The Critics Praise
THE HIPPOPOTAMUS POOL

“FASCINATING … HER BEST IN YEARS, primarily because … super-bright Ramses hilariously dominated much of the action.”

—Chicago Sun-Times

“FUN … HER CHARACTERS ARE DELIGHTS… PETERS’S GREATEST STRENGTH IS DIALOGUE—always witty, often risque and totally non-Victorian, which somehow makes it work.”

—San Francisco Examiner

“A DELIGHT FROM START TO FINISH … presents the author and her detecting heroine in fine form.”

—Mostly Murder

“JUMP INTO THE ‘POOL.’ THE WATER’S FINE…. continues the mix of feminism, archaeological insights and humor that has made the series a success with readers.”

—Charleston Post & Courier

“READ THIS ONE—JUST FOR FUN.”

—Louisville Courier-Journal

“A DELICIOUSLY WITTY, COMPULSIVELY READABLE ROMP … sure to enchant both first-time readers and passionate Peters fans.”

—Book Page

“FANS WILL LOVE THE WAY OUR HEROES OUTWIT THEIR ENEMIES AND SOLVE THE MYSTERY.”

—Abilene Reporter News

READERS LOVE ELIZABETH PETERS!*

“Your books contain all the things I love the most: humor, adventure, mystery, romance, and intelligent, capable heroines.”

—J.C., British Columbia, Canada

“One of your most ardent fans is a seventeen-year-old student in SC. She is enthralled with all of your characters and writings. She even wants a pair of Turkish trousers.”

—C.S. Jr., Gastonia, NC

“I thought it was about time I should write to thank you for the laughter, entertainment, and even the broadening of my mind your books have given me.”

—M.S., Fish Hoek, South Africa

“Life without the comfort of a new ‘Elizabeth’ would be insupportable. I ration them. They got me through menopause—and you make me giggle like a teenager.”

—N.W. (no address)

“They are such intelligent books. I think I have read each book at least 10 times.”

—J.C.D., Rocky Point, NY

“I have just finished reading The Hippopotamus Pool. I laughed harder than ever. Hooray for Amelia, long may she wave! And Ramses too.”

—D.G., Middletown, NY

“So you have done it again! You have made Peabody, Emerson, and the others in your newest book live again for us readers who welcome old and new friends into our lives.”

—V.T.M., Tenafly, NJ

AND THE EXPERTS AGREE!

“Elizabeth Peters/Barbara Michaels has once again brilliantly evoked the mystery, excitement, and, yes, passion of a Golden Age of Egyptology, with generous doses of wit and suspense thrown in for good measure. This Egyptologist gives The Hippopotamus Pool three thumbs up!”

—Dr. W. R. Johnson, field director of The Epigraphic Survey, Oriental Institute (Chicago House, Luxor, Egypt)

“The queen of Egyptological fiction.”

—William J. Murname, Ph.D., University of Memphis

“ ‘The best Amelia yet’ is always the assessment of the latest installment of Elizabeth Peters’s suspense-cum-parody Amelia Peabody Emerson series, and this is certainly true of The Hippopotamus Pool.”

—Dennis Forbes, editor, KMT: A Modern Journal of Ancient Egypt

Books by Elizabeth Peters

NIGHT TRAIN TO MEMPHIS

THE SNAKE, THE CROCODILE AND THE DOG*

THE LAST CAMEL DIED AT NOON*

NAKED ONCE MORE

THE DEEDS OF THE DISTURBER*

TROJAN GOLD

LION IN THE VALLEY*

THE MUMMY CASE*

DIE FOR LOVE

SILHOUETTE IN SCARLET

THE COPENHAGEN CONNECTION

THE CURSE OF THE PHARAOHS*

THE LOVE TALKER

SUMMER OF THE DRAGON

STREET OF THE FIVE MOONS

DEVIL-MAY-CARE

LEGEND IN GREEN VELVET

CROCODILE ON THE SANDBANK*

THE MURDERS OF RICHARD III

BORROWER OF THE NIGHT

THE SEVENTH SINNER

THE NIGHT OF FOUR HUNDRED RABBITS

THE DEAD SEA CIPHER

THE CAMELOT CAPER

THE JACKAL’S HEAD

* Amelia Peabody mysteries

To George and Dennis

Copyright

Copyright © 1996 by MPM Manor, Inc.

All rights reserved.

Warner Books, Inc.

Hachette Book Group

237 Park Avenue

New York, NY 10017

Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

First eBook Edition: December 2009

ISBN 978-0-4465-7127-2

E2-20211011-PDJ-PC-AMZ

Acknowledgments

I have badgered and bored almost all my Egyptological friends about this book. I am particularly indebted to the following for supplying offprints, photographs, suggestions and encouragement:

Dennis Forbes, editor of KMT (who also suggested the title); George B. Johnson, his skilled colleague and photographer extraordinaire; The Wilbour Library of Egyptology of the Brooklyn Museum; Dr. Donald Ryan, who passed on Tetisheri’s good wishes; the entire staff of the Epigraphic Survey at Chicago House, Luxor, especially the Mudir, Peter Dorman, who dragged me, kicking and screaming, up to the top of Drah Abu’l Naga; Dr. Daniel Polz, who has politely refrained from finding Tetisheri’s tomb before I could do so; The Oriental Institute, its library and its director, Dr. William Sumner; Dr. Peter Der Manuelian, who designed the map and the tomb plan. He followed my (often confusing) instructions, so any errors and/or anomalies are my responsibility.

And Dr. Edna Russman, who was the first to mention to me the possibility that the statuette of Tetisheri might be a copy of an ancient original rather than an out-and-out forgery. She graciously admits that Emerson may have hit on the idea earlier.

Characters Appearing or Referred to in The Hippopotamus Pool

Abd el Hamed—antiquities dealer and forger, living in Gurneh

Abdullah ibn Hassan al Wahhab—reis (foreman) of Emerson’s Egyptian workmen

Ali—a suffragi (room steward) at Shepheard’s Hotel

Ali, Mohammed, Selim, et cetera et cetera—Abdullah’s sons, who also work for the Emersons

Ali Murad—antiquities dealer and American consular agent in Luxor

Amherst, William—Cyrus Vandergelt’s assistant, a young Egyptologist, who has very little to do with the story

Bertha—a woman of mystery, one of the Emersons’ former enemies

Brugsch, Emile—assistant to Maspero, first archaeologist to enter the cache of royal mummies at Deir el Bahri

Budge, Wallis—Keeper of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities at the British Museum; notorious for his questionable methods of acquiring objects for the museum

Carter, Howard—newly appointed Inspector of Antiquities for Upper Egypt

Daoud—Abdullah’s nephew

Emerson, Amelia Peabody—Victorian gentlewoman, archaeologist, and expert in crime

Emerson, Evelyn—Walter’s wife, granddaughter of the late Earl of Chalfont

Emerson, Radcliffe—Amelia’s husband, “the most eminent Egyptologist of this or any other era,” known to Egyptians as the Father of Curses and to his wife as Emerson

Emerson, Walter—Radcliffe’s brother, a specialist in the languages of ancient Egypt

