The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (33 page)

After an interval that seemed to last longer than it actually did, Emerson said, "Peabody, if you tell me you had already arrived at that theory, I will—I will never take you inside another pyramid!"

"Then I won't tell you, Emerson."

"But Mrs. Vandergelt, that is absolutely brilliant!" Nefret exclaimed. She clapped her hands and jumped to her feet—and trod heavily upon the tail of Horus, who had, I am convinced, spread himself out across as large a space as possible in the hope that someone would trip over him or give him an excuse to complain. He did complain, most vociferously, and attacked Nefret's trailing skirts with his claws. Nefret tried to raise both feet at once, got them tangled in her ruffles, and pitched forward into the arms of Ramses, who had sprung to her assistance. He swung her up out of the cat's reach. Seeing there was no sympathy to be got from Nefret, who was swearing over the rents in her skirts, Horus stormed out of the room, deliberately knocking over a small table and a footstool. Ramses was laughing; affronts to Horus generally cheered him up.

"Well, really, one can hardly blame the girls," Katherine whispered. "Goodness, Amelia, the lad is absolutely seduisant when he smiles!"

"Hmmm," I said. "He is not vain about his looks, I will say that for him. Kindly do not encourage him. Ramses, put her down."

"Yes, Mother."

He deposited Nefret on the sofa, and Emerson said sourly, "One can always count on a bit of comic relief in this house."

Nefret had been examining her ankles. "It might have been worse. You were quick as a cat, Ramses. Thank you."

"It isn't difficult to be quicker than that cat," said Ramses. "If he gets any fatter we'll have to hire him his own donkey cart." He caught his father's critical eye and sobered. "Mrs. Vandergelt, you must think we are utter fools."

"I think," Katherine said, "that you have all been preoccupied by your affection for David and Abdullah. You have been so intent on the business of the forgeries that you are unable to see anything else."

"There was the burglary at Amarna House," I said.

Cyrus shook his head. "You can't connect that with the attacks on you here, Amelia. Its purpose was obviously to retrieve the scarab. If Ramses hadn't interfered, they'd have left without inflicting a scratch on anybody."

"Curse it!" I exclaimed. "Katherine, you have knocked the bottom out of all my theories. I had eliminated several of our suspects because they had alibis for one or another of the attacks. Howard was in the Delta, Geoffrey was on top—er—that is, he was with me when the unseen marksman fired his last shots. They are cleared of wanting to drive us away from the site, but not of being the forger. We must start all over again!"

Fatima appeared to announce that dinner was served. We made our way to the dining room and Emerson said, "It's high time we got David here. Curse it, he's been dawdling around Crete too long."

"You know that if we had so much as hinted at danger to any one of us they would have been on the next boat," I said. "What did Lia say in her last letter, Nefret?"

"She accused me of hiding something from her," Nefret said glumly. "Don't stare at me in that critical fashion, Aunt Amelia, I   haven't   given   anything   away—and   believe   me,   it's  been damned—excuse me!—very difficult, chattering cheerfully about things that don't matter and trying to avoid mentioning anything that might rouse her suspicions!"

"Speaking of the burglary at Amarna House," I began.

"We were not speaking of it," said Emerson. Fatima removed his empty soup bowl and he said amiably, "Excellent soup, Fatima."

"We were speaking of it earlier," I said, determined not to let him distract me. "I keep meaning to ask, and I keep forgetting—so many other things have happened—the soup was excellent, Fatima. Tell Mahmud."

"Yes, Sitt Hakim. Thank you."

"The burglary," Cyrus said. "I'm durned glad you brought that up, Amelia, because I have also been curious about it. Why did the fellow take such a risk to get the scarab back? Obviously there was nothing about it that gave you a clue to his identity, or you wouldn't still be in the dark."

The rest of us looked expectantly at Ramses. He did not appreciate the attention. "I don't know the answer," he said shortly.

"It is a pity we didn't photograph the confounded thing," I mused. "But of course we did not anticipate losing it so soon. Do you have a copy of your translation here, Ramses?"

"I didn't write it down, Mother." Eyebrows drawn together, he took up his knife and began sawing at the portion of roast chicken with which he had been served. It was a trifle tough. Egyptian chickens often are.

"You just read it off the way you'd read English, I guess," said Cyrus, with a wry smile and a shake of his head.

"Yes, sir. However," said Ramses, after an appreciable pause, "I did make a copy of the hieroglyphic inscription. Would you care to see it?"

"Who, me?" Cyrus laughed. "No point in that, I can't read more than a few words."

"I would like to see it," I said. "Why didn't you mention you had a copy?"

"No one asked me," said Ramses.

Nefret threw a dinner roll at him.

"Let's have a look at it, then," said Emerson, as Ramses caught the roll and politely handed it back to Nefret.

"Now?" Ramses asked.

"When we have finished eating," I said. "If you and Nefret will stop playing childish games—and in the presence of guests, too!—we will be done all the sooner."

"I beg your pardon, Aunt Amelia," Nefret murmured. She gave Ramses a sidelong grin, however, and his thin lips turned up a bit in response.

