Read Crocodile on the Sandbank Online
Authors: Elizabeth Peters
Tags: #Historical fiction, #Detective and mystery stories, #Mystery fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Historical, #Suspense, #Crime & mystery, #Political, #Women detectives - Egypt, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictious character), #Crime & Thriller, #Mummies, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictitious character), #Egyptology, #Cairo (Egypt), #Mystery, #Detective, #Women detectives, #Emerson, #Radcliffe (Fictitious character), #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Archaeologists' spouses, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Egypt, #Fiction - Mystery
Thus abjured, Abdullah squatted on the bare ground, in that very same
posture in which his ancestors
are so often depicted. His English was
not very good, so I shall take the liberty of abridging his remarks.
A conscientious man, he had set out for the village when the workmen
failed to appear on time. The squalid little huddle of huts presented a
disquieting appearance. It was as deserted and silent as if plague had
struck. No children played in the dusty streets; even the mangy curs
had taken themselves off.
Alarmed, Abdullah had gone to the house of the mayor— who was, I
learned for the first time, the father of Mohammed. He had to pound on
the barred door before he was finally admitted, and it took him some
time to extract the facts from the mayor. At first he said only that
the men would not come. Upon being pressed, he said they would not come
the next day either— or any other day. His son was with him; and
it was
from Mohammed that Abdullah finally received a statement. As Abdullah
repeated this, his face retained its well-bred impassivity, but his
eyes watched Emerson uneasily.
The workers had been disturbed by the mummy Mohammed had found. The man
repeated his absurd claim— that the mummy was that of a princely
priest-magician, a servant of the great god Amon whom Pharaoh Khuenaten
had toppled from his spiritual throne. The deposed god's wrath found a
vessel in his priest; through him, Amon had cursed the heretic city and
anyone who set foot on its soil to resurrect it, forever. The villagers
knew that none of them had made off with the mummy. Its disappearance
could
be accounted for in only one way; restored to the light of day, and
animated by its discovery that new heretics were at work to uncover the
accursed city, it had taken to its feet and left the camp. But it had
not left the city—no, indeed. It walked by night, and on the previous
midnight it had visited the village.
Its moans had awakened the
sleepers, and a dozen men had seen its ghostly form pacing the streets.
The villagers were too wise not to heed the warning, which Mohammed
helpfully interpreted: no more work for the infidels. They must leave
Khuenaten's unholy city to the desolation of the sands, and take
themselves off. Unless they did so, the curse would be visited on them
and all those who assisted them
in the slightest way.
Emerson listened to mis bizarre hodgepodge without the slightest change
of expression.
"Do you believe this, Abdullah?" he asked.
"No." But the foreman's voice lacked conviction.
"Nor do I. We are educated men, Abdullah, not like these poor peasants.
Amon-Ra is a dead god; if he could once curse a city, he lost that
power centuries go. The mosques of your faith stand on the ruins of the
temples, and the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer. I do not believe
in curses; but if I did, I would know that our god— call him Jehovah or
Allah, he is One— has the power to protect his worshipers against
demons
of the night. I think you believe that too."
I had never admired Emerson more. He had taken precisely the right tone
with his servant, and as Abdullah looked up at the tall form of his
employer, there was a glint of amused respect in his dark eyes.
"Emerson speaks well. But he does not say what has become of the mummy."
"Stolen." Emerson squatted on his lean haunches, so that he and
Abdullah were eye to eye. "Stolen by a man who wishes to cause
dissension in the camp, and who has invented this story to support his
aim. I
do not name this man; but you remember that Mohammed was angry
because I brought you in to be foreman instead of giving him the
position. His doting father has not disciplined him properly; even the
men
of the village resent him."
"And fear him," Abdullah said. He rose to his feet in a single
effortless movement, bis white robes falling in graceful folds. "We are
of one mind, Emerson. But what shall we do?"
"I will go down to the village and talk to the mayor," Emerson said,
rising. "Now go and eat, Abdullah. You have done well, and I am
grateful."
The tall foreman walked away, not without an uneasy look at Emerson.
Evelyn glanced at me. I nodded. I had not wished to speak in front of
Abdullah, but the time had come to tell my story. Before I could start,
Walter burst out.
