He Shall Thunder in the Sky taps-12

by Elizabeth Peters

  We had only the family for dinner that year, including Cyrus and Katherine, who were as close as family. They had brought gifts for us, so we had another round of opening presents. It was difficult to find appropriate gifts for Cyrus and Katherine, since they were wealthier than we and lacked for nothing, but I had found a few trinkets that seemed to please them, and Cyrus exclaimed with pleasure over the little painting of the gazelle Nefret had given him.

  “Looks like Eighteenth Dynasty,” he declared. “Where did you find it, if I may ask?”

  “One of the damned antiquities dealers, no doubt,” Emerson grumbled. “Like the cursed heart scarab she gave me. Not that I don’t appreciate the thought,” he added quickly.

  Nefret only laughed. She had heard Emerson’s views on buying from dealers too often to be discomposed by them. “It was from Aslimi, as a matter of fact. He had several nice things.”

  “I don’t suppose you bothered to ask the rascal where he obtained them,” Emerson muttered.

  “I would have done if he had been there, though I doubt he’d have confessed.”

  Ramses, who had been examining the painted scrap appreciatively, looked up. “He wasn’t there?”

  “He’s ill. The Professor would probably say it serves him right.” Nefret chuckled. “The new manager is much handsomer than Aslimi, and not nearly as skilled at bargaining.”

  She made quite an entertaining little tale of our visit. Cyrus declared his intention of visiting the inept manager as soon as possible, and Katherine demanded a description of the beautiful young man. The only one who contributed nothing to the conversation was Ramses.

  The table made a brave show, sparkling with crystal and aglow with candles, but as I looked upon the sadly diminished group I seemed to see the ghostly forms of those who had formerly been with us: the austere features of Junker, whose formal demeanor concealed the warmest heart in the world; the beaming face of Karl von Bork, mustaches bristling; Rex Engelbach and Guy Brunton, who had exchanged their trowels for rifles; and those who were dearest of all—Evelyn and Walter, David and Lia. Fortunately Cyrus had brought several bottles of his favorite champagne, and after we had toasted absent friends and a quick conclusion to the hostilities and everything else Cyrus could think of, our spirits rose. Even Anna smiled on us all. She was looking quite attractive that day, in a rose-pink muslin frock whose ruffles flattered her boyish frame, and I saw, with surprise, that she had put color on her lips and cheeks.

  She had been at the hospital every day since Nefret had challenged her that night at the opera, and according to Nefret she had performed a good deal better than anyone had expected.

  “I haven’t made it easy for her,” Nefret admitted. “She hasn’t any nursing skills, of course, so she’s doing all the filthy jobs—emptying bedpans and changing sheets and picking maggots out of wounds. The first day she threw up three times and I didn’t expect to see her again, but she was there bright and early next morning. I’m beginning to admire the girl, Aunt Amelia. I’ve given her a few little hints about her appearance, and she has taken them more graciously than I expected.”

  We had only a brief interlude between the conclusion of the meal and the arrival of our guests. One of the first to arrive was young Lieutenant Pinckney, who made a beeline for Nefret and drew her aside. Mrs. Fortescue attempted to do the same with Emerson, but I was able to forestall her, keeping Emerson with me as I greeted additional guests. Her cavaliers must have all deserted her, since she came alone. There was no doubt in my mind that her cheeks and lips owed their brilliant color to art rather than nature, but she looked very handsome in black lace, with a mantilla-like scarf draping her head.

  Many of the men—too many, alas—were in khaki. Among these were Mr. Lawrence and Leonard Woolley. Remembering what David had told me about his “drunken” encounter with them, I watched with some trepidation as they entered into conversation with Ramses, but the few words I overheard indicated that they were talking amiably of archaeological matters. I observed with some amusement that Mr. Lawrence had unconsciously risen onto his toes as he spoke to Ramses; his diminutive size and ruffled fair hair made him look like a child addressing his mentor.

  I had been looking forward to making the acquaintance of Major Hamilton, but when his niece arrived she was accompanied only by her formidable governess.

