The Ape Who Guards the Balance (44 page)
Read The Ape Who Guards the Balance Online
Authors: Elizabeth Peters
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Suspense, #General, #Mystery, #Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Detective and mystery stories, #Large Type Books, #Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective - Historical, #Women detectives, #Mystery & Detective - Series, #english, #Egypt, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictitious character), #Women archaeologists
“This particular scene fascinates me,” I went on. “The concept itself is quite remarkable for a pagan culture that had never known the teaching of the true faith.”
Ramses turned a chair round and sat down, resting his arms on the back. “I presume you are referring to Christianity.”
Curse it, I thought. Of all things I did not want to get into a theological discussion with Ramses. He could argue like a Jesuit and his opinions, derived from his father, were distressingly unorthodox.
He took my reply for granted and went on, “The idea that an individual will be judged by God, or a god, to determine his fitness for eternal life is not unique to Christianity. In some ways I prefer the Egyptian version. One was not dependent on the arbitrary decision of a single entity—”
“Who knows all and sees all,” I interrupted.
“Granted,” said Ramses, lips tightening in his version of a smile. “But the Egyptians allowed the dead man or woman the formality of a court hearing, with a divine jury and a court reporter and another judge who watched over the balance. And the result of an unfavorable decision was more merciful than the Christian version. Burning in hell for all eternity is worse than quick annihilation in the jaws of . . .”
He broke off, staring at the photograph.
“Amnet, the Eater of the Dead,” I said helpfully.
“Yes,” Ramses said.
“Well, my dear, you have made several interesting points, which I will be glad to debate with you—at another time. It is getting late. Why don’t you run along and tell the others to stop? Nefret should go to bed.”
“Yes,” Ramses repeated. “Good night, Mother. Good night, Father.”
Emerson grunted.
After Ramses had gone I looked through the messages that had been delivered that day. I had to agree with Emerson; Luxor was becoming too popular. One could, if one were so inclined, spend every day from morning till night in idle social encounters. There were notes from various acquaintances inviting us to lunch, tea and dinner, and several letters of introduction written by people I had met once or twice on behalf of people I had not met at all and did not wish to meet. The only item of interest was a note from Katherine, saying she planned to visit the school of Sayyida Amin next day, and asking if I would like to accompany her.
I mentioned this to Emerson, whose head was bent over the notes he had spread on the table. “I really ought to go, Emerson. Katherine’s scheme of starting a school deserves encouragement, and I have been remiss in helping her.”
“You may go if you take Ramses and David with you.” After a moment Emerson added, “And Nefret.”
My poor dear Emerson is so transparent. “Leaving you alone?” I inquired.
“Alone? With twenty of our men, several hundred cursed tourists, and Davis’s entire entourage?”
“There are remote corners of the Valley where tourists never go, Emerson. There are empty tombs and hazardous chasms.”
Emerson tossed his pen down onto the table and leaned back in his chair. Fingering the cleft in his chin, he fixed amused blue eyes on me. “Come now, Peabody, you don’t suppose I would do anything so foolish as to wander off inviting someone to ambush me?”
“You have done it before.”
“I am older and wiser now,” Emerson declared. “No. There are more sensible ways of proceeding. I’ll tell you what, Peabody; put Katherine off for another day or two, and we will go after the bastards who killed that girl.”
They had also kidnapped his son and David and attacked Nefret, but it was the horrible death of the young woman that had driven Emerson into action. He tries to hide his softer side, but like all true Britons he will go to any length to defend or avenge the helpless.
“What do you have in mind?” I inquired.
“We are still in the dark as to the motive behind this business. The papyrus is the only solid clue we possess. We never did pursue that lead. If we can find out where it came from we may be able to deduce the identity of the individual who was last in possession of it.”
“Bertha,” I said.
“Curse it, Peabody, we don’t know that that is so. We’ve put together a pretty plot, but there is no proof that she is the guilty party. Sethos, on the other hand—”
“You always suspect him. There is no proof of his guilt either.”
“And you always defend the bastard! I intend to get that proof. I made a few inquiries earlier, but only about Yussuf. I did not mention the papyrus. It came originally from Thebes, so it must have passed through the hands of one of the Luxor dealers. Mohammed Mohassib is a likely possibility. He has been in the business for thirty years, and he has handled some of the finest antiquities that ever came out of the Theban tombs. You heard what Carter said about him the other evening. Can it be a coincidence that he asked to see me?”
“Not you, Emerson. Me.”
“Same thing. I will show him the papyrus and promise him immunity and undying friendship if he can give us useful information. We’ll leave the Valley early and go over to Luxor.”
I slept peacefully and soundly for most of the night. It was near dawn when I was aroused by a piercing scream.
