Mummy Dearest (25 page)

“It’s complicated,” I conceded, “but I’ll try. Right now, I’d like to ask Sittermann some questions.”

Alexander surveyed the lobby. “And just how are you going to do that, if I may be so bold?”

Sittermann was gone.

Salima and Alexander ignored me when I suggested that we go back upstairs, and were glowering at each other as I left. The door to Lord Bledrock’s suite was open. Nabil was no longer supine on the floor. Peter was behind the bar, morosely watching the others, who were huddled around the low table in front of the sofa. Mrs. McHaver had taken a seat between Miss Portia and Miss Cordelia, and the three were staring raptly at something on the table. Lady Emerson, the Fitzwillies, Wallace, and Jess nudged one another for the best position. Lord Bledrock was on tiptoe, peering over Miriam’s shoulder. Paunchy, living up to his name, presented a bulky barrier. I couldn’t see anything because of the wall of bodies, but I presumed they had not laid out Nabil in order to perform an autopsy.

“What happened?” I asked Peter.

“Mahmoud went on to the hospital. Nabil was still alive when they left, although the doctor is worried.” He paused as a shriek came from the group across the room, then he continued, “I’ve seen symptoms like his after an overdose of a methamphetamine—dilated pupils, intense sweating, erratic heartbeat. Illegal drugs are available, but Mahmoud said that this kind isn’t common among the older Egyptians. They prefer to smoke hashish or opium.”

“And Nabil was coming here,” I said. “Hardly the time to get high.”

The shrieks were getting louder. Magritta yanked Jess
away from the group and dragged him out to the balcony for an inaudible but emphatic conversation. Shannon was cackling with glee. Wallace stood up and moved away, looking worried. Mrs. McHaver thumped her cane, in her case possibly an extravagant display of pleasure. Lady Emerson whacked Lord Bledrock on the back, as if they were comrades in a trench on the front line.

“What’s all that about?” I asked Peter.

“Some artifact Nabil had in his pocket, wrapped in a rag. I didn’t get a good look at it. Miriam spotted it when she knelt next to him to wipe his face with a washcloth. As soon as she picked it up, the rest of them swooped in like vultures and snatched it from her. Mahmoud and the doctor arrived seconds later, followed by medics with a gurney. I was going to mention it to Mahmoud, but then Ahmed arrived and began squawking about the hotel’s reputation. Lord Bledrock took offense at the implication that it was his fault, and pretty soon they were all offering opinions and outlandish theories. Mahmoud was not inclined to linger once Nabil was ready to be transported to the hospital.”

Although my beloved had the courage of a rogue elephant, he seemed content to observe the Egyptologists from a safe distance. Having forsaken my last shred of dignity in a dark room in the basement, I went over to Miriam. “Why is everybody so excited?”

“I was wondering where you were, Mrs. Malloy. I do hope you’re not ill.” She plucked a tendril of a dusty cobweb off my shoulder. “Wherever have you been?”

I stepped out of plucking range. “You found something in Nabil’s pocket?”

“It may prove to be of the greatest importance,” she said. “It will have to be verified, of course, but if it’s authentic …” Overwhelmed by well-disguised emotion, she took a sip of sherry. “It’s known as a
shabti
or
shawabti
, a small servant statue buried with a deceased person of importance. It’s in the shape of a
mummiform
coffin, with the arms folded over the chest, and made of a paste called faience that’s glazed and fired. This one is missing the head,
but the cartouches on the front appear to bear the nomen and prenomen of Ramses VIII. His tomb has never been discovered.”

“You know a lot about Egyptology,” I said.

“My aunt made sure of that. There were days in my childhood when I was not allowed out of my room until I deciphered pages and pages of hieroglyphs. I kept a packet of biscuits in my wardrobe to tide me over.” Her short laugh held such bitterness that I flinched. “None of us has a perfect childhood, but enough of that. We Scots are a sturdy, uncomplaining lot. Would you like to see the
shabti?”

“Yes,” I said, unnerved by her rapid transitions.

I followed her to the group still huddled around the coffee table. The object of their attention, placed reverently on a pristine handkerchief, was about four inches long. A few patches of color beneath the grime indicated it had been blue. It was chipped and worn, and headless. Lady Emerson accepted a magnifying glass from Lord Bledrock and leaned forward, her mouth tight with concentration.

