Chapter 3
THOUGH ONE COULD NOT TELL BY LOOKING AT her, though she seemed her usual controlled self, it took Daphne a good deal more time than it did Wadid to recover from Mr. Carsington’s demonstration of brute strength.
She had felt, for a moment, like a character in The Thousand and One Nights who’d inadvertently let a genie out of a bottle. A large, powerful, and uncontrollable genie.
She tried to concentrate on her few clues, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. It produced, too clearly, the look on Mr. Carsington’s face when she raised her veil.
She had no name for the look. He was a man far outside the narrow bounds of her experience. She could hardly name her feelings, either: a wild hammering within and a chaos of thoughts and no way to make sense of a single one. There was only a powerful awareness—of the world having turned wild, unpredictable, and unrecognizable—and the sense of something dangerous let loose.
This was irrational, she knew.
But she was too overset to think clearly: Miles gone, the fine papyrus stolen, the house abandoned, the doorkeeper drugged.
When her mind worked in the proper manner, Daphne did not believe in genii, good or bad.
She made herself examine matters logically.
Mr. Carsington was merely an English male of above average but by no means unusual height, she reminded herself. He appeared larger than life because (a) the average Turk or Egyptian was several inches shorter, and (b) he had the muscular physique more commonly associated with certain members of the laboring classes, such as black-smiths—and boxers, possibly, although she couldn’t be certain, never having seen a boxer in the flesh.
Furthermore, the demonstration of brute strength proved how well Mr. Carsington suited her purposes. With him about, no one would dare intimidate her or stand in her way or refuse to cooperate.
True, he was a blockhead, but that, too, was to her advantage. He could not confuse or cow her as her erudite husband had done so often and easily. Mr. Carsington would not assume, as Miles did, that she was too intellectual and unworldly to comprehend everyday life’s coarse realities.
Considered calmly and rationally, in short, Mr. Carsington was perfect.
Her mind once more in proper order, she focused on Wadid.
He was more than willing to talk now. The trouble was, he didn’t know anything.
He didn’t know which coffee shop boy had delivered the drugged tobacco. How could he? There were scores of such boys in Cairo, he said. They ran away. They died of plague. They found work elsewhere. Who could keep track of them? He had no idea where the tainted tobacco had come from—assuredly not from Wadid’s usual source, one of Cairo’s more respectable coffee shops.
As to who had invaded the house and driven the other servants away, Wadid was equally in the dark. He’d been in a beautiful dream, he said. People came and went. Dream people or real people, he could not say.
On learning that someone had stolen the master’s beautiful papyrus, he wept and blamed himself. He hoped the master would return soon and beat him, he said.
But please, he begged, would the good lady tell her giant not to tear him limb from limb? The lady was kind and merciful, everyone knew. Had she not brought Akmed back from the dead? The men carry him in, and all the breath is gone from his body. Then she gives him a magic drink, and behold, he breathes again.
Akmed had in fact been breathing, and the “magic drink” was tea from Daphne’s precious stores, the sovereign remedy for every ailment, physical, emotional, or moral. But having started talking, Wadid showed no signs of stopping. She let him carry on his monologue while she wondered what had become of her “giant.”
He’d been gone rather a while.
Gone back to the consulate, no doubt, she thought grimly. And who could blame him?
She had a man’s mind in a woman’s body. The feminine arts were a far greater mystery to her than Egyptian writing. She had at least a rational hope of solving the latter. But when it came to femininity, her case was hopeless. Virgil’s efforts to change her had only infuriated her—quite as though she were a man.
Had she learnt those mysterious arts, had she behaved more prettily with Mr. Salt, he might not have been so quick to dismiss her concerns and fob off on her his aristocratic lummox of an aide.
She had behaved even less prettily with Mr. Carsington. A proper woman would have exercised more tact. Even dumb beasts had feelings, and men could be sensitive about the oddest things.
She rose. She would have to find him. She would return to the consulate, if necessary, and apologize.
“We’ll speak more of this later, Wadid,” she said. “Go back to your place. Perhaps while you sit quietly, you’ll remember more.” She hurried across the room and out of the door through which Mr. Carsington had vanished.
“Mistress?” Leena called behind her.
Daphne turned her head to answer.
And collided with something big, hard, and warm. Very big. Very hard. Very warm. Physical sensation knocked out thought, and she tottered, unbalanced.
A large hand clamped on her upper arm and steadied her.
“What a dervish you are, always hurrying this way and that,” Mr. Carsington said. “Pray consider the heat and the possibility of a brain fever.” He released her arm.
