‘But last night it hit me! Word is gonna get around, so we gotta be there ready! And we need someone who’ll pony up. Cuttling’s perfect. I just went for it, called that dumb Dora who works for him and made it a bit sorta mysterious so he gets intrigued. But I shoulda told you.’
‘Finally caught on, have we? Yeah. We’re partners now, right?’
‘Yeah. And look – that Jones dame? Am I imagining it, or …?’
‘No. You’re not. You’re not imagining it at all,’ I say. It’s pretty funny to see Harry look like a frightened rabbit at the thought of this dame going all gaga over him.
‘Maybe this was a mistake,’ he says.
I laugh. ‘Oh, we’ll find a way around it.’
We go back to the office. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say to Cuttling with my most winning smile (real gold-medal standard).
He doesn’t smile back. I guess he’s still a bit offended by the lack of warmth in my initial greeting.
‘A slight misunderstanding,’ I continue. ‘All sorted now. So – shall we get down to business?’
I sit there and think it over while Harry sketches out the background. Where exactly were we right now? The ruby was still in police custody, as far as we knew, as was Mrs Susan Peterson-Lee. What exactly would happen to it in the end we weren’t certain – I guess it would go up for auction again, with the proceeds going to Wallace’s estate. That was the big deal, the ruby.
Some old map, some stupid letter? Harry and I had found both of them ourselves. Technically neither of us was in Wallace’s employ at the moment of recovery, as he was dead (give or take a few minutes). Anyway, finders keepers is a thing. If we happen to stumble upon a meaning that has escaped everyone else, then wow, aren’t we just amazingly lucky?
I kept telling myself that the last few weeks, and to be fair, I’d done a pretty good job of convincing myself. I can cope with skating along the edge of the law in a good cause, and my bank balance is a very good cause. But deep down I know we’ve skated right over that edge and are deep in dodgy territory.
Someone like Cuttling, though – yeah, he’d provide the money, Harry was right. And we’d be safe, because Cuttling’s millions would make damn sure there was no comeback.
Heading off to Egypt with Harry would be something I could live with. I’m also keen on the whole ‘track down Cleopatra’s tomb, cash, fame and a damn big advertisement for Melody Malone Inc. in the papers’ part of the thing.
OK. I guess I forgive him for jumping in without telling me.
Harry had brought the letter with him. Not the map, though. Enough to give Cuttling a taste of the goods on offer, not so much that he was getting a free sample before we’d done a deal. He was a businessman, he might not be happy about it but he understood.
‘Never dreamt that British dame had stuff like that in her,’ he comments, when Harry gets on to Peterson-Lee. ‘Met her a few times. Crazy, of course. Real looney-tunes. But I never dreamt … ’ Then he clearly runs out of sympathy for murderer or victim. ‘Right. All about the tomb. Now!’
Harry obliges. The story, as he tells it, has a … complex relationship with the truth. He acquired the map in Egypt (true) and brought it back to the States (also true). Then we miss out a great big chunk regarding Wallace (there’s a reason why courts insist on the whole truth) and pick it up again when the letter arrives as part of the lot alongside the ruby (true), how Wallace gave it to Harry as a reward for services rendered (now none of that is true at all. But we sure as heck aren’t going to mention Badger Junior), how we spot it might be connected to the map (I guess that’s in the ballpark around truth) and were going to show it to Wallace as we were trying to interest him in funding an expedition (nope), when – whoa! The guy gets a knife in the back! So would Cuttling be interested in the deal instead?
Cuttling starts firing out questions, of course – when, where, and most importantly, how much? Harry answers it all. Then comes the bit where he has to confess we ain’t solved the cipher yet.
Cuttling sticks out a hand. Harry does this bit about, ‘You’re an honourable man, I know we can trust you with this,’ and I’m guessing he’s straying from the exact truth there yet again as he hands over the map and the letter.
We sit in silence as Cuttling stares at the papers.
‘I can get my guys on this,’ he says at last. ‘I’ll give you 20 large for them.’
