He Shall Thunder in the Sky (48 page)

     “Put on your hat!” I called after him. He turned and waved and went on. Without his hat.

     When Emerson and I reached Mena House we found Asfur, whom Ramses had ridden that day, still in the stable. “He’s taken the train,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. “That means —”

     “I know what it means. Mount Asfur, Peabody, and I’ll lead the other creature. And do keep quiet!”

     I realized I ought to have anticipated that Ramses would have to communicate with one or another, or all, of several people. That did not mean I liked it. My nerves had not fully recovered from the anxiety of the previous day and night. Emerson and I jogged on side by side, each occupied with his or her own thoughts; I could tell by his expression that his were no more pleasant than mine. Superstition is not one of my weaknesses, but I was beginning to feel that we labored under a horrible curse of failure. Every thread we had come upon broke when we tried to follow it. Two of the most hopeful had failed within the past twenty-four hours: my unmasking of Sethos, and Emerson’s capture of the German spy. Now Sethos was on the loose with his deadly knowledge, and the failure of the ambush would soon be known to the man who had ordered it. What would he do next? What could
we
do next?

     Emerson and I discussed the matter as we drank our tea and sorted through the post. I had not done so the day before, so there was quite an accumulation of letters and messages.

     “Nothing from Mr. Russell,” I reported. “He’d have found some means of informing us if he had caught up with Sethos.”

     Emerson said, “Hmph,” and took the envelopes I handed him.

     “There is one for you from Walter.”

     “So I see.” Emerson ripped the envelope to shreds. “They have had another communication from David,” he reported, scanning the missive.

     “I wish we could say the same. Do you think Ramses will speak with him this afternoon?”

     “I don’t know.” Emerson plucked irritably at the strips of bandage enclosing his arm. “Curse it, how can I open an envelope with one hand?”

     “I will open them for you, my dear.”

     “No, you will not. You always read them first.” Emerson tore at another envelope. “Well, well, fancy that. A courteous note from Major Hamilton congratulating me on another narrow escape, as he puts it, and reminding me that he made me the loan of a Webley. I wonder what I did with it.”

     “Does he mention his niece?”

     “No, why should he? What does Evelyn say?”

     He had recognized her neat, delicate handwriting. I knew what he wanted most to hear, so I read the passages that reported little Sennia’s good health and remarkable evidences of intelligence. “She keeps us all merry and in good spirits. Lately she has taken to dressing Horus up in her dolly’s clothing and wheeling him about in a carriage; you would laugh to see those bristling whiskers and snarling jaws framed by a ruffled bonnet. He hates every minute of it but is putty in her little hands. Thank God her youth makes it possible for us to keep from her the horrible things that are happening in the world. Every night she kisses your photographs; they are getting quite worn away, especially Ramses’s. Even Emerson would be touched, I think, to see her kneeling beside her little cot asking God to watch over you all. That is also the heartfelt prayer of your loving sister.”

     “And here,” I said, holding out a grubby, much folded bit of paper, “is an enclosure for you from Sennia.”

     Emerson’s eyes were shining suspiciously. After he had read the few printed words that staggered down the page, he folded it again and tucked it carefully into his breast pocket.

     There was no message for Ramses that day or the day after, or the day after that. Days stretched into weeks. Ramses went almost every day to Cairo. I never had to ask whether he had found the message he was waiting for. Govern his countenance as he might, his stretched nerves showed in the almost imperceptible marks round his eyes and mouth, and in his increasingly acerbic responses to perfectly civil questions. Some of his visits were to Wardani’s lieutenants; like the rest of us, they were becoming restive, and Ramses admitted he was having some difficulty keeping them reined in.

     Rumors about the military situation added another dimension of discomfort. In my opinion it would have been wiser for the authorities to publish the facts; they might have been less alarming than the stories that were put about. There were one hundred thousand Turkish troops massed near Beersheba. There were two hundred thousand Turkish troops heading for the border. Turkish forces had already crossed the border and were marching toward the Canal, gathering recruits from among the Bedouin. Jemal Pasha, in command of the Turks, had boasted, “I will not return until I have entered Cairo”; his chief of staff, von Kressenstein, had an entire brigade of German troops with him. Turkish agents had infiltrated the ranks of the Egyptian artillery; when the attack occurred they would turn their weapons on the British.

