The Hippopotamus Pool

Book 8: Amelia Peabody

by Elizabeth Peters

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

The spunky Victorian Egyptologist Amelia Peabody Emerson has returned to the exotic Nile valley. Parasol aloft and hot on the trail of an unexplored tomb, she must outwit a shadowy evildoer, a questionable antiquities dealer, and her loquacious son, Ramses.
Washington Post Book World praises Elizabeth Peters: “A writer so popular that the public library has to keep her books under lock and key.”

Release date: December 19, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

“FASCINATING … HER BEST IN YEARS, primarily because … super-bright Ramses hilariously dominated much of the action.”

—Chicago Sun-Times

“FUN … HER CHARACTERS ARE DELIGHTS… PETERS’S GREATEST STRENGTH IS DIALOGUE—always witty, often risque and totally non-Victorian,
which somehow makes it work.”


—San Francisco Examiner

“A DELIGHT FROM START TO FINISH … presents the author and her detecting heroine in fine form.”

—Mostly Murder

“JUMP INTO THE ‘POOL.’ THE WATER’S FINE…. continues the mix of feminism, archaeological insights and humor that has made the
series a success with readers.”


—Charleston Post & Courier

“READ THIS ONE—JUST FOR FUN.”

—Louisville Courier-Journal

“A DELICIOUSLY WITTY, COMPULSIVELY READABLE ROMP … sure to enchant both first-time readers and passionate Peters fans.”

—Book Page

“FANS WILL LOVE THE WAY OUR HEROES OUTWIT THEIR ENEMIES AND SOLVE THE MYSTERY.”

—Abilene Reporter News


READERS LOVE ELIZABETH PETERS!*

“Your books contain all the things I love the most: humor, adventure, mystery, romance, and intelligent, capable heroines.”

—J.C., British Columbia, Canada

“One of your most ardent fans is a seventeen-year-old student in SC. She is enthralled with all of your characters and writings.
She even wants a pair of Turkish trousers.”


—C.S. Jr., Gastonia, NC

“I thought it was about time I should write to thank you for the laughter, entertainment, and even the broadening of my mind
your books have given me.”


—M.S., Fish Hoek, South Africa

“Life without the comfort of a new ‘Elizabeth’ would be insupportable. I ration them. They got me through menopause—and you
make me giggle like a teenager.”


—N.W. (no address)

“They are such intelligent books. I think I have read each book at least 10 times.”

—J.C.D., Rocky Point, NY

“I have just finished reading The Hippopotamus Pool. I laughed harder than ever. Hooray for Amelia, long may she wave! And Ramses too.”


—D.G., Middletown, NY


“So you have done it again! You have made Peabody, Emerson, and the others in your newest book live again for us readers who
welcome old and new friends into our lives.”


—V.T.M., Tenafly, NJ

AND THE EXPERTS AGREE!

“Elizabeth Peters/Barbara Michaels has once again brilliantly evoked the mystery, excitement, and, yes, passion of a Golden
Age of Egyptology, with generous doses of wit and suspense thrown in for good measure. This Egyptologist gives The Hippopotamus Pool three thumbs up!”


—Dr. W. R. Johnson, field director of The Epigraphic Survey, Oriental Institute (Chicago House, Luxor, Egypt)

“The queen of Egyptological fiction.”

—William J. Murname, Ph.D., University of Memphis

“ ‘The best Amelia yet’ is always the assessment of the latest installment of Elizabeth Peters’s suspense-cum-parody Amelia Peabody Emerson
series, and this is certainly true of The Hippopotamus Pool.”


—Dennis Forbes, editor, KMT: A Modern Journal of Ancient Egypt

Abd el Hamed—antiquities dealer and forger, living in Gurneh

Abdullah ibn Hassan al Wahhab—reis (foreman) of Emerson’s Egyptian workmen

Ali—a suffragi (room steward) at Shepheard’s Hotel

Ali, Mohammed, Selim, et cetera et cetera—Abdullah’s sons, who also work for the Emersons

Ali Murad—antiquities dealer and American consular agent in Luxor

Amherst, William—Cyrus Vandergelt’s assistant, a young Egyptologist, who has very little to do with the story

