The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (24 page)

"You need not explain," said Emerson, rising. "Just make sure you ... Er, hmmm, yes, Peabody. Time for luncheon, eh?"

By the end of the day it was evident that Ramses had come across something rather interesting. The tomb was of considerable size, indicating that it had belonged to a person of some importance. The use of cut stone for the outer walls was another indication of the owner's status. However, the roofing stones had been supported by internal walls of mud-brick, and by wooden beams, which had collapsed, precipitating the ceiling onto the floor in a jumble of blocks. Mixed in with the fallen stones and drifted sand were a number of hard-stone vessels, some of which had been smashed. In short, the interior of the mastaba was a mess, and Ramses had set about clearing it in the approved style, dividing the area into sections and excavating each from top to bottom before proceeding to the next.

I allowed Emerson one look—since I was rather curious myself—before we started for home.

"I see you have braced that wall," he remarked with exaggerated unconcern.

"Yes, sir. You always tell me not to take the slightest risk."

Especially not where Nefret was concerned, I thought. The wall was beside the scattered bones, which had now been exposed, along with a few rough pots and broken beads. The lower portions of bones and artifacts were still sunk in the matrix of hardened mud and Nefret was trying to get a final photograph of the unsavory ensemble. Selim, atop the wall, held a reflector of polished tin with which he directed the slanting rays of sunlight into the trench.

Emerson glanced uneasily at the bracing beams. They looked to be effective—one plank diagonally across the questionable section, a smaller but sturdy bit of wood propping it, the pointed end of the latter pushed deep into the ground.

"That will do, Nefret," he said. "Er—you agree, Ramses?"

"Yes, sir," said Ramses, quite without expression.

I had asked Karl to have supper with us that evening. Emerson made the usual objections; he always objected to company as a matter of principle, though in fact he quite enjoys professional discussions and does not allow the presence of guests to discommode him in the slightest. He was kindness itself to Karl, pressing him to take a whiskey and soda and remarking in his blunt fashion, "You appear rather seedy, von Bork. Something on your conscience, perhaps?"

"Really, Emerson!" I said.

Karl's mustaches twitched. He might have been trying to smile. "I know the Professor well, Frau Emerson. He is right, in fact; my conscience troubles me that I must leave my Mary und die lieben Kinder so much alone. A letter from her today tells me that meine kleine Maria has been ill—"

"Nothing more than a childish cold, I expect," I said cheerfully.

"So Mary said in the letter. She would not wish me to worry." Karl sighed. "How I wish I could have them here with me, where there is no snow or cold rains. But the University does not provide quarters for us and my room in the village would not be suitable. Those who work for Herr Reisner are fortunate to have such a comfortable house."

Mr. Reisner's permanent expedition quarters, named Harvard Camp, after one of the institutions that supported his work, was a model of its kind, but I doubted very much that "Herr Reisner" would have welcomed a subordinate's wife and four small children.

The courtyard had become our favorite place and we retired there after supper for coffee. Before long an explosion of barks burst out. "Visitors," said Nefret in a pleased voice. "You see how useful Narmer has become."

"He has given over barking at scorpions and spiders," Ramses admitted. "But he still howls at other dogs, cats, birds—"

"Who is it?" Emerson demanded. "Peabody, did you invite someone? Curse it, we have work to do."

"It is probably Geoff," Nefret said coolly. "He offered to help me develop photographs this evening. Nothing to do with you, Professor darling."

"Hmph," said Emerson.

It was Geoffrey, and Jack, and Maude. She was dressed "to the teeth," as Nefret vulgarly put it, in a very low-cut frock with a skirt so tight she could scarcely walk, and a hair fillet from the center of which a white egret plume rose straight up into the air like a signal flag. Their habit of popping in was becoming something of a nuisance; I really did not blame Emerson for glowering and growling. Maude explained that they had no intention of disturbing us (as if they had not already done so), but had stopped by only to deliver Geoff and ask if Ramses would care to go into Cairo with them, to an evening party and dance at the Semiramis Hotel.

Ramses actually hesitated for a few moments before shaking his head. "Another time, perhaps. As you see, I am not properly dressed and I would not like to detain you."

He had of course changed clothing after we returned from the dig, but since his father refuses to dress for dinner I cannot insist on Ramses's doing so. His collarless shirt and unpressed flannels were certainly not appropriate for a stylish hotel.

"You have work to do," said Emerson firmly.

