BOOK TWO

THE GATES OF THE
UNDERWORLD

•

O great apes who sit before the doors of heaven:
take the evil from me, obliterate my sins,
guard me, so that I may pass between
the Pylons of the West.

•

Seven

•

The approach to the Valley had changed a great deal since our first days in Egypt. A rough but serviceable road led through the forbidding cliffs and a wooden barrier now barred the entrance to those who lacked the requisite tickets. Our horses were among the first occupants of the donkey park, for the sun had not yet risen over the eastern hills when our caravan left the house. We had taken this longer but less arduous route, instead of the footpath that led over the hill from Deir el Bahri, because tomb Five lay near the entrance, just outside the barrier.

Ramses and David were not with us. I had, quite by accident, happened to overhear part of a conversation between them that morning. They were in Ramses’s room; the door was slightly ajar and both their voices were rather loud, so inadvertent eavesdropping was unavoidable.

The first words I heard were David’s. “I am going with you.”

“You can’t. Father has asked—excuse me, demanded—your help today.”

“He will change his mind if we ask him. You promised you would not—”

Ramses cut him off. “Don’t be an old granny. Do you think I can’t take care of myself?”

I had never heard him speak so brusquely to David, or sound so angry. Intervention was obviously in order. I tapped lightly at the door before pushing it open.

They were both on their feet, facing one another in attitudes that could only be described as potentially combative. David’s fists were clenched. Ramses appeared unmoved, but there was a set to his shoulders I did not like.

“Now, boys, what is this?” I asked. “Are you quarreling?”

Ramses turned away and reached for his knapsack. “Good morning, Mother. A slight difference of opinion, that is all. I will see you this afternoon.”

He slipped neatly out of the room before I could inquire further, so I turned to David, who was not as quick or as rude as my son. When I questioned him, as I felt obliged to do, he insisted that he and Ramses had not been quarreling, and that nothing had happened to give him cause for concern.

Except for Ramses’s ungovernable habit of getting himself in trouble, I thought. A stentorian shout from Emerson summoned us to our duty, so I allowed David to depart and followed him into the sitting room in time to overhear another loud exchange. This time it was between Ramses and Nefret, and I must admit that she was doing all the shouting. She broke off when I entered, and I said in exasperation, “What is wrong with you three? It must be Ramses who is responsible for all the arguing, since—”

“We were not arguing, Aunt Amelia.” Nefret’s face had turned a charming shade of rosy brown. “I was just reminding Ramses of a certain promise he made me.”

Ramses nodded. He was wearing what Nefret calls his stone pharaoh face, but his high cheekbones were a trifle darker than usual—with pure temper, I supposed. “If you are coming with me, David, let us go.”

He strode out without waiting for a reply. David and Nefret exchanged one of those meaningful glances, and David hurried out. I decided not to pursue the subject. Even the best of friends have little differences of opinion from time to time, and I would have enough on my mind trying to keep Emerson from harassing poor Ned Ayrton—for I felt certain that was what he intended to do.

The young man arrived with his crew shortly after us. He had to pass us in order to reach the area where he had begun work the day before, on the west face of the cliff along the tourist path. As I had expected—and hoped—Davis was not with him. The American was not interested in the tedious labor of clearance; he only turned up when his “tame archaeologist” sent to tell him something interesting had been found.

Ned’s innocent countenance brightened with surprise and pleasure when he saw Emerson, who had been lying in wait for him.

“Why, Professor—and Mrs. Emerson, good morning to you, ma’am—I thought you were working at the other end of the Valley. Tomb Five, is it?”

“As you see.” Emerson moved out of the way of a man carrying a basket of rock chippings. “Weigallkindly gave me permission to investigate it.”

“I don’t envy you the job, sir. The fill is packed as hard as cement.”

“As it was in the tomb of Siptah,” said Emerson, “which you never finished clearing. Left the job half-done. Well, young man, let me tell you—”

“Emerson!” I exclaimed.

Ned flushed painfully, and Nefret turned from the camera she was inspecting. “Don’t scold Mr. Ayrton, Professor, you know the decision was not his. How are you getting on, Mr. Ayrton? Any sign of a tomb?”

The young man gave her a grateful look. “Not yet, Miss Forth, but we have only been at it for two days. There is quite a large accumulation of limestone chips along the face of the cliff, probably from another tomb—”

“Ramses VI,” said Emerson.

“Er—yes, sir. Well, I must be off.”

The area in which he was working was only a few hundred feet south of us, on the same side of the path, but a shallow spur of rock cut off our view. As the sun rose higher and the first influx of tourists streamed through the barrier, their foolish laughter and babble drowned out the voices of Ned’s crew, to the visible annoyance of Emerson, whose ears were practically standing out from his head. (I speak figuratively; Emerson has particularly handsome ears, somewhat large but well-shaped and lying flat against his skull.) He knew, as did I, that a new discovery might be heralded by cries of excitement from the workmen.

There was really nothing for me to do, since several tons of rock had to be removed before the entrance could be fully exposed. Howard had told us he had done some clearing in ’02, but all evidence of his work had been filled in since by rockfalls and debris. I had leisure therefore to indulge in my favorite occupation of watching my husband. Booted feet wide apart, bare black head shining in the sunlight like a raven’s wing, he directed the work with cries of encouragement or advice. My attention being on him, I observed him sidle away and called to ask where he was going.

“I thought I would ask Ayrton to join us for our mid-morning tea,” said Emerson.

“What a kind thought,” I said.

There may have been just the slightest edge of sarcasm in my voice. Emerson shot me a reproachful look and went on his way. I decided I had better go after him. Not thatI was at all curious about what Ned was doing, but I knew Emerson would not proffer the invitation until after he had inspected the excavation and lectured at length on methodology.

The task the young fellow had undertaken was indeed formidable. The Valley, as I have explained, but will repeat for the benefit of Readers unfamiliar with it, is not a single flat-floored canyon but a complex of smaller wadis running off at all angles from the main path. The paths wind round outcroppings of stone, some natural, some formed by the stone removed from nearby tombs. One such rocky mound formed the western face of the central path, and against it lay a pile almost fifty feet high of limestone chips. It is under such piles of man-made debris that excavators hope to find forgotten tomb entrances.

The sun, now near the zenith, reflected off the pale rock in a blinding dazzle, unrelieved by vegetation or shadow. The fine dust stirred up by tourist boots resembled pale fog. As I approached the site, the cloud rose into a towering cumulous cloud. Ned’s men were hard at work piling the loose rock into baskets and carrying them away to a dump site nearby.

He had dug a trench straight down the rock face, obviously without result, since he was now in the process of extending it. As I had anticipated, Emerson was giving the young man the benefit of his advice. I put an end to that, and removed both of them. The sweating workers were glad to stop for a while.

I make it a habit to set up a little shelter near our place of work with a rug on the ground and a small folding table, for I see nothing wrong with comfort if it does not interfere with efficiency. On this occasion I had taken advantage of a nearby tomb entrance, that of Ramses II. Choked with rubble and dismissed by Baedeker, it was not approached by tourists, so we could count on a modicum of privacy while we rested and refreshed ourselves.

Ned was visibly disappointed to find that Ramses was not with us, but he appeared to enjoy the brief interlude. Emerson behaved himself very well, but when Ned rose to leave, my spouse could not resist a final shot.

“If you find a tomb, Ayrton, do me the favor of clearing the cursed place out completely. I am tired of tidying up after you and the others.”

There is a saying: “Take care what you wish, for it may be given unto you.” Emerson got his wish, and he did not like it at all. In later years he was to refer to the business as “one of the greatest disasters in Egyptological history.”

It began that same afternoon, when Ned’s perspiring workers came upon a niche containing several large storage jars. The discovery was not in itself exciting enough to warrant a shout of triumph from the men who found it; we did not learn of it until Ned came by with his crew on their way home.

“Stopping already?” asked Emerson, advancing to meet them.

“Yes, sir.” Ned removed his hat and pushed the damp hair back from his brow. “It is very warm, and I have—”

“Any luck?”

So the news was told. “They are nothing to be excited about,” Ned added. “Plain storage jars—Twentieth Dynasty, I believe. Well, then, I look forward to seeing you all tomorrow.”

Emerson did not even have the decency to wait until he was out of sight. I followed my irritating husband around the rock spur and found him climbing up the rubble. The opening was a good thirty feet above bedrock and when I would have followed he waved me back.

Upon returning he remarked, “Eighteenth Dynasty.”

“Why are you making such a fuss about it?” I demanded. “One is always coming across isolated finds of that sort. Rough storage jars cannot contain anything of interest.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson. He turned and looked up the slope.

“Now, Emerson, leave them alone! They are notyour jars. I suggest we follow Ned’s example and stop work. It is very warm, and I don’t want Abdullah having another attack.”

Emerson swore a great deal, but he has the kindest heart in the world and I knew the appeal would have its effect. It was late in the afternoon before we reached the house. The vine-shaded verandah looked very pleasant after our long hot ride. Horus, stretched out on the settee, examined us with a critical eye and began washing himself.

It seemed an excellent idea. I had a luxurious soak in my nice tin bath and changed into comfortable garments. When I returned to the verandah Fatima had brought tea. Nefret was pacing up and down, looking out.

“They are late,” she said.

“Who? Oh, Ramses and David. Not really. Ramses has no notion of time, he will go on working until it gets too dark for him to see anything. Come and have your tea.”

She obeyed, but even the bulk of Horus, who promptly spread himself across her lap, did not prevent her from fidgeting. I remembered the exchanges I had heard between the three that morning, and an unpleasant suspicion began to form in my mind. Since I do not allow such things to fester, I brought it out into the open.

“Nefret, are you concealing something from me? You are uncommonly edgy this evening; were the boys planning some expedition that is likely to lead them into danger?”

Emerson banged his cup into the saucer. “Curse it!” he exclaimed, but did not elaborate since Nefret spoke first.

“So far as I know, they are working at the Seti temple just as they said they would.”

“Oh.” Emerson’s rigid form relaxed. “I do wish, Peabody, you would stop looking for trouble. No one has bothered us since that wretched man’s body was found. He was the instigator of the other attacks; now that he has been—er—removed, we have nothing to fear.”

I settled back to enjoy myself, for our little detectival discussions are always stimulating. “You are of the opinion that there is no connection between those attacks and the one against me in London?”

“That was Sethos,” Emerson said. “He is still in England. I made the rounds of the cafés and coffee shops, as did Ramses. We found no indication that he has returned to his old haunts.”

“Sethos may not have been responsible for the original encounter, Emerson. I have other enemies.”

“You needn’t brag about it, Peabody.” Emerson reached for his broken cup, cut his finger, swore, and went to the table. Splashing soda into a glass, he said over his shoulder, “And don’t try to exonerate that bas——that man. We know it was he. The typewriter, Peabody. Remember the typewriter.”

“I don’t believe for a moment in Ramses’s egotistical deductions,” I replied, taking the glass Emerson handed me and nodding my thanks. “It is impossible to tell one machine from another, and furthermore, the incident in Fleet Street lacked Sethos’s characteristic touch. He is not so crude or so . . . My dear Nefret, what are you staring at? Close your mouth, my dear, before an insect flies in!”