Bertha—a woman of mystery, one of the Emersons’ former enemies

Brugsch, Emile—assistant to Maspero, first archaeologist to enter the cache of royal mummies at Deir el Bahri

Budge, Wallis—Keeper of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities at the British Museum; notorious for his questionable methods of
acquiring objects for the museum


Carter, Howard—newly appointed Inspector of Antiquities for Upper Egypt

Daoud—Abdullah’s nephew

Emerson, Amelia Peabody—Victorian gentlewoman, archaeologist, and expert in crime

Emerson, Evelyn—Walter’s wife, granddaughter of the late Earl of Chalfont

Emerson, Radcliffe—Amelia’s husband, “the most eminent Egyptologist of this or any other era,” known to Egyptians as the Father
of Curses and to his wife as Emerson


Emerson, Walter—Radcliffe’s brother, a specialist in the languages of ancient Egypt

Emerson, Walter Peabody—son of Amelia and Emerson, called Ramses by his friends and an afreet (demon) by almost everybody
else


Forth, Nefret—ward of Amelia and Emerson, granddaughter of the late Lord Blacktower

Layla—Abd el Hamed’s third and most interesting wife

Mahmud—steward of the Emersons’ dahabeeyah

Marmaduke, Gertrude—hired by the Emersons to tutor their children

Maspero, Gaston—reappointed in 1899 to his former position as Director of Antiquities

Murch, Chauncey—American missionary and dealer in antiquities in Luxor

Newberry, Percy—English Egyptologist

O’Connell, Kevin—star reporter of The Daily Yell

Petrie, William Flinders—Emerson’s chief rival as the founder of scientific archaeology

Quibell, J. F.—newly appointed Inspector of Antiquities for Lower Egypt

Riccetti, Giovanni—formerly in control of the illegal antiquities trade in Luxor, he intends to regain that position by any
means necessary


Sethos, aka the Master Criminal—formerly in control of the illegal antiquities network in Egypt, the chief adversary of Amelia
and Emerson (and Ramses)


Shelmadine, Leopold Abdullah, aka Mr. Saleh—is he the reincarnation of the High Priest Heriamon or a member of a gang of tomb
robbers? Or both?


Todros, David—Abdullah’s grandson

Vandergelt, Cyrus—American millionaire excavator and enthusiastic amateur of Egyptology

Washington, Sir Edward—a younger son with a talent for archaeological photography and a questionable reputation with the ladies

Willoughby, Dr.—English physician residing in Luxor



For the convenience of readers who may be encountering Mrs. Emerson’s journals for the first time, we have obtained permission
to reprint this excerpt from The National Autobiographical Dictionary, 45th edition.


The date of my birth is irrelevant. I did not truly exist until 1884, when I was in my late twenties.1 It was in that year that I set out for Egypt with a young lady companion, Evelyn Forbes, and found the three things that
were to give meaning and purpose to my life: crime, Egyptology and Radcliffe Emerson!


Emerson (who was beginning that remarkable career in archaeology which is described elsewhere in this dictionary) and his
brother Walter were digging at the remote site of Amarna in Middle Egypt. Shortly after Evelyn and I joined them, the work
was interrupted by a series of extraordinary events featuring what appeared to be an animated mummy. The unmasking of the
villain who had inspired this apparition did not interfere unduly with a successful season of excavation.2

My marriage to Emerson took place soon thereafter, as did the union of Evelyn to Emerson’s brother. The birth of
our only child, Walter Peabody Emerson, familiarly known as Ramses, necessitated a brief hiatus in our annual expeditions
to Egypt. It was not until the autumn of 1889 that an appeal from the widow of Sir Henry Baskerville, whose death under mysterious
circumstances had interrupted his excavation of a royal tomb at Thebes, took us back (with what delight the Reader may imagine)
to Egypt. We were of course able to finish Sir Henry’s work and solve the mystery of his death.3

We had left our son with his aunt and uncle in England that season, since his extreme youth (and certain of his habits) would
have imperiled him (and everyone around him). However, he had from an early age demonstrated a keen aptitude for Egyptology,
so (at the insistence of his doting father) he accompanied us to Egypt the following year. We had hoped to work at the great
pyramid field of Dahshûr that season, but the spite and jealousy4 of the then Director of Antiquities relegated to us the nearby site of Mazghunah—probably the dullest and least important
archaeological site in Egypt. Fortunately our work was enlivened by our first encounter with the enigmatic genius of crime
known as Sethos, or, as I preferred to call him, the Master Criminal.


