The Buried Pyramid (15 page)

“Our correspondent has used some of the same words,” Jenny said, recalling the previous letter, which she had poured over repeatedly with a sort of horrified fascination. “Isn’t that ‘the’?”

Uncle Neville nodded. He had taken one of the chairs, and motioned Jenny toward the other.

“Let us see what we can make of this,” he said.

In a few moments, they had come up with a list of letters nearly as unintelligible as the original.

BHYND TH BRYTST UF SMYLS LRKS DRKST INTNT GRD IS A PR RSUN FR SCRILG LF THE GD KING T HS RST SFYNKS.

“I think it’s going to be easier this time,” Stephen said. “We know it’s in English, so we can fill in fairly easily.”

Jenny nodded. “That’s ‘the good king’ there toward the end.”

Sir Neville raised a hand. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? ‘Behind the brightest of smiles . . . ’ ”

“ ‘Lurks,’ ” Stephen said, not so much interrupting as letting his enthusiasm rule his tongue. “‘Lurks darkest intent.’ The next word is a poser until you read on, then it just has to be ‘greed.’ ”

“Yes,” Jenny said, continuing his translation. “ ‘Greed is a poor reason for sacrilege.’ But lf? Leaf is all that comes to my mind, and that makes no sense at all.”

“Laugh?” Stephen suggested, but he didn’t sound convinced. “Luff? Rather too nautical, I fear.”

“Luff . . . That rather reminds me of old Alphonse Liebermann,” Neville said. “He always transformed his ‘V’s into ‘F’s so whenever he spoke about ‘love’—as he did frequently when Eddie’s attraction to Miriam came apparent—it sounded like he was discussing a high wind.”

“Love is rather like a high wind,” Stephen said. “Blows you away.”

He grinned, and Jenny groaned. She had already learned that Stephen was a punster—and she could imagine just how popular this trait would have made him with the serious archeologists who might otherwise have found him a valuable assistant.

Sir Neville frowned at this levity, his attention fixed on the letter.

“Stephen, am I remembering correctly that the Egyptians don’t seem to have had a phonetic equivalent for ‘V’?”

“That’s right!” Stephen said. “If our correspondent hadn’t been able to think of a way around using a letter that, after all, is very common in English, he might have had to resort to the next best choice—an ‘F.’ ”

“So ‘love’ is an option,” Jenny said, “but it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Look at the text that follows,” Stephen urged. “ ‘Lf the good king,’ then a single ‘T’—it just has to be ‘to.’ ”

“ ‘To his,’ ” Jenny said, filling in the next words, “‘rest.’ And the last word is . . .”

“Sphinx!” Stephen said. “With that, I’m betting then that ‘lf’ is ‘leave.’”

Sir Neville pushed his notes forward so they could read the finished text. “ ‘Behind the brightest of smiles lurks darkest intent. Greed is a poor reason for sacrilege. Leave the good king to his rest.’ And it’s signed ‘Sphinx.’ ”

“A good name for him, since he persists in speaking in riddles,” Neville said. “If it is indeed a signature, as this seems to indicate, it rather changes our reading of the first letter, as well.”

He pulled out their translation.

“The last sentence becomes, ‘Beware the grinning woman. Sphinx.’ It’s a warning against a specific person—a grinning woman.”

Stephen looked rather uncomfortable. Jenny glanced over and met his eye, but neither of them spoke. Over her lessons they had traded a few confidences, and she knew that he too had his doubts about Lady Cheshire and her winning smiles. Uncle Neville, however, seemed unaware of their suspicions.

“I suppose we’ll know this grinning woman when we see her,” he said. “I’m less happy with the rest of this. It does seem as if the blighter knows what we’re after, and has the effrontery to warn us off.”

Unable to make herself address the matter of Lady Cheshire, Jenny brought up the other thing that had been troubling her.

“We’ve been referring to whoever’s writing these as ‘he,’ ” she said, “but wasn’t Oedipus’s sphinx, the one who spoke those famous riddles, wasn’t that one female?”

“A point,” Stephen said. “Well, if so that rather narrows the field, doesn’t it?”

In answer to Jenny’s questioning look, he said, “I mean, there aren’t that many women who read and write hieroglyphs, if you see what I mean.”

“I would have said,” Jenny replied a bit stiffly, “that it broadened the field to include the entire human race.”

Then she relented. “But I see what you mean. Really, there aren’t that many people who read and write hieroglyphs at all.”

“Unfortunately,” Neville said, “we are heading to a part of the world with what I suppose must be the largest concentration of hieroglyph readers
per capita
. Does anyone have a nomination as to who our correspondent might be?”

Jenny shook her head.

“It would be easier if we could limit ourselves to people on this vessel. Unhappily, there is daily contact with land that includes the same postal delivery that brought us this. Lots of people in England and a few in Egypt know we’re on this ship.”

“So the writer could be anyone,” Neville said, “in two countries—including those frustrating Sons of the Hawk. Stephen, are you willing to continue with me in my search for the Valley of Dust?”

Both Jenny and Stephen nodded, and Jenny felt a thrill in her heart at not being excluded. That thrill faded some at Uncle Neville’s next words.

“Jenny, I think you had better unpack that little derringer of yours and discreetly wear it about your person. Stephen, I have delayed your shooting lessons too long. Colonel Travers was speaking just the other day about his concern that his men were doing too much flirting and too little soldiering. I believe he will be quite happy to include you in the training sessions he plans.”

Uncle Neville stared down at the papers spread on the table, glowering at them for a long moment before beginning to fold them away.

