The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (19 page)

“All’s well that ends well,” I remarked, sipping my whiskey and soda. The axiom was trite, I confess, but I do not believe it deserved the general grumble of disapproval it received. They were all there on the veranda, even Katherine. Dinner was going to be very late, since Fatima had been too agitated to instruct the cook when she learned that not only we, but Ramses and Nefret and Daoud and Selim, had vanished into thin air, somewhere between Sheikh Abd el Gurneh and the western cliffs. Cyrus and Bertie had waited less than an hour before going in pursuit; finding the horses still in Mohammed’s charge and with no idea of where to look next, they had returned to the house in the hope that some or all of us had returned. I cannot say that anyone behaved sensibly. Cyrus had sent for his wife, Sennia demanded that she be allowed to take the Great Cat of Re out to look for Ramses, and Gargery had to be forcibly restrained from dashing wildly out of the house waving a pistol. His grumbles, on the monotonous theme of “going off like that without me” were the loudest of all. “Do be still, Gargery,” I said sternly. “And the rest of you. We had no choice but to act at once.” “Quite,” said Emerson, who was having some difficulty smoking his pipe and drinking his whiskey with only one serviceable arm. Nefret had tended to him; he had a nice neat cast and a proper sling. Nefret had admitted, in confidence, that she had made the cast twice as heavy and thick as was usual, since she knew he would keep hitting it against things. I saw the logic of this, though I knew it would mean a few more shirts ruined. I had had to cut a long slit in the sleeve of the one he was wearing so he could get it over the cast. “Well, mebbe so,” Cyrus conceded. “But you four should have left word with someone. You knew we’d be worried.” Ramses began, “I’m very —” “Sorry be damned,” said his father gruffly. “For all you knew, there was not a moment to lose. Ramses, my boy — er — thank you. Again.” Ramses’s thin brown face broke into a smile. “It wasn’t me, Father, it was Daoud and Jumana. Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have done better.” Daoud beamed. “Who is Sherlock Holmes?” he asked. “The greatest detective who ever lived,” Ramses replied. None of us laughed, for fear of hurting Daoud’s feelings, but Ramses directed another smile at me. “Except for Mother.” Then we could laugh. I joined in as heartily as the others, my heart swelling with affection. “Sennia, it is long past your bedtime,” I said. “Off you go.” She had to give everyone a good-night kiss and of course she had to have the last word. “The Great Cat of Re would have found you.” “Ha,” I said, but I said it under my breath. The kitten had grown very fat and lazy. Curled up on Ramses’s lap, it resembled a shapeless bundle of spotted gray fur. After Sennia had gone I took another cucumber sandwich. I was ravenous, for the peas and the foie gras that had preceded them had done very little to assuage the hunger resulting from long hours of strenuous manual labor. “Let us now,” I said, “discuss what we have learned. It has not been wasted effort, though we did let Jamil get away from us.” “I haven’t learned a blamed thing except that you two are incorrigible,” Cyrus grumbled. “Not at all, Cyrus. First, there is the interesting matter of Jamil’s costume. He was not wearing Jumana’s clothes. They would have been far too small for him. He cannot have purchased them because . . . Need I explain my reasoning?” “No,” Katherine said. “Aside from the question of how he could pay for them, I can’t see him going into one of the shops and trying on blouses and skirts.” “That is right. We will leave that matter for the moment. I think I know the answer, and it can easily be proved. The second clue . . . Ramses, at one time you were able to recall the entire contents of a crowded storeroom some hours after you had seen it. Do you remember what was in Jamil’s hideout?” “Rugs, several jars . . . I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Sorry, Mother.” “Quite