Crocodile on the Sandbank

Book 1: Amelia Peabody

by Elizabeth Peters

Genres: Sagas; Mystery

Synopsis

Set in 1884, this is the first installment in what has become a beloved bestselling series. At thirty-two, strong-willed Amelia Peabody, a self-proclaimed spinster, decides to use her ample inheritance to indulge her passion, Egyptology. On her way to Egypt, Amelia encounters a young woman named Evelyn Barton-Forbes. The two become fast friends and travel on together, encountering mysteries, missing mummies, and Radcliffe Emerson, a dashing and opinionated archaeologist who doesn't need a woman's help -- or so he thinks.

Release date: February 10, 2010

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

WHEN I first set eyes on Evelyn Barton-Forbes she was walking the streets of Rome—


(I am informed, by the self-appointed Critic who reads over my shoulder as I write, that I have already committed an error.
If those seemingly simple English words do indeed imply that which I am told they imply to the vulgar, I must in justice to
Evelyn find other phrasing.)


In justice to myself, however, I must insist that Evelyn was doing precisely what I have said she was doing, but with no ulterior
purpose in mind. Indeed, the poor girl had no purpose and no means of carrying it out if she had. Our meeting was fortuitous,
but fortunate. I had, as I have always had, purpose enough for two.


I had left my hotel that morning in considerable irritation of spirits. My plans had gone awry. I am not accustomed to having
my plans go awry. Sensing my mood, my small Italian guide trailed behind me in silence. Piero was not silent when I first
encountered him, in the lobby of the hotel, where, in common with others of his kind, he awaited the arrival of helpless foreign
visitors in need of a translator and guide. I selected him from amid the throng because his appearance was a trifle less villainous
than that of the others.


I was well aware of the propensity of these fellows to
bully, cheat, and otherwise take advantage of the victims who employ them, but I had no intention of being victimized. It
did not take me long to make this clear to Piero. My first act was to bargain ruthlessly with the shopkeeper to whom Piero
took me to buy silk. The final price was so low that Piero’s commission was reduced to a negligible sum. He expressed his
chagrin to his compatriot in his native tongue, and included in his tirade several personal comments on my appearance and
manner. I let him go on for some time and then interrupted with a comment on his manners. I speak Italian, and understand it, quite well. After that Piero and I got on admirably. I had not employed him
because I required an interpreter, but because I wanted someone to carry parcels and run errands.


My knowledge of languages, and the means which enabled me to travel abroad, had been acquired from my late father, who was
a scholar and antiquarian. There was little else to do but study, in the small country town where Papa preferred to live,
and I have an aptitude for languages, dead and alive. Papa preferred his languages dead. He was a devoted student of the past,
and emerged from it only occasionally, when he would blink at me and express surprise at how I had grown since he last noticed
my existence. I found our life together quite congenial; I am the youngest of six, and my brothers, being considerably older,
had left the nest some time before. My brothers were successful merchants and professional men; one and all they rejected
Father’s studies. I was left, then, to be the prop of my father’s declining years. As I have said, the life suited me. It
allowed me to develop my talents for scholarship. But let not the Gentle Reader suppose that I was ill equipped for the practical
necessities of life. My father was disinclined toward practicalities. It was left to me to bully the baker and badger the
butcher, which I did, if I may say so, quite effectively. After Mr. Hodgkins the butcher, Piero gave me no trouble.


My father died, eventually—if one may use so precise a word for the process that took place. One might say that he
gradually shriveled up and ran down. The rumor, put about by a pert housemaid, that he had actually been dead for two days
before anyone noticed, is a complete exaggeration. I must admit, however, that he might have passed away at any point during
the five hours I spent with him in his study on that particular afternoon. He was leaning back in his big leather chair, meditating,
as I assumed; and when, warned by some premonition, I hurried to his side, his wide-open eyes held the same expression of
mild inquiry with which they had always regarded me. It seemed to me quite a respectable and comfortable way in which to pass
on.