While Fatima cleared the table Ramses went to find his copy of the text. We pulled our chairs closer as he spread the crumpled paper out. Unlike his normal handwriting, which rather resembles the amorphous shorthand squiggles of Egyptian demotic writing, Ramses's hieroglyphic hand is neat and easy to read—assuming, of course, that one can read ancient Egyptian. I would be the last to claim that my knowledge of the language is that of an expert, but the first few words were part of a familiar formula.

"Imy-re—er—hmmm," I read aloud. "The overseer of ships, hereditary prince and count, sole companion. These are the titles of the high official who composed the text, Cyrus."

"Quite right, my dear," said Emerson, audibly amused. He put his hand over mine. "Supposing we let Ramses translate the entire text—without interrupting him."

"An excellent suggestion, Emerson," I replied graciously.

It was certainly an astonishing document. The Egyptians were excellent boatbuilders, and they knew something of astronomy. It was barely conceivable that by following the coastline and putting in to shore periodically to take on fresh supplies, a captain who enjoyed the favor of every god in the extremely extensive pantheon might have accomplished the feat. I didn't believe it, though; and as Ramses's interpolated comments made clear, almost every description in the text was plagiarized from much later sources. The man who had put it together was obviously familiar with those sources and with the Egyptian language.

"There are certain anomalies, however," said Ramses. "For one thing, this text begins with the titles and name of the man who ostensibly composed it. Proper protocol would demand that the date and the king's name and titles precede his. They are here, but they follow the titles of the official, and those titles are not in the order one would expect."

"I see what you mean," Emerson exclaimed. "The chap was a prince and count and sole companion and all the rest; why would he mention his post as overseer of ships before the other, higher titles? Is that significant?"

"If so, the significance eludes me," Ramses said rather snappishly. Vain about his person he was not, but he hated to admit his knowledge of Egyptian could fail, even in such a case as this.

"So the clue," I said, "that might have given us more information was not in the text itself."

Ramses said he had come to the same conclusion, but that the clue must have been minute in size, or concealed with such diabolical skill that he had not seen it. He added that since we no longer had the bloody—excuse me, Mother and Mrs. Vandergelt— the confounded thing, further speculation was a waste of time. With this I was forced to agree.

Since the following day was Friday, the day of rest for our men, Emerson had agreed to escort me to Cairo and spend the night at Shepheard's. He did not want to do this—he never does— and now he seized upon an excuse for calling it off.

"I don't like leaving the children alone, Peabody," he remarked sanctimoniously. "Vandergelt's idea, that someone is trying to prevent us from excavating at Zawaiet—"

"Has not changed the realities of the situation, Emerson," I explained. "They are in no more danger than they ever were, and I believe we can depend on them to take care."

"Quite," said the male "child" forcefully, while the female "child" pursed her lips and rolled her eyes.

"Hmph," said Emerson. "Very well. Er—Nefret, I have a large quantity of notes to be transcribed. It will probably take you most of the day."

"I had planned to go to Atiyah with Ramses," Nefret protested. "Kadija is expecting me."

"You can do that another time. We will be back early Saturday morning ready to get back to work." Observing her sulky expression, he changed his tactics. "I know you think me overly cautious, my dear, but as a favor to me, give me your word you will not stray far from the house tomorrow. Nothing can happen to you here."

Stripped to the waist, sabers in our hands, we faced one another. Ahmed was a hulking brute, his body seamed with the scars of many such encounters, his reach considerably longer than mine. My only hope was to wear him out with my greater agility and defensive skill. Weeping, the girl cried out to me ...

From Letter Collection B

Dear Lia,

I don't know whether you will ever receive this
—
but I must tell someone,
now,
this instant
—
I must talk about
him
to someone
—
and there's no one here but Horus and he's not a very sympathetic listener, especially considering we put him out of the room last night, and the Professor and Aunt Amelia haven't come back and anyhow I promised I'd wait for him so we can tell them together. It's been less than an hour since he left me. It seems like days. How did you bear those endless weeks and months when you and David were apart? Especially that awful time when you feared you would
never
be together?

Do I sound completely insane? I am! Head over heels, madly, passionately! Perhaps writing it all down will clear my head. I hope you can read this. My hand is as unsteady as my heart.

It was all Percy's doing. Isn't that strange? You'd never have supposed a man I detested as much as I did Percy could be responsible for making me so blissfully happy!

I was alone in our sitting room yesterday afternoon when Percy came calling. Aunt Amelia and the Professor were to spend the night in Cairo
—
she to indulge in "friendly social intercourse" at Shepheard's, and the Professor to consult someone at the German Institute
—
and Ramses had gone to Atiyah to talk to Selim about some supplies the Professor wanted. Percy didn't wait to be announced, he came straight up, with Fatima fluttering after him. A brisk knock was my only warning. When I saw him posing on the threshold, with poor Fatima behind him expostulating with him and apologizing to me, I was tempted to throw the inkpot at him.

Why didn't I? Because I was a coward and a fool. A coward because I dreaded what Ramses would say if he ever learned I had betrayed him
—
a fool because I believed Percy had some of the instincts of a gentleman. Whenever I had happened to run into him, there had been meaningful glances and little nods of understanding and a general air of mutual confidentiality
—
rather sickening and worrisome, but not threatening. I didn't believe Percy would
really
tell the truth and shame the devil (i.e., himself); that he would use the threat of self-exposure to blackmail
me
seemed too ludicrous to contemplate.