The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (8 page)

of dust when he picked it up. “Water-rotted,” Emerson muttered, and began rooting around in the debris. “The tomb must be up there,” Ramses said, shading his eyes with his hand. “Directly above, in that rift.” Emerson got to his feet. Only then did something odd seem to strike him. He threw his shoulders back, raised his head, and sniffed. “Have the local lads been up to their old tricks — throwing the carcass of a dead animal into the shaft to deter other explorers? You remember the Abd er Rassuls, and the Royal Cache.” “Why would they bother to do that, if there is nothing left in the tomb?” I asked. I pinched my nose with my fingers. “Precisely,” said Emerson, looking pleased. “I will just have a look.” We were at the far end of the valley, facing a steep cliff that I judged to be over a hundred feet high. Some thirty feet above us I made out a cleft running deep into the rock. “Emerson,” I said, choosing my words with care, “it is a sheer drop from the cleft down to the base of the cliff. If you are bent on breaking your arm or your leg or your neck or all three, find a place closer to home so we won’t have to carry you such a distance.” Emerson grinned at me. “You do enjoy your little touches of sarcasm, Peabody. I can make it.” “No, sir, I don’t believe you can,” Ramses said, quietly but firmly. “I wouldn’t care to try it either. I’ll go round and up, with the rope, and lower myself from the top as the thieves did.” I let out a sigh of relief. Ramses seldom contradicted his father, but when he did, Emerson heeded his advice — a compliment he paid few people, including me. “Oh,” he said, stroking his chin. “Hmph. Very well, my boy. Be careful.” “Yes, sir.” “I will go too,” Daoud volunteered. “To hold the rope.” He slung a coil of rope over his shoulder and the two of them set out toward the mouth of the wadi, where the enclosing cliffs were lower and easier to climb. They would have quite a scramble to get to the top, but I was not concerned about them; Ramses was the best rock climber in the family and Daoud had been up and down cliffs like these since childhood. He would make certain Ramses took sensible precautions. I occupied the time by writing up a few notes about the appearance and location of the tomb, while Emerson dug in the rubble as happily as a dog looking for buried bones, and Nefret paced restlessly back and forth, glancing from time to time at the top of the cliff. The sun was almost directly overhead and it was very warm. I removed my coat, folded it neatly, placed it on the ground beside me, and went on with my journal. The smell did not seem so strong now. The olfactory sense is quick to adjust. Despite Nefret’s frequent glances upward, Jumana was the first to see them. She began jumping up and down and waving her arms. The two figures, diminished by distance, made me realize how high the cliff was, and how precipitous the drop. I wondered if the rope would be long enough, and if they could find some stout object to which it could be fastened, and if Ramses would have sense enough not to rely solely on Daoud to hold it. Our friend’s strength was legendary, but if a slip or a snakebite caused him to lose his grip, even for a second . . . The rope came tumbling down, and one of the small figures began to descend — rather too rapidly, in my opinion. It was Ramses, as I had known it would be. It was hard to make out the outlines of his form, even with the sunlight full upon him, since his dusty clothing blended with the color of the stone, but his bare black head was clearly discernible. When he reached a point some forty-five feet above us he stopped, feet braced against the cliff, and waved. “Keep hold of the damned rope!” I shouted. He heard me. A faint and unquestionably mocking “Yes, Mother” floated down to us. Then he disappeared. “Into the cleft,” Emerson muttered. “How long . . .” It was only a few minutes before Ramses reappeared. Instead of reascending he looked up and shouted something at Daoud. Apparently the rope was not long enough to reach all the way to the ground; after Daoud had untied it, Ramses pulled it down and busied himself doing something I could not see — fastening it again, I assumed, since in a short while it uncoiled, the lower end touching the ground not far from where we stood. It had been knotted at regular intervals — a primitive but effective method of preventing the climber from losing his grip. Ramses swung himself out of the cleft and descended. Even before he turned to face us I knew something was amiss. “It isn’t an animal,” he said. “It’s a man. Was a man.” Nefret reached for the rope. Ramses pulled her back and turned her to face him, holding her by the shoulders. “He’s dead, Nefret. You can’t do anything for him.” “I can tell how he died.” She tried to twist away from him but he tightened his grasp. “Nefret, will you listen to me? I’m not talking about a nice dry mummy. There’s still water in the chamber, and he’s been there for days, possibly weeks.” Her face was flushed with heat and rising temper. “Damnation, Ramses, I’ve examined more cadavers than you have!” “You aren’t going to examine this one.” “Who’s going to stop me?” “Er,” said Emerson. I poked him with my parasol. “Not you, Emerson. Nefret, stop and think. I am in full sympathy with your interest in corpses, but I