Tybalt looked at me in astonishment but he said nothing.
I sat down and wrote:
Dear Aunts, I want you to take Evan and look after him. You will have heard about this fearful accident. Poor Evan is distracted. You know how much he loved Theodosia. I can't believe it. We grew close, particularly out here. She was my sister and we were as sisters. And Evan loved her . . .
I had not been able to cry until that moment. Now the tears started to fall down my cheeks onto the paper, smudging the ink. My aunts would weep when they saw it. It was something to weep about.
Poor sad little Theodosia who was frightened of life! All the time she had feared death; and yet when she faced it her last words had been: "I am not afraid."
If only she had never set foot on that bridge. But then it would have been someone else. Tybalt! My heart missed a beat. What if it had been Tybalt. Since we had come to Egypt my idyllic dreams had become tinged with doubt, fears, even suspicions. I was remembering too frequently how people had reacted to the announcement of our intended marriage. Some—including Dorcas and Alison—had suspected Tybalt's motives. It was true that I had become an heiress.
I had always felt that Tybalt withheld some part of himself. I had revealed myself entirely to him, I was sure. He knew of my sudden impulses, my enthusiasms, my faults, my virtues. I had never been able to conceal my feelings for him; but although we were now husband and wife in some respects he was a stranger to me. Did he lack human warmth, and that need for others which makes us all so vulnerable and perhaps lovable? How much did he depend on me? How much did he need me?
Why was I tormented by these doubts—I, who had always believed wholeheartedly in my ability to mold the pattern of my life? Why was I failing now when I had everything I had always longed for? The answer was: Because I did not altogether know this man to whom I had given myself completely. I suspected his feelings towards me and the motives which had led him to marry me. I believed that his work came before anything in his estimation, before me. Before Tabitha?
I had said it. I was jealous. I was unsure of his relationship with Tabitha and his reasons for marrying me. I had built up a nightmare and it was shaping into reality.
I picked up my pen and went on writing resolutely:
I think he needs special care and you could give him that. Will you take him in and care for him and teach him to live again? Sabina and Oliver will help you. Somehow I think that the calm peacefulness of Rainbow Cottage and you two with your philosophy of life can help him. Dearest Alison and dearest Dorcas, will you try?
I knew them too well not to expect an immediate response.
It came.
Evan did not protest; he expressed no surprise. He seemed like a man in a dream ... or a nightmare.
And so he left us and went to Rainbow Cottage.
Ever since the death of Theodosia, Leopold Harding seemed to have attached himself to our party. He was often seen at the site; he would talk to workers and Hadrian invited him to dine with us. He would ask all sorts of questions and expressed his enormous fascination in the work.
He asked Tybalt if he might look round now and then, and Tybalt gave permission. He asked intelligent questions. He had evidently read up on the subject or cross-examined Hadrian. He and Hadrian were constantly together and we all saw him quite often.
Tybalt's depression had vanished. He felt now that he was on a new trail, success was imminent. He was sure that beyond the wall of the old tomb was the way into another. It had been cunningly concealed but he would find it.
The aunts wrote to me often.
We did hope you would be home before this. It seems that you have been away a very long time. Evan talks a little about it now. He is certainly better than he was on his arrival.
Sabina is very happy. Her baby will be born in a very short time. We are all very excited about it. We never mention it to Evan though. It might make him brood and be sad.
Lady Bodrean is having a memorial set up to Theodosia in the church. There was a service for her. People are talking as they did when Sir Edward died. Oh dear, I do wish you would come home.
Lady Bodrean asked us up to Keverall Court for tea. She mentioned you. She said it was odd how you, her companion, had now become a woman of considerable wealth. She was referring to the fact that you have all now that Theodosia is dead.
My heart began to beat fast. It was amazing but I had not thought of that clause in Sir Ralph's will until now. I had twice as much money as I had before and Keverall Court would be mine on the death of Lady Bodrean.
Money had no concern for me except that now and then I wished I had not inherited a fortune. Then I could have been assured that I had been married for myself.
The aunts were right. Now I was a very rich woman.
She seemed more concerned about your having that money than her daughter's death. I marvel that you were able to stay with her so long. She is not a very agreeable woman. It was very brave of you, dear. Oh, how I wish you would write and say you were coming home.
How their letters brought back the peace of the countryside, the cottage in the quiet cul-de-sac a stone's throw from the old rectory.
Tybalt had said that we must behave as though the tragedy had not taken place. It was the best way to quell the rumors. When we went out though, people looked at us furtively. They thought we were mad to brave the Curse of the Pharaohs. How much warning did we want? How many more deaths must there be?
Tabitha said to me: "You don't go into the souk much now."
"I don't want to. Theodosia and I went so often together."
"They will probably notice that you don't go."
"Does it matter?"
"I think you should behave as normally as possible."
"I don't care to go alone."
"I'll come with you sometime."
The next day she suggested we go.
As we walked we spoke, as we always seemed to, of Theodosia.
