by Jean Rabe
Markings carved into the canopic jar, such as a scepter, represented dominion. This didn’t seem to be the same kind of power reserved for pharaohs and rulers but power that could be held in one’s palm. So Jameson believed that the tomb had not been the final resting place of a king—but a scientist. The archaeologist felt a kinship with the man whose jar he held.
What had the ancient scientist powered with the Isidium? And why had the tablet with the formula for extracting it been buried? Had someone—the scientist perhaps—in those long-ago days not wanted the discovery revealed? The answers were lost beneath a mummy’s liver and lay undisturbed in the desert’s shifting sands in the Valley of the Kings.
Jameson used shavings of this incredibly hard metal to animate his inventions, and with a slightly larger piece the Evangeline’s steam engine served as a prototype for all engines and machinery. Only Captain Keel knew of this magnificent energy source that made Jameson’s shipping line the most successful one on the river. Rumors circulated in the waterfront taverns that angry competitors were meeting to stop the Jameson Packet Company from taking over the entire river with its boats.
The scuttlebutt did not bother Jameson. He was preoccupied with getting the Isidium discovery out to the world.
It wouldn’t be much longer now before he could do just that. Since meteorites laced with Isidium were not readily available, he sought an alternative source for the rare element. He found that Isidium was a byproduct of copper and nickel mining. Jameson and his investors had secured several copper and nickel mines in Canada that he was confident could provide a steady supply.
Soon he’d be in Washington D.C. to present his findings to the President of the United States. Then he intended to celebrate; first stop would be Denmark to visit his late mother’s relatives, next a chartered airship to the Valley of Kings where he would pay a visit to his first tomb. After that, he’d start a new dig.
He tidied his workspace and locked his cabin door. Jameson usually took his meals in his room, but today he ventured to his private table in the corner of the main dining salon. In the salon, paneled in cherry, passengers ate at beautifully decorated tables with fine linens, fresh bouquets of flowers, and brass hurricane lamps. Men in coats and ties summoned waiters, while dainty women under elaborate hats sipped fine wine from small crystal glasses. Seemingly out of nowhere a large man wearing a white cap and navy blue jacket appeared.
“Cap’n Keel, what brings you out of the wheelhouse?” Jameson asked the man he’d known since childhood.
“Mind if I join you?”
Before he had a chance to refuse, Keel hailed the waiter and ordered pot roast and red potatoes. “And bring me a bourbon right away. And not one of those thimble-sized ones neither,” he growled. Soon his burly hand gripped a tumbler and he scanned the dining room, then lowered his head.
“Listen, Watts, you gotta to be more careful. Someone’s tryin’ to kill you,” he whispered. “Although why they’d bother is a mystery, you’ll do the job for ’em soon enough—drinkin’ that vile green stuff.”
Jameson could see that the captain was staring at the lime green stains that dotted his white shirt like tiny tracks.
“I’ll be careful,” Jameson said, humoring him.
He spent a few more hours in his cabin scouring his notes and papers before he ventured out for fresh air again. On the deck round-bellied men in top hats talked business while waiters delivered drinks to ladies discussing whatever women discussed. Jameson paid little attention as he mentally polished his presentation. Then something caught his eye.
A red-haired woman in her mid-twenties held a thin green book, while a lace parasol deflected the afternoon sun from her long neck.
With a look of amazement, Jameson dropped to his knees beside her.
“Excuse me, Miss, I don’t mean to interrupt . . . but I couldn’t help noticing you’re reading Egyptian Antiquities by Auguste Mariette.” Jameson’s voice was thick with excitement.
She looked up, and without any expression answered, “Why, yes.”
Jameson’s heart caught. This woman . . . this stunning woman with a flawless complexion and ice blue eyes that sparkled like stars . . . was reading his favorite book. It was this book that led him to Egypt many years ago and fueled his strange addiction for the place. After devouring it a half-dozen times, he taught himself hieroglyphs and had become a self-made authority on ancient Egypt.
And it all started with that small book.
