The Serpent on the Crown (14 page)

“You told Mr. Vandergelt,” said Emerson.

“Aywa. Of course,” said Daoud, surprised he would even ask.

“So who’s the legal owner of the statue?” Cyrus inquired.

Cyrus couldn’t be ordered about like the Egyptian workers; with a grimace and a growl, Emerson resigned himself to satisfying his friend’s curiosity.

“How the devil should I know? I set inquiries in train. It will take a while to get replies. As for Lacau, he has given me permission to reexcavate Tomb 55. The French Institute will be taking over here eventually.”

Cyrus caught hold of his arm as he turned away. “What about me?” he cried in anguish.

There’s nothing like archaeological fever, Ramses thought. Cyrus still lusted for the golden statuette, but the fate of his excavations had momentarily overshadowed everything else. Ramses glanced at Selim, who was standing by with folded arms, awaiting orders—and listening as intently as the rest.

“You? Oh,” said Emerson, rubbing his prominent chin. “What would you say to the West Valley?”

A slow blossoming of delight reduced the wrinkles on Cyrus’s forehead. “You mean it? Isn’t it part of Carter and Carnarvon’s concession?”

“Lacau is a trifle put out with Carter at the moment,” Emerson said with obvious relish. “Some of Carter’s shenanigans in antiquities dealing have got back to the old cabbage, and he considers them unbecoming a professional excavator. This is in strictest confidence, you understand,” he added, frowning at the listeners.

“Sure, sure,” Cyrus said eagerly. Daoud stared off into space, as if deep in thought.

“Carter has no plans for working in the West Valley anytime soon,” Emerson went on. “Lacau agreed with me that the area is wide open to illegal excavation. I trust that pleases you? Good. Now perhaps you’ll allow me to get to work. I don’t want the damned French to have any excuse for criticism.”

“Then you do mean to shut down here?” Ramses asked.

His father looked deeply affronted. “How can you think that of me, my boy? I have never yet abandoned an excavation in midseason and I don’t mean to do it now. We can do both.”

Ramses’s implicit criticism had caused Cyrus to have second thoughts. “I can’t,” he said bluntly. “But I can’t bring myself to turn down the West Valley, either.”

“You’ve investigated most of the known tombs here, haven’t you?” Emerson demanded.

“Well, yes, but—”

“Finish clearing the one you’re working on now and block the entrances of the others.” Having settled that to his satisfaction, off Emerson went, followed by his crew.

Thus reassured, Cyrus beamed and rubbed his hands together. Jumana was bouncing up and down on her toes. She was too much in awe of Emerson to interrupt him, but she was bursting with questions. While Nefret answered them as best she could, Ramses looked out across the narrow valley. Now that they were about to abandon the site, he found himself surprisingly reluctant to do so. He knew as surely as if he had seen them that there were more papyri hidden under that sterile surface—more ostraca, more stelae—new inscriptions, perhaps even the missing fragments of some of the tantalizingly incomplete texts he had translated.

There was nothing in Tomb 55 for him, only a corridor and chamber devoid of decoration. And what about next season? Surely Emerson didn’t suppose he could find a reasonable excuse for continuing in the Valley of the Kings.

Thanks to Emerson’s meticulous methods (and the frequent interruption of their work by distractions “of a criminous nature,” as his mother called them), only half the village had been cleared, along with several of the small shrines and temples at the north end. Emerson drove them all hard that morning, filling in partially excavated areas and completing the clearance of a few others. The debris from these piled up. Sifting it was his mother’s job, and Emerson bewailed her absence in poignant tones. Ramses’s offer to take on the task was refused.

“Get up there with Cyrus and his lot,” Emerson ordered, indicating the tombs scattered over the western slopes. “Good Gad, he’s just standing there smirking. I shouldn’t have told him about the West Valley.”

Bertie and Jumana were doing an efficient job, deciding which of the opened tombs should be permanently closed and which required additional work. Ramses went anyhow. As the sun passed the zenith and perspiration soaked his shirt, he wondered whether Emerson intended to stop for luncheon and rest. Nefret had been in the hot sun all morning, photographing at Emerson’s direction. He had no right to push her the way he did…Then he saw a trio of horsemen approaching along the road to the north, and was relieved to recognize his mother. He ought to have known she wouldn’t neglect their physical comfort, she never did. The man who rode beside her was Sethos; following at a respectful distance was Nasir, carrying a large basket.

