The Ape Who Guards the Balance (31 page)

What with one thing and another I did not enjoy a quiet night’s repose. I do not believe Emerson slept at all. When he shook me awake it was still dark outside, and sunrise was several hours away when we assembled in the sitting room for a hasty breakfast. Since we had not been able to agree on which of us should go, we were all going, including Sir Edward.

He had said very little the night before, and he applied himself to his food in thoughtful silence.

“You have said very little, Sir Edward,” I remarked. “I have the impression you do not approve of this.”

He looked up, his brow furrowed. “I have a number of reservations, Mrs. Emerson. I cannot believe one of those women would venture to communicate with you, or be able to do so in writing. What Miss Forth said to them must be known by now to most of the residents of Luxor. A resourceful enemy could make use of it to lure you into a trap.”

“We went over all that last night,” I reminded him. “And agreed that the chance must be taken.”

“Then there is no use in my trying to dissuade you.”

“None at all,” said Nefret.

He bowed his head in silent acquiescence, but as we proceeded to mount the horses I saw he was fingering something in his pocket. A pistol? I rather hoped it was. I myself was armed “to the teeth,” as Emerson caustically remarked: my little pistol in one pocket, my knife in the other, my parasol in my hand. My belt I had left behind, but most of its useful accoutrements had been distributed among my other pockets. One never knows when a sip of brandy will be needed, or the means of striking a light.

The first faint blush of dawn outlined the eastern mountains when we disembarked on the quay in Luxor. We were not the only early risers; lighted windows in the hotels indicated that the tourists were up and dressing, and shadowy forms in long galabeeyahs moved along the street on their way to work or to prayers. We were in good time, for our destination was not far distant.

“Wait,” Ramses said suddenly.

“Why? What?” I cried, raising my parasol and darting suspicious looks all round.

“Wait until it is light enough to see where we are going,” Ramses elaborated. “Confound it, this is dangerous enough by daylight.”

In another ten minutes Emerson decreed it was safe to go on. Though it had fewer than twelve thousand inhabitants, Luxor boasted eight or nine mosques, none particularly distinguished for antiquity or architectural distinction. That of Sheikh el Guibri was less than half a mile from the riverbank. The street on which it was located was no more than a country road, unpaved and dusty. We had not quite reached it when the first call to prayer rose into the clear morning air. The muezzins are individualists, defining the exact moment of sunrise according to their own notions. This earliest call came from one of the mosques farther south, but Nefret quickened her pace and was only restrained from drawing ahead of the boys by Emerson, who held her hand tightly in his. We had her safely surrounded, since Sir Edward and I brought up the rear, but I doubted she would accept this state of things for long.

The mosque stood back a little from the road. Through the open arch of the entrance we could see into the courtyard with its fountain and surrounding libans. An adjoining structure with a domed roof presumably housed the tomb of the holy man after whom the mosque was named. From the minaret, the muezzin added his voice—baritone, cracked with age—to the chorus.

There were a number of people abroad, walking or riding donkeys, or driving carts loaded with produce. A woman balancing a load of reeds on her head gave us a curious look as she passed. We were certainly conspicuous; few tourists came this way.

“I am going into the courtyard,” Nefret said in a low voice. “She wouldn’t approach me here on the road.”

“Not a good idea,” said Ramses. “She would be even more conspicuous inside. Women are not encouraged to pray in public. The rest of you go on, toward the tomb. We will wait here.”

“We? Curse it, Ramses, you agreed—”

“I lied,” Ramses said coolly. “We can’t take the chance, there are too many people about. She’s seen me and David with you, and if her intentions are honorable she wouldn’t expect you to be alone.”

We waited for another quarter hour, until the last dilatory notes of the call to prayer had died away and the red globe of the sun had lifted over the eastern mountains. Emerson was getting restless. We joined the children, who were—not surprisingly—arguing.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Nefret demanded.

“No.” Ramses kept glancing uneasily around. “The writing was atrocious, and there are two mosques with similar names. I’d have had another look if the damned cat hadn’t ripped the paper to shreds.”

