The Golden One

by Elizabeth Peters

  Sebastian’s fist connected neatly and scientifically with Bertie’s jaw, knocking him over backward.

  13

  “Really,” I said in exasperation, “I cannot decide which of this evening’s outlandish activities to discuss first.”

  “I can,” said Emerson. “Good Gad, Bertie, don’t you know better than to fight like a gentleman?”

  We had left the party somewhat precipitately. I had known the moment I set eyes on him that Emerson had been up to something, but before I could interrogate him Nefret had run in to tell me Jumana was in hysterics and Bertie was nursing a lump on his jaw and a bump on his head and that Ramses was chasing Sebastian Albion through the gardens and that – in short, we had better go at once. We collected the others, including Ramses, who had cooled off enough to be tractable, and took them away. Since our house was nearer than the Castle, we had all gone there. Having removed coat, waistcoat, and tie, with a glass of whiskey and soda in his hand, Emerson felt in a proper frame of mind to lecture.

  “Bear in mind, my boy,” he went on, “that there is no purpose in fighting unless you mean to win. Never mind all that nonsense about fair play.”

  “I’ll remember that next time, sir,” Bertie said.

  “I sincerely hope there will not be a next time,” Katherine exclaimed. “Nefret, are you certain he doesn’t have a concussion, or a fractured skull, or -”

  “He did not fall very hard,” said Jumana.

  We all turned to look at her. She had wept on Nefret’s shoulder – Ramses having refused to offer his – all the way back, but whether from distress or pure excitement I would have hesitated to say.

  “I am sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean… But why is everyone angry with me? Why did Bertie want to fight with Sebastian? He was very polite, he only -”

  “Kept you there after you had said you wanted to go,” Nefret cut in. “Would he have continued to be polite, do you think, if we hadn’t arrived when we did?”

  Jumana’s lips trembled.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Bertie muttered. “She didn’t understand.”

  “Well, perhaps she didn’t,” I conceded. “I assumed… So I neglected to give her my little lecture. You remember the one, Nefret?”

  “Very well,” said Nefret, her tight lips relaxing. “I gave her the same lecture less than an hour ago. Evidently it didn’t make an impression.”

  She went to Jumana and lifted her out of her chair by her shoulders. “Have I your full attention now, Jumana? Bertie behaved tonight as any decent man would, coming to the assistance of an inexperienced young girl who is about to be…” She glanced at me, and went on, “… taken advantage of by an unscrupulous scoundrel. He’d have done it for any girl, Jumana, so don’t preen yourself! The only mistake he made was in playing by the rules and expecting Sebastian to do the same. Now go to your room and think about what I’ve said, unless you want to apologize to Bertie and thank him.”

  Red-faced and stuttering, Bertie exclaimed, “Oh, I say, she doesn’t owe me an apology. It was – well, it was – what one does, you know. Only I didn’t do it awfully well. I mean -”

  Jumana burst into tears and ran out of the room. Bertie smiled apologetically. “I seem to have mucked it up, as usual. Shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

  “You weren’t the only one,” Ramses said. He had also divested himself of his extraneous garments and was sitting on the floor by Nefret’s chair. “I made an even greater fool of myself, crashing through the shrubbery after him. I’ll probably get a bill from the hotel tomorrow for damaged plants.”

  “One good thing has come of it,” I declared. “We now understand the reason for the Albions’ politeness to Jumana. That disgusting young man still had – er – designs on her. Your warning to him, Ramses, only spurred him on. Some men, I believe, would consider an innocent girl a challenge.”

  “And safer than the brothels,” Ramses murmured.

  “Please, Ramses.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mother. I wouldn’t deny that one of Sebastian’s motives was seduction, but isn’t it somewhat strange that his father and mother would conspire with him? Especially his mother.”

  “Bah,” Emerson declared. “She thinks the Albions, father and son, are entitled to use any means possible to get anything they want. They want Jamil’s tomb. They believe Jumana can help them find it. It isn’t difficult to understand why they are so keen. Jamil gave them enough to whet their appetites.”

