The Last Camel Died at Noon

Book 6: Amelia Peabody

by Elizabeth Peters

Genres: Mystery; Suspense

Synopsis

Amelia and Emerson leave the calm of Victorian England in search of an estranged father’s son and a lost kingdom buried deep in Sudan.

Release date: March 1, 2010

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

“Guaranteed entertainment.”


—Milwaukee Journal

“A delightful romp… one of the best outings in the Peabody series.”

—Chicago Tribune

“Fans will be in heaven.… Nineteenth-century Egyptologist Amelia Peabody is wonderfully, gloriously, magnificently back.”

—Drood Review of Mystery

“Her wonderfully witty voice and her penchant for history lessons of the Nile both ancient and modern keep [her] high adventure
moving for even the highest brows.… If the reader is tempted to draw another obvious comparison between Amelia Peabody and
Indiana Jones, it’s Amelia—in wit and daring—by a landslide.”


—Peter Theroux

“THE LAST CAMEL DIED AT NOON has everything: a tricky, beautifully plotted mystery; rollicking, old-fashioned (in the best
sense of the word) adventure; romance; and the doughtiest, smartest, most appealing female protagonist in mystery fiction.”


—Aaron Elkins, Edgar Award-winning author of Old Bones

“THE LAST CAMEL DIED AT NOON is classic Peabody.… You don’t have to read any of the other books in the series to enjoy CAMEL—but
it will make you want to read them all.”


—Orlando Sentinel

“Fun… H. Rider Haggard with a lightness of touch.”

—Denver Rocky Mountain News


“A fast-paced gallop… delightfully informative and spellbinding.”


—Newport News Daily Press

“Well written, fast reading.… What happens? Buy the novel and find out.”

—Morse Press-News

“Fun and entertaining… Elizabeth Peters doesn’t disappoint.”

—Indianapolis News

“Delightful and hilarious.”

—Locus

“You’ll laugh out loud as the plot thickens and the handmaidens unveil.”

—Baton Rouge Sunday Advocate

“A delightful romp.”

—West Coast Review of Books

“A good mystery with more twists than the Nile… adventure that wraps up as tidily as King Whatsisname’s mummy.”

—Flint Journal

“Yet another delightful saga of this Victorianera heroine… erudite, witty froth laced with irony.”

—Florida Times-Union

“A writer so popular that the public library has to keep her books under lock and key.”

—Washington Post Book World





HANDS on hips, brows lowering, Emerson stood gazing fixedly at the recumbent ruminant. A sympathetic friend (if camels have
such, which is doubtful) might have taken comfort in the fact that scarcely a ripple of agitated sand surrounded the place
of its demise. Like the others in the caravan, of which it was the last, it had simply stopped, sunk to its knees, and passed
on, peacefully and quietly. (Conditions, I might add, that are uncharacteristic of camels alive or moribund.)


Those conditions are also uncharacteristic of Emerson. To the readers who have encountered my distinguished husband, in the
flesh or in the pages of my earlier works, it will come as no surprise to learn that he reacted to the camel’s death as if
the animal had committed suicide for the sole purpose of inconveniencing him. Eyes blazing like sapphires in his tanned and
chiseled face, he plucked the hat from his head, flung it upon the sand, and kicked it a considerable distance before turning
his furious glare toward me.



“Curse it, Amelia! I told you this was a harebrained scheme!”


“Yes, Emerson, you did,” I replied. “In those precise words, if I am not mistaken. If you will cast your mind back to our
first discussion of this enterprise, you may remember that I was in full agreement with you.”


“Then what—” Emerson turned in a circle. Boundless and bare, as the poet puts it, the lone and level sands stretched far away.
“Then what the devil are we doing here?” Emerson bellowed.