The warmth lingered, and she still felt the impression of long, strong fingers on her skin.
She retreated a pace.
“I came looking for you,” she said, her voice strained, as though she’d labored up a pyramid to find him. “I thought you were…lost.”
“Oh, I never get lost,” he said. “Not for long, at any rate. I only went looking for coffee. Turkish coffee is a wondrous beverage, and I thought we all needed a stimulant.”
“Coffee,” she repeated stupidly.
“Yes. And see what I found.” He moved aside. Behind him the twelve-year-old Udail carried the coffee service. “Lucky thing I was in front, eh, Tom, else she might have bowled you over.”
“His name is Udail,” Daphne said.
“Tom,” said the boy, gazing worshipfully up at Mr. Carsington. “Esmi Tom.”
My name is Tom.
In mere minutes, the man had frightened one servant into submission and cajoled another into idolatry.
And he was tying her mind in knots.
Daphne did not believe in genii. At that moment, however, she had no doubt that her trip to the Citadel dungeon had released a dangerous force.
HER MOUTH, RUPERT noticed, was not only soft and full but mobile: forbiddingly grim at one moment and adorably bewildered in the next. He watched it change from bewildered to grim in the instant it took her to recover from their lovely collision.
He’d seen it coming. He’d also seen no reason to prevent it. Quite the contrary.
Her grim look did not trouble him in the least; neither did her telling him he was not to rechristen her servants.
“How would you like it,” she demanded, “if I were to rename you Omar or Muhammad?”
“A pet name, do you mean?” he said. “I shouldn’t object.”
After a visible struggle to rein in her temper she said, “What you do or do not object to is not the point. He is an Egyptian boy, not English.”
“Tom doesn’t mind,” Rupert said. “In any event, I couldn’t tell which part of the earful he gave me was his name.”
“He was probably trying to tell you what happened,” she said. “I have no idea how you occupied yourself on the voyage to Egypt or during your stay in Alexandria. It is clear, however, that you employed not a minute of the time learning the language.”
She turned sharply away and started back into the room she’d just exited: Cairo’s version of a salon or drawing room, with the usual unpronounceable name.
“I thought you were to do all the brain work, and I was in charge of the physical side,” he said. “Surely you weren’t expecting me to interrogate the lad? I had the devil’s own time getting him to understand I wanted coffee.”
They entered the large room. Wadid had left. Leena was there, though. After Tom set down the coffee service—on top of Mrs. Pembroke’s precious papers—Leena grabbed the boy by the shoulders, shook him, then hugged him, talking great guns all the while.
Once Tom had recovered from near suffocation against Leena’s ample bosom, he launched into a very long recital.
Several tiny cups of coffee later, Mrs. Pembroke gave Rupert the shorter English version. Apparently, persons calling themselves police had come, saying they must search the house. When Akmed heard their voices, he ran away.
When the lady came to this point of her narration, Tom attracted Rupert’s attention. Saying, “Akmed” and something else, the boy did a comical imitation of a man limping.
A green glare from Mrs. Pembroke brought the performance to a halt.
Because Akmed ran away, the widow continued, all the other servants did, too. Tom, who was cautiously sneaking back into the house when Rupert entered the cooking area, had ducked into the nearest hiding place.
Mrs. Pembroke returned her cup to the tray. “Since it’s obvious we’ll learn nothing more from the other servants, I see no reason to await their return,” she said. “The only logical course of action is to retrace my brother’s footsteps.”
“We ought to check the guardhouses first,” Rupert said, recalling Beechey’s advice.
“Miles is not in a guardhouse.” She rose abruptly from the divan, all impatience and rustling silk. “The men who came here were no more police than I am. And my brother is not in a brothel or an opium den, so you needn’t get your hopes up about visiting any of those establishments. We shall talk to those with whom Miles most recently associated. We shall start with his friend Lord Noxley.”
“Garnet,” Rupert said as she picked up her hat and veil.
She turned and looked at him, her expression wary. “I beg your pardon?”
“Garnet. If someone asked me what color your hair was, I’d say, ‘Garnet.’ ”
She clamped the hat onto her head. “Did you hear a single word I said?”
“My mind wandered,” he said. “You’re on the tallish side for a woman, I think?” Something over five and a half feet, he estimated.
“I do not see the relevance of my height or hair color,” she said.
“That’s because you’re not a man,” he said.
Very much not. The dress seemed designed to play down her assets rather than enhance them. She couldn’t disguise her walk, though. She walked like a queen or a goddess, chin high, back straight. But the arrogant sway of her hips bespoke a Cleopatra kind of queen, an Aphrodite kind of goddess. The walk was an invitation. The attire was a Keep Off sign. The combination was fascinating.