Emerson, Walter Peabody—son of Amelia and Emerson, called Ramses by his friends and an afreet (demon) by almost everybody else

Forth, Nefret—ward of Amelia and Emerson, granddaughter of the late Lord Blacktower

Layla—Abd el Hamed’s third and most interesting wife

Mahmud—steward of the Emersons’ dahabeeyah

Marmaduke, Gertrude—hired by the Emersons to tutor their children

Maspero, Gaston—reappointed in 1899 to his former position as Director of Antiquities

Murch, Chauncey—American missionary and dealer in antiquities in Luxor

Newberry, Percy—English Egyptologist

O’Connell, Kevin—star reporter of The Daily Yell

Petrie, William Flinders—Emerson’s chief rival as the founder of scientific archaeology

Quibell, J. F.—newly appointed Inspector of Antiquities for Lower Egypt

Riccetti, Giovanni—formerly in control of the illegal antiquities trade in Luxor, he intends to regain that position by any means necessary

Sethos, aka the Master Criminal—formerly in control of the illegal antiquities network in Egypt, the chief adversary of Amelia and Emerson (and Ramses)

Shelmadine, Leopold Abdullah, aka Mr. Saleh—is he the reincarnation of the High Priest Heriamon or a member of a gang of tomb robbers? Or both?

Todros, David—Abdullah’s grandson

Vandergelt, Cyrus—American millionaire excavator and enthusiastic amateur of Egyptology

Washington, Sir Edward—a younger son with a talent for archaeological photography and a questionable reputation with the ladies

Willoughby, Dr.—English physician residing in Luxor

Introduction

For the convenience of readers who may be encountering Mrs. Emerson’s journals for the first time, we have obtained permission to reprint this excerpt from The National Autobiographical Dictionary, 45th edition.

The date of my birth is irrelevant. I did not truly exist until 1884, when I was in my late twenties.¹ It was in that year that I set out for Egypt with a young lady companion, Evelyn Forbes, and found the three things that were to give meaning and purpose to my life: crime, Egyptology and Radcliffe Emerson!

Emerson (who was beginning that remarkable career in archaeology which is described elsewhere in this dictionary) and his brother Walter were digging at the remote site of Amarna in Middle Egypt. Shortly after Evelyn and I joined them, the work was interrupted by a series of extraordinary events featuring what appeared to be an animated mummy. The unmasking of the villain who had inspired this apparition did not interfere unduly with a successful season of excavation.²

My marriage to Emerson took place soon thereafter, as did the union of Evelyn to Emerson’s brother. The birth of our only child, Walter Peabody Emerson, familiarly known as Ramses, necessitated a brief hiatus in our annual expeditions to Egypt. It was not until the autumn of 1889 that an appeal from the widow of Sir Henry Baskerville, whose death under mysterious circumstances had interrupted his excavation of a royal tomb at Thebes, took us back (with what delight the Reader may imagine) to Egypt. We were of course able to finish Sir Henry’s work and solve the mystery of his death.³

We had left our son with his aunt and uncle in England that season, since his extreme youth (and certain of his habits) would have imperiled him (and everyone around him). However, he had from an early age demonstrated a keen aptitude for Egyptology, so (at the insistence of his doting father) he accompanied us to Egypt the following year. We had hoped to work at the great pyramid field of Dahshûr that season, but the spite and jealousy⁴ of the then Director of Antiquities relegated to us the nearby site of Mazghunah—probably the dullest and least important archaeological site in Egypt. Fortunately our work was enlivened by our first encounter with the enigmatic genius of crime known as Sethos, or, as I preferred to call him, the Master Criminal.

The details of this amazing man’s career are shrouded in mystery, but it must have begun in the late 1880s, in the Luxor area. A few years later he had disposed of all rivals and ruled supreme over the illegal antiquities trade. All the objects looted from tombs and temples by unauthorized diggers, Egyptian and European, passed through his hands. Superior intelligence, a poetic imagination, utter ruthlessness, and an incomparable talent for disguise contributed to his success; only his most trusted lieutenants were aware of his true identity.

We were able that year to foil Sethos’s attempt to rob the princesses’ tombs at Dahshûr and to escape his attempts on our lives.⁵ He got away from us, though, and we found him on our trail again the following season. However, certain developments of a private nature (which are not within the scope of this article) gave us reason to believe we had seen the last of him.⁶

In the autumn of 1897 we set out for the Sudan, which was being reconquered by British-led Egyptian troops after a long period of occupation by the Dervishes. We had planned to excavate in the ruins of the ancient Cushite capital of Napata, but a message from Willy Forth, an old friend of Emerson’s who had been missing for over ten years, sent us out into the wastes of the Western Desert in search of him and his family. The details of that astonishing adventure (perhaps the most remarkable of our lives) have been recorded elsewhere;⁷ it resulted in the rescue of Forth’s daughter Nefret from the remote oasis where she had dwelt since her birth.

The winter of 1898-99 saw Emerson and me again at the site of Amarna. We had left Ramses and Nefret (now our ward) in England, and I looked forward to reliving the fond memories of my first meeting with my admirable spouse. The startling events that interrupted our excavations that year involve private personal matters that are inappropriate in an official biography;⁸ suffice it to say that we encountered for the third time our great and terrible adversary, the Master Criminal, and several of his henchmen, as well as a mysterious female known to us only as Bertha. The thrilling denouement of this adventure saw Sethos felled by an assassin’s bullet, the dispatch of the assassin by Emerson and the disappearance of Bertha and the henchmen….

I have often been asked to account for the frequency of our encounters with criminals of various varieties, but in my considered opinion it resulted inevitably from two causes: first, the uncontrolled state of excavation during the period in question, and second, the character of my husband. From the first, and at first almost single-handedly, Emerson fought tomb robbers, inept inspectors of antiquities and unprincipled collectors in his crusade to preserve the historic treasures of Egypt. Needless to say, I was ever at his side in the pursuit of knowledge and of villains.

1. Sic? This is not consistent with other sources. However, the editors were of the opinion that it would be discourteous to question a lady’s word.

2. Crocodile on the Sandbank

3. Curse of the Pharaohs

4. Mrs. Emerson refused to alter this statement, despite the editors’ objections to its prejudicial nature.

5. The Mummy Case

6. Mrs. Emerson’s reticence on this subject is difficult to understand, since she has described these events in the fifth volume of her Memoirs, Lion in the Valley.

7. The Last Camel Died at Noon

8. For the details of these private personal matters, cf. The Snake, the Crocodile and the Dog

CHAPTER ONE

The Trouble with Unknown Enemies Is That They Are So Difficult to Identify

Through the open windows of the ballroom the soft night breeze of Egypt cooled the flushed faces of the dancers. Silk and satin glowed; jewels sparkled; gold braid glittered; the strains of sweet music filled the air. The New Year’s Eve Ball at Shepheard’s Hotel was always an outstanding event in Cairo’s social season, but the dying of this December day marked an ending of greater than usual import. In little more than an hour the chimes would herald the start of a new century: January the first, nineteen hundred.

