Seeing a Large Cat (13 page)

"Did Bellingham talk to you about finding a maid or a companion for Miss Dolly?" Cyrus asked. "He wants an English or American female, and I told him I didn't know of anybody like that."

"What happened to the-" David broke off with a grunt.

"Did you speak, David?" I asked.

"No, ma'am. Yes, ma'am. I was thinking of something else."

"Oh." I turned my attention back to the question of Dolly Bellingham. "No, he did not mention the subject today. However, there were a few-er-distractions. Has the girl travelled all this distance without a female attendant?"

"Impossible," said Nefret scornfully. "She couldn't lace her own boots."

"She's never had to," Cyrus said. "The old plantation is still overrun with former slaves and their children. One of 'em came with the Bellinghams, but she took sick in Cairo and had to be sent home-steerage, I suppose. The girl's had a streak of bad luck with her servants; lost three altogether, from accidents or illness. The latest one took sick last night, so bad she had to be moved to the hospital. That's why her daddy wants- Well, hello there!"

The surprised greeting was addressed to Sekhmet, who had jumped from the floor to his knee. Cyrus put a hand gingerly on the cat's head; she squirmed appreciatively and began to purr.

"Just push her off, Cyrus," I said. "Gently, of course."

"No, that's all right. To tell you the truth, I'm kind of flattered. She never favored me before; she was always following Ramses around."

A rather uncomfortable pause followed. Darkness hid the faces of the others, including that of Ramses. He was perched on the low wall, his back against one of the pillars. The light from the doorway fell across his raised knees and the thin, steady brown hands that clasped them.

It was Nefret who broke the silence. "That is not the cat Bastet, but Sekhmet, one of her kittens. Bastet died last month."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," Cyrus said politely. "Sekhmet, is it?" He chuckled as the cat rubbed against his shirt in an ecstasy of purring. "You should have named her Hathor. She's sure a loving little lady. Maybe I should put in a bid for one of the kittens myself. Always fancied cats; don't know why I didn't think of getting one before."

We had to shut Sekhmet in Nefret's room when we went in to supper. Even the most dedicated of cat fanciers does not appreciate having a long tail dragged through his soup while he is sipping it. Emerson managed to keep the conversation on professional matters during the meal, but when coffee was served Cyrus reverted again to the subject of the Bellinghams' need for a companion.

"So you can't think of anyone that would suit?" he asked me.

"I can think of several Egyptian ladies," I replied. "David's aunt Fatima took excellent care of me one winter, when I suffered a minor accident, and-"

"Out of the question," Emerson said. "The position of maid or companion, or whatever you choose to call it, appears to be unlucky. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the others feigned illness; the young woman is a spoiled, tyrannical little brat who probably treats servants like the slaves her father once owned. I do not object to encouraging Bellingham on a professional level-the Department of Antiquities needs all the funds it can get-but I will not allow our children or our friends to become intimate with him. He has had too many wives for my taste."

"Why, Emerson, what an extraordinary statement!" I exclaimed. "Are you implying that he murdered them?"

Having allowed rising anger to provoke him into an indiscretion, Emerson became even angrier-with me. "Confound it, Peabody, I implied nothing of the sort. That imagination of yours has got entirely out of hand."

"Now, now, folks, just take it easy," Cyrus said, without attempting to conceal his amusement. "The Colonel's no Bluebeard. He's suffered several tragic losses, but they were all-er-in the course of nature, so to speak. Except..."

He looked self-consciously at Nefret, who was leaning forward, her elbows on the table and her blue eyes fixed on his face.

"Do you mean his wives died in childbirth?" she asked. "How many of them?"

"Two. Just two of 'em." Cyrus took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "Look here, I didn't mean to bring up a subject like this in front of you ladies."

"Women are not too fragile to experience childbirth," I said dryly. "Why should they not speak and hear of it? Nefret has been raised by modern methods, Cyrus, and I daresay she knows more about the subject than you do. Anyhow, you cannot leave us with the dangling, evocative word 'except.' Except what?"

"Well, if you're sure it's all right." He gave Nefret another doubtful look. She grinned cheerfully back at him. "I thought you'd heard about it," Cyrus went on. "It was the talk of Cairo for weeks. But maybe-yep, that's right; you were in the Sudan that year. By the time you got back there was something new to talk about. There usually is."

