The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (53 page)

"Perhaps he only went hunting," Lia suggested. "Don't sportsmen like to get out early?"

She looked so sweet and so worried, no one wanted to dispel this optimistic fantasy. Ramses, who had scarcely spoken since we returned, smiled at her. "That may well be the case."

Emerson put an end to the conversation by ordering us all to work. I was of course fully armed, for I pay no attention to Emerson's little foibles. Pistol, knife, belt of tools were all in their proper places, and as I went out the door I took my parasol from its hook.

When we reached Zawaiet the men were already there. Under Selim's direction several of them were removing the tarpaulin from over the shaft and Emerson dashed off to make sure no damage had been done. A little water had seeped in, but not much.

It cannot be said that my full attention was on the work. I had thought of the terrain as relatively flat, and so it was, compared with the broken cliffs and irregular contours of the Theban mountains where we had worked before; still, there were enough ridges to provide cover for any number of determined assassins. I took Selim aside. His young face lengthened and grew grim as he listened to what I told him. Before long there were men posted at various vantage points around the pyramid, and atop that structure.

By mid-morning another layer of animal bones had been photographed and removed. Mixed in with them were scraps of papyrus, on which Ramses pounced. "Demotic," he announced, after a brief look. "You were right about the late date of the deposits, Father. Here is the name of Amasis the Second."

The pit was by now over six feet deep and we had apparently reached the bottom of the deposit. No more bones appeared, only a thick layer of sand. Emerson, poised on the edge of the drop, suddenly called to the men below to stop digging and come up.

"What is wrong?" I asked, hastening to his side. "Is there evidence of imminent collapse?"

"One is seldom given warning of imminent collapse," said Emerson sarcastically. He rubbed his chin. "We've reached the bottom of the intrusive pit. If you look closely you can see the top of one of the original filling blocks. There cannot be more than a few layers of them; we've already gone down seven or eight feet and I calculated that the lowest part of the fill was less than twelve feet from the surface."

"We will need ropes," Selim said. "To pull the stones up."

"I want the men roped too," said Emerson. "No more than three down there at a time, Selim. Two men holding on to each rope, and tell them if they let go I will break their arms."

Emerson would have been one of the three in the pit had I not convinced him his strength and skill would be more useful elsewhere. So the task began, slowly and carefully. The stones were not the massive blocks employed at Giza, but each of them must have weighed several hundred pounds, and it took the men a long time to raise one of them far enough to pass a rope under it. Emerson ordered the men up before the stone was hauled to the surface and dragged away from the edge.

"It's going to take all day at this rate," I said, peering down into the cavity.

"A week, if need be," said Emerson, wiping his wet forehead with his sleeve.

"Of course. Shall we stop for a bite of lunch, since there is no hurry?"

Emerson grudgingly agreed, so we retired to the shelter and the men went off for a smoke and a rest. Before long I saw a horseman approaching from the north and called the attention of the others to him. No one reacted; aside from the fact that an assassin would not approach so openly, it would have been impossible to mistake the slim, graceful form of the rider for that of the burly American. It was Geoffrey, whom Emerson had sent off to Giza to ascertain whether Jack had reported for work.

"He's not there!" were the young man's first words, as he hurried toward us. "He never turned up this morning, and he hasn't been back to the house. I went there too."

Emerson said, "Hmph," and went on eating. I said, "Sit down, Geoffrey, and have a glass of tea. You look very warm."

Smiling and shaking his head, Geoffrey kissed his wife and sank down at her feet. "Your coolness amazes me, Mrs.—Aunt Amelia—though I ought to be accustomed to it by now."

"We are only demonstrating the qualities for which our superior caste is famous," Ramses drawled. "British phlegm, noblesse oblige, coolness under fire ... What have I left out?"

"Don't be hateful," Nefret snapped.

"That's the part I left out," said Ramses. "Hatefulness. May I have another sandwich?"

"What did Mr. Reisner say?" I inquired.

"He wasn't very happy," Geoffrey admitted. "I told him there was trouble—"

"What?" Emerson exclaimed, in awful tones.

