The Alexandria Affair

  “Ancient thieves,” Brewster rumbled. “Looks like what a bloke might cut toward a cache in a strongroom, say, or the cellar of a rich gent’s estate.”

  “Could be,” I agreed. Nowhere did I see the precision or decoration that the workmen of old had put into the pyramids or the obelisk I’d studied in Alexandria. This had been crudely, if efficiently, dug.

  “Remind me to shore up the cellars of my country house,” Grenville said, looking pained. “I wonder what the thieves were so anxious to find way out here.”

  “If the tombs were guarded, they were trying to find another way in,” I speculated. I glanced at Grenville’s pack. “You don’t happen to have a candle in there, do you?”

  “Better than that.” Grenville pulled out a candle and then a small lantern to set it in. He opened a tinderbox and struck a spark to light the candle with a practiced touch.

  I glanced into his bag to see more small digging tools, a flask, additional candles, a knife in a sheath, a packet that gave off the odor of coffee, and a tin cup.

  “How did you think to bring all that?” I asked.

  “Experience,” Grenville said modestly. “I’ve been caught in the wild more than once. A cup to boil water for survival, and a flask of brandy to make you forget you’re worried.”

  Brewster barked a laugh. “You’re a gent what knows what’s important, Mr. Grenville.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brewster. I only lack a bit of hardtack, but I am optimistic it won’t come to us needing that.”

  I examined the sides of the tunnel, which seemed solid. “It’s a tight fit for any of us.”

  “I might have a go,” Grenville said. “I’m smaller than either of you—they called me Weasel for reasons other than my pointed face.”

  I was not certain I wanted to see Grenville crawl into that tiny hole that might be full of any number of vermin, but he had already removed his coat and neckcloth and set aside his pack.

  Without waiting for our approval, he took the lantern from me, set it into the hole, lay on his stomach, and wriggled himself inside.

  Grenville squirmed and fought his way into the hole, while Brewster and I remained poised behind him, ready to seize him by the boots and drag him out if need be.

  Grenville inched his way forward, saying nothing, the only sound a scraping as he pushed the lantern forward.

  He made it all the way inside so that only his heels stuck out. Then we heard a muffled “Good Lord,” and his boots rushed forward, disappearing from sight.

  CHAPTER 20

  Grenville!” I called frantically.

  I heard nothing. I grabbed the trowel and began to strike at the sides of the hole, trying to widen it, while Brewster, in alarm, scraped away earth.

  “Mr. Grenville!” Brewster bellowed into the hole.

  A muffled yelp came back to us. Brewster and I both called his name, and then we heard coughing.

  “Cease shouting,” came the hollow words. “Pass me a bit of rope.”

  Grenville hadn’t brought any in his pack, but Brewster had two coils of differing lengths. Brewster also carried a brace of pistols and a small box of gunpowder. He was taking no chances.

  Brewster uncoiled one of the ropes, knotted an end, then passed it into the hole. After what seemed a very long time, the rope went taut.

  A small amount of gravel rained down from the top of the tunnel, but Grenville came with it, backing out by bracing himself on the rope in Brewster’s strong hold. He dragged the lantern with him, then sat up and took a long breath. His face and shirt were streaked with grime and also a white substance that smelled grievously foul.

  Grenville, ever prepared, drew out a large linen handkerchief and mopped his face. “Bats,” he said.

  Brewster flinched and peered into the dark opening in trepidation. “They ain’t coming out after you, are they?”

  “I very much doubt it, Mr. Brewster. Too bright and hot up here.” Grenville wiped his face again. “It was a bit like crawling back into the womb at first, but the tunnel widens out quite suddenly. There’s a shaft that must lead to a nest of bats, I conclude from the smell and the fact that their shit is everywhere.”

  “Why bother digging a hole to find bats?” I asked. “Unless one is a student of natural history.”

  “Bats love the ancient tombs, my dear fellow,” Grenville said. “They’re all over the pyramids. Natural places for them to stay—darkness, rock walls, plenty of ledges to cling to. I’m certain many generations of bats have been grateful to proud humans for constructing homes for them.”

