The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (30 page)

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

There was only one sentry. The enemy wasn’t in the habit of sending out raiding parties, and local horse thieves had learned not to tangle with the men of the Desert Column. Trees and growing crops gave plenty of cover, and the moon was down. They crawled close enough to hear the snores of the men who lay rolled in their blankets beyond the line of horses. Sir Edward brought his mouth against Ramses’s ear. “I’m beginning to think this was a bad idea.” Ramses had been of that opinion from the start. Some of the straitlaced British officers considered the ANZACs an unruly lot, impatient of discipline, who didn’t even know how to ride properly. Personally he would have preferred to have a whole troop of fox-hunting Englishmen after him than a few of these hard-bitten colonials. Bad idea or not, it had to be done. The girl couldn’t manage a ten-mile hike, and he was concerned about his mother, who would drop in her tracks rather than admit the task was beyond her. Anyhow, they had to get under cover before morning. It would take too long for the slower members of the party to walk that distance. They had planned what they had to do, and he thought they could manage it, with a little luck — and Nefret’s help. He had had to overrule Sir Edward, and his own instincts, when she announced she was coming with them; common sense told him that her help would be invaluable. She was an excellent rider, and she had an uncanny knack with animals. Dealing with the sentry was his job. It wasn’t difficult; the poor devil was tired and not expecting trouble. Ramses took him from behind with an arm across his throat, hit him hard in the pit of the stomach, and chopped him across the back of the neck as he toppled forward. By the time he had dragged the limp body under a tree, Nefret was moving down the string of horses, whispering in their ears and stroking their necks. When she reached the last in line, she untied the rope that passed through their bridles. So far there had been no sound except a few soft, interested whickers from the intrigued equines. Now they had to move fast and noisily. Nefret scrambled onto one of the horses while Selim gave Sir Edward a hand up and mounted another. Except for Nefret’s mount, the animals were stirring uneasily. One of the sleeping men sat up. Ramses tossed the dangling reins over the lead horse’s neck and vaulted onto its back. It turned its head to give him an astonished stare. “Wrong man, I know,” Ramses said in a conversational voice. “Think of it as a temporary inconvenience.” There wasn’t time to adjust the stirrups. He dug his bare heels into the animal’s flanks and urged it into a trot. It responded to the touch or the English voice, or both. The entire camp was now awake; shouts and curses echoed through the night, and someone fired a rifle. Someone else let out a stream of oaths directed at the idiot who had fired it. By that time the entire group of horses was in motion, following their leader and urged on by Nefret, who brought up the rear yelling and smacking assorted equine rumps with a leafy branch. Her hair had come loose from its scarf; it streamed out behind her, silvered by starlight. Sir Edward was hanging on, though he didn’t look happy. Selim looked very happy. This was the sort of adventure he had had in mind all along, a wild ride with the enemy in hot pursuit. The pursuit consisted of one trooper, running as fast as his long legs would carry him, waving his arms and calling out. The horses broke into a gallop and the plaintive cries of “Mary! Mary, love, come back!” faded into the night. A real and vindictive pursuit would not be long delayed, however. They did not slacken speed until they were near the ruins where the others were ready and waiting. None of them wasted time in conversation, though Ramses saw the look of resignation on his mother’s face. She was not an enthusiastic horsewoman, and was accustomed to the smooth gait of their Arabians. “Sorry, Mother,” he said, offering his hands to help her mount. “Will you be all right?” “Certainly.” It was the answer he had expected. Esin couldn’t manage it, though. She had ridden only in England, with a proper lady’s saddle. Declining Selim’s eager offer of assistance, Nefret mounted the girl in front of her. “We’re leaving a trail a blind man could follow,” Sir Edward said, as they started off two by two. “And now we’ve got the Australians after us.” “This was your idea,” Ramses pointed out. “So it was. I hope I’ll live long enough to regret it.” The clipped accent sounded odd from that vagabond figure. There hadn’t been time for Ramses to assimilate Sir Edward’s sudden reappearance, and there were a hundred questions he wanted to ask. “What are you doing here? I was under the impression that you had given up a life of crime.” “I can’t imagine what gave you that impression” was Sir Edward’s bland reply. “But my present job isn’t criminal in nature. People give other people medals for doing it.” “Usually after the ‘other people’ are dead.” Sir Edward let that one pass. Ramses tried another tack. “Why is Sethos in Gaza? He’s no traitor, I’m certain of that now, but what the hell is he after?” “You’ll have to ask him that.”

