The Golden One Read online

  He went to join Nefret and stood watching, his hands in his pockets. She looked up at him and spoke, briefly, before returning to her grisly task. “What is he doing?” Emerson demanded.

  “Just being with her,” I said. “Sharing the unpleasantness in the only way he can. It is really very sweet, Emerson.”

  “A sweet experience to share,” Emerson growled. “Well, curse it, I can do no less. I will just go and -”

  “No, Emerson. What about a spot of lunch while we are waiting? Bertie, I neglected to commend you on a task well done. Would you care for a cheese sandwich?”

  Bertie had removed the cloth that had covered his mouth and nose. “Good Lord, Mrs. Emerson, I… Well, yes, thank you, if it isn’t too much trouble, but she – Nefret – it is quite a horrible object, you know, and the sight of food -”

  “Don’t worry about her,” I said.

  Cyrus only shook his head. He had known Nefret longer than Bertie had.

  Though I am accustomed to corpses in all stages, from newly slain to long mummified, I was not particularly anxious to examine this one, or even to watch from a distance. I kept my eyes averted until Selim and Hassan rewrapped the bundle and replaced it on the litter. When Nefret and Ramses came back I observed that her hands and forearms were red, not with blood, but from the gritty sand with which she had cleaned them. She was perfectly composed – more so than Ramses, whose features were not so controlled as they usually were. At my suggestion he got out the bottle of alcohol and poured it over her hands. She then seated herself and asked for a sandwich.

  The others watched her with varying degrees of admiration and consternation. Jumana’s eyes were enormous in a face that had lost its healthy color. “How could you?” she quavered.

  “It’s my profession,” Nefret said calmly. “Not an enjoyable profession at times like this one, but I’m used to it. I knew the family wouldn’t allow a proper autopsy, so this was my only chance to determine how the poor man died.”

  “Well?” Emerson demanded. “Did you?”

  Nefret drank deeply from the water bottle before replying. “Fractured skull. The back of his head was… I won’t go into detail.”

  “Thank you,” Cyrus muttered, eyeing his sandwich with distaste.

  “There were a number of broken bones,” Nefret went on. “I looked for a bullet or knife wound, but it wasn’t easy to… Well, I won’t go into that either. The head injury was enough to have killed him.”

  “Fall or blunt instrument?” I inquired.

  Nefret shrugged. “Impossible to determine. I did the best I could, but without the proper instruments -”

  “Yes, quite,” said Emerson.

  Selim returned to announce that Hassan had gone on with the cart and its burden, and we continued with our lunch. Daoud soon joined us. He had come round the long way, since he was not fond of climbing ropes, up or down.

  “Are there more tombs in these cliffs?” Bertie asked, accepting another sandwich.

  “Unquestionably,” Ramses replied. “If this area was used for the burials of royal females during the Eighteenth Dynasty, which seems likely, there are a number of known queens whose mummies have never been found, and Heaven knows how many unknown princesses and kings’ lesser wives.”

  “Not to mention princes,” Nefret added, her eyes shining with archaeological fervor. “And royal mothers and sisters and -”

  “Cousins and aunts,” I said, with a chuckle, reminded of one of my favorite Gilbert and Sullivan arias.

  The others acknowledged my little joke with smiles and nods, except for Emerson, who sat like a boulder, staring off into space, and Selim, who was growing restless.

  “The horses will not run away,” he said. “Not our horses. But we should not leave them there too long.”

  Emerson jumped up. “Quite right, quite right. I will – er – this will only take a minute.”

  I had expected Emerson would want to get into the cursed tomb. I was not the only one who attempted to make him see reason, but he waved all objections aside. “I only want to have a look.”

  “Put on your pith helmet, Emerson,” I called after him.

  “Yes, yes,” said Emerson, not doing so.

  He started to climb the rope, moving with an agility remarkable in so heavy a man. He had not got very far when the quiet air was rent by a prolonged, high-pitched scream. It was not an animal. No creature in Egypt made a sound like that. Emerson lost his grip on the rope and dropped down, staggering a bit before he got his balance.

  “What the devil -” he began.