There was no question where it had originated or who had voiced it. It shot even Emerson out of bed. Of course he immediately fell over his boots, which he had carelessly left on the floor, so I was the second person on the scene.
The first was Ramses. The room was extremely dark, but I recognized his outline. He stood by Nefret’s bed, looking down at her.
“What is it?” I cried. “Why are you just standing there? What is wrong?”
Ramses turned. I heard the scrape of a match. The flame sprang up and strengthened as he held it to the candlewick.
By that time the others had hastened to the scene. Never had I been so glad I had insisted on proper sleeping attire. They were all more or less clad, even Emerson, though a good deal of bare skin showed. Sir Edward had not waited to put on a dressing gown, but he was wearing a pair of tasteful blue silk pajamas.
Nefret sat up. “I am very sorry,” she began; but her voice broke. Helpless with laughter, she bent her head over the enormous bulk clasped in her arms.
“Good Gad,” I exclaimed. “How did he get here?”
Ramses set the candle down on a table. “Someday I am going to murder that animal,” he said in a conversational voice.
“Now, you know you would never do such a thing,” I said.
“I might, though,” said Emerson, behind me. “Damnation! My heart is going at twice the normal rate.”
“It was my fault,” Nefret insisted. “I was sound asleep, and when he jumped onto my stomach he knocked the breath out of me and I thought . . .” She hugged Horus closer. “He didn’t mean it, did him?”
I managed to get Ramses out of the room before he said very many bad words. Next morning we found one of Cyrus’s servants squatting patiently on the verandah, waiting for us to come out. Lifting the hem of his robe to his knees, he demanded some of the stinging water. He meant iodine, and the condition of his shins justified a copious quantity of that medication, which I duly applied. Katherine had a perfectly adequate medicine chest (one of my wedding presents to the pair) but I suppose the fellow preferred my magical powers. He also wanted to air his grievances, which he did at length. I am sure I need not mention that he was the servant assigned to look after Sekhmet.
•
BOOK THREE
THE WEIGHING OF
THE HEART
•
Hear ye the judgment.
His heart has been weighed truly and his soul
has testified for him. His cause is righteous
in the Great Balance.
•
Fourteen
•
W
hen we crossed over to Luxor on Monday afternoon I saw the familiar dahabeeyah of the director of the Service des Antiquités tied up at the dock. So the Masperos had arrived! I would have to call on them, of course. I only hoped I could prevent Emerson from doing so, for in his present state of exasperation he was bound to say something rude.
I had sent a messenger to Mohassib earlier to tell him we would come to see him that afternoon. When we reached his house we saw several men sitting on the mastaba bench beside the gate. They stared in undisguised curiosity, and one of them said with a sly smile, “Have you come to buy antiquities, Father of Curses? Mohassib charges too much; I will give you a better price.”
Emerson acknowledged this feeble witticism with a grimace. It was well known that he never bought antiquities from dealers. After greeting each of the men by name, he drew me aside. “I believe I will take advantage of the opportunity to fahddle with these fellows, Peabody, and see what gossip I can pick up. You and Nefret go ahead. Mohassib will be more at ease with you, and I feel sure, my dear, that you can persuade him into indiscretions my presence might inhibit.”
Like Emerson, I knew most of the “fellows”; several were dealers in fakes and antiquities, and one was a member of the notorious Abd er Rassul family, the most skilled tomb robbers in Thebes.
“Very well,” I said. “Sir Edward, will you be good enough to take the—to take that parcel? Ramses, you and David stay with your father.”
Emerson rolled his eyes in evident exasperation, but did not protest. Taking out his pipe, he joined the men on the mastaba.
We were greeted by Mohassib himself. He led us into a nicely furnished room where tea was set out on a low table. Not until we had taken the seats he offered did I realize David had followed us into the house.
“I told you to stay with the Professor,” I said in a low voice.
“He ordered me to come with you,” David replied. “Ramses is watching him. We thought—”
“All right, never mind,” I said quickly. Mohassib was watching us, and it would have been rude to continue a whispered conversation.
The usual compliments and courtesies and pouring of tea took a long time. Mohassib did not glance at my parcel, which I had placed carefully on the floor beside my chair. He left it to me to introduce the reason for our visit, which I did in the conventional oblique fashion.
“We were honored to learn you wished to see us,” I began. “My husband had other business; he sends his—”
“Curses, no doubt,” said Mohassib, stroking his beard. “I know the mind of Emerson Effendi. No, Sitt Hakim, do not apologize for him. He is a man of honor, whom I esteem. I would be of service to him.”
“In what way?” I asked.