The details of this amazing man’s career are shrouded in mystery, but it must have begun in the late 1880s, in the Luxor area.
A few years later he had disposed of all rivals and ruled supreme over the illegal antiquities trade. All the objects looted
from tombs and temples by unauthorized diggers, Egyptian and European, passed through his hands. Superior intelligence, a
poetic imagination, utter ruthlessness, and an incomparable talent for disguise contributed to his success; only his most
trusted lieutenants were aware of his true identity.


We were able that year to foil Sethos’s attempt to rob the princesses’ tombs at Dahshûr and to escape his attempts on our

lives.5 He got away from us, though, and we found him on our trail again the following season. However, certain developments of a
private nature (which are not within the scope of this article) gave us reason to believe we had seen the last of him.6

In the autumn of 1897 we set out for the Sudan, which was being reconquered by British-led Egyptian troops after a long period
of occupation by the Dervishes. We had planned to excavate in the ruins of the ancient Cushite capital of Napata, but a message
from Willy Forth, an old friend of Emerson’s who had been missing for over ten years, sent us out into the wastes of the Western
Desert in search of him and his family. The details of that astonishing adventure (perhaps the most remarkable of our lives)
have been recorded elsewhere;7 it resulted in the rescue of Forth’s daughter Nefret from the remote oasis where she had dwelt since her birth.


The winter of 1898-99 saw Emerson and me again at the site of Amarna. We had left Ramses and Nefret (now our ward) in England,
and I looked forward to reliving the fond memories of my first meeting with my admirable spouse. The startling events that
interrupted our excavations that year involve private personal matters that are inappropriate in an official biography;8 suffice it to say that we encountered for the third time our great and terrible adversary, the Master Criminal, and several
of his henchmen, as well as a mysterious female known to us only as Bertha. The thrilling denouement of this adventure saw
Sethos felled by an assassin’s bullet, the dispatch of the assassin by Emerson and the disappearance of Bertha and the henchmen….


I have often been asked to account for the frequency of our encounters with criminals of various varieties, but in my considered
opinion it resulted inevitably from two causes: first, the uncontrolled state of excavation during the period in question,
and second, the character of my husband. From
the first, and at first almost single-handedly, Emerson fought tomb robbers, inept inspectors of antiquities and unprincipled
collectors in his crusade to preserve the historic treasures of Egypt. Needless to say, I was ever at his side in the pursuit
of knowledge and of villains.


1. Sic? This is not consistent with other sources. However, the editors were of the opinion that it would be discourteous to question a lady’s word.

2. Crocodile on the Sandbank

3. Curse of the Pharaohs

4. Mrs. Emerson refused to alter this statement, despite the editors’ objections to its prejudicial nature.

5. The Mummy Case

6. Mrs. Emerson’s reticence on this subject is difficult to understand, since she has described these events in the fifth
volume of her Memoirs, Lion in the Valley.


7. The Last Camel Died at Noon

8. For the details of these private personal matters, cf. The Snake, the Crocodile and the Dog

Through the open windows of the ballroom the soft night breeze of Egypt cooled the flushed faces of the dancers. Silk and satin
glowed; jewels sparkled; gold braid glittered; the strains of sweet music filled the air. The New Year’s Eve Ball at Shepheard’s
Hotel was always an outstanding event in Cairo’s social season, but the dying of this December day marked an ending of greater
than usual import. In little more than an hour the chimes would herald the start of a new century: January the first, nineteen
hundred.


Having just completed a vigorous schottische in the company of Captain Carter, I sought a quiet corner behind a potted palm
and gave myself up to speculation of the sort in which any serious-minded individual would engage on such an occasion. What
would the next one hundred years bring to a world that yet suffered all the ancient ills of mankind—poverty, ignorance, war,
the oppression of the female sex? Optimist though I am, and blessed with an excellent imagination (excessively blessed, according
to my husband), I could not suppose a single century would see those problems solved. I was confident, however, that my gender
would finally achieve the justice so long denied it, and that I myself would live to see that glorious day. Careers for women!
Votes for women! Women solicitors and women surgeons!
Women judges, legislators, leaders of enlightened nations in which females stood shoulder-to-shoulder and back-to-back with
men!


