V

MAZGHUNAH.

Mazghunah! Mazghunah …

No, there is no magic in the name, punctuate it as one will. Not even a row of exclamation points can lend charm to such an uncouth collection of syllables. Giza, Sakkara, Dahshoor are no more euphonious, perhaps, but they evoke the lure of antiquity and exploration. Mazghunah has nothing whatever to recommend it.

It does possess a railway station, and we descended from the train to find that we were eagerly awaited. Towering above the spectators who had gathered on the platform was the stately form of our reis, Abdullah, who had gone on ahead to arrange for transport and accommodations. He is the most dignified of men, almost as tall as Emerson – that is to say, above the average Egyptian height – with a sweeping array of facial hair that turns a shade lighter every year, so that it will soon rival the snowy whiteness of his robe. Yet he has the energy of a young man, and when he saw us a broad smile lightened the solemnity of his bronzed countenance.

After our luggage had been loaded onto the donkeys Abdullah had selected, we mounted our own steeds. ‘Forward, Peabody,’ Emerson cried. ‘Forward, I say!’

Cheeks flushed and eyes glowing, he urged his donkey into a trot. It is impossible for a tall man to look heroic when mounted on one of these little beasts; but as I watched Emerson jog away, his elbows out and his knees well up, the smile that curved my lips was not one of derision. Emerson was in his element, happy as a man can be only when he has found his proper niche in life. Not even the disappointment of de Morgan’s decision could crush that noble spirit.

The inundation was receding, but sheets of water still lay on the fields. Following the dykes of the primitive irrigation system, we rode on until suddenly the green of the trees and young crops gave way to the barren soil of the desert, in a line so sharp it appeared to have been drawn by a celestial hand. Ahead lay the scene of our winter’s work.

Never will I forget the profound depression that seized me when I first beheld the site of Mazghunah. Beyond the low and barren hills bordering the cultivation, a vast expanse of rubble-strewn sand stretched westward as far as the eye could see. To the north, outlined bravely against the sky, were the two stone pyramids of Dahshoor, one regular in outline, the other marked by the curious change in the angle of the slope that has given it the name of the ‘Bent Pyramid.’ The contrast between these two magnificent monuments and the undulating sterility of our site was almost too painful to be endured. Emerson had halted; when I drew up beside him I saw that his eyes were fixed on the distant silhouettes and that a grimace of fury distorted his lips.

‘Monster,’ he growled. ‘Villain! I will have my revenge; the day of reckoning cannot be far off!’

‘Emerson,’ I said, putting my hand on his arm.

He turned to me with a smile of artificial sweetness.

‘Yes, my dear. A charming spot, is it not?’

‘Charming,’ I murmured.

‘I believe I will just ride north and say good morning to our neighbour,’ Emerson said casually. ‘If you, my dear Peabody, will set up camp – ’

‘Set up camp?’ I repeated. ‘Where? How? With what?’

To call the terrain in this part of Egypt desert is misleading, for it is not the sort of desert the reader may picture in his mind – vast sand dunes, rolling smoothly on to infinity without so much as a shrub or ridge of rock. This area was barren enough; but the ground was uneven, broken by pits and ridges and hollows, and every foot of the surface was strewn with debris – fragments of broken pottery, scraps of wood and other, less palatable evidences of occupation. My experienced eye at once identified it as a cemetery site. Beneath the rock surface lay hundreds of graves. All had been robbed in ancient times, for the scraps littering the ground were the remains of the goods buried with the dead – and the remains of the dead themselves.

Ramses got off his donkey. Squatting, he began sifting through the debris.

‘Here, Master Ramses, leave that nasty rubbish alone,’ John exclaimed.

Ramses held up an object that looked like a broken branch. ‘It is a femuw,’ he said in a trembling voice. ‘Excuse me, Mama – a femur, I meant to say.’

John let out a cry of disgust and tried to take the bone away from Ramses. I understood the emotion that had affected the child, and I said tolerantly, ‘Never mind, John. You cannot keep Ramses from digging here.’

‘That nasty rubbish is the object of our present quest,’ Emerson added. ‘Leave it, my son; you know the rule of excavation – never move anything until its location has been recorded.’

Ramses rose obediently. The warm breeze of the desert ruffled his hair. His eyes glowed with the fervour of a pilgrim who has finally reached the Holy City.

ii

Having persuaded Ramses to abandon his bones for the nonce, we rode on towards the northwest. Near a ridge of rock we found our men, who had come down the day before to select a campsite. There were ten of them in all, including Abdullah – old friends and experienced excavators, who would supervise the unskilled labourers we expected to hire locally. I returned their enthusiastic salutations, noting as I did so that the camp consisted of a fire pit and two tents. Questioning elicited the bland response, ‘But, Sitt, there is no other place.’

On several of my expeditions I had set up housekeeping in an empty tomb. I recalled with particular pleasure the rockcut tombs of El Amarna; I always say, there is nothing more commodious or convenient than a tomb, particularly that of a well-to-do person. Obviously no such amenity was available here.

I climbed to the top of the ridge. As I scrambled among the stones I gave thanks for one blessing at least – that I was no longer encumbered by the voluminous skirts and tight corsets that had been de rigueur when I first took up the study of Egyptology. My present working costume had been developed and refined by myself, and was wholly satisfactory, aesthetically and practically. It consisted of a broad-brimmed man’s straw hat, a shirtwaist with long sleeves and a soft collar, and flowing Turkish trousers to the knee with stout boots and gaiters below the trousers. The uniform, if I may so designate it, was completed by an important accessory – a broad leather belt to which was attached a modification of the old-fashioned chatelaine. Instead of the scissors and keys housewives once attached to this device, my collection of useful tools included a hunting knife and a pistol, notepaper and pencil, matches and candles, a folding rule, a small flask of water, a pocket compass, and a sewing kit. Emerson claimed I jangled like a chained prisoner when I walked. He also objected to being jabbed in the ribs by knife, pistol, et cetera, when he embraced me. Yet I am certain the usefulness of each item will be readily apparent to the astute reader.

Abdullah followed me onto the hill. His face had the remote, meditative expression it wore when he was expecting a reprimand.

We were not far from the cultivation. A cluster of palms some half-mile distant betokened the presence of water, and among the palms I could see the low roofs of a village. Nearer at hand was the object I sought. I had caught a glimpse of it as we rode – the ruinous remains of a building of some sort. I pointed. ‘What is that, Abdullah?’

‘It is a building, Sitt,’ said Abdullah, in tones of amazement. One would suppose he had never noticed the place before.

‘Is it occupied, Abdullah?’

‘I do not think it is, Sitt.’

‘Who owns it, Abdullah?’

Abdullah replied with an ineffable Arabic shrug. As I prepared to descend the far side of the ridge, he said quickly, ‘That is not a good place, Sitt Hakim.’

‘It has walls and part of a roof,’ I replied. ‘That is good enough for me.’

‘But, Sitt – ’

‘Abdullah, you know how your Muslim reticence annoys me. Speak out. What is wrong with the place?’

‘It is filled with devils,’ said Abdullah.

‘I see. Well, don’t concern yourself about that. Emerson will cast the devils out.’

I hailed the others and directed them to follow me. The closer we approached, the more pleased I was with my discovery, and the more puzzled by it. It was not an ordinary house; the extent of the walls, some tumbled, some still intact, suggested a structure of considerable size and complexity. There were no signs of recent habitation. The barren waste stretched all around, with never a tree or blade of grass.

The building materials were an odd mixture. Some of the walls were of mud brick, some of stone. A few blocks were as large as packing cases. ‘Stolen from our pyramids,’ Emerson grumbled. He pushed through a gap in the nearest wall. I need not say I was close behind.

The area within had been a courtyard, with rooms on three sides and a stout wall on the fourth. The wall and the southern range of rooms had fallen into ruin, but the remaining sections had survived, though most gaped open to the sky. A few pillars supported a roofed walkway along one side.

Emerson snapped his fingers. ‘It was a monastery, Peabody. Those were the monks’ cells, and that ruin in the far corner must have been the church.’

‘How curious,’ I exclaimed.

‘Not at all. There are many such abandoned sanctuaries in Egypt. This country was the home of monasticism, after all, and religious communities existed as early as the second century A.D. The nearest village, Dronkeh, is a Coptic settlement.’

‘You never told me that, Emerson.’

‘You never asked me, Peabody.’

As we continued our tour of inspection I became conscious of a strange feeling of uneasiness. It was wholly unaccountable; the sun beamed down from a cloudless sky and, except for the occasional agitated rustle when we disturbed a lizard or scorpion from its peaceful nest, there was no sign of danger. Yet an air of brooding desolation lay over the place. Abdullah sensed it; he stayed close on Emerson’s heels and his eyes kept darting from side to side.

‘Why do you suppose it was abandoned?’ I asked.

Emerson stroked his chin. Even his iron nerves seemed affected by the atmosphere; his brow was slightly furrowed as he replied, ‘It may be that the water supply failed. This structure is old, Peabody – a thousand years, perhaps more. Long enough for the river to change its course, and for a deserted building to fall into ruin. Yet I think some of the destruction was deliberate. The church was solidly built, yet hardly one stone remains on another.’

‘There was fighting, I believe, between Muslims and Christians?’

‘Pagan and Christian, Muslim and Christian, Christian and Christian. It is curious how religion arouses the most ferocious violence of which mankind is capable. The Copts destroyed the heathen temples and persecuted the worshippers of the old gods; they also slaughtered co-religionists who disagreed over subtle differences of dogma. After the Muslim conquest, the Copts were treated leniently at first, but their own intolerance finally tried the patience of the conquerors and they endured the same persecution they had inflicted on others.’

‘Well, it does not matter. This will make an admirable expedition house. For once we will have enough storage space.’

‘There is no water.’

‘It can be carried from the village.’ I took my pencil and began making a list. ‘Repair the roof; mend the walls; insert new doors and window frames; sweep – ’

Abdullah coughed. ‘Cast out the afreets,’ he suggested.

‘Yes, to be sure.’ I made another note.

‘Afreets?’ Emerson repeated. ‘Peabody, what the devil – ’

I drew him aside and explained. ‘I see,’ he replied. ‘Well, I will perform any necessary rituals, but first perhaps we ought to go to the village and carry out the legal formalities.’

I was happy to acquiesce to this most sensible suggestion. ‘We should not have any difficulty obtaining a lease,’ I said, as we walked side by side. ‘Since the place has been so long abandoned, it cannot be of importance to the villagers.’

‘I only hope the local priest does not believe in demons,’ said Emerson. ‘I don’t mind putting on a show for Abdullah and the men, but one exorcism per day is my limit.’

As soon as we were seen the villagers came pouring out of their houses. The usual cries of ‘Baksheesh!’ were mingled with another adjuration – ‘Ana Christian, Oh Hawadji – I am a Christian, noble sir!’

‘And therefore entitled to additional baksheesh,’ said Emerson, his lip curling. ‘Bah.’

Most of the houses were clustered around the well. The church, with its modest little dome, was not much larger than the house next to it. ‘The parsonage,’ said Emerson, indicating this residence. ‘And there, if I am not mistaken, is the parson.’

He stood in the doorway of his house – a tall, muscular man wearing the dark-blue turban that distinguishes Egyptian Christians. Once a prescribed article of dress for a despised minority, it is now worn as a matter of pride.

Instead of coming to greet us, the priest folded his arms and stood with head held high like a king waiting to receive petitioners. His figure was splendid. His face was all but invisible, adorned by the most remarkable assemblage of facial hair I had ever seen. It began at ear level, swept in an ebon wave across cheeks and upper lip, and flowed like a sable waterfall almost to his waist. His eyebrows were equally remarkable for their hirsute extravagance. They were the only feature that gave any indication of the owner’s emotions, and at the moment their configuration was not encouraging, for a scowl darkened the pastoral brow.

At the priest’s appearance most of the other villagers faded quietly away. Half a dozen men remained, loitering near the priest. They wore the same indigo turbans and the same suspicious scowls as their spiritual leader.

‘The deacons,’ said Emerson with a grin.

He then launched into a speech of greeting in his most impeccable Arabic. I added a few well-chosen words. A long silence ensued. Then the priest’s bearded lips parted and a voice growled a curt ‘Sabakhum bil-kheir – good morning.’

In every Muslim household I had visited, the formal greeting was followed by an invitation to enter, for hospitality to strangers is enjoined by the Koran. We waited in vain for this courtesy from our co-religionist, if I may use that term loosely, and after an even longer silence the priest asked what we wanted.

This outraged Abdullah, who, though an admirable person in many ways, was not devoid of the Mussulman’s prejudice against his Christian fellow-countrymen. Ever since he entered the village he had looked as if he smelled something bad. Now he exclaimed, ‘Unclean eaters of swine’s flesh, how dare you treat a great lord in this way? Do you not know that this is Emerson, Father of Curses, and his chief wife, the learned and dangerous Lady Doctor? They honour your filthy village by entering it. Come away, Emerson; we do not need these low people to help with our work.’

One of the ‘deacons’ edged up to his leader and whispered in his ear. The priest’s turban bobbed in acknowledgment. ‘The Father of Curses,’ he repeated, and then, slowly and deliberately, ‘I know you. I know your name.’

A chill ran through my limbs. The phrase meant nothing to the priest, but all unknowingly he had repeated an ominous formula used by the priest-magicians of ancient Egypt. To know the name of a man or a god was to have power over him.

Abdullah found the comment offensive, though probably for other reasons. ‘Know his name? Who is there who does not know that great name? From the cataracts of the south to the swamps of the Delta – ’

‘Enough,’ Emerson said. His lips were twitching, but he kept a grave face, for laughter would have hurt Abdullah and offended the priest. ‘You know my name, Father? It is well. But I do not know yours.’

‘Father Girgis, priest of the church of Sitt Miriam in Dronkeh. Are you truly Emerson, the digger-up of dead man’s bones? You are not a man of God?’

It was my turn to repress a smile. Emerson chose to ignore the second question. ‘I am that Emerson. I come here to dig, and I will hire men from the village. But if they do not want to work for me, I will go elsewhere.’

The villagers had begun edging out into the open as the conversation proceeded. A low murmur arose from them when they heard the offer to work. All the fellahin, Muslim and Copt alike, are pitifully poor. The chance to earn what they considered munificent wages was not an offer to be missed.

‘Wait,’ the priest said, as Emerson turned away. ‘If that is why you have come, we will talk.’

So at last we were invited into the ‘manse,’ as Emerson called it. It was like all the other Egyptian houses we had seen, except that it was a trifle larger and slightly cleaner. The long divan that was the chief piece of furniture in the main room was covered with cheap, faded chintz, and the only ornament was a crucifix with a horribly lifelike image of Christ, smeared with red paint in lieu of blood.

At the priest’s suggestion we were joined by a timid little walnut-coloured gentleman who was introduced as the sheikh el beled – the mayor of the village. It was obvious that he was a mere figurehead, for he only squeaked acquiescence to everything the priest said until, the matter of employment having been settled, Emerson mentioned that we wanted to occupy the abandoned monastery. Then the mayor turned as pale as a man of his complexion can turn and blurted, ‘But, effendi, that is not possible.’

‘We will not profane the church,’ Emerson assured him. ‘We only want to use the rooms that were once storerooms and cells.’

‘But, great Lord, no one goes there,’ the mayor insisted. ‘It is accursed – a place of evil, haunted by afreets and devils.’

‘Accursed?’ Emerson repeated incredulously. ‘The home of the holy monks?’

The mayor rolled his eyes. ‘Long ago all the holy men were foully murdered, O Father of Curses. Their spirits still haunt their house, hungry for revenge.’

‘We do not fear devils or vengeful ghosts,’ Emerson said courageously. ‘If that is your only objection, effendi, we will take possession immediately.’

The mayor shook his head but did not protest further. The priest had listened with a sardonic smile. Now he said, ‘The house is yours, Father of Curses. May the restless spirits of the holy men requite you as you deserve.’

iii

Abdullah followed us along the village street, radiating disapproval as only Abdullah can. It felt like a chilly breeze on the back of my neck.

‘We are going the wrong way,’ I said to Emerson. ‘We entered the village at the other end.’

‘I want to see the rest of the place,’ was the reply. ‘There is something strange going on here, Amelia. I am surprised your vaunted intuition did not catch the undercurrents.’

‘They would have been hard to miss,’ I replied haughtily. ‘The priest is patently hostile to outsiders. I hope he won’t undermine our authority.’

‘Oh, I pay no attention to such persons.’ Emerson stepped over a mangy dog sprawled in the middle of the path. It growled at him and he said absently, ‘Good dog, then; nice fellow,’ before continuing, ‘It is not concern but curiosity that makes me wonder why the reverend gentleman should demonstrate such antagonism. I always have trouble with religious persons; they are so confoundedly superstitious, curse them. Yet the priest was rude to us even before he learned who we were. I wonder …’

His voice trailed off and he stood staring.

Half hidden by a splendid group of stately palms and partially removed from the rest of the village stood several houses. In contrast to the other hovels in that wretched place, these were in impeccable repair and freshly whitewashed. Even the dust before the doors looked as if it had been swept. Three of the houses were the usual small two- and three-room affairs. The fourth was somewhat larger and had undergone reconstruction. A stubby steeple graced the flat roof, and above the door was a sign in gilt letters on black. It read, ‘Chapel of the Holy Jerusalem.’

As we stood in silent wonderment, the door of one of the smaller houses opened. An explosion of small boys burst out into the open, shouting and laughing with the joy of youths escaping from studies. As soon as they caught sight of us they darted at us, shouting for baksheesh. One minuscule cherub caught at my trousers and stared up at me with eyes like melting chocolate. ‘Baksheesh, Sitt,’ he lisped. ‘Ana Christian – ana Brotestant!’

‘Good Gad,’ I said weakly.

Emerson put a hand to his head. ‘No,’ he cried passionately. ‘No. It is a delusion – it cannot be real. After all the other cruel blows of fate I have endured … Missionaries! Missionaries, Amelia!’

‘Courage,’ I implored, as the swarthy infant continued to tug at my trousers. ‘Courage, Emerson. It could be worse.’

Other children emerged from the door of the school – little girls, too timid to emulate the joie de vivre of their male counterparts. They were followed by another, taller form. For a moment he stood in the doorway blinking into the sunlight, and the rays of the noon-high orb set his silver-gilt hair to blazing like a halo. Then he saw us. A smile of ineffable sweetness spread over his handsome face and he raised a hand in greeting or in blessing.

Emerson collapsed onto a block of stone, like a man in the last throes of a fatal disease. ‘It is worse,’ he said in a sepulchral voice.

iv

‘Boys, boys.’ The beautiful young man strode towards us, waving his arms. He spoke in Arabic, perfectly pronounced but slow and simple. ‘Stop it, boys. Go home now. Go to your mothers. Do not ask for baksheesh, it is not pleasing to God.’

The youthful villains dispersed and their mentor turned his attention to us. At close range he was absolutely dazzling. His hair gleamed, his white teeth shone, and his face beamed with goodwill. Emerson continued to stare dazedly at him, so I felt it incumbent upon myself to address the amenities.

‘I fear we must apologize for intruding on private property, sir. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Amelia Peabody Emerson – Mrs Radcliffe Emerson – and this …’

‘This block of wood’ might have been an appropriate description, for all the response Emerson made, but the beautiful young man did not allow me to proceed. ‘You need no introduction, Mrs Emerson; you and your distinguished husband are well known to all visitors in Cairo. It is an honour to welcome you. I was informed only yesterday that you would be coming.’

The monolithic indifference or catatonia of Emerson was shattered. ‘Who informed you, pray?’ he demanded.

‘Why, it was M. de Morgan,’ said the young man innocently. ‘The director of the Antiquities Department. As you may know, he is working at Dahshoor, not far from – ’

‘I know the location of Dahshoor, young man,’ snapped Emerson. ‘But I don’t know you. Who the devil are you?’

‘Emerson!’ I exclaimed. ‘Such language to a man of the cloth!’

‘Pray don’t apologize,’ said the young gentleman. ‘It is my fault, for not mentioning my name earlier. I am David Cabot – of the Boston Cabots.’

This formula seemed to have some significance to him, but it meant nothing to me – nor, I hardly need add, to Emerson, who continued to glare at young Mr Cabot, of the Boston Cabots.

‘But I am forgetting my manners,’ the latter went on. ‘I am keeping you standing in the sun. Will you enter and meet my family?’