"Oh, I didn't go into detail, sir, I assure you. There was no need. He said trouble was your normal condition and that as soon as you'd settled the business he would appreciate having at least part of his staff returned to him."

Emerson chuckled, and Geoffrey said anxiously, "There's been no sign of Jack here, I suppose. Honestly, I don't mean to be an alarmist, but how can you go on working when you know he is out there somewhere, waiting and watching?"

"And lurking," Ramses suggested.

"I
have never yet allowed a criminal to interfere with my excavations," Emerson declared. "We are on the verge of a great discovery here. This will come as a considerable surprise to... Oh, damnation! It won't, will it? Ramses!"

"I wasn't going to say anything," his son protested.

"I saw the way you and David looked at one another. So you've reasoned it out, have you?"

"The Third Dynasty royal burial? Yes, sir. It was a logical deduction, given the information we have collected. But," Ramses said hastily, "neither of us could come up with an idea as to where it might be. Do you think the shaft, sir?"

"No," said Emerson, somewhat appeased by this disingenuous admission of fallibility. "The place must be relatively easy of access or our friend couldn't have got at it without others knowing. The deposits in the shaft haven't been disturbed for millennia. There are only two possibilities. Either there is a hidden entrance to the real burial chamber down below, or the whole pyramid is a blind and the king was buried in a pit tomb in one of the cemeteries. I favor the former because—"

I felt obliged to interrupt. "Geoffrey, are you all right? That cough is quite nasty; sip a little tea if you can."

The young man straightened. "I am better now," he gasped, smiling at Nefret, whose arm was round his shoulders. "It was only ... only surprise."

"Go on, Father," Ramses said. "Why do you think the hidden burial chamber is in the pyramid?"

"What? Oh. Well, for one thing, a burial in one of the cemeteries would be rather too accessible, to potential thieves as well as to us. The treasure must be inside the pyramid—under the floor of a corridor or storage chamber, or that of the false burial chamber itself—but I will not send our men down below until the shaft has been cleared. Agreed?" He did not wait for an answer but jumped up. "Back to work, then."

The others followed, leaving me alone with Geoffrey and Nefret. "Make him rest awhile," I said.

"Yes, Aunt Amelia." She spoke no more. Seeing her closed lips and remote expression I felt a pang, not of self-reproach but of loss. Would we ever be again what once we had been to one another?

As the day wore on my vigilance began to relax. There had been no sign of Jack. Perhaps, I thought hopefully, he had taken flight. When I expressed this possibility to Emerson, he only grunted. His full attention was bent on his work.

I am convinced Emerson has a sixth sense for archaeology, as I do for crime. He had read the signs few other excavators would have observed; when the catastrophe occurred, he was the only one of us who was prepared.

The men had removed four of the blocking stones, exposing another layer beneath. It was hard, slow work, and the ropes Emerson had insisted they fasten around their bodies kept getting tangled; a certain amount of cursing and complaining accompanied their activities. Finally a fifth stone was ready to be raised. The men in the pit were hauled up, and then the stone began to rise. It was halfway to the surface when the rope broke or the knots gave way—I could not see which, I only saw the thing fall. One corner of it struck the bottom, and the impact caused the whole understructure to give way, with a crash that echoed like a blast of dynamite. A cloud of sand and dust billowed up from the shaft, and Emerson threw himself across the body of one of the ropemen, who had slipped and was sliding inexorably toward the opening of the pit.

Everyone came running. When the dust settled Emerson sat up, counted heads, and let out a sigh of relief. "No harm done," he announced, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, which did not improve matters greatly, since hand and face were equally dirty. A groan from the man he had saved drew his attention; he lifted the fellow up, inspected him, dusted him off, and handed him over to two of his friends. "No harm done," he repeated.

"That takes care of clearing the shaft," said Ramses, peering down into the depths.

"Get away from there, Ramses," I ordered. "You too, Geoffrey. Gracious, the depth must now be a good sixty feet."

"Hmmm, yes," said Emerson. "Just as well. Hauling the stones up by way of the stairs will take longer, but it won't be so dangerous. I'm afraid another of your windlasses has gone, Selim."

