The Golden One (23 page)

At breakfast Emerson droned on and on about his plans. He had arranged to meet Cyrus and Bertie at Deir el Medina so he could go over the whole thing again with them. Nothing
Ramses and I had said had had the slightest effect on the stubborn man, and when I realized he meant to go ahead with his ridiculous scheme, I had to take a firm grip on my temper. I had no
intention of allowing him to do any such thing, but a loud argument at the breakfast table would have been ill-bred, especially with Sennia present.

‘If that is what you plan to do, you won’t need me,’ I announced. ‘I am going to Luxor. Nefret, you had better come with me. Thanks to the selfish demands of certain
persons, you haven’t had a chance to purchase anything you need for the house.’

Instead of objecting to the oblique reference to him, Emerson looked relieved. He didn’t want to listen to a lecture from me any more than I wanted to listen to one from him. I had a brief
discussion with Miss Sennia, who wanted to join the shopping expedition, but I finally got them all off. Nefret and I then went to her house so that I could make a few useful suggestions about
necessities.

Everything appeared to be in order. I knew it would be, since Fatima was in charge, but there was no harm in seeing for myself. Najia was already busy in the parlour, sweeping and dusting. The
birthmark was not really disfiguring – only a reddish stain that covered most of one cheek – but she kept her face averted while we conversed. She had tried, clumsily, to conceal it
with a layer of whitish paste, which in my opinion was more conspicuous than the birthmark. I reminded myself to ask Nefret if there was not some cosmetic that would do a better job.

The other girl, Ghazela, was her cousin; they were all cousins to some degree. The name was not especially appropriate; she was no slender-limbed gazelle, but a round-cheeked sturdy young person
of perhaps fourteen. She was delighted to have been chosen to work for Nefret and told me so at some length. Like most of the younger generation, even the girls, she had had some schooling. We were
chatting about her plans and aspirations – and I was making a few small, tactful suggestions about cleaning the stove – when Nefret, who had gone to get her handbag and a more suitable
hat, came in.

‘I thought I’d find you here, Mother. Is everything satisfactory?’

‘I see you have used the stove.’

‘Only for morning coffee. Najia makes it perfectly.’

‘So the girls suit, do they?’ I inquired, after we had left the house.

‘Oh, yes. What are we looking for today?’

‘Don’t you have a list?’ I whipped mine out.

‘It’s in my head,’ Nefret said cheerfully. ‘Anyhow, half of the fun of shopping is to find something one didn’t know one wanted.’

We went first to the shop of Abdul Hadi, since the sooner we got him started, the better. Nefret did have a list in her head; she ordered a number of things, chairs and tables and chests, and
made rough sketches of each, including the dimensions. Abdul Hadi kept bobbing up and down, his knees creaking every time he bent them, and assured her that the honour of her patronage would spur
him on to work day and night. We left him creaking and bowing, and Nefret said, ‘Two weeks.’

‘He said one week.’

‘That was just his usual habit. But I think I can get some of them in a fortnight, if I keep after him.’

The merchants all knew us, and they brought out their best, including some lengths of beautifully handwoven fabric that Nefret intended to have made into cushions for the parlour. I consider
myself an efficient buyer, but never had I been whisked in and out of shop and suk as quickly as I was that day. We ended up at a potter’s, where Nefret purchased a quantity of vessels of all
shapes and sizes.

‘Some of them will do for the courtyard,’ she declared. ‘I want hibiscus and lemon trees and roses, and bougainvillea.’

‘Then,’ I said, and stopped to clear my throat. ‘Then . . . you do like the house? It is satisfactory?’

‘Yes, Mother, of course. Did you doubt it?’

I hadn’t – not really – I had not given them much choice! But with two such strong-willed individuals one can never be certain. I knew now that I had them. A woman does not
purchase new furnishings for a house unless she means to stay.

We treated ourselves to luncheon at the Winter Palace, where we had a merry time. No one is a better companion than Emerson – when he is in a friendly state of mind – but it is
impossible to discuss household arrangements when men are present. After we finished, I suggested we call on Mohassib.

‘Was that your real purpose in coming to Luxor?’ Nefret asked, frowning slightly.