The question was too blunt. I ought to have replied with a compliment and a corresponding offer of friendship. Mohassib courteously overlooked my blunder, but it took him forever to get to the point.
“You were asking, a few days ago, about a certain man from Cairo.”
“Did you know him?” I asked eagerly.
“I knew who he was.” Mohassib’s lip curled. “I do not have dealings with such people. But I heard—it was after Emerson was here—I heard he was the one found in the Nile.”
“The man killed by a crocodile,” I said.
“We know, you and I, that no crocodile killed him—or the girl. Hear my words, Sitt. Do not waste your time looking for these people among the dealers in antiquities. They have nothing to do with us. They are killers. We do not kill.”
I believed him. In acknowledgment and reciprocation—and because I had meant to do it anyhow—I unwrapped my parcel and asked David to lift the lid of the box.
Mohassib’s breath came out in a whistling gasp. “So. It was said you had an antiquity of value, and that was why Yussuf Mahmud went to your house. But who would have thought it would be this?”
“You have seen it before, then?”
“It never passed through my hands. But I have heard of it. It was one of the first objects Mohammed Abd er Rassul took from the cache at Deir el Bahri.”
“Ah,” I breathed. “What happened to it after that?”
The old man shifted position and looked uneasy. “I will tell you what I know of the papyrus, Sitt Hakim. It is common knowledge.
Everyone knew of it, and of certain other things Mohammed hid in his house.” Everyone except the officials of the Service des Antiquités, I thought to myself. Well, it was not surprising that the men of Luxor and Gurneh should join ranks against the foreign interlopers who tried to interfere with their ancient trade. The tombs and their contents had belonged to their ancestors, and hence belonged to them; most of them were desperately poor, and treasure was of no use to the dead. It made perfectly good sense from their point of view.
“The stolen objects lay in hiding for many years,” Mohassib went on. “Once the tomb was known to Brugsch and Maspero, no dealer would dare handle them. But later—a decade later, perhaps—there came a man who did dare. It was said he took the papyri and the royal ushebtis with him to Cairo, where he had established his headquarters, and what he did with them after that no one knows, but one can guess. You can guess, Sitt, and I think you can guess who this man was.”
“Yes,” I said. “I think I can.”
Mohassib had said all he meant to say. He indicated, by thanking me repeatedly for visiting a sick, tired old man, that the interview was at an end. He had suffered a stroke the previous year and did look ill, but when I took his hand in farewell I could not resist asking a final question.
He shook his head. “No, I do not know who they are. I do not wish to know. If you can put a stop to them, good, they dishonor my country and my profession, but I do not want to end up in the jaws of the ‘crocodile.’ ”
(xviii)
From Manuscript H
As soon as the women had gone into the house, Emerson turned to his son. “Go with your mother and Nefret.”
Ramses began, “Mother told us—”
“I know what your mother told you. I am telling you to accompany her.”
Ramses took David by the arm and led him through the open gate. “You had better do as he said.”
“We ought not leave him alone, Ramses. What if—”
“I’ll keep my eye on him. Hurry.”
Shaking his head, David entered the house. One of Mohassib’s servants came into the courtyard carrying a chicken by its feet. The chicken was squawking and flapping; it might not know precisely what was in store for it, but it took a dim view of the proceedings. Ramses beckoned urgently. A quick, silent commercial transaction ensued. Grinning, the servant went off sans galabeeyah and turban, and richer by enough money to buy several of each. He was also sans chicken. Instead of heading for the wide open spaces, the feeble-witted bird began pecking at the hardened dirt. Ramses knew he had won it only a temporary reprieve. An unaccompanied food source wouldn’t remain free long in Luxor.
His father was not a patient man. Ramses had barely finished winding his turban when Emerson rose and took leave of his companions. Tucking the end of the strip of cloth into place, Ramses went in pursuit of the chicken. He had to push the stupid bird before it would move. As he had anticipated, his father looked suspiciously into the courtyard. Seeing only the backside of an inept servant, Emerson proceeded on his way.
After addressing a final critical suggestion to the chicken, and rubbing a handful of dirt over his face, Ramses followed his father. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but at least he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd as he would have done in European clothes.
He thought he knew where his father was going, and he cursed himself for telling Emerson about the small silver disk. He had found it lying near the abandoned rifle. There was no doubt in his mind it had been deliberately placed there. The idea of a woman, jingling with silver and clad in long robes, scampering around the cliffs of the Valley and accidentally losing one of her ornaments, was absurd.
