Lord of the Silent: A Novel of Suspense (32 page)

The expected letter from Nefret arrived the day of our departure. Emerson was in a fairly lively mood that morning since Gargery had refused to give up his turn to serve breakfast and went staggering round the room groaning, softly but persistently, until my afflicted spouse ushered him, gently but firmly, out of the room. I had been about to do so myself. I did not begrudge Gargery his groans or limps, but the hands smeared with green ointment did put one off a bit. Refreshed and alert, Emerson resumed his seat and asked if there was anything of interest in the post. I handed him the letter, which I had already perused, and awaited his comments. "Hmph," said Emerson. "What do you make of it?" I asked, after a long pause. "You refer, I presume, to the precipitation of sundry objects on Ramses," said Emerson, buttering another piece of toast. "I don't know what to make of it and neither do you." "Nefret is still concealing something from me," I mused. "I sense that, very strongly. You are quite right, Emerson; conjecture is futile until we have all the facts. How glad I am that I had already made up our minds to go to Luxor!" Everything was in order; the only matter yet to be resolved was the disposition of Mohammed, who was still languishing in the garden shed. It would not have been expedient or humane to leave him there during our absence, which might extend to several weeks. (I could not suppose it would take longer than that to put an end to the tomb robberies, identify the individual who had taken Sethos's place, and tidy up a few other little details.) Since he had been left alone to commune with his conscience (such as it was) and his fear of punishment, I expected to find him in a receptive mood when we visited him on Tuesday morning. His first words indicated that like all persons of low intelligence and little imagination, he had only room in his head for a single idea. "You will let me go, Father of Curses?" "If I were in your shoes," said Emerson, "I would prefer to remain in custody. Saleh is dead-murdered by the man you know as the Master." Neither by word nor look did the wretched man indicate regret for his associate's demise, or fear for himself. "Is it true?" "The Father of Curses does not lie," said Emerson grandly. "No. Let me go, then. I swear I will never-" Emerson cut him short with a blistering Arabic oath. "Repeat, word for word, every conversation you had with Saleh regarding the-er-Master." "Word for word" would have been beyond the fellow, of course. Even after insistent interrogation Emerson succeeded in getting little more out of him than he had admitted earlier. He had never been in the presence of "the Master," never seen him or heard him speak. Saleh had not described him. Why should he? He was the Master. "He has a thousand faces and ten thousand names!" When we left, we were still undecided as to what to do with him. "I think he was telling the truth," Emerson remarked. "Saleh would not have shared his favored position with an underling like Mohammed. Shall we let him go?" "We could ask Mr. Russell to take charge of him while we are in Luxor." "What would be the purpose of that? All Russell has done so far is complain. We present him with a perfectly good murder, and leave him to investigate it, and what has he discovered? Nothing. I see no sense at all in telling him about Sennia." "I would not be surprised to discover that he has already heard of it." And so it proved. Shortly thereafter we were in receipt of an extremely stiff note from Mr. Russell, demanding our presence in his office that afternoon concerning a matter of importance. "No time," said Emerson, tearing the note to shreds and tossing the scraps onto the floor. "He may have news about Asad's murder," I suggested. "Bah," said Emerson. And with this I was inclined to agree. The remainder of the day was spent in rearranging everyone's luggage. Fatima had packed all her cooking utensils, Sennia all her toys, and Emerson every book in his study, despite the fact, as I was careful to point out to him, that Cyrus had one of the best Egyptological libraries in the country. Just before we left for the station, while I was counting heads and bundles, Emerson slipped out. He was back almost at once. I gave him a look of inquiry, to which he responded with a shrug and a nod. He had freed Mohammed. I hoped we would not live to regret it, but reminded myself of one of my favorite aphorisms: "What's done is done." It required all my considerable energy and talents of organization to get our extensive entourage and their boxes onto the train. Sennia was so excited her feet seemed hardly to touch the ground. Even Kadija could not keep hold of her, so Daoud lifted her onto his broad shoulders. William met us at the station. He had only one sadly battered suitcase. The train was late in leaving; it usually was. As a rule I sleep well on trains, but Emerson's grumbles about the narrowness of