“She will see you now,” he said.
Jenny dropped the agreed upon sum into his hand, and stepped through the curtain he held open for her. The only light within was sunlight filtered through the silk from which the pavilion was crafted. The rosy glow immediately made Jenny feel detached from the world without, a sensation enhanced by the intense fumes from the incense burners placed around the tent.
“Come here, daughter,” came a creaking, ancient voice. “Seat yourself before me and tell me what you wish to know.”
Jenny did as she had been commanded. There was a chair she didn’t recall having seen before, one more suited for European styles of dress than the heap of pillows on which the seer crouched. She settled herself carefully, for the first time getting a close look at this woman who called herself the Sphinx.
The Egyptian motif had been continued in the seer’s attire as well. Old and wrinkled as she was, the Sphinx did not sport the naked upper body that even the better class of Egyptian woman seemed to flaunt, but her striped and pleated linen robe was topped with a broad enameled collar. She wore wide disk-shaped earrings, and her head was covered with the strange vulture crown that Jenny couldn’t help but think looked rather as if a dead bird had been carefully balanced upon her head. Her eyes had been rimmed with kohl, and her wrists and upper arms were heavily burdened by wide cuff bracelets. She held a large looped cross—the Egyptian symbol for life—in one hand.
“What do you wish to know?” the Sphinx repeated.
“I don’t know,” Jenny said. “Can you really tell the future?”
“I tell what the Great Sphinx tells me,” came the reply. The old woman moved very little, only her lips and her bright eyes within their dark cosmetics seemed alive. “Shall I tell you about yourself?”
Jenny nodded.
“You come from far away, a long journey first across the cold sea, then across the warm. I see a girl weeping for lost parents, lost when she herself was far from them.”
Jenny stiffened. She realized that the Sphinx might have informants at the hotels and train stations. The Sphinx could even have learned this much from Mrs. Syms, for the woman was both talkative and credulous.
The Sphinx didn’t appear to move, but a light silk scarf that had rested over the top of the table drifted to the carpet, revealing an odd assortment of items: coins, scarabs, the bowl of a clay pipe, shards of pottery, a carved foot from a figurine, polished stones, even the lead seal from a bottle of champagne.
“Close your eyes,” the Sphinx commanded. “Let your hand drift over the table until it is drawn down. From what you touch, from these I shall tell your future.”
Feeling both a little frightened and rather foolish, Jenny did as she had been told. She didn’t feel any particular guidance, but moved her hands and let them drop three times at random. Opening her eyes, she discovered she had touched the foot, the scarab, and the lead seal.
“You have traveled far,” the creaking voice said, “but your journeys are not ended. There is a long road ahead of you, one filled with heartache, before you find what will satisfy your soul. You will see wonders in this land and elsewhere. You will find both less and more than you desire.”
This was apparently the message from the figurine’s foot, for the Sphinx now moved to the scarab.
“I see two lives before you. One is broken by many dangers, hard and yet ultimately fulfilling. The other is full of peace and contentment, bliss without end, joy without ceasing.”
She touched the lead seal. Her voice cracked and rose, becoming shrill and hollow, echoing strangely in Jenny’s ears.
“Choices made in the Land of Egypt will decide your fate. Walk carefully in the Red Land. Watch carefully in the Black. Beware the Hand! Beware the Eye!”
The old woman’s entire body slumped forward, her vulture-crowned head clattered among the bric-a-brac on the table, scattering the scarab and a coin to the floor. Jenny leapt to her feet and was raising the old woman when the boy came in and waved her imperiously back.
“The Sphinx is well,” he said. “The power often leaves her thus. Go. I will summon your companion anon.”
Jenny went out, distinctly unsettled. She hadn’t thought the Sphinx seemed well at all. In fact, for a long moment she hadn’t been certain the old woman was even breathing. Seeing her emerge, Stephen came over, a cup of cool water in one hand.
“You look white as a ghost,” he commented. “Was she that good or was it just hot in there?”