It came as no surprise to anyone to discover that he had left his property to me, the aforesaid prop, and the only one of
his children who had not an income of its own. My brothers accepted this tolerantly, as they had accepted my devoted service
to Papa. They did not explode until they learned that the property was not a paltry sum, but a fortune of half a million pounds.
They had made a common mistake in assuming that an absentminded scholar is necessarily a fool. My father’s disinclination
to argue with Mr. Hodgkins the butcher was due, not to lack of ability, but to disinterest. He was very much interested in
investments, “’change,” and those other mysterious matters that produce wealth. He had conducted his business affairs with
the same reticence that marked his habits in general; and he died, to the surprise of all, a wealthy man.


When this fact became known, the explosion occurred. My eldest brother James went so far as to threaten legal proceedings,
on the basis of unsound mind and undue influence. This ill-considered burst of temper, which was characteristic of James,
was easily stopped by Mr. Fletcher, Papa’s excellent solicitor. Other attempts ensued. I was visited by streams of attentive
nieces and nephews assuring me of their devotion—which had been demonstrated, over the past years, by their absence. Sisters-in-law
invited me, in the most affectionate phrases, to share their homes. I was warned in the strongest terms against fortune hunters.



The warnings were not unselfish; they were, however, unnecessary. A middle-aged spinster—for I was at that time thirty-two
years of age, and I scorned to disguise the fact— who has never received a proposal of marriage must be a simpleton if she
fails to recognize the sudden acquisition of a fortune as a factor in her new popularity. I was not a simpleton. I had always
known myself to be plain.


The transparent attempts of my kin, and of various unemployed gentlemen, to win my regard, aroused in me a grim amusement.
I did not put them off; quite the contrary, I encouraged them to visit, and laughed up my sleeve at their clumsy efforts.
Then it occurred to me that I was enjoying them too much. I was becoming cynical; and it was this character development that
made me decide to leave England—not, as some malicious persons have intimated, a fear of being overborne. I had always wanted
to travel. Now, I decided, I would see all the places Father had studied—the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was
Rome; Babylon and hundred-gated Thebes.


Once I had made this decision, it did not take me long to prepare for the journey. I made my arrangements with Mr. Fletcher,
and received from him a proposal of marriage which I refused with the same good humor that had characterized the offer. At
least he was honest.


“I thought it worth a try,” he remarked calmly.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I agreed.

Mr. Fletcher studied me thoughtfully for a moment.

“Miss Amelia, may I ask—in my professional capacity now—whether you have any inclinations toward matrimony?”

“None. I disapprove of matrimony as a matter of principle.” Mr. Fletcher’s pepper-and-salt eyebrows lifted. I added, “For
myself, that is. I suppose it is well enough for some women; what else can the poor things do? But why should any independent,
intelligent female choose to subject
herself to the whims and tyrannies of a husband? I assure you, I have yet to meet a man as sensible as myself!”


“I can well believe that,” said Mr. Fletcher. He hesitated for a moment; I fancied I could see him struggle with the desire
to make an unprofessional statement. He lost the struggle.


“Why do you wear such frightful clothes?” he burst out. “If it is to discourage suitors—”

“Really, Mr. Fletcher!” I exclaimed.

“I beg your pardon,” said the lawyer, wiping his brow. “I cannot think what came over me.”

“Nor can I. As for my clothes, they suit the life I lead. The current fashions are impractical for an active person. Skirts
so tight one must toddle like an infant, bodices boned so firmly it is impossible to draw a deep breath…And bustles! Of all
the idiotic contrivances foisted upon helpless womankind, the bustle is certainly the worst. I wear them, since it is impossible
to have a gown made without them, but at least I can insist on sensible dark fabrics and a minimum of ornament. What a fool
I should look in puffs and frills and crimson satin—or a gown trimmed with dead birds, like one I saw!”


“And yet,” said Mr. Fletcher, smiling, “I have always thought you would look rather well in puffs and frills and crimson satin.”

The opportunity to lecture had restored my good humor. I returned his smile, but I shook my head.

“Give it up, Mr. Fletcher. You cannot flatter me; I know the catalogue of my faults too accurately. I am too tall, I am too
lean in some regions and too amply endowed in others. My nose is too large, my mouth is too wide, and the shape of my chin
is positively masculine. Sallow complexions and jetty black hair are not in fashion this season; and I have been informed
that eyes of so deep a gray, set under such forbidding black brows, strike terror into the beholder even when they are beaming
with benevolence—which my eyes
seldom do. Now, I think I have dealt with that subject. Shall we turn to business?”