Having just completed a vigorous schottische in the company of Captain Carter, I sought a quiet corner behind a potted palm and gave myself up to speculation of the sort in which any serious-minded individual would engage on such an occasion. What would the next one hundred years bring to a world that yet suffered all the ancient ills of mankind—poverty, ignorance, war, the oppression of the female sex? Optimist though I am, and blessed with an excellent imagination (excessively blessed, according to my husband), I could not suppose a single century would see those problems solved. I was confident, however, that my gender would finally achieve the justice so long denied it, and that I myself would live to see that glorious day. Careers for women! Votes for women! Women solicitors and women surgeons! Women judges, legislators, leaders of enlightened nations in which females stood shoulder-to-shoulder and back-to-back with men!

I felt I could claim some small credit for the advances I confidently expected to see. I myself had broken one barrier: as the first of my sex to work as a field archaeologist in Egypt, I had proved that a “mere” woman could endure the same dangers and discomforts, and meet the same professional standards, as a man. Candor as well as affection compels me to admit that I could never have done it without the wholehearted support of a remarkable individual—Radcliffe Emerson, the most preeminent Egyptologist of this or any century, and my devoted spouse.

Though the room was filled with people, my eyes were drawn to him as by a magnet. Emerson would stand out in any group. His splendid height and athletic form, his chiseled features and bright blue eyes, the dark hair that frames his intellectual brow—but I could go on for several pages describing Emerson’s exceptional physical and mental characteristics. Humbly I acknowledged the blessings of heaven. What had I done to deserve the affection of such a man?

Quite a lot, in fact. I would be the first to admit that my physical characteristics are not particularly prepossessing (though Emerson has, in private, remarked favorably on certain of them). Coarse black hair and steely gray eyes, a bearing more noted for dignity than grace, a stature of indeterminate size—these are not the characteristics that win a man’s heart. Yet I had won the heart of Radcliffe Emerson, not once but twice; I had stood at his side, yes, and fought at his side, during the remarkable adventures that had so often interrupted our professional activities. I had rescued him from danger, nursed him through illness and injury, given him a son …

And raised that son to his present age of twelve and a half years. (With Ramses one counted by months, if not days.) Though I have encountered mad dogs, Master Criminals, and murderers of both sexes, I consider the raising of Ramses my most remarkable achievement. When I recall the things Ramses has done, and the things other people have (often justifiably) tried to do to Ramses, I feel a trifle faint.

It was with Ramses and his adopted sister Nefret that Emerson stood chatting now. The girl’s golden-red hair and fair face were in striking contrast to my son’s Arabic coloring and saturnine features, but I was startled to note that he was now as tall as she. I had not realized how much he had grown over the past summer.

Ramses was talking. He usually is. I wondered what he could be saying to bring such a formidable scowl to Emerson’s face, and hoped he was not lecturing his father on Egyptology. Though tediously average in other ways, Ramses was something of a linguistic genius, and he had pursued the study of the Egyptian language since infancy. Emerson feels a natural paternal pride in his son’s abilities, but he does not like to have them shoved down his throat.

I was about to rise and go to them when the music began again and Emerson, scowling even more horribly, waved the two young people away. As soon as she turned, Nefret was approached by several young gentlemen, but Ramses took her arm and led—or, to be more accurate, dragged—her onto the floor. The frustrated suitors dispersed, looking sheepish, except for one—a tall, slightly built individual with fair hair, who remained motionless, following the girl’s movements with a cool appraising stare and a raised eyebrow.

Though Ramses’s manners left something to be desired, I could not but approve his action. The girl’s lovely face and form attracted men as a rose attracts bees, but she was too young for admirers—and far too young for the admiration of the fair-haired gentleman. I had not met him but I had heard of him. The good ladies of Cairo’s European society had had a great deal to say about Sir Edward Washington. He came of a respectable family from Northamptonshire, but he was a younger son, without prospects, and with a devastating effect on susceptible young women. (Not to mention susceptible older women.)

The seductive strains of a Strauss waltz filled the room and I looked up with a smile at Count Stradivarius, who was approaching me with the obvious intention of asking me to dance. He was a bald, portly little man, not much taller than I, but I love to waltz, and I was about to take the hand he had extended when the count was obliterated—removed, replaced—by another.

“Will you do me the honor, Peabody?” said Emerson.

It had to be Emerson—no one else employs my maiden name as a term of intimate affection—but for an instant I thought I must be asleep and dreaming. Emerson did not dance. Emerson had often expressed himself, with the emphasis that marks his conversation, on the absurdity of dancing.

How strange he looked! Under his tan lurked a corpselike pallor. The sapphire-blue eyes were dull, the well-cut lips tightly closed, the thick black hair wildly disheveled, the broad shoulders braced as if against a blow. He looked … he looked terrified. Emerson, who fears nothing on earth, afraid?

I stared, mesmerized, into his eyes, and saw a spark illumine their depths. I knew that spark. It was inspired by temper—Emerson’s famous temper, which has won him the name of Father of Curses from his admiring Egyptian workmen. The color rushed back into his face; the cleft in his prominent chin quivered ominously.

“Speak up, Peabody,” he snarled. “Don’t sit there gaping. Will you honor me, curse it?”

I believe I am not lacking in courage, but it required all the courage I possessed to accede. I did not suppose Emerson had the vaguest idea how to waltz. It would be quite like him to assume that if he took a notion to do a thing he could do it, without the need of instruction or practice. But the pallor of his manly countenance assured me that the idea terrified him even more than it did me, and affection rose triumphant over concern for my toes and my fragile evening slippers. I placed my hand in the broad, calloused palm that had been offered (he had forgot his gloves, but this was certainly not the time to remind him of that little error).

“Thank you, my dear Emerson.”

“Oh,” said Emerson. “You will?”

“Yes, my dear.”

Emerson took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and seized me.

The first few moments were exceedingly painful, particularly to my feet and my ribs. I am proud to say that no cry escaped my lips and that no sign of anguish marred the serenity of my smile. After a while Emerson’s desperate grip relaxed. “Hmmm,” he said. “Not so bad, eh, Peabody?”

I took the first deep breath I had enjoyed since he took hold of me and realized that my martyrdom had been rewarded. For so large a man, Emerson can move with catlike grace when he chooses; encouraged by my apparent enjoyment, he had begun to enjoy himself too, and he had fallen into the rhythm of the music.

“Not bad at all,” Emerson repeated, grinning. “They told me I would like it once I got the hang of it.”

“They?”

“Ramses and Nefret. They were taking lessons this past summer, you know; they taught me. I made them promise not to tell you. It was to be a surprise for you, my dear. I know how much you like this sort of thing. I must say it is a good deal more enjoyable than I had expected. I suppose it is you who … Peabody? Are you crying? Curse it, did I tread on your toes?”

“No, my dear.” In shocking defiance of custom I clung closer to him, blotting my tears on his shoulder. “I weep because I am so moved. To think that you would make such a sacrifice for me—”

“A small enough return, my darling Peabody, for the sacrifices you have made and the dangers you have faced for me.” The words were muffled, for his cheek rested on the top of my head and his lips were pressed to my temple.