understandable, my dear,” I said. His impulsive embrace had touched me deeply, even if it had hurt my back. To see my imperturbable son forget all else in the joy of finding his parents alive and well assured me that his affection was sincere and profound. “Fortunately I had ample time to inspect the place,” I went on. “It was well stocked, but the most interesting items were the tins of food. European food — peas and beans and cabbage, beef, even a tin of foie gras. Someone supplied him with those delicacies, or with the money to purchase them. No, Jumana, I know it wasn’t you.” I knew because I had been careful to keep all the cash in the house under lock and key. Trust is a beautiful thing, but when someone has done you an injury, you are a fool if you give him the chance to do you another. “It is beginning to look as if he hasfound another tomb,” Ramses said thoughtfully. “It’s the only way he could lay his hands on that much money, by selling some of the artifacts. Mother, what did you do with that cosmetic jar you bought in Cairo? I’d like to have a closer look at it.” “Wait until after dinner,” I said, rising with a suppressed groan. Those long hours on hands and knees in the passage, pulling the rubble out, had taken their toll on my back, and ruined a good pair of leather gloves. The Vandergelts stayed, of course. Wild horses could not have dragged Cyrus away, and nothing made Fatima happier than having more people to feed. Some of us were rather inclined to gobble, I am afraid; but I noticed that Bertie was not eating with his usual healthy appetite. Under cover of the animated speculations about another tomb, I said softly, “Are you feeling well, Bertie? How is your ankle?” “It’s fine. I could walk or climb with no trouble, if everyone would stop fussing over me.” Repenting his surly tone almost at once, he gave me an apologetic smile. “You told me last year you’d let me take a hand in your next adventure, remember? I haven’t done a bl — — blasted thing to help! It’s nobody’s fault but mine, I know that; I’m so confounded clumsy and stupid —” “Now don’t say that, Bertie. Anyone could suffer an accident like yours, and we are still a long way from a solution to this matter. Who knows, your opportunity may come at any moment.” The corners of his mouth drooped. “Yes, ma’am, I hope so. I’ve been sitting in that chair staring at the same scenery for so long, it’s driving me crazy. I swear, I know every crack in that cliff face and every brick in those house walls.” “We will have another look at your foot, Nefret and I,” I promised. “Perhaps with a little strapping you can begin to move about more.” As soon as we had finished dinner we retired to the drawing room, and I went to fetch the cosmetic jar and lid and the other odds and ends I had purchased from Aslimi. Emerson arranged the lamps to give the maximum amount of light and Ramses took the jar in his long fingers. “There wasa cartouche,” he said, after a moment. “I think I can make out a few lines.” He turned the jar from side to side, so that the light came at it from different angles. “Paper and pencil, Nefret, please.” The sketch he produced was, I confess, something of a letdown. There was a great expanse of blank paper and a few random lines, some horizontal, some perpendicular, some curved. Ramses studied it for a few moments and then began filling in the missing spaces, connecting one section to another, as one does in a certain kind of child’s puzzle. Finally he put the pencil down. “That’s all I can be certain of. It’s enough, though.” Not to me, I thought, studying the hypothetical hieroglyphs in puzzlement. There were only a few: a long, thin, squared-off sign, the jagged line of the water hieroglyph, and a pair of curving horns. “Not to me,” said Emerson. “There is only one royal cartouche that contains those particular signs,” Ramses said. “To the best of my knowledge, that is. This is how the rest of it looks.” He completed the name and Emerson let out a gasp. “Shepenwepet. By the Almighty, the boy has found one of the Divine Wives of Amon!”