  Brewster barked a laugh, but I peered into the hole with new interest. “You think there’s a tomb down there?” I asked.

  “Or the entrance to one farther away.” Grenville brushed off his sleeves, but the shirt would need extensive washing, if it could be saved at all. “Excavations are showing that many tombs had false entrances to deter thieves; the ancients seem to have put the true burial chambers under the ground and some distance from the tomb. It didn’t deter many robbers, apparently. Chambers are being found not only stripped of riches, but the bodies themselves.”

  Brewster looked skeptical. “Then why bother with it? If the gold’s already gone. And, begging your pardon, Mr. Grenville, seems to me you already have plenty of gold.”

  “It’s not the value of the treasure that’s the point,” Grenville said. “It’s the uniqueness of the discovery. Imagine finding a crown worn by a king, an armlet worn by an ancient queen. What a remarkable thing that would be. The history of the objects are most of their worth.”

  Brewster did not look convinced, but he didn’t argue.

  “Remarkable indeed,” I said. I would love to pull out of the earth a beautiful armband of gold and emerald and present it to a grateful museum. “However, I am supposed to be looking for a book and a man who is likely looking for it as well.”

  “If Marcus found the scroll here, he took it away with him,” Grenville said. “But I’m willing to wager he did no such thing. He did not enlarge the hole, and I am certain that I am the only human being who has been down that tunnel in eons.” He gave me an even look. “The odds of finding the book are very long, Lacey. If we locate a new tomb, however, anything we find there might reconcile Mr. Denis for the absence of his papyrus.”

  At the moment I did not care about an old Greek scroll, never mind it came from the Alexandrian marvel of the library. The hint that we might have discovered a tomb no one else had sent me into a fever of curiosity.

  “If we can find where the tunnel comes out …” I began.

  “Not back through the hole,” Grenville said. “There’s a sheer drop. But we can extrapolate where another entrance is.”

  Brewster broke in. “Measure over the top, you mean?”

  “Exactly.”

  Brewster nodded without question. I wondered how many thieves’ tunnels he’d helped dig in the past, how often he’d calculated the distance from a hole to his quarry.

  He and Grenville soon became a smoothly working survey team. Brewster and I boosted Grenville out of the arroyo, and Brewster passed him the rope. After carefully marking where he stood, Grenville began moving in the direction the tunnel had, counting off paces.

  I joined Grenville up top, helping him tie off the rope where he said the tunnel sloped abruptly downward. I peered into the distance, but the flat plain looked the same in all directions. On the other hand, I hadn’t been able to see the arroyo until I’d been right on top of it.

  We helped Brewster out and continued our search. Southward, the land dipped slightly. We continued measuring with rope until it ran out, then I marked the spot with a square pile of stones.

  “We’ll have to claim it,” Grenville said. “Make sure we have permission to dig in this exact spot. So that if anyone else, including Marcus, decides to try his luck, we’ll still have the right to anything inside.”

  “Thief wouldn’t care,” Brewster rumbled.

  “Good point.” Grenville nodded at
him. “I suppose we could camp here and bring in men to begin in the morning.”

  “And dig where?” Brewster asked. “You could hunt for days.”

  “Years,” I said, less optimistic. “I share your interest, Grenville, but perhaps we should narrow down the spot first.”

  “I have done these things before, you know,” Grenville said, giving me a patient look. “It’s uncanny how the first instance usually proves to be correct. On the other hand, you are right that it won’t do to let others in on the secret too soon. Let us make certain we have the firman for this area, and then move here and begin.”

  Brewster looked relieved. While he was not adverse to the thought of finding treasure, I knew he was uncomfortable in the open desert, especially after our experience last evening.

  Grenville drew out his sketchbook. He proceeded to make several quick drawings of the area, identifying landmarks so we could find the place again. Not that there were many. The pyramids rose in the distance, the only true marker—we could not see even the gleam of river from this depression in the ground.

  The sun was heading westward, another guide for Grenville to mark directions. He drew a rough map on another page, closed the book, and tucked it back into his bag.

