The Golden One

by Elizabeth Peters

  Just about the only one. Young Albion went on. And on. He was not inclined to give America ’s oldest university any credit for his present state of admitted erudition. “There’s not much being done with Egyptian art qua art,” he stated. “I had to work it out myself. I’ve pretty well exhausted what the Metropolitan Museum and the Boston Museum of Fine Arts have to offer. A winter in Egypt seemed the logical next step.”

  “And a spot of tomb robbing?” Ramses finally managed to get a word in. “I trust your father was joking about that. A number of people, including my father, wouldn’t be amused.”

  “It goes on all the time, doesn’t it?”

  “To some extent; but -”

  “Yes, yes,” Sebastian said condescendingly. “I understand how people like you feel about it. Now my book -”

  Ramses caught Nefret’s eye again and grimaced. It was a distress signal, and she responded with a grin and a slight nod.

  Sebastian rambled on. He would be writing a book, Ramses thought. One of those books – the kind that will never be finished, because the author keeps finding additional material. Ramses had known a few scholars like that; he had always suspected their real reason for procrastinating was a reluctance to risk criticism. Sebastian declared that it was his intention to view every piece of Egyptian art in the world. It would be the definitive book on Egyptian art – when he finished it.

  “What are you doing in Luxor, then?” Ramses asked. “The Cairo Museum -”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I will get to the Museum in due course, but I wanted to see the tomb painting in situ, as it were – take photographs, make sketches, and so on. I’m a collector in a small way, and hoped to pick up a few good pieces here.”

  Ramses realized that if he went on talking to Sebastian he would say something rude. “If you’ll excuse me,” he began. “My wife -”

  “That’s she, isn’t it?” Sebastian’s head turned. “Lovely woman. Hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Ramses did mind, but though Sebastian’s tone was mildly offensive, he could not take exception to the words themselves. Sebastian went on, “There’s a delicious little creature. Is she available to anyone, or is Vandergelt keeping her for himself and Bertie?”

  For one incredulous moment, Ramses thought the fellow was referring to Nefret. Then he realized that Sebastian was looking at Jumana.

  Nefret had been on her way to join them when she saw Ramses’s face freeze. It wasn’t the old “stone pharaoh” face that concealed his thoughts, but a sign of fury so consuming it canceled thought and reason and everything else except a primitive need to act. She crossed the remaining distance in two long steps, slipped her arm through that of her husband, and caught hold of his hand. Under the pressure of her fingers his own fingers slowly uncurled. “You must be Mr. Sebastian Albion,” she said lightly. “I’ve just been talking with your mother. I’m Nefret Emerson.”

  “How do you do.” Albion hadn’t missed Ramses’s reaction. He took a step back.

  “Katherine wants to ask you something, Ramses,” Nefret went on. “Will you excuse us, Mr. Albion?”

  “Just a minute,” Ramses said. “We need to get something straight, Albion. The lady to whom you referred is a protégée of Mrs. Vandergelt’s and a member of our family.”

  “Your family? But surely she is -”

  “A member of our family,” Ramses repeated. “And a young, respectable girl. Where the hell did you get the idea that an Egyptian woman is free to any man who wants her? In the Cairo brothels?”

  “Ramses,” Nefret murmured.

  Albion had gone white. He mumbled something that might have been an apology, nodded at Nefret, and walked off.

  “What on earth did he say?” Nefret asked. “You were going to hit him!”

  “I was, wasn’t I?” His fingers twined with hers. “In a way I’m sorry you stopped me.”

  “It would have ruined Cyrus’s party,” Nefret said practically. “I was watching you, and I could see it building up. Something about Jumana?”

  “You can probably guess what.”

  “Yes. Bastard,” she added.

  “What were you talking about with his mother?”

  “Him. And his father. That’s all she can talk about! She refers to the old boy as ‘my husband, Mr. Albion.’ I thought women stopped doing that fifty years ago.”

  Her amusement reduced the Albions to the eccentric nuisances they were and made Ramses ashamed he had let Sebastian rouse his temper. “What does she call the bastard?”