8

We sat up late that night, going over and over the astonishing revelation — for none of us doubted Ramses’s reconstruction of the cartouche. In the end we were forced to the conclusion that there was absolutely no way of knowing where in the immense Theban necropolis Jamil’s hypothetical tomb might be. The cosmetic pot in itself told us nothing, except that Jamil was not as stupid as we had believed. “It is a common error,” I admitted, in chagrin, “to assume that because someone is uneducated and illiterate he is necessarily ignorant. There are ways of acquiring knowledge other than by reading. Jamil had worked for a number of Egyptologists and he knew a great deal about tomb robbing — more than we know, I expect. He had sense enough to realize that such a cartouche would arouse speculation, so he removed it, even though he lost money thereby. Are you certain it was done recently, Ramses, not in ancient times, by someone who wanted to reuse the jar?” Ramses was certain. The little pot was not an essential part of the funerary equipment, like a canopic jar or a sarcophagus. Besides, the marks were fresh. The patina — Emerson had cut him off at that point, remarking that we would take his word for it. The other bits and pieces I had purchased from Aslimi were even less informative. As we all knew, the same techniques and motifs had been used throughout pharaonic history. They might not have come from the same place as the jar; there was no way of dating them. “So where are we gonna look next?” Cyrus asked hopefully. “The western wadis again?” “We certainly are not going off on a series of random searches,” Emerson replied, extracting his pipe and tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket. “Damnation,” he added, acknowledging the difficulty of proceeding with the process. “Let me do that for you, my dear.” I took them from him. Bertie coughed deprecatingly. “I may be on the wrong track altogether, but if I were trying to conceal something I wouldn’t hang about the place howling like a banshee and making a spectacle of myself.” “I agree,” Ramses said. “That’s the one area we can forget about. If he wants us to go there, it’s because there’s nothing to find.” The men all nodded. I hoped they were right, since I had not much enjoyed our excursions to that remote region, but I was not entirely convinced. Jamil obviously enjoyed taunting people, and youth suffers, among other weaknesses, from overconfidence. It might amuse the wretched boy to lead us to the general area and watch us wear ourselves out looking for a well-concealed entrance. I had to admit that thus far his confidence had been justified; he had outwitted us on every occasion. Emerson announced that we would return to Deir el Medina next morning. “We will finish that plan of yours, Bertie,” he said. “Fine job, my boy. There are only a few more details to be added.” “Tomorrow’s Friday,” Cyrus objected. “My men have the day off, and you ought to rest, Emerson.” “We can finish the surveying without the men,” Emerson said dogmatically. “And I have no intention of allowing a minor injury to keep me from my usual activities — all my usual activities.” Nor did it. I wished Nefret had not made the cast quite so heavy. We managed to get off next morning without Sennia or the Great Cat of Re. Nefret did not accompany us either. I had suggested — tactfully, as is my habit — that she might want to give a little luncheon party, since she had not had the opportunity to entertain our friends in her new abode. Under threat of losing our custom, Abdul Hadi had actually finished a dining table and several chairs. She readily consented, but added with a knowing smile, “I won’t ask what you are up to, Mother, since I know you enjoy your little surprises.” Early morning in Luxor, particularly at that season of the year, is always beautifully cool and stimulating. I was even more keenly aware of it that day, after those long hours in the stifling darkness of the buried chamber. Truth compels me to admit that I had wondered at times whether I would ever again behold the shining cliffs of western Thebes and feel the morning breeze against my face. Logic had informed me that Jamil could not continue pouring stones into the shaft indefinitely, but the space in the passage and the chamber itself was limited, and so was the air. I had not, and would not, confess this weakness to any other. After all, it had turned out right in the end. When we arrived at Deir el Medina, Bertie was working on his plan, and Selim had also turned up. He was not as devout as his Uncle Daoud, who always attended Friday services when he could. “That is very well done, Bertie,” I exclaimed. “Obviously you didn’t spend all the time staring at the cliffs! But where is Cyrus? Didn’t he come with you?” “Up there.” Bertie gestured. “I offered to go with him, but he said —” “Damnation!” Emerson exclaimed loudly. Cyrus was high on the hillside, north of the area where most of the tombs were located. Hearing Emerson’s shout, he straightened and waved. “What’s he doing up there?” Ramses asked. “He