Her fingers were perfectly manicured, the nails painted a shade of pink that reminded him of the first blush of a rose. She reached an index finger up and rubbed at a cameo attached to a ribbon around her neck. She must’ve felt the penetration of his gaze because she gave him a furtive glance, smiled ever-so-slightly, and returned to the page.
Jameson was not willing to give up the opportunity to speak with someone interested in his passion for Egyptian antiquities. “That’s the best book on ancient artifacts ever written,” he blurted.
“I agree, Professor Watts.”
“H–h–how is it that you know my name?” He didn’t bother to hide the surprise in his voice.
“Don’t be silly, Professor Watts, everyone on this steamer knows who you are.” She tossed her head and offered her dainty hand. “Miss Sinclair Upchurch. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Her fingers were pleasantly warm to the touch, and he held them longer than proper. His chest grew tight and his mouth went instantly dry. Still, he managed to work up enough saliva so he could speak. “Join me for supper, Miss Upchurch? Seven o’clock, my private table?” After a moment, he added, “Please.”
“That would be lovely.” She promptly lowered her eyes to the book.
He released a breath he’d been holding and took in another filled with the essence of her, the sweet mellow fragrance of sandalwood and vanilla.
When he returned to his cabin something felt out of place, but nothing seemed to be missing. His satchel, research papers, and other valuables were as he’d left them. I should never clean my desk, he thought, and vowed not to make that mistake again. He might have investigated further were he not so preoccupied with the notion of dining with the marvelous Miss Sinclair Upchurch.
That evening when Sinclair arrived, Jameson jumped to his feet to welcome her and pulled out a chair. While she arranged her voluminous satin skirt the waiter stood at attention.
“I’ll have a sherry,” she said sweetly.
“The usual for you, Mr. Watts?”
“Yes, thank you, Finley.” Jameson’s eyes never left his guest.
Moments later the black-vested waiter offered the woman a small glass of sherry, which she delicately sipped as she watched Jameson concoct his. He poured a pale green liquid from a cruet onto a sugar cube held by a fine slotted silver spoon, and followed this with a splash of water. He raised his small crystal glass, “to Egypt.”
“So I can see you’ve been bitten by the green fairy, Professor Watts.”
“I must admit I love this stuff more than I should. But I feel it focuses the mind in a way that nothing else can.” He took another sip, savoring both the licorice essence and the presence of this beautiful woman.
“To Egypt,” she echoed. “I love Egypt.”
He fought for breath. Jameson had never met another whose love of Egypt equaled his.
“I would live there, I think,” she continued. “So I could be near the pyramids and the Nile.”
Jameson felt his skin flush and he stared at her hands, making sure there was no wedding band or promise ring. Dare he hope . . .
The waiter presented a tureen of fish chowder, followed by roast venison and creamed peas, but the couple was so lost in conversation about Egypt and each other that they barely touched their meals. The other diners had gone; the room was now dim; the candles inside the hurricane lamps had nearly all burned out. The couple didn’t seem to notice the blackberry cordial and lemon chess tarts on a silver tray in the middle of the table.
A massive brass chandelier suspended above added a warm glow to the rich cherry paneling and reflected bits of light around them like stars.
None brighter than her eyes, Jameson thought. Her lilac gown was the color of his mother’s favorite flower.
It was nearly midnight when Jameson felt a familiar flutter. He pulled his watch-communicator from his vest pocket and read the coded dispatch while Sinclair craned her neck to look at the device.
“Important message?”
“Just my captain,” he sighed.
“Professor Watts . . . how many books have you read on Egypt?”
“Oh . . . a few more than I’ve written.” He hoped he hadn’t sounded arrogant.
“I should like to read them all,” she said.
He leaned in close, taking her hands, his lips inches from hers.
“Professor Watts, it’s after midnight. I really must be going.” She leveled her gaze. “I do have my reputation to consider. Thank you for a lovely evening, and I hope we see each other again.”
Before the archaeologist could beg her to stay, she’d vanished.