‘Not at all, my dear. It only just occurred to me. We have plenty of time, and Heaven knows when we will get to Luxor again, and I promised Cyrus I would have a chat with Mohassib about
– ’

‘Did you really?’

‘Promise him? Implicitly.’

‘I see. All right, Mother. But you aren’t fooling me. You are trying to track Jamil down.’

‘Someone must,’ I declared. ‘Emerson has lost interest – I knew he would, as soon as he became involved with his work – and no one else takes the wretched boy
seriously.’

The clot of dragomen and guides that infested the steps of the hotel parted before us like the Red Sea. We strolled on, past the Temple of Luxor. I could never pass those magnificent columns
without a sidelong glance, but for once Nefret did not appear to notice them. Striding along with her hands clasped behind her back and her head bowed, she said, ‘Has it occurred to you that
it might have been Jamil from whom Aslimi got those artifacts you bought in Cairo?’

‘Certainly it occurred to me. The description fits. He secreted those particular items when they were clearing the tomb – they all do it, you know, cheating one another if they can
– and used his share of the money to travel to Cairo. Jamil isn’t especially intelligent, but he has sense enough to know he could get better prices from Cairo dealers than from
Mohassib.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Nefret murmured. ‘You are terrifyingly single-minded when you go after something or someone, Mother.’

‘Not at all, my dear. I have no difficulty in thinking of several things at once.’

Her brow cleared and the corners of her mouth turned up. ‘So long as you aren’t having one of your famous premonitions about Jamil.’

To call the feeling a premonition or foreboding would not have been entirely accurate. It was, rather, based on expert knowledge of the criminal mind and a certain degree of informed cynicism.
Criminals, in my experience, do not suddenly turn into honest men. Jamil was still in need of money and he was still resentful of us. Nothing had changed there, and the more often we frustrated his
attempts to get what he wanted, the more resentful he would be.

Mohassib was the best-known and most highly respected (by everyone except Emerson) antiquities dealer in Luxor. He had been dying for at least ten years, and was dying at that very moment, so
the doorkeeper informed me.

‘Then he will wish to see me before he passes on,’ I replied, handing over the expected baksheesh.

He was in bed, propped up on pillows and looking like a biblical patriarch with his snowy beard and moustache; but he was not alone. I stopped short when I recognized the Albions.

‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘The doorkeeper did not tell me you had other visitors.’

‘That’s okay,’ said Mr Albion, who seemed to make a habit of answering remarks addressed to other persons. ‘We were about to leave anyhow. Good to see you, Mrs Emerson
– and Mrs Emerson. Hope you didn’t come here to bid on any of Mohassib’s treasures. I’ve already made him an offer.’

‘Indeed?’ I took a chair, indicating my intention of remaining. ‘I was under the impression that you meant to find yourself a tomb robber instead of buying from
dealers.’

Mrs Albion’s lips parted, like a crack in a block of ice. ‘Mr Albion was teasing, Mrs Emerson. He has a marvellous sense of humour.’

‘That’s right,’ said her husband merrily. ‘I’m quite a tease, Mrs Emerson. Well, see you folks later.’

The younger Mr Albion, mute as usual, followed his parents out.

After we had exchanged compliments and inquired after one another’s health, and Mohassib had ordered tea for us, he said, ‘Are they friends of yours, Sitt?’

‘Mere acquaintances.’

‘Good.’

‘Why do you say that?’ I asked curiously.

‘They are strange people. I am a good judge of strange people, Sitt Hakim, and I would not trust that happy little man. He wants too much for too little.’

‘What did he want?’ Nefret inquired. ‘Part of the princesses’ treasure? Or all of it?’

‘Treasure?’ Mohassib repeated, widening his eyes. No saint could have looked more innocent. ‘Ah – you are referring to the rumours about a rich find in the Gabbanat
el-Qirud. The men of Luxor are great liars, Nur Misur. Perhaps there was no treasure.’

‘Come now, Mohammed,’ I said. ‘You know there was such a find and I know the thieves sold it to you, and you know I cannot prove that, and I know that even if I could there is
little likelihood of your being charged with a crime. Why not speak freely to me, your old friend? Vandergelt Effendi would pay well for such objects, if they are as described.’

