“Is that her?” Emerson demanded. “I hope you didn’t invite the whole lot of them as well.”
“No.” I raised my parasol and waved. This caught the lady’s eye; with a little gesture of apology she began to detach herself from her followers. I went on, “She is a Mrs. Fortescue, the widow of a gentleman who perished heroically in France recently. I received a letter from her enclosing an introduction from mutual friends—you remember the Witherspoons, Emerson?”
From Emerson’s expression I could tell he did remember the Witherspoons and was about to express his opinion of them. He was forestalled by Ramses, who had been studying the lady with interest. “Why should she write you, Mother? Is she interested in archaeology?”
“So she claimed. I saw no harm in extending the hand of friendship to one who has suffered such a bitter loss.”
“She does not appear to be suffering at the moment,” said Nefret.
Her brother gave her a sardonic look, and I said, “Hush, here she comes.”
She had shed all her admirers but one, a fresh-faced officer who looked no more than eighteen. Introductions ensued; since the youth, a Lieutenant Pinckney, continued to hover, watching the lady with doglike devotion, I felt obliged to ask him to join us. Emerson and Ramses resumed their chairs, and Mrs. Fortescue began to apologize for her tardiness.
“Everyone is so kind,” she murmured. “It is impossible to dismiss well-wishers, you know. I hope I have not kept you waiting long. I have so looked forward to this meeting!”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, who is easily bored and who does not believe in beating around the bush. “My wife tells me you are interested in Egyptology.”
From the way her black eyes examined his clean-cut features and firm mouth, I suspected Egyptology was not her only interest. However, her reply indicated that she had at least some superficial knowledge of the subject, and Emerson at once launched into a description of the Giza mastabas.
Knowing he would monopolize the conversation as long as she tolerated it, I turned to the young subaltern, who appeared somewhat crestfallen by the lady’s desertion. My motherly questions soon cheered him up, and he was happy to tell me all about his family in Nottingham . He had arrived in Egypt only a week before, and although he would rather have been in France , he had hopes of seeing action before long.
“Not that Johnny Turk is much of a challenge,” he added with a boyish laugh and a reassuring glance at Nefret, who had been studying him fixedly, her chin in her hand. “You ladies haven’t a thing to worry about. He’ll never make it across the Canal.”
“We aren’t at all worried,” Nefret said, with a smile that made the boy blush.
“Nor should you be. There are some splendid chaps here, you know, real first-raters. I was talking to one the other night at the Club; didn’t realize it at the time, he’s not the sort who would put himself forward, but one of the other chaps told me afterward he was an expert on the Arab situation; had spent months in Palestine before the war, and actually let himself be taken prisoner by a renegade Arab and his band of ruffians so he could scout out their position. Then he broke out of the place, leaving a number of the scoundrels dead or wounded. But I expect you know the story, don’t you?”
In his enthusiasm he talked himself breathless. When he stopped, no one replied for a moment. Nefret’s eyes were downcast and she was no longer smiling. Ramses had also been listening. His expression was so bland I felt a strong chill of foreboding.
“It seems,” he drawled, “that it is known to a good many people. Would that fellow standing by the stairs be the hero of whom you speak?”
Nefret’s head turned as if on a spring. I had not seen Percy either. Obviously Ramses had. He missed very little.
“Why, yes, that’s the chap.” Young Pinckney’s ingenuous countenance brightened. “Do you know him?”
“Slightly.”
Percy was half-turned, conversing with another officer. I did not doubt he was aware of us, however. Without intending to, I put my hand on Ramses’s arm. He smiled faintly.
“It’s all right, you know, Mother.”
Feeling a little foolish, I removed my hand. “What is he doing in khaki, instead of that flamboyant Egyptian Army uniform? Red tabs, too, I see; has he been reassigned?”
“Red tabs mean the staff, don’t they?” Nefret asked.
“That’s right,” said Pinckney. “He’s on the General’s staff. It was jolly decent of him to talk to a chap like me,” he added wistfully.
