The Hippopotamus Pool, page 18
part #8 of An Amelia Peabody Mystery Series
I found Ramses and Nefret with David. All three of them were sitting on the floor around a tray of food—collected, clearly, by Ramses, since it consisted of a stomach-churning combination of Egyptian and English dishes. Upon seeing me Ramses got to his feet, as I had taught him. David promptly followed suit, and I exclaimed, “You should not be out of bed, much less standing. Let me see that foot.”
A thick green paste covered the injured toe. When I asked, where he had got the horrid stuff, David gestured at the window. Daoud, who had been watching with an avuncular smile, hastily withdrew his head. I called him back. Interrogation produced the information that the “salve” was an old family remedy consisting primarily of various herbs and mutton fat.
“Primarily?” I repeated suspiciously.
“It appears to have done no harm, Mother,” said Ramses. “Though doubtless it was your treatment that has proved so efficacious. As you can see, the swelling has subsided and he can stand without pain.” He went on without drawing breath. “Will you not join us? We are telling David about the tomb and having a council of war.”
More flattered than I cared to demonstrate, I accepted the biscuit and glass of sugarcane syrup he offered me and took a chair.
“What makes you suppose a council of war is necessary?” I inquired.
“Surely that is obvious,” said Ramses. “We have yet to account for the inexplicable behavior of the individual who visited your rooms in Cairo, for the equally strange visit of Signor Riccetti, and for the even more peculiar affair of the second set of tomb robbers.”
“Only they weren’t,” Nefret said. “If they had gone there to rob the tomb, they would not have behaved so nicely to you and the Professor. I think they went there to protect you.”
“Why the dev—Why should they do that?” I demanded.
Ramses crossed his legs and looked at me seriously. Years of experience had given me some clues as to how to read that enigmatic countenance of his, and there was a glint in his eyes that made me extremely uneasy.
“Did not Signor Riccetti mention two different groups of individuals—those who would aid you and those who would interfere with you?”
Relief swamped me. Ramses was not supposed to know that, but the information was less uncomfortable than certain other facts he was not supposed to know. “I suppose you wormed it out of your father,” I said resignedly.
“Father informed me of the matter,” Ramses corrected. “In his opinion the information had become relevant in view of what occurred last night. Those events would seem to substantiate a statement that initially appeared—”
“Ramses, do you have to talk that way?” Nefret demanded. “David doesn’t understand half the words you have used and your long-winded, pompous speech patterns are cursed aggravating.”
I couldn’t have put it better myself. Ramses blinked—an extravagant display of emotion for him—and Nefret went on, “Everything goes to prove what Aunt Amelia and I have known all along. The man who had the ring was sent by the leader of one group—probably Riccetti—and he was killed by someone from the other group.”
“But how was it done?” I asked.
“You were the one who thought of it, Aunt Amelia,” Nefret said. “The killer was on the balcony. He shot Mr. Shelmadine with a poison dart.”
“Good Gad,” I exclaimed. “Naturally I had thought of that, Nefret, but it really does seem … well … just a bit theatrical, doesn’t it?”
“It is the only explanation,” Nefret insisted. “The murderer may have bribed the suffragi to let him in, or, what is more likely, crossed to your balcony from another near at hand. It was dark, and our rooms were high above the street; no one would have seen him. Then, after he struck the Professor, he or a confederate sent the suffragi off on an errand and carried the body into a nearby room—the same one from which he had reached your balcony. They could get rid of the body later, in a trunk or box.”
“Hmph,” I said. “What do you say, Ramses?”
“It is a reasonable hypothesis—er—idea,” said Ramses. “So we have been discussing who these mysterious individuals—er—people—might be. Who would have a motive—er—reason—to prevent us from excavating—er—clearing—er…”
He had taken Nefret’s criticism to heart, but his attempts to simplify his vocabulary were not very successful. Nefret smiled patronizingly at him. “Allow me, Ramses. Obviously these people want to keep us away from the tomb so they can steal its contents. That means they are or have been connected with the trade in illegal antiquities. Riccetti is certainly one of them. Then there is the man called Sethos … What is the matter, Aunt Amelia?”