They reached their destination just before dawn. Ramses had expected a tumbledown ruin or a mean little house; instead he saw high walls rising up against the paling sky like those of a castle or a fortress. The heavy gates were closed. Sir Edward called out and after an interval one of the leaves of the gate opened and a man peered out. He let out an exclamation when he saw the group. “They are friends,” Sir Edward said. “Friends of the Master.” He led the way into an open courtyard with a well in the center and a roofed arcade on the right side. It wasa fortress, and a strong one. The walls were twelve feet high and eight feet thick. A small two-storied structure within the enclosure must be the living quarters. “Go ahead into the house,” their host said, indicating this building. “Straight through and up the stairs to the saloon. I’m afraid you’ll find us ill-prepared for guests, but Mustafa and I will see what can be done in the way of food and drink.” He drew the other man aside. Leaving his father to assist his mother, and Selim the girl, Ramses edged toward the pair. He caught only two words: “No message?” and saw Mustafa shake his head. Mustafa looked like the sort of man who would be employed by Sethos — burly, black-bearded as a pirate, and wary. He shot a suspicious look at Ramses, and Sir Edward turned. “This is the notorious — er — famous Brother of Demons, Mustafa,” he said in Arabic. “You have heard of him.” “Ah!” Mustafa held out a hand. “We will shake hands as the English do, eh? It is an honor to meet you. And so the others are . . . ?” “The even more notorious Father of Curses and his family,” Ramses said. “If you will forgive me for failing in courtesy, may I suggest that there are important matters to be dealt with before we exchange additional compliments? The horses, for instance. Their owners will want them back.” Mustafa threw his head back and let out a bellow of laughter. “You stole them? Well done. They will fetch a good price.” “Control your mercantile instincts, Mustafa,” said Sir Edward. “They must be returned eventually. We — er — borrowed them from the Australians.” “Hmmm.” Mustafa stroked his beard. “A pity. But you are right, the Australians are fierce fighters and they love their horses.” Ramses stroked the friendly muzzle that had come to rest on his shoulder. “Take care of them, will you, Mustafa? Rub them down and water them.” “If you have handled that to your satisfaction,” said Sir Edward, “shall we go in? Your mother will be waiting in the saloon for us.” “No, she won’t,” Ramses said.

The saloon was an elegantly appointed apartment at the front of the house. I recognized Sethos’s refined tastes in the furnishings — cushioned divans, carved screens, and low tables of brass and copper — but it was clear at a glance that this was a bachelor establishment. There was a bird’s nest in one of the window embrasures, and dust covered every flat surface. “Dear me,” I said. “This won’t do. Let us see what the rest of the house is like.” “He told us to wait here,” Nefret said. She was supporting Esin, who looked as if she was at the limit of her strength. “I have no intention of waiting for a man to make the necessary arrangements,” I replied. “That girl should be in bed. Let us find one.” Two of the small rooms behind the saloon had obviously been used as sleeping chambers. Various articles of masculine attire hung over chairs and chests. The beds were brass, in the European style, rather at odds with the rest of the furnishings, but with comfortable mattresses and sheets and pillows. Selim and I straightened the crumpled bedding and put Esin on the bed. I did not bother removing her clothing, since it did not appear that the sheets had been changed for several weeks. Sir Edward and Ramses were in the saloon when we returned to that room. “Did you find what you were looking for?” the former inquired politely. “I found a bed — yours, I believe — and got Miss Sahin tucked in. The poor child was worn out. Now, where is the kitchen? A nice hot cup of tea would be just the thing.” “Mustafa is making tea,” Sir Edward said. “Does he know about boiling the water long enough? Perhaps I had better go and —” Sir Edward took the liberty of seizing me by the arm. “He knows. He knows! Mrs. Emerson, please sit down. I can’t until you do, and I am dead on my feet.” “Oh, very well.” I selected one of the divans that did not have evidence of avian activity. Sir Edward collapsed