The Ape Who Guards the Balance (50 page)

Emerson said, “Hmph!” and Ramses added, “And murdered them ruthlessly and horribly when it suited her purpose. Even that was a demonstration of her perverse interpretation of justice. Those who had failed her judgment met the fate shown in the Book of the Dead. The monster Amnet had the head of a crocodile.”

“Good Gad, what a fanciful idea,” I exclaimed. “And yet . . .”

My hand went to the amulet hanging round my neck. Ramses nodded. “Yes. The ape who guards the balance, the symbol she chose for her organization. Justice, which has been achieved. As you say, Mother, it is strange how things work out.”

The most astonishing news, which I had heard that evening from Fatima, was that Layla had returned to her house in Gurneh.

“Amazing effrontery,” Cyrus ejaculated.

“Not really,” I replied, for I had had time to consider the matter. “As soon as she heard of Bertha’s death—and such news travels quickly—she knew it was safe to return. We would not take action against her, for we owe her a considerable debt. Perhaps I ought to call on her and—”

A profane remark from Emerson indicated his disapproval of this idea.

“That would not be advisable, Mother.” Ramses was quick to add his opinion.

“Then—yes, I think you and David ought to go—for a brief visit, I mean. Gratitude is more important than propriety, and you owe her your lives. You might take her a nice present.”

“I have every expectation of doing that, Mother,” said my son. And indeed, when I raised the point several days later, he assured me that he had.
^*

Over the next few days Cyrus rather neglected his own excavations, with which, as he was frank to admit, he had become very bored. He was not the only archaeologically inclined individual who yearned for a view of the burial chamber of Mr. Davis’s tomb. Our old friend the Reverend Mr. Sayce arrived in Luxor, Mr. Currelly, M. Lacau—the stream of visitors was endless, and it was augmented by (to quote Emerson) “every empty-minded society person who wants in.” Cyrus was one of them—the former category, not the latter—to his great delight. Katherine amiably declined the treat, despite her husband’s enthusiastic descriptions of the golden crown (“Pectoral,” Ramses interrupted) and gold-covered panels (“What’s left of them,” muttered Emerson).

The entrance corridor had been cleared by then; the poor panel rested on a framework of wood, and one had only to duck one’s head and walk under. When I paid my own visit to the burial chamber—for I saw no reason to decline when every “empty-minded” visitor to Luxor had already been there—I was shocked to see how conditions had deteriorated since my first visit. The floor looked as if it were carpeted with flakes of gold, which had fallen from the panels of the shrine. The photographer had placed his tripod up against the mummy case in order to get a close view of the four canopic jars, which were still in the niche. I fear I forgot myself. Turning to Ned, who had accompanied me, I cried, “The panels! Why didn’t you lower the one that is leaning against the wall?”

A few more flakes of gold drifted gently down to the floor, and from under the black hood of the camera came a wordless grumble of protest.

“Yes, sir, at once.” Ned tugged at my sleeve. “We had better get out of his way, Mrs. Emerson, he is very touchy about having people in here when he’s about to shoot. You can come back tomorrow, when he’s finished.”

So distraught was I by what I had seen that the meaning of his last sentence did not penetrate my mind until after we had emerged from the tomb. “Did you say he will finish today?” I inquired. “But surely he will come back to photograph the mummy itself when you lift the lid of the coffin. When will that be?”

“I’m not sure. It is up to Mr. Davis.”

“And M. Maspero.”

“Of course.” Ned added quickly, “My friend Harold Jones will be here in a few days, to make sketches and paintings.”

“I thought Mr. Davis’s friend, Mr. Smith, was doing that.”

“He was. Um . . . it’s not very pleasant down there, in the heat and dust.”

“No. It isn’t.”

Further inquiry produced the information I had hoped not to hear. Mr. Davis had indeed dismissed the photographer, who was returning to Cairo as soon as he finished developing the last of his plates. As all my Readers are surely aware (if they are not, they have failed to pay attention to my remarks about excavation techniques) this meant there would be no photographic record of the clearance of the burial chamber, or the mummy itself. Mr. Davis, I was informed, had no intention of hiring another photographer.

