The Ape Who Guards the Balance (36 page)
Read The Ape Who Guards the Balance Online
Authors: Elizabeth Peters
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Suspense, #General, #Mystery, #Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Detective and mystery stories, #Large Type Books, #Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective - Historical, #Women detectives, #Mystery & Detective - Series, #english, #Egypt, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictitious character), #Women archaeologists
When we started for home, I was still dazed by what I had seen. I do not mind confessing, in the pages of this private journal, that I was filled with the direst of forebodings. The contents of the tomb were so precious and so fragile! They came from one of the most intriguing periods in all Egyptian history; one could only guess what light they might throw on the many unanswered questions about the reign of the heretic pharaoh. They would have to be handled with extreme care, and the proceedings thus far had not given me hope that this would be the case.
Ramses had kept to himself most of the afternoon, joining us only when we were starting on the homeward path. He brought up the rear of our little procession. I stopped and waited for him to catch me up.
“A fascinating day, was it not?” I inquired, taking his arm.
“Quite,” said Ramses.
“Very well, Ramses, out with it. What is worrying you? Not the tomb, surely.”
We had reached the donkey park. The others had gathered round the boys’ beautiful Arabians, and Lia was demanding that she be allowed to ride Risha. Everyone appeared to be in a merry frame of mind; even Emerson looked on, smiling, as Walter attempted to dissuade his daughter and Nefret laughed at both of them, and David lifted Evelyn onto his mare. The only gloomy face was that of my son. I was about to repeat my question when he sighed and said, “There is no keeping anything from you, is there? I don’t know why they call
me
the Brother of Demons.”
“Now that I think about it, that name casts rather rude aspersions on me,” I said. “Well?”
“I must go over to Luxor this evening. Can you keep Nefret occupied so she won’t insist on coming along?”
“Why?”
He told me. “Abdullah said I must not let Nefret know. That’s impossible, of course, but I don’t want her examining this body. The other was bad enough. This would be unbearable.”
“Not pleasant for you either,” I said, concealing my own shock and distress with my customary fortitude. “Good Gad. No wonder you have been looking so strange all day. You think it may be—that woman? Layla?”
“It is a possibility. Someone must find out.”
“I will go with you.”
“To hold my hand?” Then the bunched muscles at the corners of his mouth relaxed, and he said quietly, “I apologize, Mother. It is good of you to offer, but I can deal with this unassisted. You must keep Nefret and the others in the dark, at least until we know for certain.”
“Very well. I’ll think of something.”
“I’m sure you will. Thank you.”
By the time we reached the house I had, of course, come up with a plan. I had no intention of allowing Ramses to go over to Luxor by himself, or even with David. Safety lay in numbers. I proposed my scheme; and everyone agreed that it would be a pleasant diversion to dine at the Winter Palace Hotel. Sir Edward said he would cross over with us, but that he had another engagement. It might have been only a courteous excuse to leave us to ourselves, but I was beginning to wonder whether Sir Edward had found himself a friend—of the female persuasion, that is. Perhaps he really had abandoned his hope of winning Nefret. She had not given him any encouragement that I had seen—and it is not difficult for a trained eye like mine to observe the little signs that indicate interest of a romantic nature. Sir Edward was not the man to waste time on a hopeless cause, especially when there were other ladies who found his charming manners and handsome looks irresistible. If such was the case I could only be grateful to him for his disinterested help.
The others went off to bathe and change. I lingered for a moment on the verandah, admiring my pretty flowers and thinking about the unknown woman who had met such a ghastly fate. What a strange world it is! Beauty and happiness, tragedy and terror inextricably entwined, making up the fabric of life. My offer to Ramses had been sincere, but I was not sorry to be let off that ugly task. I only wished it were possible to spare him. Someone had to do the job, though, and he was the most logical person to do it.
No one objected when I announced that Daoud and his cousin Mahmud would accompany us, but Walter gave me a sharp look. What he and Evelyn would say when they learned of the latest death—well, I did not doubt what their reaction would be. It could not be kept from them, but, I reasoned, why not put it off as long as possible so that we could enjoy the evening?
I managed to keep them off the subject during dinner, assisted in no small measure by Lia. She could talk of nothing but her pleasure in being with us, her enjoyment of the visit to the Valley, her admiration of Moonlight. She babbled and laughed and sparkled. Nefret joined in with her customary vivacity, but the others were not much help. The faces of Lia’s parents became longer and longer; her delight would make the curtailment of that delight harder to insist upon. Ramses ate almost nothing, and David, who was to accompany him, ate even less.