“Yes, Neville,” she murmured. “Definitely Akhenamon’s name in the cartouche. This must be from the tomb of Ramses VIII. His prenomen is unique.”

Shannon grabbed the magnifying glass. “My lovely
shabti,”
she cooed. “This little man, this treasure, will bring us all the financial backing we’ll ever need to continue the excavation. My articles will be the lead story in all the prestigious journals, and I’ll be in demand to do presentations at conferences worldwide.”

“Your lovely
shabti?”
Magritta said from behind Lord Bledrock’s chair. “The Egyptian authorities may disagree. It won’t end up in your college’s collection.”

Shannon sneered at her. “I wasn’t planning to steal it, Magritta. I, for one, have a reputation to uphold.”

“And I don’t?”

“Well,” murmured Shannon, feigning tactfulness, “you know how important it is to maintain a daily log and document the progress. Your reports are, shall we say, sporadic
and uninformative. MacLeod College has a lot at stake here. I believe it’s time for me to take charge of the concession. You’ll still handle the daily, manual aspects of the excavation, naturally. Wallace can continue to take photographs in the old-fashioned manner, but newspapers and journals require digital photographs these days. Jess will handle that.”

“As you wish,” Wallace said, his face sagging. “I’m too old to learn how to use these newfangled gizmos. Can’t figure out all those buttons. You and I are dinosaurs, Magritta, a species on the edge of extinction. Just as well Oskar’s not here to share our fate.”

Magritta stomped to the bar. After a moment, Wallace went out to the balcony, where I dearly hoped he was not considering an unobtrusive descent. Those remaining around the coffee table resumed fighting for the magnifying glass. Mrs. McHaver ordered Miriam to fetch a book from their room. Lord Bledrock started to pick up the
shabti
, but Lady Emerson rapped his knuckles. There was definitely a squabble brewing, and it had potential to escalate into a brawl.

I returned to the bar and poured myself a glass of water. “Where’s Samuel?” I asked Peter. “I saw him coming here earlier.”

“He stayed for a few minutes, then left. He had the right idea. I think I’d better go to the hospital. The doctor seemed to think Nabil will survive, although he may not regain consciousness immediately. The blood work will show if he has amphetamines in his system. As you said, it’s peculiar that he would take something on his way here.”

“Nabil would never take drugs,” Magritta inserted coldly. “Oskar hired him when we first came out here, and promoted him to head of the crew twenty years ago. We had meals at his home and attended his daughters’ weddings. Over the years, Nabil has dismissed workers for even the smallest infractions. Excavations are dangerous sites. Sloppiness can result in bad falls or dislodge stones on those in
the bottom of the pit. There is no workmen’s compensation in this country. If these men are unable to work, they cannot support their families.”

I felt as though I’d been accused of failing to provide health care and fair labor practices. “Yes, I can understand the importance of keeping a clear head on the job. May I ask you about this step that was uncovered in the last few days? I was told it might suggest a link to King Tut’s tomb.”

“Ah, that,” she said, refilling her glass with gin and taking a gulp. “There are some similarities, but it’s far from conclusive. I have seen steps like this before, and they have led to nothing more than a room filled with debris. It is typical even at construction sites in this day for the builders to dispose of the waste near the primary site. The
shabti
is a different matter. It would never have been discarded.”

“And it’s from a royal tomb,” said Peter, who clearly had been doing more than observing the scene. I felt a wave of wifely pride at his ability to eavesdrop and quite possibly read lips in such an unobtrusive manner. If that sort of thing was taught at spy camp, I was sure he must have earned the highest grade in the class.

“They were put in the tombs,” Magritta said, as though speaking to a class of first-grade children, “often dozens of them, to aid the pharaoh in the next life.”

My pride was replaced with annoyance at her tone. I held back a sudden urge to shake her and point out that although she and the others might be well versed in ancient Egyptian funerary rituals, none of them could decipher an ISBN number or track down an out-of-print book for a valued customer. Peter could interpret blood splatters with his eyes closed. They would be lost if confronted with a corpse that had not been dead for less than three thousand years.