It was a reasonable question, and one that may also have occurred to the reader of this narrative. Professor Radcliffe Emerson,
F.R.S., F.B.A., LL.D. (Edinburgh), D.C.L. (Oxford), Member of the American Philosophical Society, et cetera, preeminent Egyptologist
of this or any other era, was frequently to be encountered in unusual, not to say peculiar, surroundings. Will I ever forget
that magical moment when I entered a tomb in the desolate cliffs bordering the Nile and found him delirious with fever, in
desperate need of attentions he was helpless to resist? The bond forged between us by my expert nursing was strengthened by
the dangers we subsequently shared; and in due course, Reader, I married him. Since that momentous day we had excavated in
every major site in Egypt and written extensively on our discoveries. Modesty prevents me from claiming too large a share
of the scholarly reputation we had earned, but Emerson would have been the first to proclaim that we were a partnership, in
archaeology as in marriage.


From the sandy wastes of the cemeteries of Memphis to the rocky cliffs of the Theban necropolis, we had wandered hand in hand
(figuratively speaking), in terrain almost as inhospitable as the desert that presently surrounded us. Never before, however,
had we been more than a few miles from the Nile and its life-giving water. It lay far behind us now,
and there was not a pyramid or a broken wall to be seen, much less a tree or a sign of habitation. What indeed were we doing
there? Without camels we were marooned on a sea of sand, and our situation was infinitely more desperate than that of shipwrecked
sailors.


I seated myself upon the ground with my back against the camel. The sun was at the zenith; the only shade was cast by the
body of the poor beast. Emerson paced back and forth, kicking up clouds of sand and swearing. His expertise in this latter
exercise had earned him the admiring title of “Father of Curses” from our Egyptian workmen, and on this occasion he surpassed
himself. I sympathized with his feelings, but duty compelled me to remonstrate.


“You forget yourself, Emerson,” I remarked, indicating our companions.

They stood side by side, watching me with grave concern, and I must say they made a ludicrous pair. Many of the native Nilotic
peoples are unusually tall, and Kemit, the only servant remaining to us, was over six feet in height. He wore a turban and
a loose robe of woven blue-and-white cotton. His face, with its clean-cut features and deeply bronzed skin, bore a striking
resemblance to that of his companion, but the second individual was less than four feet tall. He was also my son, Walter Peabody
Emerson, known as “Ramses,” who should not have been there.


Emerson cut off his expletive in mid-syllable, though the effort almost choked him. Still in need of a “went” for his boiling
emotions, he focused them on me.


“Who selected these da these cursed camels?”

“You know perfectly well who selected them,” I replied. “I always select the animals for our expeditions, and doctor them
too. The local people treat camels and donkeys so badly—”


“Don’t give me one of your lectures on veterinary medicine
and kindness to animals,” Emerson bellowed. “I knew—I knew!—your delusions about your medical knowledge would lead us into
disaster one day. You have been dosing these da——these confounded animals; what did you give them?”


“Emerson! Are you accusing me of poisoning the camels?” I struggled to overcome the indignation his outrageous accusation
had provoked. “I believe you have taken leave of your senses.”


“Well, and if I have, there is some excuse for me,” Emerson said in a more moderate tone. He edged closer to me. “Our situation
is desperate enough to disturb any man, even one as even-tempered as I. Er—I beg your pardon, my dear Peabody. Don’t cry.”


Emerson calls me Amelia only when he is annoyed with me. Peabody is my maiden name, and it was thus that Emerson, in one of
his feeble attempts at sarcasm, addressed me during the early days of our acquaintance. Hallowed by fond memories, it has
now become a private pet name, so to speak, indicative of affection and respect.


I lowered the handkerchief I had raised to my eyes and smiled at him. “A few grains of sand in my eye, Emerson, that is all.
You will never find me succumbing to helpless tears when firmness is required. As you are well aware.”


“Hmph,” said Emerson.

“All the same, Mama,” said Ramses, “Papa has raised a point worthy of consideration. It is surely stretching coincidence to
the point of impossibility to assume that all the camels should die, suddenly and with no symptoms of disease, within forty-eight
hours of one another.”


“I assure you, Ramses, that consideration had already occurred to me. Run and fetch Papa’s hat, if you please. No, Emerson,
I know your dislike of hats, but I insist that you put it on. We are in bad enough case without having you laid low by sunstroke.”