They slipped away after dinner, taking (at my insistence) Daoud and Mahmud with them. I managed to distract the others for a while by showing them the amenities of the hotel, but when we returned to the salon for coffee, the questions began. My feeble excuse, that they might be visiting some of the antika dealers, was met with the skepticism it deserved.
“What the devil!” Emerson ejaculated. “If they have gone off by themselves—and you knew of it, Peabody—and did not tell me—”
Indignation stifled his speech. I winced under the power of a pair of furious blue eyes.
There was no comfort to be found in the other eyes. Nefret’s blazed, Lia’s were wide with distress, and even Evelyn’s reproached me.
“They are in no danger,” I said quickly. “Daoud and Mahmud are with them, and they have not gone far, or for long. They will soon return, and then we will discuss—”
“Never mind, Amelia.” It was Walter who spoke, and the quiet authority in his voice silenced even his irate brother. “Evelyn and I have already had our discussion, and I doubt anything will change our minds. I was able, before we left Cairo, to inquire about bookings. There is space on a steamer leaving Port Said on Tuesday next. I will go back to Cairo with Lia and Evelyn, put them onto the boat, and return.”
If Walter believed this would settle the matter, he did not know his family. Everyone had a different opinion, and did not hesitate to express it. Lia’s voice rose to a pitch that forced me to take her by the shoulders and give her a little shake.
“For pity’s sake, child, don’t make a scene,” I said severely. “Not in public, at any rate.”
“No,” said Nefret. “We Emersons do not give way to our feelings in public, do we? Aunt Amelia, how could you?”
“I had hoped to postpone this until later,” Walter said, sounding a trifle rattled. “But . . . Lia, child, don’t cry!”
“Not in public,” said Nefret between her teeth.
She looked as if she wanted to take
me
by the shoulders and shake me. So did Emerson. The only thing that saved me from further recriminations was the return of Ramses.
So animated had the discussion become that no one saw him come into the room—except Nefret. She jumped up and would have gone to meet him if I had not caught her arm.
“Not in public,” I said, and was rewarded with a really hateful look. She sat down, however, and folded her hands tightly in her lap.
Eyebrows raised, Ramses came to stand by Nefret. “I could hear you clear out in the street,” he remarked. “What seems to be the trouble?”
His pretense of nonchalance might have deceived the others, but the affection of a mother could not miss the signs of perturbation. Meeting my anxious gaze, he shook his head.
I was unable to repress a cry of relief. “Thank God!”
“You creeping, crawling, despicable traitor,” Nefret said. “Where is the other one?”
“Coming.” Ramses gestured. I saw David standing near the door. David lacked Ramses’s talent for dissimulation; he was probably still trying to get his ingenuous countenance under control. Even if the dead woman was not Layla, the sight must have been dreadful, especially for a sensitive lad like David. I took a closer look at Ramses, and rang the bell for the waiter.
“Be still, Nefret,” I said sharply. “He wanted to spare you a horrible task, and you may be grateful that he did. Whiskey, Ramses?”
“Yes, please.” He dropped heavily into a chair.
“I have a feeling I had better join you,” said Emerson grimly.
By the time the tale was told Walter had also joined us, and I had prescribed a glass for David. He never drank spirits, but I insisted that he do so on this occasion—for medicinal purposes.
Ramses nodded approval. “He was sick.” With a glance at Nefret, he added, “So was I.”
With one of her graceful, impulsive gestures she took his hand in hers. “All right, my boy, I forgive you this time. I suppose you didn’t really break our rule, since you told Aunt Amelia. So it wasn’t Layla?”
“No.”
I wondered how he could be so sure. He had not gone into detail, but remembering the horrible mutilations inflicted on Yussuf Mahmud, I assumed the face had been unrecognizable. I decided perhaps I had better not ask—at least not in front of Lia.
I might have known Nefret would ask. When she did, I saw Ramses’s self-control slip for a moment.
“She was . . . younger. Much younger.”
It was decided—somewhat belatedly, in my opinion—that we had better go home at once. Even those who had been spared a detailed description of the first mutilated body were horror-struck, and Walter heaped reproaches on Ramses for discussing such a disgusting subject in front of Lia. It seemed to me it had been Walter’s responsibility to remove the girl—who was, in fact, less painfully affected than her elders. She had never encountered violent death, thank heaven, and her very innocence rendered her less vulnerable.
