“Yet it might seem to others that your brother — a scholar — believed it.”
Miles certainly had seemed to believe it — perhaps because he was a little boy in some ways. And he had a romantic streak.
Her romantic streak had shriveled and died years ago. Her marriage had mummified it.
“No educated person could believe that Vanni Anaz or anyone else knew exactly what was written on that papyrus,” she said. “No one — I repeat — no one can read hieroglyphic writing. But the papyrus did contain symbols associated with royalty. Naturally Miles planned to look for those symbols in Thebes. A number of tombs have been discovered there. More will certainly be discovered. Whether any remain filled with treasure is impossible to know.”
“Someone believes it,” Mr. Carsington said. “Someone went to a deal of trouble to steal that papyrus.”
“But what good will it do them?” she said impatiently. “They can’t read it.”
“My eldest brother Benedict takes an interest in criminal proceedings,” Mr. Carsington said. “He says the average felon is a person of low cunning, not high intelligence.”
At that moment the absurd idea she’d kept pushing away stomped to the forefront of her brain.
Miles kidnapped. Papyrus stolen.
“They believe Miles can read it,” she said. “Good grief. They must be completely illiterate — or desperately gullible — or —”
“French,” said Mr. Carsington.
“French?” she said. She gazed at him in plain incomprehension.
“I hope they’re French,” he said. “My brother Alistair was at Waterloo.”
“Killed?” she said.
“No, though they did their best.” He clenched his hands. “He’ll be lame for the rest of his life. I’ve been waiting for a chance to repay the favor.”
NOT VERY FAR away, in another corner of Cairo, an elegant middle-aged man stood by one of the windows overlooking his house’s courtyard. He did not gaze out of the latticed window but down, reverently, at the object in his hands.
Jean-Claude Duval had come to Egypt with Napoleon’s army in 1798. Along with the soldiers had come another army — of scientists, scholars, and artists. These were the people responsible for the monumental Description de l’Egypte. To Monsieur Duval, this army of savants was proof of French superiority: unlike the barbaric British, his countrymen sought intellectual enlightenment as well as military conquest.
He had been in Egypt when his compatriots found the Rosetta Stone and, being intellectually superior, instantly understood its value. He was here in 1801 when the English defeated the French at Alexandria and took the stone away, claiming it was “honorably acquired by fortune of war.”
He was still here, and he still hated the English for a long list of reasons — including, most recently, their employing the infuriatingly lucky Giovanni Belzoni — but their “stealing” the Rosetta Stone constituted Reasons Number One through Five.
Duval had spent twenty years working to even the score.
However, though he had sent to France a great number of fine Egyptian artifacts, he had found nothing approaching the Rosetta Stone’s significance.
Until now.
Very cautiously he unrolled the papyrus. Not all the way. Only enough to reassure himself that this was the one. His men had blundered enough already. But it was the one — his chief agent Faruq was no fool — and M. Duval closed the document up again, with the same gentleness, and no small degree of frustration.
The first time he’d seen it, he’d understood it was above the common run of papyri. Even so, he had not believed the story the merchant Vanni Anaz told to justify the insane price he asked. Only the most ignorant persons would believe it. Everyone else knew that no one could read hieroglyphs or any other form of ancient Egyptian writing; therefore no one could tell what this papyrus said.
Still, it was a rare specimen, and Duval had determined to get it.
But before he could arrange to have it stolen, Miles Archdale, one of the world’s foremost language scholars, had gone to Anaz’s shop, listened soberly to the tale of long-hidden treasure and forgotten pharaoh, and paid the horrendous price. Without a murmur.
One need not be a linguistic genius to comprehend why: Archdale had found the key to deciphering hieroglyphs. He’d kept it a secret because it would lead to great discoveries, and he wanted all the honor and glory.
He’d seen that this papyrus would lead to the greatest discovery of all, far surpassing anything Belzoni had done and at least equaling the Rosetta Stone in importance: an untouched royal tomb, filled with treasure.