do not see that anything is to be gained by your inspecting this one at this time.” The smell seemed to have intensified since Ramses’s announcement. I pressed my handkerchief to my nose, and Emerson gaped at me. “You mean you don’t insist on inspecting it, and the tomb, too? Good Gad, Peabody, do you feel well?” “Quite well, my dear, thank you, and I intend to remain so.” The children, still facing each other in somewhat belligerent attitudes, turned their heads to look at us. I was happy to observe that my reasonable remarks had lowered the emotional temperature. The corners of Nefret’s mouth quivered, and the angry color faded from Ramses’s face. His hands moved from her shoulders down her arms in a quick, caressing gesture. “Please,” he said. Nefret tilted her head back and looked up into his eyes. “Since you put it that way . . .” Emerson let out a gusty breath. “Very good. We’ll have to have him out, though, if we want to examine the tomb.” “Common decency requires that we have him out,” I said. “And give him a proper burial. I suppose he met with an accident while looking for another tomb to rob.” “It was no accident. He’d been arranged, propped up in a sitting position against the side of the passage, and held upright by . . .” Ramses hesitated for a moment before he went on. “. . . By a metal spike driven through his throat and into a crack in the rock.” 4

We retreated some distance down the wadi before opening the baskets of food. There was not a breath of air stirring and very little shade; we all removed as many garments as propriety allowed. I looked enviously from Ramses and Emerson, shirtless as well as coatless, to Selim and Daoud, who appeared perfectly comfortable in their enveloping but loose garments. I knew I was going to have another argument with Emerson about how to proceed. He was bound and determined to get into the confounded tomb. “We have not the proper equipment for dealing with a decomposing corpse,” I declared, peeling an orange. “And how would we get it back? You aren’t proposing we take it in turn to carry it over those hills, I hope?” Emerson is the most stubborn individual of my acquaintance, but even he was temporarily silenced. He bit into a chicken leg and masticated vigorously. His blue eyes took on a dreamy, pensive look, and his noble brow was untroubled; but I knew he was only biding his time till he could think of a way of getting round the logic of my statement. “Decidedly unpleasant, if not actually impossible,” said Ramses, who knew his father as well as I did. “I propose we go to Gurneh and try to locate his friends or his family. Someone may have reported him missing.” “To the police?” Emerson snorted. “Not likely, with that lot.” “They will admit the truth to us, or to Selim,” Ramses argued. “We will have to come back in any case. Mother is right about that.” “Oh, very well.” Emerson finished his chicken leg and jumped up. “I will just have a quick look before —” “No, you will not! You see what comes of your schemes, Emerson. We ought to have made inquiries before ever we came here. If you would listen to me —” “Bah,” said Emerson. Selim had tried several times to get a word in. Now he said, “I think I know who the man might be, Father of Curses. If you had asked me —” “Not you too, Selim,” Emerson shouted. “I will not be criticized by my wife andmy reis. One of you at a time, but not simultaneously.” However, the combined arguments of Ramses, Selim, and myself carried the day. Emerson is stubborn, but he is not completely unreasonable — and he counted on getting into the wretched tomb another time. Emerson chose another path this time, straight down to the end of the wadi and through another, narrower canyon, descending all the while. It was certainly easier than the way we had come, but it was necessary to watch where one stepped for fear of twisting an ankle, and Emerson set such a rapid pace that conversation was impossible. Neither of these considerations prevented me from ratiocination. There was no doubt in my mind that the unfortunate individual whose remains Ramses had found had been murdered. Was it only a coincidence that Jamil was still in the vicinity, resentful of the men who had, as he claimed, robbed him of his fair share? Remembering the lazy, surly youth I had known, I found it hard to believe that Jamil was a killer. Someone was certainly guilty of something, however, and it behooved us to take all possible precautions. The last of the foothills dwindled and I saw before me the Theban plain, stretching out across desert and cultivation to the river. I made Emerson stop while we drank thirstily, finishing the last of the water. He gave us no time to rest or converse, however. “If you want to reach home before dark, we had best be getting on,” he said. I patted my damp face daintily with my handkerchief. “There are still several hours of daylight left. Where are we?” “A mile or so from Medinet Habu.” He gestured. “I thought we might go home by way of Deir el Medina, have a look round, see what —” “Not today, Emerson.” I knew Emerson’s little “look round” and “mile or so.” The first could take up to three hours, the second might be two miles or more. I continued somewhat acrimoniously, “Why didn’t we take this path when we went out? We could have brought the horses as far as Medinet Habu at least.” “Faster the other way.” Emerson rubbed