The Hippopotamus Pool (22 page)

Again Abdullah pushed forward. "No harm? To a young girl, a maiden who has never known a man, who is in the protection of Emerson Effendi and of Abdullah ibn Hassan al Wahhab? I would cut your scrawny throat for that, Hamed, even if you had not tried to put the blame on my grandson."

Hamed's squinting eyes widened to an extent I would not have believed possible for those deep-set orbs. The words burst out of him like bullets. "What do you say? It is madness, what you say! Emerson Effendi—Sitt Hakim—you do not believe ... If I desired to die I would leap from the cliffs of El Dira, it would be easier than the death such a deed would bring on my head. Wahyat en-nebi, by the life of the Prophet, I swear—"

"Hmph," said Emerson. "Do you know, Hamed, I am almost inclined to believe you. What did he go there for, then?"

His grip loosened. Hamed let out his breath and readjusted the folds of cloth around his throat. I shared Emerson's opinion, that his terrified denials had been genuine, but the interval gave him time to gather his wits again.

Finally he muttered, "For the boy. He is mine, I paid well for him. It is my right to take him back."

"And Solimen went to the wrong room?" Emerson inquired helpfully, elbowing the snarling Abdullah back.

Hamed was shrewder than that. "He could not go through your son's window, there was a man on guard. The maiden woke before he could leave her room, and called out. Solimen is young and a fool, he lost his head, but he meant only to keep her from summoning help." He added, with a sly look at Emerson, "She is strong and brave as a desert cat, Father of Curses; if she had not fought back, Solimen would not have ... I give him to you. Do with him as you like, he deserves punishment for his stupidity."

"A noble gesture," Emerson said dryly. "He is probably halfway to the Sudan by now. He would be wise to remain there. Whatever his reasons, he dared lay hands on my daughter. If I find him I will kill him."

The flat finality of the statement was far more terrifying than a shout of rage. A shudder ran through Hamed.

"As for you," Emerson went on, "I cannot murder in cold blood a wretched bag of bones like you, nor allow Abdullah to do so. I will break my own rule and give you a second—and final—warning. If you, or anyone sent by you, bothers me again I will give Abdullah permission to proceedwith the activities from which I am presently restraining him. His large circle of friends and relations may wish to participate. You understand me."

"Yes, yes!" The old man scrambled down from his rocky seat and dropped to his knees. "You are merciful, Father of Curses; the blessings of Allah be on you."

One twisted hand reached for the hand of Emerson, who pulled it away with a look of disgust. Then his expression changed. Taking the hand in a hard grip, he examined it closely.

"Look at this, Peabody."

I would rather not have had that repellent member so close to me, but as I inspected it I saw what had aroused Emerson's curiosity. Under the ingrained dirt a network of pale scars could be seen, covering the back of the hand and extending down the warped fingers.

"It was not rheumatism or arthritis that crippled him," I exclaimed. "His hands were broken—crushed—by a rockfall or ..."

"A booted foot." Coolly Emerson pushed the sleeve of Hamed's robe up to the elbow. The exposed forearm was ropy and wrinkled, but unscarred. He dropped Hamed's hand and absently wiped his own hand on his trousers. "The injuries must have been deliberately inflicted. They are on both hands, and only on his hands. He feigns lameness, but as you must have observed he can move as quickly as a snake when he likes. Who did this to you, Hamed? And when, and why?"

The thin lips twisted in a silent snarl.

"I believe I can hazard a guess, Emerson," I said. "They are old injuries— ten years old or more. Hamed has been in the antiquities trade longer than that. We know who controlled the trade in Luxor at that time, and we know how he controlled it."

"Well done, Peabody. The only remaining question is Why?"

"He tried to swindle Riccetti, obviously," I said. "It is what he would do, and that is how Riccetti would react. Do the details matter now? For heaven's sake let us go, Emerson."

"Hmmm, yes, we may as well. I can't stand the creature's stench much longer myself. Come along, Abdullah."

I looked back at the house. The woman Layla stood in the open doorway, one hand on her hip. She gave me a broad smile and lifted the other hand in farewell.

"A wealthy widow, I think," said Emerson, who had observed this exchange. "The house must be her own, and she has character enough to bully Hamed. How much, I wonder, does she know about his activities?"