At Fletcher’s suggestion I made my will. I had no intention of dying for a good many years, but I realized the hazards of
travel in such unhealthy regions as I proposed to visit. I left my entire fortune to the British Museum, where Papa had spent
so many happy hours. I felt rather sentimental about it; Papa might just as well have passed on in the Reading Room, and it
would possibly have taken the attendants more than two days to realize he was no longer breathing.


My last act before departing was to engage a companion. I did not do this for the sake of propriety. Oppressed as my sex is
in this supposedly enlightened decade of 1880, a woman of my age and station in life can travel abroad alone without offending
any but the overly prudish. I engaged a companion because—in short, because I was lonely. All my life I had taken care of
Papa. I needed someone, not to look after me, but the reverse. Miss Pritchett was a perfect companion. She was a few years
my senior, but one never would have supposed it from her dress and manner. She affected dainty frilled gowns of thin muslin
which hung awkwardly on her bony frame, and her voice was a preposterous high-pitched squeal. She was clumsy; her stupidity
was so intense it verged on simplemindedness; she had a habit of fainting, or, at least, of collapsing into a chair with her
hand pressed to her heart, whenever the slightest difficulty occurred. I looked forward to my association with Miss Pritchett.
Prodding her through the malodorous streets of Cairo and the deserts of Palestine would provide my active mind with the distraction
it needed.


After all, Miss Pritchett failed me. People of that sort seldom fall ill; they are too busy pretending to be ill. Yet no sooner
had we reached Rome than Miss Pritchett succumbed to the typhoid, like the weak-minded female she was. Though she recovered,
she delayed my departure for Egypt
for two weeks, and it was manifest that she would not be able to keep up with my pace until after a long convalescence. I
therefore dispatched her back to England in the care of a clergyman and his wife, who were leaving Rome. Naturally I felt
obliged to pay her salary until she was able to secure another post. She left weeping, and trying, as the carriage left, to
kiss my hand.


She left a vacuum in my carefully laid plans, and she was the cause of my ill humor when I left the hotel that fateful day.
I was already two weeks behind schedule, and all the accommodations had been arranged for two persons. Should I try to find
another companion, or resign myself to solitary travel? I must make my decision soon, and I was musing about it as I went
for a final visit to the desolate Cow Pasture which was the seat of the ancient Forum of Rome.


It was a brisk December afternoon; the sun was intermittently obscured by clouds. Piero looked like a cold dog, despite the
warm jacket I had purchased for him. I do not feel the cold. The breezy day, with its alternating shadow and sunshine, was
quite appropriate to the scene. Broken columns and fallen stones were obscured by tumbled masses of weeds, now brown and brittle.
There were other visitors rambling about. I avoided them. After reading a few of the broken inscriptions, and identifying,
to my satisfaction, the spots where Caesar fell and where the senators awaited the arrival of the Goths, I seated myself on
a fallen column.


Piero huddled at my feet with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around the basket he had been carrying. I found the
hard, cold seat comfortable enough; there is something to be said for a bustle, in fact. It was compassion for Piero that
made me order him to open the basket the hotel kitchen had provided. However, he refused my offer of hot tea with a pitiful
look. I presume he would have accepted brandy.


I was drinking my tea when I noticed that there was a cluster of people some distance away, who seemed to be
gathered around an object that was concealed from me by their bodies. I sent Piero to see what it was, and went on drinking
my tea.


After an interval he came bounding back with his black eyes gleaming. Nothing delights these gentry quite so much as misfortune;
I was therefore not surprised when he reported that the “turisti” were gathered around a young English lady who had fallen
down dead upon the ground.


“How do you know that she is English?” I inquired.

Piero did not reply in words; he went through an extraordinary series of grimaces to indicate a certainty so profound it requires
no evidence. His eyes rolled, his hands flew about, his shoulders rose and fell. What else should the lady be but English.


English or not, I doubted that the lady was dead. That was only Piero’s Latin love of the dramatic. But so far as I could
see, no one in the crowd was doing anything except stare. I rose to my feet, therefore, and after brushing off my bustle,
I approached the group. My parasol proved useful in passing through it; I had to apply the ferrule quite sharply to the backs
of several gentlemen before they would move. Eventually I penetrated to the center of the circle. As I had surmised, no one
was behaving with sense or compassion. Indeed, several of the ladies were pulling their escorts away, with comments about
infection and criticism of the fallen lady’s probable character.


