“And the body?” Neville asked.
“Croc food,” Eddie replied shortly.
After Eddie and Miriam had left, lunch was served. Most of the household retired for the afternoon rest, but Neville was amused to find his young associates unwilling to retire with the cipher unsolved.
“Let’s look at it, then,” he said. “My wound aches enough that I doubt I’ll sleep.”
Jenny rose without comment, got some ice from the kitchen, and very efficiently cleaned and packed the injury. She said nothing further about his refusal to take her along, but Neville felt her every motion as a rebuke.
Jenny was determined not to lose her temper, but it wasn’t easy. She felt that her cool, controlled response to the previous night’s attack deserved acknowledgment. She didn’t like the way Uncle Neville persisted in treating her as though she were the kind of woman who fainted at the sight of blood.
Stephen seemed unaware of the silent conflict raging between uncle and niece—or if he knew of it, he was too smart to comment. He finished writing out the lines of numbers while Jenny tended Sir Neville’s wound, then held out the recopied letter for them both to inspect.
“Whew!” Jenny said, staring at it. “No word breaks, no punctuation. No anything.”
“I notice,” Neville said, “that none of the numbers is higher than twenty-six. That seems to indicate that there is one number for each letter of the alphabet.”
“The last six letters are 7-4-22-23-2-12,” Stephen protested, working something out with pen and paper. “If that is our correspondent’s signature, as has always been the case before, then ‘SPHINX’ should work out to something like 19-16-8-9-14-24.”
“Still,” Jenny said, “Uncle Neville has to be right. It can’t be just coincidence.”
They all stared at the sheet of paper for a long moment. Stephen’s pen scratched as he tried the alphabet against the cipher.
“Q-I-D-W-R…” he muttered. “That can’t be right.”
“I’ve got it!” Jenny said excitedly. “You’re working it out as if ‘A’ corresponds to 1, and ‘B’ to 2, and so on, but what Sphinx has done is start in the middle of the alphabet. ‘M’ is 1 and the rest seems to follow directly in order.”
“How do you figure that, Jenny?” Neville asked.
She pointed to the line of numbers.
“See here how in Stephen’s first attempt to work out Sphinx in numbers ‘H’ and ‘I’ become 8 and 9? Well, in this letter we have the fourth and fifth numbers in that last sequence of six falling in that order, too. If we make 22 stand for ‘H’ and 23 stand for ‘I,’ they fall in sequence just as they do in the alphabet.”
She took the pen Stephen extended to her and wrote the entire alphabet in a line. Over ‘H’ she wrote 22, and over ‘I’ 23. Then she wrote rapidly until she reached the end of the alphabet.
“Then we just start with 1 over ‘M’ and continue until we have wrapped around to ‘H’ again,” she said, doing so. “Gentlemen, your key.”
With the key in front of them, it was a matter of minutes to decipher the newest message. Breaking the letters into words wasn’t as easy as it might seem, for what Stephen termed “phantom words” kept jumping out to distract the eye. The phrase “words have reached” became for a moment “word shaver each.” Common sense and patience split the letters into words, then the words into likely sentences. Unhappily for their hopes of revelation, the completed message only added to their confusion.
“What,” Neville asked, “does this about Cupid have to do with murderous tattooed Arabs wearing jackal masks? Certainly they’re not concerned with Eddie Bryce’s courtship of Miriam after all this time!”
“I can’t figure it out either,” Stephen said. “There was something about arrows of lead and gold in Roman mythology as I recall, but up until now we’ve been being warned away from the ‘good king’ and he’s Egyptian. Is this even from our Sphinx?”
Jenny felt a flash of exasperation.
“Of course it is, Stephen. He—or she—uses his name, and the assumption we’d know it, as the key to the entire cipher. Without that, we could have solved it, probably by frequency patterns like in one of those Poe stories Stephen loves so much, but we’d have been longer about it.”
