Seeing a Large Cat (39 page)

"I cannot believe I understand you, Mrs. Emerson."

The Colonel's face was as pale and hard as marble. He drew himself up to his full height. Since I am of relatively small stature physically, I am accustomed to being towered over, so I was not at all intimidated. I found myself becoming angry, however- not at his anger, but at the blind, uncomprehending conceit of the man. I never lose my temper, but on this occasion I allowed it to get just a little away from me.

"I believe you do, Colonel. Come now! Can you honestly suppose that a girl like Nefret would consent to become the fourth-or is it the fifth?-wife of a man who is old enough to be her grandfather? Especially when several of your former spouses have met premature ends?"

His face was no longer pale, it was livid. His breath hissed through his teeth; his hands clenched tightly on the ferrule of his stick. He was not taking it at all well. I tried again to make him see the situation sensibly.

"I am telling you this for your own good, Colonel Bellingham, to spare you the embarrassment of being rejected by Nefret or thrown out of the window by my hus band. A word to the wise, eh? Good-bye. Thank you for the coffee."

I went directly to the Amelia and had a few words with Reis Hassan. He was accustomed to my ways, so he did not question the orders I gave him. Two of the men got out the smaller rowboat in order to take me across, and as I clambered in I was surprised to see Colonel Bellingham standing in the exact same position in which I had left him, on the deck of the Valley of the Kings. He appeared to be looking in my direction, so I waved my parasol. He did not respond. Ah well, I thought, if he is going to bear a grudge, so be it. I have done my duty. It had not, perhaps, been in the best possible taste to refer to the deaths of two of his wives in childbirth, but it was too late to worry about that now.

My mission in Luxor was soon accomplished. Since it has no bearing on this part of my narrative I will not describe it here. After leaving the hotel, I hesitated, wondering if I ought to spare the time for an additional errand. I did not hesitate long; indecisiveness is a bad habit I do not allow myself to fall into. After purchasing a nosegay from one of the flower vendors, I got into a carriage and directed the driver to take me to the English cemetery.

It looked even more desolate and lonely that morning. Burials were infrequent, and the usual residents of the place had resumed their occupancy. A lean cat slunk into the brush when I approached, and a few mangy dogs growled at me from the weedy grave on which they had established residence. I paused long enough to look at one of the flat stones, and an odd little chill ran through me when I saw the inscription. It was pathetically brief: "Alan Armadale. Died Luxor 1889. Requiescat in Pace."

What strange coincidence had prompted me to examine that particular marker? Armadale had been a victim of one of the most ruthless murderers I have ever encountered.* I had not known him in life, but by all accounts he had been a worthy young man who had not deserved his sad fate. It had been I who had discovered his body and arranged for him to be buried here-and forgot him. Though I was in haste I spent a few minutes pulling weeds and blowing away the sandy dust that blurred the inscription. Plans began to form in my head. A committee of ladies-subscriptions from visitors-Dr. Willoughby consulting...

Mrs. Bellingham's grave would have been easy to find even if I had not been mere the previous day. The bare sandy earth had been strewn with flowers.

They were simple, homely blossoms that might have been culled from the gardens and hedges of Luxor-marigolds and roses, bougainvillea and cornflowers and scarlet geraniums. They must have been left early that morning, or even the previous night; the pretty things were wilting in the morning sun.

I placed my own nosegay among them and said a little prayer, just as the Colonel must have done. It was not the sort of gentle, sentimental gesture I would have expected from such a man. Had I misjudged him? I am seldom guilty of that error, but it does happen occasionally, with individuals who are accustomed to exercise unhealthy control over their emotions.

After brushing the sand from my skirt, I retraced my steps, seeing not another human soul until I reached my waiting carriage. I directed the driver to take me to the Luxor Temple. It was not out of my way. It would take only a few minutes. Since I was in the neighborhood, so to speak, it would be rude not to stop by and see how the children were getting on.

They were there! They were where they had said they would be, in the court of Amenhotep III, taking photographs!

*The Curse of the Pharaohs Not that I had had the slightest doubt they would be.

