The Hippopotamus Pool (27 page)

"Well?" he demanded. "Don't be so cursed theatrical, Amelia. I suppose it was the ring."

"No, my dear. I was about to say, by a female individual who recognizedcertain—er—physical characteristics. The ring was not on Mr. Shelmadine's person. It is now in the possession of Miss Marmaduke."

The theatrical profession has always interested me. I had employed certain theatrical techniques in building up to my announcement—delay, misdirection and finally the use of what is, I believe, termed a "throw-it-away" line—and the effect was all I could have desired. The entire company was struck dumb and motionless with astonishment. Even Evelyn looked surprised, not at the news, but at my method of delivering it, and, perhaps, at its effect on Emerson. The blood rushed into his face, and from his parted lips came a series of gasping wheezes.

"It is true," Evelyn exclaimed. "We found it in Miss Marmaduke's room, in a boot. Oh, dear. Take a glass of water, Radcliffe, please."

Emerson waved it away. "You—you two—you searched.. . Good Gad!"

"It was necessary, Emerson," I assured him. "Do you suppose I would have committed such a flagrant breach of good manners unless I had felt I must?"

The flush of fury faded from Emerson's cheeks. His lips twitched. "A hit, Peabody, a palpable hit," he said. "And very neatly done, too."

"Then you concede, Emerson?"

"I owe you one for that," Emerson muttered. "I will be damned if I will concede anything, Peabody, until I know precisely what I am conceding." "You are only making one of your little jokes, Professor," said Nefret. "You know as well as I do what the ring means. Miss Marmaduke is a spy and a member of the gang who murdered Mr. Shelmadine! He may have been a lunatic, but he was not harmless. He was killed in order to prevent him from giving you information his rivals did not want you to have."

Ramses cleared his throat. "There is another explanation which—"

"Ramses," I began ominously.

"... which I am sure must have occurred to Mother and which she refrained from mentioning only because she was teasing you a little, Father, and was waiting for you to propose it yourself."

"Propose it," said Emerson, glancing at me.

"Yes, sir. I am sure you suspected from Miss Marmaduke's remarks one evening at dinner that she might be a follower of Madame Blavatsky and the Theosophists. Her reactions to the subjects I proceeded to introduce confirmed that impression. The mystical Hebrew book called
The Kabbalah
and the beliefs of certain Hindu sects are part of the philosophical foundations of Theosophy."

"We have already established that she is a believer, Ramses," I said impatiently.

"Ah," said Ramses, "but—as you are of course aware—another essential tenet of that dogma is the belief in reincarnation. 'This life' is only one ofmany, and an individual's behavior in this incarnation affects future lives. It is surely more than a coincidence that the man who visited you in Cairo claimed to be the reincarnation of an ancient Egyptian priest. We cannot be certain that the ring Mother found was the same one Mr. Shelmadine showed her. There may be two or more of them, insignia worn by members of a secret Theosophical society. If that is the case, Marmaduke and Shelmadine would have been acquainted, but not necessarily for criminal purposes. As yet," Ramses finished, "there is not enough evidence to substantiate this hypothesis, but it is as reasonable as any other, as I am sure you would all agree."

Emerson returned his gaze to me. We looked into one another's eyes. Our lips parted. We spoke as one.

"I was about to propose that hypothesis myself."

"It was on the tip of my tongue."

"It wasn't on mine," Nefret admitted. "But it is plausible, and it is substantiated by Signor Riccetti's statement that there are those who would aid us if they could. If the Theosophists are as harmless and high-minded as Ramses says they are—"

"High-minded individuals are much more dangerous than criminals," Emerson growled. "They can always find hypocritical excuses for committing acts of violence."

He had the last word. The servants began serving dinner; some of them understood English and it seemed advisable to drop the subject.

Except for confirming my story, Evelyn had said very little. I was anxious to hear her theories, for I had come to have considerable respect for her ability at ratiocination. However, it had been a long hard day for her and Walter, and I decided they had better go directly to bed after we finished our coffee. As Evelyn followed her limping spouse toward their room I presented her with a bottle of liniment.