A belated sense of decorum returned. I strove to remove myself a short distance. “People are staring, Emerson. You are holding me too close.”

“No, I am not,” said Emerson.

“No,” I said, yielding shamelessly to his embrace. “You aren’t.”

Emerson, having “got the hang of it,” would allow no one else to waltz with me. I declined all other partners, not only because I knew it would please him but because I required the intervals between waltzes to catch my breath. Emerson waltzed as he did everything else, with enormous energy, and between the tightness of his grasp and the vigor of his movements, which had, on more than one occasion, literally lifted me off my feet, it took me some time to recover.

The intervals gave me the opportunity to observe the other guests. The study of human nature in all its manifestations is one no person of intelligence should ignore—and what better place to observe it than in a setting such as this?

The styles of that year were very pretty, I thought, without the exaggerated outlines that had in the past distorted (and would, alas, soon again distort) the female form. Skirts fell gracefully from the waist, sans hoops or bustles; bodices were modestly draped. Black was a popular shade with older ladies, but how rich was the shimmer of black satin, how cobweb-fine the sable lace at throat and elbow! The sparkle of gems and of jet, the pale glimmer of pearls adorned the fabric and the white throats of the wearers. What a pity, I thought, that men allowed themselves to be limited by the meaningless vagaries of fashion! In most cultures, from the ancient Egyptian until comparatively modern times, the male swanked as brilliantly as the female, and presumably took as much pleasure as she in the acquisition of jewels and embroidered and lace-trimmed garments.

The only exceptions to masculine drabness of attire were the brilliant uniforms of the Egyptian Army officers. In fact, none of these gentlemen were Egyptians. Like all other aspects of the government, the army was under British control and officered by Englishmen or Europeans. The uniforms denoting members of our own military forces were plainer. There were a good many of them present that night, and in my imagination I seemed to see a faint shadow darkening those fresh young faces, so bravely mustachioed and flushed with laughter. They would soon be on their way to South Africa, where battle raged. Some would never return.

With a sigh and a murmured prayer (all a mere woman can offer in a world where men determine the fate of the young and helpless) I returned to my study of human nature. Those who were not dancing sat or stood around the room watching the intricacies of the cotillion, or chatting with one another. A good many were acquaintances of mine; I was interested to observe that Mrs. Arbuthnot had gained another several stone and that Mr. Arbuthnot had got a young lady whom I did not recognize backed into a corner. I could not see what he was doing, but the young lady’s expression suggested he was up to his old tricks. Miss Marmaduke (of whom more hereafter) had no partner. Perched on the edge of her chair, her face set in an anxious smile, she looked like a bedraggled black crow. Next to her, ignoring her with cool discourtesy, was Mrs. Everly, wife of the Interior Minister. From the animation that wreathed her face as she carried on a conversation across Miss Marmaduke with the latter’s neighbor, I deduced that the lady, swathed in black veiling, was a Person of Importance. Was she a recent widow? No lesser loss could dictate such heavy mourning; but if that were the case, what was she doing at a social function such as this? Perhaps, I mused, her loss was not recent. Perhaps, like a certain regal widow, she had determined never to leave off the visible signs of bereavement.

(I reproduce the preceding paragraphs in order to demonstrate to the Reader how much can be offered to the serious student of human nature even in so frivolous a social setting as that one.)

It would be my last social event for some time. In a few more days we would leave the comforts of Cairo’s finest hotel for …

Well, only Heaven and Emerson knew where. It was one of his engaging little habits, to delay until the last possible moment before telling me where we would excavate that year. Irritating as this could be, it had a certain titillation, and I amused myself by considering the possibilities. Dahshûr? We had never finished exploring the interior of the Bent Pyramid, and pyramids, I must confess, are a passion of mine. Amarna would be equally to my taste, however, since it was there that my first romantic experiences with Emerson took place. The Theban area, too, had its attractions: royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings, the majestic temple of Queen Hatshepsut …

My meditations were interrupted by Nefret and Ramses. Her rose-petal cheeks aglow, the girl dropped into the chair at my side and glowered at her foster brother, who stood with arms folded and face expressionless. Ramses had graduated to long trousers that year—the sudden elongation of his lower limbs having made that decision advisable on aesthetic if no other grounds—and with his curly hair brushed into a rampant crest, he resembled a critical stork.

“Ramses says I may not dance with Sir Edward,” Nefret exclaimed. “Aunt Amelia, tell him—”

“Sir Edward,” said Ramses, prominent nose quivering, “is not a suitable person for Nefret to know. Mother, tell her—”

“Be quiet, both of you,” I said sharply. “I will be the judge of who constitutes a proper associate for Nefret.”

“Hmph,” said Ramses.

Nefret said something I did not understand. I supposed it to be one of the Nubian swearwords to which she resorted when in a temper. Temper, and the heat of the room, would have reduced any other female countenance to an ugly state of red-faced perspiration, but she could never appear other than beautiful; her cornflower-blue eyes sparkled wickedly and the sheen of perspiration that bedewed her skin made it glow as if lit from within.

“Ramses,” I said, “please go and ask Miss Marmaduke to dance. You owe her that courtesy, since she is to be your tutor.”

“But Mama—” Ramses’s voice cracked. Ordinarily he was able to control the inevitable fluctuations, from soprano to baritone, that mark a lad’s adolescence; on this occasion emotion had made him lose control, and his use of the childish form of address which he had recently abjured was further indication of perturbation.

“I believe your hearing is not deficient, Ramses,” I remarked.

Ramses’s countenance resumed its normal impassivity. “No, Mother, it is not, as I am sure you are aware. I will of course obey your command, for such I take it to be despite the manner in which it was couched, though I cannot but regard the use of the word ‘please’ in this context as a meaningless—”

“Ramses,” I said loudly, for I knew perfectly well what he was up to; he was quite capable of continuing the sentence until it would be too late to lead the unfortunate Miss Marmaduke onto the floor.

“Yes, Mother.” Ramses turned on his heel.

Her good humor restored, Nefret laughed and gave my hand a conspiratorial squeeze. “It serves him right for being so impertinent, Aunt Amelia. Miss Marmaduke is a perfect old maid!”

I had to admit the accuracy of the description. Miss Marmaduke was, by her own admission, still under the age of thirty, but she looked years older. Being taller than the average, she had acquired a habitual stoop; her mousy-brown hair stuck out in wisps from the pins and combs that attempted to confine it. However, the comment was rude and unkind, and I felt bound to point this out.

“The comment was rude and unkind, Nefret. She cannot help being plain, poor thing. We were fortunate to find her, since you and Ramses must not neglect your education this winter, and we were unable to hire a suitable tutor before we left England.”

Nefret made a face. I went on, “I would not have said so in Ramses’s presence, since he is already too inclined to think himself omniscient, but in this case I am forced to agree with him. Sir Edward has an unsavory reputation with regard to women—especially very young women. You are only fifteen and peculiarly vulnerable to such attentions.”

“I beg your pardon, Aunt Amelia.” She was out of temper with me now; her eyes snapped. “I believe I know more about the matters to which you refer than an English girl of fifteen.”