The individual who informed me of this was Mr. Weigall. I intercepted him that afternoon as he was leaving the Valley, and since I had him backed up against the cliff face he could not get away from me without knocking me down. I pointed out, in my most tactful manner, that as the representative of the Antiquities Department he could insist on this basic requirement. He obviously had no intention of doing so, or of invoking the authority of M. Maspero. When I offered the services of David and Nefret, Weigall bit his lip and looked shifty and said he would tell Mr. Davis of my generous offer.

The last resort was to plead with Maspero himself. Though I had no great hopes of succeeding, I decided I must try. After we had returned to the house I was about to dispatch a note inviting myself to tea with him and Madame—for the situation was desperate enough, I believed, to justify this bit of bad manners—when Fatima handed me a message that changed my intentions. It had arrived that afternoon, and it came from a suprising source—Mr. Paul, the photographer.

The message was even more surprising. Mr. Paul regretted not having had the opportunity to be introduced to me, for of course he knew me by reputation. He had news of vital importance that could be told only to me. He was leaving on the evening train to Cairo; would I meet him at the station, for a brief conversation that would, he felt certain, prove of considerable interest to me?

I am sure I need not repeat the thoughts that passed through my mind. The astute Reader will anticipate them. My decision should be equally easy to anticipate. How could I not go? There was no danger, for the platform would be crowded with tourists and locals waiting for the train. My original notion, of calling on M. Maspero, would serve as an excuse for my absence.

I did take the precaution of assuming my working costume, complete with my belt of tools and my stoutest parasol, instead of the nice frock I had planned to wear. Emerson, the only person I informed of my presumed intention, made no objection; the only condition he exacted was that I allow one of our men to accompany me.

With Hassan trailing me at a respectful distance, I reached the railroad station approximately fifteen minutes before the train was due to leave. The platform was a melee of bodies, loud voices, pushing and shoving. I took up a position near one of the walls of the station, parasol firmly clasped, eyes moving alertly over the crowd.

I had never seen Mr. Paul face-to-face, but when he emerged into sight I knew him instantly. He was wearing gold-rimmed spectacles and a rather vulgar striped flannel suit. Strands of gray hair had been stuck to his balding head. His shoulders were bowed, his walk slow and stiff, like that of a man suffering from rheumatics.

As he came toward me his stride lengthened, his bent form straightened, his head lifted. It was like the transformations in the fairy tales, when the wand of a magician turns a bent old man into a prince. I sucked in my breath.

“Don’t cry out, I beg,” said Sethos. “For if you attempted to do so I would be forced to silence you in a manner that would please me a great deal but to which you would feel obliged to object. And think of the damage to your reputation. Embracing a stranger on the train platform in full view of fifty people!”

A wall at one’s back prevents antagonistic individuals from creeping up on one, but it also prevents one from eluding such individuals when they are standing directly in front of one. Sethos’s arms were slightly curved and his flexed hands rested lightly against the wall. I knew what would happen if I tried to raise my parasol or slip aside.

“You couldn’t go on kissing me for very long,” I said doubtfully.

Sethos threw his head back and let out a muffled whoop of laughter. “You think not? My darling Amelia, I love the way you go straight to the point. Most women would squawk or faint. I could certainly go on kissing you long enough for my fingers to find a certain nerve that would render you instantly and painlessly unconscious. Don’t tempt me. I suggested this rendezvous because I wanted to bid you farewell under circumstances more romantic than those that prevailed at our last meeting, and because I thought you might have a few questions.”

“And because you wanted to show off,” I said disdainfully. “It is an excellent disguise, but I would have known you if I had ever got a good look at you.”

“Possibly. I took the precaution of spending most of my time in the depths of that tomb.” He smiled mockingly. “I have learned a great deal about photography these past days.”

“Confound it! The night Sir Edward had dinner with you—”

“He gave me a quick coaching on a subject of which I was totally ignorant,” Sethos agreed amiably. “I am a man of many talents, but photography is not one of them. The plates I took that first day were absolute disasters. They were so bad, in fact, that we decided Edward had better come and ‘assist’ me. He did the real work after that. But I fear Mr. Davis is going to be rather disappointed by some of the photographs.”

