The Buried Pyramid (56 page)

Jenny jumped to her feet when she heard Stephen’s announcement, upsetting Mischief, who chattered simian rebuke for her abrupt motion.

“I’m sorry,” she said, but she didn’t stop. Hurrying over to the door, she found Stephen already launched into an explanation.

“It was just as I thought,” he said. “Once I’d worked the tiles into the correct order—a task that required patience more than skill—I heard a distinct thump and click. The door didn’t open, though, and I was momentarily baffled.”

“Momentarily?” Neville said, and Jenny could hear the hope in his voice.

“Momentarily,” Stephen assured him. “I thought about those four tiles: the beetle, the hawk, the mongoose, and the snake. Why were they there? The ornamentation on the circles showed an evident progression. To a scholar of Egyptology, the symbol tiles actually made the puzzle easier. Then revelation struck me. There was a second lock. Clearly the tiles could no longer be slid, so I tried pressing them and . . .”

He demonstrated, pressing them in order: beetle, hawk, mongoose, and, finally, snake. Nothing happened when he pressed the first two, but when he pressed the mongoose, there was a grinding noise. The snake gave the final release and the door moved slightly, not opening, but obviously loose within its frame, where before it had been snug.

“Perhaps that released a counterweight,” Neville said, moving forward to push open the door.

“Perhaps so. If you push the tiles in reverse order,” Stephen said, raising his hand to do so, “I believe it locks the door.”

“Don’t,” Neville said, gripping his wrist. “It may also reset the tile puzzle, and we don’t want you to have to solve it again.”

Stephen blinked. “Yes, it might, mightn’t it? My apologies, Sir Neville. For a moment I forgot why it was important to solve the puzzle.”

“And a good thing, too,” Neville assured him, “or anxiety might have slowed you. Let’s see what’s behind the door.”

He glanced around, saw Jenny.

“Grab a couple of candles,” he said, “and be ready to light our way.”

Jenny took up the candles, but she shook her head in rebuke.

“Let Stephen and Captain Brentworth open the door,” she said. “Your ankle is unsound, and we don’t know what is on the other side.”

She thought her uncle might refuse, but after momentary consideration, he stepped back.

“Brentworth,” he said formally, “if you would do the honors?”

The big man moved up without comment, and set both arm and shoulder to the door.

“On my count of three,” he said to Stephen, who had taken up his post behind him. “One, two, three!”

At the final count, they pushed. The door resisted, then began to open. Someone, probably Lady Cheshire, cheered excitedly. Captain Brentworth and Stephen pushed with renewed enthusiasm, then, as one, staggered.

Jenny darted forward. “What’s wrong?”

Stephen steadied himself, then looked back sheepishly.

“Nothing. The floor is lower here than on the other side. Should have figured it would be uneven, given the amount of sand that has fallen into that shaft. All’s well.”

They continued pushing. The door opened into a wide corridor, its walls painted with bright scenes of riverbanks and verdant fields. It led forward into darkness.

There was a freshness to the air that promised freedom, but Jenny noted that the candles she held did not flicker any more vigorously.

Wherever the air is coming from,
she thought,
must not be close.

But something else was bothering her more intensely than how far they might need to go to get out of here, or even what they might find on the outside. She turned and looked at Uncle Neville.

“We’re going to try to get out of here?” she asked. “All of us?”

He looked at her, frowning in surprise and disapproval.

“Do you think we should do otherwise, Genevieve?”

Jenny shook her head, acutely aware how weary she was, how her eyes were beginning to feel smudged onto her face, of a headache lurking behind her forehead, even of the minor annoyance of her hair escaping from its confining braid.

“I think we should all try to get out of here,” she said, “but I’m not sure I want those people . . .” she looked pointedly at Captain Brentworth and Lady Cheshire, “at my back.”

Uncle Neville looked at her in shock, but before he could say anything, Lady Cheshire spoke up. “But, Miss Benet, you heard me explain how all of this happened. I admit to being overeager, but . . .”

Jenny interrupted, tired of pretence and politeness. Her diction was slipping, and she knew it and she just didn’t care.

“You, ma’am, are a claim jumper, pure and simple. Where I come from, folks don’t take kindly to claim jumpers. In fact, they tend to treat ’em just about how they do horse thieves—and that’s pretty final, if you catch my drift.”

“Claim jumpers?” Lady Cheshire briefly pretended not to understand. “I suppose you could see it that way, but then the Egyptian government might see what Sir Neville was attempting as little different.”

“A blackmailing sidewinder of a claim jumper,” Jenny said.

Captain Brentworth made an angry move, and Jenny’s six-shooter was in her hand. She’d cleaned all her guns while minding Rashid. Rashid had watched her do it, but far from being offended or alarmed, it seemed to her he had approved.

Of course, you can put any darn thought you want onto him,
Jenny thought sardonically.
After all, he couldn’t exactly call out and warn anyone, could he?

Jenny kept her revolver leveled on Captain Brentworth.

“That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about,” she said. “You’ve got that big man there, and I don’t know whether or not he has a gun hidden where the Bedouin didn’t take it off him, but I do know he’ll do anything you want. That’s a weapon in itself. And you’ve been looking all frail and sheep-eyed, but you’re not much more hurt than I am, for all your aching head. Hell, my head aches, and that makes me plain ornery.”

“Jenny,” Stephen interrupted, his voice even and sensible. “What do you want to do? Shoot them and leave them here?”

