consternation. Jumana’s eyes were enormous in a face that had lost its healthy color. “How could you?” she quavered. “It’s my profession,” Nefret said calmly. “Not an enjoyable profession at times like this one, but I’m used to it. I knew the family wouldn’t allow a proper autopsy, so this was my only chance to determine how the poor man died.” “Well?” Emerson demanded. “Did you?” Nefret drank deeply from the water bottle before replying. “Fractured skull. The back of his head was . . . I won’t go into detail.” “Thank you,” Cyrus muttered, eyeing his sandwich with distaste. “There were a number of broken bones,” Nefret went on. “I looked for a bullet or knife wound, but it wasn’t easy to . . . Well, I won’t go into that either. The head injury was enough to have killed him.” “Fall or blunt instrument?” I inquired. Nefret shrugged. “Impossible to determine. I did the best I could, but without the proper instruments —” “Yes, quite,” said Emerson. Selim returned to announce that Hassan had gone on with the cart and its burden, and we continued with our lunch. Daoud soon joined us. He had come round the long way, since he was not fond of climbing ropes, up or down. “Are there more tombs in these cliffs?” Bertie asked, accepting another sandwich. “Unquestionably,” Ramses replied. “If this area was used for the burials of royal females during the Eighteenth Dynasty, which seems likely, there are a number of known queens whose mummies have never been found, and Heaven knows how many unknown princesses and kings’ lesser wives.” “Not to mention princes,” Nefret added, her eyes shining with archaeological fervor. “And royal mothers and sisters and —” “Cousins and aunts,” I said, with a chuckle, reminded of one of my favorite Gilbert and Sullivan arias. The others acknowledged my little joke with smiles and nods, except for Emerson, who sat like a boulder, staring off into space, and Selim, who was growing restless. “The horses will not run away,” he said. “Not our horses. But we should not leave them there too long.” Emerson jumped up. “Quite right, quite right. I will — er — this will only take a minute.” I had expected Emerson would want to get into the cursed tomb. I was not the only one who attempted to make him see reason, but he waved all objections aside. “I only want to have a look.” “Put on your pith helmet, Emerson,” I called after him. “Yes, yes,” said Emerson, not doing so. He started to climb the rope, moving with an agility remarkable in so heavy a man. He had not got very far when the quiet air was rent by a prolonged, high-pitched scream. It was not an animal. No creature in Egypt made a sound like that. Emerson lost his grip on the rope and dropped down, staggering a bit before he got his balance. “What the devil —” he began. “He’s up there.” Ramses handed his father the binoculars he had snatched up. I saw the figure now, atop the cliff. It was too far away for me to make out details, but it was capering and prancing, waving its arms and kicking up its heels, as if in a grotesque dance. Small bits of rock rattled down the sheer face. I took the binoculars from Emerson and when I raised them to my eyes the bizarre figure took on form and substance. Its only garment was a short skirt or kilt. The body was human. The head was not. Pricked ears and protruding muzzle were covered with coarse brown hair, and fanged teeth fringed the jaws. Ramses ran toward the cliff. I knew what he intended, and I felt reasonably certain that Emerson would follow after him. Handing Nefret the binoculars, I drew my little pistol from its holster, aimed, and fired. I did not expect I would hit the creature. Obviously I did not, for a long mocking laugh, almost as unpleasant as the animal scream, followed, and the monstrous figure vanished from sight. “Come back here this instant, Ramses,” I shouted. “Emerson, if you attempt to climb that rope I will — I will shoot you in the leg.” “Don’t fire that damned pistol again,” Emerson exclaimed, hurrying toward me. “Give it to me.” “I wouldn’t really have shot you,” I said, as he carefully removed the weapon from my hand. “But really, Emerson, haven’t you better sense than to climb a cliff when there is someone up above who could knock you off the rope with a few well-placed rocks?” “That’s reasonable,” Emerson conceded. “Right,” said Ramses, who had obviously had second thoughts. “We’ll go up and around. No, not you, Bertie, you’ve done your bit for today.” “Nor you, Peabody,” my husband added. “Stay here and — and head him off if he comes down.” “Give me back my pistol, then,” I shouted, as he and Ramses went trotting off, accompanied by Selim. Emerson did not pause but his reply was clearly audible. “Hit him with your parasol.” I patted Nefret on the shoulder. “Don’t be concerned, my dear. He will have taken himself off by the time they get to the top.” “Then what is the point of their going?” Nefret demanded. “Oh, I know; it’s Father, of course. He is determined to get into that bloody damned tomb one way or another.” “Well now, you can’t blame him,” Cyrus said. “There must be something in there the fellow doesn’t want us to find or he wouldn’t have tried to scare us off.” “It was an afrit, a demon,” Jumana muttered, twisting her slim brown hands together. It was not one of her better performances, but Daoud, utterly without guile himself, patted her reassuringly. “Where the Father of Curses walks, no afrit dares approach.” “That was no afrit, it was a man, wearing some sort of mask,” Bertie said coolly. “How could he have supposed