Tomb of the Golden Bird (21 page)

when he moved too fast. So much for the first of the innocent explanations. Ramses told himself that David must have a good reason for going off this way, but he decided not to stop him. The main thing was to keep him in sight. Wandering round the streets of Luxor at night, for whatever reason, was to invite trouble. Ramses slowed his pace and tried to figure out his next move. So far David hadn't seen him, but if he followed by boat he would be as conspicuous as a camel caravan. There wasn't much traffic on the river at this hour. Most of the tourists had retired to their hotels. Keeping in the shadow of one of the vessels pulled up on the bank, he watched David negotiate with a boatman and climb aboard. Instead of taking a seat, he stood looking back along the road. Ramses was forced to the only viable means of pursuit. He slid into the water. A few long strokes took him up to the side of the boat as it got under way. It was not the most comfortable way to cross the river. His head was under water a good deal of the time, and his wet clothes clung clammily to his body. Now and then he heard the boatman swearing. The fellow had noticed the boat wasn't answering as readily as usual, but it didn't occur to him that he had an extra passenger. When they reached the other side David jumped out without waiting for the gangplank. He splashed through the shallows toward the bank. Ramses waited until he had climbed it before he pulled himself out of the water and pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. They met the stupefied eyes of the boatman. His mouth dropped open. "Quiet," Ramses whispered. "Don't speak. I owe you baksheesh, Ali Ibrahim. Tomorrow." The word of an Emerson was good all along the river. The man nodded dumbly. Ramses squeezed the water from the bottoms of his trouser legs and climbed the stairs to the street. Unpleasant as the trip had been for Ramses, it had convinced David he had not been followed. Ramses attracted a lot of curious looks as he dripped and splashed along the pavement, but David didn't look back. He moved like a man who knew exactly where he was going, until he passed the Winter Palace and reached a quieter section of the road. Then he stopped and looked round. There were only a few houses nearby, on the north side of the road. Ramses had dropped flat when David halted, there being no other place of concealment he could reach. He felt the water on his clothes mixing with the dust. David went to the door of one of the houses—a rather imposing structure several stories high, with a flight of steps leading to a pair ofcarved columns that flanked the entrance. Ramses jumped up. Mud dripped off him. The hell with this, he thought. I'm going to confront him, ask him what he thinks he's doing. He got as far as the top of the stairs. Arms clamped round his body. He twisted, freeing one arm and striking out. His fist smashed into a surface as unyielding as stone, and other arms gripped him. Someone let out a string of obscene Arabic epithets, and someone else offered a rude suggestion in the same language. A pair of hands closed round his throat. Then a voice called out a peremptory command. "Stop!" He recognized the voice. It was that, as much as the stranglehold on his throat, that ended his resistance. Unseen hands pushed him into the house and slammed the door. The interior was dark, but he made out curving walls and a shimmer of reflection from what must be a mirror before he was hastily blindfolded. Half dragging, half pulling, they got him to an inner room and shoved him in. Sprawled on the floor, he heard a muttered colloquy outside the closed door. They hadn't tied his hands. He pulled off the blindfold—a filthy rag that smelled of sweat—and discovered that the groping hands had relieved him of his knife. The door opened. A man entered carrying a lamp, which he put down on a table. The room was small and scantily furnished, with a low couch and a few chairs and tables. It had only one window, small and high in the wall. "Are you hurt?" David asked anxiously. Ramses got slowly to his feet. He was caked with dirt from chest to feet, and his throat hurt. His arm moved without conscious volition, delivering a hard, backhanded blow to David's face. David staggered back, his hand over his mouth. Blood dripped between his fingers. "It was you," Ramses said. "All along, it was you." Chapter Ten We were in the drawing room waiting for dinner to be announcedwhen Nefret came in. "Where are David and Ramses?" I asked. "Dinner is almost ready." "Gone out." Nefret brushed a loosened lock of hair back from