Duval unrolled the foolscap copy of the papyrus. Its margins held numerous notes in English, Greek, and Latin, along with a number of odd symbols and signs, all of it incomprehensible.
“But he will explain it to us,” Duval murmured. “Every word of the papyrus. The meaning of every sign.”
And once Archdale had given up all his secrets, he would die, and no one would ever find his body. The desert kept secrets even better than he. Jackals, vultures, sun, and sand combined to make corpses vanish with amazing speed.
In the meantime, however, Duval must deal with the infuriating complication. “These must leave Cairo at once,” he said. “But I must stay, for a time at least.”
The man who’d brought the documents stepped out of the shadows. Though he called himself Faruq, he was Polish. He was educated, one of the more intelligent of the many mercenaries and criminals who found in Egypt a profitable market for their talents.
Duval wished he’d sent Faruq after Archdale. But how could he have guessed he’d need his top agent to carry out a simple kidnapping?
The men sent after Archdale failed to take him in Giza. He was too well-guarded. They could not get to him until he crossed the river again and dispersed his escort in Old Cairo. When the men finally did capture him, they beat his servant and left him for dead, without making sure. The servant had somehow crawled back to the sister, who promptly reported the incident to the consulate. By tomorrow, everyone in Cairo would know.
The local authorities did not worry Duval. They were slow, incompetent, and corrupt.
The one who worried him was the Englishman known as the Golden Devil.
He had become Duval’s nemesis in the last year. In addition to being cunning, ruthless, and as hungry for glory for England as Duval was for France, the Golden Devil was slightly insane.
Duval hated crazy people. They were too unpredictable.
“The sister will care only to find her brother,” Duval said. “She will be easy to divert. The Golden Devil is the graver problem. You must go ahead, to join the others at Minya as we planned. You must take the papyrus. Whatever else happens, it must not fall into his hands.”
Though he spoke coolly, Duval was close to weeping with vexation. Everyone dreamt of finding an intact royal tomb. The key was in his hands, in this papyrus. The man who’d finally unlocked the secrets of hieroglyphic writing was Duval’s captive, and barely a day’s journey away.
But Duval must remain in Cairo to divert suspicion. If he left, his most feared and hated rival would instantly know who was behind the kidnapping and theft. If Duval stayed, he would become merely one of several possible suspects. If he arranged matters well, suspicion would soon shift elsewhere.
And so M. Duval put the two documents into a battered old dispatch bag that wouldn’t tempt thieves, gave the bag to Faruq, and told him where and when they would next meet.
RUPERT HAD NOT failed to notice that his comments about the French distracted Mrs. Pembroke from asking the logical question: What will they do to my brother when they find out he can’t read the papyrus?
It was a question Rupert had rather not answer. He did not count Archdale’s life worth a groat once the villains discovered their error. He doubted the man’s life would be worth much even if he could read the papyrus.
Still, there was a chance. In Archdale’s place, Rupert would pretend and p
revaricate, putting off the moment of truth as long as possible. Meanwhile, he’d be looking for a way to escape.
If the villains did discover the truth sooner than was convenient, one might be able to persuade them to demand a ransom. That way at least, he would tell them, they needn’t come away empty-handed.
Rupert kept these thoughts to himself and concentrated on keeping Mrs. Pembroke’s mind from dwelling unhappily on her brother.
Fortunately, Rupert Carsington had a natural talent for driving others distracted.
Because she’d found his renaming the boy Tom so provoking, the first thing Rupert did when they’d mounted their donkeys was christen his Cleopatra.
“That is not the creature’s name,” said Mrs. Pembroke. She told him the Arabic name.
“I can’t pronounce it,” Rupert said.
“You don’t even try,” she said.
“I don’t understand why these people don’t speak English,” he said. “It’s so much simpler.”
He could not see her face — she’d put on the evil veil — but he heard her huff of exasperation.