The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (16 page)

I had, of course, arrived at the logical solution to our dilemma — or, to be more accurate, Emerson and Cyrus’s impractical plan. I had said nothing to Emerson, for in my opinion he did not deserve my confidence after playing such a trick on me. He was therefore in a state of happy ignorance when we got to Deir el Medina, where we found Cyrus and Abu and their crew awaiting us. Bertie was not there; as I had expected she would, Katherine wanted to keep him under her wing for a few days. Sennia had gone off to her lessons with less fuss than usual, since she looked forward to “taking care of Bertie.” We all gathered round Emerson, and a sizable audience we were: Selim and Daoud, Cyrus and Abu, Jumana, Nefret, Ramses, and of course the Great Cat of Re, who had climbed up onto Ramses’s shoulder and was staring at Emerson with round green eyes. I waited until Emerson had drawn a deep breath and opened his mouth before I spoke. “The solution to our problem is obvious.” Caught off-balance, figuratively speaking, Emerson forgot what he had been about to say. “I . . . Curse it, Peabody, what are you talking about? What problem? We have no problem. We —” “Several problems, I should have said. First, the distinct possibility that your plan will enrage M. Daressy and result in our being forbidden to work in Egypt. Second, the fact that although Bertie has become a competent supervisor, he knows nothing of hieratic and cannot cope with the inscribed materials we have been finding. Third, Ramses’s desire to continue working here. Are you so indifferent to the feelings of your son, Emerson, that you will ride roughshod over them? I had not supposed you would be so unkind.” I managed to get through this entire speech without interruption, since I had learned the trick of pausing for breath, not at the end of sentences, but at random intervals the listeners did not expect. Emerson would not have been reluctant to interrupt at any interval; but as he explained later, my tone of voice warned him he had better not. And by the time I had finished, the alteration of his expression assured me that the last point, at least, had made the desired impression. He turned to his son, his handsome features sober. “Do you feel that strongly about it, Ramses? You know I would never . . . Why didn’t you tell me?” “He did tell you,” I said in exasperation. “You didn’t listen.” “It’s all right, Father,” Ramses said quickly. “Perhaps I didn’t express myself clearly enough.” “Clearly enough for meto understand,” I said with a sniff. “Never mind. My solution is very simple. Cyrus and we are both shorthanded. I suggest we combine forces and focus on one site — this one — dividing the responsibility. Cyrus can have the tombs; we will take the village. M. Daressy can have no objection to our expanding our workforce.” Cyrus, who had listened in gloomy silence to what he expected would be the failure of his hopes, immediately cheered up. “You mean it?” he exclaimed. “Certainly,” I replied, returning his smile. “Naturally we will assist one another should anything of particular interest turn up which would demand additional manpower.” Emerson had been thoroughly humbled. He loved his son dearly — though I do not believe he had ever actually said so — and was ready to accept any penance I proposed — until I added that last sentence. It livened him up considerably. He turned on me with a shout. “Confound it, Amelia! I see through you. You are bored with sifting rubbish. You are after those tombs yourself.” “I have just now proposed handing that part of our concession over to Cyrus, Emerson,” I reminded him. “Do you agree?” “Oh.” Emerson rubbed his chin. “Well . . .” “It’s a durned good idea,” Cyrus declared. “Just what I’d have expected you to come up with, Amelia. What do you say, old pal? Shake on it?” Instead of taking Cyrus’s outstretched hand, Emerson turned to his son. “Is that acceptable to you, Ramses? Be honest.” “I think it is an excellent plan, Father. Honestly,” he added. “In that case . . .” Emerson seized Cyrus’s hand in a firm grip. “It is agreed.” “Perhaps we should sign a written agreement,” I suggested. “In case M. Daressy inquires.” “No, ma’am, that won’t be necessary,” Cyrus declared. “Emerson’s word is good enough for me.” “The word of the Father of Curses,” Daoud said, “is stronger than another man’s oath.” I believe I may be excused for feeling a trifle smug. Ramses was pleased and so was Cyrus; Nefret was happy because Ramses was happy; even Selim condescended to commend me. The only one who was not thoroughly delighted with the arrangement was Emerson, and I felt certain that his main objection was that I had thought of it first. I will say for Emerson that he does not hold a grudge. Having agreed, he immediately began issuing orders. “The first thing for you to do, Vandergelt,” he declared, “is to produce a proper survey of the slope and the location of the tombs, and see that it is published. Good Gad, if you only do that, you will have made a great contribution. Everybody from Wilkinson to Schiaparelli has found tombs —” “The royal architect Kha,” Cyrus murmured longingly. “Much as I’d like a royal tomb, I’d settle for a find like that. Sealed up and undisturbed for over three thousand years, the wooden door still latched, jam-packed with furniture and linen and . . .” “Pay attention,” Emerson said forcibly. “The survey is the first priority. Our cursed predecessors never published their notes, if they bothered