“What I can’t figure out,” Stephen said, “is why the Sphinx would go to all the trouble of creating ciphers, then make it so easy for us to solve them. It took longer to recopy this one than to solve it.”
Jenny wanted to shake him.
“Does that mean then that you’ve figured out what this message is about?” she asked a trace sharply.
The young linguist blinked at her, then colored from his high-buttoned collar to his blond hairline.
“Uh. No idea.”
Jenny didn’t believe him, but she also knew why Stephen Holmboe, linguist, wouldn’t say anything. It looked as if speaking like a Christian would be her job, and given how she was feeling toward her uncle right now, she wasn’t even unhappy about the possibility of embarrassing him.
“Well, I have a pretty good idea,” she said. “Surely you gentlemen must have noticed that Captain Brentworth does not care to have anyone pay attention to Lady Cheshire but himself.”
Uncle Neville replied with what Jenny knew must be feigned nonchalance. “I have, but the lady in question does not seem to care for him a whit.”
“Exactly,” Jenny said. “Captain Brentworth has been shot with the arrow of gold—the arrow that inspires love—while Lady Cheshire has been shot with lead and feels nothing but indifference.”
And I’d swear she is indifferent to you as well, Uncle Neville, she thought. But she has her reasons for making sure you think otherwise.
Uncle Neville gave his niece a hard look, and Jenny wondered if she’d spoken aloud.
“Now,” Jenny continued, “apparently our Sphinx thinks that Captain Brentworth feels threatened by one of our number—one of you two gentlemen.”
“And how do you know it is not the reverse?” Uncle Neville said sneeringly. “How do you know that perhaps Lady Cheshire is not threatened by your youth and beauty?”
Jenny flushed. For a moment they ceased to be uncle and niece. She was simply a young woman who had been belittled by an older man.
“For one thing,” she said, pointing with her index finger, “the message expressly says ‘his beloved.’ For another, the only member of our group who has been indulging in flirtation is you.”
Neville Hawthorne colored, but Jenny knew the difference between embarrassment’s blush and anger’s flush. This was anger. She didn’t care.
“Stephen’s only beloved is his books,” she said. “You, however, continue to melt at Lady Cheshire’s least smile. I thought you might even take her up on her offer to accompany you on your expedition—this despite the fact that since before we left England we have been warned against a ‘grinning woman’ and bright smiles.”
Jenny thought she might have gone too far. Uncle Neville was a gentleman of the old school, son of parents whose narrow-mindedness had forced their daughter to elope with her beloved. Neville had been kind to his niece thus far, but Jenny was uncomfortably aware that modern English law now considered women little better than chattel. If he chose, Uncle Neville could do whatever he liked with her.
“I see how you draw your deductions,” Neville finally said. “However, I do not know if you have sufficient information on which to base them. How do you think those last few sentences fit into the matter?”
Jenny drew a deep breath, refusing to be cowed.
“I would set them as a separate paragraph,” she said bravely. “These seem to be more in kind with the warnings about those who are legion—those who know what we have attempted to keep secret.”
“Then this portion of the message,” Stephen said, obviously eager to leave the question of his patron’s romantic entanglements aside, “could indeed be tied into the attack we suffered. The reference to Ra—the Egyptian god of the sun—also seems
a connection. Seems rather odd to leave a warning after attempting to murder us, don’t you think?”
Sir Neville shrugged.
“Perhaps they did not believe they could slay all of us—after all, they failed to slay even one. This warning could be meant for the survivors and be yet another attempt to frighten us from our goal.”
He rose, his hand moving toward his bandage, then resolutely dropping.
“I refuse to be frightened away—from anything I choose to pursue.”
With those ominous words he stalked across the courtyard and shut the door into his room firmly behind him. In the quiet, Jenny heard the latch drop into place. She looked at Stephen who said very quietly,
“I think you’re right, but what can we do?”
Jenny felt hopeless, but wouldn’t let her despair show.
“Figure out who this Sphinx is, then shake her until she tells us straight what we need to know.”