I took a firm grip on his arm. "Not enough to warrant a visit from you."

"How do you know how much .. . Oh," said Emerson. "I grasp thesubtle implication, Peabody. Or was it a threat? Unnecessary, I assure you. Where is the confounded cat?"

"Hunting," I said, as Anubis came trotting along with a fat rat in his mouth. He dropped it at the feet of Emerson.

"Most considerate of you," said the latter, picking the rat up by its tail and handing it to Abdullah. "Wait till we have gone a way before you discard it, Abdullah, it would be ungracious to appear unappreciative."

"Ugh," said Abdullah, lips pursed.

Emerson lifted the cat to his shoulder and I said, "That fellow—one of the thugs, I believe I may term him—certainly behaved very strangely. How did you manage to reduce him to a state of gibbering terror?"

"It was not I," Emerson replied. "It was you. Or, to be more precise, that absurd umbrella of yours. Are you unaware of the fact that it is considered to be a weapon of great magical power?"

"Surely you jest."

"You are become a legend in your own time, Peabody," Emerson said solemnly. "The tales are told and retold around the village fires, gaining in impressiveness with each repetition. Tales of the great and terrible Sitt Hakim, whose potent parasol can bring strong men to their knees, begging for mercy. You have our loyal men to thank for it," he added with a laugh. "Especially Daoud; he is the best raconteur of the family."

"How ridiculous," I exclaimed.

"But useful." Emerson sobered. "Don't rely on your legend, though, my dear. Only the most superstitious and least sophisticated of the locals believe it."

I turned to look at Abdullah, who was stamping along behind us, muttering to himself. I suppose he was still annoyed because he had not been allowed to mutilate Hamed. Catching my eye, he said, with a self-conscious air, "That is true, Sitt. Daoud does not believe the stories, he only tells them because he is a great liar and likes attention."

Once we were mounted, Emerson sat without moving for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the hills to the north. The longing on his face was as poignant as that of a lover watching an unattainable mistress, but, noble creature that he is, he put aside desire for duty.

"Go back to the tomb, Abdullah, and get the men started. I will join you as soon as I can."

Abdullah began, "The boy—"

"I'll see to him." Emerson did not have to ask which boy he meant. "Give me the statue, Abdullah, then go."

Only his concern for the horse he bestrode, which was not in good condition, prevented Emerson from urging it to a gallop. He was in a perfect quiver of frustration, for he had had hardly a glimpse of the long-desired object of his quest and he ached to start work on it. I shared his yearning, but archaeological fever, with me as with my husband, gave way to more sacred ties; and as we rode side by side, at a fairly sedate pace, we discussed our immediate plans and settled on a course of action.

Our first visit, of course, was to Ramses, whom we found sitting up in bed giving David a lesson in ancient Egyptian.

"Good Gad, Ramses, you are supposed to be resting," I exclaimed, as the other boy retreated to a corner, clutching the notebook and pencil. "Where is Nefret?"

"Making chicken soup," said Ramses. "I don't want any cursed chicken soup, Mother, I want eggs and bacon. She would not let me have breakfast, only—"

"Quite right," I interrupted. "As you can see, Emerson, your son is in fine fettle. Run along, my dear; I know how you ache to investigate your precious tomb."

"As do you." Emerson drew me to the door. "Thank you, my dear. I won't forget your noble sacrifice, and I will tell you all about it this evening."

The urgings of duty (and, of course, maternal affection) did not prevent my thoughts from wandering during the course of that busy day. How alluring were the images that filled my brain—the intriguing rubble littering the chamber, the painted image under its frieze of bats—and that dark, unexplored opening in the wall.

If Emerson goes through that hole without me, I will murder him, I thought.

I had the doctor over from Luxor—I remember with amusement the look of surprise on Emerson's face when I expressed my intention of doing so—and modestly received his congratulations on my professional procedures. Little else required to be done, he declared. At my request, strongly opposed by Ramses, he put a few stitches into the incision. Leaving Ramses mutinously contemplating a large bowl of chicken soup, I went looking for Gertrude. She was not on the upper deck or in the saloon, so I knocked on her door.

A long pause and a period of rustling, scuttling sounds followed the announcement of my identity. Finally she opened the door.