Ramses hailed the others. “Time to stop. There’s Mother.”

“Thank goodness,” Cyrus said. He straightened and rubbed his back. “Who’s that with her?”

Ramses gave the older man a hand as they descended the steep hillside. “An old friend,” he said. “Sir Malcolm…uh…”

Cyrus gave him an odd look. “An old friend whose name you can’t call to mind? Say no more, my boy. I’ve got a hunch he has another name that’s more familiar to both of us.”

They made their way to the shelter his mother had erected in the shade of the Ptolemaic temple. Assisted by Nasir, she was laying out the contents of the picnic basket and giving orders to all and sundry.

“Emerson, stop grumbling and sit down. Selim, Daoud, come and join us. Ah, there you are, Cyrus. Bertie—Jumana—may I present Sir Malcolm Page Henley de Montague, an old friend.”

Cyrus looked “Sir Malcolm” over, from his pristine pith helmet to his expensive boots, and held out his hand. “Good to see you again, sir. We met several years ago in London, though I dare not hope you remember me.”

“It would be impossible to forget you, Mr. Vandergelt,” Sethos said cautiously.

“Especially since I outbid you on that Seventeenth Dynasty crown.”

“Ah, yes.” Sethos acknowledged the tactful reminder with a nod. “No hard feelings, Mr. Vandergelt. It was a rather ugly object, and quite possibly a forgery.”

“You really think so?”

“I came to that conclusion later.” Sethos permitted himself a condescending smile. “Sour grapes, you will say. But let us not dwell on the past. How is your work here proceeding?”

Having enjoyed his teasing, Cyrus accepted the change of subject. “Pretty well. We’re turning the site over to the French Institute. Emerson’s got us permission to work in the Valley of the Kings.”

Emerson was not amused by the little charade. He gave them only a few minutes to eat and drink before he got everybody back to work.

“Thank God, David will be here in a few days,” he grumbled. “No offense, Nefret, you are doing a fine job with the photography, but we could use another pair of hands.”

“That is certainly the case,” his wife agreed emphatically. “Cyrus, what happened to the young man who applied for the position of artist?”

“Never heard from him again. Odd, now that you mention it.”

“We don’t need any more people,” said Emerson, contradicting himself without shame. “Peabody, back to your rubbish heap. Sir—er—Malcolm, you can give her a hand.”

Sethos smoothed the white kidskin gloves which he had removed while he ate. “Nothing I’d like better, old chap. Unfortunately, my physician has warned me against manual labor. I bruise easily.”

He spent the rest of the afternoon lounging in the shade while the rest of them sweated.

Sethos had got away with his masquerade so far, though Jumana kept looking at him curiously. She had met him before, on several occasions and under several names, and she was a sharp little thing. I wondered how long it would be before she put two and two together. Like his stepfather, Bertie knew of Sethos’s real relationship to our family, but the dear boy was not the world’s quickest thinker. He had followed the exchange between Cyrus and Sethos with a puzzled frown. An hour or two later he edged up to me and hemmed and hawed until I took pity on him and confirmed the identification he had just then arrived at.

“So is it all right if I call him by his real name?” Bertie asked. “That is—he knows that I know, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. Just don’t use his real name in the presence of those who don’t know.”

“Oh.” Bertie scratched his chin. “Righto, Mrs. E. And may I—that is—would it be appropriate if I asked after Maryam?”

“I see no reason why you should not.”

“Oh. Righto.”

He repeated his oath of secrecy and went off looking relieved. He was such a nice boy. Hopelessly nice, in fact. I was only surprised that some forceful young woman had not bullied him into marrying her. Apparently the only forceful young woman he fancied was not interested in marrying him.

I got Emerson to stop work by reminding him that he had promised the children we would join them for tea; otherwise he would have gone on until the rest of us dropped. It was an unusually warm day, but Emerson never feels the heat and is genuinely astonished when others suffer from it.

I had never been more appreciative of my nice tin bathtub. While I lay back, enjoying the cool water that stroked my tired limbs, Emerson availed himself of a more primitive arrangement, standing on a stone slab while Nasir poured jars of water over him.

