The Ape Who Guards the Balance (19 page)

David rose precipitately and hurried away.

“I believe I will just have another whiskey and soda, Emerson,” I said.

On the face of it, the news was cursed discouraging. One cannot interrogate a dead man. To look at it another way—and I am always in favor of looking on the bright side—Yussuf Mahmud’s murder confirmed our theory that another group of villains was involved, villains more interesting than a seller of second-rate antiquities. Emerson could (and did) jeer all he liked at my theories of mysterious and deadly cults, but I remained convinced that Yussuf Mahmud’s death had all the hallmarks of ritual murder—execution, even. In some way he had betrayed the others, and he had paid a hideous price. But in what way had he betrayed them?

The answer was obvious. Yussuf Mahmud’s desperate attempt to retrieve the papyrus—for only a desperate man would risk invading the house of the Father of Curses—was his last hope of saving himself from the vengeance of the cult. I did not doubt that the Followers of Sobek (as I termed them) employed valuable antiquities like the papyrus to lure prospective victims into their murderous hands. Not only had Yussuf Mahmud allowed the victims and the valuable to slip through his hands, but he had selected for the slaughter, not a naive tourist, but the members of a family known the length and breadth of Egypt for its success in tracking down evildoers.

Yussuf Mahmud could not have known who Ali the Rat was, or he would not have approached him. Someone undoubtedly was cognizant of the fact now, however. I concluded that the children must have betrayed themselves in some manner during the struggle and ensuing flight. Yussuf Mahmud had been given one last chance to compensate for his fatal error. He had failed—and he had paid the price.

My solution was the only one possible, but Emerson dismissed it with an emphatic “Balderdash, Peabody!” and did not even allow me to finish my explanation.

Of course I knew why. Though he would not admit it, Emerson was still obsessed with Sethos. This was patently ridiculous. Sethos would never become involved with anything so crude as a murder cult.

Ramses and Nefret had changed rooms, and I knew my son was bitterly disappointed when no further intrusion took place. I was disappointed too, although I had not expected the cult would risk another man. Our interrogations of the antiquities dealers and the men of Gurneh, though time-consuming, were unproductive. No one had seen Yussuf Mahmud; no one admitted to being a member of a murder cult. I had not really expected that anyone would.

The week between Christmas and New Year’s Day continued to be filled with social activities, and we received a number of invitations from what Emerson referred to as “the dahabeeyah dining society”—an increasingly inaccurate term, since the majority of the individuals concerned stayed at the hotels, particularly the elegant new Winter Palace. In social terms they were a glittering group, some titled, all wealthy. In intellectual terms they were deadly bores, and I did not object to Emerson’s insistence that we refuse most of the invitations. However,
I
insisted that we behave civilly to archaeological friends and old acquaintances.

Among the latter I had to include Mr. Davis, who had arrived in Luxor on board his dahabeeyah. Emerson might and did despise the man, but he had become a prominent figure in Egyptological circles and he had always been civil to me. His cousin, Mrs. Andrews, who always traveled with him, was an amiable individual. (I will not repeat Emerson’s rude speculations concerning the relationship between her and Mr. Davis.)

In point of fact, we did not receive an invitation from Mr. Davis. He and Mrs. Andrews (his cousin, as I kept telling Emerson) were among the most enthusiastic members of the dining society, hobnobbing not only with favored archaeologists but with any tourist who had the slightest pretension to social status or distinction. Apparently we were not in either category. This fact did not disturb me; it relieved my mind, rather, for Emerson could not be counted upon to behave properly when he was in the company of Mr. Davis. It was inevitable that we should meet, however, and when I received an invitation to a particularly elegant affair at the Winter Palace Hotel, hosted by the manager in honor of several members of the British nobility, I did not press Emerson to accompany the rest of us. I knew Davis would be there, because he doted on the nobility.

To my surprise and annoyance, Emerson volunteered. Not only that, but he got himself into his evening clothes without argument and with a minimum of grumbling. A strong sense of foreboding filled me.

Everyone who was anyone in Luxor had been invited. We were late in arriving, but though the room was crowded with people, our entrance drew all eyes to us. Emerson, of course, looked magnificent. I cannot complain about the appearance of the boys.

