The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [18]
Walter frowned at the paper. “I have seen a lithograph of a piece of jewelry resembling this, Radcliffe.”
“In Lepsius’s Denkmãler,” Emerson replied. “Or perhaps the official guide to the Berlin Museum, 1894 edition. An armlet of the same type, with similar decoration, was found by Ferlini at Meroë. I saw the resemblance at once, and my first reaction was that Forth’s armlet must also have come from Meroë. The natives have been plundering the pyramids ever since Ferlini’s time, hoping to find another treasure trove. Yet the cursed thing was in virtually pristine condition—a few scratches here and there, a few dents—and the enamel was so fresh it might have been newly made. It had to be a modern forgery—but what forger would use gold of such purity it could be bent with one’s fingers?
“I asked Forth where he had got it, and he proceeded to tell me a preposterous story about being offered the piece by a ragged native who offered to lead him to the source of such treasures. A source far in the western deserts, in a secret oasis, where there were huge buildings like the temples of Luxor and a strange race of magicians who wore golden ornaments and performed blood sacrifices to demonic gods.…” Emerson shook his head. “You can imagine how I jeered at this absurd story, all the more so when he told me that the unfortunate native had suffered from a fever to which he succumbed a few days later.
“My arguments had no effect on Forth; he was drinking quite heavily, and when I finally gave up my attempt to dissuade him from his lunatic plan I could see he was in no condition to be left alone. Late at night, in that district, he would have been robbed and beaten. So I offered to escort him to his hotel. He agreed, saying he was anxious to introduce me to his wife.
“She had waited up for him, but she had not anticipated he would bring a stranger with him; she was wrapped in some sort of fluffy white stuff, all trembling with lace and ruffles; part of her bridal getup, I suppose. An exquisite creature, looking no more than eighteen; great misty blue eyes, hair like a fall of spun gold, skin white as ivory. And cold. An ice maiden, with no more human warmth than a statue. They made a bizarre contrast, Forth with his ruddy beaming face and mane of black hair, his wife all white and silvery pale— Beauty and the Beast personified. I thought of that flowery-white skin of hers baked and scourged by blowing sand, of her gleaming hair dried by the sun—and by heaven, Peabody, I felt only the regret one might feel at seeing a work of art disfigured—no human pity at all. She would have received none; she would have felt none. No, the pity I felt was for Willie Forth. The idea of taking a frozen statue like that into one’s arms, into one’s… Er, hmmm. You understand me, Peabody.”
I felt myself blushing. “Yes, Emerson, I do. Yet one can’t help but feel for her. She can have had no idea of what she was about to experience.”
“I tried to tell her. Forth had collapsed onto the bed and lay snoring, with both hands clenched over the box that contained the armlet. I spoke to her like a brother, Peabody; I told her she was mad to go, that he was madder to let her. I might have been speaking to a chryselephantine statue. At last she intimated that my presence displeased her, so I left, and I am sorry to say I slammed the door behind me. That was the last I saw of either of them.”
“But the map, Emerson,” I said. “When did you—”
“Oh.” Emerson coughed. “That. Well, curse it, Peabody, I’d had a few friendly drinks myself, and I’d been reading some of the medieval Arabic writers…”
“The Book of Hidden Pearls?”
Emerson grinned sheepishly. “Confound you, Peabody, you’re always a step or two ahead of me. It’s that rampageous imagination of yours. But