Knowing him to be unmarried, I assumed he was referring to his parents, but when I inquired he laughed and shook his head. ‘I refer to my spiritual family, Mrs Emerson. My father in the Lord, the Reverend Ezekiel Jones, is the head of our little mission. His sister also labours in the vineyards of the Lord. It is almost time for our midday repast; will you honour our humble abode?’

I politely declined the invitation, explaining that the other members of our expedition were waiting for us, and we took our leave. Before we were quite out of earshot, Emerson said loudly, ‘You were confoundedly polite, Amelia.’

‘You make it sound like a crime! I felt it necessary to be overly cordial to compensate for your rudeness.’

‘Rude? I, rude?’

‘Very.’

‘Well, I call it rude to walk into a man’s house and order him to leave off worshipping his chosen god. What effrontery! Mr Cabot and his “father in the Lord” had better not try their tricks on ME.’

‘I hardly think even Mr Cabot would try to convert YOU,’ I said, taking his arm. ‘Hurry, Emerson, we have been too long away. Goodness knows what mischief Ramses has got into by now.’

But for once Ramses was innocent of wrongdoing. We found him squatting in the sand near the monastery, digging. Already a small pile of potsherds had rewarded his efforts. At the sight of his dedicated labours Emerson’s expression lightened, and I hoped the irritation produced by the presence of the missionaries had been alleviated.

v

Shortly thereafter the arrival of a contingent of men from the village assured us that the priest did mean to cooperate with our endeavours. This first levy consisted of craftsmen – masons and brickmakers, carpenters and plasterers. Emerson beamed when he saw his augmented audience; he may and does deny it, but he loves putting on a theatrical performance. His exorcism that day was one of his best, despite the fact that he turned his ankle while capering around the house chanting poetry and prayers. The audience applauded enthusiastically and declared themselves relieved of all apprehension concerning evil spirits. Before long the place was swarming with activity, and I had high hopes that by nightfall we would have a roof over our heads and a cleared floor on which to place our camp cots, tables and chairs.

The men from Aziyeh did not fraternize with the villagers. Their professional skills and the parochialism of the peasant mentality, which regards a man from a village two miles off as a foreigner – not to mention the religious differences – made them view the ‘heretics’ with haughty contempt. I knew there would be no trouble, however, for Abdullah was an excellent foreman and his men were guided by him. No less than four of them were his sons. They ranged in age from Feisal, a grizzled man with grown children of his own, to young Selim, a handsome lad of fourteen. He was obviously the apple of his father’s eye and the adored Benjamin of the family. Indeed, his infectious boyish laughter and pleasant ways made him a favourite with all of us. In Egyptian terms he was already a man, and would soon take a wife, but since he was closer in age to Ramses than any of the others, the two soon struck up a friendship.

After I had watched the lad for a while and assured myself that my initial impression of his character was correct, I decided to appoint him as Ramses’ official guide, servant and guard. John’s unsuitability for the role was becoming only too apparent. He was always trying to prevent Ramses from doing harmless things – such as digging, which was, after all, our reason for being there – and allowing him to do other things, such as drinking unboiled water, that were not at all harmless. Besides, John was proving useful in other ways. He had picked up Arabic with surprising quickness and mingled readily with the men, displaying none of the insular prejudices that afflict many English persons, including some who ought to know better. As I swept sand from the large room, once the refectory of the monastery, that we had selected for our parlour, I could hear John chatting away in his ungrammatical but effective Arabic, and the other men laughing good-naturedly at his mistakes.

Late in the afternoon, when I emerged from the house to inspect the repairs on the roof, I saw a small procession advancing towards me. Leading it were two gentlemen mounted on donkeyback. The tall, graceful figure of Mr Cabot was immediately recognizable. Beside him was another man wearing the same dark clerical garb and a straw boater. It was not until the caravan had come closer that I realized the third person was female.

My heart went out to the poor creature. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved gown of dark calico, with skirts so full they almost hid the donkey. Only its head and tail protruded, with bizarre effect. One of the old-fashioned shovel bonnets – a style I had not seen in years – completely hid her face, and so enveloping was her attire it was impossible to tell whether she was dark or fair, young or old.

Mr Cabot was the first to dismount. ‘We are here,’ he exclaimed.

‘So I see,’ I replied, thanking heaven I had sent Emerson and Ramses out to survey the site.

‘I have the honour,’ Mr Cabot continued, ‘to present my revered mentor, the Reverend Ezekiel Jones.’

There was nothing in the appearance of this person to justify the reverence and pride in Mr Cabot’s voice. He was of middle height, with the heavy shoulders and thick body of a workingman, and his coarse features would have been better hidden by a beard. His forehead was crossed by lowering dark brows as thick as my finger. His movements were awkward; he climbed awkwardly off his mount and awkwardly removed his hat. When he spoke I had some inkling as to why he commanded the admiration of his young acolyte. His voice was a mellow baritone, marred by an unfortunate American accent, but resonant and musical as a cello.

‘How do, ma’am. We figured as how you could use some help. This here’s my sister, Charity.’

The woman had dismounted. Her brother grasped her by the shoulder and shoved her at me, like a merchant hawking his wares. ‘She’s a hard worker and a handmaiden of the Lord,’ he went on. ‘You tell her what you want done.’

A thrill of indignation passed through me. I offered the girl my hand. ‘How do you do, Miss Jones.’

‘We don’t use worldly titles,’ her brother said. ‘Brother David here tends to forget that. Oh, it’s all right, my friend, I know it’s respect that prompts you – ’

‘It is indeed, sir,’ said ‘Brother David’ earnestly.

‘But I don’t deserve respect, Brother. I’m just a miserable sinner like the rest of you. A few steps further up the road that leads to salvation, maybe, but a miserable sinner just the same.’

The self-satisfied smile with which he proclaimed his humility made me want to shake him, but the young man gazed at him with melting admiration. ‘Sister Charity’ stood with her hands folded at her waist and her head bowed. She looked like a silhouette cut out of black paper, lifeless and featureless.

I had been undecided as to whether to invite the visitors to enter the house; the decision was taken out of my hands by Brother Ezekiel. He walked in. I followed, to find that he had seated himself in the most comfortable chair the room contained.

‘You’ve got quite a bit done,’ he said in obvious surprise. ‘Soon as you paint over that heathen image on the wall – ’

‘Heathen?’ I exclaimed. ‘It is a Christian image, sir; a pair of matched saints, if I am not mistaken.’

‘“Ye shall make unto yourselves no heathen images,”’ Ezekiel intoned. His sonorous voice echoed hollowly.

‘I am sorry I cannot offer you refreshment,’ I said. ‘As you see, we are not yet settled in.’

This was an act of rudeness worthy of Emerson himself, for the portable stove was alight and the kettle was coming to the boil. As I was to learn, rudeness was no defence against Brother Ezekiel. ‘As a rule I don’t hold with stimulants,’ he remarked coolly. ‘But I’ll take a cup of tea with you. When in Rome, eh? I know you Britishers can’t get on without it. You set down, ma’am. Charity’ll tend to the tea. Well, go on, girl, where are your manners? Take off your bonnet. It ain’t overly bright in here and I don’t want you spilling nothing.’

The room was bright enough for me to get a good look at the face displayed by the removal of the absurd bonnet. It was not a fashionable style of beauty. Her skin was extremely pale – not surprising, if she went about in that stovepipe of a bonnet – and the delicacy of her features, combined with her diminutive size, made her look like a child some years away from the bloom of womanhood. But when she glanced shyly at me, as if asking my permission to proceed, I was struck by the sweetness of her expression. Her eyes were her best feature, soft and dark, half veiled by extraordinarily long, curling lashes. Her abundant brown hair was strained back from her face into an ugly bun, but a few curls had escaped to caress her rounded cheeks.

I smiled at her before turning a less amiable look on her brother. ‘My servant will prepare the tea,’ I said. ‘John?’

I knew he had been listening. The new door into the courtyard had been hung, and it stood a trifle ajar. The door promptly opened, and I felt an almost maternal pride when he appeared. He was such a splendid specimen of young British manhood! The sleeves of his shirt were rolled high, displaying the muscular arms of a Hercules. He stood with stiff dignity, ready to receive my orders, and I felt sure that when he spoke his vowels would be in perfect order.

The response to my summons was never uttered. Vowels and consonants alike died in his throat. He had seen the girl.

A phrase of Mr Tennyson’s struck into my mind with the accuracy of an arrow thudding into the centre of the target. ‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried the Lady of Shalott (a poor specimen of womanhood) when she first beheld Sir Launcelot. So might John have cried, had he been poetically inclined, when his eyes first beheld Charity Jones.

The girl was not unaware of his interest. It could not have been more apparent if he had shouted aloud. A faint, wildrose flush warmed her cheeks and she lowered her eyes.

The lashes and the blush completed John’s demoralization. How he managed to make and serve the tea I am sure I do not know, since he never took his eyes off the girl. I expected Brother Ezekiel to resent John’s interest. Instead he watched the pair with a curious absence of expression, and spoke scarcely a word. Brother David’s gentlemanly manners had never shown to better advantage. He carried on an animated conversation, describing with considerable humour some of the problems he and his colleague had encountered with the villagers.

I thought I would have to take John by the shoulders and turn him out of the room when he was finished, but on the third repetition of my dismissal he stumbled out. The door remained slightly ajar, however.

Mr Jones finally rose. ‘We’ll be getting back,’ he announced. ‘I’ll come for Charity at sundown.’

‘No, you’ll take her with you,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your offer of assistance, but I do not need it. My people have matters well in hand.’ The reverend started to object. I raised my voice and continued, ‘If I require domestic help I will hire it. I certainly will not permit this young lady to act as my scullery maid.’

Ezekiel’s face turned puce. Before he could speak, David said, ‘My dear Mrs Emerson, your delicacy does you credit, but you do not understand our views. Honest labour is no disgrace. I myself would willingly roll up my sleeves and wield brush or broom. I know Charity feels the same.’

‘Oh, yes, gladly.’ It was the first time the girl had ventured to speak. Her voice was as soft as a breeze sighing through the leaves. And the look she gave young David spoke louder than words.

‘No,’ I said.

‘No?’ Ezekiel repeated.

‘No.’

When I employ a certain tone and accompany it with a certain look, it is a brave man who dares contradict me. Brother Ezekiel was not a brave man. If he had been, his companion’s sense of fitness would have intervened.

‘We will take our leave then,’ he said with a graceful bow. ‘I hope our offer has not been misinterpreted.’

‘Not at all. It has only been declined. With thanks, of course.’

‘Humph,’ said Brother Ezekiel. ‘All right, then, if that’s how you want it. Good-bye. I will see you in church on Sunday.’

It was a statement, not a question, so I did not reply. ‘And your servant too,’ Ezekiel continued, glancing in a meaningful way at the partially open door. ‘We make nothing of the social distinctions you Britishers believe in. To us all men are brothers in the eyes of the Lord. The young man will be heartily welcome.’

I took Brother Ezekiel by the arm and escorted him out of the house.

As I watched them ride away, the girl a modest distance behind the two men, such indignation flooded my being that I stamped my foot – a frustrating gesture in that region, since the sand muffled the sound. The wretched pastor was not only a religious bigot and a crude boor, he was no better than a panderer for his god. Seeing John’s interest in Charity, he meant to make use of it in winning a convert. I almost wished Emerson had been there, to take the wretch by the collar and throw him out the door.

I described the encounter later to my husband as we sat before the door enjoying the magnificent display of sunset colours across the amber desert sands. Ramses was some distance away, still digging. He had amassed quite a sizable heap of potsherds and bones. The cat Bastet lay beside him. From time to time her whiskers quivered as the scent of roasting chicken from the kitchen reached her nostrils.

To my annoyance Emerson gave me scant sympathy. ‘It serves you right, Amelia. I told you you were too polite to that fellow.’

‘Nonsense. If you had met the Reverend Ezekiel Jones, you would realize that neither courtesy nor rudeness affects him in the slightest.’

‘Then,’ said Emerson coolly, ‘you should have drawn your pistol and ordered him to leave.’

I adjusted the weapon in question. ‘You don’t understand the situation, Emerson. I foresee trouble ahead. The girl is infatuated with young David, and John – our John – has taken a fancy to her. It is a classic triangle, Emerson.’

‘Hardly a triangle,’ said Emerson, with one of those coarse masculine snickers. ‘Unless the pretty young man takes a fancy to – ’

‘Emerson!’

‘To someone else,’ Emerson concluded, with a guilty look at Ramses. ‘Amelia, as usual you are letting your rampageous imagination run away with you. Now that your detectival instincts have been frustrated, by my removing you from the scene of Abd el Atti’s death, you are inventing romantic intrigues. Why can’t you confine your energies to the work that awaits us here? Forgo your fantasies, I beg. They are all in your own head.’

Ramses glanced up from his digging. ‘John,’ he remarked, ‘is in de house reading de Bible.’

vi

Alas, Ramses was correct. John was reading the Bible, and he continued to spend a great deal of his spare time in this depressing pursuit. The rest of his spare time was employed in mooning around the village (the expression is Emerson’s) in hopes of catching a glimpse of his love. When he came back with a light step and an idiotic smile on his face I knew he had seen Charity; when he tramped heavily, looking as if his dog had died, I knew his vigil had been unrewarded.

The morning after the visit of the missionaries we completed our preliminary survey of the site. Its total length was about four miles, from the village of Bernasht to a line approximately half a mile south of the Bent Pyramid of Dahshoor. We found traces of many small cemeteries, from the Old Kingdom to Roman times. Almost all had been thoroughly ransacked. Two sunken areas, one approximately three miles south of the Bent Pyramid, the other a quarter of a mile north of the first, were thickly covered with limestone chips. These, Emerson announced, were the remains of the pyramids of Mazghunah.

I repeated the word in a hollow voice. ‘Pyramids?’

‘Pyramids,’ Emerson said firmly. Clear on the horizon the monuments of Dahshoor rose in ironic commentary.

After luncheon Emerson declared his intention of paying a call on M. de Morgan. ‘We cannot begin work for another day or two,’ he explained glibly. ‘And Ramses ought to see Dahshoor. I had intended to take him to Giza and Sakkara but we left Cairo in such haste the poor lad was not even allowed to visit the Museum.’

‘There will be ample time for sightseeing after the season,’ I replied, neatly folding my napkin.

‘It is only courteous to call on our neighbour, Peabody.’

‘No doubt; but this is the first time I have ever seen you so conscious of propriety. Oh, very well,’ I added quickly. ‘If you insist, Emerson, we will go.’

We took Selim with us, leaving John to superintend the renovation of our living quarters and Abdullah to conclude the survey. He knew Emerson’s methods and was competent to carry them out; but it was a departure for Emerson to leave anyone else in charge. I knew it testified to the anguish of his spirit.

Despite the equanimity of temper for which I am well known, the closer we approached the noble monuments of Dahshoor, the more bitter was the emotion that choked me. With what indescribable yearning did I view the objects with which I had hoped to become intimately acquainted!

The two large pyramids of Dahshoor date from the same period of time as the Giza pyramids, and they are almost as large. They are built of white limestone, and this snowy covering exhibits bewitching changes of tint, according to the quality of the light – a mazy gold at sunset, a ghostly translucent pallor under the glow of the moon. Now, at a little past noon, the towering structures shone dazzlingly white against the deep blue of the sky.

There are three smaller pyramids at the site, built at a later period, when building skills had deteriorated. Constructed not of solid stone but of mud brick faced with stone, they lost their original pyramidal shape when the casing blocks were removed by their successors or by local peasants desirous of obtaining pre-cut building materials. Despite its ruined state, one of these brick pyramids – the southernmost – dominates the terrain, and from some aspects it appears to loom even larger than its stone neighbours. Stark and almost menacing it rose up as we approached, as dark as the great pyramids were pale. My eyes were increasingly drawn to it and finally I exclaimed, ‘What a strange and indeed sinister appearance that structure has, Emerson. Can it be a pyramid?’

Emerson had become increasingly morose as we neared Dahshoor. Now he replied grumpily, ‘You know perfectly well that it is, Peabody. I beg you will not humour me by pretending ignorance.’

He was correct; I knew the monuments of Dahshoor as well as I knew the rooms of my own house. I felt I could have traversed the area blindfolded. Emerson’s bad humour was due in no small part to the fact that he was aware of my poignant yearning and felt guilty – as well he might.

The Arabs called the dark structure the ‘Black Pyramid,’ and it merited the name, even though it more resembled a massive truncated tower. As we approached, signs of activity could be seen near the eastern side, where M. de Morgan was excavating. There was no sign of de Morgan, however, until Emerson’s hail brought him out of the tent where he had been napping.

M. de Morgan was in his thirties. He had been a mining engineer before being appointed to head the Department of Antiquities, a position traditionally held by a citizen of France. He was a good-looking man, with regular features and a pair of luxuriant moustaches. Even though he had been roused suddenly from sleep his trousers were neatly creased, his Norfolk jacket buttoned, and his pith helmet in place – though of course he removed this latter object of dress when he saw me. Emerson’s lip curled at the sight of this ‘foppishness’; he refused to wear a hat and usually went about with his sleeves rolled to the elbows and his shirt collar open.

I apologized for disturbing de Morgan. ‘Not at all, madame,’ he replied, yawning. ‘I was about to arise.’

‘High time, too,’ said my husband. ‘You will never get on if you follow this eastern custom of sleeping in the afternoon. Nor will you locate the burial chamber in that amateurish way – digging tunnels at random, instead of searching for the original opening to the substructure – ’

With a forced laugh, de Morgan broke in. ‘Mon vieux, I refuse to discuss professional matters until I have greeted your charming lady. And this must be young Master Emerson – how do you do, my lad?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ said Ramses. ‘May I go and look at de pyramid?’

‘A true archaeologist already,’ said the Frenchman. ‘Mais certainement, mon petit.’

I gestured at Selim, who had maintained a respectful distance, and he followed Ramses. De Morgan offered us chairs and something to drink. We were sipping wine when one of the tent flaps opened and another man appeared, yawning and stretching.

‘By the Almighty,’ said Emerson in surprise. ‘It is that rascal Kalenischeff. What the devil is he doing here?’

De Morgan’s eyebrows rose, but he said only, ‘He offered his services. One can always use an extra pair of hands, you know.’

‘He knows less about excavation than Ramses,’ said Emerson.

‘I will be glad of Master Ramses’ expertise,’ said de Morgan, smiling but clearly annoyed. ‘Ah, your highness – you have met Professor and Mrs Emerson?’

Kalenischeff shook Emerson’s hand, kissed mine, apologized for his disarray, asked after Ramses, commented on the heat and hoped that we were pleased with Mazghunah. Neither of us felt inclined to reply to this last remark. Kalenischeff put his monocle in his eye and ogled me in a familiar fashion. ‘At any rate, Madame lends beauty to an otherwise dismal site,’ he said. ‘What a fetching costume!’

‘I did not come here to talk about women’s clothing,’ said Emerson, scowling fiercely as the Russian studied my booted calves.

‘Of course not,’ Kalenischeff said smoothly. ‘Any advice or assistance we can offer you – ’

That is only a sample of the unsatisfactory tenor of the conversation. Every time Emerson tried to introduce a sensible subject, de Morgan talked about the weather or the Russian made some slighting suggestion. Needless to say, I burned with indignation at seeing my husband, so infinitely superior in all ways, insulted by these two, and finally I decided to suffer it no longer. I can, when necessary, raise my voice to a pitch and volume very trying to the ears, and impossible to ignore.

‘I wish to talk to you about the illegal antiquities trade,’ I said.

Kalenischeff’s monocle fell from his eye, de Morgan choked in mid-swallow, the servants jumped, and one dropped the glass he was holding. Having achieved my immediate goal of capturing the gentlemen’s attention, I continued in a more moderate tone. ‘As director of Antiquities, monsieur, you are of course fully informed about the situation. What steps are you taking to halt this nefarious trade and imprison the practitioners?’

De Morgan cleared his throat. ‘The usual steps, madame.’

‘Now, monsieur, that will not suffice.’ I shook my finger playfully and raised my voice a notch or two. ‘You are not addressing an empty-headed lady tourist; you are talking to ME. I know more than you suppose. I know, for instance, that the extent of the trade has increased disastrously; that an unknown Master Criminal has entered the game – ’

‘The devil!’ Kalenischeff cried. His monocle, which he had replaced, again fell from its place. ‘Er – your pardon, Madame Emerson …’

‘You appear surprised,’ I said. ‘Is this information new to you, your highness?’

‘There has always been illicit digging. But your talk of a Master Criminal …’ He shrugged.