"All work and no play make Ramses a dull boy," Jack said with a jolly chuckle.

"Would that it would," I murmured—a seemingly enigmatic statement that produced a puzzled look from Jack and a faint smile from the individual referred to.

The Reynoldses finally left, without Ramses. Nefret and Geoffrey went off to the darkroom—with Ramses—and Emerson and Karl settled down with their pipes to discuss Fourth Dynasty mastabas. Why Emerson should have selected this subject I did not know; our mastaba was obviously much earlier and far less interesting than the fine tombs the Germans and Americans had found at Giza. I left them to it, for I was strangely restless that evening. As I paced up and down along the arched colonnades that lined the courtyard I heard Emerson invite Karl to come round next day and have a look at our mastaba, for all the world as if he had found something worth looking at. Karl accepted, of course. Poor lonely chap, he would have accepted an invitation to a hanging if he could be with us.

As I passed the door of the darkroom I stumbled over something that turned out to be Horus. He had been lying or crouching on the threshold, sulking, one presumed, because he had not been allowed in.

When I went down to breakfast next morning Nefret told me Geoffrey had asked if
he
might come by to see our mastaba.

"That makes two," I said. "Emerson has also invited Karl. Will Mr. and Miss Reynolds also be dropping by? I will tell Fatima to pack extra food and perhaps a bottle of wine."

Emerson looked up from his plate. "Dear me, Peabody, I believe you are being sarcastic. What's wrong with you this morning?"

"I did not sleep well."

"Oh?" Emerson reached for the marmalade.

"I lay awake for hours. I am so glad you were not disturbed."

Emerson pushed the marmalade jar away, mumbled something and left the room rather precipitately. It was probably the wisest thing he could have done, but it left me without an object for my (admittedly unreasonable) annoyance. I looked at Ramses. He jumped up, mumbled something and left the room so precipitately that he stumbled over Horus. They swore at one another, and Horus came, limping, to Nefret for sympathy.

"He isn't injured," I said. "I think he deliberately puts himself in people's way so he can complain."

Nefret supported her chin on her hands and looked gravely at me. "I am sorry you did not sleep well. Did you have one of your famous premonitions?"

"No," I admitted. "Nor a bad dream, like the ones you used to have."

I had dreamed of Abdullah, as I did from time to time. The setting of those visions was always the same. We were standing at sunrise atop the cliffs at Deir el Bahri, on our way to the Valley of the Kings. Over the years Abdullah and I had got in the habit of stopping there after we had climbed the steep path, to catch our breaths and enjoy the view, which he loved, I think, as much as I. Re-Harakhte, the falcon of the morning, lifted over the eastern cliffs and spread the light of his wings across river and fields and sandy waste, and over the features of the man who stood at my side.

When we first met, Abdullah's beard had been grizzled. In the dreams hair and beard were black without a trace of gray; his face was unlined, his tall frame erect and vigorous. Dreams carry their own internal logic; I was never surprised to see him looking as I had never seen him in life, I was only glad to be with him once more.

"The wedding was very lovely," I said, as one reports the news to a friend one has not seen for a time. "We were sorry you could not be there."

"How do you know I was not?" Abdullah's black eyes twinkled as they did when he was teasing me. Then he grew sober. "It is well for them, Sitt; but there are stormy waters ahead."

"What do you know of stormy waters, Abdullah, who never sailed the ocean?"

"Does not your faith teach you that those who have passed the Portal know all? I know of storms, at any rate, and I have seen the sky darken over your path."

"I wish you wouldn't be so cursed literary, Abdullah. If you mean to warn me of danger, you might be more specific." He smiled and shook his head, and I went on, "At least you can tell me whether we will pass safely through the peril that threatens us."

"Have you ever met a storm you could not weather, Sitt? But you will need all your courage to face this one."

Then I woke with his words of farewell echoing through the darkness. "Maas salama—Allah yibarek f'iki."

I had no intention of repeating that conversation to Nefret. She would have thought me hopelessly fanciful and superstitious. It had disturbed me enough to trouble my slumber for the remainder of the night, and it had reminded me of the duty I owed my dear old friend.

"I would be in a happier frame of mind if we were making some progress with our investigation of the forgeries," I admitted. "We don't seem to be getting anywhere."

"Perhaps something will result from our council of war. When do the Vandergelts arrive?"

"Tomorrow."

"Unless the cursed boat runs aground," said a voice from the next room. "Why can't Vandergelt take the train like a sensible man instead of clinging to his confounded dahabeeyah?"

