This mention of David’s illustrious great-aunt brought a smile back to the dean’s face. “Very generous of you, indeed. And how is the dear, old girl doing these days? I don’t have to tell you what a treasure she is to us all. As spry as ever, I hope?”
“Very much so. I’ll be sure to give her your best wishes.”
“Please do.” The dean looked genuinely pleased; then leaned forward, placing both palms on his desk. “But back to the matter at hand,” he said. “I suppose the arrangements are all made for your return flight?”
“This coming Wednesday evening out of Kennedy.”
“I see. So if necessary you have a few days to do a little traveling?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, it depends on whether or not you still wish to reach Miss DeCaylus. I made a few calls last night on her present whereabouts—and if you hoped she was still on campus, I fear you’re going to be disappointed. It appears she was only here in Ithaca for the one day.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m afraid so. I was fortunate enough to reach her landlord off campus. She shared an apartment here with another young woman who, as it turns out, was married yesterday morning in a very small, very private, ceremony. Apparently, Elizabeth came in briefly to attend the affair, then left before the reception even began.”
David was skeptical. “What, choosing instead to attend my afternoon lecture? Does that sound even remotely plausible to you?”
“Not when you put it that way, no. On the other hand, your tour was widely advertised here at Cornell for months—and in case I never mentioned it, ancient Mediterranean history was her major field of study.”
“No, you didn’t,” said David. He found this of more than passing interest, for it might make his task a lot less difficult. “What else did you find out? Any idea where she is now?”
The dean tore a sheet off his notepad, handing it over. “Her landlord was reluctant to give out this information, mind you, but Margaret can be extremely persuasive. It’s an address in a small town out on Cape Cod. There’s no phone listing for it, by the way. She checked.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Then I take it you’re going to try reaching her?”
David nodded, folding the paper into his shirt pocket.
“Well, I’ll not press you on your reasons for all this,” said the dean, leaning back in his chair with an indulgent smile. “You know your own business. So where does this leave us? Anything more I can help with?”
David was glad of his friend’s patient forbearance. He would explain at some future point, but now wasn’t quite the time. “Since you make the offer, I’d like to know everything you can possibly tell me about her. No detail too small.”
The dean cocked his head.
“This really is important to you, isn’t it?”
“Trust me, Richard. I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t.”
CHAPTER TWO
The late summer wind came in chilly gusts off the choppy waters of Pleasant Bay, billowing the woman’s thin windbreaker and flattening the long, sun-coppered grass that fringed her isolated stretch of beach.
She shivered as she walked, pushing hands ever deeper into the pockets of her jeans. It seemed more like October, she thought, than the closing days of August. It was going to rain soon; she felt the storm brewing, taste its impending arrival in the briny air. It had been hours since the sun last broke through the fast-moving clouds overhead. Now all was dark and overcast. Sighing, she glanced seaward. Normally at this time of day the high, wind-sculptured dunes of Nauset Beach were visible across the narrow bay. Now they were nonexistent, completely lost in an impenetrable shroud of gray.
Putting her life back together wasn’t going to be easy, she knew; but then again, she’d never deceived herself into believing otherwise. Loneliness was the worst part—the cold reality that there was simply no one to turn to for meaningful advice or reassurance. But wasn’t this part of what she wanted? To finally be her own person? Now she felt uncertain, beginning to wonder if she was even capable. And her sense of depression only deepened as she turned and looked down at the single set of footprints criss-crossing the sand, the written record of her long and solitary afternoon spent pacing the empty shoreline.
Damn! I’m just no good at this!
She walked inland, taking the planked pathway leading back up to the solitary, old house of her childhood. Built late in the nineteenth century, it was a traditional ‘salt-box’ with two stories in front and one in the rear, its sloping roof angled sharply towards winter’s northeasters. The unpainted wood had long since weathered to a dull, silver patina from exposure to sun and sea air. Against the backdrop of the Cape’s south shore—a realm of shallow ponds and wind-carved dunes dressed in bayberry and heath—the visual effect was both natural and pleasing to the eye. And too, so wonderfully familiar! A tight smile crossed her lips as she drew near. If nothing else, she’d made at least one firm decision. Regardless of the estate lawyer’s well-intentioned recommendation, this house was definitely not going to be sold! No way. It was her anchor, encapsulated far too much of her past to ever let slip away.
She entered through a screened-in porch, exchanging her jacket for a heavy, woolen sweater. In the corner stood a tall, lidded box containing a full supply of driftwood. Tonight it would feed a cozy fire to ease the unseasonable chill. Little enough to look forward to, she knew, but at least it was something.
The open kitchen was old-fashioned, yet more than adequate for her simple needs. The only modern appliance—if such it could even be called—was a bulky, gas range her father installed some twenty years before. She put a kettle on the front burner, lighting a cigarette off the pale blue flame. With the water heating, she sat at the table and gazed out at the darkening landscape. Again she sighed, recalling how this was always her favorite spot as a little girl, particularly in the early morning hours. From here, she could see the gravel drive winding out to the main highway—and when the sun was angled just right, a tiny reflection off the distant church steeple on the outskirts of Chatham. Oh, dear, sweet Norman! Has it really been fourteen whole summers since you were laid to rest?