her face. I suppose we were all a little on edge—or perhaps it was something in her voice that made Sethos look up with a frown and Emerson get to his feet. "At this hour?" I asked. "What has happened?" Nefret took a folded piece of paper from her bodice and handed it to me. "Nothing," she said. "At least—I don't know, Mother. I couldn't stop him, he moved too quickly. Out the window and off at a run. I hadn't finished dressing . . ." "Calm yourself, my dear," I said, handing Emerson the note. "I presume 'he' refers to Ramses, David already having departed?" "Yes." "He says he has gone for a walk," Emerson said. "Unusual, but notalarming. Nefret, my dear, sit down and let me get you a glass of—of something." Sethos, the last to read the message, started to speak and then closed his mouth. Watching him, I said, "Emerson is right, Nefret. Agitation is bad for you, and I am certain you have no reason for concern." For a moment I thought Nefret would swear, as I had done on hearing that phrase. Waving away the glass Emerson offered her, she took a deep breath and said, "I would rather have sherry, if you don't mind, Father." "Oh," said Emerson. "Oh. Of course." He handed me the whiskey and served her as she had requested. "Did you happen to see which way Ramses went?" I asked, determinedly casual. "Not really." She was trying hard to keep her composure, but after a sip of sherry she burst out, "Why would David steal out without a word to us? He must have known we would worry about him. Ramses said he only meant to find David and bring him back, but he took his knife, and he wouldn't wait for me or ask you to help him search, and those devils have taken Margaret, and they're out there, watching us, and— and you tell me I have no reason for concern!" "I'll go look for them," Emerson exclaimed. "Where?" Nefret demanded. "They could be anywhere from Gurneh to the river by now. Hell and damnation! I should have followed Ramses, in my bare feet and half-dressed!" Her eyes filled with tears. "Nefret, don't." Sethos got up from his chair and came to her. "Believe me, there is no cause . . . All right, all right, I won't say it. I don't know what's happened to Ramses and David, but I'm sure they'll be back soon. Margaret. . ." He hesitated. A tear slid down Nefret's cheek. She is one of those women who can cry beautifully, with no distortion of her face or reddening of her eyes. She raised those eyes, brimming and blue, to Sethos. "Oh, hell," he said. "Margaret isn't missing. I know precisely where she is, and I assure you she is unharmed. Furious, but unharmed."

A thunderstruck silence followed this statement. Emerson was the first to recover, and his response was typical of Emerson—a hard blow that sent Sethos sprawling. "So," Emerson said in a voice like a lion's roar. "It was you. All along, it was you." From Manuscript H "No," David said, his voice blurred by the blood dripping from his nose. He passed his sleeve across it. "No, not all along. Ramses—" "Sorry I can't offer you a handkerchief. Mine is somewhat unsanitary." Bloodying David's nose had got some of the outrage out of his system, but his voice shook. David fumbled in a pocket and found his own. "I don't blame you for being angry with me. If you'd just listen—" "I'll listen. I haven't much choice, have I? Fighting my way out of here wouldn't seem to be a sensible option." "You look like hell. Sit down, why don't you?" He went to the door and spoke to someone outside. The door opened a few inches; a hand pushed an earthenware container inside. Now conscious of aching muscles and sore spots that would soon be bruises, Ramses lowered himself onto the narrow cot and accepted a drink of water. David sat down on the floor, legs crossed, and offered Ramses a cigarette. He was tempted to refuse what was obviously meant as a peace offering, but that would have been childish. Incredulity had replaced his anger; David looked just as he always had, his well-cut features concerned, his soft brown eyes anxious. His best friend, the man he trusted above all others . . . "Well?" he said, after David had lit the cigarette for him. "I'll tell you everything." "That would be nice." David flinched. "I'd rather you hit me than use that tone of voice. It's not what you think, Ramses. I knew nothing about this business until I arrived in Cairo. You told me a little, but we didn't have time to talk at length; there was always someone around. And you were always around, you never left me alone for a minute. As I learned later, other people were waiting for a chance to talk to me in private, before I left Cairo. You wondered why they bothered