the berths, and an occasional howl from Horus, in the next compartment with Sennia and Basima, kept me from repose. I finally gave it up at sunrise and wakened Emerson, who had, in his provoking fashion, succumbed to sweet slumber at about the time I realized I was wide-awake and would remain so. He did not like it, but we were all up and dressed when the train finally pulled into the station, only three hours late. I was gratified to see a large crowd assembled, though I had expected no less. The return of the Father of Curses to the scene of his many triumphs was an event, an occasion, a homecoming. They were all there-Yusuf and his family, Katherine in a particularly becoming green frock, Cyrus, who swept his fine Panama hat from his head when he saw us at the window. "I don't see Ramses and Nefret," I said to Emerson. Emerson took a tighter grip on Sennia, who was bouncing up and down and waving both arms. "Don't begin fretting and fussing, Peabody. They will be here. Hallo, Yusuf! (How fat he's become!) Salaam aleikhum, Omar (you old villain). Feisal-Ali-" Sennia's shriek hurt my eardrums. "Ramses! Here I am, Ramses! Aunt Nefret!" Then I saw them making their way toward the door of our carriage, Ramses bareheaded as usual, Nefret holding his arm. Emerson caught Sennia, who had squirmed away from him and was making for the door. "You had better carry her, Daoud, or she'll be trampled underfoot. Good Gad, what a crush! Let me help you down, Peabody." But when I put my foot on the step I was seized, firmly and respectfully, and drawn into a hearty embrace-the heartiest and most heartfelt I had ever received from that particular individual. I looked up into the smiling, sun-browned face of my son. "It's good to see you, Mother," he said, and kissed me on both cheeks. A good deal of hugging and kissing went on, accompanied by the wringing of hands and slaps on the back that represent exchanges of masculine regard. Bertie had not accompanied the others; his mother had felt he should not tire himself. Cyrus's boundless goodwill extended even to William, whom he had not expected, and who hung back until his former employer seized his hand and welcomed him. Naturally I was pleased by the warmth of Ramses's greeting. I wondered what he was up to now. It was not until much later in the day that I found out. Emerson and I had agreed we would consult Ramses and Nefret before deciding how much to tell the Vandergelts, but one cannot dismiss one's host and hostess immediately upon one's arrival. We had to eat a hearty breakfast, congratulate Bertie on his improved looks, and listen to Cyrus's animated schemes for excavating. Emerson joined in with almost as much enthusiasm, and while they discussed the relative merits of Drah Abu'l Naga and the Valley of the Queens, Katherine told me about Jumana. I informed her that Nefret had already mentioned the girl to me, and that she sounded like a worthy candidate for further education. Katherine was quick to agree. "It seemed to me that the best scheme-subject of course to your approval, dear Amelia-would be for you to take her back to Cairo with you. None of the schools here can teach her anything more. Cyrus and I would be delighted to bear the cost of her education." I felt sure they would be. For Katherine, at least, no sum would be too great if it would remove the girl from her beloved and susceptible son. "I see no objection," I replied. "I would want to meet her first, of course." "There will be no difficulty about that," Katherine replied somewhat snappishly. "She has been here almost every afternoon. Bertie has begun studying hieroglyphs with Mr. Barton, and he suggested she join the class." Cyrus had overheard. "Well, now, Amelia, doesn't that make sense to you? A little competition spurs a student to work harder, don't you think? He'll have to spread himself to keep up with her." It was clear, from his appeal, that he and Katherine had had words on the subject. Naturally I agreed with Cyrus. In my opinion there was not the slightest possibility that a serious attachment could develop-the girl was only sixteen, and once Bertie was back in the world again he would undoubtedly find other young women to whom he was attracted. In the meantime, anything that encouraged the boy to perk up was all to the good. Only time would tell whether his interest in Egyptology would last. I sincerely hoped so. It would be just the thing for him, and would please Cyrus a great deal. Before I could express my views-more tactfully than I have done in this private journal-Sennia interrupted. Tearing her attention away from Ramses, she announced, "I can teach Bertie hieroglyphs. He doesn't need another teacher." "I'm sure you could," Bertie said, with an affectionate grin. "But we didn't know you were coming, Sennia, and you will be going back to Cairo before long. I'd invite you to attend the class, but I'm afraid it wouldn't be advanced enough for you." This left Sennia in something of a quandary, for