Emerson made no reply. His eyes were fixed on the small figure of his son, trotting obediently after the sun helmet, and his
expression was so poignant that my eyes dimmed. It was not fear for himself that weakened my husband, nor even concern for
me. We had faced death together not once but many times; he knew he could count on me to meet that grim adversary with a smile
and a stiff upper lip. No; it was the probable fate of Ramses that brought the moisture to his keen blue eyes. So moved was
I that I vowed not to remind Emerson that it was his fault that his son and heir had been condemned to a slow, lingering,
painful death from dehydration.


“Well, we have been in worse situations,” I said. “At least we three have; and I presume, Kemit, that you are no stranger
to peril. Have you any suggestions, my friend?”


Responding to my gesture, Kemit approached and squatted down next to me. Ramses immediately squatted as well. He had conceived
a great admiration for this taciturn, handsome man; and the sight of them, like a stork and its chick, brought a smile to
my lips.


Emerson was not amused. Fanning himself with his hat, he remarked sarcastically, “If Kemit has a suggestion that can get us
out of this dilemma, I will take off my hat to him. We—”


“You cannot take off your hat until you put it on, Emerson,” I interrupted.

Emerson slapped the offending article onto his unruly black head with such force that his eyelashes fluttered wildly. “As
I was saying, we are more than six days from the Nile, as the camel trots; considerably longer on foot. If the so-called map
we have followed is to be trusted, there is a water hole or oasis ahead. It is a journey of approximately two days by camel,
of which we have none. We have water for perhaps two days, with strict rationing.”


It was an accurate and depressing summary. What Emerson
did not say, because the rest of us knew it, was that our desperate condition was due to the defection of our servants. They
had departed, in a body, the night before, taking with them all the waterskins except the partially filled containers we had
had with us in our tent and the canteen I always carry attached to my belt. They might have done worse; they might have murdered
us. I cannot, however, attribute their forbearance to kindness of heart. Emerson’s strength and ferocity are legendary; many
of the simple natives believe he is armed with supernatural powers. (And I myself have a certain reputation as the Sitt Hakim,
dispenser of mysterious medicines.) Rather than challenge us, they had stolen away in the dead of night. Kemit claimed he
had been struck unconscious when he attempted to prevent them, and indeed he had a sizable lump on his head to prove it. Why
he had not joined the mutineers I could not explain; it might have been loyalty—though he owed us no more than did the others,
who had worked for us as long—or it might have been that he had not been invited to join them.


There was a great deal about Kemit that wanted explaining. Expressionless as the nesting bird he somewhat resembled at that
moment, his knees being on approximately the level of his ears, he was not at all a comic figure. Indeed, his chiseled features
had a dignity that reminded me of certain Fourth Dynasty sculptures, most particularly the magnificent portrait of King Chephren,
builder of the Second Pyramid. I had once remarked to Emerson on the resemblance; he had replied that it was not surprising,
since the ancient Egyptians were of mixed racial stock and some of the Nubian tribes were probably their remote descendants.
(I should add that this theory of Emerson’s—which he regarded not as theory but as fact— was not accepted by the great majority
of his colleagues.)


But I perceive that I am wandering from the plot of my narrative, as I am inclined to do when questions of scholarly
interest arise. Let me turn back the pages of my journal and explain in proper sequence of time how we came to find ourselves
in such an extraordinary predicament. I do not do this in the meretricious hope of prolonging your anxiety as to our survival,
dear Reader, for if you have the intelligence I expect my Readers to possess, you will know I could not be writing this account
if I were in the same state as the camels.


I must turn back not a few but many pages, and take you to a quiet country house in Kent, when the turning of the leaves from
green to golden bronze betokened the approach of autumn. After a busy summer spent teaching, lecturing, and readying the publication
of our previous season’s excavations, we were about to begin preparations for our annual winter’s work in Egypt. Emerson was
seated behind his desk; I walked briskly to and fro, hands behind my back. The bust of Socrates, oddly speckled with black—for
it was at this bust that Emerson was wont to hurl his pen when inspiration flagged or something happened to irritate him—watched
us benevolently.