"Because he chooses."

"Hmph," said the voice.

I did not really want another boiled egg, but I cracked one and began to peel it. "Has Ramses heard anything from Mr. Wardani?"

"No." Meeting my skeptical eye, Nefret added firmly, "He would have told me—us."

"He hasn't been creeping out at night, I hope. I don't like that, it is too dangerous."

"I don't like it either. He promised me he would not. Aunt Amelia, are you ready to leave now? You have surely tormented the Professor long enough."

I could hear Emerson stamping and swearing outside. "It doesn't do to allow a man to become too confident of his authority," I explained.

"I see," said Nefret, dimpling.

When we arrived at the site we found Geoffrey already there, talking with Selim and Daoud. "Practicing my Arabic," he explained, shaking hands all round. "Daoud has been telling me about some of your exploits, Professor. You have certainly led an interesting life!"

Emerson looked suspiciously at Daoud, who looked away. "Don't believe a word he says. Daoud, stop telling lies about me and get to work. Where is Karl? Where are the workmen? Confound it, this traveling back and forth wastes too much time. Tents. That is what we need, a few tents. Selim—"

"Emerson, do keep quiet for a minute," I exclaimed.

"Herr von Bork went to have a look at the mastaba," Geoffrey said.

Ramses turned on his heel and went off, almost running. Nefret laughed. "He's afraid someone will touch his precious rubbish without his permission. Are you coming, Geoff?"

He took her arm. It was quite unnecessary, but she permitted it and even, I thought, leaned toward him as they walked along.

"Hmmm," I said. "I wonder ..."

"So do I," said Emerson. "I thought I had it here. I could have sworn it was in this notebook."

He had dumped the contents of his knapsack out onto the table and was rummaging through the papers in his usual haphazard fashion. I asked what he was after, found it stuck between the pages of his notebook, and was about to deliver a little lecture on order and method when I heard a woman's scream and a rumbling crash. Both came from the north side of the pyramid.

Emerson was ten feet away, running at full speed, before the echoes of the crash died. I followed as fast as I could, my limbs shaking with apprehension. Nefret was not much given to screaming.

When I arrived on the scene, the cause of the disaster was easy to ascertain. The wooden props had slipped or broken or given way, and the wall had collapsed in a tumble of stones and dirt onto a form that lay facedown and unmoving on the floor of the trench. The form, as I immediately realized, was that of Ramses. Geoffrey knelt at his side, digging the dirt away with his hands. Nefret was squirming in the grasp of Daoud, who let out a gusty sigh of relief when he saw Emerson.

"The effendi ordered me not to let her go down there," he explained.

"Quite right," Emerson said. "There is not enough space for more than one person. Hang on to her, Daoud. Clear out of there, Godwin."

He emphasized the order by catching hold of Geoffrey's coat and dragging him bodily out of the trench. Dropping neatly down into the excavation, he began to dig Ramses out with the strength and skill only he could have demonstrated. The greater part of the debris was confined to Ramses's legs and lower back. For once he had been wearing his pith helmet, and I observed that his head was resting on his folded arms, so that it was entirely possible that his nose and mouth were not full of sand. He appeared to be unconscious, however. Emerson ran anxious hands over his arms and legs before turning him carefully onto his back.

Ramses's pith helmet immediately fell off. He had not buckled the strap. There was only a little blood on his face, which was not nearly as pale as that of his father, and I could see that he was breathing nicely, but Emerson lost his head just a bit; he slipped his arms under Ramses's knees and shoulders, and I do not doubt that his well-nigh supernatural strength, intensified by parental anxiety, would have been sufficient to raise the lad bodily out of the excavation, if a duet of cries from Nefret and me had not stopped him.

"Don't move him yet!" was the gist of our remarks.

Ramses's eyes opened. He looked at his father and then turned his head to examine his surroundings. "Damn it, Father!" he gasped. "You've smashed that pot! It was a perfect specimen of blue and buff Eighteenth Dynasty ware!"

"Impossible," said Emerson. "What would such a thing be doing here?"

"The burial is intrusive. I would tentatively date it to—"

"Stop it!" Nefret's face was crimson. "Ramses, you bloody fool, is anything broken? Professor, don't let him sit up! Aunt Amelia—"

"Calm yourself, my dear," I said, watching Ramses, assisted by his father, rise stiffly but steadily to his feet. "And don't swear. There appears to be no serious damage."