“She’s not coming,” Emerson said. “Or she never meant to come. Or—”

“Or Sir Edward was correct,” I said, glancing at that gentleman, who did not reply. Like Ramses, he was watching the passersby. “This was a trap that failed. They did not dare attack all of us.”

At Nefret’s urging we stopped by the other mosque—that of Sheikh el Graib—on our way back to the quay. It was in a more populous section, closer to the Luxor Temple. The street was teeming with the usual morning traffic by that time, but the mosque itself was quiet, morning prayers being over. Nefret had not given up hope of a message, at least; she walked slowly along the facade of the building, looking from side to side; but it was Ramses, close on her heels, who spotted the small object lying in the dust.

It was a thin gold disk, pierced by a small hole—the sort of ornament that hangs from the earrings and headcloths of Egyptian women.

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Ten

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W
hat was the import of that little golden disk? Most probably nothing. Such ornaments were common, and even if it had belonged to the woman who had written us, it might have fallen unnoticed from a piece of jewelry. Nefret insisted it had been left deliberately, as a sign that the girl had kept the appointment but had been unable to remain. I considered this unlikely. The woman must have known such a token would not have been left lying in the dust for long. To an indigent peasant the bit of gold represented food for days.

In my case at least relief won out over disappointment, and I fancy most of the others felt the same. If what we hoped had not occurred, at least that which we feared had not happened either. Studying Nefret’s crestfallen face, observing the determined set of her jaw, I decided I had better have another little chat with her. No one admired her courage and compassion more than I, but it would be madness for her to venture again into the house of ill fame.

On our way back to the riverbank we passed near the telegraph office, but I did not suggest we stop. We could not expect a message from Walter so soon, and Emerson would have objected to any further delay. He had already lost several hours on what he was pleased to call a wild goose chase, and he grudged every minute away from his work.

It had proved to be more onerous than even he had expected. The debris that filled the first chamber contained hundreds of bits and pieces: fragments of pottery and alabaster jars, beads of all varieties, scraps of wood and scraps of people—mummified people, that is. By Emerson’s meticulous standards every scrap had to be preserved and recorded. Dedicated scholar that he is, he became quite interested in the proceedings and (to my relief) did not even send anyone down the path to spy on poor Ned Ayrton.

Early in the afternoon I suggested to Emerson that we return to the house. “We ought to have had a message from Walter by now. I asked him to telegraph at the earliest possible moment.”

Emerson looked blank. So obsessed was he by archaeological matters that it took him a moment to understand my reference. “I don’t know why you are making such a fuss, Peabody. Either Walter has sent a telegram or he has not. What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Send one of the men to the telegraph office. You know how dilatory the clerks are, messages sometimes lie on the desk for days.”

“Oh, bah,” said Emerson. “I cannot spare another man, Peabody. I am short-handed as it is with Selim and Daoud gone.”

So I sent Abdullah. It was a very warm day, and I wanted to get him out of the infernal heat and dust of the tomb. After I had given him my instructions and told him to meet us back at the house, Nefret beckoned to me from the rubbish heap in a conspiratorial manner.

“Mr. Davis just went past,” she whispered.

“Which way? In or out?”

“Out. He must have got past us earlier without being seen. He was looking very pleased with himself, Aunt Amelia.”

“Oh? Well. Perhaps those steps of Ned’s led to something after all. How nice for Mr. Davis.”

Nefret’s conspiratorial smile broadened into a grin. “Yes, isn’t it? Do you mind if I go over there and see?”

“Do as you like, my dear.”

“Don’t you want to come with me?”

“Now that you mention it . . .” I said.

Somehow I was not at all surprised to find Ramses already there. The last time I had set eyes on him he had been in a far corner of the tomb chamber squinting at a cartouche, but he was an expert at eluding people—especially his mother. He and Ned stood partway down the steps, gazing at what lay below.

The full length of the stairs was now exposed, though they had not been completely cleared. At the bottom was a wall of rough stones, unmortared and unevenly cut. It filled the neatly cut rectangular space that was undoubtedly the entrance to a tomb.

“Has the wall been breached?” I demanded.