“You are an English girl of fifteen,” I replied. “And yet, in some ways, you are barely two years of age.” I paused, considering this striking analysis. “How interesting! I had never thought of your situation in quite those terms, but they are correct. The customs of the strange society in which you spent the first thirteen years of your life were so unlike those of the modern world that you have had to begin all over again—and forget a good deal of what you had learned, especially about—er—certain dealings with persons of the opposite gender. I am only trying to protect you, child.”

Her lovely face softened and again she took my hand. “I know that, Aunt Amelia. I am sorry if I was rude. I was angry with Ramses, not with you; he treats me as if I were a child and he a stern guardian. I will not be bullied by a little boy!”

“He is younger than you, to be sure,” I said. “But he has only your best interests at heart. And you can no longer look down at him, can you?”

I was unable to repress a smile as I watched Ramses doggedly guiding Miss Marmaduke through the mazes of the dance. She was trying to minimize her height by drooping and bowing her head, so that her high pompadour kept brushing his face. The contortions of that face, as Ramses heroically controlled his need to sneeze, made me feel more kindly toward my son. He would not have behaved like a gentleman if I had not made him, but now that he had taken the bit between his teeth, he was performing gamely against considerable odds. Miss Marmaduke had no more sense of rhythm than a camel, and her long-sleeved, high-necked black gown was inappropriate for a ball.

My ball gowns are usually crimson, since that is Emerson’s favorite color. The one I wore that evening was of quite a different shade. Nefret saw my expression alter; quietly she said, “You are thinking of the baby.”

It had been Nefret I sought on that terrible June morning, after the call came from Walter. We had had the telephone installed only the month before; little did I imagine that it would be a source of such shocking news.

I left Rose, my invaluable and tenderhearted parlormaid, sobbing into her apron, while our butler Gargery, his own eyes moist, tried to comfort her. Nefret was not in the house. After I had searched the stables and the gardens, I knew where she must have gone.

Some might think it a strange sort of monument to find on the grounds of a quiet English country house. In point of fact, fake ruins and pyramids had been quite the mode, and many a wealthy traveler to Egypt had brought back stelae and sarcophagi with which to adorn his property. The small brick pyramid, located in a quiet woodland glade, was not a modish ornament, however. It stood over the remains of a prince of Cush. He had lost his life in a vain but heroic attempt to restore Nefret to her family, and at the request of his brother, who had carried the quest to its triumphant culmination, we had given the gallant youth honorable burial in the manner of his own people. A little chapel, its lintel carved with the sun disk and the name and titles of the dead boy, stood at the base of the monument. Nefret went there from time to time; she had known Tabirka well, for he had been her playfellow in her youth. I myself occasionally spent a quiet hour near the pyramid; it was a pleasant place, surrounded by trees and wildflowers.

I found Nefret seated on the stone bench near the chapel, weaving flowers into a garland. She looked up when she heard me approach; I suppose my face must have betrayed the shock I felt, for she at once rose and led me to the seat.

“I am going to Chalfont Castle,” I said distractedly. “I have tried to reach Emerson and Ramses; they were not at the house in London or at the Museum, so I was forced to leave a message for them. I dare not delay, I must go to Evelyn at once. Will you come with me?”

“Of course, if you want me.”

“It may comfort Evelyn,” I said. “How is she to bear it? It was with Walter that I spoke …”

I would have gone on sitting there, in a stupor of disbelief and grief, if Nefret had not raised me to my feet and led me toward the house.

“I will help you pack, Aunt Amelia. And accompany you, of course. How did it happen?”

“Suddenly and—thank God—peacefully,” I said. “She was perfectly well last night when Evelyn tucked her into her cot. This morning the nurserymaid found her …”

I began weeping, I believe. Nefret’s slender arm went round my waist. “Don’t grieve, Aunt Amelia. I have asked Tabirka to look after her. His courage is as high as his heart is gentle; he will protect her from the perils of the darkness and carry her safely to the arms of the god.”

I had paid scant attention to Nefret’s little speech at the time, hearing only the comfort it was meant to convey. When it came back to me some time later, it gave me a queer feeling. Had I told her of the baby’s death? I could not remember having done so, and yet she had known—known before ever I spoke. Even more alarming was her reference to the ancient (and of course erroneous) religion she had supposedly abjured. Was that why she crept away to her foster brother’s chapel—to whisper prayers and make offerings to the old gods she secretly worshiped?

(The little offerings I occasionally left on the altar were simply tokens of respect, as I am sure I need not explain. And I am sure the bottles of Bickle’s Best Brown Stout I once found arranged in a neat row had been intended in the same way. They could not have come from Nefret, since the purchase of spirituous liquors was impossible for her. It was legally impossible for Ramses too, but Ramses had his methods—most probably Gargery, his devoted admirer.)

Evelyn and her husband Walter, Emerson’s younger brother and a distinguished Egyptologist in his own right, were our dearest friends as well as our closest kin. They were devoted to their children, and I expected I would find Evelyn prostrate. But when Wilkins the butler, his own eyes red-rimmed, announced our arrival, she came quickly to meet us, and outwardly at least she appeared less distraught than he.

“We have been more fortunate than most families, dear sister,” she said, with a set, rigid smile. “God has left us five healthy children. We must bow to His will.”

It would have been difficult to criticize this admirable demonstration of Christian fortitude, but as the summer went on I thought she was overdoing it. Tears and hysteria would have been preferable to that terrible smile. She would not wear mourning and became almost angry when I did so. And when, after anxious consultation with my husband and hers, I told her we had decided to remain in England that winter instead of going out to Egypt as we always did, she turned on me with the first bitter words I had ever heard from her. I should and must go. Did I have such a poor opinion of her that I believed she could not get on without my support? She did not need me. She did not need anyone.

Including her own husband. She and Walter now occupied separate sleeping chambers. Walter would not speak of it to me, he was too modest and too loyal to complain, but he was less reticent with Emerson—and Emerson is not reticent at all.

“Confound it, Peabody, what the devil is she up to? She will kill Walter; he loves her devotedly and would never think of—er—going with another woman. Men have their needs—”

“Oh, bah,” I exclaimed. “Don’t talk such pernicious nonsense to me! Insofar as that is concerned, women have needs too, as you of all people ought to be well aware … Emerson, let go of me at once. I will not be distracted, not at this time.”

“Curse it,” said Emerson. “She is doing it to punish him. Like Lysistrata. Peabody, if you ever dared pull a trick like that on me—”

“But my dear, it is not a trick on Evelyn’s part. I doubt she knows herself why she is acting as she is. I know, of course. She is angry—angry with heaven. She can’t get back at God, so she is punishing the rest of us, and herself most of all. She blames herself for the child’s death.”

“Don’t spout your psychological mumbo-jumbo at me,” Emerson shouted. “The notion is absurd. How could she blame herself? The physician said—”

“The human spirit is not rational, Emerson,” I said poetically. “I know whereof I speak; I myself have occasionally felt a pang of illogical guilt when Ramses got himself into some horrible scrape, even when it was entirely his own fault. Evelyn feels guilt and fear as well. She wants no more hostages to fate.”