I felt I could claim some small credit for the advances I confidently expected to see. I myself had broken one barrier: as
the first of my sex to work as a field archaeologist in Egypt, I had proved that a “mere” woman could endure the same dangers
and discomforts, and meet the same professional standards, as a man. Candor as well as affection compels me to admit that
I could never have done it without the wholehearted support of a remarkable individual—Radcliffe Emerson, the most preeminent
Egyptologist of this or any century, and my devoted spouse.


Though the room was filled with people, my eyes were drawn to him as by a magnet. Emerson would stand out in any group. His
splendid height and athletic form, his chiseled features and bright blue eyes, the dark hair that frames his intellectual
brow—but I could go on for several pages describing Emerson’s exceptional physical and mental characteristics. Humbly I acknowledged
the blessings of heaven. What had I done to deserve the affection of such a man?


Quite a lot, in fact. I would be the first to admit that my physical characteristics are not particularly prepossessing (though
Emerson has, in private, remarked favorably on certain of them). Coarse black hair and steely gray eyes, a bearing more noted
for dignity than grace, a stature of indeterminate size—these are not the characteristics that win a man’s heart. Yet I had
won the heart of Radcliffe Emerson, not once but twice; I had stood at his side, yes, and fought at his side, during the remarkable
adventures that had so often interrupted our professional activities. I had rescued him from danger, nursed him through illness
and injury, given him a son …


And raised that son to his present age of twelve and a half years. (With Ramses one counted by months, if not days.) Though
I have encountered mad dogs, Master Criminals, and murderers of both sexes, I consider the raising of Ramses my most remarkable
achievement. When I recall the things Ramses has done, and the things other people have (often justifiably) tried to do to
Ramses, I feel a trifle faint.


It was with Ramses and his adopted sister Nefret that Emerson stood chatting now. The girl’s golden-red hair and fair face
were in striking contrast to my son’s Arabic coloring and saturnine features, but I was startled to note that he was now as
tall as she. I had not realized how much he had grown over the past summer.


Ramses was talking. He usually is. I wondered what he could be saying to bring such a formidable scowl to Emerson’s face,
and hoped he was not lecturing his father on Egyptology. Though tediously average in other ways, Ramses was something of a
linguistic genius, and he had pursued the study of the Egyptian language since infancy. Emerson feels a natural paternal pride
in his son’s abilities, but he does not like to have them shoved down his throat.


I was about to rise and go to them when the music began again and Emerson, scowling even more horribly, waved the two young
people away. As soon as she turned, Nefret was approached by several young gentlemen, but Ramses took her arm and led—or,
to be more accurate, dragged—her onto the floor. The frustrated suitors dispersed, looking sheepish, except for one—a tall,
slightly built individual with fair hair, who remained motionless, following the girl’s movements with a cool appraising stare
and a raised eyebrow.


Though Ramses’s manners left something to be desired, I could not but approve his action. The girl’s lovely face and form
attracted men as a rose attracts bees, but she was too
young for admirers—and far too young for the admiration of the fair-haired gentleman. I had not met him but I had heard of
him. The good ladies of Cairo’s European society had had a great deal to say about Sir Edward Washington. He came of a respectable
family from Northamptonshire, but he was a younger son, without prospects, and with a devastating effect on susceptible young
women. (Not to mention susceptible older women.)


The seductive strains of a Strauss waltz filled the room and I looked up with a smile at Count Stradivarius, who was approaching
me with the obvious intention of asking me to dance. He was a bald, portly little man, not much taller than I, but I love
to waltz, and I was about to take the hand he had extended when the count was obliterated—removed, replaced—by another.


“Will you do me the honor, Peabody?” said Emerson.

It had to be Emerson—no one else employs my maiden name as a term of intimate affection—but for an instant I thought I must
be asleep and dreaming. Emerson did not dance. Emerson had often expressed himself, with the emphasis that marks his conversation,
on the absurdity of dancing.


