The Buried Pyramid (24 page)

“I think,” Eddie replied, “that one reason there is no trace of Neferankhotep—at least under that name—or of the circumstances of his burial is that there have been many who would kill in order to keep his secret.”

The two men glowered at each other, and what might have been said next—for accusations of cowardice and being wife-ridden were rising to Neville’s lips—might have ended that long friendship. Stephen spoke first.

“I say, gentlemen, isn’t this rather moot? I mean, I did come along. I don’t plan on betraying any secrets, and all that.”

Eddie ground out his cigarette.

“You’re right, Stephen. However, from this point on, I must be considered to be in charge—not of the archeology, but of all details of the planning. There will be no more trips to the bazaars unless I am there, and even those trips will be to the bazaars frequented by tourists. You will investigate the local monuments, go to the museum, take a picnic to see the pyramids and the Great Sphinx.”

He looked at Neville. “All of you. I don’t know if these intervening years have been enough to erase all memories of the gallant army captain with the archeological interests. Some might even remember how you got that striking scar on your never too lovely mug. Do you agree?”

For a fleeting moment, Neville considered refusing, considered firing Eddie and getting help from elsewhere. The army surely had some men who could use a bit of field experience. Colonel Travers would assist him in recruiting appropriate candidates. Or there was Lady Cheshire. Captain Brentworth had worked for Lord Cheshire in much the same capacity as Eddie would for Neville.

But the others were already agreeing, even Papa Antonio, and Neville realized he could not fire Eddie when all the man wanted was to assure the safety and secrecy of the expedition.

“Very well,” Neville said. “I agree. It’s going to be bloody hard playing tourist though, when so much waits to be done.”

Jenny turned a shining face toward him, mischief dancing in her violet eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know, Uncle Neville. You know how very much I’ve wanted to see the Sphinx.”

Jenny knew that in their protectiveness the men were likely to keep her nearly imprisoned at Papa Antonio’s. Doubtless there would be jaunts to the Egyptian Museum or the Great Pyramids, but these would be so very European in their orientation she might as well be part of some Cook’s tour.

Stephen’s enthusiastic description of his trip to the native bazaar with Neville had made her hungry to see something of the Mother of Cities, and while she’d prefer that something was off the beaten trails, after hearing Eddie lay down the law the evening before, she didn’t dare press too hard. However, she didn’t see that there would be any harm in reaching for the stars and seeing where the others compromised.

Therefore, as they were breakfasting that morning on fresh fruit over light wheat cakes, she began her assault on the bastions of masculine privilege.

“Uncle Neville, I have a wonderful idea,” she said, making her voice light and yet confident. “I want to go out to the bazaar with you and Stephen. I can borrow some long robes from Papa Antonio, wrap my hair up under a turban, and go as an Arab boy.”

Papa Antonio choked on his coffee. Stephen suddenly found his melon fascinating. Even Uncle Neville was struck silent for a moment trying to find some excuse other than the obvious—that it would take more than robes and a turban to make Jenny Benet look like a boy of any race—for refusing her request.

“Has it occurred to you that you speak no Arabic?”

“I have a few phrases,” Jenny replied defiantly. “Or I could pretend to be mute, like Captain Brentworth’s servant, Rashid.”

“The merchants would still expect you to understand them,” Uncle Neville replied, “and before you say you could pretend to be deaf as well, let me tell you that there is no way you could ignore the noise of a typical bazaar—at least not with sufficient skill to convince anyone you were deaf.”

“In any case,” added Eddie Bryce, who had arrived in time to overhear, “your eye color would give you away. We might darken your skin with some stain, but there are few Arabs with eyes that deep violet. We might find ourselves made offers for you by one of those less than scrupulous men who continue to defy regulation and deal in human flesh. They are dangerous people, and I, for one, would not care to anger them.”

There was a twinkle in his eye as he made this speech, and Jenny gave him an answering smile.

Eddie went on, “I don’t see why you should not go to the bazaar as yourself. Escorted by Neville and Stephen you should not have any trouble, at least not in those bazaars accustomed to Europeans.”

“But is it safe for her?” Stephen asked anxiously. “The place I went with Sir Neville yesterday made the worst London market I’ve visited seem a quiet village fair.”

“She’ll be safe if she isn’t permitted to wander off on her own,” Eddie assured him. “Indeed, there is nothing some vendors like as much as a European woman accompanied by a gentleman—especially if it looks like he has deep pockets. Jenny may provide some protection for Nev as well.”

Jenny flushed, wondering if Eddie had noticed the derringer that she still carried with her.

“Protection?” she asked.

“That’s right,” Eddie replied. “We were talking last night about Neville’s ‘accident’ a few years ago. It is just possible he will be recognized, or someone in the wrong will hear he is back in Egypt. If he is seen squiring around a pretty young woman, buying her trinkets or such, that will provide excuse enough for his return. Whether they take you for a new wife, or note the family resemblance and take you for a daughter, they won’t be as curious as they would be if he were out buying rope and shovels.”

Uncle Neville agreed.

“But no Arab costume,” he commanded, “and make certain your walking dress is modest. None of those short skirts like you were wearing yesterday.”

Jenny agreed with becoming meekness, quite content to relinquish the comfort of ankle-length skirts in her greater victory.

When she came out, appropriately attired, with both wide-brimmed hat and parasol, she found the men waiting. Eddie had arranged for a light trap with a reliable Arab driver. He made sure that each man carried a flask filled with good clean water, and advised them to drink frequently.

“Once you’re in the market, stick to tea or coffee, or water you can be sure has been boiled. The water sellers tend to pull their wares directly from the Nile. If you become overly hot or tired, find a shady place and rest. Sunstroke is a real risk in this climate.”