“A crumb caught in my throat,” I said. “How do you know of Sethos, Nefret?”
“From Ramses, of course. He warned me not to mention the fellow to you or the Professor, but I cannot understand why,” Nefret said with seeming innocence. “He sounds a fascinating man. I am sorry I never encountered him.”
“I am very glad you did not,” I muttered. “It has been five years since we heard from Sethos, and as Ramses knows, his last message informed us he was leaving Egypt for good.”
“And we have no reason to doubt that assurance,” said Ramses. It was a statement, not a question, but his cool black eyes focused on my face as if awaiting a response.
“None,” I said firmly. “Sethos cannot be involved in this business.”
“Then,” said Ramses, after a long, nerve-racking pause, “his empire is leaderless. We may be facing some of his former subordinates—er—lieutenants—curse it, the people who worked for him.” He looked rather piteously at David, who nodded vigorously.
Ramses went on with more assurance. “Sethos had many assistants, of all nationalities and both sexes. Since most are known to us, it behooves us to ask …”
He broke off, looking self-conscious. Nefret said calmly, “Is Miss Marmaduke a spy for a group who want to rob the tomb?”
“She is not the only possibility,” said Ramses, with a malevolent glance at his “sister.” “Sir Edward is a highly suspicious character.”
“I can think of at least two reasons why Sir Edward might wish to improve his acquaintance with us,” Nefret murmured. “Neither involves a criminal motive.”
David had been following the dialogue—for such it had become—with openmouthed interest, his head turning from one speaker to the other. How much he understood I could not say, but I was under no illusion as to where the discussion was heading.
Ramses said, “Hmph,” as Emerson would have done when faced with incontrovertible female logic, and Nefret smiled at him.
“I agree, dear brother, that we should take nothing for granted. There are two of us and two suspects. I leave it to you to ingratiate yourself with Miss Marmaduke and worm her secrets out of her. Sir Edward will be my responsibility. I quite look forward to the challenge.”
Emerson fussed and fumed when I told him of the dinner party. Not only did he refuse to wear evening dress (which I had expected), but he refused to dress at all, appearing in the saloon wearing his wrinkled work clothing and boots. He was the only one of the gentlemen (I do not include my son in that category) who had not made an effort. Howard and the other archaeologists wore their best suits and Sir Edward was in full evening kit, which set off his fair hair and well-knit form only too well.
He was unable to monopolize Nefret, however, because several of the other gentlemen (and Ramses) surrounded her. M. Legrain, who was in charge of the work at the Karnak temple, found her particularly fascinating. He was French, of course.
In such a group and on such an occasion, idle social chitchat soon gave way to professional conversation. We were besieged with questions about the tomb, but Emerson, usually decided to the point of dogmatism, was uncharacteristically cagey.
“At this stage I prefer not to commit myself. You know my views on excavation. The corridor is filled with debris; it will take some time to clear it and examine the material.”
“But the burial chamber,” Howard exclaimed. “Did the thieves enter it? Is the mummy intact? Surely you will investigate that before—”
“Surely not,” said Emerson, giving him a frosty stare. “Mrs. Emerson and I are motivated by scientific principle, not idle curiosity.”
“So Mrs. Emerson will be working with you?” The speaker was Sir Edward. Raising one eyebrow, he looked from me to Emerson and back to me. “Doing what, if I may ask?”
“Excavating,” I said. “Examining the debris, noting any artifacts we may find and their precise location.”
“In the tomb itself?”
“It would be difficult to carry out those activities anywhere else.”
The eyebrow rose even higher. Then he laughed and raised his glass of wine. “My respectful salutations, Mrs. Emerson. I begin to see that a lady may be … in short, a lady, with all the grace, beauty and charm of her admirable sex, and still be as daring and capable as any man. My prejudices have been shaken; dare I venture to hope that continued association with you will shatter them entirely?”
