The Seventh Scroll (Novels of Ancient Egypt) Page 7

  He went to his desk and brought out a bottle of Laphroaig malt whisky from the bottom drawer. He placed the bottle on the desk top and set two glasses beside it. “Can I tempt you?” he asked, but she shook her head.

  “Don’t blame you. Even the Scots themselves admit that this brew should only be drunk in sub-zero weather on The Hill, in a forty-knot gale, after stalking and shooting a ten-point stag. May I offer you something a little more ladylike?”

  “Do you have a Coke?” she suggested.

  “Yes, but that is really bad for you, even worse than Laphroaig. It’s all that sugar. Absolute poison.”

  She took the glass he brought to her and returned his toast with it.

  “To life!” she agreed, and then she went on, “You are right. Duraid did tell me about these.” She replaced the Punic bronze in the armoire, then came to face him at the desk. “It was also Duraid who sent me to see you. It was his dying instruction to me.”

  “Aha! So none of this is coincidence then. It seems I am the unwitting pawn in some deep and nefarious plot.” He pointed to the chair facing his desk. “Sit!” he ordered. “Tell!”

  He perched above her on the corner of the desk, with the whisky glass in his right hand and with one long, denim-clad leg swinging lazily as the tail of a resting leopard. Though he was smiling quizzically, he watched her face with a penetrating green gaze. She thought that it would be difficult to lie to this man.

  She took a deep breath. “Have you heard of an ancient Egyptian queen called Lostris, of the second intermediate period, co-existent with the first Hyksos invasions?”

  He laughed a little derisively and stood up. “Oh! Now we are talking about the book River God, are we?” He went to the bookcase and brought down a copy. Although well thumbed, it was still in its dust-jacket, and the cover illustration was a dreamy surrealistic view in pastel shades of green and rose purple of the pyramids seen over water. He dropped it on the desk in front of her.

  “Have you read it?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “I read most of Wilbur Smith’s stuff. He amuses me. He has shot here at Quenton Park a couple of times.”

  “You like lots of sex and violence in your reading, obviously?” She pulled a face. “What did you think of this particular book?”

  “I must admit that he had me fooled. Whilst I was reading it, I sort of wished that it might be based on fact. That was why I phoned Duraid.” Nicholas picked up the book again and flipped to the end of it. “The author’s note was convincing, but what I couldn’t get out of my mind was the last sentence.” He read it aloud. “‘Somewhere in the Abyssinian mountains near the source of the Blue Nile, the mummy of Tenus still lies in the unviolated tomb of Pharaoh Mamose.’”

  Almost angrily Nicholas threw the book down on the desk. “My God! You will never know how much I wanted it to be true. You will never know how much I wanted a shot at Pharaoh Mamose’s tomb. I had to speak to Duraid. When he assured me it was all a load of bunkum, I felt cheated. I had built up my expectations so high that I was bitterly disappointed.”

  “It’s not bunkum,” she contradicted him, and then corrected herself quickly, “well, at least not all of it.”

  “I see. Duraid was lying to me, was he?”

  “Not lying,” she defended him hotly. “Just delaying the truth a little. He wasn’t ready to tell you the whole story then. He didn’t have the answers to all the questions that he knew you would ask. He was going to come to you when he was ready. Your name was at the top of the list of potential sponsors that he had drawn up.”

  “Duraid did not have the answers, but I suppose you do?” He was smiling sceptically. “I was caught once. I am not likely to fall for the same cock and bull a second time.”

  “The scrolls exist. Nine of them are still in the vaults at the Cairo museum. I was the one who discovered them in the tomb of Queen Lostris.” Royan opened her leather sling bag and rummaged around in it until she brought out a thin sheaf of glossy 6 × 4 colour photographs. She selected one and passed it to him. “That is a shot of the rear wall of the tomb. You can just make out the alabaster jars in the niche. That was taken before we removed them.”

  “Nice picture, but it could have been taken anywhere.”

