"It's hard to imagine how Daria, of all people, could have gotten into trouble," said Ramses Emerson as he stepped from the carriage into the remnants of a London fog. Courteously, he turned and offered me his hand as I descended.
"I'd believe it of Jane," my husband said. He tipped the driver and hopped nimbly to the cobblestone road. "Of the two, she definitely strikes me as the more likely to prompt a 'matter most urgent' telegram. What do you think, another impertinent suitor?"
Only the spiteful could deny that Professor Radcliffe Emerson, Fellow of the Royal Society, is the greatest Egyptologist of the age. His reputation for absolute scholarly integrity spans three continents, and his devotion to method in archaeology has done more than the contribution of any other to transform that pursuit from vulgar treasure-hunting into a genuine science. He is also, my own integrity compels me to admit, eager for a dirty fight in a good cause.
"I doubt it," I replied. "She seems more than adequately equipped to dispose of such inconveniences by herself." We began walking up the steps to Vitruvio's, the restaurant named in their communiqué. "That Nathan fellow, for example."
"Rather a dandy, wasn't he?" said Ramses. "But with a dissolute presence just beneath the surface."
The man in question had crossed our path at the British Museum, ostensibly by accident. Well I remembered Jane's countenance turning cold at the sight of him, and even Daria's habitually neutral expression darkened perceptibly. He had claimed to be delighted to see Jane again, an ocean away from their home city. I rather suspected that he had been part of why the two young women had decided to quit that city and cross the Atlantic. He had been reluctant to disengage from pressing his suit — "If not dinner tonight, then perhaps dancing tomorrow?" — despite Jane's freezingly-polite dismissals. Emerson, who is not so blind to emotional undercurrents as he insists, had finally interrupted. "My illustrator's time is her own. Damn it, Lane, if you do not knock him down, then I shall."
Ramses reached the door first and held it open for us. I had never been to Vitruvio's before, but upon entering I found myself struck by a similarity, not in detail but in spirit, to Bassam's, our favourite haunt in Cairo. Like that Cairene establishment, it was a place where asking for a menu would be misguided. Instead, the smells from the kitchen indicated what had taken the chef's fancy that night, and the wise visitor trusted in that judgement. The centrepiece of each meal was, I gathered, a retinue of flatbreads, covered in cheese and tomato sauce, adorned with savouries and fired in a brick oven until the edges were crisp. Daria and Jane occupied a booth in the far corner. The lighting was low — gas fixtures turned mostly down, paraffin lamps flickering warmly on the tables.
They had entered our lives by fortuitous happenstance some years before. I must explain that, while Emerson is methodical to the point of distraction while conducting a dig under the Egyptian sun, he can be frightfully disorganized when it comes to transforming our excavation records into a scholarly publication. Every page of his epochal History of Ancient Egypt was a triumph over procrastination. Add to this the fact that our expeditions have not infrequently been interrupted by thieves, forgers, murderers, and even a Master Criminal, and the reader may appreciate how our time for learned journals was at a premium.
We had returned to England after a particularly taxing season at Amarna, the personal details of which I have recorded elsewhere, and thanks to that unique combination of circumstances, we had fallen even further behind on the paperwork. Emerson owed a manuscript to Oxford University Press. Rather than working upon it, he preferred to expound upon the irony that the academic specialties of that Press were subsidized by its Bible-printing division. Emerson's opinions about the Biblical accounts' dubious historicity were well-informed, as befits a scholar of his calibre, but they were not particularly germane. One day, early in summer, Emerson had decided to procrastinate by visiting the Museum's Egyptian Galleries and complaining about Wallis Budge — "A rascal who built his fame on inaccurate proclamations about relics he obtained unethically." His rhetorical display had attracted the attention of Daria, who enjoyed scathing diatribes. Such a disposition could easily become a character flaw, but given the target of Emerson's ire, in this case it rather indicated good taste.
Daria, it transpired, had been scrabbling an independent existence by way of various short-term clerical jobs. Appraising her skills, I arranged for her to record a series of public lectures that Emerson gave at the University of London (lectures that I persuaded him to give by pointing out that he was essentially already doing so). The collaboration was eminently satisfactory, thanks to Emerson's affection for theatricality and Daria's not inconsiderable skills as an autodidact. It became even more of a success when Jane, her traveling companion who had been finding employment even more sporadically, joined the project as an illustrator. I confess having felt a certain trepidation when first she met Emerson; my husband's athletic build, distinguished features and sable locks have had an understandable influence upon the female of the species. The young artist's eyes, which almost matched the sapphirine hue of his own, certainly followed his movements closely, but the engraving she produced for the book's frontispiece conveyed his professional intensity at least as much as his physical presence.