     Some of the stories were true, some were not. The result was to throw Cairo into a state of panic. A great number of people booked passage on departing steamers. The louder patriots discussed strategy in their comfortable clubs, and entered into a perfect orgy of spy hunting. The only useful result of that was the disappearance of Mrs. Fortescue. It was assumed by her acquaintances that she had got cold feet and sailed for home; we were among the few who knew that she had been taken into custody. That gave me another moment of hope, but like all our other leads, this one faded out. She insisted even under interrogation that she did not know the name or identity of the man to whom she had reported.

     “She is probably telling the truth,” said Emerson, from whom I heard this bit of classified information. “There are a number of ways of passing on and receiving instructions. I understand that chap we saw at the Savoy — one of Clayton’s lot — what’s his name? — is claiming the credit for unmasking her.”

     “Herbert,” Ramses supplied, with a very slight curl of his lip. “He’s also unearthing conspiracies. According to him, he doesn’t even have to go looking for them; the malcontents come to him, burning to betray one another for money.”

     “One of them hasn’t,” said Emerson. “Damnation! The insufferable complacency of men like Herbert will cost us dearly one day.”

     I also learned from Emerson that Russell agreed with his and Ramses’s deductions about the route the gunrunners had followed. The Camel Corps section of the Coastguards had been alerted, and since their pitiful pay was augmented by rewards for each arrest, one might suppose they were hard at it. However, as Russell admitted, the corruption of a single officer would make it possible for the loads to be landed on the Egyptian coast and carried by camel to some place of concealment near the city, where the Turk eventually picked them up. Thus far Russell had been unable to track them.

     It was during the penultimate week of January that Ramses returned one afternoon from Cairo with the news we had so anxiously awaited. One look at him told me all I needed to know. I ran to meet him and threw my arms round him.

     Eyebrows rising, he said, “Thank you, Mother, but I haven’t come back from the dead, only from Cairo. Yes, Fatima, fresh tea would be very nice.”

     I waited, twitching with impatience, until after she had brought the tea and another plate of sandwiches. “Talk quickly,” I ordered. “Nefret has gone to the hospital, but she will soon be back.”

     “She didn’t go directly to the hospital.” Ramses inspected the sandwiches.

     “You followed her?” It was a foolish question; obviously he had. I went on, “Where did she go?”

     “To the Continental. I presume she was meeting someone, but I couldn’t go into the hotel.”

     “No,” Emerson said, giving his son a hard look. “Has she given you any cause to believe she was doing anything she ought not?”

     “Good God, Father, of course she has! Over and over! She —” He broke off; his preternaturally acute hearing must have given him warning of someone’s approach, for he lowered his voice and spoke quickly. “I need to attend that confounded costume ball tomorrow night.”

     “What confounded costume ball?” Emerson demanded.

     “I told you about it several weeks ago, Emerson,” I reminded him. “You didn’t say you would not go, so I —”

     “Procured some embarrassing, inappropriate rig for me? Curse it, Peabody —”

     “You needn’t come if you’d rather not, Father,” Ramses said somewhat impatiently.

     “We’ll come, of course,” Emerson said. “If you need us. What do you want us to do?”

     “Cover my absence while I trot off to collect a few more jolly little guns. I got the message this afternoon.” The parlor door opened, and he stood up, smiling. “Ah, Nefret. How many arms and legs did you cut off today? Hullo, Anna, still playing angel of mercy?”

Twelve

O
ver the years we had become accustomed to take Friday as our day of rest, in order to accommodate our Moslem workmen. The Sabbath was therefore another workday for us, and Emerson, who had no sympathy with religious observances of any kind, refused even to attend church services. He had often informed me that I was welcome to do so if I chose — knowing full well that if I had chosen I would never have felt need of his permission — but it was too much of a nuisance to get dressed and drive into Cairo for what is, after all, only empty ceremony unless one is in the proper state of spiritual devotion. I feel I can put myself into the proper state wherever I happen to be, so I rise early on Sunday morning and read a few chapters from the Good Book and say a few little prayers. I say them aloud, in the hope that Emerson may be edified by my example. Thus far he has displayed no evidence of edification; in fact, he is sometimes moved to make critical remarks.

