Tomb of the Golden Bird (18 page)

dignified bearded Egyptian enveloped in fine robes and crowned with a green turban was laughing and talking with the woman in black who trotted along beside and a little behind him. Carriages drawn by smartly trotting horses passed; the drivers were not using their whips, though some of the passengers shouted to them to do so. Our efforts on behalf of animal welfare had had some positive results. As one driver had remarked to me, "One does not know when the Father of Curses or the Sitt Hakim may be watching." After a while I excused myself and entered the hotel. When I inquired at the desk for Miss Minton, the clerk told me she had left early that morning and had not yet returned. No, she had not said where she was going or when she would be back. "Do you wish to leave a message for the lady, Mrs. Emerson?" he asked. "No, thank you." I presented the clerk with a substantial baksheesh. "I would like to be informed when she does return. And—er—you need not mention it to the lady." When I returned, the rest of our party had arrived. After a little bustle arranging tables and chairs, we ordered tea and then everyone began talking, comparing the day's activities and dropping veiled hints about their purchases. Even Gargery had a few parcels, closely wrapped in newspaper. He was in fine form, declaring that he had fended off at least one potential abductor. Emerson shouted him down and asked Charla what she had bought for him. I found myself seated next to Sethos. "No potential abductors, I presume?" I asked. "A miserable old man trying to sell Sennia fake ushebtis. Gargery would have wrestled him to the ground if I hadn't stepped in." He stirred sugar into his tea. "Is she back yet?" He had seen me emerge from the hotel and drawn the obvious conclusion. "No," I said. "She wasn't in the Valley, at least not while we were there." "So I heard." "Where do you suppose she went?" "How should I know?" David John tugged at my sleeve. "Charla won't tell me what she bought, Grandmama." "Christmas is a time for secrets," I said. For the next few days we devoted ourselves to the merriments of the season. Abdullah had been right; what did mundane distractions such as royal tombs and shadowy plotters matter? In future years they would take their places in the long list of adventures in which we had triumphed. We had much to be thankful for. When I expressed these sentiments to Emerson, he said only, "Kindly do not repeat yourself, Peabody. I can only endure a certain amount of such bloody optimism." Since fir trees were at a premium in Egypt (nonexistent, in fact), we employed a feathery tamarisk, filling out its skimpy branches with a profusion of ornaments. In some families, I believe, the tree is not decorated until Christmas Eve. We do not follow that custom, since the children enjoyed hanging the ornaments and setting fire to the tree. "It makes for an exciting interlude," Ramses said philosophically, after he had extinguished one such blaze and strictly forbidden Charla to light the candles unless he gave permission. "That applies to you as well," I said, with a stern look at David John. "But Grandmama, I did not—" "You suggested it, though, didn't you?" David John never lied. Like his father, he usually employed equivocation to avoid doing so. In this case the direct question allowed of only one truthful answer. Blue eyes wide and candid, he nodded his head. "Yes, Grandmama." "And you provided the matches?" I knew Charla could not have taken them from the kitchen without being seen. Fatima watched her like a hawk, whereas David John was less suspect. "Yes, Grandmama." "Where are the rest of them?" David John dug into his pocket and produced a handful of questionable objects, including several nails, a dead mouse tenderly wrapped in tissue paper, several broken crayons, and the box of matches. I confiscated the matches, the nails (on general principles), and the mouse, and delivered a stern lecture on the dangers of fire. David John hung his head. "I didn't have to do what he told me," said Charla, throwing her arms round her brother. "That is true," I said. "And I hope David John appreciates your coming to his defense. You are both culpable. However, in view of the season, we will let you off with a warning this time, so long as the offense is not repeated." "Thank you, Grandmama," David John said. "I assure you it will not. May we give the mouse a proper burial?" "Not in my flower beds," I said, handing over the deceased. They went off, cheerfully discussing the funeral arrangements, and Ramses, who had listened in astonished silence, said, "Mother, you never cease to amaze me. How did you know?" "Psychology, my dear." The hand-crafted ornaments David had made many years before were ceremonially put in place, the children taking turns to hang the little tin and ceramic animals. Paper chains filled in the empty spaces. Charla proved to be expert at making them, and I praised her accordingly. She spent much of her time with David, presumably working on her little books. Many of the surfaces in the house were sticky with paste, and Fatima had to buy more flour. Sethos took an active part in the proceedings, hobnobbing with Fatima and assisting her by tasting various products, helping make paper chains, and even bursting into song from time to time. He had a pleasant baritone voice, and, unlike his brother, he could carry a tune. Naturally I wondered what he was up to. Apparently he had decided not to make a Judas goat of himself. As he informed me when I asked him point-blank, he had concluded there was no need. The return of the document seemed to have satisfied our unknown adversaries; there had been no activity on their part. Margaret had returned unscathed from wherever she had been, and had taken up her routine in the Valley. "Shall we ask her here for Christmas?" I inquired of Sethos, who was helping me write out invitations. "I see no reason why you should. She hasn't even apologized for banging you on the head." "It is too sad to spend Christmas alone. I have forgiven her, as Scripture requires." "The more fool you, then," said Sethos, dropping a blot of ink on the paper he was inscribing. "Kevin O'Connell, too," I said, consulting my list. "I suppose there is no use asking Howard or any of the Metropolitan Museum people." Sethos crumpled the spoiled paper and tossed it into the wastepaper receptacle. "According to Daoud, they are having their own celebration at Metropolitan House. We won't be asked." "Nevertheless, I shall invite them," I said, writing busily. "In a spirit of Christian love. If they choose not to reciprocate, that is their decision." Sethos blotted another sheet of paper and threw it away. The only member of the "other camp" who