"It is obvious from the way he moves that Walter has not been on horseback for months, Evelyn. He will be stiff as a mummy tomorrow morning if you don't use this. Rub it in well, especially on the—er—lower limbs."

She thanked me and bade me good night.

The room was rather small and the bed was narrow. But I pinned my hopes on the liniment.

         CHAPTER NINE

                      Buried Alive!

The sun had just lifted over the horizon when 1 departed from our room, leaving Emerson attempting to conquer his habitual early-morning confusion by dashing cold water onto himself and the floor. As I strode briskly toward the upper deck I passed the saloon and saw, to my surprise, that Walter was there before me.

A smile warmed his face as he rose. "I hope you don't mind my looking at your work, Amelia. It was an impertinence, I know, but I could not resist when I saw you were translating Apophis and Sekenenre."

"Of course I don't mind." What I did mind was that he was up so early. That augured poorly for the reconciliation I had hoped for, and his expression, though affable as always, lacked the indefinable but (to my trained eye) unmistakable signs that (in my experience) follow such an activity.

"I have been forced to neglect my translation these past days," I continued, concealing my disappointment. "It is a curious text, isn't it?"

"You mean to supply an ending, as you have done with your other Egyptian fairy tales?"

"I had hoped to, yes, but I confess I cannot think of a logical ending. The text is far from complete and the implication of the Hyksos king's message eludes me. It is obviously a deadly insult—but why? Oh, of course the arrogant demand is that of a monarch to an inferior, but there is more to it than that, surely. And why are Sekenenre and his courtiers at a loss as to how to reply?"

"There may well be some obscure religious meaning," Walter agreed. "As you know, my dear sister, Egyptian religion is wonderfully inconsistent, and an animal like the hippopotamus could be good or evil—the benevolent goddess of childbirth in one aspect, the deadly enemy of the sun-god Re in another. Set, the murderer of Osiris, took the form of that animal when he fought Osiris's son Horus in the famous tale of 'The Hunt for the Red Hippopotamus.' The Hyksos were considered to be worshipers of Set— but that," Walter said, shaking his head, "only makes the situation more mysterious. Why should the Hyksos king demand the slaughter of the animal that represented his god?"

"Walter, I believe you have given me a clue," I exclaimed. "You are attempting to employ modern Western logic. It is necessary to put oneself into the illogical minds of the ancient Egyptians."

"No one can do that better than you, my dear sister."

Before I could reply to this graceful compliment, Emerson came bursting into the saloon. "We are late," he declared accusingly. "Where is everyone?"

"On the upper deck, I expect," I replied, rising. "We always breakfast there, as you know perfectly well."

Nefret and Ramses were already eating, for we never stood on ceremony at that first meal of the day. I was pouring when Evelyn joined us. I managed to catch the pot before much tea had spilled.

"Good gracious," Walter exclaimed, staring at his wife. "When did you acquire that—er—ensemble, my dear? I have never seen you wear it."

"Men never remember women's clothing," Evelyn said, taking the chair Ramses held for her.

"I don't believe I could have forgotten that!"

I did not believe he could have either. It was a copy of the working costume I had worn before I took the daring leap to breeches and coat like those of a man. Evelyn's Turkish trousers were even more voluminous than mine had been, and a brilliant blue in color. Her boots, reaching to the knee, had obviously never been worn.

"I don't know why you are wasting time talking about my wardrobe, Walter," Evelyn said coolly. "We should return to the topic we were discussing last night."

Emerson—who had, of course, observed nothing unusual in Evelyn's appearance—banged his cup into the saucer. "I have no intention of returning to it. Must I remind you that this is an archaeological expedition? The task before us is a formidable one, and we are still short-handed."

"Radcliffe, you know we are at your disposal," Walter said. "Tell us what needs to be done."

Emerson pushed his cup away and put his elbows on the table. "The tomb is unquestionably that of Tetisheri. But the paintings are ... in short, they are not what I had expected. The answers to the questions that have arisen in my mind may come to light when we finish clearing the entrance corridor."

