The Ape Who Guards the Balance (34 page)

“Was I correct?”

“Yes.” His voice was as soft as a sigh. “I didn’t believe you then, but after observing her this season I know she will never be mine.”

He had not answered my question. There was no need for me to repeat it. I knew the answer.

The train was late. It was after three in the morning before the long-awaited sounds brought me running to the verandah. Emerson had hired a carriage for the travelers and their luggage (I kept telling him we ought to have one of our own, but he would not listen), and before long I was able to hold Evelyn and Walter in a loving embrace. They were both haggard with fatigue, but neither would rest until they had seen their child with their own eyes.

Nefret had dozed off on the mattress we had placed beside the bed, and the two girls made a pretty sight, with the lamplight playing on their loosened hair and their faces flushed with sleep. Nefret woke at once; her first gesture was to place a finger to her lips, so we crept quietly out again, followed by Nefret.

Weary though they were, Evelyn and Walter were too keyed up to sleep. We retired to the sitting room and the heaped-up platters of food Fatima brought. Emotions were too profound and too joyful to be restrained; tears and fond embraces and broken protestations followed.

The first coherent comment I can recall came from Walter. “I cannot decide whether to beat Daoud senseless or thank him from the bottom of my heart.”

“The latter,” said Emerson. “He is twice your size.”

“He would stand still and let you do it, though,” Ramses said. “It wasn’t his fault, Uncle Walter.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.” Walter passed his hand over his eyes. “Well, at least we are here, and it is wonderful to see you all again. You are looking well, Amelia—remarkably well, under the circumstances.”

“She thrives on this sort of thing,” Emerson muttered.

Evelyn had made the boys sit with her, one on either side, and was inspecting them with the tender anxiety of her motherly heart. “And you both look better than I had dared expect. Your hand, Ramses—”

“It’s greatly improved,” Ramses assured her. “Mother and Nefret made a great fuss about nothing.”

She smiled at him and turning to David, raised her hand caressingly to his brown cheek. “We worried about you too, dear. If it had not been for Lia we would not have hesitated about coming.”

Too moved to speak, David bowed his head and carried her hand to his lips.

Emerson had begun to fidget. He does not enjoy excessive displays of sentimentality—public displays, that is. “You two look like ghosts. Go to bed. We will talk again tomorrow, when you are rested. Say good night, boys, and let’s be going.”

“Going?” I exclaimed. “Where, at this hour?”

“To the Valley, of course. Davis will be wrecking the tomb first thing in the morning, and I mean to get there before him.”

“Emerson, you can’t do that! ”

“Can’t give him the benefit of my advice, and attempt in my most tactful fashion to persuade him to adhere to the basic principles of scientific excavation? What is wrong with that?”

“It is Mr. Davis’s tomb, my dear, not yours. You should—”

“The tomb,” said Emerson in the sonorous tones he employed when he was making a speech, “does not belong to Davis, Amelia. It belongs to the Egyptian people, and to the world.”

He looked so self-righteous I would have laughed if I had not been so filled with horrified apprehension. Walter did laugh. He laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes, and if there was a slight touch of hysteria in his mirth I could hardly blame him. “Never mind, Amelia dear,” he gasped. “Radcliffe told us all about it on the way here. You cannot prevent him; I cannot prevent him; the entire heavenly host could not prevent him. Radcliffe, dear old chap, it
is
good to be back!”

Emerson flatly refused to take me with him; I was needed at the house, he explained, to make certain everything was safe and in order. I would not have minded so much if he had not yielded to Nefret’s demands.

“Hmm, yes, you may be useful. You can get round Davis better than most people. Don’t forget the camera.”

Filled with the direst of apprehensions, I took Ramses aside. “Don’t let him strike anyone, Ramses. Especially Mr. Weigall. Or Mr. Davis. Or—”

“I will do my best, Mother.”

“And take care of Nefret. Don’t let her—”

“Wander off on her own? No fear of that.” A glint of what might have been amusement shone in his dark eyes. “She’ll be too busy flirting with Mr. Davis.”

“Oh dear,” I murmured.

“It will be all right, Mother. How can an adversary lie in wait for us when even
we
don’t know what the devil Father is going to do next?”