Daria and Jane had joined us for several weeks in our house in Kent. Jane was the more active of the two, bicycling around the countryside and joining our ward Nefret at archery. Daria, in contrast, sequestered herself in our library, translating Emerson's extemporaneous remarks and the labyrinthine constructions of academic sentences into prose suitable for general edification. I fondly recalled an afternoon tea where Ramses had been explaining a proclamation made by his namesake, regarding the Egyptian empire's duty to expand into Hittite territory. Daria had said, "I believe I can translate that into American as 'manifest destiny', but perhaps English English has a different term." All things told, they were exceptionally companionable houseguests, sharing a single bedroom and getting along well with the staff and our plenitude of cats.
Jane rose first to greet us, waving enthusiastically. "Professor, Missus, Mister! Please, join us." Daria stood as well, smiling faintly, as though the pleasure of reunion had an admixture of pain.
"Good evening," Daria said.
Emerson took their hands in turn and pumped them vigorously. "Good Gad, has it really been — how long has it been?"
"Too long," Ramses supplied, sweeping off the top hat that he had neglected to remove until that moment.
We settled ourselves on the wooden benches on either side of the table. I sat across from Daria. The shifting flame within the lamp lent her features animation and duplicated itself in her overlarge spectacles.
"Well, no sense standing on ceremony, as it were," my husband declared. "Your telegram spoke of a matter most urgent."
Daria took a deep breath. "I'm tempted to say we need a round of drinks first, but..." She nodded to Jane.
Jane dropped a bundle of cloth onto the table, making the cutlery vibrate just slightly. Whatever it contained was weighty. She began to unwrap it, working efficiently.
"It's a hard story to believe," Daria said, "without evidence."
The object inside the bundle was the metal point of a spear, its surface tarnished a deep black, except along the edges, which had been kept scrupulously clean.
I remembered it very well.
Daria said, flatly, "King Tarek has been deposed. An usurper rules the Holy Mountain. Tarek pleads for the Father of Curses and the Lady Doctor to come to his aid, break the stalemate and return Ma'at to the lost kingdom."
"Whoof," said I, or a noise to that effect.
"How the devil did you—" Emerson began.
Ramses interposed. "Is this the appropriate place to discuss... sensitive matters?" He gestured quickly around us.
"Oh," Jane said. "Everyone in the restaurant is our people. You see... In addition to, well, that, I also need to tell you that I'm now a forger working for..." She gulped.
"That genius of crime," I realized. "Sethos — the Master Criminal!"
"Hell and damnation!" Emerson exclaimed, rising. "And to think I harbored you, under my own roof, letting you breakfast with Ramses and Nefret—"
"Please, Professor," Daria said.
Emerson fell silent.
She went on. "First, I need to explain that our association with Sethos did not begin until after our time in Kent. Second, it could be much worse."
"How worse?" Emerson demanded.
"Well," Daria said, "we could be working for Wallis Budge."
At this, he rubbed his chin and sank back to a sitting position. "You make a decent point, at that."
From Manuscript H
The train ride from Alexandria to Cairo was the same bone-jostling trip it had always been. Ramses sat a decorous distance apart from Nefret on one of the twin nominally-padded benches of their compartment. Daria and Jane entered after them and, mostly but not entirely without dignity, collapsed onto the opposite bench. Their hands met, quietly.
He and Nefret knew the true nature of their relationship, had known since that summer in Kent. One more thing the parents didn't need to be aware of, one more secret to keep.
Every secret he and Nefret shared bound the two of them more tightly in a private orbit, driving the one secret he could never tell more deeply into his chest. He wondered if Daria would understand his situation. Of the two, she seemed the more inclined to pine quietly. Had she been the one to keep a tempestuous infatuation locked behind an impassive countenance, cherishing every moment of a unique friendship whilst dreading the day that the desire for more would burn that friendship to the ground?
"Sethos told us," Daria said, "that the Emerson name was a passe-partout. Claiming their friendship was enough for Tarek to welcome him with open arms."