"What an incredible tale! You would think I should be accustomed to the
superstitious folly of these people, but I am constantly amazed at
their credulity. They are like children. A mummy, walking the village
streets— could mere by anything more absurd?"
I cleared my throat self-consciously. This was not a good prelude to
the tale I was about to tell.
"It is absurd, Walter, but it is not imagination. The villagers are not
the only ones to see the Mummy. Evelyn and I both saw such a shape here
in the camp."
"I knew you were hiding something," Emerson said, with grim
satisfaction. "Very well, Peabody, we are listening."
I told all. I did not tell the story well, being only too conscious of
Emerson's sneer. When I had finished, Walter was speechless. My support
came, unexpectedly, from Emerson himself.
"This proves nothing, except that our villain—and we have a good notion
as to his identity, have we not?—has gone to the trouble of dressing up
in rags and wandering around in order to frighten people.
I confess I
am surprised; I had not thought Mohammed would be so energetic, or so
imaginative."
As he spoke the last word, a memory popped into my mind. In the hotel
in Cairo another imaginative miscreant had penetrated my room, dressed
as an ancient Egyptian. I started to
speak and then changed my mind; there surely could be no connection
between the two events.
"I am off to the village," Emerson said. "I have dealt with these
people before; I think I can persuade the mayor. Walter?"
The distance to the village was several miles. I am sure I need not say
that I made part of the expedition. Evelyn remained behind, feeling
herself unequal to the exertion; with Abdullah and Michael in camp, she
was amply protected. Emerson, who had opposed my coming with his
customary temper tantrum, was annoyed that I kept up with him easily.
Of course I could not have done so if he had been at his normal
strength, and I was increasingly concerned for him as he plodded
through the sand.
The brooding silence of the village was most disturbing. I thought at
first we would not be admitted to the slightly more pretentious hovel
that housed the mayor of the village, but Emerson's repeated blows on
the rickety door finally produced a response. The door opened a mere
crack; the sharply pointed nose and wrinkle-wrapped eyes of the old
sheikh peered out. Emerson gave the door a shove. He caught the old
gentleman as he staggered back and politely set him on his feet. We
were in the house.
I wished immediately that I was out. The stench of the place was
indescribable. Chickens, goats, and people crowded the dark little
room; their eyes shone like stars in the shadows. We were not invited
to sit down, and indeed there was no surface in the place on which I
would have cared to sit. Obviously the chickens roosted on the long
divan that was the room's most conspicuous piece of furniture.
Emerson, arms folded and chin jutting, carried on the discussion in
Arabic. I could not understand what was being said, but it was easy to
follow the course of the conversation. The mayor, a wrinkled little old
man whose pointed nose almost met his bony chin, mumbled his responses.
He was not insolent or defiant; this attitude would have been easier to
combat than his obvious terror.
Gradually the other human inhabitants of the place slipped away; only
the goats and the chickens remained. One friendly goat was particularly
intrigued with the sleeve of my dress. I pushed him away
absentmindedly, trying to keep track of what was transpiring between
the speakers, and slowly the truth dawned on me. The mayor could hardly
bear to be in the same room with us. He kept retreating until his back
was up against the wall.
Then someone slipped through the narrow aperture that gave entry into
the back room—the only other chamber this mayoral palace contained. I
recognized Mohammed. With his appearance the conversation took a new
turn. His father turned to him with pathetic pleasure, and Mohammed
took over his role in the argument. He was insolent; his very tone was
an offense. Emerson's fists clenched and his lips set tightly as he
listened. Then Mohammed glanced at me and broke into English.
"The Mummy hate stranger," he said, grinning. "Stranger go. But not
women. Mummy like English women— "
Emerson was on him in a single bound. The poor old father squealed in
alarm; but it was Walter who plucked his infuriated brother from
Mohammed's throat. The man collapsed, moaning, when Emerson's fingers
were detached, but even in the bad light I saw the look he gave his
assailant; and a chill ran through me.
"Come away," Walter said in a low voice, holding bis brother's rigid
arm. "Come away, there is nothing more we can do here."
We did not linger in the village, but traversed its single narrow
street as quickly as we could. When we reached the clean emptiness of
the desert, Emerson stopped. His face was shining with perspiration;
under his tan he was a sickly gray in color.