"So long as it was not a man, Father of Curses." "Well said." Emerson clapped him on the back. "Let's have a look down there."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" I asked. "Why wait? There are several hours of daylight left." He had covered less than half the distance between the mouth of the shaft and the entrance to the descending stairs when he came to a stop—for an excellent reason. Jack Reynolds had not been lurking in the vicinity. He had been here all along, out of sight at the bottom of the rough-cut steps. Now he emerged, dusty and red-faced and wild-eyed, with a rifle raised to his shoulder. It was aimed at Emerson.

A sahib's born, not made. The code that governs our class is clear: uncompromising honesty, unflinching courage, respect for women and other helpless creatures, and that delicate sense of honor only the Anglo-Saxon races can fully understand.

“D
on't do it, Emerson!" I shrieked—for I had seen the tensing of that splendid frame, and knew it betokened imminent attack. "See if you cannot reason with him!"

Emerson said something I could not hear—it was undoubtedly a swear word—but he obeyed Jack's gesture and backed slowly away as the younger man advanced toward him. Finally Jack stopped. "That will do, Professor. Close enough so we needn't shout at one another. Throat's dry. I finished the water a while back."

His voice rasped with thirst, but he sounded fairly rational. Taking heart, I said, "I have a canteen, Jack. If you will allow me—"

"No, thank you, ma'am. Not until after I have settled my account with Ramses."

"Ramses?" I repeated. "Jack, you are not being sensible. All of us know about the treasure, and your present illogical behavior substantiates our theory as to where it must be. It is futile to guard the substructure now. You cannot kill all of us."

"Kindly refrain from putting ideas into his head, Peabody," said Emerson.

Jack's forehead wrinkled. "I have no idea what you are talking about, Mrs. Emerson. Don't you come any closer—nor you, Nefret. It's Ramses I'm after. I don't want to hurt anyone else."

"None of us is going to stand quietly by while you shoot him, Jack," Nefret began. "Please—"

"Shoot?" His voice cracked. "D'you suppose I would shoot an unarmed man? I only want a square deal."

An inkling of the truth had begun to dawn on me, but it was so horrifying my brain refused to take it in. Emerson was the first to respond to Jack's statement. "If you don't intend to shoot anyone, why are you pointing that rifle at me? Put it down and we will talk."

"As soon as you promise you won't interfere. Make it a fair fight. Not everybody jumping me at once."

"Hold on a minute, Father," Ramses said, as Emerson, sputtering with fury, tried to articulate a reply. "What precisely do you have in mind, Reynolds? If this is a challenge, the choice of weapons is mine."

"Weapons be damned," Jack snarled. "Fists are good enough for me."

"And for me," Ramses said quickly.

"Jack, no!" Geoffrey cried. "You can't win. He doesn't fight like a gentleman!"

"Stay out of this, Geoff." Jack passed his sleeve across his sweating face. "He murdered Maude and wants to blame me for it, and I'll kill him if I can; but I'll do it with my bare hands in a fair fight. If he kills me ... well, what have I got to live for now? Maude is gone, and you've got the woman I wanted, and he's manufactured enough evidence against me to send me to the gallows. But I won't shoot a man in cold blood."

Honesty—the honesty of a decent, rather stupid man—echoed in every word he had uttered. If he had spoken the truth, and I was certain he had, that meant that the evidence against him
had
been manufactured, and that his actions and beliefs had been subtly manipulated by another. The list of suspects had suddenly shrunk to one.

And now that individual knew his schemes had been thwarted by his failure to understand the limits to which a man of honor can be pushed. He could not allow the absurd exchange of fisticuffs to take place; Jack would lose, because Ramses did
not
fight like a gentleman, and under interrogation (especially of the variety Emerson employs) Jack would point the finger of blame at the real culprit.

He had to act instantly, and he did. His hands were in his pockets; he whipped the gun out and fired, with the cold calculation that had always guided him, at the only armed man present. The bullet struck poor gaping Jack in the thigh; he dropped the rifle and fell writhing to the sand. Ramses, who had sprung forward, jolted to a stop as the pistol turned, not toward him, but toward me.