Twenty thousand dollars! I barely scrape a thousand a year. Even split with Harry that’d pay my rent for a decade and make sure I didn’t starve along the way. It was a pretty damn attractive offer.
Talking of pretty damn attractive, here’s Harry.
And talking of Harry … whoa. Miss Jones really cannot take her eyes off him. He don’t give her a second glance, but she is a puddle on the floor.
‘That’s not the deal,’ Harry says. My vision of a non-hungry life with endless coffee on top pops like a soap bubble.
‘So, I guess you need to tell me what the deal is, according to you,’ said Cuttling.
‘You send Melody and me over to Alexandria. You want someone to join us on your behalf, no problem.’
‘I’d be happy to go!’ Miss Jones leaps in.
Ahem! Miss Jones don’t look like no explorer type. I’m guessing the main thing she wants to explore is Harry.
Harry does a sort of chin twitch of reluctant acknowledgement, then keeps on. ‘I know the area where we need to be, and I can hire a team out there. We’re close to cracking this thing, and we need to be on the spot. The ruby, the murders – they’ve all been stirring up interest. Someone’s gonna jump our claim unless we’re on the spot.’
And I don’t know how he does it, but this unexpected meeting ends with a plan to take all four of us to go tomb-raiding. ‘Look into those new flying boats,’ Cuttling tells Miss Jones. ‘Non-stop flight, that’s what we want. No time to lose.’
Well, hold on to your hats, boys! Looks like Melody Malone’s off to Egypt!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EGYPT, 30 BCE
The cat had curled up on my lap. Cats appeal to me. They answer to no one and go where they please, seeking company if they happen to desire it but remaining perfectly content with solitude. Not a bad way to live your life.
I wasn’t planning to read The Ruby’s Curse all the way to the end in one go, but after that part where we all get set to go to Egypt, I found myself hooked. Plus, I didn’t want to disturb the cat. I read to the end and – I have to say – I put it down feeling fairly unsatisfied. Not so much as an author horrified at the mangling of her darling, but as someone hoping to find an answer which still eluded them.
Ventrian’s denouement was different to my intended one and he’d not spotted all the clues I’d laid out for Melody to find, but none of that mattered. I knew I had to find the message he was sending me.
But nothing was leaping out at me at all. I rapidly flicked through the 160-odd pages again – still nothing.
Of course, a major part of the story is a cipher, and it was some sort of code or cryptogram I’d been hoping to find. Not that I had gone so far as to actually create a cipher – I mean, this is pulp fiction, no one’s expecting to dig up a golden hare at the end of it. Alas, it seemed that Ventrian hadn’t added one either. At least not obviously. But I kept going back to that strange verse at the beginning:
Beware the Ides – now Caesar’s gone
The Eye’s the only Rubicon.
If it wasn’t a red herring, it must mean something. It would need to be solved.
But perhaps I needed more information?
While the story concerned itself with murders and jewels, and Melody’s function in the plot was to uncover the killer, the ultimate goal, outside of plot constraints, was given as the discovery of Cleopatra’s tomb. And here I was in Alexandria, place of Cleopatra’s death, mere months after that death had taken place.
Her tomb had never been discovered – Ventrian and I had discussed that. I may even have mentioned my disinc
lination to use time travel to solve archaeological mysteries. But here I was, right place, right time. Surely, that had to be my goal?
I had to find Cleopatra’s burial place.
I spent the rest of the morning canvassing locals. An approximate location should’ve been easy enough to find; Cleopatra may have been dethroned and the Ptolemy dynasty ended by Rome, but she would not have been laid to rest in secret. There were probably hundreds of workers around who had worked on building the tomb – I knew from ancient sources that Cleopatra had ordered its construction before her death.
What I learned made me convinced I was on the right path. Yes, the tomb had been built; it was unfinished at the time of her death, but the workers had been dismissed once the body had been interred and the project had been taken over by a newcomer, a man with skin as light as mine. It was clear to me that the man in question was Ventrian.
(Incidentally, none of the people I spoke to knew anyone called ‘Phil’.)
