The Eye of the Serpent

by Philip Caveney

  ‘Hey, now look at that!’ cried Ethan delightedly. Archie had just set down the soufflé. ‘Mr Coates, that looks absolutely delicious!’ He glanced apologetically at Archie. ‘No offence,’ he added.

  ‘None taken,’ growled Archie but he looked far from happy about the situation. ‘Of course, if I’d realized that this was the kinda grub you wanted, I could have provided it. You only had to say.’

  An incredulous silence followed this remark. It was evident that nobody believed he had the first idea how to make a soufflé.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Archie, warming to his theme. ‘Many’s the time, back in the war years, ah’d send my lads over the top wi’ a good hot helping of soufflé in their guts. It might be the last meal they ever ate, so it had to be top notch! The sergeant major said to me once, he said, “Archie, an army fights on its stomach, and thanks to you, our lads have stomachs to beat the band”.’

  Madeleine looked puzzled by this last remark. ‘You are saying that Scotish soldiers ’ave the big bellies?’ she said; and Alec had to stifle a laugh.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Archie, and went to get the cutlery.

  Ethan turned back to Mohammed. ‘Sorry – what were you saying about Llewellyn?’

  ‘I can’t explain it exactly. It’s a feeling. There’s something odd about him.’

  ‘You’re telling me!’

  ‘No, I mean something different. It is as though he has changed somehow, ever since that night in the bazaar, when we saw Mr Hinton—’

  ‘You saw Tom?’ cried Alec in amazement.

  ‘Yes . . . at least, I was sure it was him. Mr Llewellyn said no, it was somebody else. But you see, he went after Mr Hinton. He was gone for some time and when he came back, it was like he was a different man.’

  Ethan frowned. ‘Well, maybe we should ask him about that. If he’s seen Tom, I want to know about it. Where is he, anyhow?’ He lifted his head to shout, ‘Doc? Mr Llewellyn? Grub’s up out here! You coming?’

  Coates was spooning out generous portions of soufflé onto plates. It did look magnificent – thick and creamy and beautifully browned on the top. Alec reflected that Coates was capable of producing delicious food in the most primitive of kitchens and remembered that he had worked as a professional chef before taking up his role as valet to the Devlin family. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for Archie though. Coates had taken over his very reason for being here.

  Mickey took a seat at the table, rubbing his hands together gleefully. ‘This looks very good, Mr Coates,’ he said. ‘Almost as good as roast beef and Yorkshire pud.’

  ‘It’s not all my own work,’ said Coates, trying to be modest. ‘Mr McCloud was equally responsible for this. And as we cook, I’m making sure that he makes notes about the whole process, so he’ll be able to create the same wonderful meals after I’m gone.’

  Archie came out of the cook tent rolling his eyes. ‘That’s a relief then,’ he muttered.

  ‘Furthermore,’ said Coates, ‘I’ve decided that from now on, we chefs should eat with the rest of you, so we can hear your reactions first hand.’ He and Archie settled themselves at the table.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Ethan. He looked out towards Doc Hopper’s tent and started to get up from his seat; but then the tent flap opened and the doctor came out and closed the flap behind him. He walked slowly towards the table.

  It struck Alec instantly that there was something odd about Doc Hopper. He seemed to be moving awkwardly, with a slow, precise gait that was quite unlike his usual shambling stride; and Alec noticed that he had changed his jacket and had buttoned it tightly around him, as though he felt cold. For some reason he was wearing a pair of dark glasses that Alec had never seen before.

  Alec glanced at Ethan, about to say something, but the American was scooping up big mouthfuls of soufflé and eating with an expression of sheer bliss on his face. Alec shrugged his shoulders and started eating too. It was, he thought, the best thing he’d tasted since he’d left Cairo.

  Doc Hopper reached the table and slipped into a vacant seat. His food was already in front of him, but he just sat there looking down at his plate as though he wasn’t quite sure what it was.

  ‘Where’s Mr Llewellyn?’ asked Alec.

  ‘Hmm?’ Doc Hopper looked up in apparent surprise. ‘Isn’t he with you?’