wanted to have a look at the tombs of the Saite princesses,” Bertie explained. “Why, for Heaven’s sake?” I demanded. “They aren’t the original tombs of the princesses — the God’s Wives, to be more precise — or even their reburials. Two of their sarcophagi were —” “Yes, yes, Peabody,” said Emerson. “Damned old fool climbing around up there . . .” He set off toward the slope with his usual brisk stride. Ramses caught my eye, nodded, and went trotting after him. The rest of us followed more slowly. Bertie was determined to accompany us, so I walked with him, giving him little suggestions as to where to place his feet. The shafts — tombs, I should say — were not in the main cemetery on the western hill, but on the northern slope, closer to the temple, so we did not have far to go. We found Emerson on his hands and knees — one hand and both knees, that is — peering down into a dark opening while Ramses directed his torch into it. It did not look much like a tomb entrance; the edges were broken and irregular. “Are you sure this is it?” I inquired. “It doesn’t look like a tomb entrance.” “Of course I’m sure” was the querulous reply. A chunk of rock broke off from under his hand. “Curse it,” said Emerson, recovering his balance without difficulty. “The whole place is falling in. Nobody has been down there for a while.” “Which one of the princesses’ tombs is it?” Cyrus asked eagerly. Emerson got to his feet. “None, as a matter of fact. This is the tomb where they found the reused sarcophagus of Ankhnesneferibre. Another sarcophagus was found nearby.” “Here,” said Ramses, a little distance away. We must have looked somewhat absurd clustered round that hole in the ground peering intently at nothing. There was nothing to be seen, not even rubble. The shaft was fairly clear, but so deep, the light of our torches did not reach the bottom. “Nobody has been down there either,” Ramses said. “Not since — 1885, wasn’t it, that the sarcophagus was removed?” Emerson grunted agreement. “I cannot imagine what prompted this performance, Vandergelt,” he said severely. “You might have done yourself an injury.” “Idle curiosity,” said Cyrus with a sheepish grin. “The view is worth the climb,” Bertie said, shading his eyes with his hand. We were about halfway up the sloping ground that ended at the base of a precipitous cliff. It dropped abruptly to the level; opposite lay another high range of hills, and in the cleft between them we could see the Theban plain, misty green in the morning light, stretching down toward the distant sparkle of the river. “Quite beautiful,” I agreed. “Now that we have seen it, shall we go? Nefret is expecting us for luncheon, and I want to call on Yusuf sometime today.” We retraced our steps, down the hill toward the temple. Emerson, who had disdained assistance from Ramses, allowed me to take his arm, under the impression that he was assisting me. “Are you planning to question Yusuf?” he inquired. “I suppose we ought to.” “I will interrogate him, yes — subtly and indirectly — but my primary motive is to be of help to the poor old fellow. I ought to have gone before.” “Hmph,” said Emerson. It was an expression of doubt or derision, but I did not know whether he was being sarcastic about my motives or my ability to carry out a subtle interrogation. I did not ask. “I will come with you to see Yusuf,” Selim announced. “I would rather you did not, Selim. In fact,” I added, inspecting my escort, “I don’t want any of you to come with me. Goodness gracious, the five of you looming over him would frighten the poor old man into a fit.” “I guess you don’t need Bertie and me,” Cyrus conceded. “We may as well go home and get spiffed up for the party.” “Nefret will not expect you to dress, Cyrus,” I assured him. “Emerson won’t bother.” “Selim will,” said Cyrus, directing a grin at the young man. “Can’t let him outshine the rest of us.” Selim remained grave. “I will only do what is right. The Father of Curses does what is right in his eyes.” “Well said.” Cyrus gave him a friendly slap on the back. “Don’t let Amelia go by herself, Emerson. Lord only knows what she might get up to.” “What nonsense!” I exclaimed. “I am only going to examine Yusuf and prescribe —” “My house is not far from Yusuf’s,” Selim said. “We will sit in the courtyard, Ramses and the Father of Curses and I, and keep watch.” However, Yusuf was not at home. That elderly harridan his wife informed me that he had gone to the mosque. She did not know when he would be back. “He cannot be as feeble as I feared, then,” I remarked. “He is able to be up and about?” “Yes.” No thanks to you, her hostile stare added. “Give him this.” I extracted a bottle from my medical bag. It was a harmless concoction of sugar water with a few herbs added to give it piquancy. Such placebos can be as effective as medicine in certain cases, if the sufferer believes in them. “He is not to take it all at once,” I added. “This much . . .” I measured with my fingers on the bottle. “Morning and night. I will come round tomorrow or the next day to see how he is getting on.” Her wrinkled face softened