“We will go on together. Though I yearn to be at the side of my valiant allies and, if my prayers have been answered, my errant son, I am confident that they have already got the situation well in hand, and that my assistance is not—”
Mr. Camden emitted a loud growling sound, caught hold of my hand, and proceeded on up the path, pulling me with him.
The path twisted and turned, seeking the easiest ascent, but it was steep enough. Thanks to Mr. Camden and my trusty parasol, which served as a walking stick, I had no difficulty. At last we emerged onto a plateau some ten acres in extent, with the walls of a ruined yet imposing fortress directly ahead. A number of horses, including the two from the carriage, were ambling about nibbling at the rank grass and shrubs that covered the ground. The sounds of combat had subsided, which was reassuring or the reverse, depending on one’s anticipations.
“Go slowly,” I urged. “If our friends have been overcome we will take the enemy by surprise.”
“And hit them with your parasol? Oh, confound it, you are right. Slowly it is.”
The great gateway, flanked by towers, was before us. As we passed through, each of us trying to get ahead of the other, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and turned my head in time to behold the hindquarters of one of the horses heading (if that term is appropriate) down the path to the road.
After some casting about we located the gate in the inner wall. Mr. Camden would have held me back; I flung off his hand.
“All is well,” I said. “I can hear Emerson swearing at Ramses.”
To be accurate, he was not swearing at Ramses but swearing in general, interspersing his oaths with such phrases as “All right, are you, my boy?” and “We are on the job, lie still!” This was reasonably good proof that Ramses was still alive, and it was with a mind relieved that I entered the inner area.
My first impression was one of utter chaos. Wisps of smoke arose from smoldering patches of brush, which Selim and Daoud were methodically stamping out. The drifting gray shapes lent a spectral look to the scene, with its rubble-strewn ground and the looming shape of the inner keep. Naturally my eyes went first to the touching tableau with David and Ramses at its center. At least I assumed the tatterdemalion, filthy forms were theirs. Their faces were unrecognizable, the lower half covered with straggling beards, the upper half with mops of hair that had not seen a comb or brush for days. However, Ramses’s nose was unmistakable. He lay on his back, his head in Nefret’s lap. David sat cross-legged on the ground nearby and Emerson paced up and down, rubbing his chin and of course still swearing. Upon observing me he swung round and demanded, “What took you so long?”
“We were delayed by a slight accident,” I replied. “It seems you did not require my assistance, however.”
“We could have used a bit of help,” Emerson admitted. “What with four—or was it five?—villains trying to make off with Ramses, and David staggering after them waving a broken branch, and Nefret—”
“You can continue your spirited narrative later, Emerson.”
I knelt by Ramses and brushed the hair away from his forehead. What I could see of his skin was flushed and red. “Gracious,” I said, “he is burning with fever.”
“It’s the same illness I had,” David said. “I’m much better, but he caught it from me.”
“He also has a nasty lump on his head,” Nefret said.
“Concussion?” I inquired, probing the area she indicated with expert fingers.
Before she could answer, Ramses opened his eyes. “Good morning, Mother. I thought I recognized your touch.”
IT TOOK A WHILE to sort things out. Everyone had a tale to tell and everyone wanted to tell it at once, and I had to forbid further discussion until we had dealt with the most important matter, namely, getting the boys safely home and being cared for. A slight diversion, in the shape of half a dozen Turkish soldiers erupting into the courtyard, was quickly dealt with by Emerson, who fired several shots from a pistol I had not known he possessed over their heads and sent them scampering for safety. David gathered their few possessions, and Emerson wanted to carry Ramses, who turned an even brighter red with indignation at the idea, but he was not unwilling to be guided along by Daoud. As they made their way to the gate I took a final look round. “Are they dead?” I inquired of Emerson, indicating several recumbent forms—another group of soldiers, to judge by their attire.
Emerson chuckled. “Playing possum, as Vandergelt would say. They are waiting for us to leave so they can skulk away.” He added negligently, “I got the distinct impression that their hearts were not in this fight. When we went after them they either ran or fell flat.”