“I—uh—I had just remembered something, Aunt Amelia. A—a letter I promised to write.”

“I hope Sir Edward is not your correspondent, Nefret. I do not approve. He is too old for you, and you have seen entirely too much of him lately.”

“Only half a dozen times since Christmas Day,” Nefret protested. “And once was at the party, with a hundred people present.”

Emerson got to his feet. “If you are going to gossip I will leave you to it. Call me when dinner is ready.”

The eastern cliffs shone in the last rays of the setting sun. There is no color anywhere on earth like that one, nor can words describe it—pale pinky gold with a wash of lavender, glowing as if lit from within. The lovely dying light lay gently on Nefret’s sun-kissed cheeks, but her eyes avoided mine and she cleared her throat nervously before she spoke.

“May I ask you something, Aunt Amelia?”

“Why, certainly, my dear. Is it about Sir Edward? I am glad you want to consult me. I have had a good deal more experience in these matters than you.”

“It is not about Sir Edward. Not exactly. Speaking of experience in such matters—er—you seem to believe he—Sethos—is sufficiently—uh—attached to you that he would not . . . Oh dear. I didn’t mean to offend you, Aunt Amelia.”

“You have not offended me, my dear, but if I understand what you are driving at, and I believe I do, the subject is not one I care to discuss.”

“It is not idle curiosity that prompts me to introduce it.”

“No?”

Nefret’s slender throat contracted as she swallowed.

“Enough of that,” I said in a kindly manner. “Goodness, how dark it has become, and the boys not back. I wonder if they decided to spend the night on the dahabeeyah.”

“They would have told me if they had,” Nefret said. “Damnation! I knew I ought to have gone with them!”

           (xi)     From Manuscript H

The mummy wrappings fitted close around his body, muffling his mouth, blinding his eyes, binding his arms and legs. They had buried him alive, like the miserable man whose mummy his parents had discovered at Drah Abu’l Naga. Someday another archaeologist would find him, his body brown and shriveled, his mouth open in a silent scream of terror, and . . .

He came awake in a desperate spasm that tore at every muscle in his body. It was still dark and he was as incapable of movement as any mummy, but the cloth covered only his mouth. He could breathe. Concentrating on that essential activity, he forced himself to lie still while he drew air in through his nostrils and tried to remember what had happened.

They had been copying the reliefs in one of the side chambers off the hypostyle hall and were about to stop for the day when they heard the thin, high wailing. It was impossible to tell whether it came from a human or another kind of animal, but the creature was obviously young and obviously in distress. Scrambling over fallen blocks and along shadowy aisles, they followed the pitiful, intermittent cries back into the sanctuary, where shadows lay like pools of dark water . . . Then nothing. His head ached, but so did every other part of his body. How long had he been unconscious? It must be night now; if the sun were still shining he ought to see streaks of light from windows or door, even if they were shuttered.

With considerable effort he rolled over onto his side. No wonder he had dreamed of mummy wrappings; they had been extravagant with the rope. His hands were tied behind him and his arms were bound to his sides; the other end of the rope round his ankles must be fastened to some object he couldn’t see, since he was unable to move his legs more than a few inches in any direction. Flattering, in a way, he supposed. His father’s reputation must have rubbed off onto him. Not even the mighty Father of Curses could burst these bonds. There was nothing for it but to wait until someone came. He didn’t doubt that someone would eventually. They hadn’t gone to all this trouble in order to leave him to die of hunger and exhaustion.

But the idea brought him dangerously close to panicking, and he forced himself to lie still and breathe steadily. The gag rasped his lips. There was no saliva left on it or in his mouth, which felt as if it were filled with sand.

The air was close and hot and the smell . . . Every culture has its own distinctive collections of odors, varying with social class and personal idiosyncrasies, but easily distinguished by someone who has made a study of them. Cooking odors were particularly distinctive. Even with his eyes closed he could tell whether he was in an English manor house or a cottage kitchen, an Egyptian coffeehouse or a German bierstube. This room wasn’t a kitchen, but it was a room, not a cave or a storage shed. It held the indefinable but unmistakable smell of Egypt, but at one time it had been occupied by someone with European taste—expensive taste, at that. He couldn’t name the perfume, but he had encountered it before.

The surface on which he lay was softer than a floor, even one covered by a rug or matting. It gave slightly when he moved and made a faint rustling sound. A bed, then, or at least some kind of mattress.

He lay quiet and held his breath, listening. There were other sounds, some faint and far off and undistinguishable, some small and near at hand. A mouse, reassured by his stillness, ventured out on little clawed feet and began to gnaw on something. Insects whined and buzzed. The sound he had half-hoped, half-feared to hear, that of another pair of straining human lungs, was not audible. Had they carried David off too, or had they left him dead or wounded on the floor of the temple?

Since there was nothing else he could do, he willed himself to sleep. He hadn’t supposed the meditation techniques taught him by the old fakir in Cairo would work under these conditions; but his eyelids were drooping when a new sound brought him to full wakefulness. There was a line of light in front of him, lower down, at what must be floor level. It widened into a rectangle.

She slipped quickly into the room and closed the door. The lamp she carried was dim and flickering, just a strip of rag floating in oil, but after the darkness it half blinded him. She put the lamp on a table and sat down on the bed next to him. She wore red roses in her hair this time, and silver shone at her wrists.

“I brought you water,” she said softly. “But you must give me your word you will not call out if I remove the gag. You would not be heard outside these walls, but I would be punished if they knew I had come here.”

She waited for his nod before she slit the cloth with a knife she took from her sash. The relief was enormous, but his throat was so dry he could not speak until after she had raised his head and dribbled water from a clay cup between his lips.

“Thank you,” he gasped.

“Always the proper English manners!” Her full mouth curved in a sardonic smile. She held the cup to his lips again and then lowered his head onto the mattress.

“You can’t replace the gag now that you’ve cut it,” he said softly. “Will they blame you? I don’t want—”

Her ringed hand left a smarting path across his face. He shook his head dizzily.

“Sorry. Was I talking too . . .”

“Don’t do that! ” She bent over him and imprisoned his face between her hands. It was not a caress; her fingertips dug into his aching temples. “Don’t care about me. Why were you fool enough to let them catch you? I tried to warn you.”

“You did?”

She let go of his head and raised her hand. He braced himself for another slap. Instead she ran the tip of one finger slowly across his lips. “Do you know what brought me here?” she asked.

Several possibilities occurred to him, but it would not have been politic to mention any of them. He said, choosing his words with care, “The tenderness of your heart, lady.”

She let out a little sound that might have been a muffled laugh. “That reason will serve as well as another.”

She reached for the knife and freed him in a series of quick slashes. With equal deftness she unlaced his boots and drew them off. Numb with long confinement—and sheer astonishment—he let her rub his hands and feet until they began to tingle with returning circulation.

“Wait in the doorway,” she said. “When you hear me call out ‘Beloved,’ count to ten, then go straight down the stairs. There are two men; you will have to deal with one of them. I think you will have no difficulty. After you have done so, go straight out the door. Do not stop, do not turn back.”

“My friend,” Ramses said. “Is he here?”

She hesitated for a moment and then nodded. “Don’t waste time searching for him, it would be too dangerous. Go and bring help.”

“But you—”

“I will be gone when you come back. Inshallah.” She added, with a faint smile, “You owe me a debt, young lord. When I call on you to make it good, will you come?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth found his. He met it with an appreciation that was not entirely due to gratitude, but when his arm went round her shoulders she twisted away and stood up.

“Another time,” she said. “Inshallah. Come now.”

She blew out the lamp and eased the door open. Silent on stockinged feet, he followed. By the time he reached the door she had gone ahead, along a corridor lit only by a glow from below. The house was of good size; there were three other closed doors and a lower floor. He waited until she had started down the stairs before he tried the other doors. None were locked. None of the rooms were occupied. A narrow flight of stairs, hardly more than a ladder, led to an opening through which he saw the glow of starlight. No need to look there, the ladder must go to the open roof.

The signal came sooner than he had expected. Abandoning caution, he ran for the stairs. He had known what she meant to do. All part of the day’s work for her, perhaps, but he couldn’t let her do it—not for him.

They were in the room opposite the foot of the stairs. The second man had his ear pressed to the flimsy panel of the door—waiting his turn, as he erroneously believed. He was too absorbed to hear the rush of unshod feet until it was too late. Straightening, he reached for the knife at his belt and opened his mouth to shout a warning. Ramses closed it for him and he fell back against the door, bursting it open. Ramses elbowed the inert body out of his way and went in.

He hadn’t realized how angry he was until after the other man lay sprawled on the floor at his feet. Rubbing his bruised hands, he watched Layla rearrange her clothing and sit up.

“Fool,” she snapped. “Why don’t you go?”

“You first. They’ll know it was you who freed me.”

She swore at him. He laughed aloud, giddy with the dangerous euphoria that follows a winning fight, and as she darted toward the door he swung her into his arms and kissed her.

“Fool,” she whispered against his lips. “You must hurry! They are coming soon, to move you to another place. If you knew what they plan for you, you would not linger.”

“Where is he?”

“I will show you, but don’t think I will stay to help you. The fate meted out to traitors is one I would not face.”

The man near the door was stirring. There wasn’t time to tie him up. Ramses turned him over and hit him again.

Layla had gone up the stairs. She was back immediately, wearing a dark cloak and carrying a loosely tied bundle. She must have got her things together in anticipation of flight before she freed him. A woman of many talents, Ramses thought.

Gesturing him to follow, she ran toward the back of the house and unbolted a door that led into a walled courtyard.

“He is there,” she said, indicating a shed against the far wall. “Ma’as salama, my lord. Do not cheat me of my payment.”

Moonlight framed her for a moment and then she was gone, leaving the gate through which she had fled ajar. Ramses headed for the shed, trying to avoid the squashier debris that litters Egyptian courtyards. Pebbles pressed into the soles of his feet. The euphoria was passing and he was beginning to wonder if he had made the right decision. He had been lucky so far, but the long hours of confinement had taken their toll, and that last blow had been a mistake. He’d been too drunk with imbecile heroism to feel it at the time, but his right hand ached like a sore tooth, and he couldn’t bend the fingers. If the door of the shed was locked he would have to go for help before the guards woke up and came looking for him.

The door had not been locked or barred. As soon as it opened he knew why.

They hadn’t handled David as considerately as they had him. They must have tossed him in and left him to lie as he fell, because his head was bent at an awkward angle and his legs were twisted. Not even a pile of moldy straw lay between his body and the hard earthen floor, which was littered with ancient animal droppings. They hadn’t stinted on the rope, though, and the dirty gag covered his nose as well as his mouth.

There was a lamp. The guard would have insisted on that.

He had been sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, and he must have been dozing, for he was slow to react. When he rose, Ramses’s stomach twisted. The fellow was as tall as he and twice as broad. His belly rounded the front of his galabeeyah, but not all the weight was fat. And he had a knife.

For a moment they stared at one another in mutual stupefaction. The guard was the first to recover. It wasn’t difficult for Ramses to read his mind; his round sweaty face mirrored every slow-moving idea. No need to call for help against an opponent as wretched-looking as this one. Recapturing the prisoner single-handed would win him praise and reward. He drew his knife from its scabbard and started forward.