Stephen grinned. “Great idea. Any thoughts how to go about it?”
Jenny shook her head. “If I’m right about these messages at least partially referring to Lady Cheshire, then one of her party would seem likely.”
Stephen nodded. “So, Mrs. Syms, Captain Brentworth, or one of the servants: Babette, Polly, or Rashid.”
“I’ll sound like the kind of snob I’m always complaining about,” Jenny admitted, “but I don’t see any of the servants being up to this. I’d bet on Mrs. Syms. She would have ample opportunity to observe and leisure to work something like this up.”
“Does she know hieroglyphs?” Stephen asked dubiously. “I thought she denied any knowledge of them.”
“Could be a blind,” Jenny said.
“What if it’s Eddie Bryce?” Stephen said. “He could have been playing dumb when we showed him the letters. He might have known about these Sons of the Hawk longer than he admits.”
“But Lady Cheshire?”
“He’s no idiot. Maybe he knows Sir Neville has a romantic turn of mind and decided to send a few general warnings. This last message is the first to get at all specific.”
Jenny frowned. “Maybe. I think I’d place my bets on Captain Brentworth before Eddie Bryce. A few strange messages would be a far better way to chase Uncle Neville off than dueling. These days killing someone in a duel counts as murder.”
“And Captain Brentworth,” Stephen assented eagerly, “could have knowledge of hieroglyphs. He was Lord Cheshire’s assistant, after all.”
“Next time we see any of these,” Jenny said, “let’s drop a few hints and see who looks guilty.”
Stephen nodded.
“I’m game, but we must be very careful. I can’t forget that this Sphinx is someone who seems rather free about handing around warnings of death. I don’t want him to decide it is time for him—or his Legion—to make another try.”
11
The Great Pyramid
That evening after dinner, as they were sipping more of the delightful orange-tinged dessert wine and contemplating turning in early, a note arrived from Eddie Bryce. Sir Neville skimmed it, then read it aloud to Stephen and Jenny:
Dear Neville,
I’ve made arrangements for you and your guests to tour the pyramids tomorrow morning. I know Jenny will not wish to sully her pretty frocks crawling about such dirty structures, but tell her not to worry. There are all sorts of amusements for the ladies including camel rides and a fortune teller called the Sphinx. I shall be there to pick you up around dawn. Dress for riding, and ask Papa Antonio to pack a light refreshment.
As Neville had expected, Jenny had nearly swollen up with indignation at the implication that she would be too concerned with clothing to tour the buildings, and Neville resigned himself to having her ruin her frock. However, he read on before Jenny could spout forth her indignation, and as soon as she realized the implication of the subsequent sentences, her mood calmed as quickly as it had darkened.
“The Sphinx!” she said, a thrill in her voice. “Imagine. Eddie must have been very busy since he left us.”
“Very,” Neville agreed. He still felt uncomfortable when he recalled their earlier dispute, and was eager not to dwell too long on the subject of their mysterious and increasingly annoying correspondent. “Shall we turn in early, then? I’m tired, and Eddie says he will be by at dawn.”
The others nodded agreement, and vanished almost as quickly as the genies in Burton’s Arabian Nights. Neville also went into his room. The bars across the window had been repaired and reinforced. Moreover, teams of Papa Antonio’s Coptic servants were keeping watch from the shelter of the roof. This was no hardship post, since in the dry season the roof was used as a porch might be in an English country home. The watchers were well-supplied with rugs for when the winter night grew chilly, and judging from the several pots of strong black coffee Neville had seen carried aloft, they were unlikely to fall asleep.
He was grateful for the precautions, especially for the relief they gave to Jenny and Stephen, both of whom had been more unsettled than they would admit. However, he did not think they were likely to be attacked again—at least not here.
After laying out Sir Neville’s riding clothing, Bert retired. He and Emily had been invited to join the expedition tomorrow, but the maidservant was still so nervous that she hardly would leave the room the couple shared.