She was so pitiful as she lay there on the cold, damp ground that only a heart of stone could have been unmoved. There are
many hearts of that composition, however.


I sat down upon the ground and lifted the girl’s head onto my knee. I regretted very much that I had not worn a cloak or mantle.
However, that was easily remedied.


“Your coat, sir,” I said to the nearest gentleman.

He was a stout, red-faced person whose extra layers of flesh should have been enough to keep him warm, without the fur-lined
greatcoat he wore. He carried a handsome
gold-headed stick, which he had been using to poke at the fallen girl as a lecturer in a waxworks indicates the exhibits.
When I addressed him, he turned from his companion, to whom he had been speaking in an undertone, and stared at me.


“What—what?” he snorted.

“Your coat,” I said impatiently. “Give it to me at once.” Then, as he continued to stare, his face getting redder and redder,
I raised my voice. “Sir—your coat, at once!”


I put the coat over the girl. Having assured myself that she was only in a faint, I was at leisure to look at her more closely.
I was not a whit distracted by the whalelike sputterings of the red-faced gentleman whose coat I had appropriated.


I have said that I am a plain woman. For this reason I have a quite disinterested love of beauty in all its forms. I could
therefore disinterestedly admire the girl who lay unconscious before me.


She was English, surely; that flawless white skin and pale-golden hair could belong to no other nation. She was naturally
fair of complexion; now, in her fainting state, her face was as pallid and pure as marble. The features might have been those
of an antique Venus or young Diana. Her lashes were several shades darker than her hair, forming a pleasing contrast. She
was dressed, quite inappropriately for the chilly weather, in a summer frock and thin blue cloak; both cloak and gown were
sadly worn, but had once been expensive—they were of costly material and showed good workmanship. The gloves on her small
hands had been neatly mended. The girl presented a picture of poverty and abandonment that excited my curiosity as much as
it aroused my compassion; I wondered what had reduced a young woman of obvious refinement to this state. I surmised that she
suffered chiefly from cold and hunger; the thin white face was pinched and sunken.


As I watched, her dark-gold lashes fluttered and lifted,
disclosing eyes of an exquisite deep blue. They stared dreamily about for a time, and then fixed themselves on my face. The
girl’s expression changed; a touch of color came to her thin cheeks, and she struggled to sit up.


“Be still,” I said, putting her down with one hand and beckoning Piero with the other. “You have fainted and are still weak.
Partake of some nourishment, if you please, before we proceed to further measures to relieve you.”


She tried to protest; her helpless state and the circle of staring, unfriendly eyes clearly distressed her. I was perfectly
indifferent to the observers, but since she seemed embarrassed, I decided to rid myself of them. I told them to go. They did
so, except for the indignant gentleman whose coat was over the girl.


“Your name and hotel, sir,” I said, cutting short a loud protest. “Your coat will be returned later this evening. A person
of your excessive bulk should not wear such heavy clothing in any case.”


The lady by his side, who had the same rotund outlines and hard red face, exclaimed aloud.

“How dare you, madame! I have never heard of such a thing!”

“I daresay you have not,” I agreed, giving her a look that made her step back. “I do not doubt that it is too late to awaken
in you any faint sense of Christian compassion or normal human emotion, so I shan’t try. Take yourself away, madame, and this—I
can hardly say ‘gentleman’—this male person with you.”


As I spoke I was administering bits of food from my basket to the fallen girl. The fastidious manner in which she ate, despite
her obvious hunger, confirmed my assumption that she was a lady. She seemed better when she had finished a piece of bread
and the remainder of my tea; and since the crowd had retired to a distance I was able, with Piero’s assistance, to raise her
to her feet. We then proceeded, by carriage, to my hotel.



II


The doctor I summoned assured me that my diagnosis had been correct. The young lady was suffering from starvation and cold
only. There was no sign of infection, and she was recovering quickly.


