The Buried Pyramid
Page 7
“I continued planning on mounting an expedition to find the Valley of Dust. The winter two years after the first venture, everything fell into place. I had been detailed to escort a group as far as Luxor. However, once in Luxor, my time was to be my own. I had leave coming to me, and I arranged to take it. I made other arrangements as well, and one night, a few days before I was to depart, I was returning rather late to my quarters when my plans were scotched for good.
“By this time, I knew Cairo quite well, and did not always remain on the main thoroughfares. This proved to be a mistake. A group of men—Arabs, I could tell, but not more than that—emerged from an alley and attacked me. I would like to say that I fought them all off, or even that I fought brilliantly, but the reality is that when five men attack one, even if that one is armed, the single man is doomed to failure.
“I believe that they intended to kill me, but the noise of our battle—and I assure you that I did not hesitate to shout for help at the top of my lungs and in every language I could remember—brought some brave men to my rescue. They were Greeks, I believe, and their arrival forced my assailants to flee.
“I survived, but only barely, and only because the doctor who first treated me was a very clever Egyptian hakeem who had studied both abroad and in his own land. However, I was no longer fit for duty, much the less for a demanding trip up the Nile. I was put on medical leave, and when some of my injuries festered and would not heal, I was rotated home. Arriving, I discovered that my mother was not well.
“Faced with a need to regain my own health and to tend to my mother in what proved to be her final illness, it was not difficult for me to resign from the service without a stain on my character. After Mother’s death, I did not return to the army. Part of this was because my father, much older than my mother and devastated by his loss, begged me to remain. However, I would be less than fair to you if I did not admit that there was another reason.”
He paused, and it took all Jenny’s reserves of self-restraint not to urge him on. Stephen, however, either knew Sir Neville well enough to feel no such compunction, or was simply too impulsive to care.
“Tell on,” he said. “What could keep you from going after such a find?”
Sir Neville lifted his tea cup, seemed vaguely surprised to find it empty, but made no effort to refill it. When he spoke, his voice was hushed, as if speaking of the matter aloud was somehow to be avoided.
“The reason I did not return, Stephen, was that as I lay bleeding out my life onto the cobbles, one of the Arabs bent to cut my throat. As he did so, he hissed, ‘So is the Lawgiver avenged against sacrilege. So is the good king’s peace preserved.’ ”
Stephen shuddered. “Not really!”
“I assure you, my friend,” Sir Neville replied. “I did not invent the item to amuse you.”
Jenny, who had been thinking that perhaps this final flourish had been included to scare her off, heard the sincerity in her uncle’s voice and rejected the idea.
“One of the Greeks fired even as the Arab spoke his curse,” Sir Neville went on. “I do not think the shot hit my would-be assassin, but it did frighten him off. Instead of a cut throat, I received this.”
He indicated the long slash that still disfigured his face.
“Those words remained with me through the long illness that followed. Indeed, I came to feel that they had an element of ritual to them, as if they were sacred words that must be spoken. Or perhaps I was merely feverish, and attached too much importance to the chance words of an unbalanced assassin.
“Before you reject the former out of hand, however, let me add this. A friend who came to visit me in hospital reported that my rooms had been ransacked. He thought it simple robbery, notified the appropriate authorities, had the rooms sealed to await my return, then commiserated with me on my foul luck. When I returned to those rooms, however, I began to wonder if mere robbery had been the burglars’ goal. The rooms had been thoroughly searched, but many small items of value remained. What had disappeared was every trace of anything having to do with archeology. Every book, paper, map, and notepad had either been removed or burned in the hearth. I could not help but consider a connection between this robbery and my being attacked. Yet very few knew that I intended to do archeological exploration over my holiday, and fewer still knew my goal. The idea seemed fanciful, yet it would not leave me.”
“Half a tick,” Stephen interrupted. “You say that few people knew what you were after. How about the soldier who accompanied you on your first expedition? What’s his name? Bryce? Could he have told someone what you were after? Or that Arab girl? She helped save you, but might she have talked afterwards?”
Jenny thought Uncle Neville must have considered this, but it didn’t hurt to present the matter. It might even prove soothing.
“Mr. Holmboe does have a point, Uncle Neville. For that matter, what about Alphonse Liebermann or his valet? Might they have said something to someone? Were they involved in this venture?”
Sir Neville steepled his fingertips.
“I am pleased you are willing to take me this seriously. Stephen, if you would not be offended, I would like to address Miss Benet’s query first.”
“Go right ahead, old fellow.”
Sir Neville inclined his head in thanks.
“Very well. As far as I know, and I think I would have known, neither Herr Liebermann nor his valet were in Egypt at the time. Herr Liebermann returned to Germany following our travels that winter, and though we continued to correspond until his death, I do not believe he ever again ventured to Egypt.”
“He’s dead then?” Jenny asked, feeling an odd pang at the loss of this man she had never known, but who had become quite real to her in her uncle’s account of their adventures together.
“He died two years ago, at home in Germany. I had a card from one of his relations in response to my last letter. His valet, Derek Schmidt, remained in his service, but I do not know what has happened to him since.”
Stephen leaned forward.