‘His highness is correct,’ de Morgan said. ‘Admittedly there has been a slight increase in the illegal trade of late, but – forgive me, madame – the Master Criminal exists only in sensational fiction, and I have seen no evidence of a gang at work.’

His denials proved to me that he was quite unfit for his responsible position. Kalenischeff was obviously hiding something. I felt I was on the verge of great discoveries, and was about to pursue my inquiries more forcibly when a shout arose. It held such a note of terror and alarm that we all started to our feet and ran in the direction from which it had come.

Selim lay flat on the ground, his arms flailing, his cries for help rising to a frenzied pitch. Such a cloud of sand surrounded him that we were quite close before I realized what the trouble was. The terrain, west of the pyramid base, was very uneven, covered with sunken hollows and raised ridges – certain evidence of ancient structures buried beneath the sand. From one such hollow an arm protruded, stiff as a tree branch. Around it Selim was digging furiously, and it required very little intelligence to deduce that (A), the arm belonged to Ramses, and (B), the rest of Ramses was under the sand.

Bellowing in horror, Emerson flung Selim aside. Instead of wasting time digging, he seized Ramses’ wrist and gave a mighty heave. Ramses rose up out of the souterrain like a trout rising to a fly.

I stood leaning on my parasol while Emerson brushed the sand off his son, assisted halfheartedly by the others. When the worst of it was removed I uncorked my flask of water and offered it to Emerson, together with a clean white handkerchief.

‘Pour the water over his face, Emerson. I observe he has had the sense to keep his eyes and mouth tightly shut, so the damage should not be extensive.’

And so it proved. Emerson decided we had better take Ramses home. I agreed to the suggestion; the interruption had shattered the web I had been weaving around the villainous Russian, and there was no point in continuing. De Morgan did not attempt to detain us.

As we bade a reluctant farewell to Dahshoor, Selim tugged at my sleeve. ‘Sitt, I have failed you. Beat me, curse me!’

‘Not at all, my boy,’ I replied. ‘It is quite impossible to prevent Ramses from falling into, or out of, objects. Your task is to rescue him or summon assistance, and you performed quite well. Without you, he might have smothered.’

Selim’s face cleared. Gratefully he kissed my hand.

Emerson, with Ramses, had drawn a short distance ahead. Overhearing what I had said, he stopped and waited for us.

‘Quite right, Peabody. You have summed up the situation nicely. I have already cautioned Ramses to be more careful and – er – no more need be said on the subject.’

‘Humph,’ I said.

‘All’s well that ends well,’ Emerson insisted. ‘By the way, Peabody, what was the purpose of your quizzing de Morgan about antiquities thieves? The man is a perfect fool, you know. He is as ineffectual as his predecessor in office.’

‘I was about to question Kalenischeff about Abd el Atti’s death when Ramses interrupted, Emerson.’

‘Interrupted? Interrupted! I suppose that is one way of putting it.’

‘Kalenischeff is a most suspicious character. Did you observe his reaction when I spoke of the Master Criminal?’

‘If I had been wearing a monocle – ’

‘A most unlikely supposition, Emerson. I cannot imagine you wearing such an absurd accoutrement.’

‘If,’ Emerson repeated doggedly, ‘I had been wearing a monocle, I would have let it fall on hearing such a preposterous suggestion. I beg you will leave off playing detective, Amelia. That is all behind us now.’

vii

Emerson was, of course, engaging in wishful thinking when he said our criminal investigations were ended. If he had stopped to consider the matter, he would have realized, as I did, that removal from Cairo did not mean we were removed from the case. The thief who had entered our hotel room had been led thither as a result of our involvement in Abd el Atti’s death. I was as certain of that as I was of my own name. The thief had not found the object he was looking for. It must be something of considerable importance to him or he would not have risked entering a place as well guarded as Shepheard’s. The conclusion? It should be obvious to any reasonable person. The thief would continue to search for the missing object. Sooner or later we would hear from him – another attempt at burglary, or an assault on one of us, or some other interesting attention. Since this had not occurred to Emerson, I did not feel obliged to point it out to him. He would only have fussed.

On the following day we were ready to begin work. Emerson had decided to start with a late cemetery. I tried to dissuade him, for I have no patience with martyrs.

‘Emerson, you know quite well from the visible remains that this cemetery probably dates from Roman times. You hate late cemeteries. Why don’t we work at the – er – pyramids? You may find subsidiary tombs, temples, a substructure – ’

‘No, Amelia. I agreed to excavate this site and I will excavate it, with a thoroughness and attention to detail that will set new standards for archaeological methodology. Never let it be said that an Emerson shirked his duty.’

And off he marched, his shoulders squared and his eyes lifted to the horizon. He looked so splendid I didn’t have the heart to point out the disadvantages of this posture; when one is striding bravely into the future one cannot watch one’s footing. Sure enough, he stumbled into Ramses’ pile of potsherds and went sprawling.

Ramses, who had been about to go after him, prudently retired behind my trousers. After a malignant glance in our direction Emerson got up and limped away.

‘What is Papa going to do?’ Ramses inquired.

‘He is going to hire the workers. See, they are coming now.’

A group of men had gathered around the table where Emerson now seated himself, with John at his side. We had decided to put John in charge of the work records, listing the names of the men as they were taken on, and keeping track of the hours they worked, plus additional money earned for important finds. Applicants continued to trickle in from the direction of the village. They were a sombre group in their dark robes and blue turbans. Only the children lent some merriment to the scene. We would hire a number of the latter, both boys and girls, to carry away the baskets of sand the men filled as they dug.

Ramses studied the group and decided, correctly, that it promised to be a dull procedure. ‘I will help you, Mama,’ he announced.

‘That is kind of you, Ramses. Wouldn’t you rather finish your own excavation?’

Ramses gave the potsherds a disparaging glance. ‘I have finished it, to my own satisfaction. I was desirous of carrying out a sample dig, for, after all, I have had no experience at excavation, t’ough I am naturally conversant wit’ de basic principles. However, it is apparent dat de site is devoid of interest. I believe I will turn my attention now –’

‘For pity’s sake, Ramses, don’t lecture! I cannot imagine whence you derive your unfortunate habit of loquacity. There is no need to go on and on when someone asks you a simple question. Brevity, my boy, is not only the soul of wit, it is the essence of literary and verbal efficiency. Model yourself on my example, I beg, and from now on – ’

I was interrupted, not by Ramses, who was listening intently, but by Bastet. She let out a long plaintive howl and bit me on the ankle. Fortunately my thick boots prevented her teeth from penetrating the skin.

In the pages of this private journal I will admit I made a mistake. I should not have interrupted Ramses when he spoke of his future plans.

I was fully occupied all that morning with domestic arrangements. Not until after the men resumed work after the midday break did I have time to look them over.

The first trench had been started. We had fifty men at work with picks and shovels, and as many children carrying away the detritus. The scene was familiar to me from previous seasons, and despite the fact that I expected nothing of interest to turn up, my spirits lifted at the well-loved scene – the picks of the men rising and falling rhythmically, the children scampering off with the loaded baskets, singing as they worked. I walked along the line, hoping someone would stop me to announce a find – a coffin or a cache of jewellery or a tomb. Not until I reached the end of the trench did I make the discovery.

One frequently hears, from English and European tourists, that all Egyptians look alike. This is nonsense, of course; Emerson calls it prejudice, and he is probably correct. I will admit, however, that the omnipresent, shapeless robes and turbans create an impression of uniformity. The facial hair to which our workers were addicted also added to the impression that they were all closely related to one another. Despite these handicaps, it was not five minutes before I had seen one particular face that made an electrifying impression on me.

I sped back to Emerson. ‘He is here,’ I exclaimed. ‘In section A-twenty-four. Come at once, Emerson.’

Emerson, with a singularly sour expression on his face, was inspecting the first find of the day – a crude pottery lamp. He glowered. ‘Who is here, Amelia?’

I paused a moment for effect. ‘The man who was talking to Abd el Atti.’

Emerson flung the lamp onto the ground. ‘What the devil are you talking about? What man?’

‘You must remember. I described him to you. He spoke the gold sellers’ argot, and when he saw me, he – ’

‘Are you out of your senses?’ Emerson bellowed.

I seized his arm. ‘Come quickly, Emerson.’

As we went, I explained. ‘He was a very ill-favoured fellow, Emerson. I will never forget his face. Only ask yourself why he should turn up here, unless he is following us with some nefarious purpose in mind.’

‘Where is this villain?’ Emerson inquired, with deceptive mildness.

‘There.’ I pointed.

‘You, there,’ Emerson called.

The man straightened. His eyes widened in simulated surprise. ‘You speak to me, effendi?’

‘Yes, to you. What is your name?’

‘Hamid, effendi.’

‘Ah, yes, I remember. You are not a local man.’

‘I come from Manawat, effendi, as I told you. We heard there was work here.’

The answer came readily. The fellow’s eyes never left Emerson’s face. I considered this highly suspicious.

‘Proceed discreetly, Emerson,’ I said in a low voice. ‘If accused, he may strike at you with his pick.’

‘Bah,’ said Emerson. ‘When were you last in Cairo, Hamid?’

‘Cairo? I have never been there, effendi.’

‘Do you know Abd el Atti, the dealer in antiquities?’

‘No, effendi.’

Emerson gestured him to return to his work and drew me aside. ‘There, you see? You are imagining things again, Amelia.’

‘Of course he will deny everything, Emerson. You did not carry out a proper interrogation. But never mind; I didn’t suppose we would wring a confession from the villain. I only wanted to draw your attention to him.’

‘Do me a favour,’ Emerson said. ‘Don’t draw my attention to anyone, or anything, unless it has been dead at least a thousand years. This work is tedious enough. I do not need further aggravation.’ And off he marched, grumbling.

To be honest, I was beginning to regret I had acted so precipitately. I might have known Emerson would question my identification, and now I had let my suspect know I was suspicious of him. It would have been better to let him believe his disguise (of an indigo turban) had not been penetrated.

The damage was done. Perhaps, knowing my eyes were upon him, Hamid might be moved to rash action, such as a direct attack on one of us. Cheered by this reasoning, I returned to my work.

Yet I found it difficult to concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing. My gaze kept returning to the northern horizon, where the Dahshoor pyramids rose like mocking reminders of a forbidden paradise. Gazing upon them I knew how Eve must have felt when she looked back at the flowers and lush foliage of Eden, from which she was forever barred. (Another example of masculine duplicity, I might add. Adam was under no compulsion to eat of the fruit, and his attempt to shift the blame onto his trusting spouse was, to say the least, unmanly.)

Because of this distraction I was the first to see the approaching rider. Mounted on a spirited Arab stallion, he presented a handsome spectacle as he galloped across the waste. He drew up before me with a tug on the reins that made the horse rear, and removed his hat. The full effect of this performance was spoiled, for me, by the sight of the object de Morgan held before him on his saddle. The object was my son, sandy, sunburned, and sardonic. His look of bland innocence as he gazed down at me would have driven most mothers to mayhem.

Tenderly de Morgan lowered Ramses into my arms. I dropped him immediately and dusted off my hands. ‘Where did you find him?’ I inquired.

‘Midway between this place and my own excavations. In the middle of nowhere, to be precise. When I inquired of him where he thought he was going, he replied he had decided to pay me a visit. C’est un enfant formidable! Truly the son of my dear collègue – a splinter off the old English block of wood, n’est pas?’

Emerson came trotting up in time to hear the final compliment. The look he gave de Morgan would have withered a more sensitive man. De Morgan only smiled and twirled his moustaches. Then he began to congratulate Emerson on the intelligence, daring, and excellent French of his son.

‘Humph, yes, no doubt,’ Emerson said. ‘Ramses, what the devil – that is to say, you must not wander off in this careless fashion.’

‘I was not wandering,’ Ramses protested. ‘I was aware at all times of my precise location. I confess I had underestimated de distance between dis place and Dahshoor. What I require, Papa, is a horse. Like dat one.’

De Morgan laughed. ‘You would find it hard to control a steed like Mazeppa,’ he said, stroking the stallion’s neck. ‘But a mount of some kind – yes, yes, that is reasonable.’

‘I beg you will not support my son in his ridiculous demands, monsieur,’ I said, giving Ramses a hard stare. ‘Ramses, where is Selim?’

‘He accompanied me, of course,’ said Ramses. ‘But M. de Morgan would not let him come on de horse wit’ us.’

De Morgan continued to plead Ramses’ case, probably because he saw how much his partisanship annoyed Emerson. ‘What harm can come to the lad, after all? He has only to follow the line of the cultivation. A little horse, madame – Professor – a pony, perhaps. The boy is welcome to visit me at any time. I do not doubt we will have more interesting – we will have interesting things to show him.’

Emerson made a sound like a bull about to charge, but controlled himself. ‘Have you found the burial chamber yet?’

‘We have only just begun our search,’ said de Morgan haughtily. ‘But since the burial chambers are generally located directly under the exact centre of the pyramid square, it is only a matter of time.’

‘Not that it will matter,’ Emerson grunted. ‘Like all the others, it will have been robbed and you will find nothing.’

‘Who knows, mon cher? I have a feeling – here – ’ De Morgan thumped the breast of his well-tailored jacket – ’that we will find great things this season. And you – what luck have you had?’

‘Like you, we have only begun,’ I said, before Emerson could explode. ‘Will you come to the house, monsieur, and join us in a cup of tea?’

De Morgan declined, explaining that he had a dinner engagement. ‘As you know, Dahshoor is a popular stop for tourists. The dahabeeyah of the Countess of Westmoreland is there presently, and I am dining with her tonight.’

This boast failed to wound Emerson; he was not at all impressed by titles, and considered dining out a painful chore, to be avoided whenever possible. But the Frenchman’s other digs had hit the mark, and his final speech was designed to twist the knife in the wound. He wished us luck, told us to visit his excavations at any time, and repeated his invitation to Ramses. ‘You will come and learn how to conduct an excavation, n’est pas, mon petit?’

Ramses gazed worshipfully at the handsome figure on the great stallion. ‘T’ank you, monsieur, I would like dat.’

With a bow to me and a mocking smile at Emerson, de Morgan wheeled the horse and rode off into the sunset. It was the wrong direction entirely, and I had to agree with Emerson when he muttered, ‘These cursed Frenchmen – anything for a grand gesture!’

VI

IN the end Ramses got his way. After considering the matter, I decided it would be advisable for us to have some form of transport at hand, for the site was isolated and extensive. So we hired several donkeys, on a long-term lease, so to speak, and had the men build a shed for them near the ruins of the church. My first act upon coming into possession of the donkeys was, as usual, to strip off their filthy saddlecloths and wash them. It was not an easy task, since water had to be carried from the village, and the donkeys did not at all like being washed.

I will say for Ramses that he tried to be of use. However, he was more hindrance than help, falling over the water jars, getting more liquid on his own person than on the donkeys, and narrowly avoiding losing a finger to one irritated equine whose teeth he was trying to brush. The moment the animals were ready for locomotion he demanded the use of one.

‘Certainly, my boy,’ his naive father replied.

‘Where do you mean to go?’ his more suspicious mother demanded.

‘To Dahshoor, to visit M. de Morgan,’ said Ramses.

Emerson’s face fell. He had been deeply wounded by Ramses’ admiration for the dashing Frenchman. ‘I would rather you did not call on M. de Morgan, Ramses. Not alone, at any rate. Papa will take you with him another time.’

Instead of debating the matter, Ramses clasped his hands and raised imploring eyes to his father’s troubled face. ‘Den, Papa, may I make a widdle excavation of my own? Just a widdle one, Papa?’

I cannot fully express in words the dark suspicion that filled my mind at this patent demonstration of duplicity. It had been months since Ramses had mispronounced the letter l. His father had been absurdly charmed by this speech defect; indeed, I am convinced that it originated with Emerson’s addressing the infant Ramses in ‘baby-talk,’ as it is called. Before I could express my misgivings, Emerson beamed fondly at the innocent face turned up to his and said, ‘My dear boy, certainly you may. What a splendid idea! It will be excellent experience for you.’

‘And may I take one or two of de men to help me, Papa?’

‘I was about to suggest it myself, Ramses. Let me see whom I can spare – besides Selim, of course.’

They went off arm in arm, leaving me to wonder what Ramses was up to this time. Even my excellent imagination failed to provide an answer.

ii

The cemetery was of Roman date. Need I say more? We found small rock-cut tombs, most of which had been robbed in ancient times. Our labours were rewarded (I use the word ironically) by a motley collection of rubbish the tomb robbers had scorned – cheap pottery jars, fragments of wooden boxes, and a few beads. Emerson recorded the scraps with dangerous calm and I filed them away in the storeroom. The unrobbed tombs did contain coffins, some of wood, some moulded out of cartonnage (a variety of papier-mâché) and heavily varnished. We opened three of these coffins, but Emerson was forced to refuse Ramses’ request that he be allowed to unwrap the mummies, since we had no facilities for that particular enterprise. Two of the mummies had painted portraits affixed to the head wrappings. These paintings, done in coloured wax on thin panels of wood, were used in late times in lieu of the sculptured masks common earlier. Petrie had found a number of them, some exceedingly handsome, when he dug at Hawara, but our examples were crude and injured by damp. I hope I need not say that I treated these wretched specimens with the meticulous care I always employ, covering them with a fresh coating of beeswax to fix the colours and storing them in boxes padded with cotton wool, in the same manner I had employed with the portrait painting Emerson had rescued from Abd el Atti’s shop. They compared poorly with the latter, which was that of a woman wearing elaborate earrings and a golden fillet. Her large dark eyes and expressive lips were drawn and shaded with an almost modern realism of technique.

On Sunday, which was our day of rest, John appeared in full regalia, knee breeches and all. His buttons had been polished to dazzling brightness. Respectfully he asked my permission to attend church services.

‘But neither of the churches here are yours, John,’ I said, blinking at the buttons.

This rational observation had no effect on John, who continued to regard me with mute appeal, so I gave in. ‘Very well, John.’

‘I will go too,’ said Ramses. ‘I want to see de young lady dat John is – ’

‘That will do, Ramses.’

‘I also wish to observe de Coptic service,’ continued Ramses. ‘It is, I have been informed, an interesting survival of certain antique – ’

‘Yes, I know, Ramses. That is certainly an idea. We will all go.’

Emerson looked up from his notes. ‘You are not including me, I hope.’

‘Not if you don’t wish to go. But as Ramses has pointed out, the Coptic service – ’

‘Don’t be a hypocrite, Peabody. It is not scholarly fervour that moves you; you also want to see John with the young lady he is – ’

‘That will do, Emerson,’ I said. John gave me a grateful look. He was bright red from the collar of his jacket to the curls on his brow.

Services at the Coptic church had already begun when we reached the village, though you would not have supposed it to be so from the babble of voices that could be heard within. From the grove of trees where the American mission was situated the tinny tolling of the bell called worshippers to the competing service. There was a peremptory note in its persistent summons, or so it seemed to me; it reminded me of the reverend’s voice, and the half-formed idea that had come to me as we proceeded crystallized into a determination not to accede, even in appearance, to his demand that I attend his church.

‘I am going to the Coptic service,’ I said. ‘Ramses, will you come with me or go with John?’

Somewhat to my surprise, Ramses indicated he would go with John. I had not believed vulgar curiosity would win over scholarly instincts. However, the decision suited me quite well. I informed the pair that we would meet at the well, and saw them proceed towards the chapel.

The interior of the Coptic church of Sitt Miriam (the Virgin, in our terms) was adorned with faded paintings of that lady and various saints. There were no seats or pews; the worshippers walked about chatting freely and appearing to pay no attention to the priest, who stood at the altar reciting prayers. The congregation was not large – twenty or thirty people, perhaps. I recognized several of the rough-looking men who had appeared to form the priest’s entourage sanctimoniously saluting the pictures of the saints, but the face I had half-hoped to see was not among them. However, it did not surprise me to learn that Hamid was not a regular churchgoer.

I took up my position toward the back, near but not within the enclosure where the women were segregated. My advent had not gone unnoticed. Conversations halted for a moment and then broke out louder than before. The priest’s glowing black eyes fixed themselves on me. He was too experienced a performer to interrupt his praying, but his voice rose in stronger accents. It sounded like a denunciation of something – possibly me – but I could not understand the words. Clearly this part of the service was in the ancient Coptic tongue, and I doubted that the priest and the congregation understood much more of it than I did. The prayers were memorized and repeated by rote.