I had ordered the ewer and washbasin in Sethos’s room to be filled (and, if Fatima had her way, strewn with rose petals). He had occupied the room once before, and when I showed him into it he looked round with raised eyebrows.

“Good to be home,” he said.

“I presume you are attempting to be sarcastic,” I retorted. “Considering that the last time you stayed here you were a prisoner, and you ended up having a knife fight in the courtyard. A fight you lost, I might add.”

“I would certainly have come to a sticky end if it hadn’t been for Ramses.”

It was a rare admission of fallibility. “I don’t suppose you ever thanked him.”

“Good Lord, no. He’d faint dead away with surprise if I did that.”

Reflecting on this characteristic conversation, I dressed in haste and went to the veranda, where Fatima was arranging the tea things and flirting with Sethos—if I may use that word to describe a harmless demonstration of goodwill. She never behaved that way with anyone else, and he responded with his practiced courtly charm. When Emerson appeared, Fatima bustled off, blushing a little.

“At it again, are you?” inquired Emerson, who had seen the blush. “Can’t you leave any female alone?”

“What’s the harm in pleasing a lady?” Sethos retorted. “I like Fatima. She’s a good woman and a superb cook.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson, abandoning an unproductive argument. “Where are the children?”

He looked out and then let out an indignant complaint. “Hell and damnation! Wasim has let someone get past him. Who the devil…”

The answer was, unfortunately, only too obvious. The man was already nearing the house. Sethos, still standing by the door he had held for Fatima, echoed Emerson’s expletive. “Hell and damnation!”

The newcomer stopped outside the barred door and looked in. “Good evening. May I venture to ask for a few minutes of your time? I am Sir Malcolm Page Henley de Montague.”

I
pride myself on my ability to rise to any occasion, but for a few seconds I could only gape unbecomingly at the genuine Sir Malcolm. A quick glance showed me that the false Sir Malcolm had vanished. Pulling myself together, I opened the door and invited the former in.

“Emerson,” I said, “will you do the honors? I must—I must—uh—tell Fatima…”

It was not a nice thing to do to Emerson, who appeared as thunderstruck as I felt, but I felt sure he would manage. I dashed in pursuit of my brother-in-law, whom I found in his room rummaging through a small valise.

“What—” I began.

“Hair coloring,” grunted Sethos, tossing out wigs, mustaches, and assorted bottles and jars. “Confound it, I seem to have misplaced the black.” He straightened and gave me an appraising look. “I don’t suppose you…”

Well, I ask the Reader: what could I do? The situation was grave, verging on catastrophic. I went and got my little bottle. “I seldom if ever use it,” I explained.

“Quite,” said Sethos. “Go and warn Fatima, will you? Tell her…damned if I know what you can tell her, just keep her from making any false moves. You had better warn Ramses and Nefret as well.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Shave,” said Sethos.

I
have never been certain whether Fatima is as simple as she appears, or cunning enough to appear simple. She accepted my garbled explanation with a nod and went on arranging tea cakes on a pretty flowered plate. I was too late to intercept Nefret and Ramses. When I returned to the veranda they were already there, and so were the children. The dog had its large face pressed to the screen and its long tongue lolling out.

As I later learned, the presence of the little ones (to say nothing of the dog) had relieved the first awkward moments. Sir Malcolm had made the mistake of trying to pat Carla on the head. Ramses had snatched her away before anything unpleasant occurred, but Sir Malcolm kept a wary eye on the little girl until the arrival of the tea cakes distracted her. David John was not distracted. Leaning against his father’s knee, he kept his blue eyes fixed on Sir Malcolm.

“I do beg your pardon, Sir Malcolm,” I said, taking a chair.

“Not at all, Mrs. Emerson.” The gentleman, who had risen when I entered, resumed his seat. “It is for me to apologize for the intrusion. I would have explained my reason for coming had not your husband suggested we wait until you returned.”

Now that I had the opportunity to inspect him closely, I saw that Sethos’s masquerade had not been exact. Sir Malcolm’s chin was longer and his hairline more receding. However, the resemblance was close enough to have deceived Wasim, who must have taken the newcomer for the same man he had seen with us earlier, wearing the same overly fashionable sort of suit and carrying the same silver-headed stick.

“Proceed, if you will, please,” I said.