How strange he looked! Under his tan lurked a corpselike pallor. The sapphire-blue eyes were dull, the well-cut lips tightly
closed, the thick black hair wildly disheveled, the broad shoulders braced as if against a blow. He looked … he looked terrified.
Emerson, who fears nothing on earth, afraid?


I stared, mesmerized, into his eyes, and saw a spark illumine their depths. I knew that spark. It was inspired by temper—Emerson’s
famous temper, which has won him the name of Father of Curses from his admiring Egyptian workmen. The color rushed back into
his face; the cleft in his prominent chin quivered ominously.


“Speak up, Peabody,” he snarled. “Don’t sit there gaping. Will you honor me, curse it?”

I believe I am not lacking in courage, but it required all the courage I possessed to accede. I did not suppose Emerson had
the vaguest idea how to waltz. It would be quite like him to assume that if he took a notion to do a thing he could do it,
without the need of instruction or practice. But the pallor of his manly countenance assured me that the idea terrified him
even more than it did me, and affection rose triumphant over concern for my toes and my fragile evening slippers. I placed
my hand in the broad, calloused palm that had been offered (he had forgot his gloves, but this was certainly not the time
to remind him of that little error).


“Thank you, my dear Emerson.”

“Oh,” said Emerson. “You will?”

“Yes, my dear.”

Emerson took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and seized me.

The first few moments were exceedingly painful, particularly to my feet and my ribs. I am proud to say that no cry escaped
my lips and that no sign of anguish marred the serenity of my smile. After a while Emerson’s desperate grip relaxed. “Hmmm,”
he said. “Not so bad, eh, Peabody?”


I took the first deep breath I had enjoyed since he took hold of me and realized that my martyrdom had been rewarded. For
so large a man, Emerson can move with catlike grace when he chooses; encouraged by my apparent enjoyment, he had begun to
enjoy himself too, and he had fallen into the rhythm of the music.


“Not bad at all,” Emerson repeated, grinning. “They told me I would like it once I got the hang of it.”

“They?”

“Ramses and Nefret. They were taking lessons this past summer, you know; they taught me. I made them promise not
to tell you. It was to be a surprise for you, my dear. I know how much you like this sort of thing. I must say it is a good
deal more enjoyable than I had expected. I suppose it is you who … Peabody? Are you crying? Curse it, did I tread on your
toes?”


“No, my dear.” In shocking defiance of custom I clung closer to him, blotting my tears on his shoulder. “I weep because I
am so moved. To think that you would make such a sacrifice for me—”


“A small enough return, my darling Peabody, for the sacrifices you have made and the dangers you have faced for me.” The words
were muffled, for his cheek rested on the top of my head and his lips were pressed to my temple.


A belated sense of decorum returned. I strove to remove myself a short distance. “People are staring, Emerson. You are holding
me too close.”


“No, I am not,” said Emerson.

“No,” I said, yielding shamelessly to his embrace. “You aren’t.”



Emerson, having “got the hang of it,” would allow no one else to waltz with me. I declined all other partners, not only because
I knew it would please him but because I required the intervals between waltzes to catch my breath. Emerson waltzed as he
did everything else, with enormous energy, and between the tightness of his grasp and the vigor of his movements, which had,
on more than one occasion, literally lifted me off my feet, it took me some time to recover.


The intervals gave me the opportunity to observe the other guests. The study of human nature in all its manifestations is
one no person of intelligence should ignore—and what better place to observe it than in a setting such as this?


The styles of that year were very pretty, I thought, without the exaggerated outlines that had in the past distorted (and
would, alas, soon again distort) the female form. Skirts fell gracefully from the waist, sans hoops or bustles; bodices were
modestly draped. Black was a popular shade with older ladies, but how rich was the shimmer of black satin, how cobweb-fine
the sable lace at throat and elbow! The sparkle of gems and of jet, the pale glimmer of pearls adorned the fabric and the
white throats of the wearers. What a pity, I thought, that men allowed themselves to be limited by the meaningless vagaries
of fashion! In most cultures, from the ancient Egyptian until comparatively modern times, the male swanked as brilliantly
as the female, and presumably took as much pleasure as she in the acquisition of jewels and embroidered and lace-trimmed garments.