Before long the priest switched to Arabic and I recognized that he was reading from one of the gospels. This went on for an interminable time. Finally he turned from the heikal, or altar, swinging a censer from which wafted the sickening smell of incense. He began to make his way through the congregation, blessing each individual by placing a hand upon his head and threatening him with the censer. I stood alone, the other worshippers having prudently edged away, and I wondered whether I would be ignored altogether or whether some particularly insulting snub was in train. Conceive of my surprise, therefore, when, having attended to every man present, the priest made his way rapidly towards me. Placing his hand heavily upon my head, he blessed me in the name of the Trinity, the Mother of God, and assorted saints. I thanked him, and was rewarded by a ripple of black beard that I took to betoken a smile.

When the priest had returned to the heikal I decided I had done my duty and could retire. The interior of the small edifice was foggy with cheap incense and I feared I was about to sneeze.

The sun was high in the heavens. I drew deep satisfying breaths of the warm but salubrious air and managed to conquer the sneeze. I then took off my hat and was distressed to find that my forebodings had been correct. Of fine yellow straw, to match my frock, the hat was draped with white lace and trimmed with a cluster of yellow roses, loops of yellow ribbon and two choux of white velvet. Clusters of artificial violets and leaves completed the modest decorations, and the entire ensemble was daintily draped with tulle. It was my favourite hat; it had been very expensive; and it had required a long search to find a hat that was not trimmed with dead birds or ostrich plumes. (I deplore the massacre of animals to feed female vanity.)

As the priest’s hand pressed on my head I had heard a crunching sound. Now I saw the bows were crushed, the roses hung drunkenly from bent stems, and that the mark of a large, dirty hand was printed on the mashed tulle. The only consolation I could derive was that there was also a spot of blood on the tulle. Apparently one of my hat pins had pricked the ecclesiastical palm.

There was nothing to be done about the hat, so I replaced it on my head and looked about. The small square was deserted except for a pair of lean dogs and some chickens who had not been inspired to attend the service. As John and Ramses were nowhere to be seen, I walked towards the mission.

The church door stood open. From it came music – not the mellifluous strains of the organ or the sweet harmony of a trained choir, but motley voices bellowing out what I had to assume must be a hymn. I thought I recognized Ramses’ piercing, offkey treble, but I could not make out any of the words. I sat down on the same rock Emerson had once used as a seat, and waited.

The sun rose higher and perspiration trickled down my back. The singing went on and on, the same monotonous tune repeated interminably. It was finally succeeded by the voice of Brother Ezekiel. I could hear him quite well. He prayed for the elect and for those still in the darkness of false belief (every inhabitant of the globe except the members of the Church of the Holy Jerusalem). I thought he would never stop praying. Eventually he did, and the congregation began to emerge.

The ‘Brotestants’ appeared to be succeeding in their efforts at conversion, for Brother Ezekiel’s audience was somewhat larger than that of the priest. Most, if not all, of the converts wore the dark Coptic turban. Christian missionaries had had little success in winning over Muslims, perhaps for ideological reasons and perhaps because the Egyptian government disapproved (in a number of effective and unpleasant ways) of apostates from the faith of Islam. No one cared what the Copts did; hence the higher conversion rate and the resentment of the Coptic hierarchy against missionaries. This resentment had, on several occasions, resulted in physical violence. When Emerson told me of these cases I exclaimed in disbelief, but my cynical husband only smiled contemptuously. ‘No one slaughters a co-religionist with quite as much enthusiasm as a Christian, my dear. Look at their history.’ I made no comment on this, for in fact I could think of nothing to say.

Among the worshippers wearing the blue turban was one I recognized. So Hamid was a convert! When he saw me he had the effrontery to salute me.

Eventually John came out of the church. His face was pink with pleasure – and probably with heat, for the temperature in the chapel must have been over one hundred degrees. He came running to me, babbling apologies: ‘It was a long service, madam.’

‘So I observed. Where is Ramses?’

‘He was here,’ said John vaguely. ‘Madam, they have done me the honour to ask me to stay for dinner. May I, madam?’

I was about to reply with a decided negative when I saw the group coming towards me and forgot what I was going to say. Brother David, looking like a young saint, had given his arm to a lady – the same lady I had seen with him at Shepheard’s. Her gown that morning was of bright violet silk in a broché design; the short coat had a cutaway front displaying an enormous white chiffon cravat that protruded a good twelve inches in front of her. The matching hat had not only ribbons and flowers, but an egret plume and a dead bird mounted with wings and tail uppermost, as if in flight.

Completing the trio was Ramses, his hand in that of the lady. He was looking as pious as only Ramses can look when he is contemplating some reprehensible action, and he was smeared with dust from his once-white collar to his buttoned boots. Ramses is the only person of my acquaintance who can get dirty sitting perfectly still in a church.

The group bore down on me. They all spoke at once. Ramses greeted me, Brother David reproached me for not coming into the chapel, and the lady cried, in a voice as shrill as that of a magpie, ‘Ach du lieber Gott, what a pleasure it is! The famous Frau Emerson, is it you? I have often of you heard and intended on you to call and now you are here, in the flesh!’

‘I fear you have the advantage of me,’ I replied.

‘Allow me to present the Baroness Hohensteinbauergrunewald,’ said Brother David. ‘She is – ’

‘A great admirer of the famous Frau Emerson and her so-distinguished husband,’ shrieked the baroness, seizing my hand and crushing it in hers. ‘And now the mother of the liebe Kind I find you are – it is too much of happiness! You must me visit. I insist that you are coming. My dahabeeyah is at Dahshoor; I inspect the pyramids, I entertain the distinguished archaeologists, I gather the antiquities. This evening come you and the famous Professor Doctor Emerson to dine, nicht?’

‘Nicht,’ I said. ‘That is, I thank you, Baroness, but I am afraid – ’

‘You have another engagement?’ The baroness’s small muddy-brown eyes twinkled. She nudged me familiarly. ‘No, you have not another engagement. What could you do in this desert? You will come. A dinner party I will have for the famous archaeologists. Brother David, he will come also.’ The young man nodded, smiling, and the baroness continued, ‘I stay only three days at Dahshoor. I make the Nile cruise. So you come tonight. To the famous Professor Doctor Emerson I show my collection of antiquities. I have mummies, scarabs, papyrus – ’

‘Papyrus?’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes, many. So now you come, eh? I will the young Ramses with me take, he wishes to see my dahabeeyah. Then at night you will come and fetch him. Good!’

I gave Ramses a searching look. He clasped his hands. ‘Oh, Mama, may I go wit’ de lady?’

‘You are too untidy – ’ I began.

The baroness guffawed. ‘So a small boy should be, nicht? I will take good care of him. I am a mama, I know a mama’s heart.’ She rumpled his ebony curls. Ramses’ face took on the fixed look that usually preceded a rude remark. He loathed having his curls rumpled. But he remained silent, and my suspicions as to his ulterior motives, whatever they might be, were strengthened.

Before I could frame further objections the baroness started, and said in what is vulgarly called a pig’s whisper, ‘Ach, he comes, der Pfarrer. Too much he talks already. I escape. I come only to see Brother David, because he is so beautiful, but der Pfarrer I do not like. Come, Bübchen, we run away.’

She suited the action to the words, dragging Ramses with her.

Brother Ezekiel had emerged from the chapel. Behind him was Charity, hands clasped and face obscured by the bonnet. At the sight of her John jumped as if a bee had stung him. ‘Madam,’ he groaned piteously, ‘may I – ’

‘Very well,’ I said.

The baroness was certainly one of the most vulgar women I had ever met, but her instincts were basically sound. I also wished to run away from Brother Ezekiel. As I beat a hasty retreat I felt as if I had tossed John to him like a bone to a lion, in order to make good my escape. At least John was a willing martyr.

So the baroness had papyri. In my opinion that fact justified a visit. Emerson would not be pleased, though. I had lost John to the missionaries and Ramses to the baroness, and I had committed my husband to a social call of the sort he particularly abominated. However, there was one mitigating circumstance. We would be alone in the house that afternoon, and I had no doubt I could persuade Emerson to do his duty.

iii

Emerson was duly persuaded. He refused to wear proper evening dress, and I did not insist, for I had discovered that my red velvet gown was not suited to riding donkey-back. I put on my best Turkish trousers and we set off, accompanied by Selim and Daoud.

Bastet had been even more annoyed than Emerson to learn I had not brought Ramses back with me. We had shut her in one of the empty storerooms to prevent her from attending church with us; when I let her out she addressed me in raucous complaint and bolted out of the house. She had not returned by the time we left, nor had John.

‘Something must be done about this nonsense, Amelia,’ Emerson declared, as we jogged northward. ‘I won’t have John turning into a Brother of Jerusalem. I thought he had more intelligence. I am disappointed in him.’

‘He has not been converted by Brother Ezekiel, you booby,’ I said affectionately. ‘He is in love, and as you ought to know, intelligence is no defence against that perilous condition.’

Instead of responding to this tender remark, Emerson only grunted.

It was another of those perfect desert evenings. A cool breeze swept away the heat of the day. The western sky was awash with crimson and gold, while the heavens above our heads had the clear translucence of a deep-blue china bowl. Golden in the rays of the setting sun, the slopes of the great pyramids of Dahshoor rose like stairways to heaven. Yet the sombre tower of the Black Pyramid dominated the scene. Because of its position it appeared as high or higher than the nearby southern stone pyramid.

We passed close by its base on our way to the riverbank. The ground was littered with chips of white limestone, the remains of the casing blocks that had once covered the brick core. The previous season de Morgan had uncovered the ruins of the enclosure wall and the funerary chapel next to the pyramid. A few fallen columns and fragments of bas-relief were all that remained above the surface of the ground. So much for futile human vanity; in a few years the relentless sand would swallow up the signs of de Morgan’s work as it had covered the structures designed to ensure the immortality of the pharaoh. The site was deserted. De Morgan was staying at Menyat Dahshoor, the nearest village.

We rode on, following the lengthening shadow of the pyramid towards the river. Several dahabeeyahs rocked gently at anchor, but it was easy to distinguish that of the baroness, since the German flag flew at the bow. A freshly painted plaque displayed the vessel’s name: Cleopatra. It was precisely the sort of trite, obvious name I would have expected the baroness to select.

A gentle nostalgia suffused me when I set foot on the deck. There is no more delightful means of travel than these houseboats; the Nile steamers of Mr Cook, which have almost replaced them, cannot compare in comfort and charm.

The main salon was in the front of the boat, with a row of wide windows following the curve of the bow. The baroness’s dragoman threw open the door and announced us, and we stepped into a chamber swimming with sunset light and furnished with garish elegance. A wide divan covered with cushions filled one end of the room, and upon it, in more than oriental splendour, reclined the baroness. Golden chains twined the dusky masses of her unbound hair, and golden bracelets chimed when she raised a hand in greeting. Her snowy robes were of the finest chiffon; a heavy necklace or collar, of carnelian and turquoise set in gold, covered her breast. I assumed that the absurd costume was meant to conjure up the fabulous queen after whom the boat was named, but I could not help being reminded of the late and not much lamented Madame Berengeria, who had also affected ancient Egyptian costume, labouring as she did under the impression that she was the reincarnation of several long-dead queens. Poor Berengeria would have turned green with envy at the magnificence of the baroness’s garb, for her bracelets were of pure gold and the collar around her neck appeared to be a genuine antiquity.

From Emerson, behind me, came sounds of imminent strangulation. I turned to find that his apoplectic gaze was fixed, not on the lady’s ample charms, but upon another object. It was a handsome mummy case, gleaming with varnish, that stood carelessly propped against the grand piano like some outre parlour ornament. A table was covered with an equally casual display of antiquities – scarabs, ushebtis, vessels of pottery and stone. On another table were several papyrus scrolls.

The baroness began to writhe. After a moment I realized her movements were not those of a peculiar, recumbent dance, but merely an attempt to rise from the couch, which was low and soft. Succeeding in this, she swept forwards to welcome us. Since Emerson made no move to take the hand she held under his nose, she snatched his. The vigorous shaking she gave it seemed to wake him from his stupor. His eyes focused in a malignant glare upon her conspicuous bosom, and he inquired, ‘Madam, do you realize the object you have slung across your chest is a priceless antiquity?’

The baroness rolled her eyes and covered the collar with ringed hands. ‘Ach, the monster! Would you tear it from my helpless body?’

‘Not at all,’ Emerson replied. ‘Rough handling might damage the collar.’

The baroness burst into a roar of laughter. ‘It is the truth, what they say about Emerson the most distinguished. They have of you me warned, that you would scold – ’

‘For heaven’s sake, madam, speak German,’ Emerson interrupted, his scowl deepening.

The lady continued in that language. ‘Yes, yes, everyone speaks of Professor Emerson; they have told me you would scold me for my poor little antiquities. M. de Morgan is not so unkind as you.’

She proceeded to introduce the other guests. If she had deliberately selected a group designed to vex Emerson, she could hardly have done better – de Morgan, Kalenischeff (in faultless evening dress, complete with ribbon and monocle), Brother David, and three of what Emerson called ‘confounded tourists,’ from the other dahabeeyahs. The only memorable remark made by any of the tourists the entire evening came from one of the English ladies, who remarked in a languid drawl, ‘But the ruins are so dilapidated! Why doesn’t someone repair them?’

The one person I expected to see was not present, and during a lull in the ensuing conversation I inquired of the baroness, ‘Where is Ramses?’

‘Locked in one of the guest chambers,’ was the reply. ‘Oh, do not concern yourself, Frau Emerson; he is happily engaged with a papyrus. But it was necessary for me to confine him. Already he has fallen overboard and been bitten by a lion – ’

‘Lion?’ Emerson turned, with a cry, from the granite statue of Isis he had been examining.

‘My lion cub,’ the baroness explained. ‘I bought the adorable little creature from a dealer in Cairo.’

‘Ah,’ I said, enlightened. ‘Ramses was no doubt attempting to free the animal. Did he succeed?’

‘Fortunately we were able to recapture it,’ the baroness replied.

I was sorry to hear that. Ramses would undoubtedly try again.

The baroness reassured my snarling husband. The bite had not been deep and medical attention had been promptly applied. It was tacitly agreed that we would leave Ramses where he was until it was time to take him home. Emerson did not insist. He had other things on his mind.

These were, I hardly need say, the illicit antiquities collected by the baroness. He kept reverting to the subject despite the efforts of the others to keep the conversation on a light social plane, and after we had dined he finally succeeded in delivering his lecture. Striding up and down the salon, waving his arms, he shouted anathemas while the baroness grinned and rolled her eyes.

‘If tourists would stop buying from these dealers, they would have to go out of business,’ he cried. ‘The looting of tombs and cemeteries would stop. Look at this.’ He pointed an accusing finger at the mummy case. ‘Who knows what vital evidence the tomb robber lost when he removed this mummy from its resting place?’

The baroness gave me a conspiratorial smile. ‘But he is magnificent, the professor. Such passion! I congratulate you, my dear.’

‘I fear I must add my reproaches to those of the professor.’ The statement was so unexpected it halted Emerson’s lecture and turned all eyes towards the speaker. David continued, in the same soft voice, ‘Carrying human remains about as if they were cordwood is a deplorable custom. As a man of the cloth, I cannot condone it.’

‘But this poor corpse was a pagan,’ said Kalenischeff, smiling cynically. ‘I thought you men of the cloth were only concerned about Christian remains.’

‘Pagan or Christian, all men are the children of God,’ was the reply. All the ladies present – except myself – let out sighs of admiration, and David went on, ‘Of course, if I believed the remains were those of a fellow-Christian, however misled by false dogma, I would be forced to expostulate more forcibly. I could not permit – ’

‘I thought he was a Christian,’ the baroness interrupted. ‘The dealer from whom I bought him said so.’

A general outcry arose. The baroness shrugged. ‘What is the difference? They are all the same, dry bones and flesh – the cast-off garments of the soul.’

This shrewd hit – it was shrewd, I admit – was wasted on David, whose German was obviously poor. He looked puzzled, and de Morgan said soothingly, in the tongue of Shakespeare, ‘No, there is no question of such a thing. I fear the dealer deceived you, Baroness.’

‘Verdammter pig-dog,’ said the baroness calmly. ‘How can you be sure, monsieur?’

De Morgan started to reply, but Emerson beat him to it. ‘By the style and decoration of the mummy case. The hieroglyphic inscriptions identify the owner as a man named Thermoutharin. He was clearly a worshipper of the old gods; the scenes in gilt relief show Anubis and Isis, Osiris and Thoth, performing the ceremony of embalming the dead.’

‘It is of the Ptolemaic period,’ said de Morgan.

‘No, no, later. The first or second century A.D.’

De Morgan’s lean cheekbones flushed with annoyance at Emerson’s dogmatic tone, but he was too much of a gentleman to debate the point. It was young David Cabot who peppered my husband with questions – the meaning of this sign or that, the significance of the inscriptions, and so on. I was surprised at his interest, but I saw nothing sinister in it – then.

Before long the baroness became bored with a conversation of which she was not the subject. ‘Ach!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands. ‘So much fuss over an ugly mummy! If you feel so strongly, Professor, you may have it. I give it as a gift. Unless Brother David wants to take it, to bury it with Christian rites.’

‘Not I,’ David said. ‘The professor has convinced me; it is pagan.’

‘Nor I,’ said Emerson. ‘I have enough damned – that is, er … Give it to the Museum, Baroness.’

‘I will consider doing so,’ said the lady, ‘if it will win your approval, Professor.’

I could have told her that her elephantine flirtatiousness would have no effect on Emerson. Tiring finally of a game in which she was the only player, she invited her guests to view her new pet, which was kept in a cage on the deck. Emerson and I declined; and when the others had gone, I turned to my unhappy spouse. ‘You have done your duty like an English gentleman, Emerson. I am ready to leave whenever you are.’

‘I never wanted to come in the first place, Peabody, as you know. As I suspected, my martyrdom was in vain. The confounded woman has no demotic papyri.’

‘I know. But perhaps your appeals on behalf of antiquities will affect not only the baroness but the other tourists who were present.’

Emerson snorted. ‘Don’t be naive, Peabody. Let us go, eh? If I remain any longer in this storehouse of disaster, I will choke.’

‘Very well, my dear. As always, I bow to your wishes.’

‘Bah,’ said Emerson. ‘Where do you suppose that dreadful female has stowed our poor child?’

It was not difficult to locate Ramses. One of the baroness’s servants stood on guard before the door. He salaamed deeply when he saw us and produced the key.

Darkness had fallen, but the room was well lighted by two hanging lamps. Their beams fell upon a table well supplied with food and drink, and upon another table that held a papyrus scroll, partially unrolled. There was no sign of Ramses.

‘Curse it,’ Emerson said furiously. ‘I’ll wager she neglected to nail the porthole shut.’ He pulled aside the drapery that concealed the aforementioned orifice, and fell back with a cry. Hanging from the wall, like a stuffed hunting trophy, was a small headless body culminating in shabby brown buttoned boots. The legs were quite limp.

Accustomed as I was to finding Ramses in a variety of peculiar positions, this one was sufficiently unusual to induce a momentary constriction of the chest that kept me mute. Before I could recover myself, a far-off, strangely muffled but familiar voice remarked, ‘Good evening, Mama. Good evening, Papa. Will you be so good as to pull me in?’

He had stuck, in actuality, somewhere around the midsection, owing to the fact that the pockets of his little suit were filled with rocks. ‘It was a singular miscalculation on my part,’ Ramses remarked somewhat breathlessly, as Emerson set him on his feet. ‘I counted on de fact, which I have often had occasion to establish t’rough experiment, dat where de head and shoulders can pass, de rest of de body can follow. I had forgotten about de rocks, which are interesting specimens of de geological history of – ’

‘Why did you not pull yourself back into the room?’ I inquired curiously, as Emerson, still pale with alarm, ran agitated hands over the child’s frame.

‘De problem lies in my unfortunate lack of inches,’ Ramses explained. ‘My arms were not long enough to obtain sufficient purchase on de side of de vessel.’

He would have gone on at some length had I not interrupted him. ‘And the papyrus?’ I asked.

Ramses gave it a disparaging glance. ‘An undistinguished example of a twentiet’-dynasty mortuary text. De lady has no demotic papyri, Mama.’

We found the rest of the party still on deck. The ladies crouched before the cage in which the lion cub prowled restlessly, growling and snapping. I kept firm hold of Ramses’ arm while we made our excuses and thanked our hostess. At least I thanked her; Emerson only snorted.