It still seemed incredible to Elizabeth that so many years had slipped by since last she sat at this table. Not all childhood memories were pleasurable. Some were distinctly painful. She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, reaffirming her recent resolve to never again let others dictate the course of her life. The ultimate cost was too great, the losses far too permanent. It was a lesson hard learned, one she was determined never to forget. What she needed was a new direction—but one of her choosing!
And to a degree this process had already begun.
Her overnight drive to Ithaca three days earlier had exemplified her determination to break free. She wouldn’t have gone were it only to attend her roommate’s wedding—for even after sharing an apartment for six months, they really weren’t all that close. Her true reason was to face Susan’s brother one final time. The last she spoke to him was on the day of her father’s funeral when she told him their engagement was off. A final confrontation was needed to assure herself—and him—that it was over. Thomas Cooper III, junior partner in one of Boston’s most prestigious law firms, was simply not the man with whom she wished to spend the rest of her life. It took the shock of her father’s sudden passing to make her see the ugly truth. It was never a true marriage being planned. Instead it was no more than a business arrangement, a convenient union of two wealthy New England families. And all of it orchestrated by her father from the very beginning, employing every skill and connivance at his command to bring them together. Yet as hurtful as this knowledge was, she still felt no true bitterness towards him. His actions, certainly. Never his motives. In his own imperious way he doubtless believed he was doing the right thing, artfully manipulating her to his will as always. The real tragedy of it all was she almost allowed it to happen.
Never again!
Outsid
e, the darkening sky appeared even more threatening, the gathering wind sending faint tremors through the walls. The prospect of a storm hitting after nightfall was beginning to unnerve her. She hated storms as much now as when a child—and having to endure it alone only added to her growing sense of unease.
Responding to the sharp whistle of the boiling kettle, she stood and turned off the burner. It was then she noticed headlights reflecting through the window. A car was pulling off the main highway and advancing up her gravel drive. A neighbor? It seemed unlikely. More than a week had passed since she opened up the old place, and no local had shown her the slightest interest. Someone taking a wrong turn was the most probable explanation. More puzzled than alarmed, she watched through parted curtains until the car came to a full stop. Only when the driver got out did she open the door and snap on the outside light.
What the—? She blinked, sure the problem must be her eyes. Under the circumstances any familiar face would be welcome—but this made no sense at all!
* * *
David was fortunate to make the last afternoon flight out of Boston’s Logan Airport. The plane was completely booked, only a timely cancellation putting him onto the short flight to Provincetown. He rented a car on arrival, driving south on US 6 to the town of Orleans. There he picked up Rte 28 and headed down to the village of Chatham on the Cape’s south shore. The entire drive took less than an hour. The sky had been clear at Provincetown Airport; now it was approaching nightfall, the wind blustery with a spattering of rain on the windshield.
An outside light came on as he got our and walked up to the house.
She was staring at him in the open door, her face conveying a combination of puzzled recognition and disbelief. Wearing an oversized sweater and faded jeans, she looked, if anything, even more striking than he remembered. Unlike two days before, her long auburn hair was now loosely gathered behind her slim neck and tied with a bright scarf. He’d be hard pressed, he thought, to say which treatment he preferred. Both were extremely attractive.
“Professor Manning—?”
He smiled, extending his hand. Never this close to her in the lecture hall, the vivid green of her eyes came as a pleasant surprise. “I hope I haven’t startled you Miss DeCaylus. Or perhaps caught you at a bad time?”
“No, really, I—” She paused as she took his hand. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone. Seeing you here comes as . . . well, as such a surprise.”
It was clearly an awkward moment for her.
He made it easier.
“I believe I owe you an apology for the other day,” he said. “It really wasn’t my intention to embarrass you in any way. If you can forgive me, there’s an important matter I’d very much like to discuss with you.”
“No, please, there’s really nothing to forgive.” She offered a tentative smile. “The fault was entirely mine. It—it wasn’t one of my better days.”
They went inside from the drizzling rain.
An hour later, David sat on an over-stuffed couch in the living room, allowing Elizabeth all the time she required to read through the yellowed stack of letters. Sitting across from him in a cushioned armchair, her slim legs were tucked up beneath her as she devoured every page. He felt encouraged by her somber expression. The papers were holding her interest—so much so, in fact, she now seemed oblivious to his presence. Her only discernable break in concentration was ten minutes earlier when she took a moment to light a cigarette. Since then it lay forgotten in a ceramic ashtray, its lazy spiral of smoke rising under a lampshade. Also untouched was a full mug of coffee at her elbow, now doubtless cold.
Waiting for her to finish, he let his eyes roam absently about the cozy room. Some aspects of the house actually gave him the odd sensation of having stepped backwards in time; heavy period furniture with large, floral patterns—quaint glass lamps with pyramid shades—tasseled throw-rugs spread randomly over dull, hardwood floors . . . All spoke of a bygone era. If there was a television set anywhere in the house—or even a radio—he’d yet to see it. The whole rural package intrigued him. It was pleasant enough, yet not quite what he expected as a summer residence for one of the wealthiest young women in New England.
