Lion in the Valley (2 page)

"Naturally
I look forward to the work of this season. You know my enthusiasm for pyramids,
and one could hardly find finer specimens than at Dahshoor. I particularly
anticipate investigating the burial chamber of the Black Pyramid under more
auspicious circumstances than those that surrounded our initial visit. One's
critical faculties are not at their best after one has been dropped through
Stygian darkness into a flooded subterranean pit and left to perish
there."

Emerson
had released his hold on my shoulders and turned back to the rail. His eyes
fixed on the horizon, he said rapidly, "We will have to wait until later
in the season to explore the Black Pyramid, after the inundation has receded to
its lowest point. If the chamber is still flooded, perhaps a pump—"

"I
have also considered that problem, my dear Emerson. However, that is not the
issue at the present time."

"A
hydraulic pump, with a hose—"

"Have
you forgotten, Emerson, the circumstances under which we first made our
acquaintance with the interior of the Black Pyramid?"

"I
am not so elderly that I suffer from lapses of memory," Emerson replied
waspishly. "Nor have I forgotten your response when I expressed my
intention of dying in your arms. I confess I had expected a trifle more
appreciation."

"You
misunderstood me, Emerson. As I said at the time, I would be happy to have that
arrangement prevail should the inevitability of doom be upon us. I never
doubted for a moment, my dear, that you would find a way out. And I was quite
correct."

I
moved closer and leaned against his shoulder.

"Well,"
Emerson said gruffly. "We did get out, didn't we? Though if it had not
been for Ramses—"

"Let's
not talk about Ramses or the circumstances of our escape. You know what is on
my mind, Emerson, for I am certain that it haunts you in equal measure. I will
never forget our final encounter with the villain who was responsible for our
near demise. I can still see his sneering smile and hear his contemptuous
words. 'This, then, is farewell. I trust we shall not meet again.' "

Emerson's
hands clenched on the rail with such force that the tendons stood out like
whipcord. However, he did not speak, so I continued, "Nor can I forget the
vow I made at the time. 'We will meet again, never fear; for I will make it my
business to hunt you down and put an end to your nefarious activities.' "

Emerson's
hands relaxed. In a querulous tone he remarked, "You may have been
thinking that at the time, Amelia, but you certainly didn't say so, not until
that young whippersnapper from the
Daily Yell
interviewed you this past
July. You deliberately deceived me about that interview, Amelia. You never told
me you had invited O'Connell to my house. You smuggled him in and smuggled him
out, and instructed my own servants to keep me in the dark—"

"I
was only trying to spare you, my dear, knowing how you dislike Mr. O'Connell.
After all, you once kicked him down the stairs—"

"I
did no such thing," said Emerson, who honestly believed this. ' 'But I
might have done, if I had caught him in my drawing room smirking and leering at
my wife and getting ready to print a pack of lies about me. His story was
absolutely embarrassing. Besides, it was inaccurate."

"Now,
Emerson, I must differ with you. I am certain one of us hurled that challenge
at the Master Criminal; perhaps it was you who said it. In the interview I may
have omitted a few of Ramses' activities, for I thoroughly disapprove of giving
children too high an opinion of themselves. In every other way the report was
entirely accurate, and it certainly did not embarrass
me.
What, am I not to praise my husband for his courage and
strength, and commend him for rescuing me from certain death?"

"Er,
hmmm," said Emerson. "Well, but Peabody—"

"Mark
my words, Emerson, we have not seen the last of that villain. He managed to
escape us, but we foiled his plot and deprived him of his ill-gotten treasure.
He is not the man to accept defeat without an attempt at revenge."

"How
can you say that? You don't know a thing about the fellow, not even his
nationality."

"He
is an Englishman, Emerson. I am convinced of that."

"He
spoke Arabic with as much facility as English," Emerson pointed out.
"And you never saw his face when it was not swathed in hair. Never in my
life have I seen such a beard! Would you know him if you saw him again sans
beard?"

"Certainly."

"Humph."
Emerson put his arm around my shoulders and drew me closer. "Well,
Peabody, I admit that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to punch that
swine on the nose, and if he intrudes into our affairs I will deal with him as
he deserves. But I have no intention of looking for trouble. I have better
things to do. Promise me, Peabody, that you will leave well enough alone."

"Oh,
certainly, my dear Emerson."

"Promise."

"I
promise I will not go looking for trouble."

"My
darling Peabody!" Emerson drew me into a fond embrace, careless of the
watching sailors.

I
had every intention of keeping my word. Why look for trouble when trouble is
certain to come looking for you?

After
disembarking at Alexandria, we boarded the train for Cairo. The journey takes a
trifle over four hours, and it is considered somewhat tedious by most
travelers, since the route crosses the featureless alluvial plains of the
Delta. To the trained eye of an archaeologist, however, each mound, or "tell,"
indicates the presence of a buried city. Ramses and Emerson were constantly
arguing about the identification of these sites, an argument in which I took no
part since I do not see the sense in debating matters concerning which so few
facts are known. As I told them, only excavation will determine the truth.

Not
until we were within a few miles of our destination was the view enlivened by
the sight of the Giza pyramids in the purple distance, framed by the low Libyan
hills. It was always at this point, and not on the crowded quay at Alexandria,
that I felt I had really arrived in Egypt.

Emerson
smiled at me in silent sympathy before turning back to feast his eyes upon the
glorious vision. He had profanely consented to put on his new gray suit, and
was looking particularly handsome—though I confess that Emerson's splendid
physique shows to best advantage in his working costume of shabby trousers and
a rumpled shirt open at the throat, with rolled
sleeves baring his
muscular forearms. He was not wearing a hat because Emerson consistently
refuses to wear a hat even when working under the baking sun, and it is beyond
my powers of persuasion (extensive though they are) to overcome this prejudice
of his.