  “He’s up there.” Ramses handed his father the binoculars he had snatched up. I saw the figure now, atop the cliff. It was too far away for me to make out details, but it was capering and prancing, waving its arms and kicking up its heels, as if in a grotesque dance. Small bits of rock rattled down the sheer face.

  I took the binoculars from Emerson and when I raised them to my eyes the bizarre figure took on form and substance. Its only garment was a short skirt or kilt. The body was human. The head was not. Pricked ears and protruding muzzle were covered with coarse brown hair, and fanged teeth fringed the jaws.

  Ramses ran toward the cliff. I knew what he intended, and I felt reasonably certain that Emerson would follow after him. Handing Nefret the binoculars, I drew my little pistol from its holster, aimed, and fired.

  I did not expect I would hit the creature. Obviously I did not, for a long mocking laugh, almost as unpleasant as the animal scream, followed, and the monstrous figure vanished from sight.

  “Come back here this instant, Ramses,” I shouted. “Emerson, if you attempt to climb that rope I will – I will shoot you in the leg.”

  “Don’t fire that damned pistol again,” Emerson exclaimed, hurrying toward me. “Give it to me.”

  “I wouldn’t really have shot you,” I said, as he carefully removed the weapon from my hand. “But really, Emerson, haven’t you better sense than to climb a cliff when there is someone up above who could knock you off the rope with a few well-placed rocks?”

  “That’s reasonable,” Emerson conceded.

  “Right,” said Ramses, who had obviously had second thoughts. “We’ll go up and around. No, not you, Bertie, you’ve done your bit for today.”

  “Nor you, Peabody,” my husband added. “Stay here and – and head him off if he comes down.”

  “Give me back my pistol, then,” I shouted, as he and Ramses went trotting off, accompanied by Selim. Emerson did not pause but his reply was clearly audible. “Hit him with your parasol.”

  I patted Nefret on the shoulder. “Don’t be concerned, my dear. He will have taken himself off by the time they get to the top.”

  “Then what is the point of their going?” Nefret demanded. “Oh, I know; it’s Father, of course. He is determined to get into that bloody damned tomb one way or another.”

  “Well now, you can’t blame him,” Cyrus said. “There must be something in there the fellow doesn’t want us to find or he wouldn’t have tried to scare us off.”

  “It was an afrit, a demon,” Jumana muttered, twisting her slim brown hands together.

  It was not one of her better performances, but Daoud, utterly without guile himself, patted her reassuringly. “Where the Father of Curses walks, no afrit dares approach.”

  “That was no afrit, it was a man, wearing some sort of mask,” Bertie said coolly. “How could he have supposed such a silly stunt would frighten us away?”

  I had wondered myself.

  Knowing it would be some time before Emerson finished rooting around in the disgusting tomb, I found a (comparatively) comfortable seat and invited the others to do the same. We were able to observe some of their activities, rather like spectators in the pit of a theater or opera house, but after they had descended into the cleft, all three were out of sight. We saw no one else. I had not expected we would.

  When they finally rejoined us, descending by means of the rope, they were all three in an appallin
g state of filth. Emerson, naturally, was the worst. He had removed his coat early in the day; he was now without his shirt. I recognized this garment in the bundle he carried under one arm. The bronzed skin of his chest and back was smeared with a disgusting paste compounded of dust, perspiration, bat guano, and blood from a network of scratches and scrapes, and his hands were even nastier. He did not smell very nice.

  “Good Gad, Peabody, you won’t believe what a mess they made of the place,” he exclaimed. “The floor of the burial chamber looks like a rubbish heap, with chunks of rotted wood and soggy bones mixed with bits of stone.”

  He squatted and began unwrapping his bundle. Selim, who was far more fastidious in his habits than my husband, set about scrubbing his hands and arms with sand.

  “If there was nothing left, what were you doing all that time?” Nefret asked, handing Ramses a dampened handkerchief.

  “Taking measurements and notes.” He wiped his mouth before he went on. “Father managed to salvage a few odds and ends.”