"I am so sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Emerson. I was—I was not properly attired."

I could only suppose she had been altogether unclothed, since the garment she wore was a loose wrapper. Wrinkling my nose against an overpowering smell of incense, I said, "Why are you hiding in your room on such a fine day?"

"I was studying—trying to study." She pushed a wisp of mouse-brownhair back from her cheek. "I cannot stop thinking about last night. I bitterly regret—"

"All the more reason to get out into the sunshine and fresh air," I said briskly, for I did not want to hear a repetition of her excuses and apologies. "Brooding in your room is not sensible. Take your book out onto the deck and ask Mahmud to bring you a pot of tea."

"Yes, that is ... that is a good idea." She glanced helplessly over her shoulder. So did I. She had not been studying; the books on the table were closed and stacked in a neat pile and the topmost book was covered with a light layer of the fine, sandy dust that quickly collects on all flat surfaces in that region. Nor had she been resting on the bed. The coverlet was unwrinkled, the pillows plumped.

Gertrude said, "I hope you don't think, Mrs. Emerson, that I am neglecting my duties. I went to see what I could do for Ramses, but Nefret would not let me into his room, and when I asked if she would not like a lesson she said she was busy."

"Quite all right, Gertrude." I wondered what else Nefret had said. "Your duties do not include that of a nurse, and this is not the time to worry about lessons."

All the same, I decided I had better get Nefret out of Ramses's room, for he would never rest if she ordered him to. My premonitions were accurate and my advent fortuitous; Ramses, lips set and eyes furious, was resisting Nefret's efforts to "tuck him in." / tucked him in and removed Nefret. Seeing that Gertrude had obeyed my orders and was on the upper deck, a book in her hand and her eyes fixed unseeingly on the horizon, we retreated to the saloon.

I had expected Nefret would complain of Ramses's stubbornness and lack of appreciation, but she had something more serious on her mind. "I did not want to ask in front of Ramses, Aunt Amelia, it might upset him; but will you tell me what occurred this morning at the house of David's cruel employer?"

"How do you know that was where we went?"

A disturbing little smile played round her lips. "I know the Professor well, Aunt Amelia, and I have seen that same look in the eyes of other men. As you said, I have had more experience in such matters than English girls of my age."

"Oh," I said. "Well, Nefret, the Professor is not like other men, he is far superior to them, and he would not... He did not... Oh dear. Suppose I tell you exactly what happened. There is no reason why Ramses should not know of it; he is not easily upset."

When I had finished, she nodded thoughtfully. "It may be so. The man was standing by the bed when I first saw him, and it may have been someslight sound—a stumble or misstep—that woke me. He did not touch me until I called out. May I see the statuette of Tetisheri you found?"

The abrupt change of subject left me wordless for a moment. "Yes, certainly. But don't you want to talk about the—the other business any longer?"

"What would be the point? The facts we know are few and they can be interpreted in several different ways. If you and the Professor believe the old man was telling the truth ..."

"About that, at any rate," I murmured. "His terror appeared to be genuine—and, I assure you, well founded. I am not sure about the rest of it."

So I went off to fetch Tetisheri, whom Emerson had left in our room. The conversation had convinced me that Nefret was not hiding fears of which she was reluctant to speak. I am a keen observer, and I had watched her closely as she spoke of that unpleasant adventure; there had not been a tremor, a change in color or in the tone of her voice. I believe in the subconscious, but only up to a point.

Since I had not had an opportunity to look closely at the statue, we examined it together and compared it with the photographs of the one in the British Museum. They appeared to be identical. It was Nefret who pointed out that even the break in the hieroglyphic inscription on the base had been copied exactly.

I left her studying—with my permission—my translation of "The Hippopotamus Pool," and went about my duties. Domestic arrangements— ordering meals, checking supplies, washing the horses—filled several hours; it was almost teatime when I returned to Ramses's room, to find, as I had expected, that Nefret had returned to what she considered her duty. The atmosphere was surprisingly cordial, however. Selim was curled up on the mat, sound asleep. The cat Bastet lay across the foot of the bed, and Ramses, propped up with pillows like a young sultan, held the Tetisheri statue. The photographs of the original lay beside him; he and the other two had obviously been comparing them.