  ‘No. Mohammed said he went to your tent to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Well, yes, he did. But . . . he only stayed a few moments and then he left.’

  ‘What did he ask you about?’ asked Ethan, through a mouthful of soufflé.

  ‘He had an insect bite on his hand and wanted me to have a look. It was nothing serious.’

  ‘Did he say anything about Tom Hinton?’

  Doc Hopper shook his head. ‘He just asked about the bite.’

  ‘Aren’t you hungry, Doctor?’ asked Coates. ‘You haven’t touched your food.’

  ‘Oh . . . yes.’ Doc Hopper picked up his fork and began to toy with his food but made no effort to put any in his mouth. This too was odd, Alec thought, for Doc Hopper usually had the heartiest appetite of them all.

  Ethan indicated the plate that had been set out for Llewellyn. ‘Mohammed, looks like Llewellyn isn’t around, so why don’t you take his place? It’s about time you sampled some good western cooking.’

  Mohammed bowed. ‘You are most kind,’ he said and took a seat at the table. ‘It looks very good, Mr Coates. This is made from eggs, yes?’

  ‘Correct,’ said Coates. ‘Eggs and cream. It has to be whipped really well and then the oven temperature must be—’

  ‘Just a moment,’ interrupted Alec. ‘The food is lovely and everything, but where can Mr Llewellyn have got to?’ He gestured around. ‘I mean, there’s nowhere to hide around here, is there? If he’d come out of the tent, surely we’d have seen him.’

  Doc Hopper cleared his throat. ‘I believe he said something about going back to the King Tut excavation. He wanted to speak to that newspaperman, Mr Corcoran.’

  Everyone stared at the road leading back up the hill, its stony surface rippling in a rising heat haze.

  ‘You’re saying he walked?’ said Ethan. ‘In this heat, when he had a car waiting for him?’

  Doc Hopper made a gesture of irritation. ‘I’m only telling you what he said,’ he snapped. ‘It’s of no interest to me where that bloody idiot has got to.’ He glared at Alec. ‘Or perhaps you’re suggesting that he’s still in my tent?’

  Alec felt his cheeks reddening. ‘No, of course not,’ he said. He was shocked – the doctor had always seemed such a genial, easygoing character.

  ‘Perhaps you think I murdered him,’ said Doc Hopper. ‘That I tore all the flesh from his body, dumped his bones in an old sack and hid it under my bed.’

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Then Madeleine said, ‘I think this is what you English call the wishful thinking, yes?’

  That broke the tension and everyone laughed; everyone except Doc Hopper, who for some reason seemed out of sorts today.

  ‘Anyway, never mind about Wilfred Llewellyn,’ said Coates once the laughter had died down. ‘Wherever he is, I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later. Tell us about the burial chamber.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Archie. ‘What did ye find in there?’

  ‘Never mind me telling you,’ said Ethan. ‘Just as soon as we finish up here, you can go and take a look for yourselves. Mr Coates, Archie . . . Doc – I guess you’ll want to see what all the fuss was about?’

  Doc Hopper nodded. ‘I’ve been waiting a long time for this,’ he said.

  ‘And Mohammed,’ added Ethan.

  ‘Me?’ Mohammed looked astonished. ‘You . . . you would grant me that honour, effendi?’

  ‘I guess I’m just feeling extra generous today,’ said Ethan. ‘But I’m holding you to your word of honour that you won’t speak of this to a soul outside the team . . . at least, not until I say it’s OK.’

  ‘I promise, Mr Wade, my lips are sealed.’
r />   ‘Then you can go in with the others.’

  Mohammed bowed. ‘I thank you,’ he said. ‘From the bottom of my heart.’

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Ethan lifted a tin mug of red wine to his fellow diners. ‘Congratulations, everyone. We’re not quite sure who we’ve found up there, but whoever it is, he’s going to make history, you can be sure of that.’

  Everyone else raised their mugs, all except for Doc Hopper, who sat there silently, staring at Alec through the dark lenses of his sunglasses.