Though his distraction by this curious observation seemed only momentary, when he shifted his attention back to Elizabeth, he found her now staring at him in icy silence—and apparently she had been for several long moments.
Her first words surprised him.
A very blunt question.
“Is it your opinion, Professor Manning, that my grandfather was insane?”
* * *
Elizabeth believed her question was entirely valid. She found the first of the letters to be somewhat puzzling; the balance a disturbing evolution into something that shocked her profoundly. There were a total of twenty-three letters in all, each written to a woman by the name of Edith Whiteley beginning in late October of 1955. The majority was postmarked out of either Cairo or Alexandria, the rest from places with unfamiliar names—and anyone reading them in chronological order would have to be blind not to see the progressive mental deterioration unfolding with each page. Towards the last, they were almost too pathetic to read. And this her own grandfather, for God’s sake!
She waited for David’s response, aware she was putting him on the spot, but not really caring. Part of what she felt was anger. If he came all this way simply to show evidence of her grandfather’s insanity, then it was nothing less than perverse! She wanted—deserved—a damn good explanation.
His reply fell far short.
“Truthfully,” he said, “I don’t know if he was, or not.”
“That’s no answer, Professor.”
“If you want me to say it, then yes, I do think your grandfather was experiencing a serious mental decline when those were written. But insanity?” He paused. “That’s one explanation, certainly—but hardly the only one.”
“Such as what?”
He lifted his hands. “Depression, physical exhaustion, uncounted days and weeks without adequate nourishment or sleep . . . you name it.”
Watching him respond, some of her initial anger receded, for unless he was a very gifted actor, he was making a real effort to be completely honest with her. He appeared to draw no pleasure from this. However, it still told her nothing.
“If I understand this right,” she said in a calmer voice, “My grandfather believed he was on the verge of a truly great discovery—or words to this effect, anyway. The writing in many of these is almost indecipherable, hardly more than a ragged scrawl. Since no such discovery ever happened, what does this say about his mental condition?”
Again she noted his thoughtful hesitation before answering.
“From what I’ve learned, Elizabeth, when all these letters were written your grandfather had been for years single-mindedly pursuing a dream that quite literally threatened to consume him. It was this dream—obsession, if you will—that kept him in Egypt for perhaps a full decade. I have no doubt he was under considerable strain when he started writing these . . . probably far more than anyone can even imagine.”
“You know a great deal about a failed archaeologist now dead for—what? Over sixty years?”
“Not nearly as much as I’d like. That’s why I’m here.”
She suspected much more was still going unsaid.
“And these things you do know,” she asked, lifting one of the letters, “did it all come from this woman in Greece?”
He gave an affirmative nod as he lit another cigarette.
“Edith is my great-aunt,” he explained. “She and Lionel met briefly when she was in Cairo in the summer of 1955. The actual details are unimportant. However, the result was your grandfather came to see her as a trusted friend, someone worthy of his confidences. When she returned to Greece, he started writing to her on a regular basis. It was totally one-sided in that she really couldn’t write back, never knowing his location at any given time.”
“I see.” A myriad of questions were taking
shape in Elizabeth’s mind. But where to even begin? She started with the most obvious. “Your great-aunt—did she know exactly what it was that so obsessed him? I know I can’t figure any of it out from these papers. He makes vague allusions now and then, but never really says what it is. ”
“To this day, Edith believes she’s probably the only person he ever shared it with, putting it down to his fear of being laughed at—even ridiculed—by his peers. Consequently, she understood the rationale behind his never stating it directly in these letters. I guess you could say he was somewhat paranoid about it.”
Elizabeth waited for him to elaborate.
“Tell me,” he now said, “just how familiar are you with the history of Alexander the Great?”
She blinked in confusion. “I don’t see what that’s got to—”
“I’ll be more specific. Do you know where Alexander’s body ended up after his death?”
Puzzled, she said, “I—I think it was brought to Egypt, wasn’t it? Not to Greece as was originally intended. On the Nile delta . . . Alexandria, I believe.”
He gave her a quick refresher lesson in history.
“As you said, when Alexander died in Babylon in 323 B.C., it was the intent of his generals to take his body back to Macedonia. The accepted plan was to bury him in the ancient hill fortress of Aegae, which we now know as the modern city of Vergina.”
“Where Phillip’s tomb was found . . .”
He again nodded. “Towards that end, they spent a full two years overseeing the construction of a massive, jewel-encrusted, sarcophagus of gold to hold his embalmed body, plus an equally elaborate funeral car to transport it a thousand miles up the old Royal Road of Persia to the Mediterranean. According to all accounts, no expense was spared, for even in death he was considered by his contemporaries to be a virtual god. But when this slow-moving catafalque reached Syria, the entire plan fell apart.
The Amun Chamber Page 3