"Go on," I urged.

Cyrus shrugged and abandoned himself to the gossip he so enjoyed. "They were here on their wedding trip--the Colonel and his new bride. Number four, she was, and a good many years younger than he. Well, ma'am, she up and eloped with his secretary! That's what the fellow called himself, at any rate; never saw him write any letters, but he was at the Colonel's beck and call all day and all night, for everything."

"An Egyptian, was he?" I asked.

"An American, to judge by his accent. Name of... just let me think a minute . . . that's right, name of Dutton Scudder. Don't know where Bellingham picked him up. He hadn't been with them long, I believe. Mild-looking young fellow, not the sort you'd think would sweep a lady off her feet."

"A sudden, unaccountable passion," I murmured.

"Not so unaccountable, perhaps." Ramses broke a long silence-long for him, that is.

"No." Nefret had been counting on her fingers. "That was five years ago, but the Colonel was an old man even then. How old was she?"

"Enough!" Emerson's fist came down on the table. "Amelia, I am astonished that you should allow a discussion like this to go on at my table-and with Nefret present! By Gad, I ought to insist you follow the custom of having the ladies retire to the drawing room after dinner!"

"So that you men can smoke and drink port and tell vulgar stories?" I rose. "Come, Nefret, we have been dismissed."

David hastened to hold her chair. Side by side, with great dignity, we swept from the room-followed, somewhat sheepishly, by the men. Nefret's cheeks were rounded with suppressed laughter.

"Well done, Aunt Amelia," she whispered.

However, she was quick to agree to Emerson's request that she sing for us, and she gave him a forgiving pat on the cheek as she passed his chair. We had had the pianoforte brought down by dahabeeyah the year before; all of us enjoy music and it was pleasant at the end of a hard day's work to sit at ease and listen to her sweet, untrained voice-all the sweeter, I felt, because it was so natural.

"Well, now, I call this just about perfect," Cyras declared, cheroot in one hand, glass of brandy in the other, long legs stretched out, cat across his lap. I had put out all the lamps except the ones on the piano, and the soft, dusky night of Egypt wrapped round us. "How about some of the old favorites, Miss Nefret, my dear?"

So she gave us "Drink to Me Only" and "Londonderry Air," singing as unselfconsciously as any bird. Emerson's face had the gentle look he kept especially for her, and even Ramses put aside his book in order to listen.

He had learned to read music because it was "an interesting notational form," but Nefret refused to let him turn the pages for her because, she said, he did not pay attention. That honored role had gone to David, who sat beside her on the piano bench. He could not follow the notes, but his eyes never left her face, and he responded instantly when she nodded.

"How beautiful she is," Cyrus said softly. "And as good and true and fine as she is beautiful, I reckon."

"And as intelligent, I reckon," I remarked.

Cyrus's soft, sentimental smile widened into a grin. "Right you are, Mrs. Amelia, my dear. Envy is an emotion I try to avoid, but I opine I am just a little jealous of you and your husband right now. Seeing those handsome young faces and bright eyes makes me wish I were not a sorry old bachelor. You don't happen to know of a kind female, not too young but-er-still young enough, who would take me on?"

"Don't encourage her," Emerson growled around the stem of his pipe. "Women are inveterate matchmakers, Vandergelt, and she is the worst of the lot. She'll have you-what is that expressive American word? -yes, she'll have you hogtied and handed over to someone like Mrs. Whitney-Jones before you can say Jack Robinson."

"Well, now, Emerson, you never know, she might be just the lady for me. Who is she?"

I hesitated, but only briefly. Nefret was trying to teach David the words to "Annie Laurie," and they were both laughing over his attempt at a Scottish accent. I had the utmost confidence in Cyrus's discretion and the greatest respect for his unusual American brand of intelligence. (And Cyrus's presence might keep Emerson from bellowing when I told him Enid's story.)

He did not bellow. He sputtered, swore, and snorted, but when I had, despite these obstacles, completed my narrative, he said resignedly, "I suppose we must do something. Can't have people taken in by charlatans. I will just go round there tomorrow and get rid of the woman."

"Emerson, you are hopeless!" I exclaimed. "What do you intend to do, take her by the collar, drag her to the train station, and shove her into a compartment?"