  Nefret chuckled. “Well, I don’t think he is, literally. He is always ‘my son Sebastian.’ The way she pronounces the words, they sound like a royal title.”

  “When can we go home?”

  Nefret squeezed his hand. “Anytime, poor darling. You’ve been a very good boy and deserve a reward.”

  He smiled and her heart skipped a beat, as it always did when he looked at her in a certain way. I’m hopeless, she thought. Hopeless, and glad of it.

  Emerson wasn’t ready to leave. He still had a few things to explain to Bertie, and then he had to go over the whole thing again with Cyrus, who had joined the group.

  “Go on, if you like,” he said amiably.

  “May I come with you?” Jumana asked.

  “Of course,” Nefret said, reproaching herself for having neglected the girl. In company like this she needed all the support she could get.

  Ramses gallantly offered Jumana his arm, and didn’t even wince when she giggled and hung on to it. He was making it up to her for an insult she didn’t know she had received, and his infatuated wife was reminded again of how utterly she adored him.

  She took his other arm, and they made their way to the door. Then she felt the muscles under her hand harden. He would have hurried them on if Sebastian had not intercepted them.

  “I misunderstood,” he mumbled. “I beg your pardon.”

  Whose pardon? Nefret wondered. He had addressed Ramses, hadn’t even looked at her or Jumana.

  Ramses nodded brusquely and led his ladies to the waiting carriage.

  “Who was that?” Jumana asked curiously. “He was very polite.”

  “A tourist,” Ramses answered. “Very boring, as Sennia would say.”

  Jumana laughed, and began to chatter, repeating what Emerson had said about Deir el Medina. She had an excellent memory.

  Nefret leaned back and let her talk. Young Albion had had to nerve himself for that encounter. Why had he taken the trouble? To ingratiate himself and his family with the Emersons? Ignoring Jumana was probably the most sensible thing he could have done. He certainly couldn’t request an introduction to a girl he hoped to seduce from the man who had warned him off.

  At breakfast Emerson droned on and on about his plans. He had arranged to meet Cyrus and Bertie at Deir el Medina so he could go over the whole thing again with them. Nothing Ramses and I had said had had the slightest effect on the stubborn man, and when I realized he meant to go ahead with his ridiculous scheme, I had to take a firm grip on my temper. I had no intention of allowing him to do any such thing, but a loud argument at the breakfast table would have been ill-bred, especially with Sennia present.

  “If that is what you plan to do, you won’t need me,” I announced. “I am going to Luxor. Nefret, you had better come with me. Thanks to the selfish demands of certain persons, you haven’t had a chance to purchase anything you need for the house.”

  Instead of objecting to the oblique reference to him, Emerson looked relieved. He didn’t want to listen to a lecture from me any more than I wanted to listen to one from him. I had a brief discussion with Miss Sennia, who wanted to join the shopping expedition, but I finally got them all off. Nefret and I then went to her house so that I could make a few useful suggestions about necessities.

  Everything appeared to be in order. I knew it would be, since Fatima was in charge, but there was no harm in seeing for myself. Najia was already busy in the parlor, sweeping and dusting. The birthmark was
not really disfiguring – only a reddish stain that covered most of one cheek – but she kept her face averted while we conversed. She had tried, clumsily, to conceal it with a layer of whitish paste, which in my opinion was more conspicuous than the birthmark. I reminded myself to ask Nefret if there was not some cosmetic that would do a better job.

  The other girl, Ghazela, was her cousin; they were all cousins to some degree. The name was not especially appropriate; she was no slender-limbed gazelle, but a round-cheeked sturdy young person of perhaps fourteen. She was delighted to have been chosen to work for Nefret and told me so at some length. Like most of the younger generation, even the girls, she had had some schooling. We were chatting about her plans and aspirations – and I was making a few small, tactful suggestions about cleaning the stove – when Nefret, who had gone to get her handbag and a more suitable hat, came in.

  “I thought I’d find you here, Mother. Is everything satisfactory?”

  “I see you have used the stove.”