Peter grimaced at me as he left. I stuck a piece of pita in my mouth and chewed it intently. Magritta took the opportunity to slosh more gin in her glass. “What puzzles me,” she went on, as though she still had an enthralled audience, “is… well, it’s hard to say. Even with the rubble, the workmen have keen eyesight. This afternoon was chaotic, though.
The people in this room, colleagues from nearby sites, and an underling from the Supreme Council of Antiquities—in and out of the pit to observe the step. We must have served tea to three dozen people. That horrid Sittermann stomped around, making ignorant remarks. Miss Cordelia had too much sun and had to be carried back to the guardhouse amidst great flutter. Lady Emerson claimed the step was meaningless, that she’d seen countless of them over the years. The workmen had to squirm past an endless stream of gawkers to get up to the top with their carriers.”

“You’re wondering why nobody saw the
shabti?”

“We’re lucky nobody stepped on it. The obvious explanation is that Nabil found it after we quit work this afternoon. He often lingers in order to tidy up the day’s progress and make sure that the equipment is stored safely. Some of the workmen are too eager to leave and forget to put away their tools. The canvas barriers are meant only to keep back tourists during the day. Some of them have been known to come right up to the edge of the pit to take photographs, endangering themselves as well as those of us below.”

“If Nabil did a last-minute inspection, he must have uncovered the
shabti
and raced here to show it to you. He was so excited that his blood pressure shot up. By the time he reached this suite, he was probably already having a heart attack.”

She was still frowning. “Yes, that makes sense. It would take him some time to walk to the main road and catch a bus to the pier. The ferries are crowded late in the afternoon, and Nabil is too courteous to push others aside. He also might have had trouble when he finally arrived at the hotel. He would not have been allowed to go through the lobby and take the elevator. He must have been beside himself by the time he found the service entrance and made it up here to the third floor. All that while he had the
shabti
in his pocket, glowing like an ember.” She brushed away a tear. “Such a devoted friend, so fierce and loyal.”

“How did he know you were here?” I asked.

“This afternoon Lord Bledrock invited all of us, and I
didn’t feel as though I could decline. He and Mrs. McHaver have provided most of the financing for the last several years. One doesn’t bite the proverbial hand.”

“Mrs. McHaver? I thought she was… less than wealthy.”

Magritta glanced over my shoulder. “She pretends to have a limited income, but a lot of antiquities leave the country in crates that arrived full of bottles of scotch. Expensive baubles, some with proper papers and others without.”

“From the black market?” I said, flabbergasted. “That prim Scottish lady? I can picture her striding across the moors or having a row with the vicar about the sinful ways of the village youth, but …” I forced myself not to turn around and stare at Mrs. McHaver as if she’d been exposed as a serial killer. “She’s an avid collector, like Lord Bledrock?”

“No,” Magritta said. “She’s a dealer with an international reputation—in certain circles, that is. Nabil has told me that she is very generous with workmen at many excavations, giving them regular payments to keep her informed. Sometimes smaller artifacts have vanished from these very sites before they were cataloged. I do my best to stay next to her when she comes to my site, and Nabil has instructions to keep my crew away from her.”

“Does Shannon know this?”

“I suspect she’s heard rumors, but Mrs. McHaver donates a goodly amount of money every year. Without private funding, most colleges would have to give up their concessions. The Egyptian government doesn’t have the financial resources to protect all the present and future sites, much less the current inventory. Most of what is sent to the Cairo Museum ends up in warehouses, which are systematically looted by thieves. Who knows what would have happened to the Rosetta Stone had it not been sent to the British Museum? The Egyptians are still irate over the matter. I am not entirely unsympathetic to either side’s position.”

I was hoping I was not doomed to argue the merits of
colonialism when an obstreperous argument broke out around the table. It seemed to concern whether the
shabti
should technically be called a
ushabati
or a
shawabti.
I nodded at Magritta and slipped out the door.

When I arrived at the Presidential Suite, I made sure the door from the girls’ bedroom to the hallway was locked. I glumly noted the clothes strewn on the floor and the half-emptied suitcases. Dresser drawers were open, their contents jumbled. Plastic shopping bags were piled on the dresser and on chairs, along with books, magazines, water bottles, and empty candy boxes. Inez’s stack of books was daunting, but I found
The Savage Sheik
next to the bed and took it with me. It had not been in good condition when Inez had chanced across it in a used-book store, and the yellowed pages were likely to come loose from the binding before we’d all finished reading it. I smiled as I imagined countless repressed English ladies gasping as they savored every word of it, then hiding it in a cupboard whenever proper company arrived.