"I reckon the situation is too complicated for that," Cyrus said thoughtfully. "We could get rid of the lady, but that wouldn't cure your afflicted friend. Sounds as if he's too far gone for a commonsense talk."

"I intend to talk with him, of course," I said. "But he is extremely stubborn and not very-"

I broke off. We were speaking softly, but Ramses was seated not far away, and he has ears like a cat's. I knew he was listening. I had not yet determined whether I wanted the children to become involved in Enid's problem. Ramses already was involved, through no fault of my own, but I had no intention of allowing him to take charge of the affair.

"I'll just strike up an acquaintance with them," Cyrus offered. "Mutual friends, and all that. Mebbe I'll get an idea once I've met the fellow."

I thanked him; and the evening ended with all of us gathered round the piano, blending our voices in song. Nefret had learned "Dixie" as a compliment to Cyrus. To my surprise, he did not seem to know the words.

Because of the late hour the boys decided to remain at the house. After Cyrus had bade us good night and the children had gone to their rooms, I left Emerson at his desk and went out onto the terrace. The cool, clear air was refreshing after the atmosphere of the drawing room, filled with the smoke from Emerson's pipe and Cyrus's cigars; the stars, never so bright as in Egypt, emblazoned the dark sky. The only romantic element missing was the scent of jasmine, which would have been there if Abdullah had remembered to water my vines.

I wanted this time alone for serious reflection. Something had been on my mind, not only that day, but for many days. It was not of the Bellinghams I thought, nor of poor Enid. It was of tomb Twenty-A.

Emerson believed someone was playing a joke on him. Some of his rivals might well enjoy watching him dig fruitlessly and endlessly for a tomb that did not exist, but I did not believe that any of our archaeological acquaintances would stoop to such a childish trick. (Except for Mr. Budge of the British Museum. He was certainly malicious enough, but I doubted he had the imagination to think of it.)

No, it was no trick. There was such a tomb, and it must contain something our mysterious correspondent wanted us to find. Who-what-and why? The why and what must wait; there were too many possibilities. As for who ... One name- one soubriquet, rather-came immediately to mind.

An arm, hard with muscle, encircled my waist.

"Curse it, Emerson, I wish you wouldn't creep up on me like that," I said.

"No, you don't. What are you thinking about, out here all by yourself?"

I remained silent. After a moment Emerson said, "Shall I tell you what you are thinking about?"

"Guess, you mean."

"No, my dear. I know you too well for that.

"Mystery is your meat and drink," Emerson went on. "You can no more resist hints of hidden tombs than another woman can resist a new hat. Those messages were directed to me, but the sender must have known you would read them, for I have never yet succeeded in concealing anything from you. One name comes immediately to mind-or, to be more accurate, a confounded set of cursed aliases. The Master Criminal, the Genius of Crime-"

"Sethos is dead."

"He is not dead." Emerson spun me round and took me by the shoulders. "You know he is not dead. How long have you known, Peabody?"

I met his gaze unfalteringly. "Emerson, you swore we would never mention that man again."

"I swore no such thing! What I swore was . .." He groaned loudly and pulled me into his arms. "My darling, I swore I would never doubt your affection. I will never doubt it! But I

will not get over being jealous of that bastard until I see him buried ten feet deep! No, not unless I shovel the dirt over him myself. Peabody, say something. Tell me you forgive me."

I let out a squeak. Emerson immediately relaxed his grip.

"I beg your pardon, my dear. Did I hurt you?"

"Yes. But I don't mind." I laid my head on his breast and he held me close, with careful consideration for my bruised ribs.

"I'll make it up to you," he murmured, his lips brushing my temple.

"Emerson, if you believe your romantic attentions are sufficient compensation for-"

"My romantic attentions, Peabody, are your due and my pleasure. Supposing I find the damned tomb for you. Will that compensate for my unreasonable suspicions and for bruising your ribs?"

If you, dear Reader, are of the female gender, you will be fully cognizant of the motive behind this generous offer. (If you are of the other gender, you will also know, but you will not admit it.) Emerson was bored to death with his tedious tombs, but he was too stubborn to admit he yearned to respond to those mysterious messages. Pretending to do it as a favor to me gave him an excuse to do what he wanted to do.