“Maybe a bit of both,” Jenny said, accepting the water gratefully. “The air in the tent was rather close. Lots of incense, too. I can’t say I learned much useful. She puts on a good show, but whether or not she’s our correspondent…”
Jenny paused. She had learned enough about diagnosis from her father to know that you shouldn’t tell your patient what you hope to find lest your own comments skew the results. She stopped short of mentioning anything about how the Sphinx’s voice and manner had changed and the odd final warnings before the woman had collapsed.
“Pretty standard stuff,” Stephen said, unimpressed by this expurgated report, “except for that bit about your parents. Is there anything you want me to look for?” Stephen asked.
“You might take a look at her table and the other ornaments in there,” Jenny said. “There were hieroglyphs painted on them, but I’m not good enough to tell if they were in the same hand as our correspondent’s.”
“The ones on the tent curtains aren’t,” Stephen said with a chuckle. “They’re just monkey-copies. A few bits make sense, but most just look good. They don’t say anything.”
Jenny sighed.
“I wonder if this matter of names is just coincidence,” she said. “Still, we’re here. We may as well be as thorough as possible.”
“Right,” Stephen agreed. “Besides, I want to hear what she says lies ahead for me.”
He grinned easily, and after a time the boy beckoned him forward.
“Wish me luck,” he said.
“Luck,” Jenny replied.
She wanted to stand watching, but Mrs. Syms was crossing over, her eyes bright and eager.
“Tell me all about it,” she said.
Jenny, still suspecting that the woman might be the genuine author of those strange letters, complied, editing her account much as she had for Stephen. Mrs. Syms made a very good audience, but like most enthusiasts, what she really wanted was a listener for her own adventures.
With minimal encouragement, Mrs. Syms began a detailed account of her own audience with the Sphinx. Jenny listened with only half her attention, noting that there were similarities between the two meetings, including the selection from the odds and ends on the table. When Mrs. Syms concluded, Jenny frowned.
“She didn’t faint or anything like that?”
“Why, no,” Mrs. Syms sounded vaguely affronted. “Did she when she spoke with you?”
“Well,” Jenny paused, “it sure seemed like that, but I think,” she added, unwilling to hurt the older woman’s feelings, “I think you had a much more detailed fortune.”
Certainly, a much more intelligible one.
More than the Sphinx’s failure to provide a spectacular conclusion to Mrs. Syms’s session was troubling Jenny. After all, the Sphinx might be savvy enough to realize she didn’t need to go to such extremes to impress Mrs. Syms. What troubled Jenny was that nowhere in Mrs. Syms’s account had she said anything about any of her companions. It seemed unlikely that she had glossed over any part of her account—she had even described the furnishings.
So how did the Sphinx learn about my folks? Jenny thought. Could she really have some sort of second sight?
Eventually, Stephen emerged, looking flushed from being closed up in the tent, but more amused than anything else.
“How was your session?” Mrs. Syms asked eagerly.
“Right enough,” Stephen replied politely. “I have been assured that Mother and my sisters are both well. Indeed, Ida has apparently had a
proposal of marriage.”
He chuckled.
Jenny had heard enough about Stephen’s acerbic spinster sister to understand his amusement. Ida’s betrothal seemed as unlikely as snow falling on the pyramids.
Mrs. Syms asked a few more questions, then trotted across to where Lady Cheshire was keeping court in the shade of some fallen masonry.
“I really must convince Audrey to try,” she said in parting.
Stephen let Mrs. Syms get out of earshot, then began to follow more slowly, Jenny walking beside him.
“The hieroglyphs on the table were not in our correspondent’s hand,” he said. “That isn’t conclusive, since there is no reason to believe the lady seer did her own decorating. However, it rules one clue out.”
“Anything else, M. Dupin?” Jenny asked with affected lightness.
Stephen ran a hand through his side-whiskers.
“There was something odd,” he admitted. “Did she say anything to you about a Hand or an Eye?”
Jenny nodded, aware that her heart was suddenly beating far too quickly.