  “The Major asked me to convey his profound apologies,” the latter explained. “A sudden emergency necessitated his departure for the Canal last evening.”

  “I am so sorry,” I replied. “It is sad, is it not, that the celebrations of the birth of the Prince of Peace should be interrupted by preparations for war.”

  Emerson gave me a look that expressed his opinion of this sentiment, which was, I admit, somewhat trite. Miss Nordstrom appeared quite struck by it, however.

  Miss Molly did not even hear it. Attired in the white muslin considered suitable for young girls, with a huge white bow atop her head, she delayed only long enough to thank us for asking her before darting away.

  They were among the last to come, and after I had introduced Miss Nordstrom to Katherine and Anna, I felt I deserved a respite. As any proper hostess must do, I glanced round the room to make certain no one was alone and neglected. Everyone appeared to be having a good time; Miss Molly had detached Ramses from Woolley and Lawrence, and Mrs. Fortescue was talking with Cyrus, who responded to her smiles and flirtatious glances with obvious enjoyment. He had always been “an admirer in the most respectful way of female loveliness,” but I knew his interest was purely aesthetic. He was absolutely devoted to his wife, and if he appeared to be in danger of forgetting it, Katherine would certainly remind him.

  Turning to my husband, I found him staring into space with a singularly blank expression. I had to speak to him twice before he responded.

  “I beg your pardon, Peabody ?”

  “I invited you to join me in a cup of tea, my dear. What has put you in such a brown study?”

  “Nothing of importance. Where is Nefret? I don’t see her or that young officer. Have they gone into the garden?”

  “She does not require to be chaperoned, my dear. If the young man forgets himself, which I consider to be unlikely, she will put him in his place.”

  “True,” Emerson agreed. “I will not take tea; I want to talk to Woolley about the Egyptian material he found at Carchemish .”

  After a while someone—it was Mr. Pinckney—asked if we might not have a little informal dance, but his ingenuous face fell when Nefret went to the pianoforte.

  “We do not have a gramophone,” I explained. “Emerson hates them and I confess I find those scratchy records a poor substitute for the real thing.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Pinckney. “I say, that’s a bit hard on Miss Forth, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have suggested it if I had realized she couldn’t dance.”

  He was overheard by Miss Nordstrom, who must have had quite a lot of Cyrus’s champagne, for she beamed sentimentally at the young man and offered to take Nefret’s place. Mr. Pinckney seized her hand and squeezed it. “I say,” he exclaimed. “I say, that is good of you, Miss—er—mmm.”

  So Mr. Pinckney got his dance. As is usual at my parties, there were more gentlemen than ladies present, so he had to share Nefret. Miss Nordstrom played with a panache I would not have expected from such a proper female, but her repertoire was more or less limited to the classics—polkas, mazurkas, and waltzes. Even Mr. Pinckney did not dare inquire whether she could play ragtime; but after a further glass of champagne, urged on her by Cyrus, she burst into a particularly rollicking polka, and Pinckney (who had also refreshed himself between dances) swung Nefret exuberantly round the room and ended by lifting her off her feet and spinning her in a circle.

  Emerson glowered at the young fellow like a papa in a stage melodrama, but Nefret laughed and the others applauded. Miss Molly’s treble rose over the other voices. “Play it again, Nordie!” She ran to Ramses and held up her arms. “Spin me round like that, p
lease! I know you can, you lifted me all the way down the pyramid. Please?”

  Miss Nordstrom had already begun the encore. I heard Katherine say, “Now, Cyrus, don’t try that with me!”

  You may well believe, Reader, that the anxiety of a mother had not been entirely assuaged. I started toward Ramses with some confused notion of interfering, but he caught my eye and shook his head.

  They were, unfortunately, the center of attention. She was so tiny and he was so tall, they made a comical and rather touching picture; her head was tilted back and her round, freckled face shone with childish laughter as he guided her steps. It was his right arm that circled her waist and turned her, but a prickle of anxiety ran through me as I saw how hard she clung to his other hand. The dance neared its end; the corners of his mouth tightened as he caught her up and swung her round, not once but several times. After he had set her on her feet, she caught hold of his sleeve. “That was wonderful,” she gasped. “Do it again!”