  “Only for morning coffee. Najia makes it perfectly.”

  “So the girls suit, do they?” I inquired, after we had left the house.

  “Oh, yes. What are we looking for today?”

  “Don’t you have a list?” I whipped mine out.

  “It’s in my head,” Nefret said cheerfully. “Anyhow, half of the fun of shopping is to find something one didn’t know one wanted.”

  We went first to the shop of Abdul Hadi, since the sooner we got him started, the better. Nefret did have a list in her head; she ordered a number of things, chairs and tables and chests, and made rough sketches of each, including the dimensions. Abdul Hadi kept bobbing up and down, his knees creaking every time he bent them, and assured her that the honor of her patronage would spur him on to work day and night. We left him creaking and bowing, and Nefret said, “Two weeks.”

  “He said one week.”

  “That was just his usual habit. But I think I can get some of them in a fortnight, if I keep after him.”

  The merchants all knew us, and they brought out their best, including some lengths of beautifully handwoven fabric that Nefret intended to have made into cushions for the parlor. I consider myself an efficient buyer, but never had I been whisked in and out of shop and suk as quickly as I was that day. We ended up at a potter’s, where Nefret purchased a quantity of vessels of all shapes and sizes.

  “Some of them will do for the courtyard,” she declared. “I want hibiscus and lemon trees and roses, and bougainvillea.”

  “Then,” I said, and stopped to clear my throat. “Then… you do like the house? It is satisfactory?”

  “Yes, Mother, of course. Did you doubt it?”

  I hadn’t – not really – I had not given them much choice! But with two such strong-willed individuals one can never be certain. I knew now that I had them. A woman does not purchase new furnishings for a house unless she means to stay.

  We treated ourselves to luncheon at the Winter Palace, where we had a merry time. No one is a better companion than Emerson – when he is in a friendly state of mind – but it is impossible to discuss household arrangements when men are present. After we finished, I suggested we call on Mohassib.

  “Was that your real purpose in coming to Luxor?” Nefret asked, frowning slightly.

  “Not at all, my dear. It only just occurred to me. We have plenty of time, and Heaven knows when we will get to Luxor again, and I promised Cyrus I would have a chat with Mohassib about -”

  “Did you really?”

  “Promise him? Implicitly.”

  “I see. All right, Mother. But you aren’t fooling me. You are trying to track Jamil down.”

  “Someone must,” I declared. “Emerson has lost interest – I knew he would, as soon as he became involved with his work – and no one else takes the wretched boy seriously.”

  The clot of dragomen and guides that infested the steps of the hotel parted before us like the Red Sea. We strolled on, past the Temple of Luxor. I could never pass those magnificent columns without a sidelong glance, but for once Nefret did not appear to notice them. Striding along with her hands clasped behind her back and her head bowed, she said, “Has it occurred to you that it might have been Jamil from whom Aslimi got those artifacts you bought in Cairo?”

  “Certainly it occurred to me. The description fits. He secreted those particular items when they were clearing the tomb – they all do it, you know, cheating one another if they can – and used his share of the money to travel to Cairo. Jamil isn’t especially intelligent, but he has sense enough to know he could get better prices from Cairo dealers than from Mohassib.”

  “Yes, of course,” Nefret murmured. “You are terrifyingly single-minded when you go after something or someone, Mother.”

  “Not at all, my dear. I have no difficulty in thinking of several things at once.”

  Her brow cleared and the corners of her mouth turned up. “So long as you aren’t having one of your famous premonitions about Jamil.”

  To call the feeling a premonition or foreboding would not have been entirely accurate. It was, rather, based on expert knowledge of the criminal mind and a certain degree of informed cynicism. Criminals, in my experience, do not suddenly turn into honest men. Jamil was still in need of money and he was still resentful of us. Nothing had changed there, and the more often we frustrated his attempts to get what he wanted, the more resentful he would be.

  Mohassib was the best-known and most highly respected (by everyone except Emerson) antiquities dealer in Luxor. He had been dying for at least ten years, and was dying at that very moment, so the doorkeeper informed me.