though she obviously agreed with Bertie's assessment of her skills, she was loath to abandon her role as mentor. While she was thinking it over, Albert announced that luncheon was served, and we had to force down more food. I had been watching Ramses closely, and as the meal went on I began to see signs of fidgeting-not easy to observe in an individual so controlled, but clearly perceptible to his mother. My burgeoning suspicions were strengthened when he and Nefret declined Katherine's thoughtful suggestion that we four might like a little time together. "You'll want to rest for a while, surely," Nefret said to me. "One doesn't sleep well on a train, and you must have been frightfully busy getting ready to leave on such short notice." "Who needs to rest?" Emerson demanded. "Cyrus and I are going to Gurneh to talk with Yusuf about hiring a crew." A general outcry from everyone except Cyrus-and William, who had not ventured to express an opinion on any subject whatever-put an end to this idea. I reminded Emerson that we had yet to unpack and settle in. "And," I added, with a meaningful look at my son, "there is still a great deal of news to be imparted." "Quite," said Ramses, rising in haste. "After you've had a good long rest. We will come back for tea, if we may." "Supposing Emerson and I come to you," I said. "I yearn to see the dear old Amelia again." Nefret's countenance was a good deal easier to read than that of Ramses, but she rallied quickly. "Of course. What a good idea." I managed to nag and prod Emerson into leaving earlier than he had intended, not because I hoped to catch my dear children doing something of which I would not approve . . . Ah well, if I must be honest, that was exactly what I hoped. That they had some private and secret activity planned for the afternoon was manifest from their behavior. That they counted on completing it before teatime was equally obvious. We were at least half an hour before our time, but the untroubled countenances of my children informed me that I was too late. Whatever they had been up to, it had been accomplished. At Nefret's invitation I made a tour of inspection-solely to renew fond memories, as I assured her-and then we returned to the saloon, which was filled with the golden light of late afternoon. Accepting a cup of tea from Nefret, I gazed about with considerable emotion. How many happy hours had I spent in that room with those I loved, engaged in amiable conversation or, upon occasion, in equally pleasurable arguments with Emerson. Except for new curtains and coverings, Nefret had made few changes, but I observed with some surprise that my portrait had been replaced with a copy of one of the scenes from Tetisheri's tomb. "Did you tire of having me glare down at you from the wall?" I inquired, laughing to indicate it was just one of my little jokes. Ramses came at once to sit beside me. He put his arm round my shoulders. "What is it?" I cried in alarm. "Why are you doing that?" "Because he loves you and is happy to see you," Nefret said. Ramses had gone a trifle red in the face. "Oh," I said. "Well, my dear boy, I am happy to see you too." "We are all happy to see one another," declared Emerson. "Why is it necessary to say so? What the devil have you done with your mother's portrait, Ramses?" "That's rather a long story," Ramses said. "Then I will tell mine first," I declared. "I believe you are au courant about our adventures in Cairo, except for the latest, which occurred this past Sunday." I was informed that they knew all about that too, since Sennia had treated Ramses to a highly colored account of her adventure. I had asked her not to speak of it for fear of worrying Bertie, thinking that that admonition would prevent premature disclosure to all parties; nor had she. She had only told Ramses, during a brief interlude when she had got him off by himself. I allowed Emerson to relate the results of our investigation while I indulged in a few cucumber sandwiches. "He called himself the Master," Ramses said in an odd flat voice. "Apparently that is the case," said Emerson, in the same sort of voice. His eyes locked with those of Ramses. I have never believed that complex messages can be exchanged by means of glances- except in the case of Emerson and myself-but Ramses's pensive face broke into a smile. "It's all right, Father. He's got a perfect alibi." It would be impossible to convey in a few sentences the effect of that simple statement, or the incoherence of the succeeding exchange. As Ramses later admitted, he had been racking his brains to think of a tactful means of breaking the news. I cannot say that it came as a complete surprise. Naturally, the possibility had already occurred to me. What hurt most of all was not the duplicity of my children but that of Emerson. "You knew!" I cried in poignant reproach. "You have known from the first! Emerson, how could you have kept it from me?" Emerson began, "General Maxwell-" "Swore you to secrecy? Such oaths do not,