"Don't brood, Judith," said Tabitha. "I have to stop myself doing that. Remember, I was the one who suggested the tour. If I hadn't . . . she would be here today."
"Someone else would have died. The bridge was ready to collapse. And how were you to know?"
She shook her head dismally. "All the same I can't forget it was my idea."
"Why should the bridge have broken!" I cried. "You don't think someone . . ."
"Oh no, Judith!"
"Who could possibly have done such a thing?"
"It was an accident. How could it have been anything else?"
A silence fell between us. I thought: Suppose it were not an accident. Suppose someone wanted to kill Theodosia. Who would gain from her death? I was the one who had become twice as rich.
I said: "She was my half sister. I loved her. I bullied her, I know, but I loved her just the same. And now . . ."
Tabitha pressed my arm. "Don't, Judith. There's nothing to be done. It's over. We must do our best to put it behind us."
We were in the open market square. There was noise and color everywhere. The flame swallower was about to perform and a crowd of excited children hopped round him; the snake charmer was sitting half asleep, his snakes in their baskets. A juggler was trying to attract a crowd. We went across the square and into that now familiar maze of streets, past the leather shop where Yasmin sat no more, past the meat on sticks and the cauldron of hot sauce . . . and there was the soothsayer.
He eyed us slyly.
"Allah be with you."
I wanted to move on but Tabitha hesitated. He knew, of course, of Theodosia's death.
"The little lady," he said, "she heed not my warning."
Tears pricked my lids. I could imagine Theodosia so clearly sitting on the mat beside him, her eyes wide with terror.
"I see it," he said. "It hovered. It hovers still." His eyes were fixed on me.
"I do not wish to hear," I said almost petulantly.
He turned from me to Tabitha.
"A burden has drop
ped from you," he said. "There is happiness now. The obstacle will go and there is the reward if you are wise enough to take it."
I was about to put money into his bowl but he shook his head.
"No. Not this day. I do not want baksheesh. I take only payment for service. I say, Lady, take care."
We walked away. I was shivering.
"He was right . . . about Theodosia."
"He is bound to be right sometimes."
"He is warning me now."
"But he always warned you."
"You are the lucky one. You, it seems, are going to get your reward when you have removed the obstacle. Or is it already removed?"
"They talk," said Tabitha. "It's a kind of patter. But we must not let them see that we are disturbed. That would be the very way to increase the rumors."
But I was disturbed . . . deeply disturbed.
How I missed Theodosia! I suffered a certain remorse because when she had been alive I had never let her know how much it meant to me to have been her sister. I would sit and brood on the terrace where we had often sat together and remember our conversations. Tabitha was no substitute for her; I was unsure of Tabitha.
I was constantly aware of that friendship between her and Tybalt. Once when Tybalt had come back from the site, I was on the terrace and he joined me there. He began to talk earnestly about the work and I listened avidly. But Tabitha joined us. She remembered so much from the previous expedition and she and Tybalt discussed this at length, so that I was shut out. I became apprehensive and resentful.
I was being unfair. Previously I would have believed nothing but good of Tybalt. He meant everything to me, but I was unsure of him. I had begun to see Tybalt as a man who could be utterly ruthless in the interests of his work. And would that ruthlessness be only for his work?
Tybalt was becoming a stranger to me.
As I sat on the terrace one day Leopold Harding joined me. He had almost become a member of the party. His enormous interest appealed to Tybalt who was always ready to help amateurs. He now even dined occasionally at the palace and he would come to the site and watch the men at work.
He sat down beside me and heaved a sigh.
"What a sight," he said. "There's always so much to see on the river. Imagine what it must have been like three thousand years ago!"
"The royal barges," I said. "All those wonderful decorations of people doing strange things . . . like carrying stones to build the Pyramids or offering libations to the gods."
"Why are the figures always in profile?"
"Because they had such handsome ones, I suppose."
"Is your husband happy with his progress?"
"Each morning he is full of hope. 'This will be the day' he feels sure. But so far it has not been, of course."
"It was so sad about Mrs. Callum."
I nodded.
"So young, just beginning life you might say and then that terrible accident. The people at the hotel talk of it constantly."
"I know they do. They talk of it everywhere."
"They believe it is the Curse of the Kings."
"That's absurd." I was talking as Tybalt would have talked. He was so anxious that these rumors should not be encouraged. "If it were a curse—which is absurd anyway— why let it descend on Theodosia, who was the most inoffensive member of the party."
"She was a member of the party though."
"Hardly that. She was the wife of one of them, that's all."
"But there is a lot of talk. The general opinion seems to be that this expedition, like the previous one, is unlucky . . . and it's unlucky because the gods or the old Pharaohs are angry."
"Well, of course, there will be this talk."
"I had a letter from England. Theodosia's death was given some prominence in the newspapers. 'Another death,' it said, and the Curse was mentioned."
"Another! I see they are referring to Sir Edward's death. People love this sort of mystery. They believe it because they want to."
"I daresay you are right," he said. "I have to go soon. I have sent most of my purchases to England now and very little remains to be done. But it has all been so fascinating. Do you think your husband objects to my prowling round the site?"