“Ah,” said Emerson. He considered the idea. “But, Peabody, there are ways—”

“Yes, my dear, I know. Leaving aside the efficacy of those methods, and the impossibility of raising them with Evelyn at this time … It’s all beside the point, Emerson; we don’t need practical solutions just now, we need a way of rousing her and I—I don’t know how to do it.” I turned away. This time, when Emerson took me in his arms, I did not protest.

“You’ll think of something, Peabody,” he said gently. “You always do.”

But I had not, and four months had passed since that conversation. We had delayed our departure longer than usual, in the hope of seeing an improvement that did not, alas, occur, and because there were a number of new arrangements to be made this year. For the first time Ramses and Nefret were to accompany us and I was determined their education should not be interrupted. It proved to be much more difficult than I had anticipated to find a tutor of either sex. Most of the applicants I interviewed had declined the post after hearing that they would be expected to spend the winter in a tent or an Egyptian tomb. (A few hung on until after they had been interviewed by Ramses.)

So when, shortly after our arrival at Shepheard’s, I was approached by Miss Marmaduke, I could only regard it as an unexpected stroke of good fortune. Her credentials were excellent, her recommendations had come from the highest social circles, and her reason for seeking employment could only increase her value in my eyes; for, as she explained, she had come out on a Cook’s Tour and fallen in love with Egypt. Hearing from mutual acquaintances of our imminent arrival and our need of someone to educate the children, she had delayed her departure in the hope of obtaining a position with us—and, as she shyly explained, learning something about the antiquities of the country. This pleased Emerson, who had not been much taken with her when he first met her. He had hoped to begin training a lady Egyptologist but had been unable to find a suitable candidate. There were few women students at that time, since most professors would rather have had a homicidal maniac in their classes than a female. Miss Marmaduke had also some secretarial experience, and was quite willing to assist in the clerical duties all properly conducted archaeological excavations require.

(And the fact that Emerson had not been much taken with her was an additional point in her favor. Emerson is a very modest man. He has no idea of the effect he has on females.)

When the next waltz began and Emerson approached me I rose to meet him, determined to forget care in the pleasures of the dance. However, instead of leading me onto the floor he tucked my arm in his.

“Will you come with me, Peabody? I am sorry to rob you of your terpsichorean pleasures, but I feel sure that if given a choice, you would prefer the alternative I propose.”

“My dear Emerson,” I exclaimed, blushing. “The activity to which I assume you refer would always be my first choice, but can’t it wait? It would not be proper to leave the children unchaperoned.”

Emerson gave me a surprised look and then burst out laughing. “That activity will certainly have to be postponed—though, my dear Peabody, I hope not for long. We have an appointment. It may be a complete waste of time, but there is an outside chance that the fellow has useful information. Now don’t ask questions, we are already late. And don’t fuss about the children. They are old enough to behave themselves, and Miss Marmaduke’s presence should satisfy the proprieties. That’s why she is here, hang it, to watch over the children.”

“Who is the individual we are about to meet?”

“I don’t know. But,” Emerson said, forestalling the objection I was about to make, “the message I received from him this morning contained some intriguing information. Knowing where I plan to excavate this season, he offered—”

“He knows more than I, then,” I said sharply. “When did you decide that, Emerson, and why is a total stranger more familiar with your thoughts than your own wife and professional partner?”

Pulling me along, Emerson crossed the landing and started up the last flight of stairs. “Cursed if I know, Peabody. That was one of the things that provoked my curiosity. It was a deuced odd communication; the writer was clearly a man of intelligence and education, but he was equally clearly in a state of some agitation, demanding secrecy and hinting at unspecified but horrible dangers that threatened him. His claim that he knows the location of an unrobbed tomb is undoubtedly balderdash—”

“What?” The word came out in a high-pitched squeak, for the rapidity of his movements had left me short of breath. “Where?” I demanded. Emerson stopped and looked at me reproachfully.

“You needn’t scream, Peabody. At Thebes, of course. Specifically … but that is what we are about to discover. Come along, my dear, come along, or this mysterious individual may have second thoughts.”

A man stood before the door of our sitting room. He was not Emerson’s mysterious visitor; he wore the uniform that distinguishes the employees of Shepheard’s, and I recognized him as the suffragi who was on duty during the night hours. Seeing us, he sprang to attention. “Emerson Effendi! See, I have done as you asked. I have guarded your door. This person—”

“What person?” Emerson demanded, looking up and down the deserted hall.

Before Ali could reply, a form emerged from behind a turn in the corridor. It moved as silently as the specter it resembled; enveloped from shoulders to heels in folds of dark fabric, a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over its brow, it came to a halt some feet away. The nearest light was behind it and I felt sure it had chosen that position with deliberate intent, for the brim of the hat shadowed its features.

“Ah,” said Emerson, his good humor restored. “You are the gentleman who requested an appointment? I apologize for being late; it was all Mrs. Emerson’s fault. You don’t object to her joining us, I hope?”

“Not at all.” The comment was brief, the voice low and husky—obviously disguised.

Emerson opened the door. “After you, my dear Peabody. And you, sir, come in.”

I had left one lamp burning, for a number of unpleasant experiences had taught me it is unwise to enter a totally darkened room, but it gave only enough light to assure me that there were no assassins or burglars lying in wait. I was about to press the switch that would turn on the overhead lights when a hand closed over mine. I let out a little cry of surprise and Emerson exclaimed, “What the devil—”

“My heartfelt apologies, Mrs. Emerson,” said the stranger, releasing my hand—and just in time too, for Emerson had already seized him by the collar. “I did not mean to startle you. Please don’t turn on the lights. I am taking a terrible risk by coming here; allow me to preserve my anonymity until we have reached an agreement—if that can be done.”

“Confound it,” Emerson exclaimed. “I warn you, Mr. Saleh … Ah, but am I to take it that the name you gave me is not your own?”

“It will suffice for the present.” The stranger had moved away, into a pool of shadow. He raised his hands to his face. Was he praying? I thought not. An anticipatory shiver of excitement rippled through my limbs.

Emerson emitted a loud groan. “Oh, good Gad! Are we to have another of these melodramatic distractions? I suppose one season of simple archaeological excavation, uninterrupted by criminals, was too much to expect. Had I but known … Well, curse it, the damage is done. Even if I were to follow my instincts, which tell me to throw you out the door before you can utter a word, Mrs. Emerson would insist on hearing you out. She dotes on melodrama. If you have adjusted that mask to your satisfaction, Mr. Whoever-You-Are, sit down and start talking. I am a patient man, but my time is valuable and I strongly suspect that this will be—”

“He can’t start talking until you stop, Emerson,” I said. “Take that chair, Mr.—er—Saleh. May I offer you something to drink? Tea, coffee, brandy, whiskey?”

“Whiskey. Thank you.”