  Sonchis approached the tomb with a strange feeling deep within him. When his life force had finally escaped from here only a few weeks earlier, his only thought was to get as far away from his prison as possible. But he had always known that he must return to claim his rightful body. His temporary ‘skin’ had served its purpose but he could not tolerate it for very much longer.

  He passed through the empty antechamber without hesitation, leaving his companions behind to speculate about its size and shape and rich decoration. None of it had been prepared for him, of course. Sonchis well knew that this tomb had been intended for one of Akhenaten’s most favoured nobles. The next room had not even been finished but had been hastily pressed into service when a tomb was needed to contain the soul of a powerful magician.

  He passed through the open door into the burial chamber and paused for a moment, a sense of shock running through him and making his flesh quiver for an instant. There was the sarcophagus in which they had imprisoned him; and there was his own mummified body, his manacled hands clamped together like some common prisoner; and there was his own wizened face, the features set in a grimace, as though imploring him to return to his own flesh, to restore the life that had been so cruelly taken from him.

  Sonchis stepped closer and reached out a hand to touch his own face. Once again, his supernatural skin shuddered in anticipation; but he knew he had to be patient a while longer. There were certain rituals to be observed before he could become whole again; and of course, once that was achieved there was the little matter of summoning Apophis – something he had planned to do all those years ago. Before that could be accomplished a suitable sacrifice was required; but he already had somebody in mind for the role.

  ‘Ugly bugger, isn’t he?’ said a cheerful voice beside him and he turned to see the ruddy features of Archie McCloud grinning at him. He felt a powerful urge to snap the man’s neck like a twig, but quelled it, telling himself that he could not afford to do anything that might compromise his plans. So he forced a smile, nodded and called forth Doc Hopper’s distinctive tones.

  ‘Yes, he wouldn’t win any prizes for looks.’

  ‘I wonder who he is,’ said Coates, coming over to join them. ‘And who, do you suppose, are these four characters?’ He waved a hand at the upright sarcophagi that surrounded them.

  Sonchis gazed at them impassively. He knew who they were – his four most powerful and loyal followers, who before much longer would be called back to aid him once more.

  ‘And where are all his possessions?’ asked Mohammed. ‘Whoever this man was, he must have been despised.’

  Sonchis allowed Doc Hopper’s mouth to curve into the ghost of a smile.

  Yes, he thought. Despised, feared and hated. The man who had nearly brought down a pharaoh and his empire.

  ‘Look at his expression,’ murmured Coates. ‘It’s almost as though he’s trying to speak to us across the millennia.’

  Sonchis remembered his last few moments, as they had brought the lid down upon him, plunging him into total darkness. He remembered how he had cursed them for all eternity and how he had promised that one day he would return to take his revenge. That time was almost at hand.

  He turned and headed for the exit.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Archie shouted after him.

  ‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Sonchis; and he walked out of the burial chamber, through the room beyond and up the steps into the light.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Scrolls

  ALEC COULDN’T RELAX that night. He was thinking of Madeleine translating the scrolls and wanted to know what progress she was making. He kept pacing up and down the tent, disturbing Coates, who was studying a recipe book, planning the next day’s meal.

  ‘What do you think about beef wellington?’ he asked Alec.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Alec doubtfully. ‘It’s nice, of course, but . . . don’t you think it’s a bit . . . fancy? I mean, we are supposed to be roughing it.’

  Coates looked puzzled by the remark. ‘The stroganoff was very well received this evening,’ he said. ‘Everyone seemed to enjoy it apart from Dr Hopper.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Alec remembered his misgivings about the doctor. ‘Actually, he’s been behaving strangely all day. He was really off with me at lunch time. Ever since Mr Llewellyn called on him, he—’ He stopped pacing and looked at Coates. ‘There’s another thing,’ he said. ‘Whatever happened to Mr Llewellyn? It’s as though he just disappeared.’

  ‘And you’re complaining?’ muttered Coates. ‘Let’s face it, that man is a nuisance. Everybody groans when they see him coming.’

  ‘Well, true . . . but I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to him.’

  ‘I’m sure nothing has, Master Alec. I’ve no doubt he’s over at King Tut’s dig, asking annoying questions of everyone he bumps into. Didn’t Mohammed drive up there to look for him?’