The next morning Jameson tried to concentrate on deciphering a parchment rubbing. He swore he could still smell her perfume. He’d had trouble sleeping last night, so consumed with thoughts of her; he’d dampened the sheets with his dreams. Why hadn’t he leaned in all the way and kissed her after dinner? Had she left because he’d hesitated? Because he didn’t have the courage or presence to . . . .
He was startled by a knock at his cabin door. He’d trimmed his goatee, combed his thinning hair and changed his shirt, secretly hoping to run into Sinclair. Was it she at the door?
After a quick peek into his looking glass, he pulled the door open. His heart leapt.
“Good morning, Miss Upchurch.”
“Sinclair, please.” She poked her head into the dimly lit cabin overflowing with all things Egyptian. A small baboon carved from carnelian sat on the corner of his desk and a pomegranate-shaped vase, mud seals, vials of tiny springs, and brass gears littered shelves among alabaster jars, jeweler’s tools, and funerary artifacts. A small gold-leafed statue of Horus perched on a bookcase piled with fragments of clay tablets, potsherds, papyrus, and well-read books.
“Why, Professor Watts—it looks like you live in a tomb.”
She looked radiant, and the fragrance of sandalwood floated into the cabin. Her long red hair was tucked under a cream-colored silk hat wrapped in chiffon. A few tendrils fell at the nape of her long neck. Jade and pearl earrings dangled against her pale skin, and she clutched a small beaded bag in her dainty gloved hand.
“I wondered if you’d accompany me onshore . . . if you are not otherwise busy. The captain told me the boat would dock soon at Ephraim for the day while the supplies are loaded, and I have business there. I’d feel much safer if you’d come with me to town.”
Jameson stammered his acceptance, donned his tweed jacket, and strolled at her side off the boat.
The city bustled: barrels and supplies were loaded, and passengers waved to those waiting for them on the dock. The breeze drew spicy scents of late autumn as they walked along the streets of the old river town. For the first time in years Jameson noticed the rich colors blazing from the maple trees. Leaves that looked like gold coins shimmered from tall white-barked trees that lined the main street.
Sinclair and Jameson arrived at the green-shuttered law office of Rabe and Perlman.
“This is the place. Professor, I have a bit of business to attend to this morning, it shouldn’t take long. Would you meet me at the end of Canal Road? At the edge of town there’s a warehouse I’m interested in leasing for my new millinery business. Once my meeting is over I’ll meet you there at say . . . one thirty? My lawyer has a key and will show us through the place, and I’d like to get your expert opinion.”
“But . . . I’m no expert on ladies’ hats.”
“Ah, but you are an expert, Professor.”
He felt the heat of a blush spread over his face. “I–I need a few provisions for my trip anyway, so of course I’ll meet you at the warehouse . . . at one thirty . . . and maybe we can dine afterward at the Blue Oyster. It’s the best restaurant in Ephraim.” He watched Sinclair disappear through the front door of a red brick building. As he reluctantly turned to leave, he noticed a shabbily dressed man watching him from across the street.
“Sinclair,” he said to himself, realizing the fellow must have been watching her. Jameson wondered if everyone noticed her great beauty and stared. “Now . . . for those provisions.”
He hadn’t needed anything, but went shopping anyway. With a new coat and shirt wrapped in brown paper under his arm, he wandered the streets looking into the shop windows. Shortly after one o’clock he sped toward Canal Road.
Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw someone step over the curb behind him. He had a strange feeling that he was being followed as he rushed down the sidewalk, but then dismissed the notion as silly. “Ah, there it is.” Nearly a half mile away towered a dilapidated warehouse. He arrived out of breath.
“Sinclair?” He didn’t see her.
Jameson wiped a spot on the grimy window to see if Sinclair and her lawyer were inside. At the same time he noticed the acrid smell of something burning and heard a faint hiss. He spun, fully intending to leap out of the way of a snake, when out of nowhere a man tackled him and pushed him face down in the dirt. Before he could react, he felt the ground shake. An explosion rocked the earth and glass shards and splinters of wood pelted them from every direction. He felt his assailant roll off him and heard him coughing, but he couldn’t see through the thick smoke.