With so many eyes fixed on him, it was inevitable that Percy should turn. He hesitated for a moment, and then bowed—a generalized bow, directed at all of us, including the delighted Lieutenant Pinckney—before descending the steps.
I did not think I could endure listening to any more encomiums about Percy, so I attempted to join in the conversation between Emerson and Mrs. Fortescue. However, she was not interested in conversing with me.
“I had no idea it was so late!” she exclaimed, rising. “I must rush off. May I count on seeing you—all of you—again soon? You promised, you know, that you would show me your tomb.”
She offered her hand to Emerson, who had risen with her. He blinked at her. “Did I? Ah. Delighted, of course. Arrange it with Mrs. Emerson.”
She had a pleasant word for each of us, and—I could not help noticing—a particularly warm smile for Ramses. Some women like to collect all the personable males in their vicinity. However, when Mr. Pinckney would have accompanied her, she dismissed him firmly but politely, and as she undulated toward the door of the hotel I saw she had another one waiting! He ogled her through his monocle before taking her arm in a possessive fashion and leading her into the hotel.
“Who is that fellow?” I demanded.
Pinckney scowled. “A bally Frenchman. Count something or other. Don’t know what the lady sees in him.”
“The title, perhaps,” Nefret suggested.
“D’you think so?” The boy stared at her, and then said with a worldly air, “Some ladies are like that, I suppose. Well, I mustn’t intrude any longer. Dashed kind of you to have me. Er—if I happen to be at the pyramids one day, perhaps I might… er…”
He hadn’t quite the courage to finish the question, but Nefret nodded encouragingly, and he left looking quite happy again.
“Shame on you,” I said to Nefret.
“He’s young and lonely,” she replied calmly. “Mrs. Fortescue is far too experienced for a boy like that. I will find a nice girl his own age for him.”
“What the devil was that story he was telling you about Percy?” Emerson demanded. He has no patience with gossip or young lovers.
“The same old story,” Ramses replied. “What is particularly amusing is that everyone believes Percy is too modest to speak of it, despite the fact that he published a book describing his daring escape.”
“But it’s a bloody lie from start to finish,” Emerson expostulated.
“And getting better all the time,” Ramses said. “Now he’s claiming he allowed himself to be caught and that he had to fight his way out.”
It had taken us far longer than it ought to have done to learn the truth about that particular chapter of Percy’s wretched little book. Ramses had not spoken of it, and I had never bothered to peruse the volume; the few excerpts Nefret had read aloud were quite enough for me. It was Emerson who forced himself to plow through Percy’s turgid prose—driven, according to Emerson, by mounting disbelief and indignation. When he reached the part of the book that described Percy’s courageous escape and his rescue of the young Arab prince who had been his fellow prisoner, my intelligent spouse’s suspicions had been aroused, and, in his usual forthright manner, he had confronted Ramses with them.
“It was you, wasn’t it? It couldn’t have been Prince Feisal, he’d never be damned fool enough to take such a risk. And don’t try to tell me Percy was the hero of the occasion because I wouldn’t believe it if I had the word direct from God and all his prophets! He coul
dn’t escape from a biscuit tin, much less rescue someone else.”
Thus challenged, Ramses had had no choice but to confess, and correct Percy’s version. He had also admitted, under considerable pressure, that the truth was known to David and Lia and Nefret. “I asked them not to speak of it,” he had added, raising his voice to be heard over Emerson’s grumbles. “And I would rather you didn’t mention it again, not even to them.”
He had been so emphatic about it that we had no choice but to accede to his wishes. Now Emerson cleared his throat. “Ramses, it is up to you, of course, but don’t you think you ought to let the true story be known?”
“What would be the point? No one would believe me, anyhow. Not now.”
Emerson leaned back in his chair and studied his son’s impassive countenance thoughtfully. “I understand why you did not choose to make the facts public. It does you credit, though in my opinion one can sometimes carry noblesse oblige too damned far. However, given the fact that Percy’s military career seems to have been based on that series of lies, some individuals might feel an obligation to expose him. He could do a great deal of damage if he were entrusted with duties he is incapable of carrying out.”