Ramses wasn’t thinking fast either, but the options were too obvious to be overlooked. One backward step would take him out the door. There was a bar. By the time the guard broke down the door or summoned help, he would be long gone. It was the only sensible course of action. Unarmed and exhausted, he wouldn’t last ten seconds against a hulking brute like that one. No one would know he had run away. David was unconscious. Or dead.

He launched himself forward and down, at an acute angle that would—he hoped—take him under the blade of the knife. The move caught even him by surprise; his chest hit the floor with a force that knocked the breath out of him, but his hands were already where he wanted them to be, gripping the bare ankles under the ragged hem of the galabeeyah. He yanked, with all the strength he could muster.

It wasn’t much. His right hand gave way, but the left was still functioning, and it was enough to pull the man’s feet out from under him and get his attention off the knife. He sat down with a thud that must have rumbled up his spine into his skull, and his head hit the wall. The blow only stunned him but it gave Ramses time to finish the job. Then he picked up the knife and crawled through the dung and dust to David.

He was alive. As soon as his mouth and nose were uncovered he sucked in a long shuddering breath. Ramses heaved him over and began slashing at the ropes. He had freed David’s hands and arms before he realized that not all the dark stains on David’s shirt were dirt. He breathed out a word even his father seldom employed.

“Ramses?”

“Who else? How badly are you hurt? Can you walk?”

“I’ll give it my best try as soon as you free my ankles.”

“Oh. Right.”

After he had done so Ramses stuck the knife in his belt and bent over David. “Put your arm over my shoulders. We’re on borrowed time as it is; if you can’t walk I’ll carry you.”

“I can stumble at least. Help me up.”

At first he couldn’t even stumble. Ramses had to drag him out the door and across the courtyard to the gate Layla had left open. They weighed about the same, but Ramses could have sworn David had gained ten stone in the past few hours. His lungs were bursting and his knees felt like molasses. He couldn’t keep this up much longer.

Then he heard a shout from the house and discovered he could. The rush of adrenaline carried them through the gate and into a patch of shadow. Can’t stop now, he thought. Not yet. They were still on borrowed time, time borrowed from Layla. He prayed she had got away. He prayed they would too. Abdullah’s house was on the other side of the hill and their captors would expect them to head in that direction, and they would . . . They would . . .

Something strange was happening. The patches of moonlight on the ground shivered like water into which someone has tossed a stone. The trees were swaying as if in a strong wind, but there was no wind. He couldn’t catch his breath. He fell to his knees, dragging David down with him.

“Go on. Abdullah—”

“Not there, you fool. Too far.”

Hands pulled at him. Layla’s? She had called him a fool. He was on his feet, moving, floating, through patches of silver and black, moonlight and shadow, until a burst of sunshine blinded him, and he passed through the light into utter darkness.

:

Iwould rather not remember those hours of waiting, but some account of them must be given if my narrative is to be complete. Nefret’s distress was harder to bear than my own, for mine was mitigated by familiarity with my son’s annoying habits. This would not be the first time he had gone off on some ill-considered and dangerous expedition without bothering to inform me. Delay did not necessarily imply disaster; he and David were full-grown men (physically if not emotionally) and quite adept at various forms of self-defense, including the ancient Egyptian wrestling holds I had shown them.

So I told myself, at any rate, and attempted to convince Nefret of my reasoning. She was not convinced. They were in trouble, she knew it, and it was her fault for not going with them, and something must be done about it.

“But what?” I demanded, watching her anxiously as she paced up and down. She had not changed from her working clothes, and her boots thudded heavily on the tiled floor. Horus had lost all patience with her because she refused to sit down and provide a lap for him; when she passed him he reached out and hooked his claws into her trouser leg. She detached him without comment and went on pacing.

“There is no sense searching for them,” I insisted. “Where would we start?”

Emerson knocked out his pipe. “At the temple. Never mind dinner, none of us has the appetite for it. If I find no sign of them there, I will come straight back, I promise.”

“Not alone,” I said. “I am coming with you.”

“No, you are not.”

We were discussing the matter, without the coolness that verb implies, when Emerson raised his hand for silence. In that silence we all heard it—the pound of galloping hooves.

“There,” said Emerson, his broad breast rising in a great sigh of relief. “There they are. I will have a few words to say to those young men for frightening you so! That is Risha, or I know nothing of horseflesh.”

It was Risha, running like the wind. He came to a sudden stop and stood trembling. His saddle was empty, and a broken end of rope hung from his neck.

My dear Emerson took charge as only he can. In less than ten minutes we were mounted and ready. Nefret wanted to ride Risha, but Emerson prevented her, knowing she would outstrip us. The noble beast would not stay, however. Intelligent and loyal as a dog, he guided us back along the path he had taken in such haste. It led, as we had expected, to the temple of Seti I.

We found Asfur, Risha’s mate, still tied to a tree near the spring north of the temple. In one of the chambers off the hypostyle hall a thin cat sprang hissing into the shadows when the light of our candles appeared. It had been devouring the remains of the food the boys had brought. On the floor were their knapsacks, two empty water bottles, and their coats. Their drawing materials had already been packed, so they must have been about to leave when they were intercepted. There was no sign of them elsewhere in the temple or its surroundings. Lanterns and candles were not bright enough to permit a search for footprints or bloodstains.

There was nothing we could do but return to the house. Emerson was the one who paced now; Nefret sat quite still, her hands folded and her eyes lowered. Finally Emerson said, “They did not leave the temple of their own accord. They would not have abandoned the horses.”

“Obviously,” I said. “I am going to Gurneh to fetch—no, not Abdullah, worry and exertion would be bad for him—Selim, and Daoud and—”

“Peabody, you are not going anywhere. And neither are you, Nefret; stay here and try to keep your Aunt Amelia under control. It is a damned difficult job, take my word for it. I will go to the dahabeeyah. It’s a far-out chance, but someone may have seen something of them. I will bring Reis Hassan and another of the crewmen back with me, and then we will think what to do next.”

Another grisly hour dragged by. Emerson did not return. It was Reis Hassan who came instead, with a message from my husband. Someone had claimed to have seen the boys walking toward the ferry landing. If they had gone over to Luxor he would follow the trail. Mahmud was with him, and Reis Hassan would stay with us.

Nefret did not react or even look up. For the past hour she had not moved. All at once she started to her feet; Horus, who had been on her lap, rolled off it and bounced onto the floor. Over his yowls of fury, I heard her say, “Listen. Someone is coming.”

The individual was on horseback, coming at a gallop, and I assumed it was Emerson. Even at a distance, however, I knew the slighter form could not be his.

“Selim,” said Nefret calmly.

There could be no doubt. Selim was an excellent horseman and he was waving his arms in a wild manner that would have unseated any rider less skilled. He was shouting too, but it was impossible to make out the words until he stopped.

“Safe!” was the first word I heard. “They are safe, Sitt, safe with me, and you must come, come at once, and bring your medicines, they are sick and bleeding and I have left Daoud and Yussuf on guard, and they are safe, and they sent me to tell you!”

“Very good,” said Nefret, when the enthusiastic youth had run out of breath. “I will go with you, Selim. Ask Ali the stableman to saddle Risha.”

She put her arm round my waist. “It’s all right, Aunt Amelia. Here, take my handkerchief.”

“I do not require it, my dear,” I said with a sniff. “I believe I may have a slight touch of catarrh.”

“Then you should not go out in the night air. No, Aunt Amelia, I insist you stay here and wait for the Professor. You might send someone to ask Mr. Vandergelt for the loan of his carriage, in case they are . . .”

She did not give me time to suggest alternatives, but dashed into the house and came back with her bag of medical supplies. It was, I supposed, the most sensible arrangement. I had no fear for her; Selim would be with her, and nothing less than a bullet could stop Risha when he was in full gallop.

As I had expected, Cyrus and Katherine accompanied the carriage, full of questions, and demanding to be allowed to help. I was explaining when Emerson returned.

“So you’re at it again,” Cyrus remarked. “I thought things had been abnormally quiet this season. Emerson, old pal, you okay?”

Emerson passed his hand over his face. “I am getting too old for this sort of thing, Vandergelt.”

“Not you,” said Cyrus with conviction.

“Certainly not,” I exclaimed. “Katherine dear, you and Cyrus must stay here. There won’t be room for all of us in the carriage.”

“I will make tea,” Katherine said, pressing my hand. “What else can I do for you, Amelia?”

“Have the whiskey ready,” said Cyrus.

        (xii)     From Manuscript H

When Ramses opened his eyes he knew he wasn’t dead or delirious, though the face that filled his vision was the one he would have preferred to see under either of those conditions.

“I think I’m supposed to babble about angels and heaven,” he said faintly.

“I might have known you’d try to be clever,” Nefret snapped. “What’s wrong with ‘Where am I?’ ”

“Trite. Anyhow, I know where I—hell and damnation! What are you . . .”

The pain was so intense he almost blacked out again. Off in the distance he heard Nefret ask, “Do you want some morphine?”

“No. Where is David?”

“Here, my brother. Safe, thanks to—”

“None of that,” Nefret ordered. “You two can wallow in sentiment later. We have a lot to discuss and I haven’t finished with Ramses yet.”

“I don’t think I can stand any more of your tender care,” Ramses said. The worst of the pain had subsided, though, and the hands that wiped the perspiration from his face were sure and gentle. “What the hell did you do to me?”

“What the hell did you do to that hand? It’s swelling up like a balloon, and one of your fingers was dislocated.”

“Just . . . leave me alone for a minute. Please?”

His eyes moved slowly around the room, savoring the sense of safety and the reassurance of familiar faces: David, his dark eyes luminous with tears of relief; Nefret, whitefaced and tight-lipped; and Selim, squatting by the bed, his teeth bared in a broad grin. If he hadn’t been such a fool he would have remembered Abdullah had relatives all over Gurneh. Selim’s house was one of the closest. His youngest wife made the best lamb stew in Luxor.

His eyes went back to David. “You got me here. God knows how. How bad is it?”

“To put it in technical terms, the knife bounced off his shoulder blade,” Nefret said. “A bit of sticking plaster was all that was required. Now let’s get back to you. I want to make sure nothing else is broken before we move you.”

“I’m all right.” He started to sit up and let out a yelp of pain when she planted her hand firmly against his chest and shoved him back onto the pillow.

“Ah,” she said, with professional relish. “A rib? Let’s just have a look.”

“Your bedside manner could use some improvement,” Ramses said, trying not to squirm as she unbuttoned his shirt.

There was no warning, not even a knock. The door flew open, and he forgot his present aches and pains in anticipation of what lay in store. The figure that stood in the door was not that of an enemy. It was worse. It was his mother.

:

Ihave always believed in the medicinal effects of good whiskey, but on this occasion I felt obliged to prescribe something stronger, at least for Ramses. Nefret and I discussed whether his ribs were broken or only cracked; Ramses insisted they were neither, but soon would be if we went on prodding him. So I strapped him up while Nefret dealt as efficiently with his hand, which was as nasty a specimen as I had ever beheld, even on Ramses. I then attempted to administer a dose of laudanum to each lad, for though David’s injuries were superficial he was gray-faced with exhaustion and strain. Neither of them would take it.