He paused to fill his pipe, and Ramses took advantage of his temporary silence to remark, "So little remains of the decoration of that corridor that I suspect it was deliberately destroyed."

"What?" Walter exclaimed. "How did you arrive at that conclusion?"

"A futile question, my dear Walter," I said, with a sigh. "Or rather, please don't ask him, because he will tell you, at considerable length. I suppose the paintings were on plaster, which has become detached from the rock to which it was applied, and fallen to the floor of the corridor. The inscribed fragments the men found yesterday were part of the decoration. Confound it, Emerson, I ought to be accustomed to your infuriating reticence, but why have you been so closemouthed about this? You must have come across other fragments earlier, or you would not have been sifting that rubble so carefully."

"Habit, I suppose," Emerson replied, looking a trifle shamefaced. "The truth is, I found only a few scraps, none larger than ten centimeters across. Most of it has probably been ground to powder, but I am hoping to find more pieces at floor level."

"So that is why you have been working so slowly." Admiration overcame Walter's annoyance. "Any other excavator would have missed that evidence, Radcliffe."

"It may not be important evidence," Emerson admitted. "But one never knows." Taking out his watch he glanced at it and sprang to his feet with a grunt of annoyance. "If you have all finished interrogating me, perhaps you will allow me to get to it."

Moving at a brisk trot, I was able to catch him up before he reached the gangplank. "Are there any other little secrets you have kept from me?" I inquired.

He glanced at me from under lowering brows. "Oh, you have become interested in the tomb, have you? I beg you won't give over playing detective on my account; far be it from me to distract you from the pleasure of searching people's rooms and engaging in pointless speculation about spies and criminal gangs."

I said, "It is odd, isn't it, that we have seen nothing more of Signor Riccetti? No doubt he is lurking in concealment, directing his—"

My breath went out in an explosive gasp as Emerson threw his arms around me and squeezed. "You are hopeless, Peabody! Speculate all you like, search every room in Luxor—only promise your long-suffering spouse that you will refrain from taking foolish chances. No following suspects into dark alleyways, no breaking into Riccetti's secret headquarters—"

"Oh, has he a secret headquarters? In Luxor?"

Trying to frown and trying not to laugh, Emerson silenced me with an emphatic kiss. "Promise, Peabody."

"Emerson, the others are watching. The children—"

"Promise!"

"Certainly, Emerson."

Calmly and decisively Emerson kissed me again. "Nothing wrong with setting a good example," he remarked, glancing at our audience, which included not only our family but Selim and Yussuf. He then lifted me onto my horse and mounted his.

If he had bothered to look at Nefret he might have had second thoughts about setting examples. It was not so much the curve of her lips as a certain dreamy expression in her eyes.

It took us three more days to finish clearing the entrance corridor. Emerson's extraordinary patience was rewarded; on the floor next to the walls, lying where they had fallen over three millennia ago, were approximately fifty fragments of painted relief. It was necessary to plot their location precisely, since that might give a clue as to their original positions on the wall. One by one the fragments, some as small as a fingernail, were lifted and placed into padded, labeled trays. Accustomed as I was to the delicacy of Emerson's touch, I marveled at how deftly those big brown hands of his handled the fragile scraps.

What blissful days they were! Squatting in the dust, backs bent over our labors—enjoying occasional encounters with fretful bats—rubbing eyes reddened with dust ... I enjoyed every moment of it and Emerson was happy as only a man can be when engaged in the labor at which he excels. We were all kept busy; each fragment had to be photographed (Sir Edward) and copied (Evelyn and Nefret) and recorded (Miss Marmaduke). Walter, assisted by Ramses (at the latter's insistence), began fitting the fragments together. It was a frustrating task—like, as Walter remarked, trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle when most of the pieces are missing.

In the pleasure of professional activity, the companionship of those dearest to us, and the complete absence of attack, assault, or violence, I almost forgot my forebodings; when they recurred to me I began to wonderwhether Emerson might not have been right after all. (It had never happened before, but there is always a first time.)