I saw them off and returned to my duties. Fatima had supplied the guest chamber with everything a visitor might need, including rose petals in the wash water; but when I went to Nefret’s room to see how Lia was doing, I found her mother lying on the pallet by the bed. Both were asleep. Wiping a tear from my eye, I went to listen at Walter’s door and deduced, from the sound of snoring, that he too had succumbed. Sir Edward’s door was ajar and lamplight showed within; he had not joined in the joyous reunion, but he was obviously awake and alert.

I sent Fatima to bed and lay down, thinking to snatch a few hours’ repose. Repose I did, but sleep was impossible with so many impressions and questions crowding into my head. Sir Edward’s solemn warning—to be honest, it was a theory that had not occurred to me, but knowing Nefret as I did I feared he might be right. Then there was Lia’s outrageous behavior to be considered. Her dear parents’ haggard looks had made me angry with her all over again. How thoughtless and self-centered the young can be! I did not doubt her affection for us, but she owed her parents a greater affection, and I knew she had been moved in part by a selfish desire to get her own way.

Foremost in my thoughts, as always, was Emerson. Was I concerned for his safety? Well, not really. With all four of them together, on the alert and on horseback, it would have required an attack in force to overcome them—especially since, as Ramses had pointed out, no one could possibly have expected them to be abroad at that hour. I was more concerned about Emerson’s formidable temper. He was already at odds with the entire Department of Antiquities, not to mention Mr. Davis. What was he doing to Mr. Davis’s tomb? What was going on in the Valley in the dark of night? And what the devil was in the tomb? I am not entirely immune to archaeological fever myself.

       
(xv)
    
From Manuscript H

Ramses had seen the fever mounting, and had known nothing short of physical violence would keep his father away from Davis’s tomb. He had sometimes wondered whether Emerson would interrupt an interesting excavation long enough to interfere if he saw his son being strangled or battered—and then reproached himself for his doubts. Emerson would remove the attacker, knock him unconscious, inquire, “All right, are you, my boy?” and go back to work.

It was different with Nefret, of course. His father had once stated his intention of killing a man just for laying his hands on her, and Ramses didn’t doubt he had meant it. He felt precisely the same way.

It lacked at least an hour till daylight when they reached the entrance to the Valley. The donkey park was deserted except for one of the gaffirs, who had found a quiet corner and a bundle of rags on which to sleep. They answered his sleepy questions with a few coins and left the horses with him.

The moon had set. Starlight glimmered in Nefret’s hair.

The men who had been left to guard the new tomb were asleep. One of them woke at the crunch of rock under their booted feet and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He responsed to Emerson’s soft greeting with a mumbled “It is the Father of Curses. And the Brother of Demons. And—”

“And others,” said Emerson. “Go back to sleep, Hussein. Sorry I woke you.”

“What are you going to do, Father of Curses?”

“Sit here on this rock” was the calm response.

The man lay down and rolled over. Egyptians had long since concluded that the activities of the Father of Curses were incomprehensible. It was an opinion shared by many non-Egyptians.

Emerson took out his pipe and the others settled down beside him. “Aren’t you going to look at the tomb?” Nefret whispered.

“In the dark? Couldn’t see a thing, my dear.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“Wait.”

Sunrise was slow to reach the depths of the Valley, but the light gradually strengthened and the guards woke and built a fire to make coffee. Nefret produced the basket of food Fatima had forced on her, and they passed around bread and eggs and oranges, sharing them with the guards, as those courteous individuals shared their coffee. While they were eating, Abdullah and the other men turned up and joined the party. They were all having a jolly time when they heard someone approaching.

The newcomer was Ned Ayrton, followed by several of his workmen. When he saw them he stopped and stared.

“We dropped in to see if we could lend a hand,” said Emerson jovially. “Would you care for a boiled egg?”

“Uh—no, sir, thank you. I haven’t time. Mr. Davis will be here in a few hours and he will wish—”

“Yes, I know. Well, my boy, we are at your disposal. Tell us what you want us to do.”

What Ayrton wanted, above all else, was to have them go away. Since he was too courteous to say so, he stuttered, “I thought—I thought I might finish clearing the stairs. Get them—er—nice and tidy. Wouldn’t want anyone to trip over a rock and—er.”