Supported by Daoud and David, Ramses suddenly planted his feet and pulled away from them. “Ran. Who…Dammit, Daoud, let me go. I have to see…”
His eyes moved slowly round, from one motionless body to another. “Where is he?” he asked vaguely. “I don’t see him.”
“Who?” I asked. “We are all here, my dear. Selim and Daoud and—”
“No, no. Mansur. He was here, he…”
The name meant nothing to any of us except David. Knowing Ramses would stay on his feet talking until he got an answer, David said, “He got away, Ramses. Don’t think about that now. We’ll catch up with him.”
Ramses said distinctly, “God damn it all to hell,” and fell into Daoud’s arms.
Several of the horses were still lazing about the outer entrance; we found the rest along the path, and standing by the overturned carriage, which blocked further progress.
The carriage was undamaged except for a few dents, and Selim was able to repair the harness with some of the bits of wire he always carried with him, so we were soon on our way. I took my seat on the box next to the driver, explaining—truthfully—that the carriage was somewhat cramped with three additional passengers. Neither of the boys was fit to ride. Nefret, promptly and without comment, took her place between them.
Mr. Camden, as I must continue to call him, had retreated into his driver persona as soon as he realized his active assistance was not required. No one paid him the least notice (except for Emerson, who delivered a hearty slap on the back and a loud “Good chap!”). It seemed to me an excellent opportunity for a private chat, since the ambient noises made it impossible for us to be overheard. I therefore requested he explain himself.
“I can keep nothing from you, Mrs. Emerson,” he said morosely.
“That is correct.”
“You have probably guessed—deduced, rather—a good deal of it. I am the representative of MO2 in Jerusalem. I owe the position to my brother, George Tushingham, whom I believe you met in London.”
“Aha!” I exclaimed. “Mr. Tushingham, the botanist. I knew you looked familiar. I would have made the connection eventually. So your real name is Tushingham.”
“I beg you will continue to call me by the name the others know. I was told of your mission before you arrived, and my assignment was to assist you in any way possible, without revealing my true identity.”
“Typical male stupidity,” I remarked. “The obsession with secrecy and the refusal of different parts of the bureaucracy to communicate with one another can only lead to—”
“In any case,” said Mr. Camden, raising his voice slightly, “it was some time before I realized our contact at the hotel was out of commission and that my message had probably never reached you.”
“Another example of masculine incompetence. To rely on a single link—”
“Quite, Mrs. Emerson. I was therefore forced to approach you directly, with no means of establishing my bona fides should that become necessary.”
The carriage hit a rut; I caught hold of my hat with one hand and Mr. Camden with the other. “But the signal you gave me—”
This time Mr. Camden’s interruption came in the form of a fit of coughing. I slapped him on the back, rather more forcibly than was necessary, since the truth had begun to dawn on me.
“Speak up,” I exclaime
d. “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!”
“Well—um—you see…I’m afraid that was one of Mr. Boniface’s little jokes. He told me of it when I saw him in Jaffa a few days ago.”
“Jokes,” I repeated.
“He laughed quite heartily about it. He had taken a bit too much to drink, I believe.” Glancing uneasily at me, Mr. Camden went on, “Naturally I reprimanded him severely. However, it served us well in the end, did it not? I couldn’t think what else to do when your large friend was throttling me.”
After a few moments of cogitation, I said very calmly, “So it would seem. I will have a few words to say to Mr. Boniface when next I encounter him. Was there anything in the missing message I ought to know?”
“It concerned Mme—er—”
“There you go again with your confounded secrecy. No one can hear us. Mme von Eine, yes. I deduced her identity without your assistance.”
The great gate of the Holy City came into view; Camden urged the horses to a quicker pace. He was not enjoying our conversation. I had one more important point to make, however, and I proceeded to make it.
