The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [111]
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Nefret demanded.
“No.” Ramses kept glancing uneasily around. “The writing was atrocious, and there are two mosques with similar names. I’d have had another look if the damned cat hadn’t ripped the paper to shreds.”
“She’s not coming,” Emerson said. “Or she never meant to come. Or—”
“Or Sir Edward was correct,” I said, glancing at that gentleman, who did not reply. Like Ramses, he was watching the passersby. “This was a trap that failed. They did not dare attack all of us.”
At Nefret’s urging we stopped by the other mosque—that of Sheikh el Graib—on our way back to the quay. It was in a more populous section, closer to the Luxor Temple. The street was teeming with the usual morning traffic by that time, but the mosque itself was quiet, morning prayers being over. Nefret had not given up hope of a message, at least; she walked slowly along the facade of the building, looking from side to side; but it was Ramses, close on her heels, who spotted the small object lying in the dust.
It was a thin gold disk, pierced by a small hole—the sort of ornament that hangs from the earrings and headcloths of Egyptian women.
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Ten
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What was the import of that little golden disk? Most probably nothing. Such ornaments were common, and even if it had belonged to the woman who had written us, it might have fallen unnoticed from a piece of jewelry. Nefret insisted it had been left deliberately, as a sign that the girl had kept the appointment but had been unable to remain. I considered this unlikely. The woman must have known such a token would not have been left lying in the dust for long. To an indigent peasant the bit of gold represented food for days.
In my case at least relief won out over disappointment, and I fancy most of the others felt the same. If what we hoped had not occurred, at least that which we feared had not happened either. Studying Nefret’s crestfallen face, observing the determined set of her jaw, I decided I had better have another little chat with her. No one admired her courage and compassion more than I, but it would be madness for her to venture again into the house of ill fame.
On our way back to the riverbank we passed near the telegraph office, but I did not suggest we stop. We could not expect a message from Walter so soon, and Emerson would have objected to any further delay. He had already lost several hours on what he was pleased to call a wild goose chase, and he grudged every minute away from his work.
It had proved to be more onerous than even he had expected. The debris that filled the first chamber contained hundreds of bits and pieces: fragments of pottery and alabaster jars, beads of all varieties, scraps of wood and scraps of people—mummified people, that is. By Emerson’s meticulous standards every scrap had to be preserved and recorded. Dedicated scholar that he is, he became quite interested in the proceedings and (to my relief) did not even send anyone down the path to spy on poor Ned Ayrton.
Early in the afternoon I suggested to Emerson that we return to the house. “We ought to have had a message from Walter by now. I asked him to telegraph at the earliest possible moment.”
Emerson looked blank. So obsessed was he by archaeological matters that it took him a moment to understand my reference. “I don’t know why you are making such a fuss, Peabody. Either Walter has sent a telegram or he has not. What do you expect me to do about it?”
“Send one of the men to the telegraph office. You know how dilatory the clerks are, messages sometimes lie on the desk for days.”
“Oh, bah,” said Emerson. “I cannot spare another man, Peabody. I am short-handed as it is with Selim and Daoud gone.”
So I sent Abdullah. It was a very warm day, and I wanted to get him out of the infernal heat and dust of the tomb. After I had given him my instructions and told him to