“I want to tell you what happened,” David said. “You should know—”

“I’ll tell them what happened,” said Ramses. We had had to hurt him quite a lot, but I suspected the unevenness of his voice was due to annoyance as much as pain.

Emerson spoke for the first time. Sitting quietly by the side of the bed, he had not taken his eyes off Ramses, and once, when he thought none of us saw him, he had given his son’s arm a surreptitious and very gentle squeeze. “Let’s get them home, Peabody. If they are fit for it, we might certainly profit from a council of war.”

So we bundled them into the carriage and took them home, with Risha trotting alongside. We retired to the sitting room, where I tried to make Ramses lie down on the settee, but he would not. Katherine moved quietly around the room lighting the lamps and drawing the curtains. Then she came and sat next to me. Her silent sympathy and support were what I needed just then; rallying, I once more took charge.

“You had better tell us what happened, Ramses,” I said.

I had had occasion in the past to complain of my son’s verbose and theatrical literary style. This time he went too far in the opposite direction. His concluding sentences were typical of the narrative as a whole. “The fellow hit his head when he fell. Once David was freed we ran for it. We would not have got away if he had not taken charge and made for Selim’s house. I had somehow got it into my head that we must reach Abdullah.”

“Is that all?” I exclaimed.

“No, it is not!” David’s expressive countenance had displayed increasing signs of agitation. “I saw what you did, Ramses. I was dizzy and sick and short of air but I was not unconscious.” His eyes moved round the circle of interested faces. “The guard had a knife. Ramses did not. He looked as if he could barely stand. When he fell forward I thought he had fainted, and the guard must have thought the same, but it was that trick he showed us once—you remember, Nefret, the one he told you not to try unless you had no other choice because it requires split-second timing. You have to go in under the knife and pray it will miss you, and get hold of the other man’s feet before he can jump back.”

Nefret nodded. “Split-second timing and long arms and the devil’s own luck. That’s when he cracked that rib.”

“It is not cracked,” Ramses said indignantly. “Only bruised. And the damned sticking plaster itches like fury. I don’t know which is worse, you or—”

“He tried to carry me,” David said, his voice unsteady. “I couldn’t walk, I was too stiff. He could have left me and gone for help, but—”

“But I didn’t have sense enough to think of it,” said Ramses. “Do you mind shutting up, David?”

“It won’t do, Ramses,” Nefret said. The color rushed into her face and she jumped up. “You’ve left out everything of importance. Curse it, don’t you understand that we cannot deal effectively with this situation until we have all the facts? Any detail, no matter how small, may be important.”

Emerson, who had listened in silence, cleared his throat. “Quite right. Ramses, my boy—”

Nefret whirled round and shook her finger in his astonished face. “That applies to you too, Professor—and you, Aunt Amelia. What happened tonight might have been prevented if you had not kept certain matters from us.”

“Nefret,” Ramses said. “Don’t.”

My poor dear Emerson looked like a man who has been clawed by his pet kitten. With a little cry of self-reproach Nefret flung herself onto his lap and put her arms round his neck.

“I didn’t mean it. Forgive me!”

“My dear, the reproach was not undeserved. No, don’t get up; I rather like having you there.”

He enclosed her in his arms and she hid her face against his broad shoulder, and we all tactfully pretended not to see the sobs that shook her slim body. I had expected she would give way before long. Her temperament is quite unlike my own. She performs as coolly and efficiently in an emergency as I could do, but once the emergency is over, her tempestuous and loving nature seeks an outlet for the emotions she has repressed. So I let her cry for a bit in Emerson’s fatherly embrace, and then suggested that some of us ought to retire to our beds.

Nefret sat up. The only evidences of tears were her wet lashes and a damp patch on Emerson’s shirt. “Not until we have finished. Ramses, tell it again, from the beginning, and this time don’t leave anything out.”

We had to wring some of it out of him. Perched on Emerson’s knee, with his arm around her, Nefret exhibited such skill at interrogation I was not forced to intervene.

“I am not surprised that Layla should be involved in a criminal activity,” I said. “Apparently her services are for sale to anyone who can meet her price.”

“Criminal activities,” said my son, “enabled her to escape from a life of misery and degradation. Can one who has never been forced to make such a choice condemn hers?”

“Good gracious, how pompous you sound,” I said. “I must admit the justice of your remark, however; women have a difficult enough time in this man’s world, and moral scruples are luxuries some of them cannot afford.”

“In this case,” said Nefret, her voice smooth as honey, “Layla’s moral scruples were stronger than greed. Or was there another reason why she took the risk of freeing you?”

Ramses looked quickly at her and as quickly returned his gaze to his feet, at which he had been staring most of the time. “Several reasons, I think. Even a woman devoid of ordinary moral scruples may balk at murder. Father—and Mother too, of course—have formidable reputations; had we come to harm, they would have exacted retribution. Layla implied that her employers had something particularly unpleasant in mind for me, and possibly David as well. The pronoun ‘you’ can be singular or plural, and I did not ask her to elaborate, since my mind was—”

“Stop that,” I said irritably.

“Yes, Mother.”

“You made me forget what I was going to ask next.”

“I beg your pardon, Mother.”

“I know whatI was going to ask next,” said Nefret. “It is a simple question, and vitally important. What do these people want?”

“Us,” Ramses said. “Both of us, or they would have left the one they didn’t want dead in the temple.”

“That’s too simple,” Nefret snapped. “Abduction isn’t an end in itself, it is a means to an end. If you hadn’t got away, we would have received a demand for—what? Money? The papyrus? Or . . . something else?”

“Wait a minute,” Cyrus ejaculated, tugging at his goatee. “You’re getting ahead of me here. What papyrus?”

“The children picked it up in Cairo,” I explained. “From a dealer—the same fellow who turned up in the Nile a few days ago, mangled by what appeared to have been a crocodile.”

“But, Amelia,” Cyrus began.

“Yes, I know. There are no crocodiles in Luxor. I will explain it all to you later, Cyrus. Someone does seem to want the papyrus back. Do you think that was the motive behind the boys’ little misadventure, Nefret?”

“There is another possibility.”

“Well? It is getting late and—”

“I will be brief,” said Nefret. There was a note in her voice I did not like at all. “Let us suppose that the attack on Aunt Amelia in London and our subsequent encounters with Yussuf Mahmud are connected. If one person is behind all of them, that person must be the Master Criminal himself. All the clues lead back to him—the typewritten message, the possibility that the papyrus came from his private collection, even the fact that someone has discovered that Ali the Rat is Ramses. That is a tenuous lead, I admit, but Sethos is one of the few people who knows you found his private laboratory, and if, as I strongly suspect, he has been in touch with you since, he is probably familiar with our habits. Your turn, Aunt Amelia. It is time you told us everything you know about that man. And I mean everything!”

Goodness, but the child had a stare almost as forbidding as that of Emerson at his best! I daresay I could have stared her down, but I could not deny the justice of her charge.

“You are correct,” I said. “We have encountered Sethos since, and I . . . Oh dear. There is no doubt that he knows a good deal more about all of us, including Ramses, than he ought.”

•

Eight

•

Our discussion ended at that point, for Ramses’s face had turned an unpleasant shade of grayish-green, and Nefret bundled him off to bed. He went protesting, if feebly, so I assured him we would not continue without him.

“I need to collect my thoughts,” I explained. “And arrange them in a logical sequence. I do not believe I am capable of doing so at this time.”

“Small wonder,” said Emerson. “It has been a trying evening for you, my dear. Off to bed with you too. We will continue tomorrow morning.”

Katherine cleared her throat. “Amelia, would you think me rude if I asked whether Cyrus and I might join you? Curiosity killed the cat, you know. You would not want my death on your conscience.”

At that moment I would have agreed to anything in order to be left alone—to collect my thoughts, as I have said. Brief reflection assured me that affection as well as curiosity had prompted her request, and that no one could assist us better than these dear friends. Cyrus knew more of our extraordinary history than most people, and his wife’s cynical intelligence had served me well in the past. Recollecting that the following day was Friday, the Moslem holy day, when we breakfasted later and more leisurely than on workdays, I invited them to join us for that meal.

My dear Emerson tucked me into bed as tenderly as a woman might have done, and Fatima insisted on my drinking a glass of warm milk flavored with cardamom, to help me sleep.

“You are all being kinder to me than I deserve,” I said. “Come to bed, Emerson, you have been as worried as I.”

“Later, my dear.”

“You don’t mean to sit up all night standing guard, do you?”

“Not all night. David and I will take it in turn. He would have struck me, I think, if I had not agreed.” Emerson’s hard face softened. “He’s fit enough, Peabody. Selim’s young wife stuffed him full of lamb stew, and Nefret assures me the wound is negligible.”

“I meant to examine him again,” I murmured. “Ramses too. She wouldn’t let me . . .”

Emerson took my hand. His voice seemed to come from a great distance. “She didn’t mean it, you know, Peabody.”

“Yes, she did. Oh, Emerson—was I in error? I honestly believed I was acting for the best . . . for their own good . . .” A great yawn interrupted my speech, and the truth dawned at last. “Curse it, Emerson! You put laudanum in the milk. How could. . . .”

“Sleep well, my love.” I felt his lips brush my cheek, and felt nothing more.

I woke before the others, rested and ready to take up the reins once more. Emerson was sleeping heavily; he did not stir even when I planted a kiss on his bristly cheek, so I dressed and tiptoed out.

The others were in the same state as Emerson, even David, whose cousin Achmet had taken over the duties of guard. I stood for a while by Ramses’s bed, looking down at him. Nefret must have made him take laudanum, or one of her newfangled medicines, for he was deeply asleep. When I brushed the tangled curls away from his face he only murmured and smiled.

I was on the verandah busily making notes when Cyrus and Katherine rode up, Cyrus on his favorite mare Queenie and Katherine on a placid broad-backed pony. Her straw hat was tied under her chin with a large bow, and she looked more than ever like a pleasant pussycat.

Emerson and the children came in shortly thereafter, and we sat down to breakfast. Conversation was sporadic, and not only because we were eating. One was conscious of a certain air of constraint. I was relieved to see that Ramses’s appetite was normal, though he had some little difficulty eating with his left hand. I wondered how Nefret had bullied him into wearing a sling, and whether his injuries were more extensive than I had realized, and whether I ought not insist on examining him myself . . .

“The sling is just to protect his hand, Aunt Amelia. His arm is not hurt.”

They were the first words Nefret had addressed to me since she had uttered those stinging accusations the night before. Her blue eyes were anxious and her smile tentative. I smiled warmly back at her.

“Thank you, my dear, for reassuring me. I have complete confidence in your skill. And thank you for tending to me so efficiently. I slept like a baby and woke refreshed.”

“Oh, Aunt Amelia, I am sorry for what I said last night! I didn’t—”

“You are becoming tediously repetitive, Nefret.” Ramses pushed his plate away. “And you are wasting time. I see that Mother has organized her thoughts in her usual efficient fashion and in writing; shall we ask her to begin?”

I shuffled my papers together and picked them up, wishing I had thought to do so before my son’s vulturine stare fell upon them. The pages had a good many lines scratched out and scribbled over. The complexity of my thought processes does not lend itself to written organization. However, I had decided what to say and I proceeded to say it.