We settled down, with mutual enjoyment, to the customary exchange of hints and innuendos, winks and nods and pursed lips and raised eyebrows. I rather prided myself on my ability to carry on
this form of communication, which Emerson could not or would not do. Mohassib eventually remarked pensively that if he should hear of such objects he would be happy to do his friends a service.

‘Excellent,’ I said, knowing that was as much as I could expect. Mohassib always played his little game of innocence and ignorance, but in this case the business had caused quite a
stir, and I suspected he would not make any move to market the objects until things had died down.

We parted in the friendliest manner. Eyes twinkling, Mohassib sent his respectful regards to Emerson, whose opinion of him he knew quite well. At the door, I stopped and turned, as if a new idea
had struck me. In fact, the question I asked was the one I had had in mind all along.

‘Has Jamil been here?’

Caught off-guard, believing the interview to be over, Mohassib burst into a fit of violent coughing. I knew the paroxysm was only a device to give him time to think, so I pressed on.

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean. Jamil, Yusuf’s youngest son. Did he try to sell you artifacts from the princesses’ tomb?’

Mohassib shook his head vigorously. ‘No,’ he gasped. ‘No, Sitt Hakim. I thought he had left Luxor.’

‘I hope you are telling the truth, Mohassib. Two of the other men who robbed the tomb are dead, under suspicious circumstances, and Jamil holds a grudge against everyone involved in that
business.’

Mohassib abruptly stopped coughing. ‘Are you saying that Jamil killed them?’

‘I only repeat the latest gossip, old friend,’ I replied. ‘Since you had nothing to do with the disposal of the artifacts, there is no reason for you to be alarmed, is
there?’

Mohassib grunted. He thought for a minute, and then he said, ‘Jamil brought me nothing from the tomb of the princesses. That is true, Sitt Hakim.’

His lips closed so tightly they almost disappeared in the beard and moustache. Knowing that was all I was going to get out of the wily old fellow, I repeated my assurances of goodwill, and we
left the house.

‘Do you think he was telling the truth?’ Nefret asked, waving aside a carriage that had stopped.

‘About Jamil? The literal truth, yes. He did not deny he had seen the boy. My warning – for so it was meant, and so Mohassib took it – caught him by surprise, but it did not,
as I had hoped, startle him into an indiscretion or worry him much. He is safe in his house, behind those stout walls, and well guarded. Ah, well, it was worth a try.’ We strolled on,
acknowledging the greetings of passersby, and I continued, ‘What I found interesting was his opinion of Mr Albion. We keep running into them, don’t we? Do you think they are following
us because they are up to no good?’

Nefret laughed and slipped her arm through mine. ‘Don’t sound so hopeful, Mother. They are an oddly matched couple, though.’

‘What do you think of young Mr Albion?’

She answered with another question. ‘Did Ramses tell you what he said at Cyrus’s soiree – about Jumana?’

‘No.’

She repeated the young man’s remark. I shook my head. ‘Disgusting, but not surprising. I trust Ramses put the young man in his place?’

‘Ramses almost put him on the carpet,’ Nefret said. ‘You know that look of his – white around the mouth, and eyes almost closed? I made a leap for him and grabbed his
arm, in time to stop him; but he uttered a few well-chosen words. Let’s take a felucca, shall we? It’s such a nice day.’

‘It has been a very pleasant day, my dear. I hope the others have had as nice a time as we.’

He had sent Jumana on to Deir el Medina, telling her to warn the others that they might be late. Selim and Daoud were there; they could explain the site as well as he.

Since Emerson did not believe anyone could do anything as well as he, Ramses knew his father was up to something. He didn’t need to ask what it was. As they loaded themselves with
knapsacks and several heavy coils of rope, he said only, ‘We’re going on foot? It’s a long way to the Cemetery of the Monkeys.’

‘A brisk hour’s walk,’ Emerson declared. ‘No point in taking the horses, we’d have to leave them somewhere along the way, and I don’t want the poor brutes
standing round in the sun.’

‘You mean you don’t want to go near Deir el Medina for fear Cyrus will spot us and ask where we’re going. Father, what’s the point of this?’

‘I only want to make a preliminary survey.’