  “You must give the Professor a turn,” said Nefret, drawing the child away from Ramses. “He waltzes beautifully.”

  “Yes, quite,” said Emerson. “A waltz, if you please, Miss—er—Nordstrom.”

  I went to Ramses, who was leaning against the back of the sofa. “Come upstairs,” I said in a low voice.

  “Just hold my arm up,” Ramses said, adding, with a breath of laughter, “There aren’t many women of whom I could ask that. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

  He had put his other arm round my waist and since there was no reasonable alternative I supported his hand and followed his steps.

  “Is it bleeding?”

  “It’s all right, I tell you.”

  “Did you have to do that?”

  “I think so. Don’t you agree?”

  “Curse it,” I muttered.

  “It is not necessary for you to lead, Mother.”

  I put an end to the dancing after that. Nefret took Miss Nordstrom’s place at the piano and we finished the evening, as we always did, with the dear familiar carols. Mr. Pinckney insisted on turning pages for Nefret, leaning so close his breath stirred the loosened hair that curled round her cheek. Mrs. Fortescue was the surprise of the evening. Her rich contralto voice had obviously been trained, and I observed she had unconsciously taken on the pose of a concert singer, hands folded lightly at her waist, shoulders back. But when I praised her singing and asked if she would give us a solo she shook her head in feigned modesty.

  “I had a few lessons in my youth,” she murmured. “But I would much rather join in with the rest of you—so like family, so appropriate to the season.”

  Few lessons indeed, I thought, though of course I did not press her. She had sung professionally at some time. There was nothing wrong with that, of course, nor any reason why that fact should cast doubt on her story. All the same, I decided I wanted to know more about Mrs. Fortescue.

  I have never been more relieved to see a party end. Katherine and Cyrus always stayed after the rest, and for once I begrudged these dear old friends their time with us. At least we were all able to sit down and put our feet up and admit we were tired. Emerson had his coat off before the door had closed on the last of the other guests. Tie and waistcoat soon followed, and so did the top button of his shirt—clean off, for Emerson’s forceful manner of removing his clothing has a devastating effect on buttons. I picked this one up from the floor.

  “Whiskey, my dear?” Emerson inquired.

  “I believe I will, now that you mention it.” I lowered myself into an armchair.

  Emerson and I and Ramses were the only ones who indulged. Cyrus declared he and the others would finish the champagne, of which there was not a great deal left. It had certainly had an interesting effect. A good many tongues had been loosened; several people had forgotten, if only briefly, to keep their masks in place.

  “What a wonderful party,” Anna murmured. The champagne had affected her as well; she looked almost pretty, the severity of her features softened by a smile.

  “I am glad you enjoyed yourself,” I said somewhat absently.

  “Oh, I did. It was a bittersweet pleasure in some ways, though; all those fine young men in uniform, destined before long to face—”

  “Not tonight, Anna,” Katherine said sharply.

  “If it is Mr. Pinckney you are thinking of, he isn’t going anywhere for a while,” Nefret said, giving the other girl’s hand a friendly pat. “He told me tonight he has been seconded to the staff as a courier. He’s so thrilled! It means he can ride one of those motorbicycles.”

  Anna blushed and denied any particular interest in any particular individual. “I would love to learn to drive one of them, though,” she declared. “There is no reason why a woman cannot do it as well as a man, is there?”

  She stuck out her chin and looked challengingly at Ramses, who replied, “It is not much more difficult than riding a bicycle.”

  “I’m surprised you have not got one.”

  “They make too much noise and emit a vile stench.” Ramses shifted position slightly, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands. “Perhaps you can persuade Pinckney to give you a ride in the sidecar. You won’t like it, though.”

  I let my attention wander. Katherine looked tired, I thought, and reproached myself for not spending more time with her. She needed distraction. It was cursed difficult to carry on our normal lives, though.