Brother David announced his intention of riding back with us. ‘I must arise at dawn,’ he intoned. ‘This has been a delightful interlude, but my Master calls.’

The baroness extended her hand and the young man bent over it with graceful respect. ‘Humph,’ said Emerson, as we left him to complete his farewells. ‘I presume the interval has been lucrative as well as delightful. He wouldn’t be ready to leave if he had not accomplished what he came for.’

‘What was dat?’ Ramses asked interestedly.

‘Money, of course. Donations to the church. That is Brother David’s role, I fancy – seducing susceptible ladies.’

‘Emerson, please,’ I exclaimed.

‘Not literally,’ Emerson admitted. ‘At least I don’t suppose so.’

‘What is de literal meaning of dat word?’ Ramses inquired. ‘De dictionary is particularly obscure on dat point.’

Emerson changed the subject.

After we had mounted, Emerson set off at a great pace in an effort to avoid David’s company, but the young man was not to be got rid of so easily. Before the pair trotted beyond earshot I heard him say, ‘Pray explain to me, Professor, how a man of your superior intelligence can be so indifferent to that one great question which must supersede all other intellectual inquiries…’

Ramses and I followed at a gentler pace. He seemed deep in thought, and after a time I asked, ‘Where did the lion cub bite you?’

‘He did not bite me. His toot’ scratched my hand when I pulled him from de cage.’

‘That was not a sensible thing to do, Ramses.’

‘Dat,’ said Ramses, ‘was not de issue, Mama.’

‘I am not referring to your ill-advised attempt to free the animal from captivity. It appears to be a very young lion. Its chances of survival in a region where there are no others of its kind would be slim.’

Ramses was silent for a moment. Then he said thoughtfully, ‘I confess dat objection had not occurred to me. T’ank you for bringing it to my attention.’

‘You are welcome,’ I replied, congratulating myself on having headed Ramses off in the neatest possible manner. He scarcely ever disobeyed a direct command, but on those few occasions when he had done so, he had appealed to moral considerations as an excuse for failing to comply. I suspected the well-being of an animal would seem to him a sufficient excuse. By pointing out that he would only be worsening the unfortunate lion’s condition I had, as I believed, forestalled a second attempt at liberation.

How true it is that there are none so blind as those who will not see!

The night was utterly silent; the contentious missionary and his would-be prey had drawn far ahead. Sand muffled the hoofbeats of our steeds. We might have been a pair of ancient Egyptian dead seeking the paradise of Amenti, for I was absorbed in self-congratulation and Ramses was abnormally silent. Glancing at him, I was struck by an odd little chill, for the profile outlined against the paler background of the sandy waste was alarmingly like that of his namesake – beaky nose, prominent chin, lowering brow. At least it resembled the mummy of his namesake; one presumes that centuries of desiccation have not improved the looks of the pharaoh.

When we reached the house David bade us good night and rode off towards the village. It did not improve Emerson’s spirits to find the house dark and apparently deserted. John was there, however. We found him in his own room reading the Bible, and Emerson’s language, when he beheld that sacred Book, was absolutely disgraceful.

Next morning John was most apologetic about his lapse. ‘I know I ought to ’ave ’ad your beds made up and the kettle on the boil,’ he said. ‘It won’t ’appen again, madam. Duty to one’s superior is wot a man must do in this world, so long as it don’t conflict with one’s duty to – ’

‘Yes, yes, John, that is quite all right,’ I said, seeing Emerson’s countenance redden. ‘I shall want you to help me with photography this morning, so hurry and clear away the breakfast things. Ramses, you must – what on earth is the matter with you? I believe your chin is in your porridge. Take it out at once.’

Ramses wiped his chin. I looked at him suspiciously, but before I could pursue my inquiries Emerson threw down his napkin and rose, kicking his chair out of the way as is his impetuous habit.

‘We are late,’ he announced. ‘That is what happens when one allows social stupidities to interfere with work. Come along, Peabody.’

So the day began. Emerson had moved the men to a site farther north and west, where the irregular terrain suggested the presence of another cemetery. So it proved to be. The graves were quite unlike those of the Roman cemetery. These were simple interments; the bodies were enclosed only in coarse linen shrouds bound in crisscross fashion with red-and-white striped cords. The grave goods included a few crude stelae with incised crosses and other Christian insignia, proving what we had suspected from the nature of the burials themselves – that they were those of Copts. They were very old Copts, and I hoped this consideration would prevent the priest from protesting. He had left us strictly alone, but I feared he might object to our excavating a Christian cemetery. Emerson of course pooh-poohed this possibility; we would handle the bodies with the reverence we accorded all human remains and even rebury them if the priest desired. First, however, he wanted to study them, and if any superstitious ignoramus objected, he could take himself and his superstitions to Perdition or Gehenna.

Emerson wanted photographs of the graves before we removed the contents. That was my task that morning, and with John’s help I carried the camera, tripod, plates and other impedimenta to the site. We had to wait until the sun was high enough to illumine the sunken pits, and as we stood in enforced idleness I asked, ‘Did you enjoy yourself on your day out, John?’

‘Oh yes, madam. There was another service in the evening. Sister Charity sang divinely that touching ’ymn, “Washed in the blood of the Lamb.”’

‘And was it a good dinner?’

‘Oh yes, madam. Sister Charity is a good cook.’

I recognised one of the symptoms of extreme infatuation – the need to repeat the name of the beloved at frequent intervals. ‘I hope you are not thinking of being converted, John. You know Professor Emerson won’t stand for it.’

The old John would have burst into protestations of undying loyalty. The new, corrupted John looked grave. ‘I would give me life’s blood for the professor, madam. The day he caught me trying to steal ’is watch in front of the British Museum he saved me from a life of sin and vice. I will never forget his kindness in punching me in the jaw and ordering me to accompany him to Kent, when any other gentleman would ’ave ’ad me taken in charge.’

His lips quivered as he spoke. I gave him a friendly pat on the arm. ‘You certainly could not have continued your career as a pickpocket much longer, John. Considering your conspicuous size and your – if you will forgive me for mentioning it – your growing clumsiness, you were bound to be caught.’

‘Growing is the word, madam. You wouldn’t believe what a small, agile nipper I was when I took up the trade. But that is all in the past, thank ’eaven.’

‘And Professor Emerson.’

‘And the professor. Yet, madam, though I revere him and would, as I mentioned, shed the last drop of blood in me body for him, or you, or Master Ramses, I cannot endanger me soul for any mortal creature. A man’s conscience is – ’

‘Rubbish,’ l said. ‘If you must quote, John, quote Scripture. It has a literary quality, at least, that Brother Ezekiel’s pronouncements lack.’

John removed his hat and scratched his head. ‘It does ’ave that, madam. Sometimes I wish as ’ow it didn’t ’ave so much. But I’m determined to fight me way through the Good Book, madam, no matter ’ow long it takes.’

‘How far have you got?’

‘Leviticus,’ said John with a deep sigh. ‘Genesis and Exodus wasn’t so bad, they tore right along most of the time. But Leviticus will be my downfall, madam.’

‘Skip over it,’ I suggested sympathetically.

‘Oh no, madam, I can’t do that.’

A wordless shout from my husband, some little distance away, recalled me to my duties, and I indicated to John that we would begin photographing. Scarcely had I inserted the plate in the camera, however, when I realised Emerson’s hail had been designed to draw my attention to an approaching rider. His blue-and-white striped robe ballooning out in the wind, he rode directly to me and fell off the donkey. Gasping theatrically, he handed me a note and then collapsed face down in the sand.

Since the donkey had been doing all the work, I ignored this demonstration. While John bent over the fallen man with expressions of concern I opened the note.

The writer was obviously another frustrated thespian. There was no salutation or signature, but the passionate and scarcely legible scrawl could only have been penned by one person of my acquaintance. ‘Come to me at once,’ it read. ‘Disaster, ruin, destruction!’

With my toe I nudged the fallen messenger, who seemed to have fallen into a refreshing sleep. ‘Have you come from the German lady?’ I asked.

The man rolled over and sat up, none the worse for wear. He nodded vigorously. ‘She sends for you, Sitt Hakim, and for Emerson Effendi.’

‘What has happened? Is the lady injured?’

The messenger was scarcely more coherent than the message. I was still endeavouring to get some sense out of him when Emerson came up. I handed him the note and explained the situation. ‘We had better go, Emerson.’

‘Not I,’ said Emerson.

‘It isn’t necessary for both of us to respond,’ I agreed. ‘Do you take charge of the photography while I – ’

‘Curse it, Peabody,’ Emerson cried. ‘Will you let this absurd woman interrupt our work again?’

It ended in both of us going. Emerson claimed he dared not let me out of his sight, but in fact he was as bored with our pitiful excavation as I was.

And of course one owes a duty to one’s fellow man – and woman.

As we rode across the desert, my spirits rose – not, as evil-minded persons have suggested, at the prospect of interfering in matters which were not my concern, but at the imminence of the exquisite Dahshoor pyramids. My spirits were bound to them by an almost physical thread; the nearer I came the gladder I felt, the farther I went the more that tenuous thread was stretched, almost to the point of pain.

The baroness’s dahabeeyah was the only one at the dock. We were led at once to the lady, who was reclining on a couch on deck, under an awning. She was wearing a most peculiar garment, part negligee, part tea gown, shell-pink in colour and covered with frills. Sitting beside her was M. de Morgan, holding her hand – or rather, having his hand held by her.

‘Ah, mon cher collègue,’ he said with obvious relief. ‘At last you have come.’

‘We only received the message a short time ago,’ I said. ‘What has happened?’

‘Murder, slaughter, invasion!’ shrieked the baroness, throwing herself about on the couch.

‘Robbery,’ said de Morgan succinctly. ‘Someone broke into the salon last night and stole several of the baroness’s antiquities.’

I glanced at Emerson. Hands on hips, he studied the baroness and her protector with impartial disgust. ‘Is that all?’ he said. ‘Come, Peabody, let us get back to work.’

‘No, no, you must help me,’ the baroness exclaimed. ‘I call for you – the great solvers of mysteries, the great archaeologists. You must protect me. Someone wishes to murder me – assault me – ’

‘Come, come, Baroness, control yourself,’ I said. ‘Why was not the robbery discovered earlier? It is almost midday.’

‘But that is when I rise,’ the baroness explained guilelessly. ‘My servants woke me when they found out what had happened. They are lazy swine-dogs, those servants; they should have been cleaning the salon at sunrise.’

‘When the mistress is slack, the servants will be lazy,’ I said. ‘It is most unfortunate. Several of the possible suspects have already left the scene.’

De Morgan let out a French expletive. ‘Mais, chère madame, you cannot be referring to the people of quality whose dahabeeyahs were moored here? Such people are not thieves.’

I could not help smiling at this credulous statement, but I said only, ‘One never knows, does one? First let us have a look at the scene of the crime.’

‘It has not been disturbed,’ said the baroness, scrambling eagerly up from the couch. ‘I ordered that it be left just as it was until the great solvers of mysteries came.’

It was easy to see how the thieves had entered. The wide windows in the bow stood open and the cushions of the couch had been crushed by several pairs of feet. Unfortunately the marks were amorphous in the extreme, and as I examined them with my pocket lens I found myself wishing, for once, that Egypt enjoyed our damp English climate. Dry sand does not leave footprints.

I turned to my husband. ‘You can say what is missing, Emerson. I fancy you studied the antiquities even more closely than I.’

‘It should be obvious,’ said Emerson morosely. ‘What was last night the most conspicuous article in the room?’

The grand piano was the answer, but that was not what Emerson meant. ‘The mummy case,’ I replied. ‘Yes, I saw at once it was no longer present. What else, Emerson?’

‘A lapis scarab and a statuette of Isis nursing the infant Horus.’

‘That is all?’

‘That is all. They were,’ Emerson added feelingly, ‘the finest objects in the collection.’

Further examination of the room provided nothing of interest, so we proceeded to question the servants. The baroness began shrieking accusations and, as might have been expected, every face looked guilty as Cain.

I silenced the woman with a few well-chosen words and directed Emerson to question the men, which he did with his usual efficiency. One and all denied complicity. One and all had slept through the night; and when the dragoman suggested that djinns must have been responsible, the others quickly agreed.

De Morgan glanced at the sun, now high overhead. ‘I must return to my excavations, madame. I advise you to call in the local authorities. They will deal with your servants.’

A howl of anguish broke out from the huddled group of men. They knew only too well how local authorities dealt with suspects. With a reassuring gesture I turned to the baroness. ‘I forbid it,’ I cried.

‘You forbid it?’ De Morgan lifted his eyebrows.

‘And so do I,’ Emerson said, stepping to my side. ‘You know as well as I do, de Morgan, that the favourite method of interrogation hereabouts consists of beating the suspects on the soles of their feet until they confess. They are presumed guilty until proven innocent. However,’ he added, scowling at de Morgan, ‘that assumption may not seem unreasonable to a citizen of the French Republic, with its antiquated Napoleonic Code.’

De Morgan flung up his arms. ‘I wash my hands of the whole affair! Already I have wasted half a day. Do as you wish.’

‘I fully intend to,’ Emerson replied. ‘Bonjour, monsieur.’

After de Morgan had stamped off, cursing quietly in his own tongue, Emerson addressed the baroness. ‘You understand, madam,’ he said, squaring his splendid shoulders, ‘that if you call the police, Mrs Emerson and I will not assist you.’

The baroness was more moved by the shoulders than by the threat. Eyes slightly glazed, she stood staring at my husband’s stalwart form until I nudged her with my indispensable parasol. ‘What?’ she mumbled, starting. ‘The police – who wants them? What is missing, after all? Nothing I cannot easily replace.’

‘I congratulate you on your good sense,’ said Emerson. ‘There is no need for you to concern yourself further at this time; if you would care to retire – ’

‘But no, you do not understand!’ The appalling woman actually seized him by the arm and thrust her face into his. ‘The stolen objects are unimportant. But what of me? I am afraid for my life, for my virtue – ’

‘I really don’t think you need worry about that,’ I said.

‘You will protect me – a poor helpless Mädchen?’ the baroness insisted. Her fingers stroked Emerson’s biceps. Emerson’s biceps are quite remarkable, but I allow no one except myself to admire them in that fashion.

‘I will protect you, Baroness,’ I said firmly. ‘That is our customary arrangement when my husband and I are engaged in detectival pursuits. He pursues, I protect the ladies.’

‘Yes, quite right,’ said Emerson, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. ‘I will leave you with Mrs Emerson, madam, and I will – I will go and – I will inquire – ’

The baroness released her hold and Emerson beat a hasty retreat. ‘You are in no danger,’ I said. ‘Unless you have information you have not disclosed.’

‘No.’ The baroness grinned knowingly at me. ‘He is a very handsome man, your husband. Mucho macho, as the Spanish say.’

‘Do they really?’

‘But I do not waste time on a hopeless cause,’ the baroness continued. ‘I see that he is tied firmly to the apron strings of his good English Frau. I shall leave Dahshoor tomorrow.’

‘What of Brother David?’ I asked maliciously. ‘He is not tied to a woman’s apron strings – unless Miss Charity has captured his heart.’

‘That pale, washed-out child?’ The baroness snorted. ‘No, no, she adores him, but he is indifferent to her. She has nothing to offer him. Make no mistake, Frau Emerson, the beautiful young man is only saintly in his face and figure. He has, as the French say, an eye pour le main chance.’

The baroness’s French and Spanish were as fractured as her English, but I fancied she was not as ignorant of human nature as she was of languages. She went on with mounting indignation, ‘I have sent for him today, to come to my rescue, and does he come? No, he does not. And a large donation I have made to his church.’

So Emerson’s surmise had been correct! I said, ‘You do Brother David an injustice, Baroness. Here he is now.’

She turned. ‘Herr Gott,’ she exclaimed. ‘He has brought the ugly Pfarrer with him.’

‘It is the other way around, I fancy.’

‘I escape,’ the baroness said loudly. ‘I run away. Tell them I can see no one.’ But in stepping forwards she tripped on her flounces and fell in a dishevelled heap upon the couch. Brother Ezekiel pounced on her before she could rise. Fumbling in the pile of agitated ruffles, he pulled out a hand, which he seized firmly in his big hairy fists.

‘Dear sister, I rejoice that you are not harmed. Let us bow our heads and thank God for this merciful escape. Heavenly Father, let the weight of your wrath fall on the villains who have perpetrated this deed; mash ’em flat to the dust, O Lord, lay ’em low as you did the Amalekites and the Jebusites and the …’

The polysyllabic catalogue rolled on. ‘Good morning, Brother David,’ I said. ‘I am glad you are here; I can leave the baroness to you.’

‘You can indeed,’ David assured me, his mild blue eyes beaming. ‘The tender and womanly compassion that is so peculiarly your own does you credit, Mrs Emerson, but there is no need for you to remain.’

The baroness lay quite still. I could see her face; her eyes were closed and she appeared to be asleep, though how she could have slept through Brother Ezekiel’s voice I cannot imagine. ‘ … and the kings of Midian, namely Evi and Rekem and Zur and Hur … ’

I found Emerson surrounded by the servants and the members of the crew. He was haranguing them in Arabic, to which they listened with fascinated attention. Arabs do love a skilled orator. Seeing me, he concluded his speech. ‘You know me, my brothers; you know I do not lie, and that I protect all honest men. Think well on what I have said.’

‘What did you say?’ I inquired as we walked away, followed by the respectful farewells of the audience: ‘Allah preserve thee; the mercy and blessing of Allah be with thee.’

‘Oh, the usual thing, Peabody. I don’t believe any of the men were directly involved in the robbery, but they must have been bribed to remain silent. An object the size of that mummy case could not have been removed from the salon without waking someone.’

‘Bribed – or intimidated? I sense the sinister shadow of the Master Criminal, Emerson. How far his evil web must stretch!’

‘I warn you, Peabody, I will not be responsible if you go on talking of webs and shadows and Master Criminals. This is a case of sordid, commonplace thievery. It can have no connection – ’

‘Like a giant spider weaving his tangled strands into a net that snares rich and poor, guilty and innocent – ’

Emerson leaped onto his donkey and urged it into a trot.

We had left the cultivation far behind before his countenance regained its customary placidity. I refrained from further discussion, knowing that sooner or later he would acknowledge the accuracy of my analysis. Sure enough, it was not long before he remarked musingly, ‘All the same, the case has one or two curious features. Why should thieves go to so much trouble to make off with an ordinary Romano-Egyptian mummy case? It was that of a commoner; there could be no expectation of finding jewellery or valuable amulets among the wrappings.’

‘What of the other objects that were taken?’ I asked.

‘That is what makes the situation even more curious, Peabody. Two other things were taken – the scarab and the statuette. They were the most valuable objects in the collection. The statuette was particularly fine, late Eighteenth Dynasty, if I am not mistaken. One might suppose that the thief was an expert in his unsavoury trade, since he knew the valuable from the valueless. Yet there were other items, small and easily portable, that might have fetched a decent price, and the thieves left them in order to expend enormous effort on removing a worthless mummy case.’

‘You have forgotten to mention one item that was taken,’ I said. ‘Or perhaps you did not observe it was missing.’

‘What are you talking about, Peabody? I missed nothing.’

‘Yes, Emerson, you did.’

‘No, Peabody, I did not.’

‘The lion cub, Emerson. The cage was empty.’

Emerson’s hands released their grip on the reins. His donkey came to a halt. I reined up beside him.

‘Empty,’ he repeated stupidly.

‘The door had been closed and the cage pushed aside, but I observed it closely and I can assure you – ’

‘Oh, good Gad!’ Emerson looked at me in consternation. ‘Peabody! Your own innocent child … You don’t suspect … Ramses could not possibly have carried off that heavy mummy case. Besides, he has better taste than to steal something like that.’

‘I have long since given up trying to anticipate what Ramses can and cannot do,’ I replied, with considerable heat. ‘Your second point has some merit; but Ramses’ motives are as obscure as his capabilities are remarkable. I never know what the devil the child has in mind.’

‘Language, Peabody, language.’

I took a grip on myself. ‘You are right. Thank you for reminding me, Emerson.’

‘You are quite welcome, Peabody.’

He took up his reins and we went on in pensive silence. Then Emerson said uneasily, ‘Where do you suppose he has put it?’

‘What, the mummy case?’

‘No, curse it. The lion cub.’

‘We will soon find out.’

‘You don’t believe he was involved in the other theft, do you, Amelia?’ Emerson’s voice was piteous.

‘No, of course not. I know the identity of the thief. As soon as I have dealt with Ramses I will take him into custody.’

