Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [62]
Since Daoud was putty in Nefret’s hands and Kadija was one of her greatest friends and admirers, I did not doubt they would back her up. I interviewed the girl myself. Nisrin had, for some reason, always been rather shy of me, but I managed to overcome her diffidence and concluded that she would do.
What with one thing and another . . . Suffice it to say that I did miss the ominous signs, so that the disaster came upon me with the violence of a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky.
Later, I realized that Emerson had been behaving oddly for several days. I attributed his fits of preoccupation to concern about his confounded stratigraphy, which was proving to be more complicated than he had expected. His unusual interest in the post could have been explained by his concern for his half-brother; there had been as yet no reply to our telegrams. Selim, who, as I later discovered, had been in on the plot all along, was wise enough to keep out of my way. Not until I went looking for him one afternoon did I realize I had not set eyes on him all day. I went immediately to Emerson.
“Where is Selim? I want to ask him about—”
“Yes, yes,” said Emerson, in a strange, high-pitched voice. “I know where he is.”
“Emerson, what is the matter with you?”
Emerson’s bronzed countenance widened into a broad, terrifying grin. “I have a surprise for you, Peabody.”
“Tell me,” I implored in a voice that resisted my attempts to keep it steady. “Do not leave me in suspense. What—”
“No, no, I will show you. I will show everyone!” He took out his watch, glanced at it, and then raised his voice to the shout that could be heard throughout the West Bank. “We are closing down for the day! Everybody come with me!”
And not another word would he say. It was early afternoon; the cessation of work at such an hour was unheard of. Bewildered, and, in my case, exceedingly apprehensive, we mounted our steeds and set out for the house. I asked Ramses, I asked Nefret, I asked Lia; one and all claimed to be as ignorant as I.
Emerson, who had outstripped the rest of us, was on the veranda, pacing up and down. “Perfect timing,” he announced. “Here they come.”
Looking out, I beheld an extraordinary caravan heading toward the house. A string of carts drawn by donkeys and mules, two camels carrying heavy loads, and several dozen men, chanting and cavorting, were led by Selim, mounted on horseback.
The carts drew up in front of the house. They contained several huge packing cases. The men set about unloading them and the donkeys. Emerson rushed out. “Is it all here, Selim?”
“We will soon see, Emerson.” Selim brandished a crowbar. Emerson snatched it from him and began prying at the largest of the wooden cases.
The hideous truth began to dawn. “Oh, good Gad,” I said in a hollow voice. “It cannot be.”
Under Emerson’s vigorous assault the top of the case lifted and the sides fell, disclosing a metal framework. At first glance it bore little resemblance to the object I had expected and feared to see, for many of the parts were missing. I knew what they were, and where they were—in the other packing cases, which the men, under Selim’s direction, were prying apart. One by one they appeared—the metallic shapes of the bonnet and fenders, four large wheels, and a number of other objects I could not identify.
We had owned several motorcars. My primary objection to the cursed things was that Emerson insisted on driving them himself. When we were at our English home, in Kent, the local population soon learned to clear off the roads when Emerson was on them; in the crowded streets of Cairo, motoring with Emerson took a good deal of getting used to. They were fairly common in the city by now, and during the war the military had built roads in other areas, but when we moved to Luxor for an indefinite stay I had managed to persuade my husband to sell the vehicle, pointing out that its utility in the Luxor area was limited.
Emerson had quite an audience by then—ourselves, including Walter, our workmen, the porters,