onto another with a long sigh and Ramses took his place next to Nefret. Emerson was still prowling about the room. “Ha!” he exclaimed, opening a cabinet. “My — er — old acquaintance does himself well. Claret, ’pon my word, and an excellent vintage too. It isn’t whiskey, Peabody, but would you care for a drop?” “Not at this time of day,” I replied. “Ah — here is Mustafa with the tea tray. Just put it here, if you please. I will pour.” He had slopped it all over the tray, of course. As he stood back, fixing me with a bold, curious stare, I had one of those moments of utter disorientation: the tea tray, set out in proper English style — that would be Sir Edward’s influence — the black-bearded ruffian who had served it; the filthy, ragged beggar who was Sir Edward; and the rest of us in a motley array of garments, from Nefret’s neat but crumpled trousers and coat to Emerson’s torn silken robes. However, the situation was no more bizarre than many in which we had found ourselves. Mustafa said suddenly, “You are the Sitt Hakim? I have a little sore, here on my —” “Later, my friend,” I said graciously. Nefret hid her face against Ramses’s shoulder and Emerson shouted, “Good Gad! Even here! Curse it, Peabody!” Mustafa retreated, visibly impressed by the volume of Emerson’s voice. I persuaded Emerson to sit down and take out his pipe. It soothed him; it usually did. “I don’t know where you are all going to sleep,” Sir Edward muttered. “At the moment my brain is too active to let me rest, Sir Edward,” I informed him. “We need to know where we stand. First and most important, where is Sethos? Did you expect him to be here?” “I hoped for a message, at least. He usually finds a way to let me know if there is any change in his plans. When I saw him yesterday morning —” “You were in Gaza? Goodness gracious, you all seem to walk in and out of the place as you please.” Whether he would have confided in us under different circumstances I cannot say. It may have been exhaustion that loosened his tongue. “The fortifications are like a sieve for a single man, if he knows where the holes are. Once inside I — and our other couriers — form part of the adoring mob that presses round the holy man asking for his blessing.” “So he can pass messages to you, and you to him,” I prompted. “Something like that,” Sir Edward said evasively. “I knew he planned to get Sahin’s daughter away. I’d have talked him out of it if I could, or at least tried to persuade him not to go back to Gaza. Sahin was bound to suspect he’d had a hand in the business and clamp down on him even more closely. I think that is what has happened.” “Can you send someone to find out?” I asked. Emerson cleared his throat. “My papers —” “No,” Ramses and I said in the same breath. “What papers?” Sir Edward demanded, his eyes widening. Proudly Emerson drew them forth and handed them to Sir Edward. The sun was well up now; the gilt sparkled impressively in the light. “I can’t read Turkish,” Sir Edward said blankly. “Ramses can.” Emerson’s pipe had gone out. He struck a match. “He says they are perfectly in order.” “Yes, very well, but you can’t — you can’t just walk up to the trenches and —” “No, it will take some preparation,” Emerson admitted. “That is quite right,” I said, seeing in my mind’s eye the preparations Emerson was planning. Camels, servants, gold-trimmed robes, and a huge scimitar . . . He would so enjoy it, and sheer effrontery might allow him to carry it off. For a while. “Admirable,” Sir Edward murmured. He sounded more horrified than admiring. “Sir, give me a chance to use our regular channels first.” “An excellent idea,” I said, before Emerson could object. “Sir Edward, I am curious to know how —” “I beg you will excuse the interruption, Mrs. Emerson, but could we postpone the interrogation for a few hours?” Sir Edward rubbed his eyes. “I need to rest, even if you don’t, and there are a few domestic matters I must attend to.” “Certainly. Just show me where you keep the clean sheets.” It was the final straw for poor Sir Edward. “I — Oh, Lord. I don’t know that there are any, Mrs. Emerson.” “If there were, where would they be? Come,” I said in a kindly manner, “let’s just have a look. It won’t take long.” The others declared they would stretch out on the divans, and Sir Edward and I went off on what he clearly believed was a hopeless quest. Eventually we found a cupboard that contained linens of various kinds. I selected a few. Sir Edward, always