his chin and gave me a puzzled look. “You aren’t tired, are you?” “Good gracious, no,” I said, with a hollow laugh. I must give Emerson credit; his mile or so was in fact only a little more than a mile. The path soon widened into a fairly well trafficked road and before long I saw the towering pylons of the temple of Ramses III. We were passing the gateway when a man emerged. He gave a start of surprise and came toward us. “Stop, Emerson,” I ordered. “There is Cyrus.” Emerson had seen him, of course. He had hoped he would not, but he was fairly caught. As Cyrus came hurrying up, Emerson burst into speech. “Still here? I was under the impression you left off at midday. I commend your ambition. I — er —” “I took your little lecture to heart,” Cyrus said. His voice had its usual soft drawl, but his expression was neither soft nor welcoming. “Gol-durn you, Emerson, where’ve you been? Not at Deir el Medina, where you’re supposed to be; you’re coming from the wrong direction. Did you have the consarned audacity to warn me away from those queens’ tombs and then go looking for them yourself, behind my back?” The rest of the men had come straggling out of the temple, followed by Abu and Bertie. The latter immediately hastened toward us. Abu took one look at the flushed countenance of Emerson and the scowling countenance of his employer, and discreetly vanished. “Good evening,” Bertie said, removing his pith helmet. In the heat of exasperation Cyrus had, for once, neglected to do this. He remedied the omission at once and gave me a rather sheepish look. “I beg your pardon, Amelia, and yours, Nefret. Guess I shouldn’t have got so riled up.” “Riled up?” Bertie repeated. The Americanism sounded odd in his diffident, educated English voice. “What about? Is something the matter?” “No,” Ramses said, as Nefret acknowledged Cyrus’s apology with a smile. “Two such old friends as Cyrus and my father would never have a serious falling-out about a trivial matter.” Emerson grinned and fumbled in his pockets. Any other man would have been searching for a handkerchief, to wipe the perspiration from his face, but Emerson never feels the heat and he can never find his handkerchief anyhow. Taking out his pipe, he studied it with great satisfaction and began another search for his tobacco pouch. “Don’t do that now, Emerson,” I ordered. “We must be getting home.” “May as well have the matter out,” Emerson said. “Vandergelt has some justice on his side. Perhaps I should explain that we were not looking for new tombs, only investigating that of the princesses.” It wasn’t much of an apology, but, as Cyrus knew, it was a considerable concession for Emerson. “So what did you find?” he demanded. “You’ll never guess,” said Emerson, his keen blue eyes twinkling. “Now stop it this minute, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “We will tell you all about it, Cyrus, but can’t we converse as we walk — or, even better, wait until we get home, where we can be comfortable?” Cyrus insisted I ride his mare, Queenie, and Bertie offered his mount to Nefret. She declined, but Jumana, who had had very little to say since the discovery of the body, was persuaded to accept. Cyrus and Emerson walked along beside me, and Emerson gave Cyrus a condensed version of our activities. I regret to say that Cyrus’s first reaction was one of amusement. “Every year another dead body, as Abdullah used to say,” he remarked with a chuckle. “Your frivolous attitude does not become you, Cyrus,” I chided. “A man is dead — horribly murdered.” “You don’t know that,” Emerson growled. “And even if he was, he probably had it coming to him. Let us have no more of your imaginative speculations, Amelia. Wait until the others can join in before we discuss the matter further.” Since I had been forbidden to talk, I proceeded to speculate. By the time we reached the house, I had my conclusions well organized and was ready to express them; but Sennia was on the veranda, vocally annoyed because she had been left “alone” all day with “nothing to do.” Clearly we could not discuss a grisly corpse, or the unpleasant speculations it aroused, in her presence. “Why don’t you wash your face and hands and put on one of your good frocks?” I suggested. “You see Bertie and Mr. Vandergelt are here; we will have a little party. Jumana, please tell Fatima we have guests and — er — tidy yourself a bit.” I knew it would take Sennia at least a quarter of an hour to primp; she was a vain little creature and loved parties. My excuse for dismissing Jumana was less convincing. The rest of us were as much in need of tidying as she, but my inventiveness had given out, and I did not want her present when we discussed the possibility of her brother’s being a murderer. Selim was no fool. His eyes followed the girl’s slim form as she retreated into the house. Then he looked at me. “Why did you send her away?” “Her brother is in Luxor,” I said. “Jamil.” “Is it so?” Selim’s eyes widened. I repeated what Jumana had told us. “We intended to inform you — all of you — in due course, but in my opinion there was no reason to take his threats seriously. Our discovery today casts a different light on the matter. Selim, you said you know who the corpse might be — er — might have been?” Selim was slow to answer. He appeared to be brooding about something. “The wife of Abdul Hassan has been looking for him. He