Mumbling to himself, Emerson waved me toward the sofa and went to the sideboard. Ignoring his complaints, I seated myself and studied the stranger curiously. The black cloak had fallen back; under it he wore ordinary European clothing. The name he had given was Egyptian, but the fact that he had accepted an alcoholic beverage meant he was not a Muslim—or at least not a very good one. I was unable to make out his features, since the mask of black silk covered his entire face and was fastened, in some manner I could not ascertain, under his chin. An orifice roughly oval in shape exposed his lips, and I assumed there were other openings to permit vision, though not even a gleam of eyeballs was visible under the brim of his hat.

Emerson handed me a glass and offered another to our visitor. He put out a hand to take it.

He must have been watching me as closely as I had examined him; seeing me stiffen, he let out a little coughing sound that might have been a laugh. “You are quick, Mrs. Emerson. Was that why you offered me refreshment?”

“It was an outside chance,” I said calmly. “But it is more difficult to disguise one’s hands than one’s face. The spots of old age can be covered, but not the protruding veins that are equally distinctive. Scars, calluses, birthmarks, the very shape of palm and fingers—or, as in this case, a distinctive article of jewelry…. Since you did not take the precaution of removing your ring before you came here, may I take it that you would not object if I asked to examine it more closely?”

“I had intended to let you do so, in confirmation of the story I am about to tell you.” He removed it from his finger and placed it on the palm I had extended.

Even an uneducated tourist would have recognized the basic design. In pharaonic times, scarabs were popular amulets, which carried a hieroglyphic inscription or a name on the flat undersurface. Replicas, some honestly proclaimed as such, some purporting to be ancient, were sold to tourists by the hundreds. In this case the scarab was not of the common faience or stone; it was, or appeared to be, solid gold. It had been fastened to the shank of the ring in a manner familiar to me from ancient examples: twisted gold wires on either side of the scarab-shaped bezel allowed it to pivot. When I turned it over I was not surprised to see the hieroglyphic signs that spelled a name. I recognized the name, but it was not one of the ones commonly found on such trinkets.

I handed the ring to Emerson, who studied it with a scowl as Mr. Saleh began to speak.

“This jewel has been handed down from generation to generation for over three thousand years. It is the symbol of the office of High Priest of the ka of Queen Tetisheri, whose name you see on the scarab. Only the body perishes; the immortal spirit, the ka of the Egyptians, passes on from one fleshly tenement to another. It has been my sacred duty over the long centuries to ensure the survival and the rebirth of that great queen. In my first incarnation, as Heriamon of Thebes, I was her faithful—”

Emerson’s roar made the window glass rattle. “Hell and damnation!”

“Emerson!” I exclaimed. “Do calm yourself. And be careful of the ring, it is twenty-two-carat gold and quite fragile.”

“Peabody, I will be damned if I will put up with this sort of thing.” The blood that had rushed to his tanned face turned it a pretty shade of mahogany, but he put the ring carefully into my hand before clenching his own hand into a fist and shaking it under my nose. “Reincarnation! Either he is a lunatic or he is inventing this lunatic tale in order to cover up a more sinister plan.” He jumped to his feet and lunged at the stranger.

Warned by Emerson’s initial scream of rage, the stranger had also risen. The pistol he now held in his hand brought even my impetuous husband to an abrupt halt. “Hell and damnation,” Emerson repeated, in a softer but even more ominous voice. “What is it you want, then? If you dare lay hands on my wife—”

“I have no intention of harming either of you,” was the quick response. “I go armed for other reasons, but I was not unprepared for your reaction. Only hear me out. What harm can it do?”

“Go on,” Emerson said curtly.

“What I told you is true. This body is only the latest of many my ka has inhabited. You may believe it or not, that is immaterial to me. I mentioned it only to explain the source of the knowledge I am about to offer you. I know the location of her tomb. I can lead you to it—a queen’s tomb, with its treasures intact.”

Emerson’s breath caught. He did not believe it—but oh, how he wanted to! He would not have sold his soul for wealth or the face that launched a thousand ships, but a royal tomb! Mephistopheles himself could have made no offer more seductive to the heart of an Egyptologist, even that of a scholar who prizes knowledge above vulgar fame. Emerson’s contributions to the field of Egyptology had won him the acclaim of his peers (and, I am sorry to say, a certain degree of vulgar fame as well), but he had never made that one outstanding discovery all archaeologists dream of. Could this be such a discovery?

“Where?” he demanded.

“Drah Abu’l Naga.” The stranger stepped back and lowered the pistol. Like me, he had observed the signs, not of belief but of the desire to believe.

In the days when he possessed a beard, Emerson had been wont to tug at it in moments of deep thought. Now sans beard, at my insistence, he had to content himself with rubbing the cleft in his chin. “Logical,” he muttered. “But if you know anything about Egyptology, which you obviously do, you could have reasoned that out. Devil take it, Saleh, or whoever you are, what are you really after? If you know where such a tomb is located, why would you offer it to me?”

“If I told you the truth, you would not believe me. No”— for I had attempted to return the ring to him—“it is mine no longer. The trust has passed on.”

“See here,” said Emerson, controlling his temper more successfully than I had imagined possible. “If you are implying that Mrs. Emerson is your successor—future incarnation—oh, the devil!”

“You, not she,” was the calm reply.

I held my breath, anticipating the threatened explosion. To my surprise, Emerson relaxed and a glint of humor warmed his stern face.

“That is a more seemly alternative than the other. Just how is the transfer of personality and/or sacred duty effected, Mr. Saleh? I trust you don’t expect me to undergo the standard purification rituals. Mrs. Emerson disapproves of beards, but I doubt she would allow me to shave my head, and not even for the honor of being high priest of Tetisheri would I give up my roast beef and—er—certain other activities.”

“Mockery is your defense against the truth, Professor. You will learn soon enough that our fates are foreordained; your destiny will come upon you and you will accept it. Until that time, believe, if you prefer to do so, that I have come to ask your help for purely practical reasons.

“The secret cannot be kept much longer. For a thousand generations we have protected her from the tomb robbers of Gurneh, from Greek and Roman and Byzantine thieves, from the predators of Europe and America. There are ways of leading searchers astray. When all else failed …”

“Murder?” I breathed the word.

“When all else failed. But now there are too many searchers for treasure, and the number continues to increase. Foreign archaeologists swarm over the cliffs of western Thebes, and the Theban thieves are busier than before. If she must be found, better it should be by a scholar than by the local robbers; they will destroy what they cannot carry away, sell the treasures to any purchaser, scatter them to the far ends of the earth. You will give me your promise—your solemn oath.” The hand that held the weapon had fallen to his side; he took a step closer to Emerson. “You will not allow her mummy to be violated. You will keep her funerary equipment intact and undamaged, treat her remains with reverence. Do you swear?”

The deep, solemn tones echoed like a prayer, or a curse. Emerson shifted uneasily, but he met the other man’s gaze straight on.

“I cannot swear,” he said. “If it were within my power, I would do precisely as you ask, though in all honesty I must tell you my motives would not be the same as yours. Such a find would be unique; scholarly principle would demand it be kept intact, guarded and carefully preserved. Your assessment is correct: if tomb robbers find it first, they will tear the mummy to pieces and destroy what they cannot carry off. It would be a tragedy in scientific terms…. Oh, good Gad, why am I wasting time in futile speculation? There is no such tomb, and even if there were, I could not give you my word, for mine would not be the ultimate decision.”

