A Grave Celebration

by Christine Trent

  Yamlik laughed heartily at what was obviously genuine modesty on Lepsius’s part. Violet suspected Lepsius had done much in the field of Egyptology, even if Mariette was the acknowledged master.

  “Would you like to try the chibouque?” Lepsius politely offered the pipe to Violet, but she declined. She had had enough from last night’s absinthe and two days’ worth of murders, and had no stomach for anything else new. He passed it on to Sam, who smoked appreciatively from it.

  “How have you enjoyed your experience in Egypt thus far?” Lepsius inquired. “Beyond what the khedive has provided, which is to make you think you never stepped foot off Europe’s shores.”

  Unwilling to speak of the three deaths, Violet found herself at a loss as to what to say about Egypt. Sam deftly stepped in and told the story of their time in the Arab shopping stalls and of the wonderful treasures they had seen, then shared the incident of the young boy stealing Violet’s fan, giving a comical description of their futile and breathless chase after the urchin.

  With the group in high spirits and the pipe passing freely among the men, Lepsius said, “Your tale reminds me of the legend that our friend Yamlik here told me yesterday. Highness, tell again the story of the treasure thief.”

  But Yamlik begged off, encouraging Lepsius to retell the tale. As Lepsius did so, Yamlik chattered at his servants, who disappeared and returned with plates of pastries stuffed with custard and covered in a sweet syrup.

  Leaning back and closing her eyes to more fully appreciate both the treats and the story, Violet became entranced by Lepsius’s words.

  “Long ago,” the Egyptologist began, his accented voice low and warm, “Rameses III became pharaoh. Egypt grew prosperous under his reign, and Rameses began to gather his treasures together in the form of gold, silver, and priceless gems. As his hoard grew, Rameses became very anxious about someone stealing his treasure.”

  “When I build up my treasure one day, I’ll protect it with my Schofield revolver,” Purdy interrupted.

  Sam laughed. “Any plug-ugly with a slingshot and a pebble could knock you from your guard post.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Purdy retorted good-naturedly.

  Lepsius continued skillfully, evoking images of Egypt several millennia ago. “So Rameses asked his master builder, Horemheb, to build him a mighty treasure-house made of stone, one so thick and strong that no man could ever force his way into it. Horemheb did zis, erecting a pyramid over the new building, with a great treasure chamber at the center of the building. Pharaoh’s valuables could only be accessed through three sets of doors: one of stone, one of iron, and one of bronze. The doors were locked and secured with Pharaoh’s great seal, and Rameses rewarded Horemheb richly for his work, which set Pharaoh’s mind at ease.”

  “I wish I had pen and paper,” Gautier said. “For I sense a great tragedy coming which could be reproduced onstage.” He said no more, for the pipe passed back to him.

  “But Horemheb had played his master false, having constructed a secret passage inside the thick wall of the treasure-house, accessible only to the one who knew where the secret spring was that would open the entrance to the passage.”

  Gautier slid the pipe to Purdy. “Ah, act two, scene four. Pharaoh catches servant stealing treasure and has him sealed away alive inside the pyramid, where only the intervention of Horus can save him,” the playwright guessed.

  Lepsius shook his head and pushed his glasses farther up onto his nose. “Nothing so simple. Horemheb stole unnoticeable little bits and pieces of the treasure for several years, but before he died of an illness, he told his two sons about the secret entrance to the treasure room. Horemheb’s sons were stupid and greedy, and began to plunder the valuables to the point that Pharaoh soon noticed his treasure’s depletion.”

  “The sons must be in your employ, Harper, since they are so brainless,” Purdy said, needling Sam.

  “Non, the sons are the great comic relief to my play,” Gautier said.

  “Gentlemen, please,” Violet admonished as she picked up another square of pastry. “Let us have the rest of the story.”

  Lepsius picked up the thread of his broken narrative. “Since the seals were never broken and the doors never opened, Rameses was at a loss to figure out how the treasure was being stolen. He had traps and snares set inside the treasure-house, and sure enough, one night the brothers went in and one of them was caught inside a trap from which there was no escape.