the gentleman, took the pile from me. I allowed him to do so, though he had a little difficulty getting hold of it. “I was sorry to see that,” I said, with the lightest possible touch of his arm. “It was in France that it happened, I suppose.” “Ypres.” He spoke curtly, avoiding my eyes. Pity he would not accept; acknowledgment of his sacrifice was owed him, and I felt obliged to make it. “It must have been dreadful. I am so sorry.” “What, womanly sympathy from you, Mrs. Emerson? A touch out of character, isn’t it?” “It is sincere.” “I know.” His rigid features relaxed. “I am sorry too, for speaking rudely. It’s not so bad, you know. It got me out of the army, which was all to the good. I had become somewhat disenchanted.” “Can nothing be done about an artificial limb?” “Oh, yes. I’ve got quite a good one. It broadens my repertoire of disguises to a remarkable extent. I’m thinking of attaching a bayonet, or perhaps a hook.” I patted him on the shoulder. “Splendid,” I said heartily. “Or a parasol,” said Sir Edward. His smile was that of the charming debonair gentleman I had known. I was to remember that smile for a long time. When I woke from a brief but refreshing nap, he was gone — from the house and from the grounds and, I feared, back into the powder keg that was Gaza. It took me a while to discover this. I had decided to sleep on one of the divans rather than go to the trouble of making up a bed which, if events continued to unfold, I might never occupy. When I went to look in at Esin, I almost fell over Selim, who was stretched out across her threshold. I left him there, since that was where he had chosen to be, and went back to the saloon. Ramses and Nefret lay side by side, his arm round her and her head on his shoulder. I stood for a moment watching them. One of Ramses’s eyes opened and regarded me quizzically. “All’s well,” I reported, and tiptoed toward the divan where Emerson lay. I did not mean to sleep for more than an hour, but even as I reclined the skies were darkening, and the gentle murmur of rain must have lulled me. It was the sound of heavy footsteps that woke me — the running steps of a person in haste. I sat up with a start and reached into my nearest pocket. It was the wrong pocket. I was fumbling in another, trying to locate my little pistol, when a man burst into the room and came to a stop. He was breathing heavily and water poured from his soaked garments. Emerson was thrashing around and muttering, as he always does when he is suddenly aroused, but Ramses was on his feet, alert and ready. The newcomer, too breathless to speak, held out empty hands in the universal gesture of conciliation. I could not see him clearly, the room was rather dark. I knew him, though. “Ah,” I said. “So here you are at last. It is all right, Ramses.” “No — it — isn’t.” Sethos got it out one word at a time. “Where’s — Edward?” “He isn’t here?” I asked. “No.” Emerson had finally got his wits together. “It’s you, is it?” he demanded, squinting through the gloom. “High bloody time.” “Bloody too late,” said Sethos, beginning to control his breath. “Did Edward tell you where —” “We were not even aware of his departure,” I replied. “Please compose yourself so that we can converse rationally.” “And get out of those wet clothes,” Nefret said. “What, here and now?” Ramses had lighted several of the lamps. Sethos threw his shoulders back and tried to look as if he were in command of the situation, but he was a wretched figure, every garment saturated and even his beard dripping. “A chill can bring on malaria,” Nefret said calmly. “Get them off at once. I’ll ask Mustafa to make tea.” “And something to eat,” I called after her, as she hastened from the room. “And something to wear,” said my brother-in-law resignedly. He pulled off the sodden lump of his turban and the fez round which it had been wrapped. “This is as far as I am prepared to go, Amelia, while you remain in the room.” Anxious as I was to hold the long-delayed discussion — urgent as were the questions to be asked and answered — physical needs took precedence. Sethos had had malaria before. It would be extremely inconvenient if he came down with it again. “Come with me,” I ordered, and led the way out of the room. Selim, still lying romantically across the girl’s threshold, woke instantly when we approached — and no wonder, on that hard floor. He sprang up, reaching for his knife. “He is a friend, Selim,” I said. “Perhaps you would be