The subject of discussion, or so I fondly believed, was the future intellectual development of our son.

“I fully sympathize with your reservations concerning the public-school system, Emerson,” I assured him. “But the boy must
have some formal training, somewhere, sometime. He is growing up quite a little savage.”


“You do yourself an injustice, my dear,” Emerson murmured, glancing at the newspaper he was holding.

“He has improved,” I admitted. “He doesn’t talk quite as much as he used to, and he has not been in danger of life or limb
for several weeks. But he has no notion how to get on with children his own age.”


Emerson looked up, his brow furrowed. “Now, Peabody, that is not the case. Last winter, with Ahmed’s children—”


“I speak of English children, Emerson. Naturally.”


“There is nothing natural about English children. Good Gad, Amelia, our public schools have a caste system more pernicious
than that of India, and those at the bottom of the ladder are abused more viciously than any Untouchable. As for ‘getting
on’ with members of the opposite sex—you do not mean, I hope, to exclude female children from Ramses’s social connections?
Well, I assure you that that is precisely what your precious public schools aim to achieve.” Warming to his theme, Emerson
leapt up, scattering papers in all directions, and began to pace back and forth on a path at right angles to mine. “Curse
it, I sometimes wonder how the upper classes in this country ever manage to reproduce! By the time a lad leaves university
he is so intimidated by girls of his own class it is almost impossible for him to speak to them in intelligible sentences!
If he did, he would not receive an intelligible answer, for the education of women, if it can be dignified by that term—Oof.
I beg your pardon, my dear. Are you hurt?”


“Not at all.” I accepted the hand he offered to assist me to rise. “But if you insist on pacing while you lecture, at least
walk with me instead of at right angles to my path. A collision was inevitable.”


A sunny smile replaced his scowl and he pulled me into a fond embrace. “Only that sort of collision, I hope. Come now, Peabody,
you know we agree on the inadequacies of the educational system. You don’t want to break the lad’s spirit?”


“I only want to bend it a little,” I murmured. But it is hard to resist Emerson when he smiles and… Never mind what he was
doing; but when I say Emerson’s eyes are sapphire-blue, his hair is black and thick, and his frame is as trim and muscular
as that of a Greek athlete—not even referring to the cleft or dimple in his chin or the enthusiasm he brings to the exercise
of his conjugal rights… Well, I need not be more
specific, but I am sure any right-thinking female will understand why the subject of Ramses’s education ceased to interest
me.


After Emerson had resumed his seat and picked up the newspaper, I returned to the subject, but in a considerably softened
mood. “My dear Emerson, your powers of persuasion—that is to say, your arguments—are most convincing. Ramses could go to school
in Cairo. There is a new Academy for Young Gentlemen of which I have had good reports; and since we will be excavating at
Sakkara…”


The newspaper behind which Emerson had retired rattled loudly. I stopped speaking, seized by a hideous premonition—though,
as events were to prove, not nearly hideous enough. “Emerson,” I said gently, “you have applied for the firman, haven’t you?
You surely would not repeat the error you made a few years ago when you neglected to apply in time, and instead of receiving
permission to work at Dahshoor we ended up at the most boring, unproductive site in all of Lower Egypt?

*

Emerson! Put down that newspaper and answer me! Have you obtained permission from the Department of Antiquities to excavate
at Sakkara this season?”


Emerson lowered the newspaper, and flinched at finding my face only inches from his. “Kitchener,” he said, “has taken Berber.”

It is inconceivable to me that future generations will fail to realize the vital importance of the study of history, or that
Britons will be ignorant of one of the most remarkable chapters in the development of their empire. Yet stranger things have
happened; and in the event of such a catastrophe (for I would call it nothing less), I beg leave of my Readers to remind them
of facts that should be as familiar to them as they are to me.