Said Nefret, "I don't doubt that they're legends. You too, old chum," she added, jogging an elbow in Ramses' direction. "You were too young to be called the Brother of Demons then, but I'm sure that Tarek found something equally suitable to carve on the pylon in your honour."
Ramses harrumphed.
"The legends have their basis in truth, of course," Nefret went on. "With the Lady Doctor and the Father of Curses, they usually do. I was there when the Father of Curses stopped that spear-point from being used."
"Do tell," Jane said, investing those two simple words with an intense air of anticipation for lurid spectacle. Daria, with a few microscopic shifts of her gaze, conveyed the sentiment good grief, I should never expect better from you; and then, leaning a few degrees closer to Jane, added equally silently and clearly, good or ill, we're made for each other.
Envy clutched at Ramses' heart.
He sought refuge in the curiosity that arose when Nefret began to reply — for she did not often speak of the Lost Oasis and her years as High Priestess of Isis. She said, "Tarek had just recently contrived the occasion for the Emersons to meet me. I wonder if he might not have managed that sooner, had he been less of a romantic, but be that as it may... His brother, Nastasen, the odious creature who coveted the throne and wanted me for his harem, wished to display his power over the interlopers. And, no doubt, to deprive me of any hope that they might rescue me. The Professor had won the loyalties of a few soldiers — Harsetef and his men — and Nastasen declared, well..."
Daria suggested, "Off with their heads, as it were?"
Nefret nodded. "It happened in the great hall of the royal palace," she said, a faraway expression clouding her visage. "I watched from the shadows, in an alcove cut into the rock wall. There were hundreds of spectators — first the attendants who lit the torches, then the nobles and courtiers, those of highest rank borne in on palanquins... Scribes and artisans and soldiers, the last of them leading in a crowd of rekkit — peasants, villagers — leading them to an enclosure like cattle. Then... the Emersons, my hope of salvation, surrounded by Nastasen's men and given the best seats in the house, where they could most clearly watch what was about to take place, and I could most clearly witness what it would do to them.
"Nastasen himself arrived, throwing a possessive glare at the throne he planned to seize at the next festival day of Aminreh. Then he gave order that the prisoners be brought out. Ramses had snuck away and was hiding with Tarek. I remember wondering if his parents were afraid that they would see their son dragged before them. But no."
Jane asked, "Harsetef? And his men?"
"And their wives," Nefret said, "and their children." She swallowed. "You should understand that at the Holy Mountain, the most important sacrifices were performed by the Godly Instrument, the chief executioner of Aminreh. He was a short, burly man, proud of every kind of cruelty. I knew that his attendants had oiled his muscles specially for the occasion. In my childhood, I had nightmares of the sun god being menaced during his nightly journey through the underworld. And in that moment, all my fears came rushing back. His face, his body, his very motions — they were all the monstrous creatures that threatened the god, and they always had been.
"Nastasen ordered the visitors bound — snared in their seats by leather cords — and he declared that the soldiers would have the 'honour' of dying at the divine executioner's hands. That man emerged into the torchlight, his spear already in his hand. He approached the families that were to be fed to his bloodlust. One of the children, a babe in arms, began to cry. 'The infant weeps?' mocked the executioner. 'I will stop its tears. And because the Godly Instrument is merciful, I will not leave its mother to grieve. Stand tall, woman, and hold the infant near.'
"In despair, I looked away. I saw Amelia, struggling against her bonds, trying gamely to reach what I later learned was her pistol. And then, beside her, the Professor. You both know that when Radcliffe Emerson has a petty frustration to vent, he shouts. When he is truly angry, the Father of Curses moves like a panther. With what looked like no more than an exhalation, he snapped the leather cords around his chest, and then he was on his feet, knocking the nearest of Nastasen's men to the ground, seizing his spear and, without a moment of hesitation, in a continuation of the same arc of motion, driving that spear through the murderer.
"That cruel man was, in an instant, a sack of meat. I will never forget how awkward the body looked, propped up at an angle by the good ten or twelve inches of spear stuck out through its severed spine as its blood pooled around it. The soldiers and their wives fell to their knees and lifted their hands to praise their salvation. And now he spoke. 'The vengeance of the gods has struck down the killer of little children and unarmed men! Ma'at is served through me — the Father of Curses, the hand of the god!'
