He Shall Thunder in the Sky (57 page)

     “And I to you. Proceed, my dear; ladies first.”

     “I was surprised to see you so meek with Ramses. Are you really going to take orders from him?”

     “Yes, I am. And so are you. He has earned the right to give them. I have a great deal of — er — respect for the boy.”

     “Have you told him so? Have you told him you love him and are proud to be his father?”

     Emerson looked shocked. “Good Gad, Peabody, men don’t say that sort of thing to other men. He knows how I feel. What the devil brought this on?”

     “I was thinking of Johnny,” I said with a sigh. “When it is too late, one always wishes one had said more, expressed one’s feelings more openly.”

     “Damnation, Peabody, what a morbid thought! You will have ample opportunity to express any feelings you like to Ramses and David. The only thing left for them to do is to pass on the final message to Russell, so that he will know when to act.”

     “There was no message this morning, so it must be for tomorrow. Will the attack on the Canal occur at the same time?”

     “I don’t know.” Emerson stroked his chin reflectively. “We cannot assume it will coincide with the hour of the uprising. They may want their little insurrection to get underway before they strike at the Canal. If it’s bloody enough, it will tie down the troops stationed in Cairo and perhaps necessitate sending reinforcements from the Canal defenses. Oh, the devil with it, Peabody! There won’t be an insurrection, and if those idiots on the staff don’t know an attack is imminent they haven’t been paying attention.”

     “If you say so, my dear.”

     “Hmph.”

     “Your turn now. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

     He replied with a question. “When is Lia’s child due?”

     “March. Unless grief and worry induce premature birth.”

     “You’d like to be with her, wouldn’t you? And with Evelyn.”

     “Of course.”

     “They say the steamers are fully booked, but I have some influence. We will sail early next week.”

     “Emerson! Do you mean —”

     “Well, curse it, Peabody, I want to be with them too. I want Ramses out of Egypt for a while. And I want to see the look on Lia’s face when David walks in the door.”

     “You would actually close down the dig?”

     “Er, hmph. I thought I might return for a brief season at the end of March. No need for you to come with me if you don’t want to.”

     “Stop for a moment, Emerson.”

     Embraces between two persons mounted on horseback are not as romantic as they sound. We managed it nicely, though. After Emerson had returned me to my saddle, I said, “You mean David to go with us next week. Can it be done, Emerson?”

     “It will be done.” Emerson’s jaw was set. “Since I am not to be allowed to arrest revolutionaries, I will call on Maxwell this afternoon and order — er — request him to start the legal proceedings. David will need official clearance and papers.”

     “But in the meantime, is there any reason why he cannot be here with us? Ramses saw him last night and told him about Johnny. He will be in deep distress. We could keep him hidden and feed and comfort him. Fatima wouldn’t breathe a word.”

     “You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” Emerson grinned at me. “Let me hear what Maxwell has to say. If he won’t cooperate we will do it your way, and smuggle David out of the country in a packing case labeled ‘pottery sherds.’ ”

     “Or disguised as Selim, with Selim’s papers,” I mused. “A packing case would be very uncomfortable. Selim could then go into hiding until —”

     “Control your rampageous imagination, Peabody,” Emerson said fondly. “For the time being, at any rate. One way or another it will be done.”

     A ray of sunlight touched his resolute smiling face. The sky was clearing. I hoped that could be regarded as another omen.

     Our efforts to distract ourselves with work failed miserably. Not even Emerson could concentrate, and Nefret and Ramses got into a violent argument about one of the photographs she had taken of the false door.

     “The lighting’s all wrong,” Ramses insisted. “What were you thinking of? I need more shadow. The lower part of the left-hand inscription —”

     “Do it yourself then!”

     “I will!”

     “No, you won’t. Give me that camera!”

     I was about to intervene when Nefret let loose her hold on the camera and passed a trembling hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I don’t think I am in a fit state to work today.”

     “It is quite understandable, my dear,” I said soothingly. “Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all. I will tell Emerson we had better stop.”