  “Then he will wish to see me before he passes on,” I replied, handing over the expected baksheesh.

  He was in bed, propped up on pillows and looking like a biblical patriarch with his snowy beard and mustache; but he was not alone. I stopped short when I recognized the Albions.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said. “The doorkeeper did not tell me you had other visitors.”

  “That’s okay,” said Mr. Albion, who seemed to make a habit of answering remarks addressed to other persons. “We were about to leave anyhow. Good to see you, Mrs. Emerson – and Mrs. Emerson. Hope you didn’t come here to bid on any of Mohassib’s treasures. I’ve already made him an offer.”

  “Indeed?” I took a chair, indicating my intention of remaining. “I was under the impression that you meant to find yourself a tomb robber instead of buying from dealers.”

  Mrs. Albion’s lips parted, like a crack in a block of ice. “Mr. Albion was teasing, Mrs. Emerson. He has a marvelous sense of humor.”

  “That’s right,” said her husband merrily. “I’m quite a tease, Mrs. Emerson. Well, see you folks later.”

  The younger Mr. Albion, mute as usual, followed his parents out.

  After we had exchanged compliments and inquired after one another’s health, and Mohassib had ordered tea for us, he said, “Are they friends of yours, Sitt?”

  “Mere acquaintances.”

  “Good.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked curiously.

  “They are strange people. I am a good judge of strange people, Sitt Hakim, and I would not trust that happy little man. He wants too much for too little.”

  “What did he want?” Nefret inquired. “Part of the princesses’ treasure? Or all of it?”

  “Treasure?” Mohassib repeated, widening his eyes. No saint could have looked more innocent. “Ah – you are referring to the rumors about a rich find in the Gabbanat el-Qirud. The men of Luxor are great liars, Nur Misur. Perhaps there was no treasure.”

  “Come now, Mohammed,” I said. “You know there was such a find and I know the thieves sold it to you, and you know I cannot prove that, and I know that even if I could there is little likelihood of your being charged with a crime. Why not speak freely to me, your old friend? Vandergelt Effendi would pay well for such objects, if they are as described.”

  We settled down, with mutual e
njoyment, to the customary exchange of hints and innuendos, winks and nods and pursed lips and raised eyebrows. I rather prided myself on my ability to carry on this form of communication, which Emerson could not or would not do. Mohassib eventually remarked pensively that if he should hear of such objects he would be happy to do his friends a service.

  “Excellent,” I said, knowing that was as much as I could expect. Mohassib always played his little game of innocence and ignorance, but in this case the business had caused quite a stir, and I suspected he would not make any move to market the objects until things had died down.

  We parted in the friendliest manner. Eyes twinkling, Mohassib sent his respectful regards to Emerson, whose opinion of him he knew quite well. At the door, I stopped and turned, as if a new idea had struck me. In fact, the question I asked was the one I had had in mind all along.

  “Has Jamil been here?”

  Caught off-guard, believing the interview to be over, Mohassib burst into a fit of violent coughing. I knew the paroxysm was only a device to give him time to think, so I pressed on.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean. Jamil, Yusuf’s youngest son. Did he try to sell you artifacts from the princesses’ tomb?”

  Mohassib shook his head vigorously. “No,” he gasped. “No, Sitt Hakim. I thought he had left Luxor.”

  “I hope you are telling the truth, Mohassib. Two of the other men who robbed the tomb are dead, under suspicious circumstances, and Jamil holds a grudge against everyone involved in that business.”

  Mohassib abruptly stopped coughing. “Are you saying that Jamil killed them?”

  “I only repeat the latest gossip, old friend,” I replied. “Since you had nothing to do with the disposal of the artifacts, there is no reason for you to be alarmed, is there?”

  Mohassib grunted. He thought for a minute, and then he said, “Jamil brought me nothing from the tomb of the princesses. That is true, Sitt Hakim.”

  His lips closed so tightly they almost disappeared in the beard and mustache. Knowing that was all I was going to get out of the wily old fellow, I repeated my assurances of goodwill, and we left the house.