"I think I owe you both an apology," he said thickly.
"That was stupid of me; I have ruined any chance we might have had of
convincing the mayor."
"I heard what the fellow said," Walter replied. "I don't blame you,
Radcliffe; it was all I could do to control myself. I feel sure
Mohammed is out to drive us away; your action was ill advised, but I
don't think it mattered."
"I am amazed at his effrontery," I exclaimed. "Doesn't he realize what
he risks from the authorities in opposing you?"
Emerson's face darkened.
"Egypt is more unsettled than those complacent fools in Cairo realize.
The mad dervish in the Sudan has stirred up the peasants; most
Egyptians secretly yearn for his success and gloat at every British
defeat. I wouldn't give a shilling for the lives of foreigners here if
the Mahdi should approach the First Cataract."
"But surely there is not the slightest danger of that! Gordon is still
making a valiant defense at Khartoum, and Wolseley's expedition is
about to relieve him. How can untrained native rebels succeed against
British troops?"
Emerson's answer was all the more convincing because I secretly
believed it myself; but I would not give him the satisfaction of
looking as if I agreed.
"Those untrained rebels have already massacred half a dozen British
armies, including that of Colonel Hicks. I have the gravest fears for
Gordon's safety; it will be a miracle if the relief expedition arrives
in time. The whole business in the Sudan has been a masterpiece of
blunders from start to finish. In the meantime, we seem to be facing a
minor rebellion here, and I won't tolerate it." Stumbling a little, he
started walking.
"Where are you going?" I asked. "The camp is this way."
"There are two other villages on the plain. If the men of Haggi Qandil
will not work, we will try el Till
and al Amarnah."
"I fear it will be useless." Walter caught up with his brother and
tried to take his arm. Emerson shook it off. "Radcliffe, stop and
listen; you aren't fit to walk all over the desert today, and you can
be sure that Mohammed's story has reached the
other villages as well. They battle among themselves, but they are of
the same stock. Your efforts will not avail there any more than they
did at Haggi Qandil."
Emerson's feet were dragging, but his chin was set stubbornly. I
decided to end the matter before he fell flat on his back.
"Let him go, Walter," I said. "You know he is too stubborn to listen to
reason. What we need now is a council of war; we must consult Abdullah,
and also Michael, who is an astute man. I can think of several things
we might do, but we may as well wait until after your brother has
feinted, then he won't be in our way, arguing and shouting. I think we
can drag him back to camp from here. If not, Abdullah and Michael can
come for him."
Emerson was still on his feet when we reached the camp. Walter took him
into their tomb for restorative action; then we met for the suggested
council of war.
This was the first time Michael had heard of what was happening. He
spent his nights on the dahabeeyah, considering the three-mile walk
trivial; as a Christian and a stranger he was not welcome in the
village. Squatting on the rug at my side he listened without comment;
but his fingers strayed to the gold crucifix around his neck, and he
kept touching it throughout the remainder of the discussion. I asked
him for his suggestions,
"Leave this place," he said promptly. "I am protected from demons"— and
his fingers closed over the crucifix— "but in this place are also evil
men. The boat waits; we all go, the gentlemen too."
"Surely you don't believe in demons, Michael," Evelyn said in her
gentle voice.
"But, lady, it is in the Holy Book. God lets demons and afreets exist;
how can we say the Holy Book is
a lie? I do not fear demons, no, I am a
true believer. But this is not a good place."
Abdullah nodded vigorously. His faith was not Michael's, but beneath
both Christianity and Islam lie the dark superstitions of
the pagan religion.
"Michael has made one of the proposals I intended to make," I said,
nodding at Michael, who beamed with gratified pride. "You must face the
fact, gentlemen, that you can do no more here at this time. I suggest
you withdraw and recruit workers from some other part of Egypt. They
will not be subject to
the influence Mohammed can bear; and when the
local villagers see that the work is proceeding without incident, they
will realize that the idea of a curse is nonsense."
Walter was clearly impressed with the argument, and with the additional
point I had not made— his brother's health. He looked at Emerson, who
said nothing; but his chin jutted out so far that I had to repress an
urgent desire to strike it.
"There are other sites in Egypt that need work," Evelyn added. "Many of
them, from what you tell me. Why not try another place until the
resentment has died down here?"