VII

THE lion cub was in Ramses’ room. Ramses was sitting on the floor teasing it with a nasty-looking bit of raw meat when we burst in. He looked up with a frown and said reproachfully, ‘You did not knock, Mama and Papa. You know dat my privacy is important to me.’

‘What would you have done if we had knocked?’ Emerson asked.

‘I would have put de lion under de bed,’ said Ramses.

‘But how could you possibly suppose – ’ Emerson began. I joggled him with my elbow. ‘Emerson, you are letting Ramses get you off the track again. He always does it and you always succumb. Ramses.’

‘Yes, Mama?’ The cub rolled itself into a furry ball around his fist.

‘I told you not to …’ But there I was forced to stop to reconsider. I had not told Ramses he must not steal the baroness’s lion. He waited politely for me to finish, and I said weakly, ‘I told you not to wander off alone.’

‘But I did not, Mama. Selim went wit’ me. He carried de lion cub. My donkey would not let me take it up wit’ me.’

I had seen Selim that morning, but now that I thought about it I realised he had been careful to let me see only his back. No doubt his face and hands bore evidence of the cub’s reluctance to be carried.

I squatted down on the floor to examine the animal more closely. It certainly appeared to be in good health and spirits. In a purely investigative manner, to check the condition of its fur, I tickled the back of its head.

‘I am training it to hunt for itself,’ Ramses explained, dragging the loathsome morsel across the cub’s rounded stomach. Apparently it had had enough to eat, for it ignored the meat and began licking my fingers.

‘What are you going to do with it?’ Emerson inquired, sitting down on the floor. The cub transferred its attentions to his fingers, and he chuckled. ‘It’s an engaging little creature.’

‘All small creatures are engaging,’ I replied coldly. The cub climbed onto my lap and nuzzled into my skirt. ‘But one day this small creature will be big enough to swallow you in two bites, Ramses. No, lion, I am not your mother. There is nothing for you there. You had better find it some milk, Ramses.’

‘Yes, Mama, I will. T’ank you, Mama, I had not t’ought of dat.’

‘And don’t try your tricks with me, Ramses. I am not susceptible to charming young animals of any species. I am really disappointed in you. I had hoped you possessed a greater sense of responsibility. You have taken this helpless creature …’ The cub, frustrated in its quest for sustenance, sank its sharp little teeth into the upper portion of my leg, and I broke off with a yelp. Emerson removed it and began playing with it while I continued, ‘… this helpless creature into your charge, and you are incapable of giving it the care it requires. I fondly hope you do not entertain any notion that you can persuade your father and me to take it home with us.’

‘Oh no, Mama,’ said Ramses, wide-eyed. Emerson trailed the meat across the floor and chortled when the cub pounced on it.

‘I am glad you realise that. We cannot always be bringing animals back from Egypt. The cat Bastet … Good heavens, what about the cat? She won’t tolerate this infantile intruder for a moment.’

‘She likes it,’ said Ramses.

The cat Bastet lay atop the packing case Ramses used as a cupboard. Paws folded beneath her smooth breast, she watched the antics of the cub with what appeared to be an expression of benevolent interest.

‘Well, well,’ said Emerson, getting to his feet. ‘We will think of something, Ramses.’

‘I have already t’ought, Papa. I am going to give it to Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Walter. Dere is ample space for a menagerie at Chalfont, conducted on de latest scientific principles, and wit’ a veterinarian in constant attendance – ’

‘That is the most appalling suggestion I have ever heard,’ I exclaimed. ‘Ramses, I am thoroughly disaffected with you. Consider yourself confined to your room until further notice. No – that won’t do. You must repair some small part of the havoc you have wrought. Go immediately and fetch Selim.’

Ramses ran for the door. I sank into a chair. It was the first time – though certainly not the last – that I began to have serious doubts as to my capability of carrying out the task I had so unthinkingly assumed. I have dealt with murderers, thieves and brigands of all kinds; but I suspected Ramses might be too much even for me.

These doubts soon passed, naturally, as I attacked the immediate problems with my habitual efficiency. After lecturing Selim and painting iodine on his scratches – his face resembled that of a Red Indian ready for the warpath when I finished – I set one of the men to building a cage, another to the task of constructing a heavy wooden screen for Ramses’ window, and a third to the village to purchase a goat of the proper gender and lactiferous condition. Emerson protested the decimation of his work force, but not with his usual vehemence; and when I escorted Ramses into the parlour and sat him down on a footstool, Emerson took a chair next to mine with an expression of unusual gravity on his face.

I confess my own heart was lightened when Ramses declared, with a wholly convincing show of candour, that he knew nothing of the theft of the baroness’s antiquities.

‘I would not take dat rubbishy mummy case,’ he exclaimed. ‘I am deeply hurt, Mama, dat you should t’ink me capable of such ignorance.’

I exchanged glances with Emerson. The relieved twinkle in his fine blue eyes brought a reluctant answering smile to my lips. ‘You observe he is not offended that we questioned his honesty, only his intelligence,’ I said.

‘Stealing is wrong,’ said Ramses virtuously. ‘It says so in de Scripture.’

‘Accept my apologies for doubting you, my son,’ said Emerson. ‘You know, you might have pointed out that you lacked the strength to handle the object in question, even with Selim’s help.’

‘Oh, dat would not have been a sufficient defence, Papa. Dere are met’ods of dealing wit’ dat difficulty.’ And his face took on such a look of portentous calculation, I felt a shudder run through me.

Emerson said hastily, ‘Never mind, Ramses. Did you observe any suspicious activities at the dahabeeyah last night? Other than your own, that is.’

Ramses had nothing useful to offer on this subject. His visit to the baroness’s boat had taken place shortly after midnight, and he was reasonably certain that at that time the break-in had not taken place. The watchman had been sound asleep and snoring. Upon being questioned further, Ramses admitted that one of the crewmen had awakened. ‘I had de misfortune of treading upon his hand.’ A finger to the lips and a coin dropped into the abused hand had kept the grinning witness quiet.

‘And I know which one of the men it was,’ growled Emerson. ‘He was laughing behind his hand the whole time I was questioning him about burglars. Curse it, Ramses…’

‘I am very hungry, Mama,’ Ramses remarked. ‘May I go and see if de cook has luncheon ready?’

I acquiesced, for I wished to talk to Emerson alone. ‘It appears that the break-in took place after midnight,’ I began.

‘A logical conclusion, Peabody. But, if you will forgive my mentioning it, the fact is not particularly useful.’

‘I never said it was, Emerson.’

Emerson leaned back and crossed his legs. ‘I suppose you have fixed on Hamid as the burglar?’

‘Are not the circumstances suspicious, Emerson? Hamid was on the scene when Abd el Atti met his death… Oh, you need not wriggle your eyebrows at me in that supercilious fashion, you know what I mean – we can’t prove he was in the shop that night, but he was in Cairo, and he was involved in some shady negotiation with Abd el Atti. A few days later he turns up here, with some specious excuse about looking for work – and the baroness is robbed.’

‘Weak,’ said Emerson judiciously. ‘Very weak, Peabody. But knowing you, I am surprised you have not already put your suspect under arrest.’

‘I have had time to reconsider my first impulse, Emerson. What good would it do to apprehend the man? As yet we have no physical evidence connecting him to either crime, and naturally he will deny everything. The most sensible course is to ignore him, and watch his every movement. Sooner or later he will do something criminal, and we will catch him in the act.’

‘Watch him, Peabody? Follow him, you mean? If you think I am going to spend the night squatting behind a palm tree watching Hamid snore, you are sadly mistaken.’

‘That is a difficulty. You need your sleep, Emerson, and so do I.’

‘Sleep,’ said Emerson, ‘is not the only nocturnal activity of which I do not mean to be deprived.’

‘We might take it in turn,’ I mused. ‘In a turban and robe I could pass for a man – ’

‘The activity to which I referred requires that both of us be present, Peabody.’

‘My dear Emerson – ’

‘My darling Peabody – ’

But at that point we were interrupted by Ramses, returning from the kitchen with the roasted chicken that had been prepared for us, and I had to mention several excellent reasons why it should be fed to us instead of to the lion.

ii

Emerson’s objections to our keeping a watch on Hamid, though frivolous, had merit. I therefore considered alternatives. The most obvious alternative was John, and when we returned to the dig after luncheon I was pleased to observe that he had carried out his responsibilities with skill and dedication. I had given him some instruction in the use of the camera; although we would have to wait until the plates were developed to be sure he had carried out the procedure correctly, his description of the method he had followed seemed correct. I took several more photographs to be on the safe side, and then our most skilled workmen were set to work clearing the graves. As the fragile and pitiful remains were carried carefully to the house I congratulated myself on our luck in having found such an admirable place. Never before, on any expedition, had I had enough storage space. Thanks to the old monks, I could now classify our finds in a proper methodical manner – pottery in one room, Roman mummies in another, and so on.

Hamid was working even more lethargically than usual. Naturally he would be tired if he had helped transport a weighty object the night before. Where the devil had he put the thing? I wondered. The mummy case was over seven feet long. Hamid was a stranger in the village, he had no house of his own. But there were hiding places aplenty in the desert – abandoned tombs, sunken pits, and the sand itself. Or the mummy case might have been loaded onto a small boat and carried away by water. There were many answers to the question of where it might have been hidden, but none to the most difficult question: Why take it in the first place?

Finally I reached a decision. ‘John,’ I said. ‘I have a task for you – one requiring unusual intelligence and devotion.’

The young man drew himself up to his full height. ‘Anything, madam.’

‘Thank you, John. I felt sure I could count on you. I suspect one of our workers is a vicious criminal. During the day he will be under my watchful eye, but at night I cannot watch him. I want you to be my eyes. Find out where he is living. Take up a position nearby. If he leaves during the night, follow him. Do not let your presence be known, only observe what he does and report back to me. Can you do this?’

John scratched his head. ‘Well, madam, I will certainly try. But I see certain difficulties.’

‘Such as?’

‘Won’t he see me if I am standing outside ’is ’ouse when he comes out?’

‘Don’t be absurd, John. He will not see you because you will be in hiding.’

‘Where, madam?’

‘Where? Well – er – there must be a tree or a wall or something of that sort nearby. Use your imagination, John.’

‘Yes, madam,’ John said doubtfully.

‘What other difficulties do you anticipate?’

‘Supposing someone sees me behind the tree and asks what I’m doing there?’

‘If you are sufficiently well hidden, you will not be seen. Good heavens, John, have you no resources?’

‘I don’t think so, madam. But I will do me best, which is all a man can do. Which of the chaps is it?’

I started to point, then thought better of it. ‘That one. Third from the end – no, curse it, second… He keeps changing position.’

‘You don’t mean Brother ’amid, madam?’

‘Brother Hamid? Yes, John, I believe I do mean Brother Hamid. He is really a convert, then?’

‘Yes, madam, and I know where he lives, for he sleeps in a storeroom behind the mission house. But, madam, I’m sure you are mistaken about ’im being a criminal. Brother Ezekiel has quite taken to ’im, and Brother Ezekiel could not take to a criminal, madam.’

‘Brother Ezekiel is no more immune than other men to the blandishments of a hypocrite.’ John gave me a blank stare, so I elaborated. ‘Godly persons are more vulnerable than most to the machinations of the ungodly.’

‘I don’t understand all them long words, madam, but I think I take your meaning,’ John replied. ‘Brother Ezekiel is too trusting.’

‘That is a quality of saints, John,’ I said. ‘Martyrdom is often the result of excessive gullibility.’

Whether John comprehended this I cannot say, but he appeared to be convinced. No doubt he had also realised that spying on Hamid would bring him closer to Charity. Squaring his shoulders, he exclaimed, ‘I will do just what you say, madam. Shall I ’ave a disguise, do you think?’

‘That is an excellent suggestion, John. I am happy to see that you are entering into the spirit of the thing. I will borrow a robe and turban from Abdullah; he is the only one of the men who is anything near your height.’

John went off to assist Emerson and I remained where I was, keeping a close but unobtrusive watch over Hamid. After a while Abdullah came up to me. ‘What is the man doing, Sitt, that you watch him so closely?’ he asked.

‘What man, Abdullah? You are mistaken. I am not watching him.’

‘Oh.’ Delicately Abdullah scratched his bearded chin. ‘I was in error. I thought your keen eyes were fixed upon the foreigner – the man from Manawat.’

‘No, not at all… What do you know about him, Abdullah?’

The reis replied promptly, ‘He has not worked with his hands, Sitt Hakim. They are sore and bleeding from the pick.’

‘How does he get on with the other men?’

‘He has no friends among them. Those of the village who remain faithful to the priest are angry with the ones who have gone over to the Americans. But he does not even talk to the other new “Brotestants.” Shall I dismiss him, Sitt? There are others who would like the work.’

‘No, don’t do that. Only keep a close watch on him.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I have reason to think Hamid is a criminal, Abdullah; perhaps a murderer.’

‘Oh, Sitt.’ Abdullah clasped his hands. ‘Not again, honoured Sitt! We come to excavate, to work; I beg you, Sitt, do not do it again.’

‘What do you mean, Abdullah?’

‘I feared it would happen,’ the reis muttered, passing a shaking hand over his lofty brow. ‘A village of unbelievers, hateful to Allah; a curse on the very house where we dwell – ’

‘But we have lifted the curse, Abdullah.’

‘No, Sitt, no. The restless spirits of the dead are still there. Daoud saw one of them only last night.’

I had been expecting something of the sort – or if I had not expected it, I was not surprised that it had occurred. As Emerson says, most men are superstitious, but Egyptians have more reason to believe in ghosts than do men of other nations. Is it any wonder the descendants of the pharaohs feel the presence of gods who were worshipped for over three thousand years? Add to them the pantheons of Christianity and Islam, and you have a formidable phalanx of mixed demons.

I was about to explain this to Abdullah when we were interrupted by a hail from Emerson. ‘Peabody! Oh, Peeebody! Come here, will you?’

‘I will talk with you later,’ I said to Abdullah. ‘Don’t yield to fear, my friend; you know the Father of Curses is a match for any evil spirit.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Abdullah.

We had moved the scene of our operations again that afternoon. As Emerson put it (rather unfortunately, in my opinion) we had enough mouldy Christian bones to last us. What we were doing, in archaeological terms, was making a series of trial trenches across the area in order to establish the general nature of the remains. Critical persons, unacquainted with the methods of the profession, have described this as poking around in the hope of finding something interesting, but of course that is not the case.

I found Emerson standing atop a ridge of rock staring down at something below. John was with him. ‘Ah, Peabody,’ said my husband. ‘Just have a look at this, will you?’

Taking the hand he offered, I stepped up onto the ridge. At first glance there was nothing to justify his interest. Half buried in the sand, half exposed by the picks of the workers, was a wrapped mummy. The intricacy of the bandaging indicated that it was another Ptolemaic or Roman mummy, of which we already had a sufficiency.

‘Oh dear,’ I said sympathetically. ‘Another cursed Roman cemetery.’

‘I do not think so. We are still on the edge of the Christian cemetery; two other burials of that nature have turned up.’

John cleared his throat. ‘Sir. I have been wanting to speak to you about that. These ’ere pore Christians – ’

‘Not now, John,’ Emerson said irritably.

‘But, sir, it ain’t right to dig them up as if they was ’eathens. If we was in England – ’

‘We are not in England,’ Emerson replied. ‘Well, Peabody?’

‘It is curious,’ I agreed. ‘One would expect such a carefully wrapped mummy to possess a coffin or a sarcophagus.’

‘Precisely, my dear Peabody.’

‘Was that how it was found?’

‘You see it,’ Emerson replied, ‘just as the men found it – a scant two feet below the surface.’

‘These intrusions do sometimes occur, Emerson. Do you want me to take a photograph?’

Emerson stroked his chin and then replied, ‘I think not, Peabody. I will make a note of its location and we will see what turns up as the work progresses.’

‘Sir,’ John said. ‘These ’ere Christians – ’

‘Hold your tongue, John, and hand me that brush.’

‘It is almost time for tea, Emerson,’ I said. ‘Will you come?’

‘Bah,’ said Emerson.

Taking this for acquiescence, I made my way back to the house. Ramses was not in his room. The lion cub ran to greet me when I opened the door, and as I tickled it under its chin I noticed it had eaten Ramses’ house slippers and reduced his nightshirt to shreds. Restoring it to the cage, over its piteous objections, I returned to the parlour and put the kettle on.

We took tea alfresco, as the Italians say, arranging tables and chairs in a space cleared for that purpose before the house. The bits of sand that occasionally sprinkled tea and bread were a small inconvenience to pay for the fresh air and splendid view.

When Emerson joined me he was grumbling as usual. ‘How often have I told you, Amelia, that this ritual is absurd? Afternoon tea is all very well at home, but to interrupt one’s work when in the field …’ He seized the cup I handed him, drained it in a gulp, and returned it to me. ‘Petrie does not stop for tea. I won’t do it, I tell you. This is the last time.’

He said the same thing every day. I refilled his cup and said what I said every day, namely that an interval of refreshment increased efficiency, and that it was necessary to replenish the moisture lost from the body during the heat of the afternoon.

‘Where is Ramses?’ Emerson asked.

‘He is late,’ I replied. ‘As to precisely where he may be, I cannot answer, thanks to your refusal to let me supervise his activities. You spoil the boy, Emerson. How many children of his age have their own archaeological excavations?’

‘He wants to surprise us, Peabody. It would be cruel to thwart his innocent pleasures… Ah, here he is. How very tidy you are this evening, Ramses.’

Not only was he tidy, he was clean. His hair curled into tight ringlets when damp. Drops of water still sparkled in the sable coils. I was so pleased at this demonstration of conformity – for bathing was not something Ramses often engaged in of his own free will – that I did not scold him for being late or even object to the presence of the lion. Ramses secured its lead to a stone stub and began devouring bread and butter.

It was a pleasant domestic interlude; and I confess I shared Emerson’s sentiments when he let out an exclamation of annoyance. ‘Curse it, we are going to be interrupted again. Doesn’t that Frenchman do anything except pay social calls?’

The approaching figure was indeed that of de Morgan, mounted on his beautiful steed. ‘Ramses,’ I began.

‘Yes, Mama. I t’ink dat de lion has had sufficient fresh air for de present.’ There was only time for him to thrust it into the house and close the door before de Morgan was with us.

After greetings had been exchanged and de Morgan had accepted a cup of tea, he asked how our work was going.

‘Splendidly,’ I replied. ‘We have completed a survey of the area and are proceeding with trial excavations. Cemeteries of the Roman and Christian periods have been discovered.’

‘My commiseration, dear friends,’ de Morgan exclaimed. ‘But perhaps you will come upon something more interesting in time.’

‘Commiseration is not needed, monsieur,’ I replied. ‘We dote on Roman cemeteries.’

‘Then you will no doubt be pleased to receive another Roman mummy,’ said de Morgan, twirling his moustache.

‘What the devil do you mean?’ Emerson demanded.

‘That is the reason for my visit,’ de Morgan replied, a Machiavellian smile curving his lips. ‘The stolen mummy case has been discovered. The thieves abandoned it a few kilometres from my camp, where it was found this afternoon.’

‘How very strange,’ I said.

‘No, it is easy to understand,’ said de Morgan patronisingly. ‘These thieves are ignorant people. They committed an error, taking the mummy case; having discovered its worthlessness and tiring of its weight, they simply abandoned it.’

Emerson shot the Frenchman a look of blistering contempt. I said, ‘No doubt the baroness is glad to have her relic back.’

‘She will have nothing to do with it.’ De Morgan shook his head. ‘Les femmes, they are always illogical… That is, madame, I do not refer to you, you understand – ’

‘I should hope not, monsieur.’

‘“Take it away,” she cries, waving her arms. “Give it to Herr Professor Emerson, who has scolded me. I want nothing more to do with it, it has brought me terror and distress.” So,’ de Morgan concluded, ‘my men will fetch it to you later.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Emerson between clenched teeth.

‘Not at all.’ De Morgan patted the damp curls of Ramses, who was crouched at his feet like a puppy. ‘And how is your study of mummies progressing, mon petit?’

‘I have given it up for de present,’ said Ramses. ‘I find I lack de proper instruments for such research. Accurate measurements of cranial capacity and bone development are necessary if one is to reach meaningful conclusions regarding de racial and physical – ’

De Morgan interrupted with a hearty laugh. ‘Never mind, petit chou; if you are bored with your papa’s excavations you may visit me. Tomorrow I begin a new tunnel which will surely lead me to the burial chamber.’