  We made for the pyramids again. I looked back as we walked, already unable to discern where we’d been.

  Grenville said not a word about our discovery—he cautioned me that rumor of a find traveled around here with the speed and ferocity of the sandstorms. Brewster, an expert at keeping secrets, was as blank-faced and passive as ever.

  I was the one who had to struggle to keep the excitement from my countenance. I wore my emotions openly, and the prospect of finding a tomb fired my imagination.

  We were so flushed and tired from our walk, however, that Matthias and Bartholomew only gave us cool water, expressed disapprobation at the state of our clothes, and helped pack up to return to Cairo.

  We arrived home well after dark to find that a message had arrived in our absence. Lady Mary expressed her wishes for us to join her on her barge for a small gathering the next evening. Fancy dress.

  I disliked fancy dress balls in the extreme and nearly declined until Grenville read out from the letter that Signora Beatrice Faber would be there, the lady who had been friends with Monsieur Chabert of the library book.

  * * *

  I slept heavily that night, dreaming of sand rising up to bury me alive. I jumped awake when the muezzin called the Egyptians to their morning prayer, my heart beating thickly, my mind in a fog.

  An hour later, the palace guard arrived almost at the doorstep to escort me to the training. Whoever had sent the thugs to waylay me the day before—I still strongly suspected Sharkey—was out of luck this morning.

  The training went without incident, and I felt well enough to ride. Afterward we were served the usual coffee and pastries, and I and the cavalrymen talked more about life in the army, sharing stories of harrowing battles and unexpected survival.

  When I returned home, I found Brewster there with his eye blackened and his cheek cut.

  He explained that he’d continued looking for Marcus, without success. He’d encountered a few men he’d seen at Sharkey’s house, who’d tried to waylay him. Brewster had bested them, but one had landed a lucky blow.

  “His nibs won’t be pleased,” Brewster said. “That is, if I live to tell him. They meant to hurt me more, but I got away.”

  My temper mounted. “Mr. Sharkey needs to mind his own bloody business. I or Grenville will report him to the local magistrates.”

  “Don’t bother, guv,” Brewster said. “From what happened to you, and now me, he probably has ’em in his pocket. Foreigners attacked in the street? He made sure it could happen.”

  As Brewster spoke, I knew he was right. Denis wouldn’t rely on a man like Sharkey unless he was resourceful and knew how to make the authorities turn a blind eye.

  Grenville had gone out, Brewster told me, but well guarded. He was chatting up the excavators to discover who was digging where and what they’d found, and also to make certain the firman was granted to me.

  I left that to Grenville. He knew the right people to speak to, and how to ensure that the pasha’s promise that I could treasure hunt where I liked be honored.

  Grenville did not return until late, and so there was no chance to go out to the desert. He was flushed with triumph, however. The British and French gentlemen who led teams of diggers were interested in only the pyramids, certain that they would find the best artifacts and mummies in and around them. If the eccentric Captain Lacey wanted to poke about farther west and south, they had no interest.

  I hoped they were wrong. I would have the fun of looking, even if I found nothing.

  The sun set in a sky tinged brilliant red, and night fell quickly. Grenville and I dressed and walked down to the harbor—guarded by Brewster and trusted servants—to Lady Mary’s barge.

  Chinese paper lanterns had been strung up and down the deck. The barge glittered with light, a striking picture from afar, but once onboard, we had to duck the swinging lanterns, heated by the candles within them.

  The stern cabin doors had been folded back, making an open room, into which the fetid air of the marshy bank poured.

  Lady Mary had dressed herself like an ancient Egyptian woman from tomb paintings—much more modestly, fortunately. The paintings I’d seen of ancient ladies often showed them bare-breasted, in accurate detail.

  Lady Mary’s white muslin gown wound around her person from her silver lamé slippers to her jewel-bedecked neck. She bulged alarmingly here and there, causing gaps in the muslin, but I saw she’d prudently worn an underdress of the same color.