“To a man, you see,” he continued, “these facts are immensely important.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said. “A woman’s looks are all-important. Her mental capabilities don’t signify in the least.”
“That would depend,” he said, “on what she was thinking.”
DAPHNE WAS THINKING it was very hard to think with Mr. Carsington in the vicinity.
She was good at solving puzzles, usually. But the only idea she had about recent events was a ridiculous one, and no more ideas were forthcoming.
She was not easily distracted. One must possess tremendous powers of concentration, not to mention an obstinate and tenacious character, to contend with ancient Egyptian writing.
She might have easily ignored an earthquake or a barrage of artillery fire.
She could not ignore him.
She was aware of his abstracted expression while he calculated her height and decided what color her hair was.
Now, as she sent Udail out to order the donkeys, she was aware of Mr. Carsington’s attention drifting away from her person to the table containing her materials.
She recalled her agitated reaction when she first spied the disorder. What had she said? Had she given herself away? But no, she couldn’t have. The ruse was a habit by now, practically instinctive. It was Miles who had the more difficult task, pretending to be the brilliant scholar. Luckily, very few people in the world understood enough about decipherment to suspect him—and he took care not to meet those people face-to-face.
Mr. Carsington was frowning down at the copy of the Rosetta Stone. “That papyrus,” he said. “I collect it was something out of the ordinary.”
She, too, stared at the lithograph, wondering what he saw there. A fragment of hieroglyphic text. Below that another nearly complete section written in the script some scholars called demotic. Then the battered Greek text with its all-important final lines, announcing that all three texts were identical in content.
“Like the Rosetta Stone?” she said. “I wish it had contained some hints in Greek. But it was all in hieroglyphs….” She looked up at him. “Are you asking whether it was valuable?”
He nodded.
“I daresay it was,” she said slowly, the truth dawning as she spoke it.
She hadn’t thought of the papyrus in that way. She knew it had cost more than most, but then, it was a superior specimen. But that’s all it was to her. Perhaps Miles was right, to an extent: She was rather unworldly. It hadn’t occurred to her to lock it up, any more than it would occur to her to lock up a book.
“I suppose one could call it valuable,” she said. “It was expensive.” She related the merchant’s tale of the mysterious pharaoh and his presumably untouched tomb.
“I told Miles he encouraged such tall tales and probably set a bad precedent by paying so much,” she went on. “Yet it was remarkable. Written entirely in beautifully drawn hieroglyphs. Exquisite illustrations. The others I’ve seen are not works of art, and most were written in the script form. None was in such good condition. It isn’t hard to understand why Miles couldn’t resist it.”
Mr. Carsington’s dark gaze shifted from her study materials to her face. He wore a perplexed expression. “And it didn’t occur to you why robbers might want it?” he said. “A guide to buried treasure?”
“No, it didn’t,” she said. “I couldn’t imagine anyone could be so foolish as to believe that story.”
“Yet it might seem to others that your brother—a scholar—believed it.”
Miles certainly had seemed to believe it—perhaps because he was a little boy in some ways. And he had a romantic streak.
Her romantic streak had shriveled and died years ago. Her marriage had mummified it.
“No educated person could believe that Vanni Anaz or anyone else knew exactly what was written on that papyrus,” she said. “No one—I repeat—no one can read hieroglyphic writing. But the papyrus did contain symbols associated with royalty. Naturally Miles planned to look for those symbols in Thebes. A number of tombs have been discovered there. More will certainly be discovered. Whether any remain filled with treasure is impossible to know.”
“Someone believes it,” Mr. Carsington said. “Someone went to a deal of trouble to steal that papyrus.”
“But what good will it do them?” she said impatiently. “They can’t read it.”
“My eldest brother Benedict takes an interest in criminal proceedings,” Mr. Carsington said. “He says the average felon is a person of low cunning, not high intelligence.”
At that moment the absurd idea she’d kept pushing away stomped to the forefront of her brain.
Miles kidnapped. Papyrus stolen.
“They believe Miles can read it,” she said. “Good grief. They must be completely illiterate—or desperately gullible—or—”
“French,” said Mr. Carsington.
“French?” she said. She gazed at him in plain incomprehension.
“I hope they’re French,” he said. “My brother Alistair was at Waterloo.”
“Killed?” she said.
“No, though they did their best.” He clenched his hands. “He’ll be lame for the rest of his life. I’ve been waiting for a chance to repay the favor.”