  Still squatting, Emerson studied the motley objects he had collected. They included a rim fragment from a stone vessel, scraps of gold foil, and a number of jewelry elements, beads and inlays and spacers. Rapt in contemplation of these uninspiring artifacts, he did not so much as twitch when I uncorked my bottle of alcohol and trickled the liquid down his scraped back. I honestly believe I could amputate one of Emerson’s limbs without his taking notice if he had found something of archaeological interest.

  “We had some trouble getting into the descending passage,” Ramses explained. “It had been blocked with stones, and the thieves removed only enough for them to wriggle through. It was rather a tight squeeze for Father.”

  “And you,” said Nefret. “At least you had sense enough to wear your coat.”

  “I had writing materials and a torch in my pockets,” Ramses said. He fished a wad of crumpled paper from inside his coat.

  “You can work up your notes into a detailed plan tonight,” said Emerson, without looking up. “Curse it, Peabody, what are you doing?”

  “You have scratches all over your chest too,” I said. “Lean back.”

  “Not a scrap of organic material survived,” Emerson grumbled. “Wood, mummy wrappings, bones – Ouch.”

  “I doubt that even we could have preserved the coffins or the mummies,” Ramses said.

  “We could have tried,” Emerson muttered. “Damn the bastards! Who knows how much historical data was lost through their carelessness?”

  “The damage is done, and regret is the most futile of all emotions,” I said.

  “No, it damned well is not,” Emerson snarled. “Don’t quote aphorisms at me.”

  “What, in your opinion -”

  “Mother,” said Nefret, gently but firmly, “you and Father can argue about aphorisms all the way home if you like. I think we should start back.”

  “A very sensible suggestion, my dear,” I replied. I could see she was itching to get Ramses home so she could clean him up and disinfect the abrasions that marked his hands and face. “Emerson, give me my pistol back.”

  “Not on your life, Peabody. If any shooting is required, I will do it.”

  None was required, though we kept a sharp lookout along the way. As the sun sank lower, the shadows lengthened, affording some relief from the heat but, as I was uneasily aware, offering greater possibilities of concealment for a following foe. We reached the place where the horses were waiting without incident, however, and started on the homeward path. Daoud walked beside Jumana, talking nonstop in an effort to cheer her up. Like the rest of us, Selim was not so charitably inclined toward the girl.

  “She knows where he is,” he muttered. “She must be made to tell us.”

  “Give her a little time,” Emerson said.

  Selim’s eyes were as hard as obsidian. “Jamil has disgraced the family. It is a matter of honor.”

  Oh dear, oh dear, I thought – more trouble! Men have very odd definitions of honor, and even odder notions of what to do about it. To all intents and purposes Selim was the head of the family, as his father had been. Yusuf was too old and vacillating to play the role that was nominally his. If Selim spoke for the family and they were of the same mind… They would be, of course. The men, at any rate.

  “Selim, we don’t know that that was Jamil,” I said. “In fact, we don’t know that he has committed any criminal act except rob a few tombs. I doubt any court would bother prosecuting him for that. Everybody in Gurneh does it.”

  “Not our family,” said Selim, displaying his teeth. “My father -”

  “I know what Abdullah would have done,” Emerson broke in. “I promise you, family honor will be satisfied. If Jamil has a scrap of sense he will come to me and I will give him a chance to redeem himself. The Father of Curses does not break his word!”

  “You needn’t shout, Emerson,” I exclaimed.

  “Hmph,” said Emerson. “Confound it,” he added petulantly, “I have wasted too much time on this foolery. We will start work at Deir el Medina tomorrow.”

  Dinner was a trifle late that evening, since Emerson was determined to stow his bits and pieces away before he bathed. They looked rather pitiful on the shelves of our storage room – the only artifacts we had discovered thus far. Emerson was pleased with them, however, and could talk of nothing else all through dinner. The meal was excellent. We had a new chef, Maaman, one of Fatima ’s cousins; our old cook, Mahmud, had been persuaded to retire. For years he had punished us for coming late to meals by scorching the soup and letting the beef dry out.

  After dinner, when we had retired to the parlor, and Jumana had gone to her room to study, I managed to get Emerson off the subject of archaeology. “I hope you convinced Selim that he must leave Jamil to us. If he and the other men injured the boy, it would split the family apart. Not all of them take the matter as seriously as Selim does; some may even sympathize with Jamil.”