to carry Gargery off. They hoped we would separate in order to search for him—which we did. As soon as you were out of sight, one of them approached me. D'you remember the man you knew as Bashir?" "One of the gang of radicals we infiltrated during the war? I thought he had been rounded up along with the other revolutionaries." "He was. That was his nom de guerre; his real name is Mohammed Fehmi, and he comes from a well-to-do family. After the war, when he'd served his term they let him out, thanks in large part to his father's influence. He's now a respectable member of society, employed by one of the ministries. To make a long story short, which he had to do since he hadn't much time, he told me flat-out that he and his party are planning a coup. A bloodless coup. They're fed up with Fuad and his devious schemes; they want to replace him with someone who is sympathetic to their aspirations and who will abide by the constitution." Ramses's lip curled expressively. "I know what you're thinking," David said. "But I had no reason not to believe him, Ramses. He insisted that they had harmed no one, that they meant no harm to anyone. I agreed to keep silent, at least for the time being. At that point I hadn't got the full story from you." "You got it when we talked that night." David nodded. "What you told me confirmed Bashir's claims. He frankly admitted that a few of their people had got the wind up after Sethos stole their precious document, and had gone a little overboard trying to retrieve it. Since then they have confined themselves to keeping a close watch on you and the family. "I wanted to tell you, Ramses, I really did. But—well, I'm not as naive as you think. Bashir had offered the stupid donkey a tasty handful of carrots, but he might be hiding a stick behind his back. I needed to know more about their intentions, and the best way of doing that was tokeep on good terms with them—let them believe I was with them wholeheartedly." You are, Ramses thought, noticing that David was avoiding his eyes—with them, if not wholeheartedly. You believed Bashir because you wanted to believe in a bloodless coup that would realize your fondest hopes for your country, support of a cause you've believed in and fought for all your life. It wouldn't be bloodless, though. Coups seldom were. There were always a few who joined in for the sick pleasure of violence. Ramses knew what it was like to be torn between conflicting loyalties. He'd had to deceive his family, even Nefret, when he was working undercover during the Great War. He had hated the deception, his superiors, and himself, as David must be doing now. "So what have you decided?" he asked. Sensitive to every nuance of his friend's voice and expression, David reacted to Ramses's milder tone with a direct look and a tentative smile. "I decided tonight, when I heard about Margaret, that I might have been more naive than I thought. Bashir had given me his word that no action at all would be taken. So I came here to demand an explanation. They had given me the address in case I needed to contact them." "What have they done with Margaret?" Ramses asked, accepting another cigarette. "They deny having taken her." "Do you believe that?" "I don't know what I believe." David passed his hand over his face. "Except that I may have made the worst mistake of my life. What are we going to do?" "I don't suppose your chums mean to turn me loose with profound apologies?" "You would report this, wouldn't you? Warn the authorities?" He wouldn't lie to David. What would be the point? "Yes," he said. "I knew you'd say that. I'll get you out of here, Ramses, I swear. I never meant this to happen." "I know. Never mind that now. I've played the fool a few times myself. Perhaps you had better have a chat with the lads and find out what they have in mind—for both of us." "They've no reason not to trust me," David said slowly. "I objected to them manhandling you, but they wouldn't hold that against me. I haven't had a chance to ask many questions." He smiled wryly and got to his feet. "Just as well; I might have said the wrong thing. I'll report as soon as I can." He was out the door before Ramses could respond. There was no need for a response or a handshake or any other acknowledgment; they had known each other too long and too well. David hadn't forgiven himself, but he had put guilt aside until he could make amends for his mistake. He had left the packet of cigarettes and the jar of water. Ramses helped himself to another drink, rinsed his hands and face, and made an inspection of his prison. It hadn't been designed as such, though there was only