  She’d crowned this costume with a wide pectoral of gold and lapis lazuli that lay heavily on her chest—a true Egyptian artifact. Her entire dress, I realized, had been made to highlight this beautiful treasure.

  My concession to fancy dress was to wear the galabiya Bartholomew had procured for me. I’d had to have one of the Egyptian servants wind the turban around my head, much to the delight of the man and his friends. I walked onboard feeling light, cool, and comfortable. My bruised and sand-blasted face had healed somewhat, but I still drew odd looks from the company.

  Brewster had come with us, but positioned himself on the dock to keep a watchful eye on who came and went. He’d been disparaging about fancy dress and kept to his own sturdy clothes.

  “When my Em worked the bawdy houses, some of the gents liked to wear costumes,” he said. “Made her laugh, the things they’d put on.”

  Instead of growing offended, Grenville merely chuckled and told him his wife was a woman of good sense.

  Lady Mary ran her gaze over Grenville’s costume as she greeted us, disappointment in her eyes. I suppose she’d hoped Grenville would dress as an ancient Egyptian male—in a short kilt, perhaps, with jewels resting on his chest.

  As well as she claimed to know him, she ought to have realized that Grenville, in spite of the very public liaisons he conducted, was a modest man. Tonight he’d chosen to emulate a wealthy Turk in wide scarlet trousers and black boots, and a white silken shirt covered by a fancily embroidered waistcoat. He finished the whole thing with a flowing coat of deepest blue and a very large white turban that billowed over his head.

  I’d never seen an actual Turk wear such a thing since we’d been in Egypt—the men seemed subdued in their dress—but Grenville’s suit was greeted with compliments and laughter.

  The guests were those I expected—the wealthy dilettantes and aristocrats exploring the ancient world or funding digs for the British Museum. A smattering of Frenchmen were there, but the rivalry for finds was becoming so great, I had heard, that arguments over who was allowed to dig where nearly came to blows, and so Lady Mary had kept the guests mostly British. Corruption, trickery, bribery, and outright theft were growing common, apparently. The French excavators would pay the Egyptian diggers hired by the British to not show up to work or t
urn and work for the French. The British would do the same. Cutthroat, Grenville said.

  I was not interested in any of their machinations. I wanted to meet Signora Beatrice Faber. I scanned the crowd impatiently, seeing that the few ladies present were wives of the gentlemen here.

  Lady Mary, knowing she dangled something we wanted, had us at her mercy. We’d have to dance attendance on her, I saw.

  Grenville proved himself made of steel. Instead of avoiding Lady Mary, he squared his shoulders and walked into the lion’s den.

  Lady Mary had arranged for prizes to be given for costumes—Grenville won for most colorful—for musicians to play Turkish music, and as the finishing touch, she’d brought in a woman to perform a Turkish harem dance.

  The lady did not look Turkish to me, but European, Italian perhaps. She wore billowing silk trousers that were caught around her ankles with bands glittering with beads. A tight-fitting red silk jacket covered her bodice, the garment embroidered as fantastically as Grenville’s waistcoat. A red silk turban bore a feather that stuck straight up, as though it grew from the lady’s forehead.

  A musician picked up a narrow-headed drum, its curved body etched silver. He placed the drum under his arm and began to beat it with his fingers and palms. Another man lifted a wide, shallow drum, holding it by a wooden frame fitted behind its head, and tapped it with the fingers of his other hand.

  The lady raised her arms and began to move in time with their slow, sensuous rhythm. She had tiny cymbals on her fingers that rang now and then in counterpoint with the drums.

  While the lady was fully covered, her feet moving in patterns not much more complex than that of a waltz, there was no doubt that this was meant to be an erotic dance.

  The woman’s hips wove in slow undulations beneath the loose silk of the trousers, her hands and arms glided in sinuous patterns, and the cling-cling of the cymbals punctuated her change in moves.

  Every gaze was fixed on her, the ladies’ as well as the gentlemen’s. I suspected Lady Mary was deliberately trying to shock us, but the young woman’s movements were so beautiful, it was like watching a work of art.