good enough to help him change his wet clothing.” “I do not require a damned valet,” Sethos snarled. “Selim isn’t a valet. You require assistance, and that is what you are about to get. Follow me, both of you.” A large cupboard in the other bedroom contained an extensive wardrobe, ranging from abas and galabeeyahs to a nice tweed suit that Sethos had borrowed from Ramses the year before. I left them to it, and returned to the saloon. Mustafa had scraped together a rather extraordinary meal — tinned tongue and bread and fruit, and, of course, tea. Before long, Selim and Sethos joined us, the latter in dry garments, his unruly hair still damp. “Well, this is cozy,” said Sethos, with a decidedly sardonic inflection. “A jolly little family gathering. I’ve been chasing you across the countryside all night.” “Were you at the rendezvous?” I asked. “Not until after you’d left. Would you like to know what happened?” “Very much so,” said Emerson, with a snap of his teeth. “I had to make a run for it,” Sethos explained. “I — er — miscalculated a trifle, you see. I didn’t expect Sahin would move so quickly or so decisively. He’s a very efficient man, with a well-organized network of supporters hereabouts. It didn’t take him long to find out you were in Khan Yunus. You weren’t exactly discreet, were you?” “The disclosure of our true identities was unavoidable,” I said. “And if I may say so, criticism from you is unwarranted, under the circumstances.” “Possibly,” Sethos admitted. “If I may continue my narrative?” “Pray do,” I said. “As I was about to say, the disappearance of his daughter hit him hard and he acted instantly. He sent orders to attack your house. There was a chance the girl was with you. If she wasn’t, he hoped to acquire a hostage — one or all of you.” “How do you know all that?” I asked. “He told me.” Sethos had been eating ravenously, between sentences. He swallowed a bite of fruit and went on, “We had one of those friendly little chats — you know what they’re like, Ramses. He explained in detail what he meant to do, and added, more in sorrow than in anger, that he was going to lock me up, since he had been forced to the conclusion that my conversion was not sincere.” He bit into a piece of bread. The pause was for effect, as I knew; the man could not resist making a dramatic story of it. “So you hit him?” Ramses was as intrigued as the rest of us. “What with?” “Not my fist, I assure you. He was waiting for that. I was nibbling daintily on a nectarine. I shoved it in his face. He was trying to claw the pulp out of his eyes and spit it out of his mouth when I broke his water pipe over his head. It made a frightful mess and rather a loud noise, so I didn’t wait to tie him up. I calculated I had about sixty seconds before a servant got nerve enough to investigate, so I started running — straight out of the house and past the guards. If you don’t have time to be cautious, speed and effrontery are your only hope. It was a spectacle dreadful enough to throw most people into a panic,” he added with a grin. “The holy infidel, waving his arms and screaming broken phrases from the Koran. Nobody tried to stop me. Religious frenzy is dangerous. I kept running, divesting myself of my elegant ornaments as I went and scattering them about the streets, to the additional confusion of those I encountered. I presented the last — a very handsome emerald brooch, which I hated to give up — to the officer in command of one of the guard posts. With my blessing. May I have more tea?” Ramses was the first to break the
fascinated silence. “I’m a bloody amateur,” he murmured. “Excuse me, Mother.” “You haven’t done so badly,” his uncle conceded. “This last escapade wasn’t well thought out, though. You ought to have had a means of escape arranged before you shot at me.” “You don’t suppose Ramses would do such a thing!” Nefret said indignantly. “Now, now, keep calm. I did not suppose my affectionate nephew really intended to kill me. I credited him with realizing that an attack on me, presumably by my erstwhile employers, would establish me as a bona fide traitor. I didn’t expect he would go so far as to let himself be caught. That was a complication I did not need.” “Accept my apologies,” said Ramses, scowling at his uncle. Sethos did have a gift for turning people against him. “Who was it, then, if it wasn’t you?” “A fellow named Chetwode. He’s the general’s nephew. His superior is a man named Cartright.” “Oh, that