one door, and the single window was barred—a customary precaution against thieves. Someone had occupied it recently, and briefly, to judge by the paucity of personal belongings lying about. Which didn't tell him much. One thing was certain, though. They couldn't afford to turn him loose. He knew where their headquarters was located. He and David would have to find a way of escaping. If they couldn't outwit a few ordinary thugs they didn't deserve the reputations they had earned, but they'd have to get Margaret away as well, supposing she was here and not in another of their lairs. And time was passing. He brushed dried mud off the face of his watch and found, as he had expected, that it had not survived its watery journey. The unmoving hands accused him. Nefret would worry. He'd caused her too much worry. Some might have accused him of naivete for believing in David's change of heart. They would be wrong. David couldn't have misled him, even if he had wanted to. He knew his friend too well. "We," David had said. "What are we going to do?" They had been three adventurers together, David and Nefret and he, young and stupid and foolhardy. As a girl Nefret had been as reckless asthey; she'd given him a few bad times too. He remembered the time she had blackmailed them into taking her along when they went to one of the worst parts of Cairo in pursuit of a valuable manuscript. They had barely made it out unharmed—with the manuscript. David might have got his throat cut that night if Nefret hadn't acted, decisively and instantly, while he stood frozen. That bond had never been broken. When David came back, Ramses was pacing up and down the small room. Before he could speak David said loudly, "I brought you something to eat. Sit down and keep your hands in sight. If you give us any trouble we'll have to tie you up." "I won't make trouble." Ramses went to the bed and sat down. The door, which had been slightly ajar, closed. David handed him a plate. Ramses studied his dinner without enthusiasm. Fuul, the popular dish consisting of mashed beans, and a chunk of bread. No utensils had been supplied. He was accustomed to eating Arab-style, though, so he dipped his fingers into the mess and forced a bite down. "You'll be let go in a few days," David said, sitting down next to him. "Unharmed. I made that a condition of my continued cooperation. Once they've accomplished their goal, there won't be any need to hold you." He lowered his voice gradually as he spoke. Ramses took the hint. "How many days?" he asked softly. "Two, three at the most. Margaret's not here. When I insisted, they let me search the house." "They must be keeping her somewhere else. If we can take one of them prisoner, he may be persuaded to tell us where." Despite his urgent need to return to his wife, Ramses's spirits had lifted. Having David on his side was as good as an army—better, in a sense. David was his balance wheel, the sensible member of the group, as he proceeded to demonstrate. "At the risk of sounding callous, we can't worry about Margaret now. It will be hard enough getting ourselves away, without additional heroics. Here. I found your knife." Something pressed against his side and he shifted position slightly,so that it was concealed under his thigh. He hadn't located any spyholes in the walls, but the keyhole was big and old-fashioned. "We'll have to wait until most of them have gone beddy-by," David went on. "There will be two men on guard. Bashir has already left. I agreed to stay here. In fact, I refused to leave when they said I could. A disingenuous offer, wasn't it?" "A test, perhaps." "I thought so. The door is barred as well as locked, and they aren't careless enough to trust me with the key. I may be able to pick the lock. If not, you'll have to break the door down." "I can hardly wait." Ramses rubbed his sore shoulder. "What time is it?" "Almost eleven. In another hour the lads should be tucked in." Ramses groaned. "Damn. Nefret must be getting more frantic by the minute." "To say nothing of the parents," David said. "Maybe Aunt Amelia will appear, parasol in hand." "Don't try to cheer me up," Ramses muttered. He took another mouthful of the disgusting food. It was cold as well as tasteless. "There's no way they could have traced us. I made sure—clever me—that no one followed me." "I'd better go and put on a convincing show of cooperation." David held out his hand. "They told me not to leave the dish." "Afraid I'll smash it and use the shards to carve a hole in the door? Here, you're welcome to the rest." David took the plate and went out without speaking again. They would work together, and fight together if necessary, like the well-oiled machine they had become. The key turned with a click. There was nothing to do now but wait. Emerson stood over his brother with fists clenched and brow thunderous. "Remember the code," Sethos said. He had prudently remained supine. "Mustn't hit a man when he's down."  "Get up then!" "I'd rather not, if you don't mind." The door opened and Fatima put her head in. "Dinner is—" Seeing Sethos flat on the floor she broke off and ran to him. "He is sick again?" "No, I hit him," Emerson said between clenched teeth. "And I'll do it again if he so much as blinks." "He will not blink," Fatima cried. "Do not hit him again." "No, we want him conscious so he can answer questions," I said. Keeping a wary eye on Emerson, Sethos sat up, rubbing his chin. "You needn't interrogate me, Amelia," he said indistinctly. "I am prepared to speak freely, insofar as my injuries allow. They say whiskey is good for a sore jaw." Emerson snarled. "Give it to him," I said impatiently. "And let me add, Sethos, that frivolity is distinctly out of place. What have you done with Margaret?" For of course, Reader, I had put two and two together. On the night of the party Sethos had gone out of his way to infuriate Margaret and induce Kevin to remain. I had thought nothing of it at the time, nor could I blame myself. Hindsight is always more useful than observation. And there was another thing I hadn't noticed at the time. "Daoud!" I cried. "Is Daoud involved in this?" Fatima, who had immediately supplied Sethos with whiskey, let out a little squeal of protest. "He was ready and willing," Sethos said. "Didn't you tell him you wished you could abduct Margaret again?" "Peabody!" Emerson exclaimed. "Did you?" "Curse it," I said. "I did say something of the sort. But it was ...it was an expression of regret, not an order." "You shouldn't expect Daoud to make such distinctions," Sethos said. " 'Who will free me from this turbulent priest?' was good enough for the minions of Edward II." "What does bloody Edward II have to do with this?" Emerson demanded. "And stop smirking!" "I beg your pardon." Sethos's smirk vanished into the limbo of lostsmiles. "Daoud did harbor a few doubts. You may have noticed he has kept out of your way the past few days. You mustn't blame him, he thought he was doing as you wished." "I don't blame him," I said. "Or the driver, who, I do not doubt, obeyed Daoud's orders to stay in hiding. Where did he take her? Not to his house, Kadija would have let me know." "We decided, Daoud and I, that we couldn't risk that," Sethos said. "Margaret resides at present with one of Daoud's innumerable kinsmen. He's deaf as a post and somewhat feeble-witted, and his wife is a sour old beldam who is at odds with every other woman in the village. She has been well paid to look after Margaret, however, so I believe my dear wife has every possible comfort." "Don't you know?" I asked in horror. "Haven't you been to see her?" "Well, you see I had a plan," Sethos explained, leaning comfortably against the wall. "It occurred to me that Margaret might be in need of wooing again. Though she would never admit it, she has a fondness for romance. After you pointed out that she might reasonably resent my failure to do something dashing, such as having her carried off—" "Are you blaming this on me?" I demanded. "Not at all, Amelia dear. You made a sensible suggestion, which I duly followed. I intended to stage a daring rescue, sword in hand—supposing I could get hold of one—and carry her away from her captors." "Good Gad!" Emerson
exclaimed. "Are you telling us that Margaret's abduction has nothing to do with the—the other business?" "That is correct," Sethos said. "I had to tell you, in order to relieve Nefret's mind. It is possible that David got wind of my impulsive gesture and set out, like a knight of old, to free the captive princess." "It is possible," Nefret said hopefully. "David has kin in Gurneh, and they all love and trust him." "I'll go and find them," Emerson said, jumping up. "And free poor Margaret," Nefret said, with an indignant look at Sethos. "Dinner is served," said Fatima. I took hold of my head with both hands, for it felt as if it were bursting with confusion and conjecture. "Wait, Emerson," I said. "We must discuss this." "Dinner is served," Fatima insisted. "What shall I tell Maaman?" It was necessary for someone to keep her head. They were all about to rush off on a hypothetical quest, while Maaman wept into the soup and Sethos ...I was not finished with Sethos. "We may as well dine," I said. "No, listen to me, Nefret. Ramses and David