Children of the Storm (30 page)

The scrap of cloth snagged on the wall had not come from the robe. The fabric was completely different—finely woven linen, pleated and sheer. It must have been torn from the garment she wore under the robe, when she scrambled over the wall—a diaphanous, seductive garment like the one Ramses had seen in Cairo.

Agile though she must be, and familiar with the terrain, luck had played a large part in her successful escape. If Justin and his entourage had not thrown her plans into disarray . . . An unpleasant prickling sensation ran down my spine as a new theory trickled into my mind. She must have known of the children’s intention of visiting the temple that night. Yet she had risked capture and exposure, for she had been alone and there had been four of them, all young and quick and just as familiar with the terrain.

Unless she stopped them before they got close enough to seize her . . . Had there been a weapon concealed in the folds of that voluminous garment? A single bullet would have prevented pursuit if it killed or seriously wounded even one of them. She had assured Ramses she meant him no harm, so he could not have been the intended victim. Which of them, then? David? Lia? Nefret? Or was it Ramses after all? He had managed to free himself. Who could tell what her real intentions toward him had been?

So deeply engrossed was I in ugly speculation that I let out a little shriek and bounded up out of my chair when the door opened.

“Expecting a murderer, were you?” Emerson inquired. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Peabody.”

“Oh, Emerson, I have just had a horrible idea.”

“Nothing new about that,” said Emerson. His smile faded and he caught me in a hard embrace. “My darling girl, you are all atremble. Tell me your horrible idea.”

Emerson likes me to tremble and cling to him. In his opinion I do not do it often enough. So I dutifully clung and trembled, while I explained my latest theory. I had hoped he would scoff and tell me my rampageous imagination had run away with me; but when I looked up into his face his brow was furrowed and his lips compressed. Slowly he shook his head.

“Damnation, Peabody,” he remarked. “I hate to admit it, but it makes a certain amount of sense.”

“I had hoped you would scoff and tell me my rampageous imagination had run away with me.”

The lines in his forehead smoothed out and he smiled a little. “It has, my darling, it has. The plot would do nicely for a sensational novel, but it is all based on surmise. Here, give me a kiss.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“Nothing at all,” said Emerson, removing the remaining pins from my hair with a single sweep of his fingers and tilting my head back.

When he had finished kissing me, he drew a long satisfied breath. “That’s better. Now then, sit down and tell me what other brilliant deductions you have made. I presume that is one of your famous charts?”

Meekly I handed him the paper. He perused it in a single glance—admittedly there wasn’t much to see. “Hmmmm. With all due regard for your abilities, my dear, I can’t see that this gets us any farther. What’s this?” He picked up the other list and ran his eye down it. It was self-explanatory, particularly to a man of Emerson’s intellect. When he looked at me his expression was a mixture of admiration and consternation. “How the devil did you get this? Not from Ramses, surely.”

“Of course not. I would not be ill-bred enough to approach him about such a sensitive subject. I don’t suppose you—”

“Good Gad, no!” Emerson’s handsome countenance changed from bronze to copper.

“Well, then, can you think of anyone I have omitted?”

“I would not be ill-bred enough to speculate,” said Emerson primly. But his eyes remained fixed on the paper. “Hmmmm. Yes, I remember the Bellingham girl. Dreadful young woman. Who is Clara?”

“A girl he met in Germany. He mentioned her in his letters.”

“How do you know he . . . Never mind, don’t tell me. Violet? Oh, Lord, yes, she was in hot pursuit, wasn’t she? But I’m sure he never . . . Good Gad. Not Mrs. Fraser! Though I did wonder at the time . . .” His voice rose from a mumble to a shout. “Layla? See here, Peabody, you cannot possibly be sure they . . .”

“I am not sure of any of them,” I retorted. My composure had returned; it was delightful to engage in detectival speculation with my dear spouse, and even more delightful to see him enjoy the sort of rude gossip he pretends to deplore. “She saved his life, at some risk to herself, and I assume she expected something in return. She was a—er—hot-blooded woman. She had her eye on you at one time, I believe.”

“She had her eye on a good many men,” Emerson retorted. “That was her profession. She couldn’t have been the veiled Hathor, Peabody. Ramses said she was young. Layla was a mature woman ten years ago.”