lot. How did you —” “Never mind that now,” I interrupted. “If we keep getting off onto side issues we will never make sense of this business. What happened after you left Gaza?” “I decided I had better go to Khan Yunus and warn you.” “You might have thought of that earlier,” Emerson grumbled. “I told you, I didn’t know what Sahim intended to do until he informed me. I barely made it out of the city before his men came boiling out in hot pursuit; I had to lie low in the hills until they tired of looking for me.” He took a cigarette from the tin Ramses offered him and lit it before he went on. “By the time I got to Khan Yunus, all hell had broken loose. The army was on the scene, trying to suppress the riot, without the vaguest idea of who had started it or why. Your place had been broken into, and some of the locals were taking advantage of the confusion to carry off anything they could lay their hands on.” “The motorcar!” Selim exclaimed. “Did they damage it?” “I wasn’t given the opportunity to examine it,” Sethos said dryly. “I hung about trying to look harmless until the military got things more or less under control. You hadn’t shown yourselves, so I could only hope Edward had warned you in time for you to escape. It was after midnight by then. I had the devil of a time getting out of town, since I had to avoid not only soldiers looking for rioters but rioters who might be Sahin’s lads. The whole bloody countryside was aroused — looking for a pack of horse thieves, as the sergeant who collared me explained. I was not in possession of a horse, so he let me go. You people really excel at stirring up trouble! I pushed on and, of course, found the ruined house deserted. You’d been there — you left an empty biscuit tin — and so had several horses. So I came on here. I couldn’t think where else you might have gone. It took a while, since I was on foot.” I observed the faintest tremor in the hand that extinguished his cigarette. It was not the only sign of fatigue; his voice was flat and his face was drawn. “You had better get some sleep,” I said. “We will talk again later.” “As you command, Sitt Hakim.” He got slowly to his feet. “Is someone sleeping in my bed?” “Miss Sahin is in one of the beds. I will make up the other one for you.” “There is no need for that.” “Clearly it is not an amenity to which you are accustomed. I will do it anyhow. Come along.” What I wanted, as the Reader must have surmised, was a private chat. Even Emerson realized the reasonableness of this, though he did not much like it. He had never completely conquered his jealousy of his brother, baseless though it was — on my side, at any rate. “Allow me to give you a little laudanum,” I said. “You won’t sleep without it, you are too tired and too on edge.” “Are you afraid I’ll sneak out of the house?” He watched me unfold one of the sheets and then took hold of the other end. “I have better sense than that. If Edward isn’t back by nightfall, I will have to take steps, but I cannot function efficiently without sleep.” He had tucked the sheet in any which way. I remade that end of the bed. Our eyes met, and he smiled a little; he was thinking, as was I, what an oddly domestic scene this was. “I don’t need your laudanum,” he went on, removing a container from one of the shelves. “How long have you been taking that?” I asked, as he swallowed a small white pill. “Weeks. Months.” He stretched out on the bed. “It works quickly, so if you have any questions — which you undoubtedly do — talk fast.” “I only wanted to ask about Margaret. Have you heard from her?” He hadn’t expected such a harmless subject. “Margaret? No, not for months. I couldn’t very well carry on a frequent correspondence, could I?” “Does she know what you are doing?” “She knows everything about me.” He closed his eyes. “Including —” “Everything.” “You have complete confidence in her, then. Are you going to marry her?” Sethos opened his eyes and clasped his hands behind his head. “You aren’t going to leave me in peace until I invite you into my innermost heart, are you? The question is not whether I am going to marry her, but whether she will consent to marry me. I asked her. I hadn’t intended to, it — er — came into my head at a particularly — er — personal moment. She said no.” “A flat, unconditional no?” “There were conditions. You can guess what they were. She was in the right. I told her — I promised her — this would be my last assignment. As it well may be.” “Not