"After that," Nefret said, "things got a little heated."
To raid the headquarters of the Master Criminal! The prospect had scarcely been within the bounds of belief. For many years, I had wondered if his network of vice would ever be transparent to us. That we would be setting foot inside those unhallowed precincts at the invitation of his trusted lieutenants only compounded the heady surreality I felt.
The villa was handsome but unremarkable, not extravagant enough to draw attention. It might have been the home of a well-to-do merchant or a minor official. We made a pretty spectacle, I think, marching directly up to the front entrance. Jane dismissed the guard with an abrupt wave that had some complicated modulations, perhaps a coded gesture. Daria unlocked the heavy, carved wooden door with two keys on a steel ring.
As a student of psychology and a perennial observer of the human condition, I have noted several consistent trends in the masculine portion of humanity. Among them is an affection, or I dare say an enthusiasm, for the mechanical and complicated. Accordingly, I was not too surprised to discover that Sethos owned a printing press, a motion-picture projector, a room devoted to the repair of bicycles... Ramses and Selim fell to studying something grimy with many pipes that might have been an air pump, an electricity generator or both.
"Keys to the study," Daria said, pressing them into my hand and then turning back to the men. "Careful, you two."
Sethos' study was on the upper level. Emerson materialized silently beside me as I began to climb the stairs. Sotto voce, he said, "We won't lack for weapons on this trip, Peabody."
I have often maintained that a man's personal study is indicative of his character. Emerson's desk is always stacked with papers in piles that admit no method to any other eye, even mine — an archaeological problem in their own right. Yet he can unerringly pluck the item he desires from whichever pile contains it. Sethos' desk, by contrast, was bare of documents, and the various clerical tools upon it were tidily arranged. I went immediately to his chair and set about unlocking the drawers. "All's fair in..." None of the traditional completions seemed to apply. "Ah, turnabout is fair play."
Atop the ledgers, memorandum books and letters in the centre drawer was an envelope addressed to me.
In this matter, I have no secrets from Emerson. I began to read the missive aloud. "My dearest Amelia, he writes."
"Harrumph," said Emerson.
I went on. "If you are reading this, then I am most probably stranded and in need of assistance from those to whom I would only turn as a last resort. I am sure that not a particle of sentiment softens your regard for your old adversary, and so I will make only a brief, factual appeal to the welfare of our mutual acquaintances, people more honourable than I. The desert has bred a noble young man.
"Word of our predicament has most likely come back to what the English call civilization thanks to the capable, excessively dashing, only occasionally foolhardy Sir Edward. I expect that you will have been contacted by my forger, Jane, and my amanuensis and business manager, Daria. I know that their association with me may tarnish them in your eyes, or worse yet, inspire you to a fever of redemptive zeal. For their sake, please: There will be time enough for that later. Or if there is not, it will be of no matter. Jane came seeking employment at one of my legitimate London enterprises, a gallery that trades largely in reproductions for the socially aspirant. She needed money quickly to cover her brother's debts; witnessing her distaste for mere copy-work, I was soon commissioning original pieces. Then, not wishing her to waste time and feeling the desire to broaden my own horizons, I made a trip to the New World, located her brother's creditor and ... secured him new accomodations. Jane's brother is a man of no ambition, but strangely hard to dislike. I imagine he would enjoy Daoud's stories.
"The contents of this pleasant villa are at your disposal. I trust you will make use of them as only you can. Yours, the M. C."
"What a singularly uninformative document," Emerson said.
"I am forced to agree, though of course it is not as though he could be specific, under the circumstances. Let us be about checking the other documents, then."
"Probably all in some damned code."
Many of them were. I supposed that Daria could decipher them if necessary. Completing a preliminary survey of the contents of the desk, I rose, stretched and decided to take a moment to investigate the bookshelves. There was a wall-to-ceiling collection in the prominent position just to my side — at the Master's right hand, as it were. "Perhaps we should consider this flattery. Sethos has the complete set of The Tomb of Tetisheri at Thebes, including the volume of colour prints."
"Doubtless planning to hack the reliefs out of the living rock," Emerson grumbled.
"A handsome edition of the Rubaiyat," I went on, "Constance Garnett's translation of Anna Karenina — he is not particularly organized here — and a rather extensive collection of the adventure tales by Mr. Haggard!"
"At last," my husband said, "a matter in which Sethos' tastes are entirely ordinary."
