The Golden One (47 page)

We had several callers that afternoon. All of them wanted to sell us something.

Our visit to the suk had aroused the mercenary instincts of every entrepreneur within a twenty-mile radius. It was customary for sellers of choice merchandise to bring it to the house of wealthy
individuals, especially to the ladies of the harem. Female brokers are employed for this latter errand, but since we were known to be infidel English persons, we were attended by the merchants
themselves, who spread out their silks and jewels, carpets and brassware, for our inspection. One of them, more canny than the rest, had several antiquities for sale, including a fine scarab of
Seti I. The area had been in Egyptian hands for a long period of time, Gaza being one of the cities mentioned in documents of the fourteenth century B.C. Arms folded and lips set in a sneer,
Emerson refused to violate his rule of never buying from dealers, but I saw the acquisitive gleam in his eyes and bought the scarab and a remarkably well preserved Phoenician vessel.

After that I told Selim we would receive no more callers for a while, and Emerson got out the whiskey. We were using the ka’ah of the harem as our sitting room; I had got it in a state of
relative cleanliness, which could not be said of other apartments in the house. Ramses had just opened the whiskey when Selim came hurrying into the room.

‘There is a man,’ he panted. ‘An officer. He asks – ’

‘I’ll do my own asking. Stand out of the way.’ The officer had followed him. I recognized the voice and the square, flushed face that peered over Selim’s shoulder. Selim
didn’t budge.

Emerson took the pipe from his mouth. ‘Ah. Major Cartright, as I live and breathe. May I remind you that you don’t give the orders here? Ask politely.’

Cartright got the word out, though it almost choked him. ‘Please!’

Selim stepped aside, folding his arms. Cartright marched in. Emerson pointed out, in the same mild voice, that there were ladies present and Cartright removed his hat with a muttered
apology.

‘That’s more like it,’ said Emerson. He sipped appreciatively at his whisky. ‘Well? Don’t stand there gaping, you must have something to say.’

Emerson was doing his best to be annoying, and no one can do it better than Emerson. Cartright swallowed several words he knew better than to pronounce, and took a long breath. ‘Send
– that is, will you please send that man away?’

‘No,’ said Emerson. ‘But I will do my best to prevent him from using his knife on you. You are either very complacent or very courageous to show your face after the filthy
trick you played.’

Still standing – for no one had invited him to sit – Cartright took out a handkerchief and wiped his perspiring brow. ‘Mrs Emerson – I appeal to you. May I be allowed to
speak?’

He was looking at me, not at Nefret, whose tight lips and crimson cheeks must have told him he could not expect any consideration from her. I nodded. ‘Are you going to claim you knew
nothing about Chetwode’s plan?’

‘Chetwode is a bloo— is a young idiot!’ his superior exclaimed heatedly. ‘I didn’t know, Mrs Emerson, and that is the truth.’

Ramses spoke for the first time. ‘On your word as an officer and a gentleman?’

The irony went unnoticed by Cartright. ‘Yes! I was appalled when I learned what Chetwode had done. He has been relieved of duty and will be punished appropriately. Do you believe
me?’

‘Since you have given your word, we have no choice but to do so,’ said Ramses, eyebrows raised and tilted. ‘Was that the only reason you came, to express your
regrets?’

‘Regrets!’ Nefret exclaimed. ‘That is somewhat inadequate, Major. Do you know what happened to my husband after – ’

‘He doesn’t,’ Ramses said, giving her a warning look. ‘I expect that is why he is here, to find out. I did make my report, Cartright, to General Chetwode.’

‘I know, he forwarded it immediately, and I . . .’ He cast a longing glance at the bottle of whiskey. ‘My relief, believe me, was inexpressible. But he gave me few details
– which was quite in order, quite right of you to tell him no more than was necessary.’

‘A basic rule of the Service,’ said Ramses, in his even, pleasant voice. ‘You are, I suppose, entitled to know more. In a nutshell, then, I don’t know whether Ismail
Pasha is the man you want or not. Chetwode didn’t give me time enough to make a determination. I was taken prisoner, as Chetwode was good enough to inform my family, but I managed to free
myself later that night.’ Forestalling further questions, he added, ‘That’s all I can tell you. Chetwode’s futile attack has made it virtually impossible for anyone to get
near Ismail Pasha. They will guard him even more closely from now on.’