The
elegance of his appearance was only slightly marred by the great brindled
feline perched on his knee. The cat Bastet was staring out the window of the
train with an interest as keen as Emerson's, and I wondered if she realized she
had returned to the land of her birth. Ramses would have claimed she did, for
he had an exaggerated opinion of the creature's intelligence. She had been his
constant companion ever since she had joined our family several years before,
and was now an experienced traveler, since Ramses insisted on taking her with
him wherever he went. I must say she was far less trouble than her youthful
master.

Ramses—ah,
Ramses! My eloquent pen falters when I attempt in a few words to convey the
complex personality contained in the body of the eight-year-old boy who is my
only child. Some superstitious Egyptians actually claimed he was not a child at
all, but a jinni that had taken up its abode in Ramses' meager frame. There are
good jinn and evil jinn (the latter being commonly called efreets), for this
class of mythological beings is morally neutral in origin, an intermediate
species between men and angels. I had not chosen to inquire to which class
Ramses was commonly believed to belong.

Ramses
was grubby and disheveled, of course. Ramses is almost always grubby and
disheveled. He is drawn to dirt as a crocodile is drawn to water. He had been
(for Ramses) relatively tidy when we got on the train. An hour or so after we
left Alexandria I looked around and found him missing from our compartment.
This did not surprise me, since Ramses had an uncanny
knack
of disappearing when the spirit moved him to do so. It was a particularly
disconcerting talent in a boy whose normal progression through a room was
marked by a singular degree of clumsiness, owing in large part to his
propensity to undertake tasks beyond his ability.

At
Emerson's insistence I went looking for the boy and found him in a third-class
carriage, squatting on the floor and engaged in animated conversation with a
woman whose flimsy and immodest attire left no doubt in my mind as to her
profession. I removed Ramses and returned him to our compartment, placing him
in a seat next to the window so he could not elude me again.

He,
too, had turned to admire the pyramids. I could see only his filthy collar and
the tumbled mass of tight black curls that adorned his head; but I knew his
saturnine countenance betrayed no emotion to speak of. Ramses' countenance is
habitually impassive. His nose is rather large, and his chin matches his nose.
His coloring is not at all English; one might easily mistake him for an
Egyptian youth, and it was this resemblance, in addition to his regal manner,
that had prompted Emerson to give him the nickname of Ramses. (For I hope the
reader knows, without my telling him or her, that I would never agree to have a
British infant christened with such an outlandish appellation.)

Since
the heads of Ramses and Emerson, not to mention the cat, blocked my view, I
leaned back and relaxed—without, however, taking my eyes from the back of my
son's head.

As
was my custom, I had engaged rooms at Shepheard's. Emerson complained bitterly
about staying there. He complains every year, so I paid no attention. Some of
the newer hotels are as comfortable, but in
addition to offering all the
amenities a person of refinement can expect, Shepheard's has the advantage of
being the center of the haut monde of Cairo. My reasons for preferring this
hotel are the very reasons why Emerson complains of it. He would much prefer
lodgings in the native quarter, where he can wallow in the genial lack of
sanitation that distinguishes lowerclass hotels and pensions. (Men are by
instinct untidy animals. Emerson is one of the few who has the courage to state
his sentiments aloud.) Now I can "rough it" with the best of them,
but I see no reason to deny myself comfort when it is available. I wanted a few
days to recover from the crowded and uncomfortable conditions on board ship
before retiring to the desert.

A
most reasonable attitude, I am sure all would agree. Emerson's claim, that I
stay at Shepheard's in order to catch up on the gossip, is just one of his
little jokes.

I
have heard people say that it is difficult to get accommodations at Shepheard's
during the height of the season, but I have never had the least trouble. Of
course we were old and valued clients. The rumor that Mr. Baehler, the manager,
is in mortal terror of Emerson and fears to deny him anything he asks is, of
course, ridiculous. Mr. Baehler is a tail, sturdy gentleman, and I am sure he
would never be intimidated in that manner.

He
stood on the terrace waiting to greet us—and, naturally, the other guests who
had arrived on the Alexandria train. His splendid head of silvery-white hair
stood out above the crowd. As we prepared to descend from our carriage, another
conveyance drew up behind. It would have attracted our notice, if for no other
reason, because of the effect it had on the guests sitting at the tables on the
terrace. A kind of universal stiffening ran through them; all heads turned
toward the newcomers, and a moment of breathless silence was succeeded by
an
outbreak of hissing, whispered conversation.

The
open carriage was drawn by two perfectly matched grays. Scarlet plumes adorned
their harness, and they tossed their handsome heads and pranced like the
aristocratic beasts they clearly were.

The
driver jumped from his seat and handed the reins to the groom who had been
mounted behind. The former was tall and thin, lithe as a panther in riding
costume and polished boots. His black hair looked as if it had received a
coating of the same boot polish; his narrow black mustache might have been
drawn in India ink. A monocle in his right eye caught the sunlight in a
blinding flash.

Emerson
exclaimed aloud, "By the Lord Harry, it is that villain
Kalenischeff!"

Emerson's
accents are not noted for their softness. All heads turned toward us, including
that of Kalenischeff. His cynical smile stiffened, but he recovered himself
almost at once and turned to assist the other passenger from the carriage.

Jewels
shone at her throat and on her slender wrists. Her frock of gray-green silk was
of the latest Paris mode, with balloon sleeves bigger around than her narrow
waist. A huge cravat of white chiffon was pinned by a diamond-and-emerald
brooch. Her parasol matched her frock. Under it I caught a glimpse of a lovely,
laughing face with cheeks and lips more brilliant than Nature had designed.