"Don't bother fumbling for that little peashooter of yours, Aunt Amelia," Geoffrey said. "And don't any of the rest of you stir so much as an inch. I can kill at least three of you before you could reach me, and I will start with her."

"You will have to start with me," said Nefret in a clear, thin voice. "I am going to see what I can do for Jack."

"Please yourself," said her husband indifferently. "Just don't touch the rifle."

"She has better sense than that," said Ramses. "You could, and would, fire before she aimed the weapon. You have just demonstrated that you are an excellent shot, and that your squeamishness about guns was part of the facade you presented to us, and to the world. It was a masterful performance."

"Coming from you that is indeed a compliment," Geoffrey said. "I have heard a number of stories about your skill in the art of disguise. But you caught on to me before this, didn't you? Was it last night, while I was out of the house encouraging Jack to make himself scarce, that you removed the bullets from the Colt? Not a bad notion, but you underestimated me when you assumed I would not examine the weapon. I replaced the ammunition from Jack's supply when I went back to the house this morning."

I took stock of the situation. It was not encouraging. Nefret knelt beside Jack, who was halfway between us and the entrance to the substructure. Fists clenched and brow thunderous, Emerson was almost as far distant, a good ten feet away, with Lia and David behind him. The only one who was close enough to present a danger to Geoffrey was my son, and he dared not move because of the threat to me. Behind that mask of his I knew he was coolly calculating the odds and trying to think of ways of shifting them in our favor. He glanced at his father and then returned his gaze to Geoffrey.

"I did underestimate you," he admitted.

"It only goes to show how misleading physiognomy can be," Geoffrey said, with that sweet boyish smile. "I have the looks of an aesthete, don't I? When I was younger I tried to measure up to the family standards, but no matter how skilled I became at hunting and shooting and riding, the old man sneered at my accomplishments and my girlish face. So I decided to go my own way and use my defects to my advantage. I was doing rather well until you came along. You can understand why I will enjoy killing as many of you as possible before I am captured."

"That is foolish," I said disapprovingly. "Your doom is not certain at the present time; if you harm no one else, the possibilities of escaping justice—"

"Peabody, will you please refrain from making suggestions?" Emerson shouted.

"Emerson, will you please be quiet?"

Nefret got slowly to her feet. "Geoffrey, you know I will stand by you if you don't hurt anyone else. For better or worse, do you remember? Give Aunt Amelia ... No, give Ramses the gun."

His face softened and his eyes turned to her.

Emerson had been waiting for just such a moment. With a shout of "Down, Peabody!" he leaped forward.

Not until later did I fully appreciate the heroic courage of that gesture. It was a deliberate, calculated attempt to draw Geoffrey's fire away from me and from his son. Emerson knew that Ramses would have risked an attack rather than see me shot down in cold blood, and at that range Geoffrey could not have missed him.

We all reacted precisely as my valiant spouse had known we would. The bullet whistled over me as I dropped to hands and knees. I heard a grunt from Emerson, and a scream from Nefret; I saw Ramses leap forward, striking the weapon from Geoffrey's hand and simultaneously hitting him very hard on the chin.

Geoffrey reeled back. He had been dangerously close to the edge of the shaft; the last step took him over. I had a flashing glimpse of a face, openmouthed in a silent scream of terror, and a pair of flailing arms. At the same instant Ramses flung himself flat onto the ground and reached out.

Time seemed to stop. As the cloud of dusty sand settled over Ramses's black head and sweat-soaked shirt, I saw that his arms and half his body, almost to the waist, were over the edge. His hands grasped Geoffrey's right wrist. That grip was the only thing between the miserable creature and a hideous death; the side of the shaft was too smooth to permit him to find a foothold. He appeared to have fainted; his entire dead weight hung limp and his head was bowed.

I could hear Emerson swearing, which relieved my worst fear. Another was almost as acute, for it seemed to me that Ramses was too far off balance to pull himself back, much less himself and Geoffrey. I took hold of his belt and shouted for help.

It was there. Half-blinded by sand and in a considerable state of agitation, I had not seen David and Selim running toward me. With a cry of alarm, our young reis grasped Ramses round the legs and tried to pull him back. David lay flat and reached down. "Geoffrey! Give me your other hand," he called.