  “He begged the second brother to kill him, strike off his head to make him unidentifiable, and sneak back out of the treasure-house with the head. ‘For,’ the first brother said. ‘I cannot get out of zis snare, and when Pharaoh’s men find me in the morning, I shall be tortured and killed anyway, and then they will come for you and possibly our mother.’

  “The second brother did as requested, decapitating his brother and fleeing from the treasure-house. The next morning, Pharaoh’s men found a headless man caught in their trap, more treasure gone, and still none of the seals into the treasure-house had been broken. Outraged at the cleverness of the thief, Rameses had the first brother’s body hung from the walls of the palace, instructing his guards to keep watch for anyone who might come along to claim the body or to weep over it.

  “But determined to retrieve his brother’s body and reunite it with the head so that it could be properly buried—lest it wander the world as a ghost lost upon the earth—the second brother was more clever still.”

  Lepsius paused for dramatic effect. He had no need to do so, for the group around him was enraptured. “He pretended to be a wine merchant, carrying loads of wine skins on a donkey, and managed to position himself to pass by the soldiers’ encampment near the palace wall, causing his donkey to bump up against one of theirs. In the distraction of braying and jostling, the brother secretly slashed holes in several of the wine skins he carried, sending the precious fluid splashing out, and set up a loud wailing, lamenting the fact that his cargo of excellent wine was being lost. The soldiers greedily rushed over, saying they would help the false merchant, and instead put their mouths to the wine skins and drank themselves insensible. Once they were snoring on the ground with their mouths open, the brother cut down his brother’s body, put it over the back of his donkey, and left with it.

  “The next morning, Rameses was furious, and after punishing the incompetent soldiers, Pharaoh set his own trap, by setting up one of his daughters near the city gate, offering her own hand to the man who could tell her the cleverest tale of the most wicked deed he had ever committed in his life.”

  The pipe passed back to Lepsius once more, and he drew deeply from it, then coughed. “Needs more,” he said, and a servant removed the pipe from his hands to tamp out the ashes and refill it with fresh leaves. Once Lepsius had a newly lit pipe in his hands, he resumed the story.

  “The treasure thief knew at once who the maiden was and her purpose in asking the question. Determined to outwit Pharaoh once more, he went to visit the princess at twilight. Under his robes he carried the arm of a man who had just been executed for treason. ‘Fair princess, I would have you as my wife, and will therefore tell you the story of the most wicked act I have ever committed.’ As the sun went down behind the hills that hid the Valley of the Kings, the brother told all, concluding, ‘. . . and so, the wickedest thing I ever did was to cut off my brother’s head when he was caught in Pharaoh’s trap in the treasure-house, then hid it, and later stole his body out from beneath the noses of Pharaoh’s guard.’

  “Pharaoh’s daughter grabbed the thief by the arm and called out to the guards that she had finally captured her father’s prey. But she discovered that all she had in her hand was the arm of the executed criminal, and the thief had escaped into the darkness; thus had Pharaoh been tricked a final time.

  “When Pharaoh Rameses heard about what happened, he said, ‘Zis man is too wily to be punished! Go, and tell the thief that I will pardon him and give him my daughter in marriage, as promised. If he serves me w
ell and faithfully, I will reward him in an even greater manner.’ So in the end, the treasure thief married the royal princess, became the loyal servant of Rameses, and never had need to enter the treasure-house again.”

  As if to raise the curtain on the story, the fog began dissipating and the sun’s rays tentatively peered out from behind the clouds. Inside the tent, there was silence except for the crackling of tobacco as the pipe was passed among the men.

  “Is this story true?” Violet asked.

  The chieftain spread his hands. “How could it not be true?” he said.

  Violet was reminded of Auguste Mariette, who felt that the khedive was the equivalent of a treasure thief of Egypt’s ancient artifacts. Of course, in the khedive’s version of the story, Mariette would be Rameses, who was gathering all of the treasure into a secure location.

