The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery

THE FALCON

AT THE

 PORTAL

Elizabeth Peters

Book 11

Preface

The Reader will note that there is a gap of several years between the date of the last published volume of Mrs. Emerson's memoirs and the present book. Thus far the search for the missing manuscripts has proven vain, but the Editor has not abandoned hope of finding them. As in the previous volume, she has inserted sections of Manuscript H and letters from Collection B at appropriate intervals.

The quotations at the head of each chapter were taken from
A Captive of the Arabs,
by Percival Peabody, Esquire. (Privately printed, London, 1911.) We were fortunate to be able to obtain a copy of this exceedingly rare volume through the good offices of a friend in London who found it on a barrow in Covent Garden (price 50 p.). The text is an astonishing blend of the worst of two literary forms: the swashbuckling romances popular at the time and the memoirs of travelers and officials of the period. The views expressed by Mr. Peabody are no more bigoted and ignorant than those of many of his contemporaries; however, the parallels between his work and other memoirs are so exact as to suggest he borrowed freely and directly from them. The word plagiarism might be actionable, so this editor will not use it.

As always, I am indebted to friends in the Egyptology game for advice, suggestions, and hard-to-find material. Dennis Forbes (whose magnum opus,
Tombs. Treasures. Mummies,
is now available), George B. Johnson, W. Raymond Johnson, Director of Chicago House, Luxor, and especially Peter Dorman of the Oriental Institute, who read the entire bulky manuscript and corrected a number of errors.

I am also indebted to the genial, efficient, and enthusiastic group of people at Avon Books who have taken the Emersons under their collective wing: Mike Greenstein and Lou Aronica, President and Publisher; Joan Schulhafer and Linda Johns, super publicists; and especially my favorite editor of all time, Trish Grader. Thanks, guys. You could make Amelia reconsider her rude remarks about "publishing persons."

A note on the rendering of Arabic and ancient Egyptian words may be in order here. Both written languages omit the vowels, and certain consonants have no precise English equivalent, so transliterations into English may vary. A long
i
may be rendered as
i
or
ee;
the long
u
sound may be
u,
with or without a circumflex, or
oo)
the name of the pharaoh Zoser begins with a consonant that is sometimes written as Dj. This gives only a faint idea of the variants, which also changed with time. Mrs. Emerson is inclined to stick to the spelling current in her youth, but she also uses more modern variants of certain words, such as Dahshur and Giza. This is, the editor believes, a fairly common failing, so she is not about to apologize for inconsistencies.

They attacked at dawn. I woke instantly at the sound of pounding hooves, for I knew what it meant. The Beduin were on the warpath!

“W
hat is it you find so amusing, my dear?" I inquired.

Nefret looked up from her book. "I am sorry if I disturbed you, Aunt Amelia, but I couldn't help laughing. Did you know that Beduins go on the warpath? Wearing feathered headdresses and waving tomahawks, no doubt!"

The library of our house in Kent is supposed to be my husband's private sanctum, but it is such a pleasant room that all the members of the family tend to congregate there, especially in fine weather. Except for my son Ramses we were all there that lovely autumn morning; a cool breeze wafted through the wide windows that opened onto the rose garden, and sunlight brightened Nefret's gold-red hair.

Reclining comfortably upon the sofa, Nefret wore a sensible divided skirt and shirtwaist instead of a proper frock. She had become as dear as a daughter to us since we rescued her from the remote oasis in the Nubian Desert where she had spent the first thirteen years of her life, but despite my best efforts I had been unable to eradicate all the peculiar notions she had acquired there. Emerson claims some of those peculiar notions have been acquired from me. I do not consider a dislike of corsets and a firm belief in the equality of the female sex peculiar, but I must admit that Nefret's habit of sleeping with a long knife under her pillow might strike some as unusual. I could not complain of this, however, since our family does seem to have a habit of encountering dangerous individuals.

Hunched over his desk, Emerson let out a grunt, like a sleepy bear that has been prodded by a stick. My distinguished husband, the greatest Egyptologist of all time, rather resembled a bear at that moment: his broad shoulders were covered by a hideous ill-fitting coat of prickly brown tweed (purchased one day when I was not with him) and his abundant sable locks were wildly disheveled. He was working on his report of our previous season's excavations and was in a surly mood for, as usual, he had put the job off until the last possible moment and was behind schedule.

"Is that Percy's cursed book you are reading?" he demanded. "I thought I threw the damned thing onto the fire."