The first "distraction," as he bitingly termed it, occurred when we returned to the dahabeeyah on the evening of the third day. Mahmud our steward was waiting for us. "The parcels from Cairo have come, Sitt."

"Excellent," I said. "It must be the boots and clothing you ordered, Walter. Just in time, too, your shoes would not have lasted another day."

"The gentleman is in the saloon, Sitt," said Mahmud.

"What gentleman?"

"The gentleman who brought the parcels." Mahmud's smile faded. "He said he was a friend, Sitt. I hope I did not do wrong."

"Petrie or Quibell, I expect," Emerson grumbled. "Or Sayce or Vandergelt or some other inquisitive Egyptologist. Curse it, I knew they would turn up sooner or later, spouting questions and trying to worm their way into MY excavation."

He started for the saloon, and of course we all followed, curious to know who the visitor might be. I had my own ideas on that subject, and hurried to catch Emerson up. I did not quite succeed, but I was close on his heels when he entered the room. Too close. His roar almost deafened me.

"O'Connell! Damnation! What the devil are you doing here?"

Seeing me, Kevin, who had retreated behind the table, felt it safe to come forward. His nationality was writ plain upon his face: eyes blue as the lakes of Ireland, face as freckled as a plover's egg, hair bright as the rim of the setting sun. "Why, Professor, you don't suppose
The Daily Yell
would overlook a story like this? And whom should they send but their star reporter, eh? Good day to you, Mrs. Emerson, me dear. Blooming as ever, I see."

I squeezed past Emerson, who stood rigid with indignation in the doorway. If Kevin O'Connell was not the "star" reporter of London's most sensational newspaper, he certainly could be considered an authority on archaeological subjects and on the activities of the Emerson family. Our past encounters had not all been pleasant, but the brash young journalist had come to my aid often enough to leave me with relatively kindly feelings toward him. Emerson's feelings were not at all kindly. He had good cause to detest Kevin in particular and journalists in general. Their reports of his activities had made him, if not precisely notorious, only too well known to the reading public. (And it must be admitted that Emerson's hasty temper and rash pronouncements made for very entertaining copy.)

"Good evening, Kevin," I said. "What took you so long? I expected you yesterday."

"Bedad, but I' m twenty-four hours ahead of the
Mirror,"
Kevin protested. "And a good two days in advance of the
Times.
Ah, but is it more friendsI see? Mr. and Mrs. Walter Emerson! I had hoped to catch you up, but you were too quick for me. Master Ramses—what a fine, great lad you've become! And Miss Nefret—sure and it's a pleasure to the eyes you are."

Evelyn advanced toward him. "Mr. O'Connell, isn't it? I am glad to be able to thank you for the beautiful letter you wrote after—after the loss of our child. Your expressions of sympathy were so gracefully and touchingly expressed."

Kevin's face turned a shade of pink that clashed dreadfully with his red hair. Avoiding my astonished gaze, he shuffled his feet and mumbled something unintelligible.

"Hmph," said Emerson, in a milder tone. "Well, well, I suppose you may as well sit down, O'Connell. But don't think—"

"Oh, no, sir, I never think." Recovering from his embarrassment at being discovered to have the instincts of a gentleman, Kevin gave Emerson a cheeky grin. "I would not have intruded on you, only I happened to run into Mrs. Wilson in Cairo, and when she told me she had some parcels for you I offered to bring them, since I was leaving that evening; and once here, it was impossible for me to tear myself away without—"

"Yes, quite," I said. "Thank you, Kevin. We must excuse ourselves for a while, but stay and dine, unless you have another engagement. No? I rather thought you would not. Take a chair. I will send Mahmud with refreshments."

I wanted to get back to Kevin as quickly as possible, so instead of bathing I contented myself with a quick splash in the basin and a change of clothing. Following me at the washstand, Emerson grumbled, "You needn't have invited him to dinner, Amelia. We cannot talk freely with a cursed journalist present."