The location I was pointed towards was a spot not too far from my current position in Alexandria. I knew that in reality my Vortex Manipulator would take me back to the New York office exactly at the moment I’d left it, however long it took me to track down the Eye of Horus Device, but the mind is incapable of regarding such things dispassionately – my parents were in danger, and my sense of urgency wouldn’t submit to logic. I was consumed with the need to solve this riddle as soon as possible. I needed to go straightaway – perhaps I would find the Device and be home by sunset. (Alexandrian sunset or New York sunset – I wasn’t picky.)
I moved along the bank of the Nile, looking for someone with transport to hire. The cat kept pace with me; she seemed to have adopted me as her new owner (although in Egyptian times, the cats tended to own their people). She was silver-grey with darker spots, and had what I believe is called ‘the mark of the scarab’ – a distinctive ‘M’ marking above her eyes. ‘Well, I know what I’m going to call you then, don’t I?’ I told her. ‘M is for Melody. Or maybe Malone. But don’t think you’re going to get anything out of this relationship other than some tickling under the chin. I don’t have the time to provide you with a scratching post and we’re a couple of millennia away from a tin of Whiskas.’
Enquiries quickly led me to a young man called Nebi who was willing to both transport and guide me to where I wanted to go for the very reasonable sum I negotiated (that included the fluttering of eyelashes and a particularly dazzling smile, if I do say so myself).
We set off on his boat and, although the heat and the insects made it not quite as perfect as it could be, the journey down the Nile and around Lake Mareotis was perfectly pleasant, and I also learned some very good Egyptian swear words whenever a cargo barge passed in the opposite direction and wanted us to get out of the way.
History can be unexpected. It wasn’t that long since I’d been sitting in my cell, considering the matter of Cleopatra’s tomb, thinking all I’d have to do was go back to 30 BCE to solve the mystery of its location. But here we were, actually in 30 BCE if my sums were right – in any case, not long after Cleopatra had died – and yet no one here and now could point me to where their late queen was laid to rest. I wondered at first if it was simply a reluctance to tell me, a stranger, a foreigner, but I really didn’t think that was the case. They literally did not know.
We tethered the boat, and Nebi led the way. I stayed alert; I knew there were bandits in the less populated areas. Of course I could handle myself, but quite honestly I didn’t want the bother, it was far too hot. All I wanted to do was locate the missing mausoleum, find the clue and / or clues within it, then head back to Alexandria for some lumpy beer and a bunch of grapes.
Of course, that didn’t happen. I eventually called it a day and headed back home. Somewhat to my annoyance, Nebi had deserted me, but it wasn’t hard to find someone going in my direction, and I returned to Alexandria in time to get a jug of claggy beer before bedtime.
Very much to my surprise, Cat Malone – or a cat that looked very much like her – had been waiting for me on the bank and now followed me back to the apartment. Ventrian had gone, and someone had a left a gift of bread and dried fish, which Cat Malone and I shared. I put coverings on the bed and she curled up in the crook of my knees and fell asleep.
The next day followed the same pattern, and the next and the next. I’d hire a guide, sail away down the Nile, search – and find nothing. It was frustrating, the feeling that I was so close to the answer – and yet still so far away. So many times I thought I was on the right track only to be disappointed and head home empty-handed yet again. My face hurt from being in the sun so much, and I was getting seriously fed up. Not to mention, my eyelash-and-smile currency seemed to be undergoing something akin to Henry VIII’s Great Debasement: word seemed to have got around that I was expecting rather a lot for rather a little, and the locals appeared less than enthusiastic about transporting me and acting as guides. But the Nile simply teemed with boats, so I always found someone in the end.
On the fifth day, I waved off Cat Malone and set off as usual. Today my tour guide was Shenti, who conversed by shouting the length of the boat as he steered us down the Nile. He told me about his young daughter who had just started walking – ‘I have to tie her leg to the mast so she does not fall overboard!’ he explained. ‘She keeps falling over and hurting herself – like you!’ Well, yes, I may not have been entirely elegant in the way I climbed into the boat, but I thought that uncalled for. Still, I didn’t want to alienate my latest escort so I said nothing, just laid back and tried to enjoy the ride, listening to story after story about Shenti’s daughter.