  ‘Yes, and we’ve heard nothing since.’

  ‘Which probably means that Mohammed found him and took him back to the Winter Palace for the evening, so anything I might add would sound distinctly like sour grapes. He’s certainly more comfortable than we are.’

  Alec frowned. No matter how much he tried to reassure himself that this must be the only explanation, he just couldn’t picture the huge Welshman trudging up that baking hot hill when he had a car and a chauffeur waiting for him. And how was it that nobody had seen him leave? Just like Tom Hinton, he thought.

  He began to pace up and down again, filled with a restless energy that he couldn’t seem to shake off.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Master Alec, can’t you relax and read a book?’ asked Coates. ‘You’re ruining my concentration.’

  Alec sighed. ‘I think I’ll go out for a while,’ he said.

  ‘Then I shall accompany you.’

  ‘There’s absolutely no need . . . I’m just going to Madeleine’s tent to, er’ – Alec remembered in the nick of time that he was not to mention the scrolls to anyone else until they knew what they contained – ‘ask her something about hieroglyphics.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Coates’s expression was one of profound disapproval. ‘I’m not sure that’s appropriate, Master Alec – a young man like yourself hanging around the tent of an unmarried woman.’

  Alec glared at his valet. ‘What are you talking about?’ he cried. ‘I’m only going to ask her a few questions about translating.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t forget, Master Alec, she is . . . well, forgive me for saying it, but she is French.’ He said the last word as though it was some obscure curse.

  ‘I know she’s French,’ hissed Alec. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘I’m only saying, the French are not like us. They have . . . dubious morals. Perhaps smoking cigarettes and flying aeroplanes is considered acceptable practice for young ladies in Paris, but where I come from, it is definitely beyond the pale.’

  Alec shook his head. ‘Coates, you really must try and step into the twentieth century,’ he said. ‘You are simply too old-fashioned. Women are different these days. They can vote. Some of them even have jobs.’

  Coates sniffed disdainfully. ‘Who knows where it will all end?’ he said bleakly.

  ‘Now, please stay right where you are,’ Alec told him. ‘I won’t be long and I’ll try not to come back smoking cigarettes and waving a French flag!’

  He pulled aside the mosquito screen and stepped out into the night air. He stood there for a moment, gazing around. The ni
ght was very still, and a huge luminous moon was riding serenely in the cloudless sky. Around it, billions of stars glittered like tiny diamonds scattered across dark blue velvet. The stars here never failed to amaze him. In Cairo, where there was so much reflected light from every building, only the biggest stars were visible, but out here on the edge of the desert, they seemed to be literally fighting each other for the space to shine.

  He turned his head at an unexpected noise over by the road – something scuffling – but he saw nothing; and a few moments later, the long cackling howl of a hyena seemed to offer an explanation. They were always around these days, bold and inquisitive, and his memory of the attack warned Alec to be on his guard. He found himself wondering what the creatures could possibly find to eat out here in this wilderness.

  As he turned towards Madeleine’s tent, he saw Ethan emerge from under his own canvas.

  The American grinned. ‘I guess you’re thinking the same as me,’ he said.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Alec told him. ‘Surely Madeleine must have found out something by now.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Ethan.

  They approached Madeleine’s tent and peered in through the mosquito screen. She was sitting at her makeshift desk, studying one of the rolls of papyrus by the light of a hurricane lamp. Ethan pulled aside the screen and they stepped inside. She lifted her head to look at them for a moment and then went back to her studies.

  ‘I’m busy,’ she told them.

  ‘Aw, come on, Maddie, you must have found out something,’ said Ethan impatiently. ‘You’ve been locked up in here since lunch.’

  She sighed, sat up and lifted a hand to rub her neck. Then she turned her chair round to face them.

  ‘Long enough to know whose tomb we are dealing with,’ she admitted. She gave Alec an apologetic look. ‘I am sorry, Alec, it is as I suspected.’

  Ethan pulled over a couple of canvas seats and he and Alec sat down. ‘Whose then?’ he said.

  Madeleine frowned. ‘It is the tomb of a man called Sonchis.’