  “Why do you suppose I was talking so loudly to Selim? I wanted the others, especially Jumana, to overhear. The boy has done nothing except bully his sister and play the fool – if it was he we saw. We don’t know that. We don’t know that he killed that fellow, or even that murder was committed! It may have been an accident, or self-defense. These beggars squabble constantly amongst themselves. All we know for certain is that some person unknown placed the body in position, possibly as a warning or a threat, possibly only to hide it.”

  “That is all very well, Emerson, but two of the original thieves have met a violent death. In criminal investigation -”

  “This is not a criminal investigation,” said Emerson, with a snap of his teeth. “We have no proof of murder.”

  Undeterred, I proceeded. “Then how do you explain the position of the body? It is a most inconvenient hiding place. How did Jamil – oh, very well, whoever it was – how did he get the body there?”

  Emerson replied with a rhetorical question. “How did the ancient workmen get that damned sarcophagus of Hatshepsut’s into her tomb in the cliff? That tomb is even less accessible than this one, and a stone sarcophagus is considerably heavier than a man.”

  “Perhaps it was meant to warn us, and others, away from the place.”

  “There was nothing of value left in the tomb,” Emerson said. “Anyhow, Jamil knows better than to threaten me.”

  The shrubbery outside rustled, and Horus came in through the open window. He was carrying something in his mouth.

  “Oh, my goodness,” I exclaimed. “It’s not a mouse – it’s too big. A rat. Disgusting. Emerson -”

  Emerson was too slow. Horus darted past him and laid the object at Nefret’s feet. He then sat down and stared fixedly at her.

  “It’s not a rat,” Ramses said. He reached down and scooped the motionless form into his hands. “It’s a cat – a kitten. I’m afraid it’s…”

  A faint but unmistakable purr contradicted his assumption. The small creature was so dirty I could not make out its markings.

&n
bsp; Nefret said gently, “Cats sometimes purr when they are frightened or in pain. If it is beyond help, we had better put it out of its misery.”

  The parlor door opened. Sennia stood on the threshold, rubbing her eyes. “Horus woke me up. He had… Oh!”

  Emerson caught hold of her. “Now, child, don’t touch it. It is sick, or hurt, or…”

  Sennia leaned against Emerson. She looked charming, her hair ruffled with sleep and the hem of her white nightdress baring slim brown feet and ankles. “If it is sick, Aunt Nefret will make it well.”

  “Oh, Sennia…” Nefret glanced at the motionless body Ramses cradled in his cupped hands. “I’ll try. I’ll do my best. Go back to bed, darling.”

  “Yes, Aunt Nefret. Horus, you are a good boy. Come to bed now, Aunt Nefret will take care of the kitty.”

  Horus considered the suggestion. With what looked alarmingly like a nod of acquiescence, he got up and followed Sennia out.

  “Oh, dear,” I said. “Nefret, do you think you can… What is wrong with it?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Nefret shrugged helplessly. “But I’ll have to find out, won’t I? Bring it along, Ramses.”

  As I might have expected, Sennia was the first one down next morning. Gargery was trying to get her to eat her porridge – never an easy task – when we entered the dining room. She bounced up from her chair and ran to me. “How is the kitty? When can I see it?”

  “I don’t know, Sennia. Ramses and Nefret have not come yet. Sit down and eat your breakfast. Where is Horus?”

  “Under her chair,” said Gargery grimly. “As usual. Madam, what is all this about another cat? We don’t need one. We don’t need that one,” he added, with a baleful look at Horus.

  “It is only a little cat,” said Sennia. “It is sick, but Aunt Nefret is going to make it well.”

  Her bright, confident face made my heart sink. What she expected, in her innocent fashion, might be impossible, even for Nefret. Emerson cleared his throat. “Er – Sennia, the cat was – er – very sick. It may not…”

  “There they are!” Sennia was out of her chair again, running to them. She threw her arms round Nefret’s waist. “Why didn’t you bring the kitty, Aunt Nefret?”