"You did." Nefret gave him a cheeky smile. Emerson is known as the Father of Curses by his admiring Egyptian workmen; his fiery temper and Herculean frame have made him feared throughout the length and breadth of Egypt. (Mostly the former, since as all educated persons know, Egypt is a very long narrow country.) However, none of those who know him well are at all intimidated by his growls, and Nefret had always been able to wind him round her slim fingers.

"I ordered another copy from London," she said calmly. "Aren't you at all curious about what he writes? He is your own nephew, after all."

"He is not
my
nephew." Emerson leaned back in his chair. "His father is your Aunt Amelia's brother, not mine. James is a hypocritical, sanctimonious, mendacious moron and his son is even worse."

Nefret chuckled. "What a string of epithets! I don't see how Percy could be worse."

"Ha!" said Emerson.

Emerson's eyes are the brilliant blue of a sapphire, and they become even more brilliant when he is in a temper. Any mention of a member of my family generally does put him in a temper, but on this occasion I could tell he was not averse to being interrupted. He stroked his prominent chin, which is adorned with a particularly handsome dent, or dimple, and looked at me.

Or, as a writer more given to cliches might say, our eyes locked. They often do, for my dear Emerson and I have shared one another's thoughts ever since that halcyon day when we agreed to join hearts, hands and lives in the pursuit of Egyptology. I seemed to see myself reflected in those sapphirine orbs, not (thank Heaven) as I really appear, but as Emerson sees me: my coarse black hair and steely gray eyes and rather too-rounded form transfigured by love into his ideal of female beauty. In addition to the affectionate admiration mirrored in his gaze, I saw as well a kind of appeal. He wanted
me
to be the one to sanction the interruption of his work.

I was not averse to being interrupted either. I had been busily scribbling for several hours, making lists of Things to Be Done and writing little messages to tradesmen. There were more things than usual to be done that particular year—not only the ordinary arrangements for our annual season of excavation in Egypt, but preparations for houseguests and for the forthcoming nuptials of two individuals near and dear to all of us. My fingers were cramped with writing, and if I must be entirely honest I will admit I had been somewhat annoyed with Emerson for burning Percy's book before I could have a look at it.

The only other one of the family present was David. Strictly speaking, he was not a member of the family, but he soon would be, for his marriage to my niece Lia would take place in a few weeks. That arrangement had caused quite a scandal when the announcement was first made. David was a purebred Egyptian, the grandson of our late, greatly lamented reis Abdullah; Lia was the daughter of Emerson's brother Walter, one of England's finest Egyptological scholars, and of my dear friend Evelyn, granddaughter of the Earl of Chalfont. The fact that David was a talented artist and a trained Egyptologist carried no weight with people who considered all members of the darker "races" inferior. Fortunately none of us gives a curse for the opinions of such people.

David was staring out the window, his long thick lashes veiling his eyes, his lips curved in a dreamy smile. He was a handsome young fellow, with finely cut features and a tall, sturdy frame, and in fact he was no darker in complexion than Ramses, whom he strongly (and coincidentally) resembled.

"Shall I read a bit aloud?" Nefret asked. "You have both been working so diligently, a hearty laugh will be good for you, and David isn't listening to a word I am saying. He is daydreaming about Lia."

The mention of his name roused David from his romantic reverie. "I am listening," he protested, blushing a little.

"Don't tease him, Nefret," I said, though I did not think he minded; they were as close as brother and sister, and she was Lia's greatest friend. "Read a little, if you like. My fingers are somewhat cramped."

"Hmph," said Emerson. Taking this for consent, which it was, Nefret cleared her throat and began.

"They attacked at dawn. I woke instantly at the sound of pounding hooves, for I knew what it meant. The Beduin were on the warpath!

"I had been warned that the tribes were restless. My affectionate aunt and uncle, whom I had been assisting that winter with their archaeological excavations, had attempted to dissuade me from braving alone the perils of the desert, but I was determined to seek a nobler, simpler life, far from the artificiality of civilization—"

"Good Gad," I exclaimed. "He was of no assistance whatever, and we could hardly wait to be rid of him!"

"He spent most of his time in the civilized artificiality of the cafes and clubs of Cairo," said Emerson. "And he was a bloody nuisance."

"Don't swear," I said. Not that I supposed the admonition would have the least effect. I have been trying for years to stop Emerson from using bad language, and with equally poor success to prevent the children from imitating him.

"Do you want me to go on?" Nefret inquired.

"I beg your pardon, my dear. Indignation overcame me."