“You have said enough. You have spoken the truth. Few men would do that. And no man would fight to preserve her tomb as you would.”

“That is true,” I said, for Emerson remained silent. “And you know, Emerson, there is a good chance we could succeed. As the excavators we would have certain claims to the contents of the tomb; if we gave up those rights to the Museum, in exchange for M. Maspero’s promise that he would keep the objects all together—”

“Oh, do be quiet, Peabody!” Emerson turned on me, glaring. My dear Emerson is never more handsome than when he is in a rage. His large white teeth were bared, his eyes glowed like the eastern sky when the approach of night deepens the azure depths, his lean cheeks were becomingly flushed. Speechless with admiration (and with the impossibility of making myself heard over his bellowing), I gazed on him.

“It is just like you to plan an entire campaign of action on the basis of a fantasy,” Emerson went on bitterly. “My patience is running out, Saleh. I will give you”—he took out his watch—“precisely sixty seconds longer. If at the end of that time you have not produced something tangible to prove your claim, I will throw you out.”

Saleh had returned the pistol to his pocket. Coolly he resumed the chair he had abandoned and picked up his glass. “The ring is not proof enough?”

Emerson snorted, and Saleh went on, irony coloring his voice, “Not to a mind as rigidly logical as yours, I suppose. What would satisfy your requirements?”

“Precise directions,” Emerson replied promptly. “The entrance must be well hidden or it would have been found before this. There are many acres of rough, broken ground in the region you mentioned.”

“I thought you would say that.” Saleh had finished his whiskey. Placing the glass on the table, he reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “I was told … I …”

His voice broke in a horrible, rattling gurgle. One hand went to his throat; the other clenched, crumpling the paper it held. Emerson jumped forward, but he was too late; a violent, convulsive movement threw the stranger out of the chair and onto the floor.

“Get back, Peabody,” Emerson said, reinforcing the suggestion with a sharp shove. I got back in time to avoid a kick from the recumbent man; his limbs thrashed in uncontrolled, tetanic spasms that jerked his body back and forth, as if he were performing some prone and primitive dance. Emerson threw himself onto the writhing body and interrupted his eloquent curses long enough to gasp instructions. “Fetch a doctor, Peabody—go yourself, don’t—damnation!—Captain Cartright or—oh, good Gad!”

Even his formidable strength was taxed by the effort of holding the sufferer, in order to prevent injury not only from the furniture but from the violent spasms of his own tortured muscles. I needed no further admonitions; picking up my skirts, I ran.

By the time I reached the ballroom I was in a considerable state of breathless agitation and physical disarray. People fell back before my wild rush. At first the room was only a blur of color and movement; there were too many cursed uniforms, I could not locate the one I wanted. Forcing myself to calmness, I saw Captain Cartright guiding a stately dowager in purple plush through the mazes of the cotillion. I rushed to him and caught him by the arm.

“You must come at once, Captain Cartright! An emergency—strychnine poisoning … convulsions …”

“Good heavens,” exclaimed the person in purple, whom I now recognized as the wife of Cartright’s commanding general. “What is the meaning of this? The woman is mad or intoxicated!”

We stood in the center of a circle of gaping faces, for my voice, I daresay, had been shrill enough to attract attention.

“Instantly,” I insisted, shaking the captain. “He is dying! My sitting room—”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Emerson,” Cartright said quickly. “Where are your rooms?”

“This way,” said a voice behind me. It said no more; as Cartright followed after the speaker, I saw that it was Ramses. He was moving rapidly even for him, squirming through the crowd like an eel.

Now that help had been dispatched, I felt it would be advisable to catch my breath before hurrying back. Breathing slowly and deeply, I pondered the precipitation of Ramses. It was his insatiable curiosity, of course, but he might have had the courtesy to offer an arm to his mother.

Another gentleman did so. It was Mr. Jenkins, the assistant manager, and it may have been a desire to end the disturbance, rather than concern for me, that prompted his action. The dancing had stopped altogether and people were staring rudely. “What is wrong, Mrs. Emerson?” he inquired, leading me off the floor.

Realizing he had not heard my announcement to Captain Cartright, I decided not to enlighten him. He would only make a fuss. Hotel managers do not like to hear of dead or dying guests.

“It is all taken care of, Mr. Jenkins,” I replied, hoping that was the case. “Thank you.”

Anxious as I was to return to the scene of the action, I could not in conscience do so until I had made sure Nefret, now abandoned by Ramses, was safe in the charge of Miss Marmaduke. But that lady’s chair was now occupied by someone else, and as I continued to scan the room I caught sight of Nefret, alone and unescorted, entering from the direction of the Moorish Hall.

The sight of her would have aroused the direst suspicions in any maternal breast—the faint smile, the flushed cheeks, the slight disarrangement of her hair. The Moorish Hall, with its soft divans and pearl-inlaid furniture, is the most romantic setting imaginable; mashrabiya screens and painted arches enclose shaded recesses that might have been designed for lovers.

With a muttered “Good Gad,” I hastened to her. When she saw me, an even more betraying flush brightened her face. She began, “Oh, Aunt Amelia—”

“Come with me at once.”

“I was only—”

“Not now, Nefret. Hurry.”

By a fortunate chance, the lift was waiting. I directed the attendant to close the door and take us directly to the third floor. The presence of others prevented speech between me and my errant ward; she stood staring straight ahead, biting her lip and—I did not doubt—inventing alibis. However, as I hurried her along the corridor it began to dawn on her that my agitation might have a more serious cause than her misbehavior.

“What is wrong?” she exclaimed. “Has something happened? Oh, heavens—not to the Professor!” For such was her name for Emerson, who would have responded unfavorably to being called “Uncle Radcliffe.” He dislikes his given name, which is one of the reasons why I never employ it.

Not until I heard Nefret’s question and the alarm that deepened her voice did it dawn on me that Ramses might have jumped to a similar if erroneous conclusion. No wonder he had been in such a hurry. “Confound the boy,” I muttered, “I would have reassured him if he had waited a moment. It is his own fault.”

He and the captain had not arrived long before us. Ramses, arms folded and shoulders stiff, was looking particularly enigmatic. Cartright knelt by the fallen body. He glanced up as I entered and said, “I must have misunderstood, Mrs. Emerson. You will be relieved to know that there is no indication of poisoning; it is only—”

A long, quavering cry stopped him. The cry came from my throat, for I had seen that the form sprawled supine and senseless upon the floor was not that of the stranger.

Pushing the doctor aside, I fell on my knees and gathered his bleeding head into my arms.

“Emerson! Oh, my dear Emerson!”

“It is only a bump on the head, Mrs. Emerson,” Cartright said, picking himself up. “No cause for concern, I assure you.”

“No cause for concern!” I cried wildly. “You know not whereof you speak, sir. The last time he suffered such a blow … Emerson!” For his eyes had opened, and his gaze had focused on my face. “My dearest Emerson, speak to me. Who am I?”