may already be on their way home. Premature action will only confuse the situation." As usual, mine was the last word. We seated ourselves, and Fatima served the soup. Nefret took one sip and put her spoon down. "Is it not good?" Fatima asked. "It's fine. I'm just not hungry." Nefret met my inquiring gaze and smiled faintly. "No, Mother, I'm not having one of my premonitions. If I were, I wouldn't be sitting here. He isn't in imminent danger. I only want to see him. To be sure." "I understand, my dear," I said sympathetically. "And we will take action soon. First, however, a few matters require clarification." I waited until Fatima had removed the soup plates and served the fish course. The delay was meant to get her out of the room, but it had another effect, which I had, of course, intended. Sethos seemed to have lost his appetite. He stared fixedly at his fish, which stared back at him with blank white eyes, until I addressed him. "You got us off the track, with your customary skill, by your long-winded story about Margaret. I don't doubt it was the truth. You never lie when you can be easily caught out. However, it was not the whole truth, was it? Everything else you have told us, from the first, was a fabrication. There is only one logical way of accounting for all our misadventures. You arranged them. Kindly do not waste my time by denying it. It was you, all along." "I thought so," Emerson growled. "By the Almighty, I knew it!" It was not his black scowl but the disappointment and distress on Nefret'sface that broke down Sethos's defenses. "It's a fair cop," he said with a sigh. "I'll talk. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." "Start from the beginning," I ordered. "And go on until you have reached the end." "The famous message is a fraud. Gibberish. The man from whom I purportedly stole it is in our pay. He is also in the pay of the opposition, and for all I know, in the pay of a dozen other people. If you wondered how they got on my trail so quickly—as you ought to have done—that's how. He told them. And fingered me, as he had been instructed to do. "Our people were on the spot too. Everybody following everybody else. The so-called attempt on my life at the railroad station was set up. My unfortunate colleague broke a leg when I shoved him off the platform, but the train had already stopped, and they fished him out alive. From that point on the only people who were after me, and you, were the opposition. I led them a merry dance, as I had been ordered to do. The reason, as Amelia has undoubtedly deduced, was to discover who they were—not the hired thugs, but the people who are running the show. Sooner or later, if their underlings failed, one or more of them would be forced to take a hand. So we reasoned, at any rate. "I suppose it was inevitable that I should come down with malaria, after all that dashing about. I hadn't intended to throw myself on your mercy, but I didn't have much choice; and it had become evident that they would go after you in any case. In a way it was to our advantage, because it focused the hunt. My new instructions ordered me to sit tight and wait." He paused to take a sip of water. "Wonderful," Emerson snarled. "While you were sitting tight, they came after us, and poor old Gargery." "That wasn't part of the plan," Sethos insisted. "I don't know why they made off with him, but he wasn't injured. If you look back, you will admit that none of the family has been hurt—only individuals like the holy man, whom they took for me." He looked surreptitiously at his watch, and I saw him frown. "As I said, the message is a fake. We know what they're planning, and steps have been taken to prevent it. The only reason we've held off is that we're hoping to get a line on the higher-ups before we act." "What are they planning?" I asked. Sethos hesitated, but only briefly. "I may as well tell you, since I've spilled the rest of the beans. They're after Feisal of Iraq. He will be deposed and replaced by Sayid Talib, who wants a republic—so he claims, at any rate—and the end of the British Mandate. The British Commissioner will be expelled, and so will your friend Miss Bell. She is under the illusion that the Iraqis all adore her, but many of them resent the influence of a woman, a foreigner, and a heretic over their king. They don't think much of Feisal either, and the dear lady is partially responsible for the contempt in which he is held. Every time she marches into the palace as if she owned the place, his stock goes down." He drank again, more deeply. "So now you have it," he said. "The plot, the whole plot, and nothing but the