Cartright nodded grudgingly. ‘We certainly can’t try the same stunt again. Not for a while. I suppose you’ll be returning to Cairo at once, then. I will make the necessary
arrangements.’

‘We will make our own arrangements,’ said Emerson. ‘When we are ready.’

The finality of his tone, and the inimical looks Cartright was getting from everyone in the room, should have convinced him that there was nothing more to be said. No one had offered him a
whiskey or even a seat. Yet he lingered, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other.

‘Look here, old boy,’ he exclaimed. ‘This is off the record, you know – but by Gad, that was well done! Chetwode was man enough to admit that you risked yourself to help
him escape – and then to break yourself loose from a Turkish prison, and get through their lines . . . It was – confound it, it was deuced well done.’

‘Oh, you know the Turks,’ Ramses said. ‘Careless beggars.’

‘All the same, I – er – ’ Military discipline or an inadequate vocabulary brought him to a stuttering stop. He straightened and snapped off a crisp salute. Ramses did not
return it, but he nodded in acknowledgment, the corners of his mouth compressed.

‘How absurd military persons are,’ I remarked, after Cartright had marched stiffly out and Selim had slammed the door.

‘Don’t underestimate him,’ Ramses said softly.

‘I don’t,’ said Emerson. ‘He was trying to find out how long we mean to remain here. Perhaps I ought to have come up with an excuse for staying on, but I couldn’t
think of one offhand; this isn’t the place one would choose for a holiday, and there are no archaeological remains of any interest.’

‘Good Gad,’ I exclaimed indignantly. ‘Do you think he is still suspicious of us? How insulting!’

Ramses laughed and rose, taking my empty glass from my hand. ‘You ought to consider it a compliment, Mother. “Suspicious” is perhaps too strong a word, but a good intelligence
officer doesn’t take chances with people whose behaviour is, shall we say, unpredictable. It poses a bit of a problem. If we don’t start making arrangements to leave within the next day
or two, he will assume we’re planning something underhanded and place us under surveillance. That’s what I would do.’

‘Quite,’ Emerson agreed. ‘Damnation! It doesn’t give us much time. Let us hope my – er – Sethos makes his move soon. Since you are on your feet, Ramses,
another whiskey here, if you please. How long till dinner, Selim? That refreshing little episode has given me quite an appetite.’

‘I do not know, Emerson. I have been at the door all afternoon, and the cook – ’

‘Yes, yes, my boy, that is quite all right. See what you can do to hurry him up, eh? You need not stand guard, we won’t have any more visitors tonight.’

In that he was mistaken. Not long after Selim had taken himself off, the aged doorman shuffled in to announce that another merchant had called. He had a carpet for sale, a very fine carpet, a
silk carpet, a – ’

‘Tell him to go away,’ said Emerson. ‘We don’t want any carpets.’

The man bowed and wandered out. He was too late and too ineffectual to intercept the seller of carpets, however. The fellow had followed him.

He was a tall man with a grizzled beard and a squint. The roll of carpet was slung over his shoulder. Taking hold of the door, he shut it in the doorkeeper’s face, lowered the rug to the
floor, seized one end, and heaved.

A rich tapestry of crimson and azure and gold unrolled, and from the end rolled a human form – a female form, wearing a rather tasteless and very crumpled frock of bright pink silk.
Coughing and choking, it raised dirty hands to its eyes and rubbed them.

‘Christ Almighty,’ said my son in a strangled voice.

I was too thunderstruck to object to this expletive, and the others were equally stupefied. Naturally I was the first to recover. I looked from the girl, who seemed to be suffering nothing worse
than the effects of being bundled up in a rug smelling of camel, to the merchant, who stood with hands on hips staring at me.

‘Back again, are you?’ I inquired unnecessarily.

‘Not from the dead this time,’ said Sethos. ‘I have brought you a little gift.’

‘In a rug?’

‘It worked for Cleopatra,’ said my brother-in-law. The unfortunate female sneezed violently. Automatically I handed her a handkerchief.

‘I’m leaving her in your care for a few days,’ Sethos went on. ‘Make certain no one gets to her.’

Without further ado, he turned and strode towards the door. Emerson made a leap for him, caught him by the arm and spun him round, so vigorously that he staggered.

‘Not so fast. You have a lot of explaining to do.’

Instead of trying to free himself from the hand that gripped his shoulder, Sethos stared at Emerson’s left sleeve, which had fallen back, exposing the cast.

‘How did that happen?’ he asked.