In 1884, when I made my first visit to Egypt, most English
persons persisted in regarding the Mahdi as only another ragged religious fanatic, despite the fact that his followers had
already overrun half the Sudan. This country, encompassing the region from the rocky cataracts of Assouan to the jungles south
of the junction of the Blue and White Niles, had been conquered by Egypt in 1821. The Pashas, who were not Egyptians at all
but descendants of an Albanian adventurer, had proceeded to rule the region even more corruptly and inefficiently than they
did Egypt itself. The benevolent intervention of the great powers (especially Britain) rescued Egypt from disaster, but matters
continued to worsen in the Sudan until Mohammed Ahmed Ibn el-Sayyid Abdullah proclaimed himself the Mahdi, the reincarnation
of the Prophet, and rallied the forces of rebellion against Egyptian tyranny and misrule. His followers believed he was the
descendant of a line of sheikhs; his enemies sneered at him as a poor ignorant boat-builder. Whatever his origins, he possessed
an extraordinarily magnetic personality and a remarkable gift of oratory. Armed only with sticks and spears, his ragtag troops
had swept all before them and were threatening the Sudanese capital of Khartoum.


Against the figure of the Mahdi stands that of the heroic General Gordon. Early in 1884 he had been sent to Khartoum to arrange
for the withdrawal of the troops garrisoned there and in the nearby fort of Omdurman. There was a good deal of public feeling
against this decision, for abandoning Khartoum meant giving up the entire Sudan. Gordon was accused, then and later, of never
meaning to comply with his orders; whatever his reasons for delaying the withdrawal, he did just that. By the autumn of 1884,
when I arrived in Egypt, Khartoum was besieged by the wild hordes of the Mahdi, and all the surrounding country, to the very
borders of Egypt, was in rebel hands.


The gallant Gordon held Khartoum, and British public
opinion, led by the Queen herself, demanded his rescue. An expedition was finally sent but it did not reach the beleaguered
city until February of the following year—three days after Khartoum fell and the gallant Gordon was cut down in the courtyard
of his house. “Too late!” was the agonized cry of Britannia! Ironically, the Mahdi survived his great foe by less than six
months, but his place was taken by one of his lieutenants, the Khalifa Abdullah el-Taashi, who ruled even more tyrannically
than his master. For over a decade the land had groaned under his cruelties, while the British lion licked its wounds and
refused to avenge the fallen hero.


The reasons, political, economic and military, that led to a decision to reconquer the Sudan are too complex to discuss here.
Suffice it to say that the campaign had begun in 1896 and that by the autumn of the following year our forces were advancing
on the Fourth Cataract under the gallant Kitchener, who had been named Sirdar of the Egyptian Army.


But what, one might ask, do these world-shaking affairs have to do with the winter plans of a pair of innocent Egyptologists?
Alas, I knew the answer only too well, and I sank into a chair beside the desk. “Emerson,” I said. “Emerson. I beg of you.
Don’t tell me you want to dig in the Sudan this winter.”


“My dear Peabody!” Emerson flung the newspaper aside and fixed the full power of his brilliant gaze upon me. “You know, none
better, that I have wanted to excavate at Napata or Meroë for years. I’d have tackled it last year if you hadn’t raised such
a fuss—or if you had consented to remain in Egypt with Ramses while I did so.”


“And waited to learn that they had put your head on a pike, as they did Gordon’s,” I murmured.

“Nonsense. I’d have been in no danger. Some of my best friends were Mahdists. But never mind,” he continued quickly, to forestall
the protest I was about to make—not of
the truth of his statement, for Emerson had friends in very strange places—but of the common sense of his plan. “The situation
is entirely different now, Peabody. The region around Napata is already in Egyptian hands. At the rate Kitchener is going,
he will take Khartoum by the time we reach Egypt, and Meroë—the site I favor—is north of Khartoum. It will be quite safe.”


“But Emerson—”

“Pyramids, Peabody.” Emerson’s deep voice dropped to a seductive baritone growl. “Royal pyramids, untouched by any archaeologist.
The pharaohs of the Twenty-Fifth Dynasty were Nubians—proud, virile soldiers who marched out of the south to conquer the degenerate
rulers of a decadent Egypt. These heroes were buried in their homeland of Cush—formerly Nubia, now the Sudan—”


“I know that, Emerson, but—”

“After Egypt lost its independence to the Persians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Moslems, a mighty kingdom flourished in Cush,”
Emerson continued poetically—and a trifle inaccurately. “Egyptian culture survived in that far-off land—the same region, as
I believe, from which it had originally sprung. Think of it, Peabody! To investigate, not only the continuation of that mighty
civilization, but perhaps its roots as well.…”


Emotion overcame him. His voice failed, his eyes glazed.