“I agree with Ramses; we ought not waste time in apologies and expressions of regret. If anyone of us has erred, she—er—he or she did so with the best of intentions. There is nothing so futile as—”

“Peabody,” said Emerson. “Please. Abjure aphorisms, if you are able.”

The glint in his handsome blue eyes was one of amusement rather than annoyance. The same affectionate amusement warmed the other faces—except, of course, for that of Ramses. His expression was no more rigid than usual, however, so I concluded we were in accord once more, all grievances forgot.

“Certainly, my dear,” I said. “I begin with the assumption that you are all familiar with the history of our original encounters with Sethos. Ramses has told David and Nefret, and Cyrus has told Katherine? Hmmm, yes, I thought so. I gleaned certain bits of additional information during my—er—private interview with him. After long and thoughtful consideration of that interview I have extracted the following facts that may be relevant.

“Sethos does have a private collection of antiquities. What he said—er . . .” I pretended to consult my notes. It was not necessary; never would I forget those words, or the look in those strange chameleon eyes when he pronounced them. “He said: ‘The most beautiful objects I take, I keep for myself.’ ”

Emerson growled deep in his throat, and Ramses remarked, with greater tact than I would have expected, “The papyrus certainly meets his criteria. What else did he say?”

I started to shake my head—caught Nefret’s fond but critical eye—and sighed. “That Emerson was one of the few individuals in the world who could constitute a danger to him. He did not explain why. He claimed he had never harmed a woman. He promised . . . No, let me be absolutely accurate. He implied that he would never again interfere with me or injure those I love.”

“It appears you misunderstood that one,” my son said dryly.

“What else?” Nefret demanded inflexibly.

“As to his familiarity with our personal habits and private affairs . . . Well, let me put it this way. He knows enough about Ramses to suspect that he has become interested in the art of disguise, and that he could easily pass as an Egyptian. Once the suspicion arose, a clever man might be able to deduce the identity of Ali the Rat. For one thing, Ali was seen in Cairo only when we were there. I cannot think of anything else that would help us. That is the truth, Nefret.”

It was the truth—or so I honestly believed. It would not be fair or accurate to say I was mistaken, for at that time none of us had the faintest inkling . . . But excuses do not become me. I was wrong, and the price I paid for my error was one that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

A pensive and (in Nefret’s case) somewhat skeptical silence followed. No one questioned my statement, however. Finally Ramses said, “It doesn’t get us any further, does it? There is nothing to suggest Sethos is not behind this business and nothing to prove that he is. If the incident in London is unrelated to the others, we have another unknown foe to contend with, and it may be that he would have exchanged David and me for the papyrus. If Sethos is the mastermind, he only took us prisoner as a means of getting to Mother. Humiliating, isn’t it, David? No one wants us for our charming selves.”

“Could I have a look at this famous papyrus?” Cyrus asked. “It must be something darned remarkable if a fellow is willing to go to such lengths to get it back.”

“It is,” Ramses said.

“As papyri go,” said Emerson, who is not as impressed by papyri as are some people. “Fetch it here, Ramses.”

Ramses did so. Cyrus let out a low whistle. “It’s darned elegant, all right. Mr. Walter Emerson is going to go off his head about it.”

“Uncle Walter!” David started to his feet. “Good heavens! He and Aunt Evelyn and Lia . . . They mustn’t come! They could be in terrible danger.”

“Now, David, don’t be so melodramatic,” I said. “There is no reason to suppose—”

“He’s right, though,” Emerson said. “At the moment we don’t know what the devil is going on, much less why. Three more potential victims would complicate the problem even further. We had better head them off.”

“It is too late,” I said hollowly. “They sailed from Marseilles this morning.”

It was Katherine who dispelled the Gothic atmosphere with a simple statement. “Always expect the worst and take steps to prevent it.”

“Just what I was about to say,” I exclaimed. “Steps! We must take steps! Er—what steps?”

There was something very comforting about that calm pink-cheeked face of hers. “First, take every possible means to protect yourselves. Secure this place and don’t go abroad without an escort. Second, postpone or cancel the visit of your family. I don’t doubt Evelyn and Walter can take care of themselves, but the girl cannot; she would only be an additional source of anxiety. Third, find out who is responsible for this and stop them.”

“That’s a pretty ambitious program, my dear,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “Where do we start?”

It warmed my heart to hear him say “we,” but I had expected no less of him.

“In Gurneh, obviously,” said Ramses. “And, as Mrs. Vandergelt has so sensibly suggested, all together.”

I had expected the village would be abuzz with excitement, for the events of the preceding night would certainly be known by now to every inhabitant, spreading rapidly along that web of gossip that is the primary source of news in illiterate societies. However, as we rode along the winding path I saw the place was abnormally quiet. A few people greeted us; others we saw only as a flutter of skirts as the wearers thereof whisked themselves behind a wall.

“That was Ali Yussuf,” I exclaimed. “What is wrong with him?”

Emerson chuckled. “An uneasy conscience, my dear Peabody. Even if he had nothing to do with last night’s affair, he is afraid we will hold him responsible for what happened to the boys.”

“One cannot help being suspicious, Emerson. How could the miscreants have been so bold as to bring their captives here unless some of the villagers were in league with them?”

Ramses was riding ahead, but he can hear a whisper across the Nile, as the Egyptians say. He turned his head. “This was only a temporary stopover, Mother. They would have moved us under cover of darkness.”

Kadija was standing in the doorway when we rode up to Abdullah’s house. She informed us that neither Abdullah nor Daoud was at home. “Curse it,” said Emerson. “I told Daoud to keep the old rascal out of this. Where have they gone, Kadija?”

Daoud’s wife understood English though she never spoke it. Looking as mysterious as only a black veil can make one look, she gave Emerson the answer he had expected.

“Curse it,” Emerson repeated. “I suppose the whole lot of them have gone there.”

“Not all,” said Kadija in Arabic. “Some are asking questions, Father of Curses. Many questions of many people. Will you come in and drink tea and wait?”

We declined with thanks and were about to proceed when Kadija came out of the house, moving with ponderous and dignified deliberation. Her hand, large and calloused as a man’s, rested for a moment on David’s booted foot before she turned to Ramses and inspected him closely. It was not Ramses whom she addressed, however. “Will you stay for a moment, Nur Misur?”

“Yes, of course. Go on,” Nefret said to the rest of us.

She was only a moment. “Well?” I asked. “What is so funny?”

Nefret got her face under control. “She told me a very amusing story.”

“Kadija?” I said in surprise. “What sort of story?”

“Uh—never mind. What she really wanted was reassurance about the boys. She was too shy to ask them directly how they are feeling.”

We could have found the house we sought even without David’s directions. It was surrounded by a crowd of people, all gesticulating wildly and talking at the top of their lungs. The black robes of the women contrasted with the white and blue and sand-colored galabeeyahs of the men, and children darted in and out like little brown beetles. The men greeted us without self-consciousness; either their consciences were clear, or they had none.

This was not the house in which Layla had once lived. I remembered that establishment very well. This was larger and more isolated, with a few dusty tamarisk trees behind it and no other house in sight. The location was well suited to the purpose it had served; a cart loaded with, let us say, sugar cane, could drive through the gates into the walled courtyard without arousing suspicion.

When I saw who stood in the open doorway I understood why none of the men had had the temerity to attempt to enter. Daoud’s large frame filled the aperture from side to side and from lintel to threshold. He rushed at us with cries of pleasure and relief, embraced David, and was about to do the same to Ramses when Nefret got between them.

Abdullah awaited us inside. His snowy-white beard bristled with indignation, and a ferocious scowl darkened his venerable brow. He addressed Emerson in tones of icy reproof.

“Why did you not tell me? This would not have happened if you had taken me into your confidence.”

“Now, see here, Abdullah,” Emerson began.

“I understand. I am too old. Too old and stupid. I will go sit in the sun with the other senile old men and—”

“You were in our confidence, Abdullah,” I interrupted. “You knew as much as we did. We were not expecting anything like this either.”

“Ah.” Abdullah sat down on the stairs and scratched his ear. “Then I forgive you, Sitt. Now what shall we do?”

“It appears to me that you are already doing it,” said Ramses, glancing at the open door of the room on our left. It had once been comfortably furnished, with rugs and tables, a wide divan and several armchairs of European style, and a large cupboard or wardrobe against the far wall. The shutters had been flung open and sunlight streaming through the windows illumined a scene of utter chaos—rugs rolled up and thrown aside, cushions scattered across the floor, chairs overturned.

“We are searching for clues,” Abdullah explained.

“Trampling them underfoot, most likely,” said Emerson. “Where is Selim? I told him to . . . Oh, good Gad!”

A resounding crash from above indicated Selim’s presence. Ramses slipped past Abdullah and hurried up the stairs, with the rest of us following.

Selim was not alone. Two of his brothers and one of his second cousins once removed were rampaging through the rooms on the first floor, “searching for clues,” one presumed. Emerson’s roar stopped but did not at all disconcert them; they gathered round, all talking at once as they tried to tell him what they had done.

I left Emerson patiently explaining the principles of searching suspected premises, and joined Ramses, who stood looking into one of the rooms.

It was a woman’s bedchamber. The furnishings were an odd mixture of local and imported luxury—Oriental rugs of silken beauty, a toilet table draped with muslin, carved chests, and vessels of fine china behind a screen. I deduced that Selim and his crew had not had time to demolish this room, but there was evidence of a hasty search. One of the chests stood open; its contents spilled out in a flood of rainbow-hued fabric. The bedsheet was crumpled and dusty.

“This is where you were confined?” I asked.

“Yes.” Ramses crossed to the bed. He picked up a piece of white cotton, which I had not seen because it was the same color as the sheet, examined it, and dropped it onto the floor. I did not need to ask what it was.

A search of the room produced nothing except a few lengths of rope, knotted and cut—and Ramses’s boots, which had been kicked under the bed. I was glad to get them back, for he had only the two pair, and boots are expensive.

Nefret and I investigated the chests. They contained women’s clothing, some Egyptian, some European—including a nightdress of transparent silk permeated with a scent that made Nefret wrinkle her nose.

“She must bathe in the cursed stuff,” she muttered.

“She took everything of value with her,” said Emerson, who had overturned the mattress and bedsprings. “There is no jewelry, no money. And no papers.”

Nefret tossed the nightdress back into the chest. “She left all her clothing, though.”

“There wasn’t time to pack a trunk,” said Ramses. “Nor would she have dared return to get her things. She said others were coming soon.”

Katherine sat down on a hassock. “If she carried away only what she could put in a smallish bundle, she will have to replenish her wardrobe. We should inquire at the markets and shops.”

“I was about to make that suggestion,” said a voice in pure cultivated English.

He stood watching us from the doorway, clad in well-cut tweeds and gleaming boots, his hat in his hand, his fair hair as smooth as if he had just passed his brushes over it.

“Sir Edward!” I cried. “What are you doing here?”

“I have been here for some time, Mrs. Emerson. Good morning to you all,” he added with a pleasant smile.

“Daoud was not supposed to admit anyone,” Ramses said.