“One can always count on you, Mother, to go straight to the heart of the matter,” said Ramses, reaching up a hand to help me as I scrambled down. The steps were a bit treacherous, littered with smaller pebbles and quite steep. “It appears it has not been. It’s a rather makeshift construction, though; Ned and I have just been discussing the possibility that it may not be the original blockage. We . . . Nefret, don’t come down, there’s not room for another person.”

“Then you come up. I want to see.”

After she had had her turn, I said, “How splendid, Ned. I suppose Mr. Davis is anxious to have that wall down. Are you going to take photographs this afternoon, or will there be time tomorrow morning?”

“He directed me to have everything prepared for him in the morning.”

It was a somewhat evasive answer. Ramses caught my eye—Ned was carefully not looking at either of us—and said casually, “I was about to tell Ned we would be happy to take a few photographs for him. We have our equipment here, and it wouldn’t take long.”

“That would be good of you,” Ned said, looking relieved. “I haven’t a camera with me, and the light will be fading soon, and—er—”

“Quite,” I said briskly. “Nefret?”

She hurried away. Turning back to Ned, I said, “Have you notified Mr. Weigall? Since this is a new tomb, it becomes the responsibility of the Inspector.”

“He and Mrs. Weigall are having tea with Mr. Davis. I believe he plans to inform him then.”

When Nefret returned, Emerson was with her. I had been afraid he would, but there was nothing I could do about it.

I asked Ned to come back to the house with us and have tea, but he declined, saying he had a great deal of work to do. The truth was, an hour of Emerson’s company was about all he could stand. Emerson was not rude—not by his standards, that is—but his enormous energy and emphatic lectures are hard on the young and timid.

Abdullah had returned with the longed-for telegram, which the clerk assured him had just that minute arrived. “Your messages received,” it read. “Discussions underway. Will wire tonight or tomorrow. Take care.”

“Sent from Cairo,” I said.

“I hope they will make up their minds soon,” Emerson grumbled. “I cannot spare Daoud and Selim.”

We were at the dig at our usual hour next morning, shortly after sunrise. It was not until after 10A.M. that Mr. Davis and his entourage appeared.

There were dozens of them! The Weigalls, Mrs. Andrews and her nieces, the Smiths, servants carrying cushions, sunshades, and baskets of food and drink, and several elegantly costumed individuals I did not know—distinguished visitors who had been invited to watch Mr. Davis find a tomb. It looked for all the world like a group of Cook’s tourists on a sight-seeing jaunt.

Mr. Davis was attired in his favorite “professional” garb: riding breeches and buttoned gaiters, tweed jacket and waistcoat, and a broad-brimmed felt hat. He nodded at me, but I doubt he would have stopped had not Emerson hailed him.

The contrast between them was ludicrous: Mr. Davis, dapper and neat, if somewhat ridiculous, in those old-fashioned garments; Emerson, trousers and boots white with dust, shirt open to the waist and sleeves rolled to the elbows. I could see he had determined to be cordial if it killed him. Baring his teeth in a friendly grin, he strode forward and offered his hand. Dripping with a pale paste composed of dust and perspiration, covered with bleeding scratches, it was not the sort of object one would wish to grasp, but Mr. Davis could not avoid doing so because Emerson seized his hand before he could back away, and wrung it vigorously. He then congratulated Mr. Davis on “another interesting discovery,” and Weigall, who had watched the performance in mild alarm—for the sight of Emerson being affable understandably aroused his suspicions—said they must be getting on.

“May I come and watch?”

No one would have had the audacity to make a request like that except Nefret. She had not shirked her duties that morning; but she was one of those fortunate young women who looks even prettier when her face glows with exertion and her loosened hair coils in shining tendrils around temples and cheeks. As she spoke she turned the full battery of eyes, smile, curls, and slim brown hands on Mr. Davis. As Ramses remarked later, the poor old chap didn’t stand a chance.

They went off arm in arm. “Emerson,” I said, taking pity on my afflicted spouse, “why don’t you go with them?”

“I was not asked,” said Emerson. “It was a conspicuous omission. I do not thrust myself in where I am not wanted.”

“Nefret will let us know what is happening,” I said.