  Cyrus had also observed his wife’s weariness and soon declared they must go. Before leaving he repeated his invitation to Emerson to visit his excavations at Abusir.

  “I’ve come across something that might interest you,” he said, stroking his goatee.

  Emerson’s abstracted expression sharpened. Archaeology can distract him from almost anything. “What?” he demanded.

  “You’ll have to see for yourself.” Cyrus grinned. “Why don’t you all come by one day? Stay for dinner.”

  We said we would, though without committing ourselves to a particular date, and they took their departure. Nefret declared her intention of retiring at once, and I said we would do the same, so Fatima and her crew could get to work cleaning up.

  I was fairly itching to discuss the evening’s developments with Emerson, and even more anxious to learn what damage Ramses’s reckless performance had done to him. That it had done some damage I did not doubt; his feet were a trifle unsteady as he mounted the stairs. Nefret noticed too; she gave him a quick, frowning glance, but did not remark upon what she probably took to be intoxication. He had had quite a number of glasses of champagne; however, most of it had gone into one of my potted plants. I had noticed it was looking sickly.

  We gave Nefret time to settle down before we went to his room, where we found him sitting on the edge of the bed. As I suspected, the wound had reopened. It had stopped bleeding, but the bandage was saturated and his shirtsleeve was not much better.

  “Another shirt ruined,” said Emerson, taking out his pipe.

  “It must be a hereditary trait,” I said grimly.

  Ramses said, “Why didn’t you tell me about your visit to Aslimi’s shop?”

  I came back with, “Why should I have done? Lean forward, if you can, you are getting blood on the pillowcase.”

  “For God’s sake, Mother, this is important! I—” He broke off, bit his lip, and continued in a more moderate tone. “I beg your pardon. You didn’t know. Aslimi is one of our people—Wardani’s, I should say. He’s a damned reluctant conspirator, but he’s been involved from the beginning and his shop has been very useful. In technical terms it is what is called a drop. The messages we leave are concealed in objects that are picked up by apparently harmless purchasers.”

  “And the other way round?”

  Ramses nodded. He was trying very hard not to swear or groan, and he waited until I had finished cleaning the wound before he ventured to open his mouth. “A buyer may examine several items before settling on one, or buy nothing at all. He can easily insert something into a jar or hollowed-ou
t statue base without being seen by anyone except Aslimi—who puts that particular object aside until the proper person calls for it.”

  “This is not good news,” Emerson said gravely. “What do you suppose has happened to the bastard?”

  “The important question is not what has happened to Aslimi, but what Farouk is doing at the shop.”

  I began, “He said his name was—”

  “He lied. It must be Farouk, the description fits, and Aslimi has no cousins named Said. Damnation!”

  “There is nothing you can do about it now,” I said uneasily. “Perhaps the explanation is perfectly innocent. If Aslimi fell ill, your—Wardani’s—people could not allow a stranger to take over the management of the shop. Let us hope so, for things are complicated enough already. There, I have finished; you can unclench your teeth. I don’t believe you have done much damage, but the incident was certainly unfortunate. Was it an accident?”

  “It couldn’t have been anything else,” Ramses said slowly. “The child certainly acted in all innocence.”

  “With whom was she talking just before she ran to you?” I inquired.

  “I didn’t notice. It might have been Mrs. Fortescue. She is what you would call a highly suspicious character. I wonder if anyone has thought to check her story.”

  “She has been a professional singer,” I said.

  Neither of them questioned the assessment; I had not been the only one to observe the clues. Emerson grinned. “And we all know that singers are persons of doubtful virtue,” he remarked. The grin faded into a scowl. “Pinckney is now attached to the staff. Woolley and Lawrence are members of the intelligence department. Several others have contacts with the military. There has been a leak of information, hasn’t there? Someone is in the pay of the enemy.”

  Ramses said a bad word, apologized, and turned a critical stare on Emerson. “Is that an informed guess, Father?”

  “A logical deduction,” Emerson corrected. “You would not go to such lengths to maintain your masquerade if you didn’t suspect there was a spy in our midst.”