The Seventh Scroll

"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. "men 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 I 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 rivet, 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