  She ignored the remark and passed him another photograph. “The ten scrolls in Duraid’s workroom at the museum. You recognize the two men standing behind the bench?”

  He nodded. “Duraid and Wilbur Smith.” His sceptical expression had turned to one of doubt and bemusement. “What the hell are you trying to tell me?”

  “What the hell I am trying to tell you is that, apart from a wide poetic licence that the author took unto himself, all that he wrote in the book has at least some foundation in the truth. However, the scroll that most concerns us is the seventh, the one that was stolen by the men who murdered my husband.”

  Nicholas stood up and went to the fireplace. He threw on another log and bashed it viciously with the poker, as if to give release to his emotions. He spoke without turning around. “What was the significance of that particular scroll as opposed to the other nine?”

  “It was the one that contained the account of Pharaoh Mamose’s burial and, we believe, directions that might enable us to find the site of the tomb.”

  “You believe, but you aren’t certain?” He swung around to face her with the poker gripped like a weapon. In this mood he was frightening. His mouth was set in a tight hard line and his eyes glittered.

  “Large parts of the seventh scroll are written in some sort of code, a series of cryptic verses. Duraid and I were in the process of deciphering these when—” she broke off and drew a long breath, “when he was murdered.”

  “You must have a copy of something so valuable?” He glared at her, so that she felt intimidated. She shook her head.

  “All the microfilm, all our notes, all of it was stolen along with the original scroll. Then whoever killed Duraid went back to our flat in Cairo and destroyed my PC on to which I had transposed all our research.”

  He threw the poker into the coal scuttle with a clatter, and came back to the desk. “So you have no evidence at all? Nothing to prove that any of this is true?”

  “Nothing,” she agreed, “except what I have here.” With a long slim forefinger she tapped her forehead. “I have a good memory.”

  He frowned and ran his fingers through his thick curling hair. “And so why did you come to me?”

  “I have come to give you a shot at the tomb of Pharaoh Mamose,” she told him simply. “Do you want it?”

  Suddenly his mood changed. He grinned like a naughty schoolboy. “At this moment I cannot think of anything I want more.”

  “Then you and I will have to draw up some sort of working agreement,” she told him, and she leaned forward in a businesslike manner. “First, let me tell you what I want, and then you can do the same.”

  It was hard bargaining, and it was one in the morning when Royan admitted her exhaustion. “I can’t think straight any more. Can we start again tomorrow morning?” They still had not reached an agreement.

  “It’s tomorrow morning already,” he told her. “But you are right. Thoughtless of me. You can sleep here. After all, we do have twenty-seven bedrooms here.”

  “No, thanks.” She stood up. “I’ll go on home.”

  “The road will be icy,” he warned her. Then he saw her determined expression and held up his hands in capitulation. “All right, I won’t insist. What time tomorrow? I have a meeting with my lawyers at ten, but we should be finished by noon. Why don’t you and I have a working lunch here? I was supposed to be shooting at Ganton in the afternoon, but I will cancel that. That way I will have the afternoon and evening clear for you.”

  * * *

  Nicholas’s meeting with the lawyers took place the next morning in the library of Quenton Park. It was not an easy nor a pleasant session, but then he never expected it to be. This had been the year in which his world began to fall to pieces around
his head. He gritted his teeth as he remembered how the year had opened with that fatal moment of fatigue and inattention at midnight on the icy motorway, and the blinding headlights of the truck bearing down on them.

  He had not recovered from that before the next brutal blow had fallen. This was the financial report of the Lloyd’s insurance syndicate on which Nicholas, like his father and grandfather before him, was a “Name.” For half a century the family had enjoyed a regular and substantial income from their share of the syndicate profits. Of course, Nicholas had been aware that liability for his share of any losses that the syndicate suffered was unlimited. The enormity of that responsibility had weighed lightly; for there had never been serious losses to account for, not for fifty years, not until this year.