A leather-bound copy of She: A History of Adventure was just at my eye level. In a moment of intuitive sympathy, I found myself drawn to it. I placed a finger atop it and moved to tilt it from the shelf, but it resisted being displaced. I pressed slightly harder, and I felt a mechanism catch. A secret trigger! The entire set of shelves, and the wall behind them, swung backwards on quiet hinges.
How like an overgrown boy, I thought. With the ability to indulge in all his fantasies, he would of course have installed a secret passageway behind a bookcase.
The room on the far side of the portal was bathed in shadow, lit as it was by the afternoon sun interrupted by carved wooden window-screens. The furniture was low and luxuriantly padded. Curtains hung about everywhere, and through a thinner layer of the abundant draperies, I saw a sculpted fountain.
For a few memorable hours, Sethos had held me prisoner in just such a room, until the even more memorable moment when Emerson had burst through the door, a scimitar in each hand.
But unlike that chamber, this den of pleasure had been rather shabbily maintained. The curtain nearest me had frayed in places, and the cushions of the closest couch were noticeably dusty. I rubbed my thumb over the brocade, and it came back smudged. Really, the place needed a woman's touch.
The thick carpeting had muffled any footfalls, and so I did not notice the occupants until a softly metallic tinkle alerted me — a set of bells strung along the edge of a drapery, I believe.
Daria was sinking back into one of the recumbent couches, the fingers of one hand grasping the material, while her other arm was up around Jane's back, as Jane leaned over and bore her down.
I do not know what alerted them to my presence. Perhaps a startled movement on my part caused one of the accoutrements on my belt to jingle. Daria's eyes snapped open, and Jane, warned of the interruption, abruptly stood.
"Well, I —" I began.
I saw now that Jane was wearing golden bracelets and a pectoral of antique beads. To be quite honest, they suited her. I had no doubt that they were part of Sethos' personal collection, and it was not difficult to infer that the two young women had taken the opportunity to avail themselves of a few ornaments, at least temporarily. Indeed, any woman of taste would have felt the temptation to do likewise, and any woman with a healthy appetite for romance would have been inclined to dally with an admirer who treated her like Cleopatra. But this —!
I was fairly stunned. This was not just a transgression of the artificial divides of class or nationality, but a matter of biology, and —
"No doubt," Daria said, "you find this not just a transgression of the artificial divides of class or nationality —"
A door in the far corner of the harem opened, letting more light spill in. Ramses stepped into the room, looking about at floor level, followed by Nefret, carrying a large tawny cat in her arms. "I don't see," my son began, and then stopped. "Oh. Well. I don't suppose this is where Sethos kept the tinned fish after all."
"You knew about — about these two?" I asked.
"From the first, almost," Ramses said. "It was not so difficult to infer. And you must admit, they do better by each other than most women do by men, either within or without the bonds of holy matrimony."
"I could refer to precedent," Daria said. "For surely the insistence by Oxbridge men that Sappho's odes involved only aesthetic and sisterly affection deserve no more respect than you would give the opinions of those men on any other matter. And —"
Jane gently squeezed Daria's shoulder, and Daria fell silent.
Nefret set the cat upon the floor and walked to them. "I've known too," she said. She took Jane's free hand in her own. "When I was High Priestess of Isis, two of my attendants were a most devoted couple."
Daria's countenance was habitually impassive, but on Jane's face I saw a softening, a wordless recognition of acceptance that was infinitely thankful, infinitely touching.
"Well, Peabody," Emerson spoke up behind me. I jumped a little in my boots. "Another pair of bloody young lovers, eh?"
I turned to him. "You..." Suddenly I wished to moderate the harshness of my tone. "... approve, then?"
"I am something of an authority," he grinned, "on finding the one person in the world who will put up with one's peculiarities, convention be damned. They have been together this long without going for each other's throats. Obtaining children by the usual way seems beyond the capabilities of modern science, but I refuse to believe that your brother's marriage is twice as worthy as our own. And speaking of marriage," he saw me opening my mouth and raised his voice preemptively, "we happen to be traveling with an ordained official of a religion that has inspired just as much good as any other, proportionally speaking. So, Nefret dear, if you will perform the ceremony, I believe we will satisfy the proprieties. What do you think — should we set up in the Master Criminal's harem, or the courtyard outside?"