“She does have one of the qualifications the latest apparition must have possessed, however. She knows every foot of the West Bank.”

“And all the men who live there,” Emerson agreed, with the sort of smile I make it a habit to take no notice of. “What’s become of her?”

“I don’t know. But Selim will. Emerson, there are a number of other perplexing issues facing us, but in light of my latest theory we must consider the unmasking of Hathor of primary importance.”

As if drawn by a magnet, Emerson’s eyes returned to the list of names. “Mrs. Pankhurst?!”

I HAD BEEN OF TWO minds as to whether to tell the children about my unpleasant new theory. A good night’s sleep, a bright morning, and (particularly) the affectionate attentions of my spouse restored my natural optimism and reminded me that they were not children but responsible adults, and that it was my duty to warn them of a potential danger. I waited until Sennia had finished breakfast and gone off to gather her books before I told them.

The only one who took it seriously was Gargery. Like the romantic he was, he had been vastly intrigued by the veiled lady. The others expressed the same reservations Emerson had hinted at the night before, namely and to wit, that the whole thing was a figment of my imagination.

“What made you think she might have had a weapon?” Ramses asked, the tilt of his brows expressing his skepticism. “I feel sure one of us would have noticed if she had pointed a pistol at us.”

“I am not at all sure you would have,” I retorted. “With all respect to you, my dear, nobody seems to have noticed very much.”

“There was quite a lot going on,” David said. He reached for the marmalade. “I’m beginning to feel rather sorry for the poor woman. It must have been disconcerting in the extreme to have her performance interrupted by that screaming mob—and can you picture her scrambling over the wall, tearing her elegant robe?”

“Nevertheless,” said Emerson, who had finished eating and was glancing pointedly at his watch, “we must take every possibility into account. Peabody’s wild—er—unorthodox theories have often—er—sometimes proved true. Keep a sharp eye out, all of you.”

As soon as we arrived at the site I found Selim and informed him I wanted to talk to him. He had been a bit shy of me since the arrival of the motorcar, but this morning he had a new grievance.

“When may we give a fantasia of welcome, Sitt Hakim? It should have been done before this. Ramses said he would talk to you, and we have been waiting for you to say when it will be.”

“I am sorry, Selim,” I said, acknowledging the justice of his complaint. “Ramses did speak to me, and the matter slipped my mind. You know how difficult it is to get Emerson to agree to attend a social event.”

“This is not a social event,” said Selim. Now that he had me on the defensive, he folded his arms and gave me a severe look. “It is an obligation and an honored custom as well as a pleasure. The Father of Curses will obey your slightest wish.”

“He ignored my wishes about the motorcar.”

“You did not forbid him to get one, Sitt.”

His beard twitched, just as his father’s had done when he was trying to repress a smile. I could not help laughing.

“You are in the right, Selim. I have been remiss about entertaining the family. Mrs. Vandergelt wants to give a party for them too, and several old friends in Luxor have sent invitations. But your fantasia must come first. Would this coming Friday suit you?”

Selim no longer repressed his smile. “I will tell Daoud and Kadija.”

“Now that that most important matter is settled, I want to go over a few things with you.” I unfolded a piece of paper. I had found time to make another list. It was headed “Outstanding Questions.”

“Ah,” said Selim. “A list.”

Several of the items were of long standing and Selim had nothing new to add. The purported madman who had attacked Maryam had not been identified, nor had the individual responsible for the sinking of Daoud’s boat. There had been no sign of the jewelry stolen from Cyrus, or of Martinelli. Selim’s face grew longer and longer as I read on. He prided himself on his connections and he hated admitting he had drawn a blank. The last question took him by surprise.

“Layla? Yes, Sitt, of course I remember her. The third wife of Abd el Hamed. Why do you ask about her?”

“I have been trying to think of people who might bear a grudge against us,” I explained.

“Why should she bear a grudge? You treated her more kindly than she deserved.” Selim stroked his beard. “She is no longer in Luxor, Sitt. I think someone told me she had gone to live with the sisters in Assiut.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “Layla a nun?”

Selim grinned. “I do not believe she would dare turn Christian, not even Layla. But she was a woman of extremes, Sitt.”