  With the California earthquake and environmental pollution claims awarded against one of the multinational chemical companies, the syndicate’s losses had amounted to over twenty-six million pounds sterling. Nicholas’s share of that loss was two and a half million pounds—some of which had been settled, but the rest was due for payment in a little over eight months’ time—together with whatever nasty surprises next year might hold.

  Almost immediately after that the Quenton Park estate’s crop of sugar beet, almost a thousand acres in total, had been hit by rhizomania, the mad root disease. They had lost the lot.

  “We will need to find at least two and a half million,” said one of the lawyers. “That should be no problem—the Hall is filled with valuable items, and what about the museum? What could we reasonably expect from the sale of some of the exhibits?”

  Nicholas winced at the thought of selling the Ramesses statue, the bronzes, the Hammurabi frieze or any item of his cherished collection at the Hall or the museum. He acknowledged that their sale would cover his debts, but he doubted that he could live without them. Almost anything was preferable to parting with them.

  “Hell, no,” Nicholas cut in, and the lawyer looked across at him coldly.

  “Well, let’s see what else we’ve got,” he continued remorselessly. “There’s the dairy herd.”

  “That will bring in a hundred thousand, if we are lucky,” Nicholas grunted. “Leaves only two point four million to find.”

  “And your racing stud,” the accountant came into the conversation.

  “I have only six horses in training. Another two hundred grand.” Nicholas smiled without humour. “Brings us down to two point two. We are getting there slowly.”

  “The yacht,” suggested the youngest lawyer.

  “It’s older than I am,” Nicholas shook his head, “belonged to my father, for heaven’s sake. You probably wouldn’t be able to give it away. Sentimental is the only value it has. My shotguns would be worth more.”

  Both lawyers bent their heads over their lists. “Ah, yes! We have those. A pair of Purdey sidelock ejectors in good condition. Estimate forty thousand.”

  “I also have some secondhand socks and underpants,” Nicholas admitted. “Why don’t you list those also?”

  They ignored the jibe. “Then there is the London house,” the elder lawyer went on unperturbed, inured to human suffering. “Good address. Value one point five million.”

  “Not in this financial climate,” Nicholas contradicted him. “A million is more realistic.” The lawyer made a note in the margin of his document before going on, “Of course we want to avoid, if at all possible, putting the entire estate up for sale.”

  It was a hard and difficult meeting which ended with nothing definitely decided, and Nicholas feeling angry and frustrated.

  He saw the lawyers off, and then went up to the family quarters to take a quick shower and change his shirt. As an afterthought, and for no good reason, he shaved and splashed aftershave on his cheeks.

  He drove across the park and left the Range Rover in the museum car park. The snow had turned to sleet, and his bare head was sprinkled with cold droplets by the time he had crossed the car park.

  Royan was waiting in Mrs. Street’s office. The two of them seemed to be getting along well together. He stopped outside the door to listen to her laughter. It made him feel a little better.

  The cook had sent across a hot lunch from the main house. She seemed to believe that a substantial meal would keep this foul weather at bay. There was a tureen of thick, rich minestrone and a Lancashire hotpot, with a half bottle of red Burgundy for him and a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice for her. They ate in front of the fire, while the rain whipped against the windowpanes.

  While they ate he asked her to give him the details of Duraid’s murder. She left out nothing, including her own injuries, and drew back her sleeve to show him the dressing over the knife wound. He listened intently as she told him of the second attempt on her life in the streets of Cairo.

  “Any suspicions?” he asked, when she had finished. “Anybody you can think of who might be responsible?” But she shook her head.

  “There was no warning of any kind,” she said.

  They finished the meal in silence, each of them thinking their own thoughts. Over the coffee he suggested, “All right, then. What about our agreement?”

  They argued back and forth for nearly an hour.

  “It’s difficult to agree on your share of the booty, until I know just what your contribution is going to be,” Nicholas protested as he topped up their coffee cups. “After all, I am going to be called on to finance and conduct the expedition—”

  “You will just have to trust that my contribution will be worthwhile, otherwise there will simply be no booty, as you call it. Anyway you can be certain I am not going to tell you one thing more until we have an agreement, and have shaken hands on it.”