He addressed his remarks to Jenny, but she felt fairly certain they were intended for Stephen. That young man, accustomed to England’s milder sun, had already been told to put on a wide-brimmed straw boater rather than his usual heavy bowler.

As the trap rattled through the streets, Jenny soaked in every little detail of their surroundings, peppering Uncle Neville with questions. Whether he thought she was entering fully into her role as newly arrived tourist, or thought her enthusiasm genuine, didn’t matter. She doubted that he would guess that beneath her honest interest lay a desire to acquire enough knowledge of the city that, if necessary, she could find her way back to Papa Antonio’s if she went out alone.

At the edge of the bazaar, Uncle Neville paid off the driver.

“We walk from here. The stalls are arranged too haphazardly to make anything else practical.”

He was not exaggerating. The bazaar merchants only grudgingly allowed for paths between their stalls, and the amount of foot traffic made these avenues seem even narrower than they were. This didn’t stop some shoppers however, and frequently even foot traffic was halted when cart or donkey met with horse or carriage or camel. Someone, usually the person of lower social rank, was forced to give way. Jenny wondered aloud if some of those donkeys didn’t travel as great a distance backward as they ever did forward.

As some sort of compensation for the immediate chaos, the bazaar district they had entered had different quarters for different trades. If there were signs telling which area was which, or whether one needed to rely on a trained guide, Jenny never learned. What was clear was that the places themselves advertised what was being sold. Here were slippers of every type piled up in heaps. These, Uncle Neville explained, were an essential part of daily life, for no one entered a mosque except barefoot or in slippers reserved for that use—the wearing of other footwear on holy ground being considered as sacrilegious.

Then, just when one was thinking there was nothing in all the world but slippers, a turn of an alley, perhaps passage through an ancient stone arch, and everywhere were saddles: camel saddles, horse saddles, donkey saddles. Intricately worked saddles in leather, embossed and polished. Plain, workaday saddles. Used saddles, newly refurbished. Camel saddles, bright with tassels.

Then another twist and a few turns and they were in a world of carpets. This bazaar was huge. Jenny was enchanted by the shimmer of silk and the solid beauty of dyed wool, captivated by the patterns woven into the fabric—each, or so she was assured, containing one little flaw deliberately made, for only Allah is perfect.

After the carpet bazaar, they went to the coppersmith’s bazaar. Here Sir Neville bought Jenny a jewelry set made of copper adorned with polished stones cut like scarabs for her to wear when her mourning had ended. Stephen had already indulged himself in a little sack of fake scarabs, though he refused a “real” mummy’s arm offered to him by a man passing in the street.

“It’s someone’s arm,” he admitted after inspecting it, “but I for one don’t think it would be disarming to any but the chappie who lost it.”

Once their initial curiosity was satisfied, Uncle Neville took them to a sidewalk cafe. They drank coffee and ate very sticky clumps of honeyed almonds while watching the polyglot crowd push and shove about its business. The mixture of peoples was amazing, even to Jenny who had the western American’s familiarity with people in black and pink and various shades of brown, of people who spoke English and Spanish, or any of a wide variety of Red Indian languages.

Here the differences were so great that the American mixture might well be one people. Skins shown black, brown, olive, sunburned red, and parasol pale. Eyes were dark and light, round and slanting, sometimes in the oddest combinations. Hair was brown and woolly, or shining black and oily, or the odd russet tinge that spoke of mixed blood. It was curly or straight or set in braids or left loose like pictures of prophets depicted in the family Bible. Heads were left bare or adorned with beads or caps or hats or veils.

Ethnic differences were accentuated by the varied styles of native dress—for these seemed to persist whether or not they were particularly suitable for the climate. Certainly the shirts and fitted trousers of the Europeans—even when topped with a broad-brimmed palm-leaf hat as a concession to the brilliance of the sun—seemed far less appropriate than the flowing robes of the Arabs or the loose cotton shirts worn by the Egyptian fellahin. However, even when the European in question belonged to a community—such as the Greek—who had dwelt in Cairo for generations, a style of dress derived from their land of origin persisted.

Jenny was just debating whether she wanted to continue exploring or to go back to Papa Antonio’s, where she could dispense with the restrictive weight of bustle and petticoats in favor of a loose house dress, when she noted Uncle Neville gazing with fixed intensity toward the nearest edge of the bazaar.

She followed the direction of his gaze, and saw Lady Cheshire, of all people, bending gracefully to inspect a brilliant piece of woven silk the merchant was holding up for her inspection. Captain Brentworth stood protectively close. Mrs. Syms and Rashid waited a few paces away, their arms filled with packages.

At that moment, almost as if aware of the intensity of the gazes resting on her, Lady Cheshire turned and looked their way. Her face lit with such pleasure that Jenny was not at all surprised to note that Uncle Neville was beaming back rather stupidly. Captain Brentworth’s expression became stormy, before he schooled his features into rigid neutrality.

There was nothing to be done but to motion for the Cheshire party to join their own, and these did so with alacrity, leaving the silk merchant to look after them, his bearded features almost comic in the broad lines of his disappointment.

“Sir Neville, dear Miss Benet,” Lady Cheshire gushed, extending a slender hand gloved in lace. “Mr. Holmboe. How delightful to see you all.”

Jenny tried not to feel self-conscious as she extended her own, ungloved, hand. She’d taken advantage of the men’s ignorance of fashion to slip off the ones Emily had supplied for her that morning, but now her informality seemed glaringly obvious.

She need not have worried. Uncle Neville had no eyes for anyone but Lady Cheshire, and Stephen, quite oddly, had no eyes for anyone but Uncle Neville. The younger man’s normally open, cheerful features were stern, but what Jenny read there wasn’t envy, but concern.