Part 34 (1/2)
”Then there's nothing we can do but wait,” Nefret muttered.
”That's how I see it. I may as well go back to work for a few hours. Let me know if they turn up.”
Nisrin put a cautious head out the door. Emerson, who hadn't noticed her before, gave her an affable smile. Emboldened, she ventured out. ”Nur Misur, there is a sick one who has come back. And this message.”
”From Ramses?” Emerson asked expectantly.
”No.” The curving, ornate handwriting was unfamiliar. Nefret ripped the envelope open. ”It's from Dr. Khattab-Mrs. Fitzroyce's physician. Justin is ill. He asks if I will have a look at the boy.”
”I will go with you.”
”That's silly,” Nefret said impatiently. ”What possible harm could come to me in broad daylight, with hundreds of people around? I'll deal with my patient-it's probably that old hypochondriac Abdulhamid wanting more sugar water-and be back in a few hours.”
By the time she set out for Luxor she was in a calmer frame of mind. Ramses couldn't be in serious trouble; she would know, as she had always known, if danger threatened him. She would have a few words to say to him when he got back, though, on the subject of promises broken and trust betrayed; but in a way she didn't blame him. His mother was an elemental force, as hard to resist as a sandstorm.
As Nefret approached the Isis she saw signs of unusual activity and deduced that the dahabeeyah was preparing to get underway. The doctor was waiting for her at the head of the gangplank, his hat in his hand. His waistcoat was particularly resplendent, glittering with gold threads. ”My dear lady, how good of you to come.” He grasped her hand and would have kissed it had she not pulled it away.
”What's wrong with him?” she asked.
”A fever.” The broad smile with which he had greeted her was replaced by a worried frown. ”I have tried without result to bring it down. Our departure is imminent, as you have no doubt observed, but it will take several days to reach Cairo, and my mistress wants to be sure all possible ways of relieving the boy are taken before-”
She cut him off. ”Then let's not waste time talking. Take me to him.”
”To be sure. Follow me.”
He indicated the shadowy pa.s.sage that led between the cabins to the saloon. The doors lining it were closed, so that the only light came from the open entrance through which they had come.
”After you,” said the doctor, bowing. ”It is the last door on the right.”
His vast shadow enveloped her, and a hand took her by the elbow as if to guide her steps. He was close behind her, she could hear his quick breathing, and she stopped, resisting the pressure on her arm, seized with sudden panic. Too late. His arm gripped her, pinning her arms, and his hand clamped over her mouth. She struggled, but he had her in a hold that was impossible to break, the great bulk of his body as impervious to blows as a feather bed, the big fat hand covering half her face. She kicked back. Pain shot up her ankle as her heel slammed into his s.h.i.+n, and with a grunt of annoyance he pinched her nose shut, cutting off the last of her breath. Her darkening vision swam with purple and green lights and her legs gave way. When he took his hand from her face she could only gasp, sucking in air, while he opened one of the doors and pushed her into the room beyond. She fell to hands and knees. The door slammed, leaving her in total darkness.
Nefret rolled over onto her back and lay still for a time, getting her breath back and trying, not so successfully, to get her thoughts in order. She had made a bad mistake, but that didn't matter now. What mattered was what they meant to do with her-and how she could prevent it.
A wry smile touched her bruised lips. She had found her mother-in-law's gang, and by the method favored by that estimable lady. How many of them were involved? The entire crew, almost certainly; the doctor couldn't take her captive without their knowledge. It was possible that the boy and his grandmother were unwitting dupes, used by a group of criminals for their own purpose. Neither of them was mentally competent. Maryam was not incompetent, though, and she was her mother's daughter.
The floor under her vibrated more strongly as the beat of the engines increased. Khattab hadn't lied about that. The boat was getting underway. She started to stand up, and then made herself remain on her knees. She had no idea how large the room was, how high the ceiling. The blackness was palpable, she could almost feel it pressing against her eyeb.a.l.l.s, her face, her body. The air was hot and close with a strange metallic tang. Fighting the temptation to close her eyes and curl up into a fetal position, she edged forward, arms extended.
She had found a wall and was following it, trying to get some idea of the dimensions of her prison, when the door was flung open. Even that much light was welcome after the claustrophobic darkness, but she couldn't see much, for the opening was blocked by several bodies. The doctor's familiar, hateful voice said, ”A companion for you, my dear lady, and a patient as well.”
Justin, was her first thought. But there were two men carrying the limp body. They dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor and backed away as Nefret flung herself down beside Emerson, sinking her teeth into her lower lip to keep from crying out. His eyes were closed and one side of his face was smeared with blood.