“Quite, quite,” Emerson said. With what might have been a smile—except that it showed altogether too many teeth—he got up and started for the stairs.

“What’s he going to do?” Ayrton whispered, giving Ramses an agonized look.

“God knows. How soon do you expect Mr. Davis?”

“Not before nine. He said early, but that is early for him. Ramses, I must have everything ready when he arrives. He will wish—”

“I know.”

“Ramses, what is the Professor going toDO ?”

“Would you object to our taking photographs?”

“You can’t get anything. The angle is all wrong and the doorway is in shadow, and . . . Oh, I suppose it’s all right, so long as you don’t let him see you doing it.”

He hurried off. Ramses turned to Nefret, who had been listening with a sardonic smile. She shook her head.

“Poor Ned. He hasn’t much backbone, has he? He’s supposed to be in charge.”

“No, Weigall is the one in charge,” Ramses said. “Ned is a hired employee and Davis is the one who pays his salary. Two hundred and fifty pounds per annum may not sound much to you, but it’s all Ned has.”

He had spoken rather sharply but instead of snapping back at him she smiled bewitchingly. “Touché, my boy. Who’s that coming?”

“Weigall. He and some of the others camped in the Valley last night.”

No one could resist Nefret. Ramses knew he was infatuated to the point of irrationality, but even Weigall, who had good reason to mistrust the whole Emerson family, thawed under her smiles and dimples.

“We are breakfasting with Mr. Davis on his dahabeeyah,” Weigall announced. “And returning with him. Uh—what are you doing, Professor?”

Emerson tossed the rock he held aside and began to explain. Watching with considerable amusement, Ramses realized that he had underestimated his father. The most severe critic could not have objected to what he was doing. Davis had wanted to enter the tomb; Emerson was making it possible for him to do so.

“We’ll have the place all tidied up when you get back,” he announced, grinning wolfishly. “Wouldn’t want Davis to twist his rickety old ankle scrambling down those littered steps. Ayrton will keep an eye on us, won’t you, Ayrton? Yes. Run along and enjoy your breakfast, Weigall.”

He assisted the Inspector on his way with a hearty slap on the back. As soon as he was out of sight Emerson turned like a tiger on David. “Get in there and start copying the inscriptions on that panel.”

David had half-expected it, but he didn’t like it. “Sir,” he began.

“Do as I say. Ramses, go on down the path and keep watch. Give us a hail if you see anyone I would rather not see.”

Nefret started to laugh. “Don’t worry, Mr. Ayrton,” she sputtered. “No one will blame you; they are only too familiar with the Professor’s little ways. Anyhow, no one will know unless you tell them.”

Ayrton surveyed the interested audience, which consisted of his crew and most of the Emersons’ men. After a moment his outraged expression relaxed into a reluctant grin. “What did you do, bribe them?”

“Bribes and intimidation,” said Nefret cheerfully. “They think Ramses is closely related to all the afreets in Egypt. Have an orange.”

Obeying his father’s gesture, Ramses stationed himself where he could see along the path that led to the donkey park. What his father was doing violated every written and unwritten principle of archaeological ethics, not to mention his firman. Ramses—who never let principle get in his way either—was in complete sympathy. Every movement across the plank, every breath would dislodge a few more flakes of the gold leaf. Lord only knew how much of the relief would remain after a few more days of such activity. His father had offered Davis the services of Sir Edward as photographer and David as artist. Davis had flatly refused. He wanted to be in complete control of “his” dig.

Ramses flexed his stiff fingers and cursed himself for the stupidity that had made it impossible for him to join in the fun. If he hadn’t been so carried away by the image of himself as a romantic rescuer he would have employed some of the dirtier and equally effective blows he had learned in various dark corners of London and Cairo, instead of punching the villain on the jaw in approved public-school style. He could do some things left-handed, but he had never acquired the delicate precision necessary for copying hieroglyphs. Layla had been right when she called him a fool. Well, she had got away, anyhow. At least he prayed she had.

The sound of someone approaching made him start. It was only Abdullah. He was looking unusually grave.