“Speaking of that,” said Emerson, and drew the young man aside.
This rather abrupt ending of the general discussion caused the others to break up into smaller groups. Ramses was deep in conversation with M. Legrain; as I approached I realized the latter was describing, with exuberant Gallic gestures, an event that had occurred at Karnak a few months earlier. Several of the monolithic columns of the Hypostyle Hall had collapsed, with a crash that shook the entire town of Luxor.
“It was an event formidable,” Legrain exclaimed.
“It must have been,” said Ramses politely. He added in a meditative voice, “Lucky for me I was not there at the time.”
“Pardon?” said M. Legrain.
I came to a dead stop and stared at the back of my son’s head. I was not tempted to ask him to repeat the statement—I had heard it quite clearly—but I could not believe what I had heard. I did have a tendency (an understandable tendency, considering his history) to blame Ramses for anything untoward that might occur in his immediate vicinity, but surely he did not suppose that I would suspect him of blowing up the temple of Karnak!
Could it be that Ramses was developing a sense of humor?
Ramses turned and saw me. There was certainly a gleam in his eye. In anyone but Ramses I would have called it a twinkle.
By the end of the evening even I had begun to flag a trifle, after a sleepless night and a day full of exertion, but as I sat before the mirror giving my hair its usual hundred strokes I mentally reviewed the activities of the day and felt satisfied that all was in order. Another cot had been moved into Ramses’s room. M. Legrain had offered his assistance and that of his men. (Emerson, who had no intention of letting another archaeologist in on our discovery, had declined the offer.) Messages had begun to pour in—from M. Maspero, offering congratulations; from Cyrus Vandergelt, just arrived in Cairo, expressing his intention of proceeding as quickly as possible to “the shoot-out,” as he put it; from other archaeological friends, asking what they could do to help. Emerson had offered Sir Edward a position as official photographer, adding that the offer might be withdrawn if Sir Edward continued to make eyes at his wife—
“For pity’s sake, Emerson!” I exclaimed, dropping my brush. “He was only being polite. I hope you didn’t express it so bluntly as that.”
“What do you take me for, Peabody? I don’t recall the precise words, but I was the soul of tact, as always.”
His hands came to rest on my shoulders and his face was reflected in the mirror before me. I could not help laughing, he looked so pleased with himself.
“The young man doesn’t give a curse about your wife, Emerson. It is Nefret he is interested in.”
“He scarcely spoke to her all evening.”
“Precisely. Emerson, what are you doing?”
“I am making certain,” said Emerson, “that you will not be led astray by the attentions of a smooth-talking young aristocrat.”
“But Emerson, you must be weary, and I have not finished my one hundred strokes, and it is late …”
“Then why are we wasting time in conversation?”
It was certainly a reasonable argument. Besides, I had intended to use all possible means to prevent Emerson from returning to the tomb that night. This means proved to be as effective as I had hoped.
However, we were not to enjoy a restful night’s sleep. It was a little after two in the morning when the now familiar sounds of a violent struggle roused me. Long years of practice had trained me to respond alertly and instantaneously; I had retrieved my nightdress and slipped into it before Emerson came fully awake. I called out a little reminder—“Don’t forget your trousers, my dear”—caught up my parasol, and ran to the door.
I found myself a trifle confused initially, for of course I had instinctively started for Ramses’s room, which was across the corridor from ours. His door stood ajar, but so did another—that of Nefret’s chamber. Light streamed through the opening and the continuing sounds of an altercation issued therefrom.
Parasol at the ready, I dashed in—and stopped short. Two individuals were struggling. I had anticipated as much. What I had not anticipated was that the individuals should be Nefret and Miss Marmaduke.
Advancing, I ordered them to desist at once. They broke apart, panting and trembling. Gertrude’s loosened hair hung over her face and her nightgown had lost several buttons, but Nefret was in worse case. Her gown hung open to the waist and had been pulled off one shoulder. Catching my eye she hurriedly adjusted it and burst into speech.