”b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,” she gasped. ”What have you done to him?”
”Such language from a lady,” the doctor said with a high-pitched giggle. ”I regret the necessity, but he is as hard to stop as a charging elephant. I don't believe he is seriously injured. Take care of him.”
”Wait,” Nefret said desperately. The door was closing. ”I need light-water-my medical bag . . .”
”You surely don't expect me to hand over that bag with its nice little collection of scalpels and probes.” Another giggle. G.o.d, she thought, the man is as mad as Justin. Madder. He's reveling in this.
”Please,” she whispered.
”I suppose I could leave you a lamp,” the doctor conceded. ”There is water here. You will have to manage with that until we can make other arrangements. We weren't expecting him, you see.”
He issued a low-voiced order in Arabic. One of the men put the lamp down on the floor. The door closed.
Nefret looked wildly round the room. There was a jar, presumably containing water, in one of the corners she had not reached in her blind exploration, and a crude clay cup next to it. She didn't look for anything else. Splas.h.i.+ng water into the cup, she wet her handkerchief and went back to Emerson.
”Father. Father, please say something,” she whispered.
The blood came from a single cut, which had bled profusely, as scalp wounds do. Her fingers probed the spot, finding only a rising lump. Anxiety hardened her touch, and Emerson stirred.
”h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation,” he remarked.
”It's me, Father.” She heard herself laugh, as insane a sound as the doctor's. ”Oh, Father, are you all right?”
”I am,” said Emerson, flat on his back and scowling like a gargoyle, ”a b.l.o.o.d.y fool. Rus.h.i.+ng in where angels fear to tread. Peabody will never let me hear the end of this. Nefret, my dear, are you crying? Don't cry. I can't stand it when you cry. Did they hurt you?”
”No. I'm sorry, Father, I'm just so relieved that you aren't . . .”
”Takes more than a b.u.mp on the head to kill me,” said Emerson with satisfaction. ”I am the one who should apologize. I walked right into it, like a rabbit into a snare, and now they've got both of us. What sort of place is this? Let's have a look.”
”Don't move yet.” Her handkerchief was saturated. She threw it aside and began unb.u.t.toning her blouse.
”Time to tear up some extraneous garment or other,” said Emerson coolly. ”Not your garments, though, your mother would not approve. My s.h.i.+rt. It's too cursed hot in here anyhow.”
She bandaged the cut, but Emerson refused a drink. ”Better not. It may be drugged. Let us see what we have here.”
He got to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the wall as the boat dipped. ”They were prepared for you,” he said, looking round. ”Or for someone. This isn't a stateroom, it's a prison.”
The small room had been stripped of all furnis.h.i.+ngs except a piece of matting, six feet long and several feet wide, the water jar, and another, larger vessel. The windows were covered with heavy boards. The nailheads, fresh and unrusted, shone in the light.
”They might have left an airhole,” said Emerson, running his hands over the boards. ”Have you anything we could use to prize up these nails?”
Nefret shook her head. Emerson unfastened his belt. ”Not strong enough,” he said, examining the buckle. ”But we may as well give it a try. Tell me what happened. Did you see the boy or the old lady?”
”No.” She knew what he was doing-keeping her mind active and her hopes up, and, at the same time, searching for some clue that would help them. ”The d.a.m.ned doctor met me and brought me straight here. Justin and Mrs. Fitzroyce may not know what is going on, but Maryam must. The attacks on her are the extraneous parts of the pattern. They were staged. She stabbed poor Melusine herself, with a heavy needle or a nail.”
”Hmmm.” The metal rasped like a file as he dug away the wood around one of the nailheads. ”But what about the second appearance of Hathor?”
”Perhaps she hired some local girl to play the part. That incident was designed to provide her with an unbreakable alibi.” Nefret sat down cross-legged on the mat. There was nothing she could do but watch, and as her eyes moved over the impressive form of her father-in-law her spirits lifted. It did take more than a knock on the head to kill Emerson, or discompose him for long. He began to hum under his breath. She recognized the melody, though it was horribly off-key. ” 'She never saw the streets of Cairo; she never saw the kutchy-kutchy . . . ' Curse it,” said Emerson. He tossed the broken buckle aside and sat down beside her.
Nefret wrapped both hands around his upper arm and laid her cheek against his shoulder. ”I'm not glad you're here, Father, but there's only one other man on earth I'd rather have with me.”
”Well, now,” said Emerson self-consciously. ”Not my ingenious brother?”
”He's good,” Nefret conceded. ”But he's not you. Or Ramses.”
”He's charming, though,” Emerson said gloomily. ”I'm not.”
”I think you are.”