“So they weren’t in Egypt when you were attacked. Right. Does that mean they didn’t speak to anyone about old Neferankhotep?”
“It does not,” Sir Neville admitted. “However, when I recall how carefully Alphonse guarded his secret, and how reluctant he was to confide it in anyone, I do not think he would have turned it into a mere fireside tale. Schmidt might have been more loquacious, but he was also quite loyal to his master.”
Jenny picked a line of pink frosting off one of the tea cakes.
“But the point is not whether they told anyone at some other time,” she said. “It is whether what they said would have been likely to set someone out to dry-gulch you and search your rooms right then. You didn’t write him about your planned venture?”
“I did not,” Neville said. “As I indicated earlier, Herr Liebermann acquired moral scruples regarding the wisdom of unearthing the good king. I did not wish to trouble him further.”
Jenny wondered if Uncle Neville himself might have some scruples, but did not pursue the point.
Stephen eagerly asked, “And the other two? Bryce and the Arab girl? He knew what you were after. How much did she know?”
Sir Neville frowned.
“I dislike thinking that Bryce could have had anything to do with what happened to me, but it is possible that something he said did alert someone. At that time—two years, as you must recall, after our initial venture—Bryce had altered his circumstances. Shortly after our return, his term of service ended and he left the army, though they would have been very happy to keep him.”
Stephen grinned. “This doesn’t have anything to do with that girl, does it?”
“Miriam,” Sir Neville said. “Best you recall her name. Yes, it had everything to do with Miriam. Eddie had fallen in love, but in order to win his bride he had to satisfy her family.”
“Even after everything her father and brother did,” Jenny interjected indignantly. “Abandoning her and all?”
“You mean,” Jenny said with a grin, “she hounded Ali into making him accept Bryce as a suitor.”
“Correct,” Sir Neville said with an answering smile. “Ali set some rather rigid conditions, including that Eddie must convert to Islam and make the pilgrimage to Mecca, but Eddie met those conditions. He and Miriam were married about three years after their meeting.
“At the time I was planning my venture, Eddie was living with a foot in each world. Since he already knew the secret of Neferankhotep and the Valley of Dust, and since I knew him for an excellent quartermaster, I enlisted him in my cause. He, in turn, was eager to assist. Like me, he had felt the job was only half-done.”
“So Eddie could have let something slip,” Jenny mused, “even if accidentally.”
“That is true,” Neville replied. “And I prefer to think that any betrayal would have been accidental. Who knows? Perhaps Neferankhotep does have guardians. Perhaps they are alert to certain signs. Perhaps they watch any expedition into Upper Egypt, and if it ventures into questionable territory, they strike.”
He spoke lightly, but it seemed to Jenny that he believed there was at least some truth in what he’d said. For her part, Jenny put her bets on Bryce. A man who would forsake religion and country for a woman couldn’t be trusted.
As soon as she formed the thought, Jenny felt a wash of guilt. How was what Eddie Bryce had done any different from what her own mother had done? Hadn’t Alice Hawthorne disobeyed her parents? Fled her native country for another? Abandoned civilized lands with churches for the sort of generalized Christianity available on the frontier? Furthermore, Alice had married a Catholic, which many Englishmen would think was almost as bad as marrying a Mohammedan.
Stephen seemed to share Jenny’s reservations. “It doesn’t look good for Bryce. I dare say you’ve broken ties with him.”
“Actually,” Sir Neville looked rather uncomfortable, “I have not. I have already written to Eddie, informing him in a roundabout fashion of my intentions and requesting his assistance.”
He clearly took their silence as criticism, as in Stephen’s case it might well have been, though Jenny was still too overwhelmed by her own insight into her personal hypocrisy to feel very critical of someone else.
Neville spoke out in defense of his friend. “Bryce is a good man. Solid. I have no proof that he was involved with the attack on me, and every reason to be grateful to him. He was the one who thought to check with my landlord after I was attacked, so that I would not lose my rooms. He convinced the hakeem to continue treating me once the initial emergency was over, when I might have been left to the dubious mercies of some ham-handed army surgeon.”
Jenny held out one hand in a mollifying gesture. “I don’t condemn the man without proof, Uncle Neville. However, it does make sense that these mysterious Arabs might have learned of your intentions through him. You mentioned watchers. How better to watch than to watch those who organize caravans and such?”
“I second Miss Benet,” Stephen said. “If Bryce did betray anything it might well have been accidental, fault of the job rather than the man. Probably should write him, tell him to watch out so he doesn’t make a similar slip this time round.”
Neville relaxed. “I have already done so,” he admitted. “Eddie did not appear offended. Indeed, he was so circumlocutious in his reply that I wonder whether he might have come to a similar conclusion. Anyone reading his letter would think I am only coming to Cairo this winter for my health.”
Neither Jenny nor Stephen raised the possible complicity of Miriam, daughter of Ali, wife of Edward Bryce. Perhaps because he had his own doubts, Neville Hawthorne did not pursue the matter either.