‘An encounter with a tomb robber in Luxor,’ Emerson replied. ‘One of yours?’

‘At present I have no business arrangements in Luxor. It’s like you,’ he added in exasperation, ‘to go dashing into a war zone with a broken arm. Just sit tight for a few
days, all of you. I can’t explain now; lowly merchants do not linger to chat with customers.’

‘Then we will meet you elsewhere,’ I said firmly. ‘Later this evening. Where and when?’

‘For God’s sake, Amelia, be reasonable! There’s a noose round my neck and it’s getting tighter by the minute. If my absence is discovered . . . Oh, very well. I’ll
try to meet you tomorrow night. Midnight – romantic, isn’t it? – at the ruined house in Dir el Balah. Ramses knows it.’

‘What?’ Ramses tore his horrified gaze from the ‘gift’. ‘Yes, I know it. What the devil – ’

‘Later. You shouldn’t have any trouble for another day or two. Oh – I almost forgot. You owe me four hundred and twenty piastres. That’s four and a half Turkish
pounds,’ he added helpfully. ‘Quite a bargain.’

After he had bowed himself out, I was at leisure to turn my attention to the young woman. Nefret had led her to the divan and was helping her smooth the tangled strands of her long hair.

‘Would you like to freshen up a bit before we chat?’ I inquired.

‘For God’s sake, Mother, this isn’t a social encounter!’ Ramses burst out. ‘You let him get away without answering any questions, let’s hear what she has to
say.’

She raised reproachful black eyes to his face. ‘Are you angry? I thought you would be happy to see me.’

‘He is,’ said Nefret. A dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. ‘He just has an odd way of showing it. Mother, get her something to drink.’

‘Thank you, I would like that. And something to clean my face and hands.’

She had the instincts of a lady, at any rate. The requested objects having been supplied, she wiped her face, and drank deeply of the cold tea. I had to keep telling Ramses to be quiet; he was
fairly hopping with annoyance, but we owed the girl a little time to recover from her unusual and uncomfortable trip.

‘Now,’ I said, after she had refreshed herself, ‘perhaps you can tell us, Miss . . . What is your name? Ramses didn’t mention it.’

‘We were never properly introduced,’ Ramses said through his teeth.

‘Esin.’

‘How do you do.’

‘How do you do,’ she repeated. ‘Are you
his
mother?’

Another one, I thought. Ramses has that effect on susceptible young women. I had suspected as much, even from Ramses’s expurgated version of their encounter; the way she pronounced the
masculine pronoun was a dead giveaway.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And this is
his
father, Professor Emerson. And
his
wife.’

‘How do you do,’ the girl said, with only the barest nod for Emerson. She examined Nefret carefully, and her dirty face fell.

‘Anyhow, I am glad to be here,’ she said with a sigh. ‘My father has been very angry since you escaped.’

‘Did he blame you?’ Ramses asked.

‘No, he thinks I am too stupid and too afraid of him.’ She took another sip of tea. ‘He wanted to blame Ismail Pasha, but he could not, since they were together all that
evening, and when Ismail Pasha went to his rooms, my father put guards at the door. To protect him from assassins, he said.’

‘Then how did he – ’

Nefret motioned Ramses to be silent. ‘How well do you know Ismail Pasha?’ she asked.

‘I talked often with him. He is an Englishman, you know. I liked talking to him; he treated me like a person, not a woman, and let me practise my English and told me I was a clever
girl.’ She finished her tea and leaned back against the cushions.

‘I’m surprised your father let you talk freely with other men,’ Nefret prodded.

‘He could not stop me.’ Her dark eyes flashed. ‘In Constantinople many women are working now because of the war. I helped with the Red Crescent, rolling bandages. It was
wonderful! We talked about sensible things, books and what was in the newspapers, and many new ideas. And we wore corsets and short skirts!’

‘I heard about that,’ Nefret said. ‘Didn’t the government issue an order demanding that Moslem women lengthen their skirts, discard corsets, and wear thicker
veils?’

‘They had to take back the order,’ said this young advocate of women’s rights complacently. ‘We made them do it. The girls at the telephone company and the post office
threatened to strike, and the ladies said they would not work for the Red Crescent anymore. But my father said I was keeping bad company, and made me come to Gaza with him, and it was so dull
there. He tried to make me stay in the harem, but I got out whenever I could; it was fun, hiding from the men and exploring places where I was not supposed to be.’