The silver disk was meant to lead them back to the House of the Doves. For obvious reasons, he had been careful to conceal it from his mother. Ordinarily Nefret and David would have been his confidantes, but poor David was half out of his mind with romantic frustration and Nefret couldn’t be trusted to act sensibly when her feelings were so deeply involved. Someone had to be told, though, because, unlike his mother, he wasn’t fool enough to go back there alone. That left his father. Emerson had nodded and mumbled and said he’d think about what they should do. And now he was doing it—alone, as he believed, and without taking sensible precautions. It would have been hard to say which of them was more difficult, his mother or his father.
The only question was, had Emerson made an appointment beforehand, or did he plan to drop in without notice? If the latter was the case, he probably wouldn’t run into anything he couldn’t handle, but if he had been stupid enough to warn them. . . . No, Ramses admitted, Father isn’t stupid. It’s that bloody awful self-confidence of his that gets him into . . .
Speaking of self-confidence, he thought, as a pair of large hands closed round his windpipe and he was slammed up against a wall.
“Damnation!” said Emerson, peering into his face. “It’s you!”
“Yes, sir.” Ramses rubbed his throat. “What did I do wrong?”
“You were a bit too close on my heels. Thinking of something else, were you?” Emerson pondered the situation. “I suppose you may as well come along. Follow me at a discreet distance and don’t come in the house.”
“People are staring at us, Father.”
“Hmmm, yes.” His father cuffed him across the face. “How dare you try to rob the Father of Curses!” he shouted in Arabic. “Thank Allah that I do not beat you to a jelly!”
He strode off. Ramses skulked along after him “at a discreet distance.” The carefully calculated blow had looked more painful than it felt, but his cheek stung.
He had not been mistaken about his father’s destination. At this time of day there weren’t many customers, but a couple of men stood by the door fahddling and smoking. As Emerson strode briskly toward the entrance, one dropped his cigarette and both stared, first at Emerson, then at one another. As one man they turned and trotted away.
The curtains flapped wildly as Emerson pushed through them. Ramses stepped back in time to avoid the rush of another man, who bolted out of the house and ran off. Ramses smiled behind his sleeve. “When the Father of Curses appears, trouble follows.” Daoud had a long collection of such sayings, which were now current in Luxor and surroundings.
He picked up the cigarette end the other fellow had dropped, but he didn’t put it in his mouth. Verisimilitude had its limits, and he was already unhappily aware of the fleas inhabiting his borrowed garments. Scratching absently, he drew nearer to the door and listened. He could hear only a low murmur of voices. One was his father’s. The other was that of a woman.
As the minutes dragged by Ramses became increasingly uneasy. Polite conversation with the ladies was all very well, but it could be a delaying tactic, and there was only one reason he could think of for someone wanting to delay the Father of Curses—the need to collect enough men to overpower him. The hell with orders, Ramses thought. His mother would kill him if his father came to harm through his negligence—if he didn’t kill himself first.
Stripping off the galabeeyah and turban, he ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and pushed through the curtain. The room was empty except for the proprietress and his father. The latter swung round.
“Curse it, I told you not to come in,” he snarled.
Since the comment was now irrelevant, Ramses ignored it. “What’s going on?”
“I have been requesting permission to search the place. Thus far the lady has been reluctant to give it.”
Ramses stared at his father in mingled consternation and amusement. It was like him to politely request permission of the old harridan, and just as like him to contemplate searching a rabbit’s warren like this without someone to watch his back. Even if they hadn’t expected him, they had had ample time to gather their forces.
The old woman’s kohl-smeared eyes darted from his father to him and back again. Gold tinkled as she lifted her shoulders and arms in a shrug.
“Go, then,” she whined. “Do as you will. A poor weak woman cannot stop you.”
Emerson thanked her in impeccable Arabic.
“For God’s sake, Father,” Ramses exclaimed. “If you are determined on this, let’s do it.”
“Certainly, certainly, my boy. This is the way, I believe.”
The horrible little cubicles behind the main room, each barely large enough to contain a thin mattress and a few utensils, were unoccupied. Emerson indicated the narrow stairs at the end of the passage.
“The more pretentious apartments are up above, I expect,” he said dryly.
“Be careful, Father. Wait at the top for me. Don’t go—”
“Certainly, my boy, certainly.”
He took the stairs two at a time. Ramses followed, looking over his shoulder. The hair on the back of his neck was practically standing straight up. To his surprise, his father did wait for him. There was more light here, from window apertures at either end of a short corridor, and only four curtained doorways. The place was utterly silent except for the inevitable chorus of flies. The air was still and hot. Dust motes swam in the sunlight.
“Hmph,” said Emerson, not bothering to lower his voice. “This is beginning to look like a waste of time. We may as well finish, though. I will take this side of the hall, you take the other.”
“Excuse me, sir, but that is not necessarily the wisest procedure.” Ramses’s skin prickled. It was too quiet. The house couldn’t be completely deserted.