  He smiled provocatively at me.

  “So that is where you were tonight,” I said. “I suspected as much.”

  “No, Peabody, you didn’t suspect a cursed thing, or you would have insisted on going with me, and you’d have been caught in the act, as I almost was.”

  “Tell us all about it,” said Nefret, her dimples showing.

  “I have every intention of doing so, if the rest of you have finished chattering. It wasn’t my fault that I was almost caught,” Emerson went on. “One of the cursed sufragis turned up while I was trying my skeleton keys in the lock. He recognized me, of course, so I sent him on his way with a fistful of money and a few small curses. Once inside, I assumed my disguise.”

  He paused – ostensibly to sip his whiskey. I didn’t ask why he had bothered with a disguise. A disguise is its own excuse as far as Emerson is concerned.

  “You may well ask,” Emerson continued, smirking at me, “why I bothered with a disguise. It was a necessary precaution. If I had been found inside the room, by one of the Albions or a servant, the individual would only have caught a glimpse of a bearded Egyptian before I made my getaway, through the window or out the door. In fact, I was not disturbed. I had ample time to search all the rooms, which were interconnected. The loot, if I may so express it, was in Albion’s room. He and his wife occupy separate bedchambers.”

  “That is an extraneous fact, Emerson,” I said. “And none of our business.”

  “One never knows what may be relevant, Peabody. It is possible, though not probable, that she is unaware of Albion’s dealings with Jamil. He had a boxful of artifacts, including some fragments of the painting of Khonsu. Jamil must have sold him those and hinted that they were a meaningful clue. The lad had quite a sense of humor. As for the rest… Here’s the list, as nearly as I can remember. First, another cosmetic jar like the one you purchased, with the cartouche intact. It was, as Ramses deduced, that of the God’s Wife Shepenwepet. Second and third, two ushebtis inscribed for the same woman, approximately eight inches high, of blue-green faience. Fourth, and most remarkable, a sistrum of bronze inlaid with gold.” He took a sheet of paper from the table beside him. “I did this while you were all fussing over Bertie,” he explained. “My artistic skills are not as good as David’s, but I wanted to capture the details while I remembered them.”

  We gathered round to inspect the drawing. The sistrum was a musical instrument, rather like a rattle, played before various gods. It was dedicated to Hathor, goddess of music, whose image appeared here as the head of a woman with long curling locks and the characteristic cow’s ears. From this sculptured head rose a long loop of copper wire threaded with rods which were strung with beads, so that when the sistrum was held by its handle – this one in the shape of a lotus column – and shaken, it produced a pleasing if somewhat monotonous sound. All the elements I have described were present in Emerson’s sketch, which meant that this object was truly unusual, undamaged, and intact.

  “Couldn’t get the face right,” Emerson admitted. “It’s very beautiful. Obviously from a royal workshop.”

  “And made for a royal woman,” Ramses said. “I admire your forbearance, Father, I’d have been strongly tempted to take this. It ought to be in a museum.”

  “It will be,” Emerson assured him, with a snap of his teeth. “We’ll give the Albions plenty of rope, before we pull the noose tight. There can be no doubt; Jamil’s tomb is that of one of the Divine Wives of Amon, and if these small objects are representative of the cont
ents, Heaven only knows what else may be there.”

  Cyrus let out a low moan. “I’d sell my soul for a find like that. And if Joe Albion gets to it first, I’ll strangle him with my bare hands.”

  Next day I penned a courteous note to Mrs. Albion thanking her for her delightful party. It was somewhat hypocritical, as Emerson was quick to point out, but in my opinion a certain amount of hypocrisy is necessary in maintaining the social amenities. If everyone said exactly what he or she thought of everyone else, there would be no social amenities.

  “Anyhow,” I added, folding the note, “breaking off relations with the Albions would be a serious error until we get the goods on them.”