  There was no more time to contemplate the legend, for horns began to blow, summoning guests to the picnic now commencing on the grounds near de Lesseps’s villa. There were the usual decorations—streamers, flags, garlands, and arches—and somehow statues of both de Lesseps and Pasha had been transported in to stand proudly next to each other in the middle of it all. Small stages set up around the enormous picnicking area suggested there were to be multiple entertainments, but there were no royal-sized pavilions here.

  Violet and Sam had hardly found spots at one of the hundreds of tables scattered around in ordered chaos. The tables, with their fluttering cloths and white wood chairs—apparently there was to be no reuse of last night’s velvet stuffed seats—seated anywhere from four to twelve people. This time it appeared there was to be no special section for the sovereigns: they mingled with all levels of the delegation. Sam and Violet found themselves with Prince Henry and Princess Sophie of Holland, whom she had just met the previous day onstage.

  There was little time to get to know either of Their Majesties, however, for Julie Lesage came to their table, insistent that she speak to Violet, immédiatement!

  Chapter 19

  Leaving poor Sam to make entertaining talk with the royal personages, Violet followed Eugénie’s maid as she wove her way through the haphazardly placed picnic tables and beyond the earshot of anyone attending the event.

  “Please, Madame Harper, a little farther,” Julie urged as Violet began to hesitate. Why did they need to move so far away from the festivities for Julie to make a comment to Violet?

  Julie slowed down, and Violet realized they were now on the outskirts of some tiny local village. The undertaker’s discomfort with being this distance away from Sam and the others was making her stomach do somersaults. She was about to insist that they turn back when Julie stopped.

  “I believe this is private enough for us,” Eugénie’s maid said, at last turning to face Violet.

  They were in the shadow of a small tiled building, and Violet instantly recognized it for what it was, another mausoleum. “You wish to speak to me here, mademoiselle?” she said.

  “Yes, this is comfortable enough, isn’t it? This little house gives us shade.”

  Violet bit her lip against revealing the truth about the “little house.” “As you wish,” she replied.

  “Madame Harper, I did not see you again after Monsieur Dorn’s unfortunate demise.” Julie readjusted her hat as she said this, tucking up loose strands of hair.

  “No, I had responsibilities for caring for his body, and then I returned to my tent for the evening.” Why was the girl so interested in Violet’s whereabouts?

  “Of course, that makes sense, yes.” Julie stood there, tapping her hands together as if contemplating what to say next.

  “Mademoiselle, you could have asked me this question at my table. Is there something else you wish to know?” If Violet hadn’t known better, she would have said that Julie Lesage was downright nervous.

  Julie opened and closed her mouth several times, then finally blurted, “I believe I am in danger.”

  Of the many things she had thought the girl might confide, Violet certainly hadn’t expected that.

  “In danger? How could this possibly be?”

  “Monsieur Dorn, he was a servant of His Highness Franz-Josef. Captain Naser, he was a servant of the khe—”

  “How do you know about the ship’s captain and what his name was?” Violet demanded.

  Julie looked at Violet as if she were a simpleton. “Madame, I float aboard L’Aigle, and Her Highness and Monsieur de Lesseps speak freely in front of me, since I am, after all, a lady’s maid with no ears and no mind, non? There is little that happens that I do not know about.”

  Violet wondered exactly how much Julie knew about her mistress, but said nothing, waiting to see what more the maid had to say.

  “There was also the death at the lumberyard, the owner’s son. He, too, was like a servant to the khedive.” Julie looked at Violet expectantly. What did she want Violet to say?

  “I suppose we might look at it that way, but—”

  “Exactement!” Julie cried, reaching out a hand to grab Violet’s, as though they had come to an understanding together. “I have given this great consideration, and I believe that the servants of the sovereigns in attendance are dying.” Julie dropped her voice into a theatrical whisper that would have made Gautier proud. “That they are being murdered, Madame Harper.”

  Violet froze. She and Julie shared a similar conclusion, although it had not occurred to Violet that all of those killed could be classified as servants. Was that the commonality across them all?