By the time we arrived, I felt like I’d known little Imi and her mother Mereret for years. I don’t, of course, know what it’s like to grow up with a family like that. Oh, I don’t dwell on it. It is what it is. But my childhood was spent with the Order of the Silence, being raised to kill, rather than messing about on boats, and yes – I did envy Imi just a very tiny bit.
Shenti and I began walking, him still chatting away merrily as we made our way to the area outside the city walls where he suspected the tomb may be. The hours passed, and still we searched.
And then – then … could it be? Could this be it at last?
The structure was promising, to say the least. A mausoleum fit for a queen? Perhaps. I needed to examine it more closely – I suspected we wouldn’t know for sure until we got inside. Shenti was nervous, not wanting to bring the tomb-robber’s curse upon him; he had, of course, Mereret and Imi waiting at home for him, and it would not be convenient to pass through the Duat just yet. While not going as far as to ridicule his beliefs regarding curses, I nevertheless attempted to reassure him. I might not have a wife and child back in Alexandria, but I wanted to get back to my cat, I told him.
‘Ah, the cat,’ he said. ‘The cat that scratches you so badly! Perhaps the curse has already come upon you in the form of Bastet!’
The cat, I assured him, was no goddess, carried no curses, and had certainly never scratched me.
‘Then what is it that has scratched you?’ he asked. And he held out a hand and touched my cheek.
And suddenly I knew something was terribly wrong.
My face. There was something wrong with my face.
I ran my fingers over my cheeks. They stung – but it wasn’t sunburn. It was something else. Something my mind had been shying away from, refusing to accept.
‘A mirror!’ I said. ‘I need a mirror!’
I’d seen polished bronze discs for sale in the market, but as I hadn’t bothered to get any kohl, I hadn’t bothered to purchase one of those either. I regretted that now. I regretted it very much.
Shenti had no mirror. ‘Water, then,’ I tried. ‘Still water.’ He nodded, and pointed the way. I followed, imploring him to hurry. The fear was building inside me.
He led me to a still pool, and I knelt beside it and looked at my rippled reflection. Even distorted I could see what my consciousness had been
trying to hide from me.
There were four deep scratches on my face.
I knew they weren’t cat scratches. Someone’s fingernails had raked down my cheek.
My fingernails.
I’d scratched myself, again and again, and I didn’t remember doing it at all.
I realised that I’d been trying to get a message to myself.
I’d grown up with them, remember. I knew how they worked. Erasure of memory. Post-hypnotic suggestion, so you didn’t even realise there were things you didn’t remember. Perhaps only moments to leave some sign, to attempt, desperately, to communicate with your future self. Protecting one’s face is automatic, lifting your hands to shield yourself comes naturally. Your hand raises – but instead of protecting, you dig in deep. The pain will alert you …
But they mess with your brain. They get it to hide the truth from itself.
Five days. Five times I’d sailed along the river. Could it be that five times I had actually found the tomb? And I realised, suddenly, the worst thing of all: five times I’d brought a guide – Shenti, Nebi, Oba, Djal, Seti. On the first four days, my guide had abandoned me to find my own way home.
But they hadn’t abandoned me, had they? I had abandoned them. I had escaped, and they hadn’t.
I turned away from the water and retched.
I’m no stranger to death, and I’d brought death to others before now – voluntarily or not. But the thought of little Imi, fatherless, and Mereret, waiting for a husband who never returned, whose fate she would never know …
Death follows me, I’d told Ventrian, and I hadn’t been lying. But maybe I could outrun death, just this once.
‘Back,’ I said to Shenti when I’d pulled myself together. ‘No further.’
‘But, revered mistress, you wanted—’
‘And now I want to go back. Back to Alexandria. Please, take me now. And I swear that when I can, I will give Imi so many gold bracelets and rings and necklaces that you will struggle to lift her!’
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