NOT VERY FAR away, in another corner of Cairo, an elegant middle-aged man stood by one of the windows overlooking his house’s courtyard. He did not gaze out of the latticed window but down, reverently, at the object in his hands.
Jean-Claude Duval had come to Egypt with Napoleon’s army in 1798. Along with the soldiers had come another army—of scientists, scholars, and artists. These were the people responsible for the monumental Description de l’Egypte. To Monsieur Duval, this army of savants was proof of French superiority: unlike the barbaric British, his countrymen sought intellectual enlightenment as well as military conquest.
He had been in Egypt when his compatriots found the Rosetta Stone and, being intellectually superior, instantly understood its value. He was here in 1801 when the English defeated the French at Alexandria and took the stone away, claiming it was “honorably acquired by fortune of war.”
He was still here, and he still hated the English for a long list of reasons—including, most recently, their employing the infuriatingly lucky Giovanni Belzoni—but their “stealing” the Rosetta Stone constituted Reasons Number One through Five.
Duval had spent twenty years working to even the score.
However, though he had sent to France a great number of fine Egyptian artifacts, he had found nothing approaching the Rosetta Stone’s significance.
Until now.
Very cautiously he unrolled the papyrus. Not all the way. Only enough to reassure himself that this was the one. His men had blundered enough already. But it was the one—his chief agent Faruq was no fool—and M. Duval closed the document up again, with the same gentleness, and no small degree of frustration.
The first time he’d seen it, he’d understood it was above the common run of papyri. Even so, he had not believed the story the merchant Vanni Anaz told to justify the insane price he asked. Only the most ignorant persons would believe it. Everyone else knew that no one could read hieroglyphs or any other form of ancient Egyptian writing; therefore no one could tell what this papyrus said.
Still, it was a rare specimen, and Duval had determined to get it.
But before he could arrange to have it stolen, Miles Archdale, one of the world’s foremost language scholars, had gone to Anaz’s shop, listened soberly to the tale of long-hidden treasure and forgotten pharaoh, and paid the horrendous price. Without a murmur.
One need not be a linguistic genius to comprehend why: Archdale had found the key to deciphering hieroglyphs. He’d kept it a secret because it would lead to great discoveries, and he wanted all the honor and glory.
He’d seen that this papyrus would lead to the greatest discovery of all, far surpassing anything Belzoni had done and at least equaling the Rosetta Stone in importance: an untouched royal tomb, filled with treasure.
Duval unrolled the foolscap copy of the papyrus. Its margins held numerous notes in English, Greek, and Latin, along with a number of odd symbols and signs, all of it incomprehensible.
“But he will explain it to us,” Duval murmured. “Every word of the papyrus. The meaning of every sign.”
And once Archdale had given up all his secrets, he would die, and no one would ever find his body. The desert kept secrets even better than he. Jackals, vultures, sun, and sand combined to make corpses vanish with amazing speed.
In the meantime, however, Duval must deal with the infuriating complication. “These must leave Cairo at once,” he said. “But I must stay, for a time at least.”
The man who’d brought the documents stepped out of the shadows. Though he called himself Faruq, he was Polish. He was educated, one of the more intelligent of the many mercenaries and criminals who found in Egypt a profitable market for their talents.
Duval wished he’d sent Faruq after Archdale. But how could he have guessed he’d need his top agent to carry out a simple kidnapping?
The men sent after Archdale failed to take him in Giza. He was too well-guarded. They could not get to him until he crossed the river again and dispersed his escort in Old Cairo. When the men finally did capture him, they beat his servant and left him for dead, without making sure. The servant had somehow crawled back to the sister, who promptly reported the incident to the consulate. By tomorrow, everyone in Cairo would know.
The local authorities did not worry Duval. They were slow, incompetent, and corrupt.
The one who worried him was the Englishman known as the Golden Devil.
He had become Duval’s nemesis in the last year. In addition to being cunning, ruthless, and as hungry for glory for England as Duval was for France, the Golden Devil was slightly insane.
Duval hated crazy people. They were too unpredictable.
“The sister will care only to find her brother,” Duval said. “She will be easy to divert. The Golden Devil is the graver problem. You must go ahead, to join the others at Minya as we planned. You must take the papyrus. Whatever else happens, it must not fall into his hands.”
Though he spoke coolly, Duval was close to weeping with vexation. Everyone dreamt of finding an intact royal tomb. The key was in his hands, in this papyrus. The man who’d finally unlocked the secrets of hieroglyphic writing was Duval’s captive, and barely a day’s journey away.