“She struck him, Aunt Amelia! She was trying to—”
“Oh, heavens!” Gertrude sagged at the knees and leaned heavily against the wall. “I did not know! I thought—good God! He has come back! Don’t let him go near her!”
“He” was David, accompanied by Ahmed, who had been on guard outside Ramses’s window. Nefret had flung herself down on her knees at the foot of the bed. It struck me as an inappropriate moment for prayer, but before I could comment on this Nefret turned to me with a gesture of appeal and I saw to my horror that her raised hand was stained crimson.
“Help me, Aunt Amelia. And don’t let that woman—”
“Certainly not,” said Emerson, from the doorway. “Amelia, you had better do as she asks. No one else move.”
I knew what I would see. Only one member of the party was not visible, and he was usually the first to turn up.
Ramses was curled up on the floor, half-hidden by the tumbled bedclothes and by the bed itself. Nefret was tugging at his bloody hands, which were clasped tightly over his side. His eyes were open.
Seeing me, he said, “Good evening, Mother. It was not David.”
“Indeed?” I pushed Nefret out of the way, rather more forcibly than was necessary, and knelt by Ramses. He allowed me to lift his hands, remarking, “It would be advisable to stop the bleeding, I believe; I am beginning to feel a trifle giddy, and there are several things I want to say before—”
“I can well believe that, Ramses.”
He had been holding a part of the sheet over the gash in his side. I folded another section into a heavier pad and pressed down on it.
“Ouch,” said Ramses. “Mother—”
“Be quiet. Emerson, fetch my medical kit. Nefret, tear that sheet into strips.”
Emerson was back almost at once. “How is he?”
“Luckier than he had any right to expect. The lung has not been punctured, probably because the knife struck a rib. Ramses, stop squirming. I know the alcohol stings, but I must disinfect the wound before bandaging it.”
“I am not squirming,” said Ramses, faintly but indignantly. “That was an involuntary physical reflex. And may I say, Mother, that I take exception to the word ‘lucky.’ Observing a glint of light along the blade of the knife I was able—”
“Be quiet, Ramses.”
“He can still talk, at any rate,” said Emerson, with a long breath of relief. “What the devil happened here?”
“The boy crept in and tried to—to—assault her,” Gertrude cried. “I heard her scream and came at once, but he must have got out the window before I could—”
“That is a lie,” Nefret said. “It was not David.”
“It was dark.” Gertrude’s voice rose hysterically. “How could you see who it was? I saw his outline against the window.”
“You saw Ramses,” Nefret said. “He was the first to respond to my call for help. The man who… the man let me go and ran to the window. Ramses went after him.” Her hands continued to move mechanically, tearing strips from the sheet, but she was as pale as her nightdress and her voice was unsteady.
“That will do, my dear,” I said. “Emerson—”
He took her into a fatherly embrace. “We’ll sort this out tomorrow,” he said, clumsily patting the bright head that had come to rest on his breast. Emerson’s hands, as I had cause to know, were never clumsy. It was rage that made them tremble now.
With seeming coolness he went on, “Miss Marmaduke, return to your room. I will speak with you later. Nefret, your aunt Amelia will take you to our room as soon as she has finished with Ramses. He had better remain here. I will stay with him. David—”
“It was not David.” Ramses’s eyes were half-closed, but he was alert enough to hear how his father’s voice had hardened when he pronounced the boy’s name. “He was just stirring when I left our room. The individual was larger and stronger than David, though dressed the same. Someone is trying …”
“You have made your point, Ramses,” Emerson said. His arm around Nefret, he drew her toward the foot of the bed and stood looking down on his son. “Well, Peabody?”
“You can put him on the bed now,” I said, tying a neat knot. “Carefully.”
This operation having been performed, I covered Ramses and wiped the perspiration from his face. I believed him to be asleep or unconscious, but I might have known Ramses would insist on having the last word. His lips parted.