  We went to work as usual, but did not accomplish a great deal. Emerson’s discovery of the artifacts had whetted his appetite and stimulated his imagination. He tried to concentrate on the work at hand, but he would stop from time to time and stare off into space, mumbling to himself. How well I understood! The broken mud-brick walls of Deir el Medina were so pitiful in comparison to golden dreams of a royal tomb.

  Jumana had come late to breakfast, looking so woebegone and red around the eyes that Sennia demanded to know where it hurt and what she could do to make it better. Nefret distracted the child by describing the decorations of the ballroom and the lavish menu, and the Great Cat of Re provided an additional diversion by appearing with an agitated mouse in its mouth. With Sennia’s assistance Ramses managed to pry the cat’s jaws apart and remove the mouse, which he carried outside and released, to the utter disgust of Horus. I hoped that the presentation of unharmed, living prey was not becoming a habit with the confounded cat. Horus at least had the decency to dispose of his in private.

  I decided to say no more to Jumana. She had been punished by our combined disapproval and Nefret’s tongue-lashing, and after all, she had not committed a serious misdemeanor, only an error in judgment understandable in a young girl. After having been raised in one society she had had to learn the ways of another; and since she had only been acquainted with men whose moral sensibilities were irreproachable, it was not surprising that she should have misunderstood the despicable intentions of Sebastian Albion.

  She accepted the tedious task of sifting the fill without complaint and worked steadily all morning. When we stopped for luncheon she sat to one side, her eyes downcast, and Cyrus, kindhearted individual that he was, made an attempt to cheer her up.

  “How about helping me this afternoon?” he asked. “You’ve been at that rubbish dump all morning. That all right with you, Emerson?”

  “Certainly, certainly,” said my equally tenderhearted husband.

  “You were asking the other day about the theodolite,” Bertie said. “I’ll show you how to use it, if you like.”

  It was the first remark he had addressed to her, for she had kept out of his way. Her expressive face brightened.

  “Thank you. You are very kind.”

  By the end of the day she had recovered her good spirits. Whether she had had the decency to apologize to Bertie I did not know, but she was painstakingly polite to him and he responded like the nice lad he was, with no evidence of hard feelings.

  Several days passed without our hearing a word from the Albions, to the disappointment of Emerson, who had rather hoped they would notice that the stolen objects had been disturbed. If they questioned the sufragi who had found him trying to open the lock they would know the identity of the intruder.

  “The sufragi wouldn’t betray the Father of Curses,” said Ramses. “You ought to have left your card.”

  Emerson curled his lip in acknowledgment of this touch of humor.

  “Why stir them up?” Nefret asked. “They’ve abandoned their plans to excavate. Perhaps they’ve given up on finding the tomb.”

  “No, they have not,” Emerson grumbled. “Selim says they have hired that rascal Mohammed Hammad as their dragoman. He came back from wherever he was as soon as he got the word that Jamil was dead. He’s no more a dragoman than I am an opera singer.”

  “He’s a thief,” I agreed. “But you may be sure he doesn’t know any more about Jamil’s tomb than we do. He’d have been looting it before this if he did.”

  The weather had turned unusually hot for that time of year. Even the nights were still and warm. We were all affected by it to some extent, except for Emerson, who never feels the heat and who can sleep through an earthquake. Never would I relinquish the comfort of my husband’s presence, but I must say that lying next to him was rather like being in close proximity to an oven. After several restless nights, I had just got to sleep – or so it felt – when he mumbled loudly in my ear. It was the too-familiar refrain: “Hand of the god… what… where?”

  I gave him a rather sharp poke. He rolled over, shoving me to the edge of the bed.

  Wide awake and somewhat vexed, I abandoned any hope of repose. I went to the window and leaned out. The room was still dark but there was a freshness in the air that betokened the coming of dawn. It cooled my warm cheeks, and my temper. I had been standing there for several minutes when I heard the creak of an opening door. It was the door at the far end of the courtyard. I had been meaning to have Ali oil the hinges.

  It was light enough by now for me to see dim shapes. There were two of them in the doorway, huddled close together. A whisper reached my ears; one form vanished, the other moved slyly and quietly toward the house.