a trifle. “Thank you, Sitt Hakim. I will do as you say.” My reception by Selim’s wives was much more enthusiastic. They were both young and pretty and I must confess — though I do not approve of polygamy — that they seemed to get on more like affectionate sisters than rivals. Selim was an indulgent husband, who had become a convert to certain Western ways; with his encouragement, both had attended school. They offered me a seat and brought tea and coffee, with which they had already supplied Ramses and Emerson. “You may as well have something,” said my son, who was sitting on a bench pretending he had been there the whole time. (In fact, he had been watching Yusuf’s house; I had caught a glimpse of him ducking back into concealment as I approached.) “Selim will be a while; he is changing into proper attire for the luncheon.” “You weren’t long,” said Emerson. “Wasn’t Yusuf there?” “He was at the mosque. At least, so I was told.” “He spends too much time in prayer for a man with nothing on his conscience,” said my cynical spouse. Selim finally emerged looking very handsome in a striped silk vest and cream-colored robe, and we bade the ladies farewell with thanks for their hospitality. Nefret met us at the door of her house. I thought she looked a trifle fussed, and expected to hear of some minor domestic disaster. Then the cause of the disaster appeared and flung herself at Ramses. “I couldn’t refuse her,” Nefret whispered. “She wanted so badly to come.” “It is very difficult to refuse Sennia when she is in one of her moods,” I said resignedly as Sennia, beaming and beruffled from neck to hem, hugged Emerson and Selim. “I presume this means Horus and the Great Cat of Re are also lunching with us?” “Not actually at the table,” Nefret said, dimpling. “At least I hope not.” “And where is Gargery?” Nefret gestured helplessly. “In the kitchen with Fatima. He insisted on arranging the whole affair and he has been bullying everyone, including me! Shall I ask him to sit down with us?” “He won’t. He is very firm about keeping us in our place. He will listen to every word we say, though.” The arrival of the Vandergelts interrupted the conversation. Everyone went on into the drawing room; but Nefret drew me aside long enough to say in a low voice, “I looked in my wardrobe this morning, Mother. Several things are missing.” “Ah. I thought as much. I will deal with the matter, my dear. Just leave it to me.” “I always do, Mother.” The Great Cat of Re, now approximately the size of a melon, had to be removed from Ramses claw by claw before we could proceed to the dining room. I had not seen the room since the furniture was delivered, and some of the others had not seen it at all. The effect was extremely attractive — fine old rugs on the floor, a few antique chests, and the table itself, spread with one of the woven cloths Nefret had purchased in Luxor and with the Spode dinnerware that had been a wedding present from Cyrus and Katherine. Amid exclamations of admiration we seated ourselves, and Gargery, in full buttling attire, poured the wine. I might have expected he would jump at the chance to appear at a formal meal; he considered Emerson and me very remiss in carrying out our social duties. He then stood back, stiffly alert, while the two young Egyptian girls served the food. Most people would have been unnerved by his critical stare, not to mention the lecture he had undoubtedly delivered beforehand. Ghazela, the sturdy fourteen-year-old, was unaffected, except for occasional fits of giggles, but Najia crept about like a ghost, letting Ghazela do most of the work. The birthmark was not nearly so prominent. Nefret must have given her some cosmetic that helped to conceal it. It is almost impossible to keep conversation at a meaningless social level with our lot, and the interesting events of the previous day were fresh in everyone’s mind. I knew Sennia would introduce the subject if Gargery did not find some means of doing so. The child had coolly taken a chair next to Emerson and was cutting up his food for him, over his feeble protests. “Tell me again how you hurt your arm,” she demanded. “You made me go to bed last night before I heard the whole story and it is very important that I know all the facts.” “And why is that?” I inquired, amused at her
precise speech. “So that I can help you, of course.” Gargery coughed. His coughs are very expressive. This one indicated emphatic agreement. Emerson glanced at me. I shrugged. Keeping the matter secret was now impossible. “Well, you see . . .” he began. Gargery had not heard the entire story either. In his interest he so forgot himself as to edge closer and closer to the table, until he was hovering over Emerson like a vulture. Emerson turned with a scowl. “Gargery, may I beg you to fill the glasses? If it isn’t too much trouble.” “Not at all, sir,” said Gargery, backing off. “I must say, sir and madam, that I can find no fault in your actions.” “Good of you to say so,” said Emerson, snatching the bottle from him. Gargery snatched it back. “It might have occurred to you, perhaps,” he