  “We do not know that they were murdered,” she began, in order to calm the girl. “That is merely speculation. Herr Dorn may have overimbibed, and the ship’s captain, he was known to—”

  “You do not believe that any more than I do,” Julie stated flatly.

  Violet was silent, unable to argue with Eugénie’s maid.

  “You see then that I am in danger?” Julie said, squeezing Violet’s hand.

  “I’m afraid I do not,” Violet said to comfort her. “The deceased were all men who had responsibilities away from their masters during the festivities, whereas you—” A thought was occurring to Violet, but she had no time to contemplate it because Julie was determined to be hysterical in her theory.

  “How can you not understand? I, too, am the servant of a great and powerful sovereign! In fact, I travel with both de Lesseps and the empress, making me doubly in peril. Mon Dieu, I shall lose my mind if the murderer is not caught soon. That is, if I am not morte before then. Madame Harper, you must help me.”

  Violet felt helpless as she removed her hand from Julie’s firm clutch. “Mademoiselle, first, we must avoid being overly distraught and think this through. If it comforts you, remember that—if your theory is true, that these servants have been murdered—it has only happened when they have been far away from their masters. You are almost always with the empress and her entourage, so there is little danger to you.”

  Julie frowned, clearly having not considered this. “So you are saying that as long as I stay close to my mistress, I will be safe?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  Julie tapped her hands together again. “There is more. I believe there is something—how do you English say it?—fishy with Isabelle Dumont.”

  “The future Madame de Lesseps’s maid? What do you mean?” Once again, Violet’s stomach turned somersaults, reflecting on the strange actions she had witnessed herself.

  “She is not what she seems to be, Madame Harper, of this I am certain. She has not the skill to be a lady’s maid. Mademoiselle de Bragard’s hair is disastrous, and her dresses are never adjusted properly.”

  “She may simply not have your own excellent skill, Julie,” Violet said soothingly.

  The maid shook her head. “No, it is more than that. She is incompetent, and it makes no sense that the future wife of Ferdinand de Lesseps should have her. Any femme de chambre would be happy to have such an exalted position. It is not as exalted as mine, you understand, but it is highly respectable no
netheless. Why does she choose a girl who doesn’t know the difference between eau de cologne and perfume? Non.” Julie shook her head again. “There is something very wrong with Isabelle Dumont.”

  Of what, exactly, was Julie accusing Isabelle? Was she merely jealous of her fellow maid, who seemed to have more freedom than she did? Was there a secret rivalry between the two that Julie was not revealing?

  With assurances that she would contemplate all that Julie had told her, Violet was finally able to lead the woman back to the picnic area, and Julie went on to reunite with her mistress. Violet returned to her own table, where she was gratified to see that Sam had the Dutch royalty doubled over in hearty laughter, since it gave her an opportunity to be alone with her own thoughts. Those thoughts were cascading in a terrible direction. Was it really possible that servants were being targeted for some particular reason? Perhaps their work behind the scenes on behalf of their rulers caused them to witness deeds that were better left unseen. But what could those doings possibly be?

  Moreover, if Julie’s theory were true, it was quite likely that another servant would be attacked. Worse yet, it was completely impossible to know who it would be or how soon it would happen.

  

  The picnic featured staggering entertainments, leaving Violet to wonder why she continued to be amazed. Today there was an extraordinary demonstration of Bedouin horsemen. They were clad in robes and complicated head scarves, galloping to and fro on their horses bedecked in fringed cloths, shouting and firing off their muskets, to the great amusement of the guests. This was followed by another demonstration by Thaddeus Mott’s soldiers, who fired their rifles in precision as their horses stepped in time to a drummed tattoo. It was a different sort of showmanship altogether, one that sent whispers rippling through the crowd about American military expertise.

  Naturally, the smaller stages were occupied at various times by desert orchestras playing raucous music. High-pitched singers and other performers offered every last drop of their energies to please the crowds, and they were rewarded with cheers, clapping, and even the occasional tossing of coins.