"He would say so if he did. He is pleased when people show interest. As long as they don't get in the way."
"I shall be very careful to avoid doing that. I realize how very knowledgeable you are."
"When one is with professionals one realizes how little one really does know. Before I married I read a great deal and Evan Callum was at one time our tutor . . . that was for Hadrian, Theodosia, and me. You know the relationship, of course."
"Well, I did hear. You and Mrs. Callum were half sisters, I believe."
"Yes, and Hadrian a cousin."
"All childhood friends. You must feel Mrs. Callum's loss sorely."
"I do. And I know Hadrian does."
"I gather he is very fond of you both ... in particular you."
"Oh Hadrian and I were always good friends."
"So you studied archaeology in your youth."
"It was all very amateurish, but I was always particularly interested in the tombs."
"A fascinating subject."
"The idea of embalming the bodies is so macabre and clever. No people do it as they did. They perfected the art. I remember reading about it in my rectory bedroom—I was brought up in the rectory—and sitting up in bed shivering."
"Imagining yourself incarcerated in a tomb?"
"Of course. They didn't do much after the year 500 a.d. I wonder why? A gruesome process, removing the organs and filling the shell of the body with cassia, myrrh, and other sweet-smelling herbs. Then they used to soak it in some sort of soda for about three months before wrapping it in fine linen and smearing it with a sticky substance."
"It was certainly thrilling to see the inside of a tomb on that fatal night . . . until the accident. What do you think happened about the bridge?"
"It must have been faulty."
"Do you think someone tampered with it?"
"Who should . . . and for what purpose?"
"To kill someone?"
"Theodosia! Why? What had she done?"
"Perhaps to kill a member of the party?"
"It certainly might have been any one of us."
"Exactly. So it seems as though it didn't matter which one ... as long as it was someone."
"You mean that someone just wanted one of us to die as a sort of warning?"
"It could, of course, have been an accident merely—if it had been anyone else. Mrs. Callum's condition helped to make it a fatal one perhaps. You would be far more aware of these things than I. I consider it a great privilege to be allowed these little peeps at what is going on. I shall never forget this visit to Egypt."
"I don't think anyone who is here will ever forget this expedition. It was the same with the previous one when Sir Edward died. That finished it because he was the leader and they could scarcely have gone on without him."
"What did he discover?"
"Precisely nothing. But Tybalt believes that he would have, had he gone on. Tybalt was going on where he left off."
"Well, it's been a great privilege. I have to get back to the hotel so I must leave you. I've enjoyed our talk."
I watched him walk away and then I went into the palace, for the sun was beginning to get hot. I remembered then that I had left Dorcas's pot of ointment in the little room which led off from the courtyard. As I came into it, I heard voices and paused.
Tabitha was speaking. "Oh yes, it's a great relief to be free. If only it happened before. And now, Tybalt, it's too late ... too late . . ."
I stood absolutely still. There was a singing in my ears; the courtyard seemed to recede and I felt faint.
Too late! I knew too well what that meant.
I had suspected for some time. Perhaps I had always suspected; but now I knew.
I turned and ran to my room.
I lay on the bed.
Tybalt had gone back to the site. I was glad. I did not want to see him—not yet—not until I had decided what I must do.
I remembered so many incidents. The manner in which he had looked at her when she sat at the piano; the warning words of Nanny Tester; the time when she had gone up to see her husband and Tybalt had discovered that he must be away at the same time. And she was beautiful and poised and experienced. Compared with her I was plain and clumsy; and I was not patient as she was. I was angry and passionate because he cared more for his work than for me.
She understood perfectly. She was the one he loved, the one whom he would have married had he been free.
But even so, why should he marry me? Why should he not wait for her?
His proposal had been sudden. I had been completely taken by surprise. He had asked me because he knew that I had inherited money from Sir Ralph. It was all becoming very clear, too clear for comfort.
And here she was close to him. I wondered how often when I believed him to be working on the site he was with Tabitha. I pictured them together; I seemed to delight in torturing myself. I couldn't bear these imaginings and yet I could not stop myself from creating them.
I felt young and inexperienced. I did not know what I could do.
Of whom could I ask advice? I could not confide in Theodosia now. As if I ever could have! What would she have known of my problem—she with her innocence and her inexperience of life and her doting Evan who had loved her faithfully and would have done so to the end of her days. Dorcas and Alison knew nothing of relationships like this; and they would nod their heads and say "I told you so. We never liked him. We felt something was wrong." That would not do. Sabina? I could hear her voice coming to me over space. "Of course Tybalt is wonderful. There is no one like him. You ought to be glad he married you. But of course you don't know enough and Tabitha does and she is beautiful. And she was always in the house, really like his wife, only she had that husband and he couldn't marry her because of him. At least you are Tybalt's wife and Lady Travers, aren't you? So I suppose that ought to be enough. After all he's not like other people, is he ... ?"
How foolish to let my mind run on with these imaginary conversations. But I could not stop myself. In whom could I confide?
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