There were only two things that could reduce Emerson to such a state. One was the idea of going where no scholar had gone
before him, of being the discoverer of new worlds, new civilizations. Need I say that I shared that noble ambition? No. My
pulse quickened, I felt reason sink under the passion of his words. One last faint ray of common sense made me murmur, “But—”


“But me no buts, Peabody.” He grasped my hands in his—those strong bronzed hands, which could wield pick and shovel more vigorously
than any of his workmen but which
were capable of the most sensitive, the most exquisite touch. His eyes held mine; I fancied the brilliant rays of sapphirineblue
struck from his orbs straight into my dazzled brain. “You are with me, you know you are. And you will be with me, my darling
Peabody—this winter, in Meroë!”


Rising, he drew me once more into his masterful embrace. I said no more; indeed I was unable to say more, since his lips were
pressed to mine. But I thought to myself, Very well, Emerson. I will be with you—but Ramses will be at the Academy for Young
Gentlemen in Cairo.


I am seldom wrong. On those rare occasions when I am wrong, it is usually because I have underestimated the stubbornness of
Emerson or the devious wiles of Ramses, or a combination of the two. In defense of my powers of precognition, however, I must
say that the bizarre twist our expedition was to take resulted not so much from our little familial differences of opinion
as from a startling development that no one, not even I, could possibly have anticipated.


It took place on a wet autumn evening not long after the conversation I have just described. I had a number of reservations
about Emerson’s projected plans for the winter, and once the euphoria of his persuasive powers had subsided, I was not shy
of expressing them. Though the northern Sudan was officially “pacified” and under Egyptian occupation as far south as Dongola,
only an idiot would have assumed that travel in the region was completely safe. The unfortunate inhabitants of the area had
suffered from war, oppression, and starvation; many were homeless, most were hungry, and anyone who ventured among them without
an armed escort was practically asking to be murdered. Emerson brushed this aside. We would not venture among them. We would
be working in a region under military occupation, with troops close by. Furthermore, some of his best friends…


Having resigned myself to accept his plans (and I will admit
that the thought of pyramids, my consuming passion, had some effect), I hastened to complete our arrangements for departure.
After so many years I had the process down to a routine, but additional precautions and many extra supplies would be necessary
if we were to venture into such a remote region. Of course I had no help whatever from Emerson, who spent all his time poring
over obscure volumes on what little was known of the ancient inhabitants of the Sudan, and in long conversations with his
brother Walter. Walter was a brilliant linguist who specialized in the ancient languages of Egypt. The prospect of obtaining
texts in the obscure and as yet undeciphered Meroitic tongue raised his enthusiasm to fever pitch. Instead of trying to dissuade
Emerson from his hazardous project, he actually encouraged him.


Walter had married my dear friend Evelyn, the granddaughter and heiress of the Duke of Chalfont. Theirs had been an exceedingly
happy union, and it had been blessed with four—no, at the time of which I speak I believe the number was five—children. (One
tended to lose track with Evelyn, as my husband once coarsely remarked, overlooking, as men are inclined to do, that his brother
was at least equally responsible.) The young Emersons were staying with us on the evening of which I am about to speak. Greatly
as I enjoyed the opportunity to spend time with my dearest friend, and a brother-in-law whom I truly esteem, and their five
(unless it was six?) delightful offspring, I had an additional reason, this particular year, for encouraging the visit. I
had not entirely abandoned hope of persuading Emerson that Ramses should be left in England when we set out on our hazardous
journey. I knew I could count on Evelyn to add her gentle persuasion to mine. For reasons which eluded me, she doted on Ramses.


It is impossible to give a proper impression of Ramses by describing his characte