“I might want to,” Jenny said, “given what they’ve done to us and to Uncle Neville especially, but I won’t. That’d put me on their level. No, I won’t do that—but I won’t let them walk at my back, possibly armed, just waiting for a chance to get the upper hand. I won’t do that, and I think you’re all right fools if you’ll let it happen.”

Stephen glanced at Sir Neville, giving him a chance to speak, but when he said nothing, Stephen said, “That seems sensible, Jenny. I think Lady Cheshire and her associates might even see your point.”

Eddie had listened in silence, his expression completely neutral, now he spoke up.

“Neville, I can see you’re upset, but I agree with Jenny. We don’t know what we’ll find when we get outside, but those Bedouin were hired by Lady Cheshire and Captain Brentworth. They’re going to be more likely to work with them than with us. If, in fact, they’ll work with any of us, and not shoot us down on sight.”

“Isn’t that last,” Lady Cheshire said, her voice very cool, “reason why the captain and I at least should be given weapons? I am a fair shot. He is very good.”

Jenny shook her head. “I called you a sidewinder, ma’am, and until you prove otherwise, you’re still a sidewinder as I see it. In fact, you’re lower than a rattler—at least the snake gives warning.”

“What,” said Captain Brentworth, his gaze never leaving the revolver leveled at his chest, “do you want?”

“We saw the Arabs search you,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean you didn’t have a holdout, or that you haven’t picked up something else since we’ve been down here. Our gear went all over. It would be easy enough to grab yourself a gun or knife. The Bedouin didn’t bother to search Lady Cheshire, not where we could see, but she herself says she’s a fair shot.”

Eddie was already moving toward Lady Cheshire.

“I’m married,” he said, as if that were an explanation, “and I don’t think Jenny should let her gun drop just to search you.”

Lady Cheshire’s lips thinned, but she said nothing as Eddie made a quick but thorough search. His work was assisted in that she had simplified her clothing for travel, and wearing no bustle, and only a few layers of undergarments. He came up with a small, neat gun of the type often called “muff pistols.” It wouldn’t kill at any distance, but it might up close, and it would certainly maim.

Sarah Syms was unarmed, as was Rashid. Captain Brentworth, however, had picked up Stephen’s handgun, dropped in the fall and not remembered until now. Eddie handed it to Stephen. “Captain Brentworth has kindly cleaned off the worst of the sand. Take better care of it in the future.”

Sir Neville’s expression did not alter from neutral disapproval until the weapons were found. Then the disapproval grew, but it had found a focus.

“I am disappointed in you, Lady Cheshire.”

“I had forgotten I had it,” she said. “Honestly, I had.”

Jenny couldn’t tell if her uncle believed the other woman, but he offered no objection to Jenny’s plans.

Captain Brentworth said nothing to justify his own armament—not even when Eddie relieved him of a perfectly practical clasp knife, more useful as a tool than as a weapon.

Jenny nodded her thanks.

“Now, as I’ve said, Captain Brentworth himself is something of a weapon. However, I’d never insult the gentleman by tying him up—not in a dangerous place like this. Instead, he can just do the good thing and keep himself busy helping Rashid along. I don’t think Rashid should walk right yet, and rigging a stretcher won’t be much of a problem. If the captain takes one end and Lady Cheshire takes the other, they’ll get a chance to prove what good-hearted souls they truly are.”

As Jenny had hoped, neither raised argument against this. Lady Cheshire had proven herself tough enough to ride through the desert. Her wound wasn’t so severe that she could complain that she wasn’t up to bearing half of Rashid’s stretcher—especially when Captain Brentworth would take most of the weight, and she’d provide mostly balance and steadiness. And if they said they were too good to carry an Arab servant, they’d lose any remaining credit they had with Sir Neville.

“If you handle Rashid at all roughly,” Jenny said, keeping her voice level with an effort, trying to infuse a note of humor, “Mischief will certainly have something to say about that . . .”

Again, no one disagreed. A stretcher was rigged. Necessary gear was packed and distributed. Lady Cheshire even suggested that in addition to Rashid, the stretcher could carry some of the dry goods, suspended below.

Eddie took over organization.

“We don’t know what we’re up against,” he said, “so I want an able body up front. Stephen, that’ll be you. You can’t shoot, but you can read the writing on the walls and any curses or whatever may give us warning.”

“Read the writing on the walls,” Stephen repeated, chuckling. “That’s rather good, Eddie.”

Eddie blinked. Clearly, punning had not been his intention.

“I’ll go next, since my legs are fine and so’s my gun hand. Jenny, I want you to cover the rear. Mrs. Syms will stay with Lady Cheshire and Captain Brentworth near the middle.”

Jenny nodded.

Mrs. Syms said cheerfully, “That would be lovely, dear. What a strange gallery this is. I wonder why they haven’t laid on the gas. Surely they could afford it. They certainly aren’t paying the servants to sweep. Such a lot of sand!”

“And me, Eddie?” Neville asked, sounding more amused than affronted.

“Why you’re in charge,
effendi
,” Eddie said. “As long as you don’t insist on limping in front, you can go wherever you want.”

Neville’s forced grin made clear who he thought was in charge, but he said nothing.

“Right. Well, I’ll dither along in the middle and help along where help is needed. Are we ready?”

Eddie had taken out his compass, and was staring with some confusion at the dial. He shook it.

“Must have gotten jiggered by the fall,” he said, dropping it back into his pocket. “I was hoping to see which way we’d be heading. Looks as if we’ll have to go on guesswork and whatever Stephen can read.”