The only exceptions to masculine drabness of attire were the brilliant uniforms of the Egyptian Army officers. In fact, none
of these gentlemen were Egyptians. Like all other aspects of the government, the army was under British control and officered
by Englishmen or Europeans. The uniforms denoting members of our own military forces were plainer. There were a good many
of them present that night, and in my imagination I seemed to see a faint shadow darkening those fresh young faces, so bravely
mustachioed and flushed with laughter. They would soon be on their way to South Africa, where battle raged. Some would never
return.


With a sigh and a murmured prayer (all a mere woman can offer in a world where men determine the fate of the young and helpless)
I returned to my study of human nature. Those who were not dancing sat or stood around the room watching the intricacies of
the cotillion, or chatting with one another. A good many were acquaintances of mine; I was interested to observe that Mrs.
Arbuthnot had gained another several stone and that Mr. Arbuthnot had got a young lady
whom I did not recognize backed into a corner. I could not see what he was doing, but the young lady’s expression suggested
he was up to his old tricks. Miss Marmaduke (of whom more hereafter) had no partner. Perched on the edge of her chair, her
face set in an anxious smile, she looked like a bedraggled black crow. Next to her, ignoring her with cool discourtesy, was
Mrs. Everly, wife of the Interior Minister. From the animation that wreathed her face as she carried on a conversation across
Miss Marmaduke with the latter’s neighbor, I deduced that the lady, swathed in black veiling, was a Person of Importance.
Was she a recent widow? No lesser loss could dictate such heavy mourning; but if that were the case, what was she doing at
a social function such as this? Perhaps, I mused, her loss was not recent. Perhaps, like a certain regal widow, she had determined
never to leave off the visible signs of bereavement.


(I reproduce the preceding paragraphs in order to demonstrate to the Reader how much can be offered to the serious student
of human nature even in so frivolous a social setting as that one.)


It would be my last social event for some time. In a few more days we would leave the comforts of Cairo’s finest hotel for
…


Well, only Heaven and Emerson knew where. It was one of his engaging little habits, to delay until the last possible moment
before telling me where we would excavate that year. Irritating as this could be, it had a certain titillation, and I amused
myself by considering the possibilities. Dahshûr? We had never finished exploring the interior of the Bent Pyramid, and pyramids,
I must confess, are a passion of mine. Amarna would be equally to my taste, however, since it was there that my first romantic
experiences with Emerson took place. The Theban area, too, had its attractions: royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings, the
majestic temple of Queen Hatshepsut …


My meditations were interrupted by Nefret and Ramses. Her rose-petal cheeks aglow, the girl dropped into the chair at my side
and glowered at her foster brother, who stood with arms folded and face expressionless. Ramses had graduated to long trousers
that year—the sudden elongation of his lower limbs having made that decision advisable on aesthetic if no other grounds—and
with his curly hair brushed into a rampant crest, he resembled a critical stork.


“Ramses says I may not dance with Sir Edward,” Nefret exclaimed. “Aunt Amelia, tell him—”

“Sir Edward,” said Ramses, prominent nose quivering, “is not a suitable person for Nefret to know. Mother, tell her—”

“Be quiet, both of you,” I said sharply. “I will be the judge of who constitutes a proper associate for Nefret.”

“Hmph,” said Ramses.

Nefret said something I did not understand. I supposed it to be one of the Nubian swearwords to which she resorted when in
a temper. Temper, and the heat of the room, would have reduced any other female countenance to an ugly state of red-faced
perspiration, but she could never appear other than beautiful; her cornflower-blue eyes sparkled wickedly and the sheen of
perspiration that bedewed her skin made it glow as if lit from within.


“Ramses,” I said, “please go and ask Miss Marmaduke to dance. You owe her that courtesy, since she is to be your tutor.”

“But Mama—” Ramses’s voice cracked. Ordinarily he was able to control the inevitable fluctuations, from soprano to baritone,
that mark a lad’s adolescence; on this occasion emotion had made him lose control, and his use of the childish form of address
which he had recently abjured was further indication of perturbation.


“I believe your hearing is not deficient, Ramses,” I remarke