But Duval must remain in Cairo to divert suspicion. If he left, his most feared and hated rival would instantly know who was behind the kidnapping and theft. If Duval stayed, he would become merely one of several possible suspects. If he arranged matters well, suspicion would soon shift elsewhere.
And so M. Duval put the two documents into a battered old dispatch bag that wouldn’t tempt thieves, gave the bag to Faruq, and told him where and when they would next meet.
RUPERT HAD NOT failed to notice that his comments about the French distracted Mrs. Pembroke from asking the logical question: What will they do to my brother when they find out he can’t read the papyrus?
It was a question Rupert had rather not answer. He did not count Archdale’s life worth a groat once the villains discovered their error. He doubted the man’s life would be worth much even if he could read the papyrus.
Still, there was a chance. In Archdale’s place, Rupert would pretend and prevaricate, putting off the moment of truth as long as possible. Meanwhile, he’d be looking for a way to escape.
If the villains did discover the truth sooner than was convenient, one might be able to persuade them to demand a ransom. That way at least, he would tell them, they needn’t come away empty-handed.
Rupert kept these thoughts to himself and concentrated on keeping Mrs. Pembroke’s mind from dwelling unhappily on her brother.
Fortunately, Rupert Carsington had a natural talent for driving others distracted.
Because she’d found his renaming the boy Tom so provoking, the first thing Rupert did when they’d mounted their donkeys was christen his Cleopatra.
“That is not the creature’s name,” said Mrs. Pembroke. She told him the Arabic name.
“I can’t pronounce it,” Rupert said.
“You don’t even try,” she said.
“I don’t understand why these people don’t speak English,” he said. “It’s so much simpler.”
He could not see her face—she’d put on the evil veil—but he heard her huff of exasperation.
They set out at a surprisingly fast clip, considering how narrow, congested, and busy the streets were. He thought it was wonderful: the donkeys trotting steadily on their way while carts, horses, and camels came straight at them; the drivers running alongside and ahead, calling out incomprehensibly and waving sticks, trying to clear a path while everyone appeared to ignore them.
He praised the donkeys to their drivers, congratulated the beasts on particularly narrow escapes, and told the men anecdotes about London hackneys.
Mrs. Pembroke bore it for as long as she could, which was not very long, before she exploded, “They have no idea what you’re saying!”
“Well, they’ll never learn, will they, if one doesn’t make an effort,” he said.
If the streets hadn’t been so noisy, he was sure he’d have heard her teeth grinding.
She said nothing more, but Rupert was confident she was too preoccupied with his breathtaking stupidity to fret overmuch about her brother.
Still, Rupert was not a man to leave anything to chance.
When they reached their destination, he was off his mount even before it had come to a complete halt, and instantly at Mrs. Pembroke’s side.
He reached up and grasped the lady firmly at the waist.
“That is not nec—” She broke off as he lifted her up from the elaborate saddle. Instinctively she grasped his shoulders. Smiling into her veiled countenance, Rupert held her in the air at eye level for a moment. Then slowly, slowly, he lowered her to the ground.
She did not immediately let go of his arms.
He did not immediately let go of her waist.
She remained utterly still, looking up at him.
He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear the hurried in and out of her breath.
Then she let go and pushed away from him, and turned away in that quick, angry flurry he found so delicious.
“You are absurd,” she said. “There is no need to show off your strength.”
“That hardly wanted strength,” he said. “You weigh far less than I’d have thought. It’s the layers and layers of mourning that fooled me.” Not completely, though. There was the walk.
“I can only hope that you will be as diligent about finding my brother as you are about ascertaining the dimensions of my person,” she said crossly.
By this time the gatekeeper had appeared. He looked to Rupert, but Mrs. Pembroke got in the way and spoke in impatient Arabic.
The gate opened, and they entered the courtyard. Another servant appeared and led them into and through the house.
As they navigated the labyrinth common to Cairo’s better houses, Mrs. Pembroke dropped Rupert a few hints.
“Do keep your mind on why we are here,” she said in an undertone. “We can’t afford to waste time. Please resist the temptation to give Lord Noxley’s servants nicknames. I doubt he will appreciate it, and I had rather not spend valuable minutes smoothing matters over. And please try not to wander from the subject. Or tell anecdotes. You are not here to entertain anybody. You are here to obtain information. Is that clear?”
“You’re so forgetful,” he said. “Don’t you remember telling me that you’re the brain and I’m the brawn? Naturally I expect you to do all the talking. And naturally I shall knock heads and toss people out of windows as required. Or did I misunderstand? Did you want me to think, too?”