“He’ll take care to avoid such duties,” Ramses said. “He’s good at that sort of thing. Father, what were you talking about with Philippides?”
The change of subject was so abrupt as to make it evident Ramses had no intention of discussing the matter further. I glanced at Nefret, whose failure to offer her opinion had been decidedly unusual. Her eyes were fixed on her teacup, and I thought her cheeks were a trifle flushed.
“Who?” Emerson looked shifty. “Oh, that bastard. I just happened to find myself standing next to him, so I took advantage of the opportunity to put in a good word for David. Philippides has a great deal of influence with his chief; if he recommended that David be released—”
“It’s out of his hands now,” Ramses said. “David’s connection with Wardani was well known, and it would take a direct order from the War Office to get him out.”
“It never hurts to try,” said Emerson. “I was mingling with the crowd, taking the temper of the community—”
“What nonsense!” I exclaimed.
“Not at all, Mother,” Ramses said. “What is the temper of the community, Father?”
“Sour, surly, resentful—”
“Naturally,” I said.
“You didn’t allow me to finish, Peabody . There is something uglier than resentment in the air. The enforcement of martial law has not ended anti-British sentiment, it has only driven it underground. Those blind idiots in the Government refuse to see it, but mark my words, this city is a powder keg waiting to be—”
The next word was drowned out by a loud explosion, rather as if an unseen accomplice had provided dramatic confirmation of Emerson’s speech. Some little distance down the street I saw a cloud of dust and smoke billow up, accompanied by screams, shouts, the rattle of falling debris, and the frantic braying of a donkey.
Ramses vaulted the rail, landing lightly on the pavement ten feet below. Emerson was only a few seconds behind him, but being somewhat heavier, he dropped straight down onto the Montenegrin doorkeeper and had to pick himself up before following Ramses toward the scene of destruction. Several officers, who had descended the steps in the normal fashion, ran after them. Other people had converged on the spot, forming a shoving, struggling, shouting barricade of bodies.
“Let us not proceed precipitately,” I said to Nefret, neatly blocking her attempt to get round the table and past me.
“Someone may be hurt!”
“If you go rushing into that melee, it will be you. Stay with me.”
Taking her arm in one hand and my parasol in the other, I pushed through the agitated ladies who huddled together at the top of the stairs. The street was a scene of utter chaos. Vehicular and four-footed traffic had halted; some vehicles were trying to turn and retreat, others attempted to press forward. People were running in all directions, away from and toward the spot. The fleeing forms were almost all Egyptians; I fended a wild-eyed flower vendor off with a shrewd thrust of my parasol, and drew Nefret out of the path of a portly turbaned individual who spat at us as he trotted past.
By the time we reached the scene the crowd had dispersed. Ramses and Emerson remained, along with several officers, including Percy. The Egyptians had vanished, except for two prisoners who struggled in the grip of their captors, and a third man who lay crumpled on the ground. Standing over him was a tall, rangy fellow wearing the uniform of an Australian regiment.
“Excuse me,” Nefret said. The Australian moved automatically out of her way, but when she knelt beside the fallen man he reached for her, exclaiming, “Ma’am—miss—here, miss, you can’t do that!”
Ramses put out a casual hand, and the young man’s arm flew up into the air.
“Keep your hands off the lady,” Percy ordered. “She is a qualified physician, and a member of one of this city’s most distinguished families.”
“Oh? Oh.” The young man rubbed his arm. Colonials are not so easily intimidated, however; looking from Ramses to Percy, he said, “If she’s a friend of yours, you get her away from here. This is no place for a lady.” He transferred his critical stare to me. “Any lady. Is this one a friend of yours too?”
Percy squared his shoulders. “I would claim that honor if I dared. You may go, Sergeant; you are not needed.”
Reminded thus of their relative ranks, the young man snapped off a crisp salute and backed away.