plot." From Manuscript H Waiting was hell. He walked up and down the room, methodically working some of the kinks out of sore muscles, and fighting a useless, senseless desire to do something now, this instant, that would get him back to his wife. He could have sworn at least three hours had passed before he finally heard a scratching sound. He sprinted for the door. "David?" he breathed into the keyhole. "Here." "How's it going?" "Give me a few minutes." Picking locks was one of the useful skills they had learned during the war. David didn't have the necessary tools, though, and the process wasn't as easy as sensational novels suggested. Ramses got his knife from under the mattress, slipped it into the sheath, and went back to the door. The scratching and clicking went on till he couldn't stand it any longer. "I'll force it," he whispered. "Get out of the way." "It's only been sixty seconds," David said calmly. "Control your impetuosity. That's always been your worst fault. I think . . . Got it." The door swung open, and for the first time he saw the hallway down which he had been hustled. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and dust lay thick on the floor, scuffed by footprints. On the floor lay the body of a man wearing a faded galabeeyah. "I had to put him out," David said softly. "Don't even think about it, Ramses, we aren't hanging around any longer than we have to. There's another one at the front door. This way." David was reading his mind, as he always did. And he was right, as he always was. This part of the house was the servants' quarters. A door at the far end of the passage opened onto the salon, which was in the European style of the last century. Crumbling strips of bas-relief framed dusty mirrors and the faded remains of painted panels. Fallen plaster crunched under their feet. Moonlight filtered through cracks in the shutters. "What about the other doors?" Ramses whispered. "Chained, bolted, barred, and barricaded. Trust me, this is our best chance." He stopped in front of a pair of ornate double doors. "Let me go first," he whispered, and eased one of them open. The rusted hinges let out a groan. David slid through the gap. Ramses moved forward and looked out into the entrance hall. A curved staircase led up to the first floor. A single lamp burned low. The man stationed at the front door wore European clothing, trousers and shirt and boots. He had been asleep, but the squeaking hinge had roused him. His eyes glinted in the lamplight. This was the trickiest part of the whole business. Recognizing David, the fellow might not let out a yell, but he would certainly say something, if only, "What the hell are you doing here?" And he wouldn't whisper. David had just a few seconds in which to silence him, and he couldn't risk the sound of a struggle. Ramses stood poised, his hand on his knife, ready to move as soon as David did. David leaped, knocking the guard flat on the floor. They rolled back and forth, the guard trying to free himself, David trying to keep hishand over the fellow's mouth. Ramses stood over them, waiting for his chance. The grappling bodies writhed and twisted. He was afraid of hitting the wrong man. Then the guard got one arm loose and struck. David let out a grunt of pain and fell onto his back, with the other man astride him. "What are you waiting for?" David gasped. The guard's back was a temptingly vulnerable target, but Ramses couldn't bring himself to kill, not even then. He brought the hilt of his knife down on the bare black head. It was heavy enough to stun the fellow, and Ramses finished the job with a series of hard, methodical blows. Doubled over and breathing unevenly, David unfastened the chain, which rattled as it fell loose, and drew the bolts. A voice from the head of the staircase called out, demanding to know what was going on. The door wouldn't open. The key wasn't in the lock. Ramses turned the unconscious man onto his back and started investigating his pockets. Then he saw the key, hanging on a string round the fellow's neck. A hard tug snapped the string. He forced the key into the lock and turned it. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. David flung the door open and they bolted out. The time for caution had passed, speed was their only hope now. The pursuit was underway. David stumbled, and Ramses caught him round the waist, pulling him forward. They reached the street and turned right. There was no one in sight, not even a cart they could hide behind. Heavy footsteps pounded after them. Ahead, too far ahead, Ramses saw the lights of the Winter Palace. Panting and leaning on each other, theyran on. The first order of business, I decided, was to find Margaret. In fact, it was the only action we could take, since we had no idea what had become of the boys (as I would always think of them). They had not turned up when we were ready to leave; I instructed Fatima that if and when they did, she should tell them where we had gone and order them to remain at the house. Nefret had changed out of her flimsy frock and evening slippers and I had assumed trousers and coat—and, of course, my belt of tools and parasol. There was no way of knowing what we might encounter. When we got to the stable Emerson had seen to it that the horses were saddled and ready. The hour was late, the village of Gurneh dark and slumbering. The house we sought showed no signs of life. Emerson assured us it was the right place; he had identified it from Sethos's description of the owner. We dismounted, and Sethos spoke for the first time since he had finished his story. "I don't suppose you would consider letting me go in first? I could snatch Margaret up and—" Emerson called him a bad name, and I said coldly, "Your effrontery passes all bounds. Go ahead, Emerson, wake the poor old soul." It was not the old man who came to the door, but his wife, and her reception of us was in keeping with her reputation. Brandishing a stick, she began shouting and swearing. Even the sight of Emerson did not daunt her. "We are not thieves," he bellowed. "We mean you no harm. Curse it! Be quiet, woman, and heed the Father of Curses." He snatched the stick from her hand and took hold of her. She went on struggling and screaming until I stepped forward, parasol in hand. "Be still," I said sternly. "Or I will use my magic to turn you into a goat." People can believe the most absurd things. My parasol was known and dreaded by some of the more superstitious Egyptians. Fortunately the old lady was one of them. She led us, without further violence, to the room where Margaret was confined. Either she had not been asleep or the dispute had wakened her; she was on her feet, brandishing a jar which must have contained a beverage of some sort. I had deemed it proper to be the first person to enter. For a moment I thought she would heave the jar at me. She thought better of it when she beheld Emerson, looming behind me. Words had never failed Margaret; they did not do so now. "So you have decided to show your face at last!" she exclaimed. "This time you have gone too far, Mrs. Emerson. I will blazon your perfidy across the front page of every newspaper in the world!" "Well put," I said appreciatively. "However, in this case your accusation is unwarranted. Make yourself comfortable and we will-—" "Mother," Nefret interrupted. Her voice was peremptory, even, one might say, critical. Ramses and David had not been here, that was evident. "I will be as expeditious as possible," I promised. Margaret put the jug down and folded her arms. She was wearing the frock, now crumpled and sweat-stained, that she had worn to our party. It was an act of defiance; several other garments were hung on hooks or draped over chairs. The sight of them made me blink, for they were the sort of thing one finds in the bazaars, designed for tourists—sewn with beads and covered with gold and silver braid. Sethos must have supplied them, but no doubt Margaret had taken them for another of my comments on her unattractive attire, and resented them accordingly. A quick survey of the chamber assured me that the old beldam had earned her pay. The room was clean and adequately, if not luxuriously, furnished. There was a basket of figs and grapes on the table, and the means of ablution had been supplied. "It was not I who gave the orders for your abduction," I began. "The carriage driver had been ordered to stop along the road," Margaret said, her eyes flashing. "When he did, Daoud climbed in and took hold of me. Whom else would he obey but you? Don't lie to me." "I never lie." (Unless, I added mentally, it is absolutely necessary.) "Daoud did what he believed I would approve, but he was manipulated by another person." I stepped away from the door. There was a little scuffle outside; then Emerson appeared, holding his brother by the collar. He shoved him into the room. "Here is the perpetrator," he said. Margaret stared. "You?" she exclaimed. Seeing no way out (for Emerson blocked the doorway) Sethos smiled in an ingratiating manner. "My intentions—" he began. "Damn your intentions!" Margaret shouted. "Please don't repeatthat fantastic tale of being pursued by enemies. I didn't believe it when Amelia told it me, and 1 don't believe it now. You didn't