"I'll skip over a few paragraphs," Nefret said. "He blathers on at some length about how he hated Cairo and yearned for the austere silences of the desert waste. Now back to the Beduin:

"Snatching up my pistol, which I kept ready by my cot, I ran out of the tent and fired point-blank at the dark shape rushing toward me. A piercing scream told me I had hit my target. I brought another down, but there were too many of them; sheer numbers overwhelmed me. Two men seized me and a third wrenched my pistol from my hand.

In the strengthening light I saw the body of my faithful servant. The hilt of a great knife protruded from the torn, bloodstained breast of Ali's robe; poor boy, he had died trying to defend me. The leader, a swarthy, black-bearded villain, strode up to me.

" 'So, Inglizi.' he snarled. 'You have killed five of my men. You will pay for that.'

" 'Kill me, then,' I replied. 'Do not expect me to beg for mercy. That is not the way of the English.'

"An evil smile distorted his hideously scarred face. 'A quick death would be too good for you,' he sneered. 'Bring him along.' "

Emerson flung up his hands. "Stop! No more! Percy's prose is as paralyzing as his profound ignorance but not as bad as his appalling conceit. May I pitch that copy onto the fire, Nefret?"

Nefret chuckled and clutched the imperiled volume to her breast. "No, sir, it's mine and you cannot have it. I look forward to hearing what Ramses has to say about it."

"What do you have against Percy, sir?" David inquired. "Perhaps I should not call him that—"

"Call him anything you like," growled Emerson.

"Hasn't Ramses told you about his encounters with Percy?" I asked. I felt sure he had; David was my son's best friend and confidant.

"I saw several of them," David reminded me. "When—er— Percy was in Egypt three years ago. I could tell Ramses was not— er—overly fond of his cousin, but he didn't say much. You know how he is."

"Yes," I said. "I do. He keeps things too much to himself. He always has done. There has been bad blood between him and Percy since the summer Percy and his sister Violet spent several months with us. Percy was only ten years of age, but he was already a sneak and a liar, and 'little Violet' was not much better. They played a number of vicious tricks on Ramses, and they also blackmailed him. Even at that tender age, he was vulnerable to blackmail," I admitted. "He was usually doing something he didn't want his father and me to know about. His original sins were relatively harmless, however, compared with the things Percy did. A belief in the innocence of young children has never been one of my weaknesses, but I have never encountered a child as sly and unprincipled as Percy."

"But that was years ago," David said. "He was cordial enough when I met him."

"To the Professor and Aunt Amelia," Nefret corrected. "He was superciliously condescending to Ramses and barely civil to you, David. And he kept on proposing to me."

That got Emerson's complete attention. Rising from his chair, he flung his pen across the room. Ink speckled the marble countenance of Socrates—not the first time it had received such a baptism. "What?" he (Emerson, to be precise) bellowed. "Proposed marriage? Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because you would have lost your temper and done something painful to Percy" was the cool response.

I didn't doubt Emerson could have and would have. My spouse's magnificent physical endowments have not declined with the years, and his temper has not mellowed either.

"Now, Emerson, calm yourself," I said. "You can't defenestrate every man who proposes to Nefret."

"It would take too much of your time," David said, laughing. "They will do it, won't they, Nefret?"

Nefret's pretty lip curled. "I have a great deal of money and, thanks to the Professor, the power to dispose of it as I like. That is the explanation, I believe."

It wasn't the only explanation. She is a beautiful young woman, in the English style—cornflower-blue eyes, golden hair with just a hint of copper, and skin as fair ... well, it would be as fair as a lily if she would consent to wear a hat when out-of-doors.

Nefret tossed the book aside and rose. "I am going for a ride before luncheon. Will you come, David?"

"I'll have a look at Percy's book, if you have finished with it."

"How lazy you are! Where is Ramses? Perhaps he'll go with me."

I am sure I need not say that
I
had not given my son that heathenish appellation. He had been named Walter, after his uncle, but no one ever called him that; when he was a young child his father had nicknamed him Ramses because he was as swarthy as an Egyptian and as arrogant as a pharaoh. Raising Ramses had put quite a strain on my nerves, but my arduous efforts had borne fruit; he was not so reckless or so outspoken as he once had been, and his natural talent for languages had developed to such an extent that despite his comparative youth he was widely regarded as an expert on ancient Egyptian linguistics. As David informed Nefret, he was presently in his room, working on the texts for a forthcoming volume on the temples of Karnak. "He told me to leave him be,"' David added emphatically. "You had better do the same."