     Fatima had prepared a large lunch, which no one ate much of. We were still at table when she brought in the post. She handed it to Emerson, who distributed the various messages. As usual, the bulk of them were for Nefret. She sorted rapidly through them, and then excused herself.

     Her desire for privacy was suspicious. I followed her.

     So had Fatima. As I approached I heard her say, “Do you know now, Nur Misur, whether you will be here for dinner?”

     “Yes,” Nefret said abstractedly. “Yes, it appears that I will be here after all.”

     She had opened one of the envelopes and was holding a sheet of paper. She started guiltily when she saw me.

     “Did you have an appointment for this evening?” I inquired. “You didn’t mention it to me.”

     Nefret stuffed the paper into the pocket of her skirt. “I’d almost forgot. It was of long standing. I rang earlier to cancel it.”

     This was not up to Nefret’s usual standard of prevarication. The cancellation had not come from her, or by telephone, but from her correspondent. Percy? He was the only one she was likely to lie about. At least I would not have to worry about her being out that evening.

     Ramses and Emerson were still at table when I returned. “What was that all about?” the latter inquired. “You went pelting out of here like a hound on the scent.”

     Nefret had expressed her intention of going to her room for a little rest, so I could speak freely. I told them of my suspicions.

     “You are always making mysteries,” Emerson grumbled. “Haven’t we enough on our minds?”

     Ramses’s inexpressive countenance had gone even blanker. “Excuse me,” he said, and pushed his chair back.

     “Where are you going?” I demanded.

     “I’ve finished. Is it necessary for me to wait for your permission before leaving the table? I’ll be in my room if you want me for anything.”

     His brusque tone did not distress me. I gave him a forgiving smile. “Have a nice rest.”

     I had meant to have one myself, but I could not settle down. A troubled mind is not conducive to slumber. When I was not thinking of Johnny and his bereaved parents I was worrying about Lia and the effect of shock on her unborn child, and about David, grieving alone in some squalid hut, and about the Turks’ advancing, and Ramses . . . doing something I would not like. I did not trust him. I never had.

     After a while I gave it up and went out to work in the garden. Gardening can minister to a mind diseased, as Shakespeare puts it (referring, in his case, to something else), but when I got a good look at what the camel had done to my flowers I lost the remains of my temper. What the cursed beast had not mashed he had eaten, including several rosebushes. To a camel, thorns are a piquant seasoning.

     I went in search of the gardener, woke him up, and brought him and several gardening implements, with me back to the violated plot. It would all have to be dug up and replanted. Feeling the need for further relief, I took up a rake and sailed in myself. I was still at it when Nefret came hurrying out. She was wearing street clothes, a hat, and gloves.

     “There you are!” she exclaimed. “Good heavens, why are you digging up the garden?”

     I plunged my pitchfork into the earth and wiped the perspiration from my brow. “I became bored with nasturtiums. Where are you going? I was under the impression you meant to be here for dinner.”

     “Sophia rang; they just brought in a woman who may require surgery. I must go at once. I don’t know when I will be back.”

     “Good luck to her, and to you, my dear.”

     “Thank you. You’ll be here this evening? All of you?”

     “Why, yes, I believe so.”

     She looked as if she would have said more, but nodded and hurried off.

     I watched her until she was out of sight. Then I left Jamal to his digging and went into the house. When I got through to Sophia, she was obviously bewildered that I had taken the trouble to tell her Nefret was on her way. She thanked me very nicely, though.

     At least I knew Nefret had not lied to me this time. Where the devil had she been — and, more important, with whom had she been — the previous afternoon? Whatever she was doing, for whatever reason, I must put a stop to it. My only excuse for having avoided a confrontation was my preoccupation with the other matter, and that was over now. Tonight, I thought. As soon as she comes home.

     After my brisk exercise in the garden a nice soak in the tub was now not a luxury but a necessity. I had not seen Emerson all afternoon; he had gone to his study to work or to worry in private. I decided to surprise him by assuming one of the pretty tea gowns Nefret had given me for Christmas. He had expressed his particular approval of a thin yellow silk garment that fastened conveniently down the front. (Convenient to put on, that is.) Sunny yellow is always cheerful. I have never believed in wearing black for mourning; it is a poor testimonial to a faith that promises immortality for the worthy.