  I saw no need to wake Emerson; it is a laborious process at best, and I preferred to deal with this myself. I waited until she had almost reached her window before I climbed out of mine. She let out a stifled shriek and turned to flee, but I was too quick for her.

  “Where have you been?” I demanded, seizing her in a firm grip.

  “I – I -” Invention failed; she gasped, “Oh, Sitt Hakim, you frightened me!”

  “Where have you been, Jumana?”

  “Only for a walk. It was hot. I could not sleep.”

  “You were with a man. Don’t lie, I saw him.”

  “I did nothing wrong. Please believe me!”

  “So you have said before. What precisely did you do?”

  “I – I promised I would not tell. I gave my word!”

  Exasperation had caused me to raise my voice, and defiance, as I thought it, had caused her to raise hers. A grumble and a thrashing of bedclothes told me that we had wakened Emerson. These sounds were followed by a shout: “Peabody!” He always shouts when he reaches out and finds I am not beside him.

  “Here,” I called.

  Emerson stumbled to the window and looked out. “Is that… Oh, good Gad!”

  Only the upper half of his body was visible, but Emerson is a modest man; he retreated, cursing, and began looking for his clothes. I knew it would take him a while, so I pushed Jumana toward her window.

  “Go in. You are to remain in your room. If you leave the house without my permission, you need never come back.”

  She obeyed without resistance, verbal or physical. I thought I heard a little sob. It did not soften my heart.

  When I climbed back in my own window, Emerson was still searching for his trousers. “Never mind that, Emerson,” I said. “You may as well bathe and dress properly, it is almost morning. We have a serious problem on our hands. Jumana has been creeping out at night – possibly for several nights – and she was with a man. I am afraid it was Sebastian Albion.”

  “Damnation,” Emerson murmured. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, pushing it back from his face. “Are you sure?”

  “Who else would it be? Unless,” I added bitterly, “she has a whole string of them. How could I have been so deceived in her character? I am sadly disappointed, Emerson.”

  “Now, Peabody, don’t jump to conclusions.” He sat on the side of the bed and pulled me down next to him. “There may be an innocent explanation. Have you given her a chance to explain?”

  “She refused to answer my questions. She said she had given her word. Her word! To a vile deceiver like that!”
/>
  “Give her another chance.” A horrible idea struck him. In quavering tones he asked, “You don’t want me to question her, do you?”

  “No, Emerson, you are hopeless about such matters. I will give her another chance to confess, naturally. I will leave her locked in her room today and speak to her again this evening, after she has had time to repent.”

  “And you have had time to cool off,” said Emerson, putting an arm round my shoulders. “My dear, I don’t blame you for being hurt and disappointed, but – er – you aren’t going to starve her, I hope?”

  “Certainly not. I will take her breakfast to her myself. Later.”

  I felt calmer after a nice long bath, but I was not ready to face Jumana. I would be the first to admit that my maternal instincts are not well developed – they had been stunted, I believe, by the raising of Ramses – but I had become rather attached to Jumana. I had had such high hopes for her. To find that she was a sneak and a liar and – and worse, perhaps – had left me not only disappointed, but hurt. Yes, Emerson was right about that. I had believed she had become equally attached to us.

  When I went to breakfast, the Great Cat of Re was sitting on my chair, its chin on the table, its large green eyes fixed on the platter of bacon. “This is beginning to be like the house of the Three Bears,” I said. “It sits on our chairs, it sleeps on our beds, and now it is about to eat my porridge.”

  Sennia found this very witty, but nobody else did, including the cat. Ramses’s keen black eyes detected the perturbation behind my attempt at normalcy; brow furrowing, he started to speak, glanced at Sennia, and remained silent. It was Sennia who asked about Jumana. I explained that she was not feeling well and would spend the day in bed. “You are not to go in her room,” I added. “She needs to rest. Do you understand?”

  “Shall I take her a tray?” Fatima asked.

  “I will see to that,” I replied. “Later. Thank you, Fatima. Where is Gargery? It is time Sennia left for her lessons.”