Daoud and Mahmud were waiting, and we went to the quay. It was interesting to observe how people paired off: Walter and Evelyn, talking in low voices, David and Lia behind them, then Emerson and I, with Ramses and Nefret bringing up the rear. Emerson said very little (I suspected he was saving himself for later), so I was able to overhear some of the conversation between Nefret and Ramses.
“When did you find out?” Nefret asked.
“This morning. Abdullah told me.”
“So all day, since this morning, you have been afraid it was Layla. Oh, Ramses!”
There was no reply from Ramses. After a moment Nefret said, “I’m glad for your sake it wasn’t she.”
“My sake? I assure you, Nefret, that Layla’s death would mean no more to me than—”
“Yes, it would. Don’t pretend.” Her voice broke. “If she had been killed, it would have been because she helped you. You would feel guilty. Just as I feel.”
“Nefret—”
“This woman—this girl—was a prostitute, wasn’t she? Someone must have identified her by now, or at least determined that no . . . no respectable girl that age is missing. She knew something—she asked for our help—and they killed her. I brought that child to her death.”
Emerson had heard too. He heard the little sob, and a wordless murmur from Ramses. He did not stop or turn, but his hand closed over mine with a force that bruised my fingers.
Nefret had composed herself, outwardly at least, by the time we reached the house. We had rather taken to avoiding the verandah, especially after dark, so we went to the parlor instead. Evelyn took Lia off to bed, over the latter’s strenuous protests, but not even Nefret defended her right to remain. It was clear that there was still a good deal to be said, and since everybody knew what Lia’s views were likely to be, there was no sense in allowing another excitable person to join in the conversation.
Emerson made the rounds checking doors, gates and windows. When he returned he reported that Daoud had insisted on remaining on guard.
“He wasn’t quite so assiduous before,” he remarked. “Apparently he has taken Lia under his wing.”
“And a very large wing it is,” I said with a smile. “She could not be safer than with Daoud.”
My little attempt at humor did not lighten the atmosphere appreciably, nor did the platters of food Fatima insisted on serving. Sir Edward had returned from wherever he had been, and had joined our council of war.
He had heard the news about the dead girl and was visibly disturbed by it. Shaking his head, he said, “Even Daoud is mortal. I hope you will believe I speak as a friend when I urge Mr. and Mrs. Emerson to take their daughter home as soon as possible.”
It would have been amusing if it had not been so pathetic to see the indecision on Walter’s face. He was at heart a dedicated Egyptologist, and he had been long away from the scene of his work. The day in the Valley had whetted his interest afresh. And, like any true Briton, he was unwilling to abandon loved ones in peril.
“Are we starting at shadows, though?” he asked. “It sounds to me as if you have got yourself mixed up with some gang of Egyptian thieves, a little better organized and less scrupulous than most, but not as dangerous as some of the villains you have encountered in the past. The people who have been killed were both Egyptians—”
“Does that make their deaths less important?” Emerson inquired softly.
Walter frowned at him. “Don’t try to put me in the wrong, Radcliffe. I didn’t mean that, and you know it. The shameful fact is that it is a good deal safer to murder an Egyptian than a European or Englishman. The authorities don’t trouble themselves to pursue such cases. The vicious method of murder they used is significant too.”
“You are absolutely right, Walter,” I exclaimed. “I pointed this out earlier, but no one believed me. A cult! A murder cult, like that of Kali—”
Emerson interrupted me with a loud snort.
“Why not?” Walter asked. “The Thuggees claim to be sacrificing to their goddess, but they aren’t above robbing the victims. A secret organization, with all the appurtenances of a cult—ritual murder, oaths sworn in blood, and the rest—is easier to control than an ordinary gang of thieves.”
“It is a point worth considering, Uncle Walter,” Ramses said politely. “Religious fanaticism has been responsible for a number of hideous crimes.”
Walter looked pleased. It wasn’t often that his ideas were received with such approval. Thus encouraged, he proceeded with even greater enthusiasm. “The leaders of the group need not be—often are not—believers themselves. Sordid, cynical gain is their motive, and they employ superstitious terror as a weapon to control their underlings. Don’t forget, this business began when you young people walked off with the papyrus. Is it valuable enough to inspire such a reaction?”