“She did. Does it mean anything to you?”
Stephen shook his head.
“No. I wish it did. I even asked her if this had anything to do with the grinning lady.”
Jenny caught her breath.
“And?”
“And she looked at me with extraordinary blankness, then her eyes rolled up in her head and she toppled forward onto the table.”
Stephen walked a few more steps, then stopped.
“The odd thing is,” he concluded, “is that I could have sworn she was dead to the world, but sound came from her lips nonetheless. She gave the most horrid gurgling laugh and then said quite distinctly, ‘No. Far better for you if they did.’ ”
12
Mozelle
The servant boy rolled down the crimson silk curtains after Stephen’s departure from the Sphinx’s pavilion, nor did they rise again. When Eddie, impeccably Arab, went to inquire, he was informed that the lady had been overwhelmed by the strength of the communications that had passed through her. There would be no further seances today.
Privately, Neville was relieved. Despite the glowering presence of Captain Brentworth, he had been much enjoying his quiet conversation with Lady Cheshire and had no desire to interrupt it in order to lurk within some incense scented bower with a woman not half as comely. If anything was to be learned from the fortuneteller about their mysterious correspondent, the two young people would ferret it out. In any case, he thought he had already worked out the solution.
Who better than Stephen Holmboe himself as the source of the mysterious messages? His earlier denial meant nothing. Of course he would deny being the Sphinx. Why ruin his game before it had hardly begun?
Stephen was fluent in Egyptian hieroglyphs, and admittedly loved tales involving ciphers and puzzles. He also was well-known for his rather low sense of humor. If Stephen Holmboe was the Sphinx it would also explain why the warnings were so vague regarding the “good king,” but so singularly and annoyingly pointed when making reference to Neville’s interest in Lady Cheshire.
Those comments might be only mischief on the younger man’s part, but Neville was willing to bet that there was a degree of jealousy involved as well. That was why, once he had decided who the Sphinx must be, he had written to Lady Cheshire. The note had merely been an apology for his not calling yet, explaining how busy they were, and how busy they were likely to be. If he had made mention of their plans to go see the pyramids at Gizeh the following day and the likely time they would be there, he wasn’t precisely inviting the lady…
But he had been delighted when she had arrived. He had kept general his conversation regarding their plans for the immediate future, and had been all too aware that she was probing. But then what woman worth her salt wasn’t curious? They were always dropping little hints, and creating mysteries. It was part of their charm. Jenny’s blunt directness was almost masculine, and completely unsettling to an old-fashioned man like himself. He preferred the artistry involved in gentle flirtation.
So it was when Eddie reported that the Sphinx was done reading fortunes for the day, and Jenny and Stephen had returned dusty and dirt-smeared from touring the interior of the Great Pyramid, that Neville made his suggestion.
“You hosted us in Alexandria, Lady Cheshire,” he said. “Why not let me return the favor? We will make our leisurely return to Cairo, freshen up, and then meet again at Shepheard’s for dinner.”
His suggestion was accepted with alacrity. They rode back to Cairo in company, their camels proving not unduly offensive to the jaded nag that drew the carriage within which Lady Cheshire and her friends had arrived. When their roads parted, Neville scribbled a note and entrusted it to Mrs. Syms.
“Give this to whoever is in charge of the front desk, and they will make arrangements. Until tonight, then.”
“Until tonight, Sir Neville,” Mrs. Syms said happily, obviously anticipating a treat. Lady Cheshire merely looked demure and mysterious, and Neville’s heart sang within him.
Jenny’s silence said more than any words would have done regarding her disapproval of her uncle’s dalliance, especially in that she remained quiet after they had returned to Papa Antonio’s and there was no longer the excuse that she needed to mind her camel. Stephen would not have said anything in any case. He had a nice sensitivity regarding his place, both as a younger man and as a subordinate.
Of course, if Stephen is the Sphinx, Neville thought, then he has said enough already, though in cipher.