“That would certainly be going from one extreme to the other.”

“People sometimes do,” said Selim with a worldly-wise air. “Shall I investigate, Sitt?”

“Never mind. It was a far-fetched idea. Thank you for your help, Selim.”

“I have not been able to give enough help, Sitt. Sitt . . . I have a question.” He shuffled his feet and looked down, like a shy schoolboy. “Will you ask Emerson if he will allow me to drive the motorcar to the fantasia?”

“All the way up the hill to your house? It can’t be done, Selim.”

“It can, Sitt!” He raised shining eyes. “Did I not drive the other motorcar through the Wadi el Arish, and up the hills and across the desert? The fantasia will be at the house of Daoud, which, as you know, is on a lower slope, and there is a track, a good track, not so very steep except in a few places, and a good wide space in front of the house to turn the motorcar, where everyone can see. Some of the women and the children have not seen it, nor seen me drive it.”

“I will talk to Emerson,” I promised, patting him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Sitt! Thank you!”

I watched with a fond smile as he walked away, with a spring in his step. He wanted to show off in front of his wives and kinfolk. Who were we to deny our loyal friend such a harmless pleasure?

When I put it that way to Emerson he was forced to agree. After observing that the infernal machine appeared to be operating properly, I had allowed him to drive it down to the river and back a few times. He enjoyed himself a great deal, and while he was busy playing with the car I was able to get on with my other duties.

I had promised to take tea with Katherine that afternoon and see how the work on the collection was progressing. After assuming proper attire I went to the room we had designated as Walter’s study, where I found him and Ramses sorting through ostraca. They were so happily absorbed I had to cough several times before they became aware of my presence.

“Sorry, Mother,” said Ramses, getting to his feet. “Have you been there long?”

“No, my dear.” I waved him back into his chair. “An interesting text, is it?”

“Fascinating! Listen to this. ‘The house of Amennakhte, son of Bukentef, his mother being Tarekhanu; his wife Tentpaoper, daughter of Khaemhedjet, her mother being Tentkhenuemheb . . . ‘ It’s the same fellow whose house we cleared earlier this year! I’m sure I saw another fragment of this same text somewhere . . .” He saw my glazed expression and laughed. “I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a kind of census, don’t you see? And it gives a genealogy for one family—several generations, if I can find the rest of it.”

It warmed my heart to see his sober face light up with laughter. “Splendid!” I exclaimed heartily. “And you, Walter—have you given up on the papyrus?”

“No, not at all,” Walter said, adjusting his eyeglasses. “I was just helping Ramses look for more fragments of his genealogy. It requires a certain experience to recognize the same handwriting.”

His long thin fingers continued to sort through the fragments, moving as rapidly as a woman’s might have done while matching patches for a quilt. It was an impressive demonstration of his expertise, for the pieces were of all sizes and shapes and the writing on them ranged from the neat scribal hieratic script to the scribbles of the later, more cursive, demotic—which had always reminded me of a row of hen tracks.

“That is good of you, Walter,” I said. “How far have you got with the horoscope?”

“Here is my copy, if you would like to look at it.” Walter indicated the pages.

“My dear Walter, you might as well offer me a manuscript in Chinese. Aren’t you going to translate it?”

“Eventually. Ah.” He picked up a fragment and examined it. “No. The handwriting is similar, but this is part of a list of supplies.”

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I said. “I am off to the Castle for tea. Any messages for Cyrus?”

Walter only grunted. Ramses got up and went with me to the door. “What’s on your mind, Mother?” he asked, eyebrows tilting.

“Nothing, my dear. Er—you haven’t come across any other interesting predictions in the papyrus, I suppose?”

He took me by the shoulders and gave them an affectionate squeeze. “Honestly, Mother! You don’t credit that nonsense, do you?”

“Certainly not,” I said, laughing. “À bientôt, then.”

As Walter had explained, it would be virtually impossible to match the date on the papyrus with a modern calendar. However, if one took as a point of departure the day on which our accident had occurred, and counted the days from then on . . . It was only a matter of academic curiosity, and one I would not be able to satisfy unless I could persuade one of the absorbed scholars to translate the text for me.