“What’s the damage, Nefret?” Emerson inquired, studiously ignoring Percy.
“Broken arm, ribs, possible concussion.” She looked up. The brim of her flower-trimmed hat framed her prettily flushed face. The flush was due to anger, as she proceeded to demonstrate. “How many of you gentlemen kicked him after he was down?”
“It was necessary to subdue the fellow,” Percy said quietly. “He was about to throw a second grenade onto the terrace of Shepheard’s.”
“Dear me,” I said. “What happened to it?”
Too late, I remembered I had sworn never to speak to Percy again. With a smile that showed me he had not forgotten, he removed his hand carefully from his pocket.
“Here. Don’t worry, Aunt Amelia, I got it away from him before he had removed the pin.”
Nefret refused to leave her patient until an ambulance arrived. He was still unconscious when they put him into it. By that time the police were on the scene and the soldiers had dispersed. Percy had been the first to leave, without speaking to any of us again.
Emerson helped Nefret to her feet. Her pretty frock was in a deplorable state; Cairo streets are covered with a number of noxious substances, of which dust is the least offensive. Ramses inspected her critically and suggested we take her straight home.
“Shall I drive, Father?”
Emerson said no, of course, so the young people got in the tonneau and I took my place beside my husband. At my request he drove more slowly than usual, so that we could converse.
“Did Percy really snatch a live grenade from the hand of a terrorist?” I inquired.
“Don’t know,” said Emerson, pounding on the horn. A bicylist wobbled frantically out of our way and Emerson went on, “When I arrived, a pleasant little skirmish was already in process. Ramses—who was slightly in advance of me—and Percy were fending off the presumed anarchist and a mob of his supporters armed with sticks and bricks. Most of them dropped their weapons and scampered off when our reinforcement arrived, although,…” Emerson coughed modestly.
“The scampering began as soon as they recognized you,” I suggested. “Well, my dear, that is not surprising. What is surprising is that the leader had grenades, and the others only sticks and stones.”
“I don’t believe the others were involved,” Emerson said. “They pitched in out of sympathy when they saw an Egyptian attacked by soldiers. It was a singularly amateurish attempt; the first grenade only blew a ho
le in the pavement and wounded a donkey.” He turned his head and shouted, “Did you recognize the fellow, Ramses?”
“No, sir. Sir—that cab—”
Emerson yanked at the brake. “Nor did I. He looked like a harmless tradesman. A more important question is where he obtained modern weapons.”
“The police will undoubtedly wring the answer from him,” I said grimly.
“Don’t be melodramatic, Peabody . This isn’t the Egypt we once knew; even in the provinces the kurbash has been outlawed and torture forbidden.”
Emerson swerved wildly around a camel. Camels do not yield the right of way to anyone, even Emerson. I clutched at my hat and uttered a mild remonstrance.
“It was the fault of the camel,” said Emerson. “All right back there, Nefret?”
“Yes, Professor.”
It was the only sentence either of the children had uttered, nor did they speak during the rest of the drive. Emerson said only one thing more. “All the same, Peabody , someone had better find out how that fellow laid his hands on those grenades. Where there are two, there may be more.”
From Manuscript H
I must be getting old, Ramses thought. It’s becoming more difficult to remember, from one encounter to the next, precisely who I’m supposed to be.
A glance in the long mirror next to the divan where he sat reassured him: gray hair, lined face, fez, a flashy stickpin, and hands loaded with rings. There were a lot of mirrors in the room, not to mention beaded hangings, soft cushions, and furniture so heavily gilded it glowed even in the dim light. In the distance, muffled by the heavy velvet hangings over windows and doors, he heard women’s voices raised in laughter, and the thump of music. The air was close and hot and heavy with a musky perfume.
Invisible hands drew the hangings aside and a figure entered. It was draped in filmy white fabric that fluttered as it waddled toward him. Ramses remained seated. The precise etiquette would have been difficult to determine, but whatever else el-Gharbi might be, he was not a woman. He was, however, in absolute control of the brothels in el Was’a.
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