I was glad I had come when I saw how happy they were to see me. "Don't let me interrupt," I said as Nefret gave me a quick hug and David, always the preux chevalier, relieved me of my heavy handbag.

"Not at all," said my son, doing neither. "We were about to stop in any case. There are too many cursed tourists at this time of day."

"What happened with Colonel Bellingham this morning?" Nefret asked. "Did he agree to employ Mrs. Jones?"

"It is all settled," I replied. "She is with them now."

Nefret's smooth brow furrowed. "I do hope she will be all right. That wretched girl-"

"Don't worry about Mrs. Jones," I said, smiling affectionately at Nefret. "If you had seen the performance she put on this morning, you would be reassured as to her ability to deal with Miss Dolly. The young lady was not at all pleased to have her as a watchdog."

"What else have you been doing?" David asked. "I didn't know you meant to come over to Luxor this morning."

I saw no reason to mention my first errand, so I told them of my visit to the cemetery. "Something must be done about it," I declared. "A commitee of ladies-"

"An excellent idea," said Ramses. "So someone had been there before you? To leave flowers, you said."

"Yes. It was a touching sight."

"Quite," Ramses said.

No one spoke for a moment. David looked at Ramses, Ramses looked at Nefret, and Nefret stared intently at a headless statue of the goddess Mut.

"I must get back," I said. "Are you coming with me, or shall I send the boat to fetch you later?"

"Later, I think," Ramses said after another brief pause. "Er-Nefret?"

She turned to him with a particularly affectionate smile. "I agree. We will just finish this lot of plates, Aunt Amelia."

I offered to help, but they insisted they did not need me; they could see I was anxious to return to Emerson.

There was no sign of life on Cyrus's dahabeeyah when I reached the other side. Hassan said the ladies and the gentleman had left an hour ago on donkeyback. They had not condescended to inform him of their destination, but they had ridden off in the direction of the Valley.

So far, so good, I thought. After mounting my own donkey, I returned to the house, changed into trousers and boots, and made my way to the Valley by our usual route, accompanied by Mahmud carrying a picnic basket. Emerson would not stop to eat unless I made him, and the sun was high.

I had expected I would have to extract him from the depths of the tomb, but I found him outside it, conferring with Howard Carter. Howard was smoking a cigarette and waving it at a strange-looking piece of apparatus that stood between him and Emerson. The men had gathered round to watch, and Abdullah (whom I had ordered to stay at home until I could pay him another visit) was giving them the benefit of his advice. I have had occasion to observe that men love machinery. It does not seem to matter what the machine actually does, so long as it makes loud noises and has parts that whirl round.

They were so absorbed that I had to poke Emerson with my parasol before he noticed me. "Hallo, Peabody," he said. "I believe it needs a new piston."

Howard scratched his head. "Good day, Mrs. Emerson. The piston is working all right; in my opinion the difficulty is in the motor."

Emerson's blue eyes sparkled. "We had better take it apart."

"What is it?" I asked. "Emerson, don't touch that apparatus! You remember what happened when you tried to repair Lady Carrington's motorcar."

Emerson whirled to face me. "That was quite another matter," he said indignantly. "I-"

All at once the machine began to make loud noises and several parts started to whirl.

"What did you do?" Emerson demanded, staring at Selim.

The young man straightened. "I put this"-he pointed-"in that."

"Ah," said Emerson. "Just what I was about to propose."

With the enthusiastic assistance of Selim and several of the others, he and Howard began to attach sections of pipe to the apparatus. I turned to Abdullah.

"What are you doing here? You ought to be at home, resting."

"I do not need to rest, Sitt. I am well."

"Let me see your head."

The green paste had turned his white hair the color of rotting vegetation. It did not smell very nice either. However, the bump had subsided. I told him he could put his turban on again.

"What is that thing?" I asked, indicating the machine.

"It takes the bad air out of the tomb," Abdullah explained in the condescending tone men use to women when they talk about machines. "Emerson ordered Mr. Carter to give it to him, and the wires that make it go."