to make any, so you will have to begin afresh. Some of the tombs are known and open, but not all, and a certain amount of clearance . . .” Cyrus began to fidget, and I said, “Quite right, Emerson, we all understand.” “And,” said Emerson, raising his voice, “you will have to shut down your dig at Medinet Habu. Anything that has been exposed will be at risk from weather and vandals. We will go round there later and see what needs to be done.” Leaving Selim in charge, we set out for the temple after luncheon. It was a mild, mellow afternoon, with bright sunlight and a faint breeze stirring; one of Mr. Cook’s tours was making a late day of it, strolling about the temple precincts and taking photographs with their little cameras. Emerson glowered at the tourists. They did look a trifle ridiculous in their pristine pith helmets and veils, their faces crimson with sunburn. Some of them were all hung round with straps supporting field glasses, canteens, pocket compasses, and other accoutrements that probably made them feel very professional. “Some of them have got acetylene or magnesium lamps,” Emerson grumbled. “Confound it, don’t they know they mustn’t use them?” “Possibly not,” I replied. “Then I will tell them. Come, let’s see if any of the louts have invaded our temple. Smoking up the wall surfaces, scratching their wretched names . . .” Mumbling, he strode off toward a group that was staring up at the empty windows of the upper stories of the tower, and as I followed, hoping to avert a nasty scene, I heard the guide lecturing. “This tower, sirs and madams, was the harem of the great Ramses, where he enjoyed himself with his beautiful concubines. The floors have fallen, so you cannot go up to see the reliefs on the walls, but they show the king reclining on a soft couch while the concubines caress —” “Wrong!” Emerson shouted. “Curse it, Nazir, you know better than that! Why are you telling these idiots such lies?” The tourists let out little squeals of surprise; several of the ladies got behind their husbands. The sight of Emerson in a rage, advancing in great bounds, was enough to terrify the timid. Nazir, who was accustomed to him, only grinned and shook his head. “It is what they want to hear, Father of Curses,” he said in Arabic. “Oh, bah,” said Emerson. “Don’t let them use those damned magnesium torches, that’s all.” He pushed through the crowd and headed straight for the Saite chapels, with the rest of us following close on his heels. I was distressed to observe that his fears had been justified. Several persons, coolly ignoring the ropes and No Trepass signs that enclosed the work area, were passing in and out of the chapel. There was a flash of light from the interior as a magnesium flare went off. Emerson began to run. “Hurry and catch him up, Ramses,” I panted. “Don’t let him hit anyone!” “All right, Mother.” Ramses was the only one of us who could cover ground as quickly as his father. It was as well I had anticipated the worst; we found them inside the lovely little chapel of Amenirdis, confronting a trio of tourists. Ramses had managed to get between them and his father, who was cursing at the top of his lungs. “Damnation!” I said. “It’s the confounded Albions again. What do they want?” “A spot of sight-seeing, one must suppose,” Nefret answered. She went to Emerson and slipped her arm through his. “Good afternoon, everyone.” None of the Albions appeared perturbed by Emerson’s tirade. To judge by his broad apple-cheeked smile, Mr. Albion had enjoyed every profane word. “He sure can cuss,” he observed admiringly. “Not proper in the presence of a lady, though.” Mrs. Albion, hands folded and face composed, emitted a genteel cough. Emerson looked a little sheepish. “I didn’t say a word that could —” “What got you riled up?” Albion inquired curiously. Emerson drew a deep breath. Fearing another tirade, Ramses said quickly, “For one thing, sir, this area is out of bounds to tourists. Didn’t you see the signs?” “I wanted to examine the reliefs,” said Sebastian Albion. He was leaning against them, another archaeological sin in Emerson’s book. “Stand up straight, Mr. Sebastian,” I ordered. He obeyed instantly, his eyes widening. I went on, “Touching or leaning against the walls mars the paint. Magnesium flares give off smoke which damages the reliefs. You risk a bad fall wandering round in the dark. Cyrus, I thought you were going to repair the floor.” “Hadn’t got around to it,” Cyrus admitted. “Thought the signs would keep people out.” “We assumed the prohibition did not apply to us,” said Mrs. Albion coldly. “You were mistaken,” said Emerson. “Out, everyone.” “The Cook’s people are leaving,” I added. “You had better hurry if you want to go with them.” “We didn’t come with them.” Albion hopped nimbly over the rope while Emerson, endeavoring to make up for his rudeness to a lady, held it down for Mrs. Albion. He got not so much as a murmur of thanks, but the younger Mr. Albion squared his shoulders and began to apologize. “You are quite right, madam, I of all people ought to have known better than to risk damage to the reliefs. We were also wrong to ignore the barriers, but, you see, we had heard you were working at Medinet Habu, but when we arrived no one was here, and my father —” “Hmmm, yes,” said Emerson, scowling at the older man. We started back toward the gate, with Emerson herding Mr. and Mrs. Albion ahead of him, and Nefret accompanying them, in case Emerson started to be rude. I followed with Jumana and Ramses and Mr. Sebastian Albion. “I would appreciate