in the way you mean,” I said firmly. “We are here, and on the job! We could be more useful, however, if you would tell me the purpose of your mission. What are you after?” “Sahin.” His eyelids drooped. The sedative had loosened his tongue. “He’s their best man. Their only good man. Once he’s out of the way, we can proceed with . . . He loves the girl. I didn’t know that. I thought he’d go to some lengths to get her back, but I didn’t realize . . . Paternal affection isn’t one of my strong points. I told you about Maryam, didn’t I?” “Who?” I had to repeat the question. He was half asleep, wandering a little in his mind. “Maryam. Molly. That’s the name you knew . . . She’s gone.” “Dead?” I gasped. “Your daughter?” “No. Gone. Left. Ran away. Hates me. Because of her mother. She’s living proof of heredity. Got the worst of both parents. Poor little devil . . . She is, you know. Amelia . . .” “It’s all right,” I said softly, taking the hand that groped for mine. “Everything will be all right. Sleep now.” I sat by him until his hand relaxed and the lines on his face smoothed out. I had intended — oh, I admit it — to take advantage of his drowsy state to wring information out of him, but I had not expected revelations so intimate, so personal, so painful. His daughter had been fourteen years of age when I knew her. She must be sixteen now. Her mother had been Sethos’s lover and partner in crime; but her tigerish affection had turned to jealous hatred when she realized his heart belonged to another. (Me, in fact, or so he claimed.) She tried several times to kill me and succeeded in assassinating one of my dearest friends before she met her end at the hands of those who had been an instant too late to save him. How much of that terrible story did the child know? If she blamed her father for her mother’s death, she could not know the whole truth. He had not even been present when she died, and she had led a life of crime and depravity before she met Sethos. A moralist might hold him guilty of failing to redeem her, but in my opinion even a saint, which Sethos was not, would have found Bertha hard going. I do not believe that the dead hand of heredity is the sole determinant of character. Remembering Molly as I had last seen her, looking even younger than her actual age, the picture of freckled, childish innocence . . . But she hadn’t looked so innocent the day I found her in Ramses’s room with her dress half off — by her own act, I should add. If I had not happened to be passing by — if Ramses had not had the good sense to summon me at once — or if he had been another kind of man, the kind of man she hoped he was — he might have found himself in an extremely interesting situation. That proved nothing. She had not deliberately set out to seduce or shame him; she had been young and foolish and infatuated. My heart swelled with pity, for her and for the man who lay sleeping on the bed, his face pale and drawn with fatigue. He had not known how much he loved her until he lost her, and he blamed himself. How wonderful it would be if I could bring father and child together again! It was a happy thought, but not practical — for the present, at any rate. We had to get through the current difficulty first. With a sigh I slipped my hand from his and tiptoed out of the room. “Well?” Emerson demanded. “You’ve been the devil of a long time. How much were you able to get out of him?” “We were right about him, of course,” I replied, seating myself next to him as his gesture invited. “He is no traitor. His mission was to remove Sahin Bey — Pasha.” “Kill him, you mean?” Ramses asked. “He didn’t say. But surely Sethos would not —” “Sahin is a dangerous enemy and this is wartime. However,” Ramses said thoughtfully, “the same purpose would be served if Sahin Pasha were to be disgraced and removed from his position. In the last week he’s lost me, his daughter, and now Ismail Pasha, whose flight will prove to their satisfaction that he was a British spy. Careless, to say the least!” “More than careless,” Emerson exclaimed. “Highly suspicious, to say the least! With that lot, you are guilty until proven innocent. By Gad, my boy, I believe you are right. It’s like Sethos to concoct such a devious scheme. If the Turks believe, as they well may, that Sahin Pasha has been a double agent all along, they will have to reorganize their entire intelligence network. It could take months.” “And in the meantime they would be without