“Since your normal means of communication is still inoperative, I think it best that you should be available at all times. Be at the hotel tomorrow morning at eight. We will be proceeding to Siloam. I expect to have the house ready for occupancy within the next day or two. That will put us on the spot while Morley’s excavations are progressing and will enable us to find out what the lady is up to. Have you any questions?”
“No, ma’am,” said Mr. Camden meekly. “Yes, ma’am. I will be there.”
It was late afternoon when we entered the city, having encountered no difficulty. The few Turkish soldiers we met ignored us, and the roadblock was gone except for scattered bits of wood. We were the cynosure of all eyes when we entered the lobby; seldom had such a motley crew arrived at that sedate hostelry. We were all dusty and disheveled, but none of us approached the degree of social unacceptability of David and Ramses. My first act was to whisk them upstairs and order hot baths for them.
I must say, in all modesty, that in slightly more than an hour I had matters under control. All of us were neat and tidy; I had examined both boys, with Nefret’s assistance, and applied what remedies seemed appropriate. In my professional opinion David required only rest and nourishment to make a full recovery. Ramses refused to go to bed, though that was obviously the best place for him. It was during this argument—which I lost, as I might have expected—that David produced a small bundle of dried herbage from his bag.
“This was given us by the village healer,” he explained. “I took it for several days.”
I examined the herbage. “I have no idea what it can be,” I admitted. “Nefret?”
She crumbled a bit, smelled it, and tasted it. “Some variety of mint? I don’t like the idea of giving an unknown substance to either of you.”
“It didn’t do me any harm,” David insisted. “I think it lowered the fever.”
“And put you to sleep for hours,” Ramses said, his jaw set stubbornly. “I can’t sleep yet, I have to warn you about Mansur.”
Much as I yearned to see my afflicted child get the rest he needed, I knew he was right. None of us could afford the luxury of relaxation when there were so many things we needed to know, and without delay.
So we retired to my sitting room, where we found the others assembled and the tea I had ordered set out. Feeling the teapot, I was pleased to find it was just off the boil (I had had occasion earlier to speak to the cook about this). I tipped a teaspoon or so of the herbal mixture into a cup and filled it.
“Mother,” Ramses began.
“I will allow you to tell your tale, Ramses, if you promise that when you have finished you will take your medicine and go to bed.”
A scowl and a nod indicated reluctant agreement. I continued, “First I would like to make a few remarks.”
Ignoring the slight ripple of amusement that ran through the audience, I cleared my throat…And found, to my utter astonishment that I was unable to speak. I suppose I had not fully realized how alarmed I had been—how filled with forebodings I dared not admit even to myself—until I saw all my loved ones gathered together again: Nefret, her golden hair glowing in the lamplight; Emerson, his sapphire-blue eyes fixed on his son with an expression of benevolent affection; Selim stroking his beard and smiling; Daoud amiably contemplating the plate of sandwiches; and my two boys—for boys they will always be to me—returned against all odds from as yet unknown perils. David was too thin and Ramses’s cheeks were flushed with fever (or possibly aggravation), but they were there, safe and sound, and that was all that mattered.
They were all looking at me, waiting for me to begin. It was Emerson, as always, who understood my emotion and relieved it, in his own inimitable fashion. “If you are inclined to say a prayer, Peabody, kindly make it brief.”
I returned his smile. “‘But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret.’”
“Excellent advice,” said Emerson. “We are all waiting for our tea, Peabody. I beg you will pour and allow Ramses to get on with his story. Start from the beginning, my boy. There will be no interruptions.”
This was directed at me, of course; but indeed I had no desire to interrupt a tale that held us all spellbound. Once I had dispensed the genial beverage (I refer in this instance to tea), I took out paper and pencil and began one of my little lists. As I expected, everyone burst out talking at once when Ramses finished. Emerson’s shout rose over the rest. “Damnation! The confounded woman is a spy!”
“And a murderess, in intent if not actuality.” Ramses leaned forward and spoke with febrile intensity. “Father, you must tell MO2 about Macomber. The body may have been moved, but surely there would be evidence remaining.”