A hideous foreboding came over me. “Oh, good Gad! Do you mean there is no photographic record after all?”

“You really do care about your bloody—excuse me—about your tombs, don’t you?” His smile no longer mocked me; it was fond and kind. I looked away.

The conductor’s whistle sounded. Sethos glanced over his shoulder. “That is what I wanted you to know, Amelia. I can’t give Mr. Davis all the photographs Edward took; even a dismal incompetent like him might notice that some of the objects shown in the photographs are no longer in the tomb—or the coffin.”

“What! How? When?”

“The night before M. Maspero arrived in Luxor.” The strange eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles shone. “It isn’t difficult to bribe those poor devils of guards, but your husband may consider himself lucky that Edward was able to persuade him not to go to the Valley that night. Now, dear Amelia, don’t look so indignant. Robbing tombs is my profession, you know.”

“What did you take? How did you—”

“I fear there is not time to answer all your questions. Rest assured I did as little damage as possible—less, I believe, than that heavy-handed pack of so-called professional scholars. I have some of the world’s most expert restorers—or forgers, if you prefer that term—in my employ, and the artifacts I removed will be well taken care of. The photographic record is complete. One day, after I am past caring about criminal prosecution, it will be made available to the world—and to you. I did it for you, you know. How true it is that the influence of a noble woman can reform an evil man! Good-bye, darling Amelia. For now.”

The train had begun to move. He bent his head, and I thought for a moment he would . . . There was nothing I could have done about it. Instead his lips brushed my forehead, and then he turned and ran. Swinging himself onto the steps of the last car, he blew me a kiss of farewell.

I think the thing I found most flattering was that he had taken it for granted I would not bother telegraphing the authorities in Cairo. By the time the train reached that city, Mr. Paul would no longer be on board.

Did I hasten home and tell Emerson all about it? No. I would tell him, and the others, in due course; I had resolved to keep nothing from them. But the time had not come.

•

Sixteen

•

T
he final catastrophe, as I must call it, took place on the following Friday. Nefret was the only one of us who was allowed to be present when the mummy was finally exposed. How she managed it I do not know, and I prefer not to inquire. Her qualifications were as good or better than those of many of the persons who were there, but I suspect it was not her professional expertise that won her permission from Mr. Davis and M. Maspero. We watched them pass: Maspero and Weigall; Ned and Mr. Davis, in his absurd gaiters and broad-brimmed hat; the ubiquitous Mr. Smith.

It was late afternoon before she returned. We were waiting for her—like a flock of vultures, as Ramses remarked—outside our own tomb, for our mounting curiosity had made work difficult, and we had finally dismissed the men and found places in the shade. Emerson was smoking furiously and I was attempting to distract myself by making additions to my diary. Ramses was scribbling in his notebook, apparently impervious to curiosity; but he was the first on his feet when Nefret came unsteadily up the path. He went to meet her and found her a handy rock, while I uncorked my water bottle.

Emerson removed his pipe from his mouth. “Is there anything left of the coffin or the mummy?” he inquired.

The quiet purring voice warned her, but she was too upset to care. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and gave me the bottle.

“The coffin lid is in three pieces. They’ve got it on padded trays. The mummy . . .”

The head and neck of the mummy had already been exposed. When Maspero and the others raised the lid of the coffin they found that the body was entirely covered with sheets of thick gold. They removed these, and then they lifted the body.

Emerson let out a cry like that of a wounded animal.

“It gets worse,” Nefret said. She was talking very quickly, as if she wanted to get it over with. “There was water under the mummy. And more gold. One of the sheets was inscribed. M. Maspero said it had one of the epithets of Akhenaton. The body itself was wrapped in linen, very fine, but dark. Mr. Davis took hold of the linen and tried to pull it back, and the skin came off with it, exposing the ribs. There was a necklace—a collar, rather. Mr. Davis took it off, and poked around looking for loose beads, and then the rest of the mummy just—just disintegrated into dust. There’s nothing left but bones.”