A plan had taken shape in my mind, and I considered it, striding up and down the drawing room of my suite, as is my habit
when engaged in thought. It did not take me long to reach a decision. Frail as the girl appeared, she must have a stout constitution
in order to have resisted, in her weakened state, the putrid air and water of Rome. Clearly she had no friends or relatives
to whom she could look for relief, or she would not have sunk to such a state. Equally clearly, she could not be left in that
state.


Having made up my mind, I went to tell the young lady what was to be done.

She was sitting up in bed, taking soup from the hand of my maid, Travers. Neither of them appeared to be enjoying the process.
Travers is a living contradiction to the theories of the physiognomists, for her face and shape do not at all reflect her
personality. She is a round, cheery-faced little person with the soul of a dried-up old spinster. She did not approve of my
taking in a “stray,” as she would have said, and her sour look expressed her feelings. To be fair, that was the only way in
which Travers could express her feelings. I do not permit verbal complaints.


“That will do,” I said. “Too much food might be ill advised at present. Go away, Travers, and be sure you close the door tightly.”

When she had obeyed, I studied my patient and was pleased at what I saw. My flannel nightdress was considerably too large
for the girl. She would need clothing—dainty, delicate things, to suit her fairness—garments of the sort I had never been
able to wear. She would look charming in
pale shades, blue and pink and lavender. There was color in her face now, a delicate rose flush that made her even prettier.
How on earth, I wondered, had such a girl come to her present pass?


My stare must have been more intent than I realized. The girl’s eyes dropped. Then she raised her head and spoke, with a firmness
I had not expected. Her voice settled any lingering doubts as to her class; it was that of a well-bred young lady.


“I am more indebted than I can say,” she began. “But be assured, ma’am, I shall not take advantage of your charity. I am quite
recovered now; if you will direct your maid to return my clothing, I will rid you of my presence.”


“Your clothing has been thrown away,” I said absently. “It was not worth the trouble of laundering. You must remain in bed
for the rest of the day in any case. I will order a seamstress to come tomorrow. There is a boat leaving for Alexandria on
Friday next. A week should be sufficient. You will need to do some shopping, of course, but first I had better see what you
have with you. If you will tell me where you have been staying, I will send a man around for your boxes.”


Her face was very expressive. It had registered a variety of emotions as I spoke; the blue eyes had flashed with indignation
and then narrowed with suspicion. But the ultimate emotion was openmouthed bewilderment. I waited for her to speak, but she
merely opened and closed her mouth, so I said impatiently, “I am taking you to Egypt with me, as my companion. Miss Pritchett
failed me; she took the typhoid. I had agreed to pay her ten pounds a year. Naturally I will be responsible for equipping
you for the journey. You can hardly travel in a flannel nightdress!”


“No,” the girl agreed, looking dazed. “But—but—”

“My name is Amelia Peabody. You will call me Amelia. I am a spinster of independent means, traveling for pleasure. Is there
anything else you wish to know about me?”


“I know all I need to know,” the girl said quietly. “I was
not entirely unconscious when you came to my rescue, and I hope I am able to recognize true kindness of heart. But my dear
Miss Peabody—very well, Amelia—you know nothing about me!”

“Is there something I should know?”

“I might be a criminal! I might be vicious—unprincipled!”

“No, no,” I said calmly. “I have been accused of being somewhat abrupt in my actions and decisions, but I never act without
thought; it is simply that I think more quickly and more intelligently than most people. I am an excellent judge of character.
I could not be deceived about yours.”


A dimple appeared at the corner of the girl’s mouth. It trembled, and was gone. The blue eyes fell.

“You are deceived,” she said, so softly I could hardly hear. “I am not what you think. I owe it to you to tell you my story; and when
you have heard it, then—then you will be justified in ordering me out of your sight.”


“Proceed,” I said. “I will be the judge of that.”

“I am sure you will!” The dimple reappeared, but did not linger. Her face pale, her eyes steady, the girl began to speak.

My name is Evelyn Barton-Forbes. My parents having died when I was an infant, I was brought up by my grandfather, the Earl
of Ellesmere. I see you recognize the name. It is an ancient name and an honorable one—although many of the holders of the
title have not been men of honor. My grandfather… well, I cannot speak fairly of him. I know he is regarded by many as miserly
and selfish; though he p. . .