3
A Letter from the Sphinx
Stephen Holmboe did not linger at Hawthorne House long after the discussion ended, though Sir Neville invited him to remain for dinner. Neville rather dreaded that Jenny would take the opportunity to once again press him to permit her to take part in the expedition proper, but perhaps his account of violent assault and nameless assassins had dampened her ardor, for she did not mention the subject.
“Our departed guest is certainly an interesting person,” she said instead. “Where did you find him?”
At this Sir Neville’s mood, which had begun stern and become quite grim, lightened somewhat. “As I mentioned earlier, when I returned from Egypt, I decided to continue my studies in Egyptology. Stephen was recommended to me as a tutor in hieroglyphs and ancient Egyptian history. You can imagine my surprise to find him so young, but I assure you, he knows what he is about.”
“I’m sure he does,” Jenny said. “Still, you must admit he is an odd character. Am I correct in assuming that his clothing is badly out of date?”
“You are indeed, dear niece.”
“Ah. I wondered whether Fashion had made one of her radical turns once again. Certainly what I’ve heard about the new ‘aesthetic’ dress reminds me of the French court’s fashion for shepherdess costumes and simplified gowns not long before the French Revolution. Fashion always seems to return in some new version of itself.”
Neville smiled. Earlier that morning, Emily had come to him, anxious and upset, to report that Jenny’s trunks were packed tight with firearms, trousers, and other unladylike items. Emily seemed to think that Jenny might have somehow managed to sneak a male compatriot into Hawthorne House, and felt she must report the possibility.
Neville, familiar with Alice’s ongoing battles with her daughter over civilized dress, and his sister’s own musings over what was reasonable or logical given the Benet’s current area of residence, had been able to reassure the maid. He heard echoes of those mother/daughter debates in Jenny’s most recent comments, but had resolved not to raise the matter unless Jenny did so herself.
“Stephen possesses a colorful, if not completely creditable history—or I should say, his father did. The senior Stephen Holmboe came from money if not title. However, had he applied himself, I do not think a knighthood would have been out of reach for him. Such titles are more easily gained than you might imagine.”
Jenny raised a finger in interruption. “That reminds me. Did Herr Liebermann manage to acquire a knighthood for you?”
Neville shook his head, but his smile did not diminish.
“He did not. However, he did commend me to the queen’s attention. When some years later my deeds were such that my name was suggested for the awards list, the honor was quickly granted. I suspect that good Victoria did not forget her cousin’s request, even if it wasn’t appropriate at that time.”
“Ah,” Jenny said. “I didn’t think Mama said you’d been honored for saving some German, but in light of the rest of the story I thought you might have altered the report you wrote her. But were you saying that the elder Mr. Holmboe was not similarly honored?”
“Correct,” Neville replied. “Stephen’s father had wealth, physical robustness, intelligence, and an attractive person. However, he squandered these resources, alienated his wife and broke her health, and finally shot himself over unpaid gambling debts.”
“Goodness!” Jenny gasped. “How terrible for his son.”
“I believe these events scarred the boy—then nearly a young man—deeply. Some of Stephen’s foolish manner may be an effort to conceal that shame. He eschewed his father’s vices and from an early age became quite a scholar. There was not sufficient money both for books and for a fashionable wardrobe, so Stephen took to wearing his father’s clothes—he’d had a rather extensive wardrobe. Later, when styles changed, Stephen did not bother to have the clothes altered to a more modern cut. I think that Stephen’s defiance of fashion is also part of his continued rejection of the parental mold—though it could be he’s simply too absorbed in languages and history to care about the outer man.”
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br /> Jenny mused in silence for a moment. “And his mother? Does Mr. Holmboe have any siblings?”
“His mother is an invalid. He has two younger sisters as well. The first came out in a quiet way a few years ago and made a modest, though apparently happy, marriage. The second sister has not been so fortunate. She is bitter about her lack of suitors, and has loudly complained that her brother’s eccentricities have harmed her prospects. Having met her, however, I think she has no one to blame but herself—and perhaps her family’s lack of fortune.
“Mrs. Holmboe has a small income from a brother, who has otherwise distanced himself from her. I believe her elderly parents are even less kind. Stephen augments this income with what he earns tutoring and doing research for scholars of greater reputation.”
“Whew!” Jenny exclaimed. “I guess I can be patient with Mr. Holmboe, if he has had to put up with all of that. After all, there are worse things than dressing rather odd.”
“Mr. Holmboe was on his best behavior this afternoon,” Neville warned. “You have not seen my talented tutor at his most outré.”
“Well,” Jenny replied thoughtfully, “he hasn’t seen me at mine either.”
Neville thought she might be about to raise the question of attire, or perhaps of her collection of firearms, but though she paused, she said nothing and Neville kept his resolve to have her be the one to bring up these matters.
The following morning, Sir Neville found a dirty and tattered envelope mixed in with his morning post. His first impulse was to set it aside, believing that the butler had misdirected it when he sorted out the servants’ mail. On closer inspection, he saw that the envelope was addressed to him in a clumsy hand, with much blotting of ink.
He had just slit the envelope and unfolded the contents when the butler came to the door. “Mr. Stephen Holmboe, sir. He says he realizes that he has not made an appointment, but hopes that you would do him the honor of granting him a moment of your time.”