Emerson’s countenance writhed. Catching my eye, he said in a muffled voice, ‘Excuse me, Amelia. I must – I must – ’

And, leaping from his chair, he vanished around the corner of the house.

‘I take my leave of you, madame,’ said de Morgan, rising. ‘I came only to tell you that the stolen property has been recovered and to give you the baroness’s farewells. She sails at dawn.’

‘Good,’ I exclaimed. ‘That is – I am glad she is recovered enough to continue her journey.’

‘I thought you might feel that way,’ said de Morgan with a smile. ‘You know that her little pet escaped after all?’

‘Did it?’

For the past several minutes a muffled undercurrent of thumps and growls had issued from the house. De Morgan’s smile broadened. ‘Yes, it did. Possibly the thieves opened the cage by mistake. Ah, well; it is a small matter.’

‘Quite,’ I said, as a howl of feline frustration arose and claws attacked the inside of the door.

After de Morgan had left, grinning like a Gallic idiot, I went in search of Emerson. I found him methodically kicking the foundations of the house, and led him back to the dig.

The rest of the day went quietly, and Emerson’s temper gradually subsided under the soothing influence of professional activity. After dinner he sat down to write up his journal of the day’s work, assisted by Ramses, while John and I went to the darkroom and developed the plates we had taken that day. Some had turned out quite well. Others were very blurred. John tried to take the credit for the good ones, but I soon set him straight on that, and pointed out where he had gone astray in focusing the camera.

We returned to the sitting room. The cat Bastet was sitting on top of Emerson’s papers. Emerson absently lifted her up whenever he added a finished sheet to the pile. The lion cub was chewing on Emerson’s bootlace. As I entered, the front door opened and Ramses appeared. He had got into the habit of spending the evening with Abdullah and the other men from Aziyeh, in order to practise his Arabic, as he claimed. I had reservations about this, but felt sure Abdullah would prevent the men from adding too extensively to Ramses’ collection of colloquialisms. I was pleased that he got on well with them. Abdullah said they enjoyed his company. I suppose he could hardly say anything else.

‘Time for bed, Ramses,’ I said.

‘Yes, Mama.’ He unwound the cub’s leash from the legs of the table and those of his father. ‘I will walk de lion and den retire.’

‘You don’t believe you can train that creature as you would a dog, do you?’ I asked, in mingled amusement and exasperation.

‘De experiment has never been tried, to my knowledge, Mama. I consider it wort’ a try.’

‘Oh, very well. Put the lion in its cage before you get into bed. Make sure the shutter is tightly fastened – ’

‘Yes, Mama. Mama?’

‘What is it, Ramses?’

He stood holding the leash, his grave dark eyes fixed on my face. ‘I would like to say, Mama, dat I am fully cognisant of your support and forbearance regarding de lion. I will endeavour to discover some way of proving my gratitude.’

‘Please don’t,’ I exclaimed. ‘I appreciate your remarks, Ramses, but you can best express your gratitude by being a good little boy and obeying your mama’s orders.’

‘Yes, Mama. Good night, Mama. Good night, John. Good night, de cat Bastet. Good night, Papa.’

‘Good night, my dearest boy,’ Emerson replied. ‘Sleep well.’

After Ramses had gone and John had carried the tray of pottery shards to the storeroom, Emerson put down his pen and looked reproachfully at me. ‘Amelia, that was a very manly and loving apology you received from Ramses.’

‘It did not sound like an apology to me,’ I replied. ‘And when Ramses offers to do something for me, my blood runs cold in anticipation.’

Emerson threw down his pen. ‘Curse it, Amelia, I don’t understand you. Heaven knows you are an excellent mother – ’

‘I try to be, Emerson.’

‘You are, my dear, you are. Ramses does you credit. But can’t you be more – more – ’

‘More what, Emerson?’

‘More affectionate? You are always snapping at the boy.’

‘I am not a demonstrative person, Emerson.’

‘I have reason to know better,’ said Emerson, giving me a meaningful look.

‘That is a different matter altogether. Naturally I am fond of Ramses, but I will never be one of those doting mamas who allow maternal affection to blind them to the flaws of character and behaviour demonstrated by a child.’

John returned at this point in the discussion. ‘Madam,’ he exclaimed, ‘there is a great ’uge mummy case in the courtyard. What shall I do with it?’

‘It must be the baroness’s mummy case,’ I said. ‘I suppose M. de Morgan’s men simply dropped it and left. How vexatious! What shall we do with it, Emerson?’

‘Throw the cursed thing out,’ Emerson replied, returning to his writing.

‘We will put it with the others,’ I said. ‘Come along, John, I will unlock the storeroom.’

The moon had not yet risen, but the varnished surface of the mummy case glimmered darkly in the brilliant starlight. I unlocked the door and John hoisted the coffin into his arms, as effortlessly as if it had been an empty paper shell. I was reminded of that Italian mountebank Belzoni, a former circus strongman who had turned to archaeology. He had been one of the first to excavate in Egypt, but his methods could hardly be called scientific, for among other sins he had employed gunpowder to blast his way into closed pyramids.

The storeroom was full of coffins and we had to shift several of them to find a place for the newcomer. It would have been more practical, perhaps, to open another room, but I always like to keep objects of the same type together. When the thing had been stowed away, John said, ‘Would you be wanting me to go to spy on Brother ’amid now, madam?’

I gave him the disguise I had procured for him. Abdullah’s spare robe barely reached his shins, and the boots showing under the hem of the garment looked rather peculiar. John offered to remove them, but I decided against it. His feet were not hardened like those of the Egyptians, and if he trod on something sharp and painful he might let out a cry that would alert Hamid to his presence. I wound the turban around his head and then stood back to study the effect.

It was not convincing. However, we had done the best we could. I sent John on his way and returned to Emerson. He was curious as to why John had retired so early, but I was able to distract him without difficulty.

It seemed as if I had slept for only a few hours (which was in fact the case) when I was awakened by a furious pounding at the door. For once I was not impeded by a mosquito netting. At that season, in the desert, the noxious insects do not present a problem. Springing from the bed, I seized my parasol and assumed a posture of defence. Then I recognised the voice that was calling my name.

Emerson was swearing and flailing around in the bed when I flung the door open. The first streaks of dawn warmed the sky, but the courtyard was still deep in shadow. Yet there was no mistaking the large form that confronted me. Even if I had not recognised John’s voice, I would have recognised his shape. That shape was, however, oddly distorted, and after a moment I realised that he held a smaller, slighter body closely clasped in his arms.

‘Who the devil have you got there?’ I asked, forgetting my usual adherence to proper language in my surprise.

‘Sister Charity, madam,’ said John.

‘Will you please ask him to let me down, ma’am?’ the girl asked faintly. ‘I am not injured, but Brother John insists – ’

‘Don’t move, either of you,’ I interrupted. ‘This is a most unprecedented situation, and before I can assess it properly I must have light.’ A vehement curse from the direction of the nuptial couch reminded me of something I had momentarily overlooked and I added quickly, ‘Emerson, pray remain recumbent and wrapped in the blanket. There is a lady present.’

‘Curse it, curse it, curse it,’ Emerson cried passionately. ‘Amelia – ’

‘Yes, my dear, I have the matter well in hand,’ I replied soothingly. ‘Just a moment till I light the lamp… There. Now we will see what is going on.’

First I made certain Emerson was not in a state that would cause embarrassment to him or to anyone else. Only his head protruded from the sheet he had wrapped around himself. The expression on his face did his handsome features no justice.

John’s turban had come unwound and hung down his back. His once snowy robe was ripped half off, the tattered remnants were blackened by what I first took to be dried blood. A closer examination proved that the stains were those of smoke and charring. His face was equally smudged, but the broad smile on his lips and the steady beam of his blue eyes assured me he had taken no hurt.

The girl was also dishevelled but unmarked by fire. Her mousy brown hair tumbled over her shoulders and her face was flushed with excitement and embarrassment as she struggled to free herself from the brawny arms that clasped her. Her feet were bare. She wore a garment of voluminous cut and dismal colour, dark blue or black, that covered her from the base of her throat to her ankles. It had long tight sleeves. A nightcap dangled from her neck by its strings.

‘Please, ma’am, tell him to put me down,’ she gasped.

‘All in due time,’ I assured her. ‘Now, John, you may tell me what has happened.’

‘There was a fire, madam.’

‘I deduced as much, John. Where was the fire?’

It is expedient to summarize John’s statement, which had to be extracted from him sentence by sentence. He had been hiding among the palms near the chapel when he had seen a tongue of flame rise from behind that edifice. His cries had aroused the men, and with their assistance he had succeeded in quenching the conflagration before it did much damage. No help had come from the village; indeed the place had remained suspiciously dark and silent, though the shouts of the missionaries must have been heard. A search of the area revealed no sign of the arsonist. The fire had been deliberately set, getting its start in a pile of dry branches and palm fronds heaped against the foundation of the little church. Once the flames were extinguished, John had seized the girl and carried her off.

‘What the devil for?’ cried Emerson, from the bed.

‘To bring her to Mrs Emerson, of course,’ John replied, his eyes widening.

Emerson subsided with a curse. ‘Of course. Everyone brings everything to Mrs Emerson. Lions, mummy cases, miscellaneous young ladies – ’

‘And quite right, too,’ I said. ‘Pay no attention to Professor Emerson, my dear Miss Charity. He would welcome you with the kindness that is his most conspicuous characteristic were he not a trifle out of sorts because – ’

‘I beg you will not explain, Amelia,’ said my husband in tones of freezing disapproval. ‘Er – hem. I am not objecting to the presence of Miss Charity, but to the invasion that will inevitably follow. Would it be too much to ask, Amelia, that the young person be removed so that I may assume my trousers? A man is at a decided disadvantage when he receives irate brothers and indignant lovers wrapped in a sheet.’

My dear Emerson was himself again, and I was happy to accede to this reasonable request. ‘Certainly, my dear,’ I replied. ‘John, take the young lady to your room.’

The girl shrieked and resumed her struggles. ‘It is the only room fit for habitation that is presently available,’ I explained, somewhat irritated at this excessive display of sensibility. ‘Wait a moment until I find my slippers and I will accompany you. Curse it, where are they?’

‘Madam!’ John exclaimed.

‘You will excuse my language,’ I said, kneeling to look under the bed. ‘Ah, here they are. Just as I suspected – Ramses has let the lion in the room, after I strictly forbade it.’

‘Lion?’ Charity gasped. ‘Did you say …’

‘You see how they are chewed. I told that child … Dear me, I believe the girl has fainted. Just as well. Take her along, John, I will follow.’

The ensuing hour was a period of unprecedented confusion, but I recall it without chagrin; I rise to my true powers in periods of confusion. Ramses had been awakened by the noise. He and the cat and the lion followed us to John’s room, spouting questions (in the case of Ramses) and attacking the tatters of John’s robe (in the case of the lion). I ordered all three back to Ramses’ room, and after John had placed the girl on his cot, directed him to withdraw to the same location. The only one who refused to obey was the cat Bastet. Squatting on the floor by the bed, she watched interestedly as I sought to restore Charity to her senses.

As soon as she recovered she insisted, almost hysterically, upon leaving the room. Apparently the very idea of being in a young man’s bedchamber in her nightgown was indelicate. I had ascertained that she was unharmed, so I gave in to her foolish insistence, and when we reached the parlour she became calmer.

The expected invasion had not yet occurred, but I felt sure Emerson was right; the outraged brother would come in search of his sister, and Brother David would undoubtedly be with him, though Emerson’s designation of the latter as Charity’s lover was only another example of Emerson’s failure to comprehend the subtler currents of the human heart. I decided I had better take advantage of this opportunity to talk with the girl alone, and I got straight to the point.

‘You must not be angry with John, Miss Charity. His action was precipitate and thoughtless, but his motives were of the best. His only concern was for your safety.’

‘I see that now.’ The girl brushed the waving locks from her face. ‘But it was a terrifying experience – the shouting, and the flames – then to be seized like that, without warning… I have never – it is the first time a man …’

‘I daresay. You have missed a great many things, Miss Charity. Most ill-advised, in my opinion. But never mind that. Don’t you like John?’

‘He is very kind,’ the girl said slowly. ‘But very, very large.’

‘But that can be an advantage, don’t you think?’ Charity stared at me in bewilderment, and I went on, ‘No, you would not know: But let me assure you, as a respectable married woman, that the combination of physical strength and moral sensibility, combined with tenderness of heart, is exactly what is wanted in a husband. The combination is rare, I confess, but when one encounters it – ’

‘Tactful as always, Amelia,’ said a voice from the doorway.

‘Ah, there you are, Emerson. I was just explaining to Miss Charity – ’

‘I heard you.’ Emerson came into the room, buttoning his shirt. ‘Your tactics rather resemble those of a battering ram, my dear. Why don’t you make the tea and leave the poor girl alone?’

‘The tea is ready. But, Emerson – ’

‘Please, Amelia. I believe I hear the approach of the invasion I mentioned, and if I don’t have my tea before I face it …’

The girl had shrunk down into her chair, her arms clutching her body and her face averted, though Emerson politely refrained from looking at her. When the strident accents of Brother Ezekiel were heard she looked as if she were trying to squeeze her body into the framework of the chair.

Emerson hastily gulped his tea, and I went to the door to see whom the visitor was addressing. As I might have expected, it was Ramses.

‘I told you to stay in your room,’ I said.

‘You told me to go to my room, but you did not say to stay dere. Seeing dis person approaching, I felt it would be advisable for someone to meet him in order to – ’

‘Talks a blue streak, don’t he?’ Brother Ezekiel slid clumsily off his donkey and fixed Ramses with a critical stare. ‘Sonny, don’t you know children should be seen and not heard?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Ramses replied. ‘Dat is to say, sir, I have heard dat sentiment expressed more den once, but it is no more dan an opinion and it is not based on sound t’eories of – ’

‘That will do, Ramses,’ I said, with a sigh. ‘Brother Ezekiel, will you come in? Your sister is here, safe and sound.’

‘So you say.’ Brother Ezekiel pushed past me. ‘Well, she’s here, at any rate. Charity, where’s your penknife?’

The girl rose. Head bowed, she murmured from under the hair that veiled her face, ‘Under my pillow, brother. There was such confusion I forgot – ’

‘Didn’t I tell you never to take a step without that weapon?’ Brother Ezekiel thundered.

‘I am guilty, brother.’

‘Yes, you are. And you’ll be punished.’

‘A moment, sir.’ Emerson spoke in the purring rumble that often deceived persons unfamiliar with his temperament into believing he was in an affable mood. ‘I don’t believe we have been formally introduced.’

‘It ain’t my fault if we wasn’t,’ Ezekiel replied. ‘At least this here unfortunate event gives me a chance to talk to you, Professor. I know who you are and you know me; let’s skip the formalities, I don’t hold with ’em.’ He sat down.

‘Have a chair,’ Emerson said.

‘I already have one. I could fancy a cup of tea, if you ain’t got coffee.’

‘By all means.’ Emerson offered him a cup. I resignedly awaited the explosion I knew was coming. The longer Emerson’s appearance of mildness continued, the louder the eventual explosion would be.

‘Do I understand,’ Emerson continued blandly, ‘that Miss Charity goes about armed with a knife? Let me assure you, Mr Jones, that such precautions are not necessary. This is a peaceful country, and I doubt that she is capable of using such a weapon.’

‘She’d be able to use it on herself,’ Brother Ezekiel retorted. ‘And that’s what she was supposed to do before she let a male critter lay hands on her.’

‘Good Gad,’ I cried. ‘This is not ancient Rome, sir.’

I expected the allusion would be lost on Ezekiel, but to my surprise he replied, ‘They was heathens, but that Lucretia female knew the value of a woman’s purity. Well, in this case no harm done. I come to fetch her home, but long as I’m here I may as well tell you what’s on my mind.’

‘By all means unburden yourself,’ Emerson said earnestly. ‘I doubt that the organ you mention can stand any undue weight.’

‘What? It’s about the Christian cemetery you’ve been digging up. You’ll have to stop it, Professor. They were heretics, but they was laid to rest in the Lord.’

I braced myself for the explosion. It did not come. Emerson’s eyebrows rose. ‘Heretics?’ he repeated.

‘Monophysites,’ said Brother Ezekiel.

I had believed Emerson’s eyebrows could rise no higher, but I was wrong. Mistaking the cause of his surprise, Brother Ezekiel enlightened him.

‘Our Lord and Saviour, Professor, has a double nature – the human and the divine are mingled in him. ’Twas all laid down by the Council of Chalcedon, anno Domini 451. That’s doctrine, and there’s no getting around it. These Copts wouldn’t accept it, though. They followed Eutyches, who insisted on the absorption of the human part of Christ by the divine into one composite nature. Hence, sir, the term Monophysite.’

‘I am familiar with the term and its meaning,’ Emerson said.

‘Oh? Well, but that ain’t the issue. They may of been heretics, but they was Christians, of a sort, and I demand you leave their graves alone.’

The twinkle of amusement in Emerson’s eyes was replaced by a fiery glow, and I decided to intervene. ‘Your sister is on the verge of fainting, Brother Ezekiel. If you don’t take steps to relieve her, I shall. Charity – sit down!’

Charity sat down. Brother Ezekiel stood up. ‘Come along, girl, a handmaiden of the Lord has no business swooning. I’ve said my say, now I’ll go.’

‘Not just yet,’ said Emerson. ‘I haven’t had my say. Mr Jones – ’

‘Brother Ezekiel, sir.’

Emerson shook his head. ‘Really, you cannot expect me to employ that absurd affectation. You are not my brother. You are, however, a fellow human being, and I feel it my duty to warn you. You have aroused considerable resentment in the village; last night’s fire may not be the last demonstration of that resentment.’

Brother Ezekiel raised his eyes to heaven. ‘If the glorious crown of the martyr is to be mine, O Lord, make me worthy!’

‘If it weren’t such an entertaining idiot it would make me angry,’ Emerson muttered as if to himself. ‘See here, sir; you are doing everything possible to increase the justifiable annoyance of the local priest, whose flock you are stealing away – ’

‘I seek to save them from the fires of hell,’ Ezekiel explained. ‘They are all damned – ’

Emerson’s voice rose to a roar. ‘They may be damned, but you will be dead! It would not be the first time Protestant missions have been attacked. Court danger as you will, but you have no right to risk your innocent converts and your sister.’

‘God’s will be done,’ Ezekiel said.

‘No doubt,’ Emerson agreed. ‘Oh, get out of here, you little maniac, before I throw you out. Miss Charity, if at any time you need our help, we are here, at your command. Send word by John or any other messenger.’

Then I realized that in his own peculiar way Ezekiel had exhibited a variety of self-control comparable to that of my husband. Emerson’s final insult cracked the missionary’s calm facade. A thunderous scowl darkened his brow. But before he could express in words the outrage that filled him, another sound was heard – the sound of a low, menacing growl. I thought Ramses might have let the lion cub out, and looked around. But the source of the growl was Bastet, who had appeared out of nowhere in that unnerving way of hers. Crouched on the table near Emerson, she lashed her tail and rumbled low in her throat, sensing the anger that filled the room and prepared to defend her master.

Charity let out a thin cry. ‘Take it away – oh, please, take it away.’

‘You must conquer this weakness, Charity,’ said Brother David, shaking his head. ‘There is nothing more harmless than an amiable domestic cat…’ He put out a hand to Bastet. She spat at him. He stepped hastily back. ‘An amiable domestic cat,’ he repeated, less confidently.

Charity retreated, step by stumbling step, her wide eyes fixed on the cat’s sharp white snarl. ‘You know I would do anything to please you, brother. I have tried. But I cannot – I cannot – ’

Observing her pallor and the perspiration that bedewed her brow, I realized her terror was as genuine as it was unusual. No wonder the mere mention of the lion had caused her to lose consciousness!

I glanced at Ramses, who was sitting quietly in a corner. I had fully expected a comment – or, more likely, a long-winded speech – from him before this. No doubt he knew I would order him out of the room if he ventured to speak. ‘Take the cat away, Ramses,’ I said.

‘But, Mama – ’

‘Never mind, we’re leaving,’ snapped Ezekiel. The look he gave Bastet showed that he found Charity’s fear as hard to comprehend as Brother David’s affection for such creatures. Then he turned to Emerson. ‘Don’t concern yourself about my sister, Professor, she’s been taught right; she knows a woman’s place. I remind you, sir, of First Corinthians, Chapter fourteen, Verses thirty-four and thirty-five: “Let your women keep silence … for it is not permitted unto them to speak… And if they will learn any thing, let them ask their husbands at home.” You’d best apply that in your own household, Professor, before you start interfering with them that knows better.’