“Daoud did not include me in that interdict,” said Sir Edward amiably. “He remembered me as a friend and coworker. As a friend I could not remain aloof. The news was all over Luxor this morning. I am relieved tofind it was exaggerated”—his cool blue eyes moved over Ramses and spared a glance for David—“but not entirely inaccurate. How could I not offer my assistance?”

“Unnecessary,” said Emerson. “We have the matter under control.”

“Ah, but have you? No one who knows you all as I do would doubt your ability to defend yourselves against ordinary enemies. The very fact that these enemies succeeded in abducting Ramses and his servant—”

“David is not my servant,” Ramses said.

“—and his friend,” Sir Edward corrected smoothly, “strong young men who were, I do not doubt, on the alert, suggests that they are dangerous and unscrupulous. As I told Mrs. Emerson the other evening, I am looking for something to occupy my mind. My archaeological services are not needed, it appears, so I beg you will accept my services as a guard.”

“For ‘the ladies,’ you mean?” Nefret inquired, lashes fluttering and lips trembling. “Oh, Sir Edward, how gallant! How noble! How can we ever thank you?”

It was such an outrageous parody I was tempted to laugh. Sir Edward was no more taken in than I. He planted his hand upon the approximate region of his heart, and gazed at Nefret with the sickening intensity of a provincial actor playing Sir Galahad. “The protection of helpless females is an Englishman’s sacred duty, Miss Forth.”

Emerson was not amused. “What nonsense,” he grumbled. “This is no laughing matter, Sir Edward.”

“I am well aware of that, sir. If I have been informed correctly, the woman who owned this house was the same one Mrs. Emerson and I encountered a few years ago. I was able to be of some small service to her then. Dare I flatter myself that I may be again?”

Emerson dismissed the offer with a frown and a peremptory gesture. “We are wasting time with these empty courtesies. We have not finished searching the place.”

Sir Edward was wise enough to refrain from further argument, but he followed at a discreet distance while we examined the remaining rooms and the flat roof. We found nothing of a personal nature except an empty tin that had contained opium, and a nargileh. The kitchen, a separate building near the main house, was a shambles. It reeked of vegetables that had begun to go bad, milk that had curdled, and the thin sour beer of Egypt. The only unusual item was a broken bottle of green glass. Ramses sorted through the fragments till he found one that had part of a label.

“Moët and Chandon,” he said.

“The lady has expensive tastes,” Sir Edward murmured.

“She has the means to indulge them,” I said. “She has buried two wealthy husbands.”

The only remaining place to be searched was the shed. It had been painful enough for me to see the room where Ramses had been imprisoned; the gag and the tightly knotted ropes were mute but powerful evidence of those long hours of discomfort and uncertainty. The filthy little shed was even worse. My sympathetic imagination—a quality with which I am amply endowed—pictured David lying helpless and wounded on the hard floor, despairing of rescue, fearing the worst, in ignorance of what had befallen the friend he loved like a brother. What would have been his fate, and that of Ramses, if Layla had not come to their aid? Not a clean, quick death, for their attackers could have dispatched them at any time. A number of alternatives came to mind. A shudder ran through my frame.

There was not room in the horrid little place for all of us, so I left the search to Emerson and Ramses. All they found was an overturned beer jar and a pile of cigarette ends, a rough clay lamp and a thin layer of musty straw.

We returned to Abdullah’s house, hoping that the inquiries he had set in motion had produced more information. Our people had been on the job since dawn, and I must say they had covered the village thoroughly. A crowd of witnesses awaited us, some grumbling and resentful, some curious and cheerful. Abdullah brought them in one by one while we sipped the tea Kadija served.

Everyone had known of Layla’s return; it had been a subject of interest, particularly to some of the men. However, when they dropped by to renew old acquaintances they had been turned away. They were indignant but not surprised; Layla had always been unpredictable, as one of them put it, adding philosophically, “That is what comes of letting women have their own money. They do what they wish instead of what men tell them to do.”

“Damned right,” said Nefret, after this last witness had taken his leave. “I beg your pardon, Aunt Amelia and Mrs. Vandergelt.”

“Granted,” said Katherine with a smile. She had got accustomed to hearing Nefret use bad language, and I had more or less given up hope of stopping Nefret from using it. She had learned a good deal of it from Emerson.

Aside from the unhelpful information about Layla, the majority of the witnesses had nothing much to say, though some of them said it at considerable length. Strangers had been seen coming and going from Layla’s house; they were unfriendly people who would not stop and fahddle or answer questions. Finally Emerson put a stop to the proceedings with a vehement comment.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere. If any of the Gurnawis knew those fellows they won’t admit it. Layla is our best lead. We must find her. Where can she have gone?”

Sir Edward had come with us, since no one had told him not to. He cleared his throat. “Doesn’t it seem likely that she would have crossed over to Luxor? The villages on the West Bank are small and close-knit; strangers are noticed. There is a certain part of Luxor . . . Forgive me. I ought not to have referred to it while there are ladies present.”

“Oh, that part of Luxor,” I said. “Hmmm.”

“The thought had occurred to me,” Ramses said, with a hostile look at Sir Edward, who smiled amiably back.

“Well, you are not to go there,” I declared. “Nor David.”

I did not forbid Nefret to go, because it would never have occurred to me that she would. Autopsies and mangled bodies, yes; the abodes of hardened criminals, certainly; but a house of illicit affection . . .

I cannot imagine how I could have been so dense.

Sir Edward took leave of us at the place where we had stabled our horses with one of Abdullah’s innumerable young relatives. He did not renew his offer of assistance, but the meaningful look he gave me was sufficient assurance that it held and would hold. He looked very well on horseback, and Nefret’s eyes were not the only ones that followed his erect figure as he rode off toward the ferry.

We turned our horses in the direction of home and Cyrus said, “I don’t want to speak out of turn, Emerson, but darned if I can understand why you didn’t jump at Sir Edward’s offer. He’s a husky young fellow and a smart one, too.”

“I won’t have him hanging about making eyes at my wife,” Emerson growled. “Or Nefret.”

“Well, now,” said Cyrus, in his quiet drawl, “I don’t recollect that there’s any law against a fellow paying polite attentions to a lady so long as she doesn’t object. And I have a feeling that if Miss Nefret did object she’d let him know in no uncertain terms.”

“Damn—er—absolutely right,” said Nefret. “Don’t talk like a Victorian papa, Professor darling. We need Sir Edward. Especially if Lia and Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Walter join us.”

“There won’t be room in the house,” Emerson muttered. It was the last dying rumble of the volcano; Emerson has his little weaknesses but he is not a fool, and he recognized the inevitable.

“There will be ample room if we can prevent our loved ones from coming,” I said. “Sir Edward is at the Winter Palace, is he not? We will call on him, or leave a message, accepting his offer.”

For once there was no argument about what we should do next. It was imperative that we attempt to locate Layla, and the sooner the better. In my opinion Luxor was her most likely destination and it was there we stood the best chance of finding a trace of her. My suggestion that Ramses should go home and rest was met with stony silence on his part and a critical comment from Nefret.

“I wouldn’t trust him to stay there, Aunt Amelia. We had better let him come along so we can keep our eyes on him.”

I had not intended to take her with us, but when I came to think of it, I did not trust her either. So we rode directly to the dock and two of our men took us across the river in the small boat we kept for that purpose.

      (xiii)     From Manuscript H

“How are we going to get away from them?” Nefret demanded.

They were waiting outside the railway ticket office while the senior Emersons interrogated the stationmaster. The platform, the station house, and the path leading to it were teeming with people waiting to catch the train to Assuan. The sun was high overhead and the air was thick with dust. Nefret had taken off her hat and was fanning herself with it.

“This is a waste of time,” she went on. “How can the stationmaster possibly remember one veiled woman? They all look alike in those black robes. Anyhow,they knew she had betrayed them, and the railway station is one of the first places they would have looked. If she is as clever as all you men seem to think, she would go into hiding until things quiet down, and there is only one logical place where she would go.”

“Nefret, will you please be reasonable?” Ramses kept his voice low. “I agree that Layla might have sought refuge among her old—er—acquaintances. The only way we can manage a visit to the place is with Father’s cooperation. He means to go there himself, which would not be a good idea. David and I may be able to convince him we can be more effective than he, but there is no way on earth he would consent if he thought you were going with us.”

“I wouldn’t consent either,” David said. He stood slightly behind Ramses, his eyes moving suspiciously over the hurrying figures that passed.

Nefret slapped her hat onto her head and tied the ribbons under her chin. “We’ll see about that. Here they come. What luck, Professor?”

“Better than I had expected,” was the reply. “A woman purchased a ticket to Cairo early this morning. Her ornaments and clothing were those of a peasant, but the clerk remembered her because she was traveling alone and she paid for a second-class ticket. A woman of that sort would ordinarily travel third class, if she traveled at all. I am going to telegraph Cairo and ask the police to meet the train.”

It took a good deal of maneuvering and distraction, and several outright lies, to arrange the matter as Ramses wished. After the telegraph office they went to the Winter Palace. Sir Edward was not there, so they decided to have luncheon at the hotel; and it was while the ladies had retired to freshen up that Ramses had the opportunity to talk with his father. The initial reaction was what he had expected—a flat, profane refusal.

“You can’t mean to go yourself, Father,” Ramses said. “They wouldn’t talk to you.”

Emerson fixed him with an icy stare. “They would feel more at ease with you?”

“Yes, sir. I believe so.”

“Everyone in Luxor is in awe of you, Professor,” David added. “They might be afraid to speak freely.”

“Bah,” Emerson said. “No. No, it is impossible. I shudder to think what your mother would say if she found out I let you boys visit a bordello.”

“What will she say if she finds out you mean to visit one, Father?” Ramses asked.

“Er—hmph,” said Emerson, stroking his chin and glancing uneasily at the door of the Ladies’ Parlor.

“He’s got you there, Emerson,” said Vandergelt, grinning. “You’re not a good liar. She’d see through any excuse you gave her, and she’d insist on going along. We sure don’t want her traipsing around the—er—hmmm. Let the lads handle it.”

Ramses had been in an Egyptian brothel only once—in the course, it should be said, of a criminal investigation. The place had sickened him, though it had been one of the less offensive of its kind, catering as it did to Europeans and wealthy Egyptians. This one was worse. The main room opened directly onto the street and was separated from it by a kind of curtain made of strips of cloth. The shutters were closed and the only light came from a pair of hanging lamps. The room reeked of dirt and sweat and cheap perfume. It swarmed with flies, whose buzzing formed an incessant droning.

Their appearance produced another sound—a musical jingle of the ornaments adorning the breasts and ears and hair of the women who reclined on the cushioned divan that was the room’s principal article of furniture. Wide dark eyes framed in kohl stared curiously at them, and one of the women rose, smoothing the thin fabic over her hips in a mechanical gesture of seduction. A curt word from another woman made her cringe back. The speaker stood up and came toward them. She was older than the others. Rolls of fat wobbled as she moved, and the coinlike disks that dangled from her headdress and necklace were of gold.

David cleared his throat. They had agreed it would be better for him to speak first, but he was hoarse with embarrassment. “We are looking for a woman.”