continued, splashing wine into the glasses, “to drop odds and ends along the way, to mark your trail.” “Like the poor children in the fairy tale,” Sennia added approvingly. “We hadn’t any odds and ends,” I explained, recognizing the start of one of those digressions that can, in our family, go on interminably. “Anyhow, it is over and done with. Thanks to the quick wits of Daoud, and Jumana’s excellent memory, we were found in time.” Sennia demanded a detailed account of that, too, which Nefret gave. Jumana had spoken very little all morning and she did not add to the story, but Sennia’s praise of her cleverness brought a smile to her solemn face. “I should have remembered before,” she said modestly. “It was what Daoud said that made me think of it.” “Memory,” I remarked, “is capricious and aberrant. It is not surprising that the import of Jamil’s remarks should have escaped you until a dire emergency recalled them to your mind. Without your assistance we might have perished in the trap he set for us.” I had kept a close if casual eye on Najia, who had become increasingly clumsy and uncomfortable. When she slipped out of the room, observed only by me, I immediately rose. “Nefret, will you come with me? The rest of you stay here. That includes you, Gargery.” She had gone straight through the kitchen and out into the courtyard, and was, when I caught sight of her, trying to open the back gate. The unfortunate creature was already in a frightful state of nerves; her shaking hands could not work the latch. When I called to her to stop, she crumpled to the ground, her hands over her face, her body shaking with sobs. We lifted her up and half carried her to a bench, and then Nefret waved me to stand back. “She’s afraid of you, Mother.” “Afraid of me? Good Gad, why?” “Let me talk to her.” Her gentle voice and reassurances finally succeeded in calming the girl. She raised a face sticky with tears. “I meant no harm. He told me I was beautiful —” I was trying my best not to appear threatening, but the sight of me set her off again. “I know you meant no harm, Najia,” Nefret said. “The Sitt Hakim knows that too. What was the harm in writing a message to his sister, and in borrowing my clothes? What else did you give him?” She had not much to give, and she had given that, gladly and humbly. He had told her that he loved her, that the disfigurement did not mar her beauty in his eyes. She had never thought to attract any man, much less one as young and handsome. When he asked the loan of a few of Nefret’s clothes, to play a joke on one of his friends, she had seen nothing wrong. Not until she heard how he had used that disguise did she realize she had been an unwitting accomplice to attempted murder. Another pitiful tale of man’s perfidy! I determined on the spot that she should not suffer for it. Seating myself next to her on the bench, I spoke quietly and firmly. “No one else knows of this, Najia, and no one will ever learn the truth from us. Wipe your eyes . . .” I gave her my handkerchief. “And go home. We will tell the others you were taken ill.” “But when my shame is known . . .” She faltered. “. . . no man will ever want me. My father will —” “He will do nothing and no one will know unless you are fool enough to confess.” Distress had weakened her wits, which had never been very strong; I gave over trying to get her to see sense, and asserted the full force of a stronger will. “Say nothing to anyone. That is an order from me, the Sitt Hakim. We will take care of you — and find you a husband, if that is what you want. You know we can do what we promise.” “Yes — yes, it is true.” She threw herself at Nefret’s feet. “How can you forgive me? You were so kind, and I betrayed you.” “For pity’s sake, stop crying,” I said impatiently. My handkerchief was stained, not only with tears but with some brownish substance; the birthmark, wiped clean, stood out strong as ever. “Run along and remember that the word of the Sitt Hakim is stronger than another man’s oath.” “That’s ‘the word of the Father of Curses,’ isn’t it?” Nefret remarked, as the girl scampered off, still swabbing at her face. “I don’t see how we can keep all of it secret, though. Someone is bound to suspect it was my clothing Jamil wore. They’d have been a tight fit, but not as tight as Jumana’s. Especially the boots. I hope they pinched horribly.” “He probably cut the toes out or slit the heels,” I said absently. “Some people must be told some part of the truth, but it is the girl’s dishonor, as men call it, that we must hide. We may have to buy a husband for her,” I added in disgust. “That seems to be all she cares about.” “She and a good many other women of all nationalities,” said Nefret. “Do you think she knows more than she told us?” “Jamil is too wily to give away useful information. He even lied to his sister. What worries me,” I continued, as we strolled slowly back toward the kitchen, “is how many others he may have seduced from their duty — literally and figuratively. I fear, Nefret, that the wretched boy has caused a rift in his family that may never be mended.”