They went their separate ways. As he let Bert draw him a bath, Neville began to fume.
It’s not like I need to have an unmarried chit manage my affairs, he thought, his temper steaming like the bath water. I wonder that it bothers me at all. I wonder if it’s because she reminds me of Alice. Family can always get under your skin like no one else. Well, Jenny is a mere niece. Moreover, she is less than half my age—and too impressionable by half—to be so swayed by a handful of anonymous letters when anyone can see that Lady Cheshire is a fascinating and intelligent woman.
He snorted aloud, startling Bert, who was pressing Neville’s evening dress.
Bert poked his head around the carved wooden screen that provided a semblance of privacy.
“I’m sorry, Sir Neville,” he said when he saw his master still in the bath. “I thought I heard you call.”
“No, Bert. I can handle getting out of the bath by myself.”
“Very good, sir.”
Bert began to withdraw, then poked his head around again.
Really! Neville thought. He’s still more footman than valet. I must arrange for him to have some coaching. Perhaps someone at Shepheard’s would undertake it while we are away.
“Sir Neville,” Bert said. “I forgot to mention, but a letter was slid under the door a few moments ago.”
“Thank you, Bert. Put it on the secretary and I’ll have a look at it when I’m dry.”
“Very good, sir.”
Stephen’s working quickly, Neville thought, amused, rising from the water and beginning to towel off. I wonder if he had his newest cipher worked out in advance. I must be particularly dense in assisting to solve this one.
But the missive was neither from Stephen, nor from the mysterious Sphinx. It was from Eddie Bryce.
I received word that the Lotus Blossom is ready to depart as of tomorrow morning. Apparently, earlier notification was mislaid in the confusion at my house. I hope you and your companions will be prepared to depart on time, as with the tourist season beginning in force, it will be more difficult to book appropriate accommodations and we may lose a week or more.
Eddie went on to set a time they should be ready to depart, noting that he would arrange for both carriage and luggage wagon. He reminded them that secrecy was of the essence, and said that he and Papa Antonio had worked out some appropriate misdirection. The letter concluded rather surprisingly.
I would like to a
dvise you to bring Miss Benet with you. We know that we have enemies here in Cairo. For ourselves to escape them while leaving a lady vulnerable would be less than proper. I have made arrangements for my family’s safety. I would hope that you would do no less for the only surviving member of your own bloodline.
Neville read over this last paragraph repeatedly, then folded the letter and set it aside. Eddie did have a point, and he knew he would worry about Jenny were he to leave her, even if he had her move to the comparative safety of another household—say, with the Travers family. The Anubis-mask-wearing assassins could slip in under any number of guises: porter, household servant, messenger.
He made up his mind, and before dressing for dinner donned a dressing gown and crossed to rap on his two charges’ doors. Both answered promptly, Stephen already clad in his out-dated formal wear, a book in his hand, and Jenny in a long robe. Something about her hair suggested that Emily had been dressing it.
Neville showed them both the envelope.
“The Sphinx?” Stephen said, with what Neville thought—knowing what he did—was admirable promptness.
Jenny, clearly still annoyed with her uncle, said nothing, just stood quietly. Her posture reminded Neville of a junior officer who did not dare speak out against a superior, but was determined not to offer anything that could be construed as support. For a moment, Neville considered not taking Eddie’s advice and leaving her aggravating presence behind.
But weren’t you just telling yourself that she’s the child and you the adult? he chided himself. Would you ever forgive yourself if something happened to her because you answered childishness with the same?
The answer was so obvious that Neville didn’t even bother to answer, not even to himself.
“No, not the Sphinx,” he said. “From Eddie. He says our steamer is ready to depart tomorrow morning. Apparently, an earlier notification was mislaid. Give any orders you have for your baggage to Emily and Bert before we depart for Shepheard’s. Have them leave out what you’ll need in the morning, but pack the rest away. Apparently, Eddie has some dodge in mind, and I wouldn’t be surprised if our luggage is gone before we return.”
The Buried Pyramid Page 23