When he and his entourage had gone, Emerson burst into a great roar of laughter. ‘Henpeckery!’ he shouted cheerfully. ‘The old charge of henpeckery. Will I never live it down?’

I stood on tiptoe and threw my arms about his neck. ‘Emerson,’ I said, ‘have I had occasion in the recent past to mention that my feelings for you are of the warmest nature?’

My husband returned my embrace. ‘You mentioned it in passing a few hours ago, but if you would care to enlarge upon the subject …’

But after an all-too-brief interval he gently put me aside. ‘All the same, Peabody,’ he said seriously, ‘we cannot let those fools rush headlong to destruction without trying to stop them.’

‘Are matters that serious, do you think?’

‘I fear so.’ He added, with a refreshing touch of malice, ‘You have been too busy playing detective to notice what has been going on. Already there is a visible division among our workers; the converts are shunned by their fellows, and Abdullah has reported several cases of fisticuffs. I really believe that wretched preacher wants to achieve martyrdom.’

‘Surely there is no danger of that, Emerson. Not in this day and age.’

‘Let us hope not. What the devil, we have wasted too much time on the creature. The men will be on the dig. I must go.’

With a hasty embrace he departed, and I sat down to have another cup of tea. Scarcely had I taken a seat, however, before a cry of outraged fury reached my ears. I recognized the beloved voice and hastened to rush to his side, fearing I know not what – some fresh outrage from Brother Ezekiel, perhaps.

The pastor had gone, and Emerson was nowhere in sight. The volume of his complaints led me to him, on the far side of the house. I do not believe I had inspected that region since the day of our arrival, when I had made a circuit of the walls to see where repairs were needed. On that occasion the walls had been intact, if aged. Now a gaping hole confronted my astonished eyes. Emerson was stamping up and down waving his arms and shouting at Abdullah, who listened with an air of injured dignity. Seeing me, Emerson turned his reproaches on a new object.

‘What kind of housekeeping do you call this, Peabody?’

I pointed out the injustice of the charge in a few brisk but well-chosen words. Emerson mopped his brow. ‘Pardon my language, Peabody. It has been a trying morning. And now this!’

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘It is a hole, Peabody. A hole in the wall of one of our storage rooms.’

‘Oh, Emerson, I can see that! How did it come there?’

‘I do not know, Peabody. Perhaps Ramses has stolen an elephant and attempted to confine it in the room.’

I ignored this misplaced attempt at humour. ‘The wall is old, and some of the mortar has fallen out. Perhaps it simply collapsed.’

‘Don’t talk like an idiot, Peabody!’ Emerson shouted.

‘Don’t shout at me, Emerson!’

Abdullah’s head had been moving back and forth like someone watching a tennis match. Now he remarked, not quite sotto voce, ‘It is good to see them so friendly together. But of course it was the spirit of the old priest, trying to get back into his house from which the Father of Curses expelled him.’

‘Abdullah, you know that is nonsense,’ I said.

‘Quite right,’ Emerson agreed. ‘When I expel a spirit, he stays expelled.’

Abdullah grinned. Emerson wiped his forehead with his sleeve and said in a resigned voice, ‘Let’s see what the damage is. Which of the storerooms is this, Amelia? I cannot quite get my bearings.’

I counted windows. ‘This is the room where I keep the mummy cases, Emerson. The ones from the Roman cemetery.’

Emerson struck himself heavily on the brow. ‘There is some strange fatality in this,’ he muttered. ‘Abdullah, go to the dig and get the men started. Come around to the door, Peabody, and we will see what is – or is not – inside.’

We did as he suggested. The coffins had been jumbled about, but I noticed that none of the bricks had fallen inside – which cast a doubt on my theory of a spontaneous fall. I had not really believed it, of course. The bricks had been removed one by one until a sufficiently large opening was made. It would not have been difficult to do. The mortar was old and crumbling.

‘… five, six, seven,’ Emerson counted. ‘They are all here, Amelia.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Emerson …’

‘Oh, curse it,’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘Don’t tell me – you put the baroness’s mummy case in this room.’

‘It seemed the logical place, Emerson.’

‘Then there ought to be eight mummy cases here.’

‘My reckoning agrees with yours, Emerson.’

‘One is missing.’

‘It seems a reasonable conclusion.’

Emerson’s fingers clawed at his chin. ‘Fetch John,’ he said.

I turned to obey; this was not the time to cavil at an unnecessarily peremptory tone. From one of the doors along the line of cells a head protruded. ‘May I come out, Mama?’ Ramses inquired.

‘You may as well. Find John.’

‘He is here, Mama.’

The pair soon joined us and Emerson, with John’s help, began removing the mummy cases from the storeroom. When they were lined up in a grisly row, Emerson looked them over.

‘These are the coffins we found, Peabody,’ he announced. ‘It must be the one belonging to the baroness that has been stolen – again.’

‘Wrong, Emerson. That’ – I pointed – ‘is the mummy case John and I put in this room last night. I remember the patch of missing varnish on the foot, and also the relative location, which I noted when you removed them.’

‘Wrong, Peabody. I know each and every one of these mummy cases. I could as easily be mistaken as to the identity of my own mother.’

‘Since you haven’t seen the dear old lady for fifteen years, you might easily make such a mistake.’

‘Never mind my mother,’ Emerson retorted. ‘I can’t imagine why we brought her into this. If you don’t believe me, Peabody, we will check my notes. I made careful descriptions of the coffins, as I always do.’

‘No, no, my dear Emerson, I need no such verification; your memory is always accurate. But I am equally certain that this’ – again I pointed – ‘is the mummy case brought to us last night.’

‘De conclusion is obvious, surely,’ piped Ramses. ‘De mummy case brought here last night, purportedly de one stolen from de lady, was not in fact de one stolen from – ’

‘I assure you, Ramses, that possibility had not escaped either of us,’ I replied with some asperity.

‘De inevitable corollary,’ Ramses went on, ‘is dat – ’

‘Pray be silent for a moment, Ramses,’ Emerson begged, clutching his ambrosial locks with both hands. ‘Let me think. What with mummy cases whizzing in and out of my life like express trains … There were originally seven mummy cases in this room.’

I murmured an encouraging ‘Quite right, Emerson,’ and fixed Ramses with a look that stilled the words hovering on his lips.

‘Seven,’ Emerson repeated painfully. ‘Last night another mummy case was placed in this room. Eight. You didn’t happen to notice, Peabody, how many – ’

‘I am afraid not, Emerson. It was dark and we were in a hurry.’

‘The baroness’s mummy case was stolen,’ Emerson continued. ‘A mummy case believed to be that mummy case was handed over to us. You are certain that this’ – he pointed – ‘was the mummy case in question. We must assume, then, that the mummy case we received was not the mummy case belonging to the baroness, but another mummy case, derived God knows whence.’

‘But we know whence,’ cried Ramses, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘Papa is correct; we have here de original mummy case discovered by our men. De one returned to us was our own. A t’ief must have removed it from dis room earlier.’

‘A what?’ I asked.

‘A robber,’ said Ramses.

‘Who replaced the bricks after he had stolen the mummy case from us. Yes,’ Emerson agreed. ‘It could have been done. The thief then carried the stolen mummy case out into the desert, where he abandoned it. That incompetent idiot de Morgan, who would not recognize his own mummy case if it walked up and bade him “Bonjour,” assumed that the one found by his men was the one belonging to the baroness. Apparently that is what the thief did – but why the devil should he do it?’

This time I was determined that Ramses should not get ahead of me. ‘In the hope, which proved justified, that the search for the baroness’s mummy case would be abandoned.’

‘Humph,’ said Emerson. ‘My question was purely rhetorical, Peabody. Had you not interrupted, I would have proposed that very solution. May I request that you all remain silent and allow me to work out this problem step by step in logical fashion?’

‘Certainly, my dear Emerson.’

‘Certainly, Papa.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ John added in a bewildered voice, ‘I don’t ’ave the faintest notion of what anyone is talking about, sir.’

Emerson cleared his throat pontifically. ‘Very well. We will begin with the hypothesis that the thief stole one of our mummy cases in order to substitute it for the one belonging to the baroness. He went to the considerable trouble of replacing the bricks in the wall so the theft would not be noticed. Why then did he demolish the wall last night?’

He fixed Ramses with such an awful look that the child closed his mouth with an audible snap. Emerson continued, ‘Not to return the stolen mummy case. There are only seven here, the same number we had originally. Two possibilities suggest themselves. Either the thief wished to recover some object he had concealed in the storeroom on the occasion when he removed our mummy case, or he wished to draw our attention to his activities.’

He paused. Those of us in the audience remained respectfully silent. A look of childish pleasure spread over Emerson’s face. ‘If any of you have alternative hypotheses to suggest, you may speak,’ he said graciously.

My abominable child beat me to the punch again. ‘Perhaps some second party, oder dan de original t’ief, wished to expose de villain’s act of pilferage.’

Emerson shook his head vehemently. ‘I refuse to introduce another unknown villain, Ramses. One is enough.’

‘I favour the first of your hypotheses, Emerson,’ I said. ‘It was necessary to find a hiding place for the baroness’s mummy case. What better place than among others of the same? I believe the thief put her mummy case in the storage room and took one of ours. Last night he broke in again and removed the first mummy case.’

‘I have a feeling,’ said Emerson conversationally, ‘that if I hear the words “mummy case” again, a blood vessel will burst in my brain. Peabody, your theory is perfectly reasonable, except for one small point. There is no reason why anyone with an ounce of sense would steal the baroness’s mum – property in the first place, much less go through these fantastic convolutions with it.’

We stared bemusedly at one another. John scratched his head. Finally Ramses said thoughtfully, ‘I can t’ink of several possibilities, Papa. But it is a capital mistake to t’eorize wit’ insufficient data.’

‘Well put, Ramses,’ Emerson said approvingly.

‘De statement is not original, Papa.’

‘Never mind. Let us forsake theories and take action. Peabody, I have come round to your way of thinking. Hamid is the only suspicious character hereabouts. Let us question Hamid.’

But Hamid was not on the dig. He had not reported for work that morning, and all the men denied having seen him.

‘What did I tell you?’ I cried. ‘He has flown. Does not that prove his guilt?’

‘It proves nothing except that he is not here,’ Emerson replied waspishly. ‘Perhaps he has accomplished his purpose, whatever the devil that might have been, and has departed. So much the better. I can get on with my work in peace.’

‘But, Emerson – ’

Emerson rounded on me and wagged his finger under my nose. ‘Work, Peabody – work! Is the word familiar to you? I know you find our activities tedious; I know you yearn for pyramids and sneer at cemeteries – ’

‘Emerson, I never said – ’

‘You thought it. I saw you thinking it.’

‘I was not alone if I did.’

Emerson threw his arm around my shoulders, careless of the men working nearby. A low murmur of amusement rose from them. ‘Right as always, Peabody. I find our present excavations boring too. I am taking out my bad humour on you.’

‘Couldn’t we start work on the pyramids here, Emerson? They are poor things, but our own.’

‘You know my methods, Peabody. One thing at a time. I will not be distracted from duty by the siren call of – er – pyramids.’

iii

For the next few days it appeared that Emerson’s hopes regarding Hamid were justified. There were no further attacks on the missionaries or on our property, and one evening, when I inadvertently used the phrase ‘mummy case,’ Emerson scarcely flinched. I let him enjoy his illusory sense of tranquillity, but I knew, with that intuitive intelligence upon which I have often been commended, that the peace could not last – that the calm was only a thin surface over a seething cauldron of passions that must eventually erupt.

Our decision to allow Ramses his own excavation had been a success. He was gone all day, taking his noon meal with him, and always returned in time for tea. One evening he was late, however, and I was about to send someone out to look for him when I caught a glimpse of a small form scuttling with an odd crablike motion along the shaded cloister. He was carrying something, wrapped in his shirt. I knew the cloth enclosing the bundle was his shirt because he was not wearing the garment.

‘Ramses!’ I called.

Ramses ducked into his room, but promptly reappeared.

‘How many times have I told you not to remove any of your outer garments without sufficient cause?’ I inquired.

‘Very many times, Mama.’

‘What have you got there?’

‘Some t’ings I found when I was excavating, Mama.’

‘May I see them?’

‘I would radder you did not, Mama, at present.’

I was about to insist when Emerson, who had joined me, said softly, ‘A moment, Peabody.’

He drew me aside. ‘Ramses wants to keep his discoveries for a surprise,’ he explained. ‘You wouldn’t want to disappoint the dear little chap, would you?’

This was not a question I could answer fully, under the circumstances, so I remained silent. A fond smile spread across Emerson’s face. ‘He has been collecting potsherds and his favourite bones, I expect. You must exclaim over them and admire them, Amelia, when we are invited to view the display.’

‘Naturally I will do my duty, Emerson. When did you ever know me to fail?’ I turned back to Ramses, who stood waiting outside his room, and dismissed him with a gesture. He went in at once and closed the door.

Whatever the nature of Ramses’ discoveries, they could not have been poorer than our own. We had found a small family burial ground dating from the Fourth or Fifth Dynasty, but the humble little tombs contained no funeral goods worthy of preserving, and the ground in that part of the site was so damp the bones were of the consistency of thick mud. Even now I cannot recall that period without a pall of ennui settling over me.

Fortunately this miserable state of uneventfulness was not to last long. The first intimation of a new outbreak of violence was innocent enough – or so it seemed at the time. We were sitting in the parlour after our simple supper, Emerson and I. He was writing up his notes and I was fitting together my eleventh Roman amphora – a form of vessel I have never admired. Ramses was in his room, engaged in some mysterious endeavour; John was in his room trying to finish Leviticus. The lion club played at my feet, finishing off my house slippers. Since it had already eaten one, I decided it might as well have the other. Bastet lay on the table next to Emerson’s papers, her eyes slitted and her rare purr echoing in the quiet room.

‘I believe I must make a trip to Cairo soon,’ I remarked.

Emerson threw his pen down. ‘I knew this was coming. Peabody, I absolutely forbid you to prowl the bazaars looking for murderers. Everything is peaceful just now and I won’t have you – ’

‘Emerson, I cannot imagine where you get such ideas. I need to shop, that is all. We have not a pair of house slippers among us, and my store of bismuth is getting low. All these people seem to suffer from stomach complaints.’

‘If you didn’t deal it out so lavishly, you would not be running out of it.’

Our amiable discussion was developing nicely when we were interrupted from a hail without. Since the breaking in at the storeroom, Abdullah had taken it upon himself to set a guard on the house. He or one of his sons slept near the door every night. I was touched by this gesture, all the more so because I knew Abdullah was not completely convinced that Emerson had got rid of all the evil spirits.

Hearing him call out, we both went to the door. Two forms were approaching. In the light of the torch Abdullah held high I soon recognized friends. ‘It is the reverend and Mr Wilberforce,’ I exclaimed. ‘What a surprise!’

‘I am only surprised they haven’t come before,’ Emerson grumbled. ‘It has been three or four days since we had callers; I was beginning to entertain the fond delusion we might be allowed to get on with our work in peace.’

The presence of our visitors was soon explained. ‘We moored this morning at Dahshoor,’ the Reverend Sayce declared, ‘and spent the afternoon with de Morgan. Since we must be on our way again in the morning, we decided to ride over and call on you tonight.’

‘How very kind of you,’ I said, elbowing Emerson in the ribs to keep him from contradicting the statement. ‘Welcome to our humble quarters.’

‘Not so humble,’ said the American, with an approving glance at the cozy scene. ‘You have the true womanly knack, Mrs Amelia, of making any abode seem homelike. I congratulate – good heavens!’ He leaped backwards, just in time to prevent the lion cub from seizing his foot. He was wearing elegant tassled gaiters, and I could hardly blame the young creature for being interested in this new form of fashion.

I seized the lion and tied its lead to a table leg. Mr Wilberforce took a chair as far from it as possible, and the reverend said, ‘Can that be the lion belonging to the baroness? We heard it had been lost.’

‘Ramses found it,’ I explained. I do not believe in telling falsehoods unless it is absolutely necessary. The statement was true. There was no reason to explain where Ramses had found the lion.

The conversation turned to de Morgan’s discoveries, and Emerson sat chewing his lip in silent aggravation. ‘There is no doubt,’ said the Reverend Sayce, ‘that the southern brick pyramid was built by King Amenemhet the Third of the Twelfth Dynasty. De Morgan has found a number of fine private tombs of that period. He has added volumes to our knowledge of the Middle Kingdom.’

‘How nice,’ I said.

Conversation languished thereafter. Not even the reverend had the courage to ask Emerson how his work was progressing. Finally Mr Wilberforce said, ‘To tell the truth, my friends, we had a particular reason for calling. We have been a trifle concerned for your safety.’

Emerson looked offended. ‘Good Gad, Wilberforce, what do you mean? I am perfectly capable of protecting myself and my family.’

‘But a number of alarming events have occurred in your neighbourhood,’ Wilberforce said. ‘We heard of the burglary of the baroness’s dahabeeyah. The day before we left Cairo we met Mr David Cabot, who told us of the attack on the mission.’

‘Hardly an attack,’ Emerson said. ‘Some malcontent had set a fire behind the chapel; but even if that edifice had been totally destroyed, which was unlikely, no harm would have come to anyone.’

‘Still, it is an ominous sign,’ Sayce said. ‘And Mr Cabot admitted there is growing animosity among the villagers.’

‘Have you met Brother Ezekiel?’ Emerson inquired.

Wilberforce laughed. ‘I take your point, Professor. If I were inclined towards arson, his is the first establishment I would set a match to.’

‘It is not a joking matter, Wilberforce,’ the reverend said gravely. ‘I have no sympathy for the creed or the practices of the Brothers of Jerusalem, but I would not like to see any of them injured. Besides, they give all Christian missionaries a bad name with their tactless behaviour.’

‘I think you overestimate the danger, gentlemen,’ Emerson replied. ‘I am keeping an eye on the situation, and I can assure you no one will dare make a hostile move while I am on the scene.’ His large white teeth snapped together as he concluded. Sayce shook his head but said no more.

Shortly thereafter the two gentlemen rose to depart, claiming they must make an early start. Not until they were at the door, hats in hand, did Sayce clear his throat and remark, ‘There is one other little matter I meant to discuss with you, Mrs Emerson. It almost slipped my mind; such a trivial thing… That bit of papyrus you showed me – do you still have it?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Might I prevail upon you to part with it? I have been considering the part of the text I managed to translate, and I believe it may hold some small interest to a student of biblical history.’

‘To be honest, I would not be able to put my hand on it just at the moment,’ I admitted. ‘I have not had occasion to look at it since we left Cairo.’

‘But you do have it?’ The reverend’s tone was oddly intense.

‘Yes, to be sure. It is somewhere about.’

‘I would not want to trouble you – ’

‘Then don’t,’ said Emerson, who had been watching the little man curiously. ‘You don’t expect Mrs Emerson to turn out all her boxes and bags at this hour of the night, I suppose.’

‘Certainly not. I only thought – ’

‘Look in again on your way upriver,’ Emerson said, like a genial host suggesting a call, ‘when you are in the neighbourhood. We will try to locate the scrap and then consider your request.’

And with this the reverend had to be content, though he did not look pleased.

We stood in the door watching our visitors ride away. Stars spangled the heavens in glorious abandon and the desert lay silver under the moon. Emerson’s arm stole around my waist. ‘Peabody.’

‘Yes, my dear Emerson?’

‘I am a selfish brute, Peabody.’

‘My dear Emerson!’

Emerson drew me inside and closed the door. ‘Though thwarted in your heart’s desire, you defend me nobly. When you told de Morgan the other day that you doted on Roman mummies, I could hardly contain my emotion.’

‘It is kind of you to say so, Emerson. And now, if you will excuse me, I had better finish my amphora.’

‘Damn the amphora,’ Emerson cried. ‘No more Roman pots or mummies, Peabody. Tomorrow we begin on our pyramids. To be sure, they are not much in the way of pyramids, but they will be an improvement over what we have been doing.’

‘Emerson, do you mean it?’

‘It is only your due, my dear Peabody. Spite and selfishness alone kept me from beginning on them long ago. You deserve pyramids, and pyramids you will have!’

Emotion choked me. I could only sigh and gaze at him with the wholehearted admiration his affectionate gesture deserved. His eyes sparkling like sapphires, Emerson put out his hand and extinguished the lamp.