It had proved impossible to remove all the cat hairs from Nefret’s skirt, but they did not show too much against the satin-striped ivory chiffon. The soft shade set off the golden tan of her skin—a little too much of it, in my opinion. Between leaving the house and arriving at the hotel she must have done something to the neckline, for it looked a good deal lower than it had. At least her elbow-length gloves hid the unladylike scab on her forearm.

Emerson headed straight as a bullet for Mr. Davis. He was a little man with a large mustache who thought he was tall. (That was another of the reasons why he and Emerson did not get on; it is difficult to think of yourself as tall when Emerson is looming over you.) I managed to pull Emerson away before he could say anything except, “Hmph. So you’re back, are you?”

The rest of Davis’s party was with him: Mrs. Andrews, resplendent in jet-beaded black satin; several young ladies who were introduced as her nieces; and an American couple named Smith, who were staying with the Weigalls. Mr. Smith was a painter who had spent a number of seasons in Egypt and had copied for Davis and other archaeologists—a sprightly, convivial man in his mid-forties.

As soon as she had passed through the receiving line, every young (and not so young) man in the room converged on Nefret, leaving a number of ladies abandoned and forlorn. I saw my ward led onto the dance floor by the gentleman she had accepted, and turned toward Emerson. However, he had wandered off.

“Would you care to dance, Mother?” Ramses asked.

“Hmmm,” I said.

“I will try not to tread on your feet.”

I presumed he was making one of his peculiar jokes. Truth compels me to admit he is a better dancer than his father. No one waltzes more magnificently than Emerson; the only problem is that he insists on waltzing no matter what sort of music is being played.

I gave Ramses my hand, and as he guided me respectfully around the floor, I explained, “My momentary hesitation was not occasioned by concern for my feet, but by concern about your father. Someone ought to be with him. He is going to start an argument with someone; I know the signs.”

“We are taking him in turn,” Ramses replied. “David has the first dance.”

Glancing around the room I saw Emerson near the buffet table, talking with M. Naville. David stood next to them. He looked very handsome in his evening clothes, but he also looked, I thought, a trifle apprehensive.

“My dear boy, David cannot possibly stop your father once he gets to ranting,” I said. “I had better go and—”

“It’s my turn next.” The music stopped, and Ramses offered me his arm to lead me from the floor. He was showing off again, and I wondered which of the young ladies present he was trying to impress with his fine manners.

Before we reached the chairs along the wall we were intercepted. “May I beg the honor of the next dance, Mrs. Emerson?” said Sir Edward Washington, with an elegant bow.

I had not seen him since Christmas Day, but I suspected Nefret had. We circled the floor in silence for a time. Then he said, “I suppose, Mrs. Emerson, that your detectival talents are busy at work on our latest mystery.”

“Which mystery did you have in mind, Sir Edward?” I countered.

“Is there more than one? I was referring to the mangled body pulled from the Nile recently. The murderer cannot have been a crocodile.”

“No,” I admitted.

“I was informed that you allowed Miss Forth to examine the remains.”

“Good heavens, how gossip spreads in this village! I do not allow Miss Forth to do a good many things, Sir Edward. She does them anyhow.”

“A very spirited young lady,” Sir Edward murmured. His eyes moved to Nefret, who was talking with Mr. Davis. Both of them appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely, and it seemed to me her neckline had slipped even lower.

“But what of the murder, Mrs. Emerson?” Sir Edward resumed. “You must have a theory.”

“I always have a theory,” I replied. “But I will not tell you this one, Sir Edward. You would only laugh at me. Emerson has already informed me that it is balderdash.”

“I would never laugh at you, Mrs. Emerson. Please.”

“Well . . .”

Naturally I omitted any reference to those aspects of the case that concerned us personally. “What the man was doing here in Luxor we will never know,” I concluded.

“Was he not a Luxor man, then?”

Curse it, I thought. The slip had been so slight, only a very astute individual would have caught it. I kept forgetting that Sir Edward was a very astute individual. Fortunately the music stopped and I sought an excuse to end the discussion.

“I can’t recall where I got that impression,” I replied evasively. “No doubt I misinterpreted some bit of gossip. If you will excuse me, Sir Edward, I must head Emerson off before he—”

“One other question, Mrs. Emerson, if I may.” I stopped, perforce. He had taken my arm in quite a firm grip preparatory to escorting me to a chair.