     “I do not claim to be an authority, Peabody, but it seems to me that prayer should take the form of a humble request, not a direct order.”

     My prayers that Sunday morning may have had a somewhat peremptory tone. Emerson was dressing when I rose from my knees.

     “Finished?” he inquired.

     “I believe I covered all the necessary points.”

     “It was a comprehensive lecture,” Emerson agreed. He finished lacing his boots and stood up. “I was under the impression that you believed that God helps those who help themselves.”

     “I am doing all I can.”

     My voice was somewhat muffled by the folds of my nightdress, which I had started to remove. Emerson put his arms round me and pressed me close. “My darling, I know you are. Don’t cry, my love, it will be all right.”

     “I am not crying, I have several layers of cloth over my nose and mouth.”

     “Ah. That’s easily dealt with.”

     After a time Emerson said, “Am I hurting you?”

     “Yes. I have no objection to what you are doing, but perhaps you could do it a little less vigorously. All those buttons and buckles —”

     “They are also easily dealt with.”

“I presume you’ve got some tomfool costume for me to wear this evening,” Emerson said. He finished lacing his boots and stood up.

     “I have a costume for you, yes, but I shan’t show it to you until it is time to put it on. You always complain and protest and bellow and —”

     “Not this time. Peabody, is there any way you can conceal my absence as well as that of Ramses? This is the first time they have left the weapons to be picked up later instead of delivering them directly. I want to be there.”

     “Do you think it’s a trick — an ambush?”

     “No,” Emerson said, a little too quickly. “Only I — er —”

     “Want to be there. Are you going to ask Ramses if you may go with him?”

     “
Ask
him if I
may
. . .” Emerson’s indignation subsided as quickly as it had arisen. “I can’t do that. The boy is a trifle touchy about accepting my assistance, though I don’t see why he should be.”

     “Don’t you?”

     “No! I have the greatest respect for his abilities.”

     “And you have, of course, told him so.”

     Emerson looked uncomfortable. “Not in so many words. Oh, curse it, Peabody, don’t practice your bloody psychology on me. Make a practical suggestion.”

     “Very well, my dear. Let me think about it.”

     I did so, at intervals during the day. We had got the second chapel cleared down to floor level; the walls had all been painted and there was a delightful little false door, with a rock-cut half-length (from the waist up) statue of the owner, looking as if he were emerging from the afterworld with hands extended to seize the foodstuffs placed on the offering table before him. Ramses rambled about the room reading bits and pieces of the inscriptions and commenting on them: “ ‘An offering which the King gives of bread and beer, oxen and fowl, alabaster and clothing . . . a thousand of every good and pure thing . . . ’ They had such practical minds, didn’t they? An all-inclusive ‘every thing,’ in case some desirable item had been overlooked. ‘One honored before Osiris, Lord of Busiris . . . ’ Nothing new, just the usual formulas.”

     “Then stop mumbling over them and help Nefret with the photography,” Emerson ordered.

     This was a more complex process than it might appear, for photographs were the first step of the method Ramses had devised for copying reliefs and inscriptions. They had to be taken from a carefully measured distance in order to allow for overlap without distortion. A tracing was then made and compared with the wall itself. The final version incorporated not only the reliefs but every scratch and abrasion on the surface. Ramses did not suffer from false modesty regarding his talents as a linguist, but he would have been the first to admit that some future scholar might find something he had missed in those seemingly unreadable scratches. It was an extremely accurate method, but it took a long time.

     Ramses began setting up his measuring rods. I went out to watch Emerson, who was directing the men who were clearing the section south of the mastaba. The intervening space between ours and the one next to it had been filled in, by extensions and/or later tombs. There were bits of wall everywhere, looking like an ill-organized maze. Emerson’s scowl would have told me, had I not already realized, that he had a hard task ahead trying to sort them out.