such a silly stunt would frighten us away?” I had wondered myself. Knowing it would be some time before Emerson finished rooting around in the disgusting tomb, I found a (comparatively) comfortable seat and invited the others to do the same. We were able to observe some of their activities, rather like spectators in the pit of a theater or opera house, but after they had descended into the cleft, all three were out of sight. We saw no one else. I had not expected we would. When they finally rejoined us, descending by means of the rope, they were all three in an appalling state of filth. Emerson, naturally, was the worst. He had removed his coat early in the day; he was now without his shirt. I recognized this garment in the bundle he carried under one arm. The bronzed skin of his chest and back was smeared with a disgusting paste compounded of dust, perspiration, bat guano, and blood from a network of scratches and scrapes, and his hands were even nastier. He did not smell very nice. “Good Gad, Peabody, you won’t believe what a mess they made of the place,” he exclaimed. “The floor of the burial chamber looks like a rubbish heap, with chunks of rotted wood and soggy bones mixed with bits of stone.” He squatted and began unwrapping his bundle. Selim, who was far more fastidious in his habits than my husband, set about scrubbing his hands and arms with sand. “If there was nothing left, what were you doing all that time?” Nefret asked, handing Ramses a dampened handkerchief. “Taking measurements and notes.” He wiped his mouth before he went on. “Father managed to salvage a few odds and ends.” Still squatting, Emerson studied the motley objects he had collected. They included a rim fragment from a stone vessel, scraps of gold foil, and a number of jewelry elements, beads and inlays and spacers. Rapt in contemplation of these uninspiring artifacts, he did not so much as twitch when I uncorked my bottle of alcohol and trickled the liquid down his scraped back. I honestly believe I could amputate one of Emerson’s limbs without his taking notice if he had found something of archaeological interest. “We had some trouble getting into the descending passage,” Ramses explained. “It had been blocked with stones, and the thieves removed only enough for them to wriggle through. It was rather a tight squeeze for Father.” “And you,” said Nefret. “At least you had sense enough to wear your coat.” “I had writing materials and a torch in my pockets,” Ramses said. He fished a wad of crumpled paper from inside his coat. “You can work up your notes into a detailed plan tonight,” said Emerson, without looking up. “Curse it, Peabody, what are you doing?” “You have scratches all over your chest too,” I said. “Lean back.” “Not a scrap of organic material survived,” Emerson grumbled. “Wood, mummy wrappings, bones — Ouch.” “I doubt that even we could have preserved the coffins or the mummies,” Ramses said. “We could have tried,” Emerson muttered. “Damn the bastards! Who knows how much historical data was lost through their carelessness?” “The damage is done, and regret is the most futile of all emotions,” I said. “No, it damned well is not,” Emerson snarled. “Don’t quote aphorisms at me.” “What, in your opinion —” “Mother,” said Nefret, gently but firmly, “you and Father can argue about aphorisms all the way home if you like. I think we should start back.” “A very sensible suggestion, my dear,” I replied. I could see she was itching to get Ramses home so she could clean him up and disinfect the abrasions that marked his hands and face. “Emerson, give me my pistol back.” “Not on your life, Peabody. If any shooting is required, I will do it.” None was required, though we kept a sharp lookout along the way. As the sun sank lower, the shadows lengthened, affording some relief from the heat but, as I was uneasily aware, offering greater possibilities of concealment for a following foe. We reached the place where the horses were waiting without incident, however, and started on the homeward path. Daoud walked beside Jumana, talking nonstop in an effort to cheer her up. Like the rest of us, Selim was not so charitably inclined toward the girl. “She knows where he is,” he muttered. “She must be made to tell us.” “Give her a little time,” Emerson said. Selim’s eyes were as hard as obsidian. “Jamil has disgraced the family. It is a matter of honor.” Oh dear, oh dear, I thought — more trouble! Men have very odd definitions of honor, and even odder notions of what to do about it. To all intents and purposes Selim was the head of the family, as his father had been. Yusuf was too old and vacillating to play the role that was nominally his. If Selim spoke for the family and they were of the same mind . . . They would be, of course. The men, at any rate. “Selim, we don’t know that that was Jamil,” I said. “In fact, we don’t know that he has committed any criminal act except rob a few tombs. I doubt any court would bother prosecuting him for that. Everybody in Gurneh does it.” “Not our family,” said Selim, displaying his teeth. “My father —” “I know what Abdullah would have done,” Emerson broke in. “I promise you, family honor will be satisfied. If Jamil has a scrap of sense he will come to me and I will give him a chance to redeem himself. The Father of Curses does not break his word!” “You needn’t shout, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “Hmph,” said Emerson. “Confound it,” he added petulantly, “I have wasted too much time on this foolery. We will start work at Deir el Medina tomorrow.”