was one of the men who found the princesses’ tomb.” Then he burst out, “Why did you not tell me that Jumana had seen Jamil and spoken with him?” “We didn’t find out until yesterday.” Emerson does not like to be put on the defensive. He came back with a question of his own. “How is it that you had not heard of his return, you, who are respected by all in Gurneh?” “Not by tomb robbers and thieves. There were rumors . . .” Selim looked up, his jaw set. “I thought they were lies, or not important. I was wrong. I ask your pardon.” “Now, now, Selim, no one is blaming you,” I said soothingly. “Let us return to the point. I sent Jumana away because in my opinion she is not yet ready to accept the possibility that her brother is a thoroughgoing villain and possibly a murderer. If he were directly accused by one of us, she might try to steal out of the house in order to warn him.” “I say,” Bertie interrupted. “Here, I say . . .” But he didn’t; indignation had rendered him incapable of reasoned speech. “No one is accusing her of anything except misplaced loyalty,” I informed him. “Our principal concern is for her, Bertie, but we cannot dismiss the possibility that Jamil is capable of violence against others — including us.” “That’s right.” Cyrus, who had listened interestedly, lit one of his cheroots. “But, Amelia, I think you’ve gone a little overboard. Jamil never amounted to much. I feel sorry for him if he’s fool enough to face the whole lot of us, not to mention Daoud.” We were indeed an impressive group. My eyes followed those of Cyrus, from Emerson’s stalwart form to that of Ramses, who was leaning on the back of Nefret’s chair, lean and lithe as a panther. Either of them would have been more than a match for Jamil. And so would I. “I believe we have covered the main points,” I said. “Selim, you will speak with your kin and your friends in Gurneh; perhaps some of them will respond to direct threats — questions, I mean to say. It only remains to inform Gargery of what is going on.” “Good Gad,” said Emerson, his brow furrowing. “You don’t suppose there is any danger to Sennia, do you?” “I don’t know, Emerson, but I propose to take no chances. Fatima and Basima must be warned as well.” It was agreed that we would return to the Valley of the Monkeys next day, after stopping at Gurneh to interrogate the family of the missing man and the other thieves. There was no time for further discussion; Sennia bounced in and took command of the proceedings. She directed Ramses to take a seat on the settee so that she could sit beside him. Horus, who had followed close on her heels, proceeded to spread his considerable bulk across the rest of the space, and Nefret had to find another chair, which she did without resentment. As she had once said to me, “She had planned to marry him herself when she was older. A less amiable child wouldn’t tolerate me at all.” Cyrus and Bertie did not linger long. Selim soon followed them; his grim expression indicated that he meant to make up for his failure, as he considered it, as soon as possible. The sight of Sennia had reminded me that arrangements for her continuing education should not be long delayed. There was in Luxor an excellent girls’ school run by the American mission, but to send her there presented insurmountable difficulties, in the shape of Emerson. The American ladies were worthy individuals, he did not deny that; however, religious instruction was part of the curriculum, and Emerson does not hold with religion in any form. At my request he attempted to keep his heretical opinions to himself when Sennia was present, but if Sennia came home quoting the Bible at us, sooner or later Emerson would crack under the strain. There was now an additional reason for keeping her closer to home. Jamil’s threat had been directed against Ramses; but who could tell what form his malice would take? So I interrupted Miss Sennia in the middle of a long peroration with the announcement that she would begin her schooling next day. She turned an indignant look on me and tossed her black curls. “But, Aunt Amelia, I have a great deal to do!” “You just now complained that you hadn’t enough to do,” I retorted. “I have it all worked out. Mrs. Vandergelt has kindly offered to tutor you in the basic subjects — history (of England, that is), English grammar and composition, mathematics, and botany.” “Flowers?” Sennia’s pretty little mouth drew up in a good imitation of Emerson’s sneer. “I don’t want to learn about boring flowers, Aunt Amelia, I want to learn about animals and mummies and bones.” “Biology,” I said. “Hmmm. Well, that will have to wait. Mrs. Vandergelt prefers not to discuss mummies and bones.” “What about Aunt Nefret? She knows all about them.” She fluttered her long lashes at Nefret, who grinned at this transparent flattery. “I don’t know how good a teacher I might be, Sennia, but I could try. Two or three lessons a week, perhaps.” “And when shall I take my lessons in hieroglyphs with Ramses?” was the next question. The little witch had the entire curriculum worked out in her head and knew exactly how to get her way. Emerson cravenly agreed to tutor her in ancient Egyptian history, and having settled the essentials to her satisfaction, Sennia kindly agreed to go to Katherine three days a week for the less important subjects. She then settled down to make serious inroads on the tea cakes.