“Once again I am seeking employment,” he went on, and his courteous social smile broadened as he saw my look of surprise. “Not because I am in need of it—that little inheritance I mentioned has made me financially independent—but because I want something to occupy me. Mine is not the sort of temperament that enjoys idleness, and I have always been keen on archaeology. I don’t suppose your husband is in need of a photographer, or any other sort of assistant?”

I was not taken in by this disingenuous explanation. Sir Edward was about to make his move! He would get no help from me. I explained, with perfect truth, that we had all the staff we needed at present.

“Yes, I understand.” His raised eyebrow and half-smile made it clear that he did understand. “If he should change his mind, please let me know.”

I had observed Emerson talking with a lady who was unfamiliar to me. His handsome head was bent attentively and his well-cut lips were wreathed in a smile. The lady was elegantly dressed and extravagantly bejeweled. A diamond ornament as big as my hand crowned the coils of her dark hair. It was shaped like a cluster of roses with the flowers and leaves set en tremblant, so that the slightest movement of her head made the roses sway on the thin wires. They sent off sparks of diamond fire as she tilted her head to gaze up at Emerson.

“Ah,” said Emerson. “Here is my wife now. Peabody, allow me to introduce Mrs. Marija Stephenson. We were talking about cats.”

“A fascinating subject,” I said, bowing politely to the lady. She bowed politely to me. Rainbow fire glittered atop her head. A diamond necklace and matching bracelets glittered too, if not as extravagantly. I blinked.

“Quite,” said Emerson. “She has one. A cat. Its name is Astrolabe.”

“An unusual name.”

“Your husband tells me you favor Egyptian names for your cats,” said Mrs. Stephenson. She had a pleasant voice, marred only by an unfortunate American accent.

We exchanged conventional questions—“Is this your first visit to Egypt? How long are you planning to stay? Is your husband with you?”—and conventional answers—“Yes, I am enjoying it excessively; two weeks longer in Luxor and then back to Cairo; unfortunately he was unable to get away from his business.” I was conscious throughout this exchange of the lady’s dark eyes examining my own simple ornaments. The faience and carved stone amulets did not make much of a show compared with that galaxy of diamonds.

After introducing Mrs. Stephenson to someone else—for I hope I have better manners than to leave a stranger alone—I drew Emerson away.

“ ’Pon my word, Peabody, you were cursed inquisitive,” Emerson remarked. “Did you have one of your famous premonitions about the lady? I thought her very pleasant.”

“So I observed. You haven’t asked me to dance, Emerson. They are playing a waltz.”

“Certainly, my dear.” His strong arm caught me to him and swung me onto the floor.

I looked round for Nefret. I had been pleased to note that the boys had rather monopolized her that evening, taking most of her dances and preventing her from stealing out into the gardens unchaperoned. She was now dancing with Ramses, who was demonstrating more panache than he had with me. Her full skirts swung out as he spun her in a sweeping turn, and she smiled up at him.

Emerson was deep in thought, his manly brow furrowed.

“You are uncommonly taciturn, Peabody. Was it the diamonds? I saw you staring at them. You can have all you want, you know. I didn’t think you cared for such things.”

His sensitive perception and generous offer made me feel ashamed of myself. “Oh, Emerson,” I murmured. “You are so good to me.”

“Well, I try to be, curse it. But if you won’t tell me what you would like, how am I supposed to know?”

“I don’t want diamonds, my dear. You have given me everything I want and more.”

“Ah,” said Emerson. “Shall we go home, Peabody, so that I can give you—”

“That would be very agreeable, Emerson.”

:

Y
ou may be certain, dear Reader, that Emerson had not allowed us to neglect our professional activities. I have not reported on them in detail because they produced nothing of interest. While the rest of us toiled in the remote corners of the Valley, Ramses and David worked at the Seti I temple copying inscriptions.

The weather had turned unusually warm, which did not lighten our labors. Under the burning rays of the solar orb the bare rock walls of the Valley absorb heat as a sponge soaks up water—a commodity, I might add, that is in exceedingly short supply there. We all felt it excepting Emerson, who appears to be impervious to temperatures hot or cold.