their best and cleverest man,” I added. “Sethos said that once Sahin was out of the way, they could proceed with . . . something.” “What?” “He didn’t say.” “And who is ‘they’?” Nefret asked. “Who is he working for? Not Cartright and ‘that lot’?” “He — er — didn’t say.” Emerson brought his fist down on the table, rattling the crockery. “What did he say? Good Gad, you were with him for almost three quarters of an hour.” “How do you know that?” I demanded. “You haven’t a watch.” This time my attempt to distract him and put him on the defensive did not succeed. “Just answer the question, Peabody. What were you talking about all that while?” “Personal matters. Oh, Emerson, for pity’s sake, don’t grind your teeth. I wanted to make certain he was asleep before I left him. The man is on the edge of nervous collapse. He has been living for months under conditions of intolerable strain. He must not be allowed to return to Gaza.” “He wouldn’t be such a fool,” Emerson muttered. “He would if he believed Sir Edward had gone there to look for him.” “Hewouldn’t be such a fool,” Emerson declared. “He would if he believed his leader was in danger. They have been friends for a long time. I am going to talk to Mustafa; perhaps Sir Edward said something to him. And I promised to treat his sore . . . Ah, there you are, Esin. You had a good long rest.” “Yes.” Rubbing sleepy eyes, she took a seat on the divan next to Ramses. “What has happened? Has my father —” “Nothing has happened. You are perfectly safe. Are you hungry? There must be something left on that tray. Excuse me. I won’t be long.” Ramses accompanied me. I had expected he or his father would do so, and on the whole I preferred Ramses to Emerson. His questions were not likely to be so provocative. “I thought I’d better come along in case Mustafa’s sore is located in a place Father would prefer you didn’t examine,” he explained. “That is highly unlikely.” “I was joking, Mother.” “I know, my dear.” The skies were still overcast but the rain had stopped. It dripped in mournful cadence from the eaves of the arcades around the courtyard. I allowed Ramses to take my arm. “I am of the opinion that you are right about Sethos’s intentions,” I said. “It was clever of you to reason it out.” “Too clever, perhaps? I’d hate to think my mind works along the same lines as his.” “Whatever his original intentions, they have almost certainly had the effect you described. Goodness, but this is a dreary place. There doesn’t seem to be a soul about. Mustafa?” “He’s probably with the horses,” Ramses said. Mustafa heard our voices and emerged from the shed. “I was talking to the horses,” he said. “They are fine animals. Is there something you lack, Sitt Hakim?” “Not at the moment. I want to talk to you, Mustafa. And treat your sore . . . Where is it?” Mustafa sat down on a bench and held out his foot. It was bare and callused and very dirty. “You will have to wash it first,” I said. “Wash?” Mustafa repeated in astonishment. Ramses, who appeared to be enjoying himself very much, fetched a bucket of water and we persuaded Mustafa to put his foot into it. I had brought a bar of Pear’s soap with me, since I knew that commodity is not common in houses of the region. After a vigorous scrubbing the sore was apparent — an infected big toe, which he must have stubbed and then neglected. The alcohol made Mustafa’s eyes pop. “I am going to bandage your foot,” I said, applying gauze and sticking plaster liberally. “But you must keep it clean. Change the bandage every day and wash it.” “Is that all?” Mustafa asked. “That should —” Ramses coughed loudly. “Will you say the proper words, Mother, or shall I?” “Incantations are more in your line than mine,” I replied in English. “Proceed.” Once that essential part of the treatment was completed, Mustafa was satisfied, and I got down to business. “Did Sir Edward tell you where he was going?” “No.” Mustafa held up his foot and studied the bandage. “He took the mule.” “You have a mule?” “Two. He took one.” “Did he say when he would be back?” “No.” Mustafa cogitated, his brow furrowing. “He said . . . what was it? Something about whiskey. That he would bring it to the Father of Curses.” “He’s gone to Khan Yunus,” Ramses said, as we left Mustafa admiring his bandaged foot. “Not to Gaza?” “Father is right, he wouldn’t be such a fool. Not unless he had proof that Sethos was still there.” He took hold of my arm and stopped me. “I don’t believe we want to