“Yes, yes, my boy,” Emerson said, watching him uneasily. “I promise it will be done. Peabody, shouldn’t he be in bed?”
The medicinal brew was a nasty greenish brown in color. Had it not been for David’s urging, I would have hesitated about administering it; but he was now completely free of fever and Ramses radiated heat like a stove. With Nefret’s help I got a few sips of the medicine into him and—after he had decidedly refused to accept our further assistance—David led him off to their room.
“Well!” I said. “We have a great deal to discuss. I have made a few notes.”
Without a word Emerson rose and got out the bottle of whiskey.
After a few refreshing sips, I continued. “The first order of business is to locate that fellow Mansur.”
“No,” said Emerson. “The first order of business is to keep my promise to Ramses. I will wire the War office at once about that unfortunate young man Macomber.”
“Most ill-advised, in my opinion, Emerson. Leave that to me, if you please.”
I ticked off one of the items on my list. Brows forming an emphatic black line across his brow, Emerson said with ominous calm, “Peabody, are you telling me you are in touch with the local agent here?”
“That is correct, Emerson. I will explain later.”
Nefret rose with quiet dignity. “Never mind, Aunt Amelia. I have suspected for some time that you and the Professor were under orders from some cursed government bureau. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about that, or about them. They were of no help whatsoever when it came to locating the boys, and I doubt they will do anything for us we cannot do better by ourselves. I suggest you all go down to dinner now. Daoud has eaten all the sandwiches. I don’t want any dinner. I am going to sit with Ramses.”
I made my peace with Nefret at midnight, when I went in to relieve her vigil, admitting (quite handsomely in my opinion) that we had been wrong to keep her in the dark. She melted at once, dear girl, as she always did, and agreed with me that we ought to wake Ramses for another dose of the medicine. He was groggy enough to offer no resistance and fell back asleep at once. So did David, w
ho had wakened instantly when I came in.
Not long after Nefret had left, Emerson crept in. I think I have mentioned that Emerson believes he can tiptoe, but that he is mistaken. He made enough noise to rouse one of the Seven Sleepers. David sat up with a start.
“All is well, my boy,” said Emerson in a penetrating whisper. “It’s just me.”
“Good,” David mumbled. “Keep watch. Mansur…”
“Go to bed, Peabody,” said Emerson. “I will stand guard till morning.”
I had also made my peace with Emerson earlier, when I told him of Mr. Camden’s true identity and explained my plans for the morrow. He had of course agreed that our best hope of catching up with the murderous Mansur was to keep a close eye on Frau von Eine. The precise relationship between the two was still unclear, but it was likely Mansur would try to communicate with her. In the meantime it was essential that we watch over the boys.
“He cannot possibly get at them here,” I said. “Nefret had the good sense to lock the door and not open it until she heard my voice. I observed that she had her knife.”
“You didn’t lock the door,” Emerson said accusingly.
I showed him my little pistol. “Speaking of that,” I said, while Emerson mumbled to himself, “where did you get the weapon you carried today?”
“Brought it with me, of course.”
“Do you have it now?”
“Good Gad, no. I only hope the bastard does turn up. I would prefer to tackle him with my bare hands.”
I WILL NOT BORE the Reader with a detailed account of my activities the following day, though they would certainly be of consuming interest to any female who contemplates setting up an archaeological establishment. Suffice it to say that by evening our house in Siloam was fit for habitation and our newly hired cook was busy preparing dinner.
I had refused Emerson’s well-meant offers of assistance, knowing his efforts would be confined to moving the furniture to the wrong places and demanding how much longer the process would take. He had gone happily off to his excavation. The others had pitched in with a will and by late afternoon we were taking a well-deserved rest in the sitting room. I had, at Ramses’s request, just finished bringing him and David up-to-date about our recent activities and discoveries when Emerson came in, accompanied by Mr. Camden.
A River in the Sky Page 25