“We will take precautions,” he said, “but I have come too far and waited too long to be turned away by a few riddling words.”

5

Auguste Dupin

When
Neptune’s Charger
was only a few days out of Alexandria, a tremendous uproar broke the lazy hour between tea and dinner. First the passengers visiting on the shaded promenade deck observed the purser, Andrew Watkins, hurrying to the first class cabins. Not long after an assortment of the ship’s officers—including, astonishingly, Captain Easthill himself—hurried in the same direction.

Neville, who had been enjoying a quiet conversation with Lady Cheshire while supervising Jenny’s lessons, was amused when his niece, obviously curious about what was going on, excused herself, saying she needed something from her cabin. She was turned back politely but firmly by one of the purser’s flunkies. Even this was news of a sort, so she returned to her companions and reported.

“We haven’t seen the ship’s surgeon go by,” Lady Cheshire commented. “Otherwise, I might hazard illness.”

“He might have arrived from another direction,” Stephen Holmboe commented, marking his place in Scott’s
The Heart of Midlothian
with his thumb. “The one is not ruled out by the other.”

“
Oui, Monsieur Dupin
,” Lady Cheshire responded with a charming laugh.

Mr. Holmboe apparently did not take well to the lady’s teasing, for he colored deeply, and prepared to hide his embarrassment in the pages of his book.

“Look,” Jenny said. “I believe we are going to learn something. Here comes Mr. Watkins.”

Andrew Watkins had been in the Royal Navy, and something of that service’s discipline remained with him, even on purely social occasions. This afternoon, however, his hat was off and his thinning hair was in disarray. He paused a short distance from the gathered passengers, clearly looking for one in particular, then hurried over to where Mary Travers was taking advantage of the rare absence of both of her parents to flirt with a few of her favorite soldiers under Mrs. Syms’s indulgent supervision.

“Miss Travers,” Watkins said, barely concealing his agitation, “if you would come with me, your mother is in need of you.”

Mary might be flighty, in Neville’s opinion, but she was a good girl at heart. There was nothing at all affected in the way she sprang to her feet, her face suddenly pale.

“Is Mother ill?”

“It seems so,” Mr. Watkins admitted. “Doctor MacDonagal says there is no danger, but your presence may be beneficial.”

“I’ll come right away,” Mary said, and did so, not even bothering to reply to the several earnest offers of assistance proffered by the young officers who moments before had been so central to her attention.

Neville frowned. He genuinely liked Colonel Travers, even if he thought him a bit by the book and unimaginative. Mrs. Travers had all the best qualities of a career military wife. Indeed, Neville privately thought her permitting Mary a bit of flirtation out from under her mother’s eye was an indication of this, the wisdom that an easy hand on the rein kept the mouth soft and sensitive to guidance.

Jenny looked after her departing friend with real concern in those remarkable violet eyes.

“Uncle Neville,” she said, “do you think I should offer my help? Perhaps Dr. MacDonagal is unaccustomed to treating ladies.”

“If he’s an officer on a passenger ship, he most certainly has done so,” Neville assured her. “I’m certain that they would be as happy for your offer later as now.”

Jenny sat back and picked up her book, but Neville doubted she saw anything before her. Her downcast eyes had clouded, and before she could stop it, a tear leaked from beneath her lashes. She quickly mopped the betraying drop away, and Neville thought it better not to comment. Clearly, these were not tears of pique, but of sorrow at the memory of her own mother’s death when she—unlike Mary—had been far away and unable to help.

There seemed to be a singular dearth of servants about. Even Captain Brentworth’s strident bellows for Rashid produced no result.

“They must be being kept below,” Stephen ventured. “If they were above deck I think we would have heard them—or they us.”

He glanced over at Captain Brentworth, who was moodily puffing on a cigarette as if Rashid’s failure to appear were a personal insult.

Sometime later a steward who professed to know nothing about the earlier commotion appeared on deck and asked if he could bring anyone some light refreshment. Dinner would be served on schedule, but for the time being the passengers were asked to remain where they were. Not long after that, Mr. Watkins returned. He walked directly over to Stephen Holmboe.

“Mr. Holmboe,” he said, “if I may trouble you, your presence has been requested by the captain.”

Stephen rose from his chair, putting his book aside.

“Certainly,” he said. “Lead on.”

“Half a moment,” Neville said. “Mr. Holmboe is in my employ. I cannot have him involved in something without my knowledge.”

Mr. Watkins frowned, but did not seem inclined to argue.

“Very well, Sir Neville. If you gentlemen . . .”

Jenny interrupted.

“I’m coming, too,” she said. “Wild horses wouldn’t stop me.”

Mr. Watkins obviously knew when he was beaten. “If your uncle desires your presence,” he said.

Neville knew he’d rather have Jenny under his eye than spend his energy worrying about what ingenious methods she would be devising to satisfy her curiosity.

“I do,” he said firmly. “Come along, Genevieve.”

The use of her formal name was as an adequate reminder to be on her best behavior. Jenny followed demurely, not asking any of the questions that normally would come tumbling out.

Mr. Watkins explained the details of the situation, once they were below. “The difficulty is with Colonel and Mrs. Travers. They are waiting in the ship’s library. As the matter is somewhat private, I would rather leave it to them to explain.”

The small library was impossibly crowded. Colonel Travers was bending over his loudly weeping wife, while Mary knelt at her mother’s feet. A servant was setting down a tray with teapot and cups, his expression neutral but his eyes alive with interest. Captain Easthill was just departing, smoothing a scowl of annoyance from his features when he saw the new arrivals.