     When Emerson joined me in the parlor, the brightening of his countenance assured me my selection of attire had been wise. I was about to pour when Ramses came in.

     “I won’t be here for dinner. I told Fatima.”

     His face was so guileless I was immediately filled with the direst of forebodings. He was wearing riding breeches and boots, tweed coat and khaki shirt, without a collar or waistcoat — an ensemble that might have been designed for camouflage. I said, “You aren’t dressed for dinner.”

     “My engagement is with one of the Indian N.C.O.s. They aren’t allowed in the hotels, you know; we are meeting at a café in Boulaq.”

     “What for?” I asked suspiciously.

     “A language lesson and perhaps a friendly wrestling match. That is what comes of showing off. He’ll probably break both my legs.”

     “They are allowing men like him to go on leave with the Turks about to attack the Canal?” Emerson demanded. “Folly, absolute folly!”

     “Maxwell still doesn’t believe an attack is imminent, or that the Turks stand a prayer of getting across. I hope he’s right. Don’t wait up for me, I may be late.” He started for the door.

     “Are you going to see David tonight?”

     He stopped. “Are you suggesting I ought?”

     I recognized his irritating, oblique manner of avoiding a lie, and my temper slipped a little. “I am suggesting that if you do, you bring him home with you. The need for caution is past; if you deem it necessary we can keep him in seclusion for a day or two.”

     “It shouldn’t be necessary.” He turned round to face me. “You’re right, it’s time David came home. Good night.”

From Manuscript H

     He got to the place at dusk, while it was still light enough to see where he was going yet dark enough to hide his movements. David had objected to his going alone, but he wanted to make a preliminary reconnaissance.

     “Percy won’t turn up before dark, if he comes at all,” he had pointed out. “The show isn’t supposed to start until midnight. Everything is set. Russell will raid the warehouse and the mosque at nine, and once he’s got the weapons safely tucked away he’ll return to his office and wait to hear from me. Do you think I can’t handle Percy by myself? Anyhow, I need you to be my lookout. Don’t get the wind up now, David. By tomorrow morning it will be over, and we’ll be home, and Fatima will be cooking breakfast for you.”

     And he would be explaining to his irate parents why he hadn’t told them the truth. He wasn’t looking forward to it. But if they had known tonight was the night they wouldn’t have let him out of the house — or else they’d have insisted on accompanying him, which would have been even worse.

     In the twilight the old palace looked so forbidding it was no wonder the locals avoided it. It had been built in the late eighteenth century by one of the Mameluke beys whose reputation for cruelty was even greater than those of his peers; it was said that the spirits of his victims roamed the ruins in company with djinn and afreets, moaning and gibbering. There were certainly a great many owls nesting in the broken walls. Avoiding the derelict fountain and fallen columns of the courtyard, pushing through a rampant jungle of weeds and weedy shrubs, he reached a small building that was still in good repair.

     Ramses had brought a pocket torch and masked it so that only a narrow slit of light would show. Using it sparingly, he inspected all four sides of the building, which had perhaps been a pleasure kiosk. The arched windows were now closed with crude but heavy wooden shutters, and the door also appeared to be a new addition. There was another entrance, at the bottom of a short flight of stairs, that must lead to rooms underground. Both doors were equipped with new Yale locks. Picking the lock would take time, and might leave traces. It would have to be one of the shutters.

     They were locked too, or bolted from the inside. The lever he had brought took care of that. Once inside, he had to use the torch, and as the narrow beam moved round the room his lips pursed in a silent whistle. The room looked like a cross between a bordello and a boudoir, all silk hangings and soft rugs. The bed that occupied most of the space was a bird’s nest of tangled linen and scattered cushions.

     His search of the room was quick and cursory; even Percy wouldn’t be lunatic enough to keep incriminating documents in the room where he entertained his female visitors. The only item of interest he came across was a length of narrow silken ribbon, the kind that might have been threaded through the insertion on a woman’s garment. He stood for a moment holding it before he tossed it aside and left the room.