Sir Neville sat at the small desk in one corner, penned a quick reply to Eddie and set it aside to dry. Then he paused, studying the blank sheet that rested in front of him. Finally, he penned a few lines, blotted them rather more quickly than neatness demanded, and sealed both letters with his ring.
He stepped across to the porter’s station, still manned at this hour, for residents might be out at any of the many entertainments around the city.
“Can these still be delivered this evening?”
The porter, a handsome man with a nose like the one Rameses the Great had caused to be carved on his numerous portrait statues, glanced at the directions, and smiled as that same Rameses was never shown smiling.
“I can arrange for that, Sir Neville.”
As he turned back to his rooms, Neville saw that not one, but two strong-bodied, square-shouldered young men had emerged in answer to the porter’s summons. Papa Antonio was clearly not taking any chances with his staff’s safety, either.
Before blowing out the light, Neville took the time to clean the handgun that was his own personal favorite. He decided he wouldn’t look too closely come morning at Jenny’s attire, but felt fairly certain that somewhere among the voluminous folds of her skirts she would be carrying something rather more lethal than her handy little derringer.
Jenny’s delight the next morning when Eddie Bryce arrived atop a camel, leading a string of three more of the magnificently ridiculous beasts, was slightly modified when, upon rushing out to see them more closely, she discovered that the animals possessed a powerful and unusual odor. That Eddie’s mount, an impressive animal with a tightly curled coat the color of a cougar’s hide, wrinkled back its lips and spat at the sight of her did nothing to renew her enthusiasm.
Uncle Neville strolled out behind her, natty in his riding kit. He stood in the doorway, tapping the top of his riding boots with a crop, and looking amused.
“Couldn’t get horses, Eddie?”
Eddie said something to his camel that caused it to lower itself to the ground. This was a complicated maneuver that involved the camel first falling onto its front set of knees, then lowering its rear parts, then—with an audible sigh of protest—working its forequarters so that its bent forelegs extended neatly in front.
Stepping from the elaborate saddle, Eddie said in low tones that hardly carried even to where Jenny stood, “I thought you might need a refresher. Stephen will definitely need to learn to ride a camel, and I thought that Jenny wouldn’t much like being singled out to miss the experience. Besides, horses don’t much like the smell of camels, not unless they’re trained to it. I’m going to have enough to do without minding
a mixed string.”
Jenny wondered if Papa Antonio had spoken to Eddie about their intention of having her accompany the expedition. Certainly, the two men seemed friends, but what if Eddie was one of those men who thought women were safer at home? What if he tried to stop Jenny from coming? Remembering how Miriam had helped save Alphonse Liebermann’s expedition, and Eddie’s evident respect for his wife, Jenny thought Eddie was unlikely to be so conventional. If so, this was her first chance to prove her eagerness to be part of the expedition.
She hastened to assure Uncle Neville that she was quite eager to ride a camel—though to be honest, after seeing one up close, she was less certain.
For one thing, she hadn’t been prepared for how big the camel would be. For another, the camels seemed completely disgusted by humans. She’d met skittish horses, wild horses, and even mean horses—including one bronc who had tried to stomp a fallen rider to jelly. The camels were completely different. Except for random muttering apparently addressed to each other, they simply chewed thoughtfully and looked superior.
She mentioned this apparent disgust to Eddie, who grinned.
“Well, they do say that the camel is the only living creature who knows the final, secret name of Allah. Must seem rather hard on them to be stuck hauling us around.”
Stephen had emerged by now, a satchel of books and notepads slung over one shoulder, an expression of dismay on his face.
“Are they tame?” he asked as the third camel in line spat a thick gob of green goo in front of his booted toes.
“As tame as camels ever get,” Eddie assured him. “These are pure sweethearts. The one I rode is called—if we translate from the Arabic—Angel. The other three are Tiny, Honey, and Flat Foot.”
“All the camels I’ve seen seem to have rather flat feet,” Stephen said, bending to check and earning a shriek from Flat Foot.
The Buried Pyramid Page 21