Nor was there. After we had retired to the shelter he submitted with ill grace to Nefret's attentions. The shirt would have been ruined even if she had not insisted on cutting it off him. Nefret was almost as destructive with a pair of scissors as she was with a knife. She finally admitted—grudgingly, I thought—that scrapes, scratches and bruises were the extent of his injuries. Ramses denied this was due to luck or the grace of God; he insisted he had seen the prop give way and had immediately assumed a position that offered the greatest protection to the most vulnerable areas of the body. He sounded so smug I could hardly blame Nefret for accidentally spilling half a bottle of alcohol down his front.

Ramses was determined to go back to his mastaba and I could think of no way of preventing him. He condescended to accept a sip of brandy from the flask I always carry and stalked off, bare to the waist and trying not to limp. A nod from Emerson sent Daoud and Selim trotting after him. I hoped they would be able to prevent him from doing something foolish.

"I'll give him a hand, shall I?" Geoffrey, who had been sitting on the rug, got to his feet.

"I am glad to see you were wearing gloves," I said. "I can never get Ramses and Emerson to do so, and they are always mashing their fingers and scraping their knuckles." Gloves did offer some protection, but in Geoffrey's case I suspected a harmless touch of vanity. He had slender, aristocratic hands, and his nails were always carefully manicured. "We are indebted to you, Geoffrey, for your quick thinking and prompt action."

"I fear I was of little use."

"And I was of no use at all," said Karl heavily. He had flung himself down on the rug, his head in his hands. "Ach, Gott, it was a frightful thing to see. I felt certain he would be crushed from head to feet. I could do nothing. It happened so quickly ..."

Emerson had taken out his pipe and was smoking. He claimed this dirty habit calmed his nerves, and it may have been so. Only I could have detected the effort it cost him to remain seated and speak quietly.

"Did you see what happened?" he asked.

Karl threw out his hands. "It happened so quickly! He had gone down to look at the pottery, and then Miss Nefret cried out ...I did not see."

"Hmph," said Emerson. "Well, my dear Peabody, with your permission I believe we will leave the pyramid for another day. I think I will just—er—see if I can help Ramses."

"Of course, my dear," I said sympathetically. "Whatever you say."

Karl excused himself; he said he was too shaken to work any more that day, and went trotting off on the little donkey he had hired. The rest of us worked until after midday and then started for home. Geoffrey and Nefret were riding ahead, and when Ramses would have joined them Emerson called him back.

We went on at a walk, side by side. With my usual tact I remained silent, wondering which of them would speak first.

They spoke simultaneously.

"Father, I—"

"Ramses, you—"

They broke off, avoiding one another's eyes, and I said, "Really! You first, Emerson."

"It wasn't your fault," Emerson said gruffly.

"I was about to say the same thing, sir."

"Oh, indeed?"

"I am not trying to deny that the ultimate responsibility is mine. That has always been your attitude, sir, and I share it. However ..." His voice rose. "I will be damned if I know what I did wrong!"

"Then what did go wrong?" Emerson asked.

"Any number of things might have happened. A slight earth tremor, a sudden subsidence of the area directly under the prop, a careless movement on the part of one of the men ... I saw nothing out of the way. I only went down because Nefret was determined to get at those beastly bones of hers, and I wanted to make absolutely certain ..."

"I understand," Emerson said. "Well done. Hmph."

"I'm not trying to excuse myself," Ramses insisted. "But we must consider the possibility that it was not an accident."

"Especially," said Emerson, stroking his chin, "since it would be the second accident in a single day."

"The rock fall in the shaft, you mean?" Ramses considered this. "That would rather strengthen the theory that a minor earth tremor was responsible. They do occur."

"Yes," Emerson said. "But it's a bit odd, isn't it, that this one occurred only here?"

The Vandergelts arrived on schedule. A telegram sent from Meydum, where they had tied up the night before, warned us of their arrival that morning, so we were all on hand to greet them. Emerson, of course, gave Cyrus barely time to eat luncheon before informing him that they must visit the site, and Katherine goodnaturedly agreed to go along, claiming she would not mind a bit of exercise after lazing about the boat for ten days.

"Whom else are you expecting?" Katherine asked, as we rode off across the plateau.

"Howard Carter is the only one who is staying at the house. He has been in the Delta looking for a new site for Lord Carnarvon. We have invited quite a large number for Christmas Day. I expect you know most of them."