The stranger groped his way toward Jameson, both men still choking on the smell of gunpowder in the thick air. “I got my orders from Cap’n Keel to get you back to the boat right away.”
Jameson made a connection; it was the shabbily dressed man, who was now even filthier than before. He managed to hoist Jameson under his arm and hustle the archaeologist back onboard the Evangeline.
“Sinclair . . .” Jameson wheezed.
“She’s all right. Wasn’t near the explosion. I’ll go find her,” the man answered. “Just see to yourself.”
Jameson had no intention of abandoning the comely woman, but he would change his jacket before returning to shore. He’d just reached his cabin, stripped off his shredded tweed, and decided to have a swallow of absinthe to steady his nerves before searching for Sinclair. As he prepared the drink, his door flew open with such force he was surprised it remained on the hinges.
Captain Keel’s large frame filled the doorway.
“Dammit, Watts. What’s it gonna take for you to get serious that someone’s out to kill you?” His eyes blazed as he blew an exasperated puff of air that fluttered his wide walrus mustache. Gold buttons threatened to explode from the vest stretched tightly over his large belly, and his face blazed a disturbing shade of red.
Momentarily, thoughts of Sinclair fled and Jameson stared, dazed. He poked a finger in his ear, opened and shut his mouth, but he was still unable to hear much after Keel’s outburst.
The captain stomped over the threshold in the dimly lit cabin just as the archaeologist raised a shaking glass of chartreuse liquid to his lips. Captain Keel reached his ham-sized hand across the desk and knocked the glass of absinthe across the room.
“Watts, are you listening to me?”
Jameson watched slack-jawed as the spilled green liquor smoked for a moment before it burst into flames, igniting a crumpled newspaper that lay on the floor.
Keel’s large foot stomped out the fire, then he quickly whisked the decanter of green liquid off the desk. Jameson followed the captain, hanging his head like a scolded dog. Absentmindedly, he pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed it while a thousand random thoughts threaded through his head as his heart thundered in his chest.
“Why would someone try to kill me?” he whispered. “And Sinclair . . . Miss Upchurch . . . I need to
know she’s all right.”
“She’s fine,” Keel blustered. “She’s finishing some business in town and will be onboard the ship before we sail.”
Jameson spent the rest of the afternoon under Captain Keel’s watchful dark eyes, and he was “allowed” back to his cabin to change for supper, one of the captain’s men keeping watch outside the door.
He changed his shirt and tie, buttoned his vest, and paged through a portfolio of pen and ink sketches and pencil drawings he’d made of ruins and artifacts that were cataloged on his last expedition to Egypt, hoping these would interest Sinclair. By messenger, he sent her an invitation to join him for the evening meal. “Please,” he’d ended the message.
The dining salon was full of passengers, not an empty table anywhere. Under other circumstances this would have made Jameson happy that his steamboat was doing such a brisk trade, but he was more consumed with thoughts of her. Her absence tore at his heart. The chandelier cast its glow over the crisp white table linen, the exquisite hand-painted china, and shimmering crystal goblets. He sipped on some whiskey and checked his watch. The captain had tossed out all of the absinthe. Lost in thought, and trying to keep his mind off Sinclair, he scribbled into a notebook. He didn’t hear the slight creaking from the enormous chandelier that hovered above his head.
Every few moments he nervously checked to see if Sinclair had arrived. He’d confirmed that she’d returned to the ship, but she hadn’t returned his message.
The bodyguard who was ordered to stay nearby was lighting his pipe when Jameson dipped under the table to fetch his fallen pen. In that instant the brass chandelier crashed onto the table. Glass flew and the thick maple table split neatly in two.
Jameson moaned from under the wreckage.
Diners rushed to dig him out just as Sinclair stepped into the room, shrieked at the sight, and promptly fainted.
Battered and bruised and suitably bandaged, the archaeologist limped to answer his cabin door the following morning. His broken arm was trussed in a sling. A lovely shade of purple bloomed around his left eye below a lump large enough to cast a shadow.