I remembered having heard Emerson mention something called an air pump. Presumably it required electricity? We seemed to have that too, which meant that it would be possible to use electric bulbs instead of candles. For once, Emerson was being sensible instead of forcing himself and the men to work under conditions that verged on the unbearable. I hoped he had not bullied Howard into handing over the pump he had acquired for his own tomb. Perhaps there were two of the things.

Having taken the pieces of pipe down into the tomb and (I presumed) fastened them together, Howard and Emerson came back up the stairs, looking extremely pleased with them selves. Selim followed them, looking demure. He was a handsome young man, only a few years older than Ramses, who had spent one horrendous summer acting as Ramses's guard and companion before I realized he was unable to prevent Ramses from doing anything at all. It had all been Ramses's fault, of course, but they had become very close-the natural result, I suppose, of being partners in crime. Selim was Abdullah's last-born son and thus David's uncle. There was a strong physical resemblance between the two young fellows- and, I was beginning to believe, another kind of resemblance as well.

Feeling my eyes upon him, Selim smiled at me like a sun-browned Botticelli angel.

"So," I said as the men joined me. "How long does that infernal thing have to work before all the foul air is removed?"

"It is not so simple as that," Howard said patronizingly.

"You mean you don't know."

"We had some trouble with it," Howard admitted. "The motor-or perhaps it was one of the chains-"

"You see, Peabody," said Emerson, "the way it works is-"

"I don't want to know how it works, Emerson. So long as it does. Have a sandwich."

Howard declined to join us; his men had already stopped work for the day and he was about to return to his house to do some of the endless paperwork his position involved. I waited until he had gone on his way before I asked Emerson what had happened that morning.

"Nothing, curse it," said Emerson through a mouthful of bread and goat cheese. "I only had time for a quick look inside before Carter arrived with his electric wires. The generator is in the tomb of Ramses XI, you know, and we had the devil of a time getting the confounded wires-"

"It was very good of Howard to supply them, Emerson. And the air pump."

"Yes, yes. It was necessary to take advantage of his offer, I

suppose. But we have come upon a chamber approximately ten feet by twelve, and half-filled with rubble. If it was originally intended for a burial chamber, the architect must have changed his mind, since the passage continues-"

"You cannot work inside today, surely."

"Why not? Oh," Emerson said. "That was another of your tactful suggestions, I suppose? Very well, Peabody, it is getting late. I will leave the air pump to run all night and see how well it performs."

He finished his bread and cheese and then, with a visible effort, turned his attention to matters that interested him less.

"How did Mrs. Jones hit it off with the Colonel?" he asked.

I told him what had transpired. My description of Mrs. Jones's performance as a prim nearsighted governess amused him a great deal, but when I related my private conversation with the Colonel his grin vanished.

"Good Gad, Peabody, did you really say that In those precise words?"

"It was the simple truth, Emerson."

"Yes, but..." He shook his head. "I wish you had not been quite so ... truthful."

"I could refer to pots and kettles, Emerson. Or to people who live in glass houses."

"It is not the same thing." His face was grave. "You struck a devastating blow at his amour-propre, Peabody. I might have said the same sort of thing, just as bluntly; he would not have liked it, but it would have been easier for him to accept from another man than from a woman."

"Indeed?" I began packing up the remainder of the food. "Well, I must take your word for it, Emerson, since it strikes me as another of those incomprehensible male notions that make no sense to a woman. The thing is done, in any case."

"Bellingham is a dangerous man."

"I am of the same opinion, Emerson."

"Oh, are you?" Emerson's voice rose. "You always say that. This time I insist you explain, in detail and without equivocation, precisely what you mean."

"Gladly, Emerson. But not here; it is getting hot and this rock is quite hard. Shall we return to the house?"

Emerson rubbed his chin and looked wistfully at the apparatus, which was making such a racket we had both been shouting. "I had planned to stay here tonight. The confounded thing has a habit of stopping suddenly for no apparent reason."

I tried to think how to put the case in a way that would leave his amour-propre undamaged.