A muted chorus of laughter followed this ingenuous remark, and the proprietress chuckled. “Of course, young masters. Why else are you here?”

“It’s a good thing I came,” said a cool voice behind them. “You had better let me do the talking, David.”

Ramses spun round. She had thrown back the hood of her cloak and her hair glimmered in the streaks of sunlight that filtered through the curtained door. She was like a flower that had sprung up in the middle of a cesspool; his first impulse was to snatch her up and carry her out of the foul place. Knowing how she would react—kicking and screaming would be the least of it—he took hold of her arm. “What in the name of God are you doing here?”

“I followed you. Mrs. Vandergelt took Aunt Amelia to the shops, and I slipped away. You’re hurting me,” she added reproachfully.

“David, get her out of here.”

“Don’t you dare touch me, David!”

By that time they had a fascinated and augmented audience. Several other women had slipped into the room. They were dressed like the others, in flimsy, brightly colored garments. Their uncovered faces ranged in shade from blue-black to creamy brown, and their hands and feet were stained with henna.

Nefret addressed the gaping proprietress in her rapid, simple Arabic.

“We search for a friend, Sitt, a woman who did us a great service and who is in danger because of it. Her name is Layla. She lived in Gurneh, but she ran away from her house last night. We must find her before she comes to harm. Please help us. Have any of you seen her?”

Not a flower, Ramses thought—a ray of sunlight in a dark cell. No stain of sin or sorrow could touch the shining compassion that filled her, or dim the brightness of her presence.

For a few seconds not even the sound of a drawn breath broke the stillness. Then someone moved; he couldn’t tell which of them it was, only the soft tinkle of her ornaments betrayed the fact that movement had occurred.

The older woman folded her plump arms. “Get out,” she said harshly. “We cannot help you. What sort of men are you, to let one such as she come to this place?”

“Excellent point,” said Ramses, recovering himself. He’d been reading too damned much poetry, that was his trouble. “Nefret, it’s no good. Come away.”

She stood her ground. “You know who we are, where we live. If any of you know anything—if you want to leave this terrible life—come to us, we will help you escape—”

The old woman burst into a flood of invective and shook her fists at them. Nefret didn’t budge. She raised her voice and went on talking until Ramses and David dragged her out the door.

“That was brilliant,” Ramses said, once they had retreated to a safe distance. “Nefret, may I venture to suggest once again that you hold your tongue and control your emotions until you’ve given some little thought to what you are doing? You might have endangered yourself, and us.”

“They wouldn’t dare attack us,” Nefret muttered.

“Perhaps not. The women are another matter.”

“But I didn’t mean . . . Oh, good heavens, do you think . . .”

She looked so stricken he hadn’t the heart to continue scolding her. “All I’m saying is that we didn’t go there on a rescue expedition, admirable as that aim might have been. We were attempting to extract information, and trying to remove the merchandise is not the way to win a merchant’s confidence.”

“How can you joke about it?” Her blue eyes shone with tears of rage and compassion.

“The only alternative is to curse God. Neither does any good.” His hands lingered as he adjusted the hood of her cloak over her bright head. “Let me try once more.”

“You are not going in there alone, Ramses,” David announced.

“You can keep watch. Wait for me here.”

“If you aren’t out in five minutes I’ll come after you,” Nefret said.

He was out in less than five minutes. “Nothing,” he reported. “No one saw her, no one would admit knowing her.”

“I’ll try another place,” David said heroically. His face was pinched with disgust.

“No. I haven’t the stomach for more either,” Ramses admitted. “The word will spread now—and one of the words I mentioned was ‘reward.’ I didn’t suppose any of them would dare speak up before the others. Come, let’s get out of this.”

When they reached the riverbank David had found a new source of worry. “Aunt Amelia will want to know where we were. What shall we tell her?”

“That we went to the Luxor garden for a cup of tea,” Nefret said. “We’ll go there now, so it won’t be a lie.”

She was more composed now, her face pensive instead of angry. After they had found a table and ordered tea, she said, “I did make a mess of things, didn’t I?”

“Not necessarily,” Ramses said. “One never knows; an impulsive word from you may have had more effect than my methods.”

“I won’t ask what methods you used.” She smiled at him and took his bandaged hand gently in hers. “I’ve been wanting to ask you about this—and a few other things. You must have hit someone very hard to do so much damage.”

“There were two of them,” Ramses said, wondering what she was getting at.

“In the house, you mean? You took on both of them at once? That was very brave of you.”

“Not very.”

“And what was Layla doing while you fought two men?”

Her eyes were wide and innocent and as blue as the sea, and that was where she had maneuvered him—between the devil and the deep blue sea. He tried to think of a convincing lie and failed miserably; he couldn’t remember precisely how much he had told them, but he must have said enough to get that quick, intuitive mind of hers on the right track.

“Precisely what you suspect,” he said with a sigh. “At least that was what she intended to do. Don’t despise me, Nefret, I got there in time to prevent it. How the devil do you know these things?”

Her fingers stroked his wrist, sending tremors all the way up his arm. “I know you, my boy.”

“Don’t let your emotions get the better of you, Nefret. There’s Mother. I might have known she’d track us down.” His mother was advancing with her usual brisk stride; there was only time for him to add with a faint smile, “I hadn’t much choice, dear. If you ever found out I had slunk away and left her, you’d have used my skin for a rug.”

:

Ihave never succumbed to the lazy Eastern habit of sleeping in the afternoon, but I firmly believe that an active mind is in need of brief intervals of relaxation. After we had returned home after our busy, if fruitless, investigations, I lay down on my bed and picked up a book.

I was roused from the meditative state into which I had fallen by sounds that made me start up with heart pounding. Steel ringing on steel—raised voices—the sounds of mortal combat! Rushing to the door, as I believed, I found myself tugging at the window shutters, which I had closed against the heat of the afternoon sun.

This momentary confusion was soon overcome and I emerged into the courtyard, where I stood transfixed. The sight was terrible: Ramses and David, barefooted, stripped to trousers and shirt, striking fiercely at one another with the long knives used by the Tourag. Mute and motionless with horror, I saw Ramses’s knife drive home against David’s breast.

The paralysis broke. I shrieked.

“Good afternoon, Mother,” said Ramses. “I am sorry if we woke you. Confound it, David, you were holding back. Again.”

David rubbed his chest. “Honestly, I was not. Good afternoon, Aunt Amelia. I am sorry if we—”

“Oh, good Gad!” I exclaimed. He was upright and smiling, without so much as a drop of blood spotting the white fabric. On a bench against the wall Nefret and Emerson sat side by side, like spectators at a performance.

“Hallo, Peabody,” Emerson said. “Here, boys, let me have a go.”

He jumped up and began tugging at his shirt. A button popped off and fell to the ground. Emerson’s hasty method of removing his garments makes it necessary for me to spend far too much time sewing on buttons. When I fix them firmly, the fabric tears instead, ruining the shirt.

“Please, Emerson,” I said automatically. “Not another shirt. What the devil is going on here?”

I saw now that the knives had been blunted by strips of leather bound round the edge and sharp tip. Emerson said cheerfully, “Ramses wanted some practice at fighting left-handed. It is a useful skill, don’t you agree, Peabody?”

“Quite,” I said.

Emerson removed his shirt, losing only one more button in the process, and tossed it onto the bench. “Let me have your knife, Ramses.”

“Take David’s,” said my son. Perspiration beaded his face and trickled down his throat. He had discarded the sling, and I observed that the bandage on his hand was a peculiar shade of green. “He can’t even attackme as hard as he ought; sheer awe of you would paralyze him.”

“But not you, eh?” Emerson grinned. “Right! Have at you, my boy!”

Taking the knife from David’s limp grasp, he stood poised, his knees flexed and his arms outstretched.

I made my way to the bench and sat down next to Nefret. “Those leather strips . . . What if they came undone?”

“I fastened them on myself.” Nefret’s brow was slightly furrowed. “Ramses was keen on the idea, so . . . They look splendid, don’t they?”

I suppose they did. Emerson’s magnificent muscles slid smoothly under his bronzed skin as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Ramses matched him in height if not in bulk; he was breathing rather quickly, but he was as light on his feet as his father. They circled one another slowly. Ramses was the first to attack; his knife drove at Emerson’s ribs. Emerson twisted aside and struck Ramses’s arm away. Ramses jumped back, throwing out his other arm to maintain his balance, and his father slashed at his unguarded breast. It was not a hard blow, but Ramses dropped his knife and doubled over, clutching his side.

“Oh, curse it,” Emerson said, hurrying to him. “Forgive me, my boy. Come and sit down.”

Ramses pulled away from his father’s affectionate grasp and straightened. The blunted tip of Emerson’s knife had caught in the opening of his shirt and pulled it apart. The bruise over his rib cage was the size and color of a tarnished silver saucer. “It’s quite all right, sir. Shall we try again?”

Emerson began, “I will not take advantage—”

“The point of this exercise,” said Ramses, breathing hard, “is learning to deal with an opponent who is delighted to take any advantage he can. I daresay I have had more practice at this than you, Father. Don’t be afraid of hurting me again. I won’t let you.”

“That’s enough,” Nefret said, jumping up. “Curse you, Ramses, you bloody idiot!”

“More than enough,” said Emerson. “Ramses, my boy—”

“No harm done, sir, I assure you.” Ramses picked up his knife. “If you will excuse me, I will go and clean up.”

“If you will excuseme, ” said Nefret to us, “I will go and deal with Ramses. Itold him not to take those bandages off!”

Emerson cleared his throat. “Er—Nefret, my dear, I know you mean well, but don’t you think he might be more amenable if you—er—asked him nicely instead of—er—calling him names?”

“Hmph,” said Nefret—but she looked a little self-conscious. “All right, sir, I will try. Come and help me, David. If gentle persuasion doesn’t do the job, you will have to hold him down.”

“What’s wrong, Peabody?” Emerson inquired. “I am a confounded clumsy idiot, but I don’t believe he is much hurt.”

“I am sure he is not.”

My voice was not entirely steady. Emerson put a manly arm round my shoulders and made comforting noises. He seldom gets the chance to treat me like a timid little woman, and he enjoys it very much.

Absolute nonsense, of course. I am quite accustomed to deadly weapons of all varieties. I carry several myself: pistol and knife, and of course my parasol. Nor had my conscious mind been misled by the mock combat between the two boys; I had seen them practice before, with bare hands and with knives, and I knew either of them would have rather died than harm the other. Why then had I felt a sensation as of icy hands closing over my heart? Could it be that I had beheld not the harmless present but the deadly future—the portent of an encounter yet to come?

At dinner that evening David again raised the question of what we were to do about those dear ones who were even then on their way to us. I assured him I had not forgot the matter, but had only postponed it since we had had more pressing problems to deal with.

“They sailed from Marseilles yesterday morning and will not arrive in Alexandria until Monday next,” I explained. “That gives us two more days.”

“One,” said Ramses. “The steamer arrives early in the morning, so if we want to head them off one of us should take the train to Cairo on Sunday.”

“I believe we became a bit overexcited the other evening,” I said. “The danger to them is surely minimal, and they will be disappointed not to come on.”

“Especially Lia,” Nefret said. “She has looked forward to this so much. She has been studying Arabic all this past winter.”