Geoffrey raised his head. He had not fainted; he was conscious and aware. Safety lay within his grasp. The man he had tried to murder held him fast, and the hand of the man he had traduced was held out to aid him.

His delicate lips curved in a smile. He raised his free arm; but instead of grasping David's hand he raked his nails viciously across Ramses's whitened knuckles and twisted himself free of Ramses's grasp. Like the throat of a monster the dark shaft swallowed him, and his scream ended in a hideous crunch.

Shuddering, I rose to my knees. Had I been a lesser woman I might have remained in that position to render thanks to the Almighty, but I do not waste time in prayer when there are more urgent matters to be attended to. I hastened to Emerson. Blood oozed from his side, but he was on his feet, with Nefret attempting to support him. He pushed her gently away.

"Only a scratch, Peabody. Knocked me down, though, curse it. Is Ramses—"

"Unharmed," Ramses replied. He and David had joined us. Both were pale, but not so pale as Nefret. She swayed, and would have fallen at Emerson's feet had he not caught her in his arms. "Fainted," he said, as her golden head came to rest against his breast. "Small wonder."

I glanced back at the scene of the tragedy and saw Selim running toward the entrance to the pyramid. I knew what he was doing, and blessed him for doing it on his own initiative, but someone must make additional arrangements for the disposal of the remains, and Jack was still unconscious, and Ramses looked as if he were about to be sick, and Emerson's shirt was sticky with blood, and—and in short, the situation was bad enough to tax even my powers. The only other person present who comprehended the nature of the latest emergency was Lia; bending over Nefret, she exclaimed, "Aunt Amelia! She—"

"Yes, Lia, I know. Daoud, carry Nefret back to the house, as quickly and as gently as possible. Lia, go with them. Find Kadija, she will know what to do. Emerson, remove your shirt and let me have a look at you."

But he would allow no other to take his daughter from him. The urgency in my voice had betrayed my concern for her; he knew there was something wrong. Without delaying to ask questions he strode away, the vigor of his movements assuring me that his injury was not serious.

"What do you want me to do, Aunt Amelia?" David asked.

"Go with them," Ramses said, before I could reply. "Tell Father to take Risha."

It was a sensible suggestion; the great stallion's strength and speed were the greatest and his gait the easiest. David hesitated, torn between conflicting duties. Ramses said impatiently, "Hurry, damn it. I'll bring Mother with me on Moonlight."

David ran off, with a last pleading look at me, which I did not at all need. I unhooked the flask of brandy from my belt.

"I don't want any brandy," said Ramses.

"I hadn't meant for you to drink it. Hold out your hands. There is nothing as dirty as human fingernails unless it is human teeth."

"Christ, Mother!"

"Swearing I must accept at times, but blasphemy I do not permit," I said sternly. "Hold out your hands."

"Father was hit," Ramses muttered. He did not flinch when the alcohol touched the raw lines across the backs of his hands. "I thought there was only one shot. What is wrong with Nefret?"

"Nothing that cannot be mended," I said, hoping I was right. "Let me speak a few words to Selim and Daoud, and then we must hurry on."

It came as no surprise when Selim told me Geoffrey was dead. I trust I will not be accused of callousness when I say I had hoped that was the case. I gave him the necessary instructions and then went to have a look at Jack, who had recovered consciousness. Nefret had done a neat job of bandaging the wound, but in my opinion he was too weak to mount a horse, so I gave him a little sip of brandy and told him to stay where he was until Selim could find some means of transportation. Hastening back to Ramses, I found him standing in the exact same spot where I had left him, staring blankly toward the north. For once he did as he was told without arguing, lifting me onto Moonlight and mounting Geoffrey's horse. We set out at the quickest possible pace for home.

When I came into the sitting room they were waiting—Emerson and Ramses and David. I was too tired and distressed to mince words, nor would it have been kind to keep them in suspense.

"She has miscarried," I said. "It is over. She is in no danger. Lia is with her, and Kadija."

Ramses sat down, rather in the manner of Queen Victoria, who never looked to see whether there was a chair to receive her. Fortunately he was standing in front of the sofa.