the opportunity to examine those reliefs and perhaps take a few photographs,” the latter said. “If you could spare the time to explain them, it would be a great favor. At your convenience, of course.” “We will be working elsewhere for a time,” I said. He had addressed Ramses, not me, but Ramses’s mouth was set in that way of his and he was obviously not inclined to be cooperative. “How much longer are you planning to remain in Luxor?” “Indefinitely, Mrs. Emerson. I suppose you have heard about the resumption of submarine warfare? In any case, we had planned to spend the entire winter in Egypt. I am thinking of doing some excavating.” “You had better stop thinking of it,” I said. “Unless you can obtain permission from the Service des Antiquités.” “Is that really necessary? There’s hardly anyone working here at present. The Valley of the Kings, for instance —” “That is out of the question,” I said sharply. “Few expeditions are in the field at this time, but most of the sites have been allocated. Lord Carnarvon holds the firman for the Valley of the Kings, and I assure you that the authorities would come down hard on anyone who began digging there.” Instead of appearing abashed, the young man gave us a supercilious smile. “Thank you for the advice. We will have to see, won’t we?” “I trust we won’t see you digging in the Valley,” Ramses said. “The Service des Antiquités is not the only one who would come down hard on you.” The only response was a shrug. “Goodness, Ramses, but you were brusque with young Mr. Albion,” I remarked, after we had seen the party on its way back to their hotel and had mounted our noble steeds. “Was he? Good,” said Emerson. “Don’t want people of that sort bothering us.” Ramses glanced back at Jumana, who was talking to Nefret. “I haven’t told you what he said about Jumana the other evening.” He repeated the offensive remark. Cyrus turned red with indignation and Emerson growled, “Damn the young swine! Why didn’t you tell me? I would have —” “So would I, if Nefret hadn’t stopped me,” Ramses said. “I took pains to make the position clear. There’s been no harm done.” “And there won’t be any,” Cyrus declared. “Quite right,” I said. “What did you think of his absurd proposal of excavating in the Valley of the Kings?” “I was surprised,” Ramses admitted. “Visitors sometime fall into the error of supposing they can dig wherever they like, but he ought to have known better. Was he trying to provoke us?” “You’re almost as suspicious-minded as your mother,” said Cyrus. “My ma,” Ramses corrected. “That’s how Mr. Albion referred to her the other evening. Father, how would you like being addressed as Pa?” “Not very much,” Emerson grunted. “You are taking them too seriously,” I insisted. “They are rather silly and somewhat annoying, and we will have as little to do with them as possible. Have you decided what needs to be done here, Emerson?” “What needs to be done,” said Emerson grumpily, “is lock the whole place up and shoot any damned tourist who tries to get in. Yes, yes, Peabody, I know, it is an impractical suggestion. You made plans of the brickwork you found west of the chapel, Vandergelt? The men had better cover it up again, otherwise the bloody tourists will climb all over it and destroy what little is left.” “What about repairing the floor?” Cyrus asked. He was not anxious to waste time on that chore,
but he was a conscientious individual. “Leave it,” Emerson said. “One of the damned tourists may fall in.” We started back toward the donkey park, where we had left the horses. Still chuckling over Emerson’s humorous remark — I think it was supposed to be humorous — Cyrus remarked, “Bertie was in a pretty glum state of mind this morning. Hates being laid up. Is there any reason why he can’t come out with us tomorrow?” “Why not?” Emerson replied. “We can use another pair of hands, if only for keeping field notes.” “I suppose we could arrange a chair and footstool,” I mused. “But in my opinion, Bertie ought to stay at home for a few more days.” “He won’t stand for it,” Ramses said. “I know Katherine; she’ll drive him wild, and then he’ll run off and do something foolish.” “You are speaking from personal experience, are you?” I inquired, smiling to indicate that it was just one of my little jokes. I got an answering smile, and a quick kiss on the cheek. “Not at all, Mother. Will you excuse Nefret and me if we go on ahead?” Risha was aching to run, and so was Moonlight; the slow pace of Cyrus’s amiable mare was irksome for steeds of such mettle. So I nodded, and the two young people went off at a brisk trot. “They sure are a fine-looking young pair,” Cyrus said admiringly. Nefret had taken the remaining pins from her hair; it streamed out like a bright banner as Risha broke into a run and Moonlight, not to be outdone, stretched out to match his pace. “I’m not as jealous as I used to be, though,” he went on. “Bertie is like a son to me. I’m gonna make him my heir, Amelia. After Cat, of course.” “Excellent, Cyrus,” I said approvingly. “He has earned your approbation. I wouldn’t mention it to anyone else, though, or the lad will be courted by every female fortune-hunter in Egypt. And if he knows of it, he will suspect the motives of every young lady who indicates interest.” “That’s good advice, I reckon,” Cyrus agreed. Emerson’s glazed stare indicated that he had stopped listening. He considers me far too prone to offer advice, and talk of courting bores him. “A stick,” he said suddenly. “Get the boy a good stout stick, let him do whatever he likes.”