“They must be warned, at least,” I said. “I will take the train—”

“Not on any account, Peabody,” said Emerson, glowering at me. “Do you suppose I don’t know what you intend? Your mind is an open book to me. I will not have you perambulating around Cairo interrogating antiquities dealers and harassing the police and—”

“One of the boys could come with me.”

“No,” said Nefret, as emphatically as Emerson. “Never mind Cairo, the journey itself is too risky. Fourteen hours on the train, with several stops—good Gad, all it would take is a gun in your ribs or a knife at your back.”

“Then what do you propose?” David asked with unusual heat. “One of us must go, there is no question of that, and surely I am the most logical person. They won’t bother with me.”

I believe the others were as taken aback as I. For a moment the only sound that broke the silence was the fluttering of insects round the lamp. A moth, drawn by the fatal lure of the flame, dropped down the glass chimney and expired in a brief burst of glory.

“Don’t talk like a damned fool,” Ramses said brusquely.

“I would not have put it that way, but I endorse the sentiment most emphatically,” I said. “David, how can you suppose we would be indifferent to a threat directed at you? You are one of us.”

“Quite,” said Emerson. “None of us is going. I would take on the job myself, but I cannot trust the rest of you to behave yourselves. I am sending Selim and Daoud.”

“Brains and muscle,” I said, smiling. “That is the ideal solution, Emerson. They can carry a letter from me, explaining the situation and urging Walter to take the next boat back to England. Unless, of course, we can solve the case before then.”

“Before Sunday morning?” Ramses inquired, raising his eyebrows.

“Don’t be absurd, Peabody,” Emerson grunted.

“Hmmmm,” said Nefret.

“We can at least make a start,” David said. “Tomorrow in Luxor—”

“What are you talking about?” Emerson stared at him. “Tomorrow is a workday.”

“Oh, come, Emerson, you surely don’t intend to resume work as if nothing had happened,” I exclaimed.

“I do not intend,” said Emerson, “to allow anyone, male, female, or fiend in human form, to stop my excavations. What the devil is wrong with you, Peabody? What the devil is wrong with all of you?” He raked our faces with his glittering blue gaze. “We’ve been in situations as difficult as this before, and faced enemies as unscrupulous. Riccetti and Vincey and—”

“Never mind the rest,” I said. “It is a long list, Emerson, I admit. Perhaps you are right. We will not huddle in the house starting at shadows. We will not be intimidated!”

“Bravely spoken, Mother.” Ramses sounded amused, though his countenance did not display that emotion or any other. “However, I trust you won’t object to taking a few precautions.”

“Such as?”

“The same precautions Mrs. Vandergelt suggested. Guards, several of them, here at the house by night and by day. None of us is to go anywhere alone, or with only one other person. Keep your eyes open and trust no one.”

“That applies to you and David as well,” said Emerson, studying him keenly. “You are coming with us tomorrow, to the Valley.”

“Yes, sir.”

Emerson had not expected such ready agreement. His stern face relaxed into a smile. “You’ll enjoy it, my boy. We have cleared the entrance to tomb Five, and Ayrton has found a cache of storage jars!”

“Indeed. That is exciting news, sir.”

“Yes. You know the terrain.” Emerson pushed his plate away and took a handful of fruit from the bowl. “Here is number Five, this fig is the entrance to Ramses the Sixth. . . .”

Not even a threat of murder can distract Emerson indefinitely from the joy of excavation. I did not object when he poured a pile of sugar onto the table and demonstrated the approximate location of Ned Ayrton’s find. His superb self-confidence had restored mine. I felt ashamed of myself for yielding, however briefly, to weakness. And how foolish had been that earlier fantasy of discord! We were utterly devoted to one another. Brothers could not be closer than Ramses and David.

      (xiv)     From Manuscript H

Sitting on the window ledge he waited for a long time, watching the slits of light that showed through the shuttered window of his parents’ room. They must be arguing. Nothing surprising about that. It would end as it always did, but it was taking them devilish long tonight.

The courtyard lay quiet under the moon. His father had brushed aside his mother’s suggestion that it be lighted, and he was in full agreement. The best possible solution was not to deter invaders but to catch them in the act. It wasn’t likely that anything of that sort would happen, though. “They” wouldn’t risk entering the house when there were easier ways.

A few of the precautions he had suggested had been taken. There were bars on the outer windows now, those of his—formerly Nefret’s—room and of his parents’. They could be removed, but not without making a lot of noise. The gates were barred and the glow of a cigarette in one corner betokened the presence of Mustafa, Daoud’s second son.

Finally the slits of light at his parents’ window disappeared. He waited a little longer before lowering his feet to the ground.

Nefret was still awake. She was not alone. The voices were soft, he couldn’t make out the words. Was she talking to the damned cat? Somehow he didn’t think so.

Eavesdropping was a despicable habit. But, as he had once told his mother, cursed useful. I oughtn’t do this, he thought, as he put his ear against the panel.

“You should tell him, David. It isn’t fair not to.”

“I know.” David’s voice was so low he could barely make out the words. “I’ve tried, but—”

He was not consciously aware of pressing the latch. The door seemed to open by itself. They were sitting side by side on the bed. Nefret’s arm was around David, and he had covered his face with his hands.

David lowered his hands. “Ramses!”

“Excuse me.” He stepped back. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“We were just about to go looking for you,” Nefret said, jumping up. “Come in and close the door.”

“No. I apologize for intruding. I’ll go.”

“What’s the matter?” Nefret asked. “Is your hand bothering you?”

“No, not at all. I—”

“Close the damned door.”

She did it for him and pushed him into the nearest chair. “I want to dress your hand again. David, get me a basin of water, will you?”

She cut through the cloth and guided his hand into the water. A green stain spread out, and Nefret eased the bandage off. “Amazing,” she murmured. “The confounded stuff does seem to be effective. The swelling has gone down.”

“It looks horrible,” David said in a smothered voice.

“That’s because it’s green,” Nefret explained.

“It does rather suggest rotting flesh,” Ramses agreed. “But it feels considerably better. I suppose Kadija gave you the ointment this morning?”

“She slipped it to me while Aunt Amelia wasn’t looking. Daoud got it from her, did you know that? She says the women of her family have handed the recipe down for generations. One of these days I must take a sample home and have it analyzed. Now, this is going to hurt. What shall we talk about that will prove sufficiently distracting? I know! Sir Edward. Do you think he’s the Master Criminal in disguise?”

It did hurt. He set his teeth. “So that occurred to you, did it?”

“Really, Ramses, you are so exasperating! You might at least look surprised when I announce a startling theory. I’ve been thinking about the fortuitous appearance of the gallant Sir Edward. The last time we saw him was the year we had all that trouble with Riccetti and the rival gang of antiquities thieves. It was Sir Edward who rescued Aunt Amelia from one of the latter group. He had followed her that day for reasons that have never been satisfactorily explained—”

“That was just Father being sarcastic,” Ramses said impatiently. “He thinks every man Mother meets falls madly in love with her.”

“But Sir Edward wasn’t madly in love with her, was he? So whydid he follow her that day? Riccetti was trying to reestablish his control over the illegal antiquities game in Egypt. So were other people. Why should not one of them have been the Master Criminal himself?”

“It’s an interesting idea,” David said thoughtfully. “Sir Edward does match her description, doesn’t he? Just under six feet tall, well-built, athletic. And an Englishman.”

“He’s too young,” Ramses objected.

“Too young for what?” David asked. “He appears to be in his middle to late thirties, but the man is an expert at disguise. And you don’t know how old Sethos was when you first met him. A very young man can be brilliant, and be capable of a grand passion.”

Ramses stiffened. Nefret paused in the act of winding the bandage round his hand. “Too tight?”

“No. Get it over with, can’t you?”

“Ungrateful brute,” said Nefret without rancor. “There’s another suspicious point about the gentleman. When we first knew him, he called himself a poor relation, a younger son who had to work for a living. You heard what he said the other night, about an inheritance from an uncle that had made him financially independent. So what’s he doing in Egypt? He did demonstrate some interest in and talent for archaeology, but if that interest had been sincere he’d have come back before this, wouldn’t he? Why has he turned up now? There you are, my boy. All done.”

“Thank you.” He wriggled the fingers she had left protruding. “Far be it from me to cast cold water on an intriguing theory, but I can think of another reason for Sir Edward’s reapparance that has nothing to do with criminal activities.”

Nefret sat back on her heels and smiled at him. “Me.”

“You. Yes.”

“Oh, he’s interested,” Nefret said calmly. “He might be even more interested if I gave him any encouragement.”

“You’ve flirted outrageously with him!”

“Of course.” Nefret chuckled. “It’s fun. Ramses, you are such an old Puritan! If it will relieve your mind, I am not in love with Sir Edward. He’s extremely attractive and utterly charming, but I don’t care for him that way.”

“Then he wasn’t the man you were seeing in . . . Sorry. None of my affair.”

“In London?” The soft chuckle deepened into a laugh. “No, it isn’t your affair, but if you hadn’t been so confounded inquisitive I’d have told you. He was one of the medical students from Saint Bart’s. I thought, innocent creature that I am, that he was interested in mymind . He wasn’t. Now can we get back to business?”

Ramses nodded. A few days earlier he would have been delighted to learn she wasn’t interested in Sir Edward or the unfortunate medical student (he wished he had been on the scene when Nefret dealt with the fellow’s advances). Now there was another, far more dangerous rival. Or was there? He wondered if he was losing what was left of his mind.

“I suppose he can’t be Sethos,” Nefret admitted. “It’s a pity. Aunt Amelia needs all the protectors she can find. Sethos would die to keep her from harm!”

“My God, you’re beginning to romanticize the fellow,” Ramses said in disgust.

“He is romantic,” Nefret said dreamily. “Suffering from a hopeless passion for a woman he can never have, watching over her from the shadows . . .”

“You’ve been reading too many rotten novels,” Ramses said caustically. “If Sethos is still in love with Mother, he’ll be after her himself. If he isn’t, he won’t bother defending her.”

“Goodness, what a cynic you are!” Nefret exclaimed.

“A realist,” Ramses corrected. “Disinterested passion is a contradiction in terms. What man outside a romantic novel would risk his life for a woman he can never possess?”

“Didn’t you risk yours, for Layla?”

Ramses shifted uncomfortably. “How the devil do we get onto such subjects? What I meant to say was that a second party who has designs on Mother is a complication we don’t need. When is Sir Edward joining us?”

“Tomorrow. There’s plenty of room if Uncle Walter and the others don’t come.”

Ramses nodded. “I only hope . . .”

“What?”

“That they can be persuaded to return home.” Absently he rubbed his side.

Nefret put her hand over his. “Does it hurt? Let me give you something to help you sleep.”

“It doesn’t hurt, it itches. I don’t need anything to help me sleep. I think I will turn in, though. It’s been rather a long day.”

It was a longer night. He dreamed again of fighting blindly in the dark, of hands that clawed and pounded at his face, of his own hands fumbling and flailing, and finding at last the only hold that might save them. Again his stomach turned at the sound of shattering bone, again the brief flare of a match illumined the dead face. But this time the face was David’s.

•