  “A bit harsh?” he asked, and she gave him a wicked smile.

  “If you don’t like my terms, there are three other names on Duraid’s list of possible sponsors,” she threatened.

  “All right,” he cut in with a contrived look of martyrdom, “I agree to your proposal. But how do we calculate equal shares?”

  “I shall choose the first item of any archaeological artefacts we are able to retrieve, and you the next, and so on, turn about.”

  “How about I choose first?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Let’s spin for it,” she suggested, and he fished a pound coin from his pocket.

  “Call!” He flipped the coin, and while it was in the air she called, “Heads.”

  “Damn!” he exclaimed, as he retrieved the coin and shoved it back into his pocket. “So, you get first choice of the booty, if there ever is any.” He held out his hand across the lunch table. “It will be yours to do exactly what you want to do with it. You can even donate it to the Cairo museum, if that is still your particular aberration. Deal?” he asked, and she took his hand.

  “Deal!” she agreed, and then added, “Partner.”

  “Now let’s get down to it. No more secrets between us. Tell me every detail that you have been holding back.”

  “Bring that book.” She pointed to the copy of River God, and while he fetched it she pushed the dirty dishes aside. “The first thing we should go over is the sections of the book that Duraid edited.” She turned to the last pages. “Here. This is where Duraid’s obfuscation begins.”

  “Good word,” Nicholas smiled, “but let’s keep it simple. You have obfuscated me enough already.”

  She did not even smile. “You know the story to this point. Queen Lostris and her people are driven out of Egypt by the Hyksos and their superior chariots. They journey south up the Nile until they reach the confluence of the White and Blue Niles. In other words, present-day Khartoum. All this is reasonably faithful to the scrolls.”

  “I recall. Go on.”

  “In the holds of their river galleys they are carrying the mummified body of Queen Lostris’s husband, Pharaoh Mamose the Eighth. Twelve years previously she has sworn to him as he lay dying of a Hyksos arrow through his lung that she would find a secure burial site for him, and that she would lay him in
it with all his vast treasure. When they reach Khartoum she determines that the time has at last come for her to make good her promise to him. She sends out her son, the fourteen-year-old Prince Memnon, with a squadron of chariots to find the burial site. Memnon is accompanied by his mentor, the narrator of the history, the indefatigable Taita.”

  “Okay, I remember this section. Memnon and Taita consult the black Shilluk slaves they have captured, and on their advice decide to follow the left-hand fork of the river, or what we know as the Blue Nile.”

  Royan nodded and continued the story. “They travelled eastwards and were confronted by formidable mountains, so high that they were described as a blue rampart. So far what you read in the book is a fairly faithful rendition of the scrolls, but at this point,” she tapped the open page, “we come to Duraid’s red herring. In his description of the foothills—”

  Before she could continue, Nicholas interjected, “I remember thinking when I originally read it that it didn’t accurately describe the area where the Blue Nile emerges from the Ethiopian highlands. There are no foothills. There is only the sheer western escarpment of the massif. The river comes out of it like a snake out of its hole. Whoever wrote that description doesn’t know the course of the Blue Nile.”

  “Do you know the area?” Royan asked, and he laughed and nodded.

  “When I was younger and even more stupid than I am now, I conceived the grandiose plan of boating the Abbay gorge from Lake Tana down to the dam at Roseires in the Sudan. The Abbay is the Ethiopian name for the Blue Nile.”

  “Why did you want to do that?”

  “Because it had never been done before. Major Cheesman, the British consul, had a shot at it in 1932, and nearly drowned himself. I thought I could make a film, and write a book about the voyage and earn myself a fortune from the royalties. I talked my father into financing the expedition. It was the kind of mad escapade that appealed to him. He even wanted to join the expedition. I studied the whole course of the Abbay river, not only on maps. I also bought myself an old Cessna 180 and flew down the gorge, five hundred miles from Lake Tana to the dam. As I said, I was twenty-one years old and crazy.”