had demonstrated Christian love (or simple good manners) was Harry Burton. He had come to tea one day, as promised, and described without reserve what the excavators had been doing. This occurred just in time to prevent a fit of bad temper from Emerson, whose enjoyment of the Christmas preparations did not entirely succeed in keeping his mind off Howard's proceedings. We knew, from Daoud, that Professor Breasted had been allowed inside the tomb, together with Mr. Winlock and a few others; that Mr. Burton had begun photographing; and that Lucas had arrived from Cairo. Mr. Burton was able and willing to provide more detailed information. "We've cleared out KV55 to use as a darkroom," he explained to his absorbed audience. "Most convenient, being just across the way." "Quite," said Emerson. "I trust that, in addition to photographs, Carter will make detailed sketches before removing any objects?" "He has begun doing so. He's a good draftsman, you know, and he has Hall and Hauser to help." Burton sipped his tea. "He hopes to remove the first of the artifacts shortly after Christmas. It will be taken to the tomb of Seti II, which is to serve as a conservation and storage place." "Not too convenient, that," said Emerson, who was looking for something to criticize. "It is some distance away, but it has several advantages, including a large open area in front. To judge from what I've seen thus far, Lucas is going to need a bit of fresh air; the chemicals he uses for conservation can be pervasive." "I trust he knows about paraffin wax," I said. "Do have another slice of plum cake, Mr. Burton." "Paraffin wax has always been your mainstay, hasn't it?" Burton accepted the offering with a smiling nod at Sennia. "There is nothing like it," I declared. "Especially for beads and loose bits of inlay." Burton was ready to take the hint. "There's plenty of that sort of thing. Most of the storage chests are packed full of everything from jewelry to clothing. Sandals, beaded robes, wadded up and jammed in." No one interrupted him as he went on with his description. Howard had applied numbers to each object in the first room, which he had termed the Antechamber. These were large enough to show in the photographs and would be listed and described in Howard's official index. The objects were to be removed one by one, working from north to south. The huge funerary couches would have to be taken apart, since they were too large to pass through the entrance corridor; they must have been assembled inside the tomb, after having been brought in piece by piece. The chariot parts would be left until last; they presented a particularly difficult job, since they were all in a jumble and bits of the gold and inlay were precariously attached. In the meantime, Mr. Lucas would unpack the storage chests. I knew—who better?—what a formidable task lay before him. According to Mr. Burton (and our own observations, which of course I did not mention), the contents of the chests were not in their original order. Tomb robbers are not noted for neatness; working in haste and fear of discovery, they had emptied the chests looking for gold, and when the priests entered to put things in order, they had acted in equal haste, tossing scattered objects into the nearest container and forcing the lid down. Sethos listened with the same absorbed expression as the rest of us. I knew he was thinking of his "restorer," a member of his criminal organization, who had assisted us so ably with the fragile objects found in the tomb of the God's Wives before he was murdered. People who assist us often meet that fate, but Signor Martinelli had only himself to blame; he had allowed himself to be lured away by a female on whom he had designs of an improper nature. Mr. Lucas had no such weakness. I could only hope he was as good at his job. It is a sad fact of life that honest persons sometimes lack the experience of the more unprincipled. Mr. Burton accepted a third slice of plum cake before declaring he must be getting back to Metropolitan House. "By the way," he added, "Breasted has read the cartouches and confirmed that they are those of Tutankhamon." "Reread them, you mean," snapped Emerson. "Ah," Burton said. "I wondered about that." He said no more, but shook the hand of Ramses with particular warmth. "At least one person recognizes our contributions," I said. "Oh, I expect there will be others," Sethos said, with an evil smile. "Carter doesn't work and play well with others. Mark my words, before he's through he'll have a good many people furious with him, from journalists and the Antiquities Department to certain of his colleagues." I will confess, in the pages of this private journal, that I was not charitable enough to hope Sethos was wrong. We were among the few— the only ones, except for Cyrus—who had not received a formal invitation to view the tomb. The Breasteds, including their son Charles, Mrs. Burton, and even one of Winlock's children had been allowed to putter about in the Antechamber. It was small consolation to know that we had had a private look of our own, since we couldn't tell anyone about it. I felt for David, who would have had a keen appreciation of the wonderful artifacts. How he was going to carry out his assignment for the Illustrated London News I could not imagine. Howard was guarding the photographic and reproduction rights jealously. The ever-poisonous tongue of rumor had it that Carnarvon intended to sell them to the highest bidder, but I could not believe that, even of an individual who had treated us so shabbily. Cyrus felt the slight as deeply as we. We hadn't seen a great deal of the Vandergelts recently; they were busy with their own holiday preparations, as we had been with ours. It was to escape the increasing strain of these that Cyrus dropped in one afternoon two days before Christmas. "Cat has the whole place torn apart," he explained, "and the rest ofthem are aiding and abetting her, even Nadji. Sometimes I wish the blessed Savior had been found in the bulrushes, like Moses, date of birth unknown." Emerson whooped with laughter. I refrained from comment, since the children were not present. "How many guests are you expecting?" I asked. "Cat's in charge of that. Half the town of Luxor, from what I can make out, plus every tourist we ever met on the street. You folks will be there, of course?" "We wouldn't miss it," Sethos said. Cyrus favored him with a brusque nod. We had explained to our friend that Sethos was in the process of coming to terms with his adversaries, and that we anticipated no further difficulty with them, but Cyrus clearly had reservations. "And you, I trust, will attend our Christmas Eve gathering," I said. "Katherine asked if she might bring Suzanne's grandfather, and naturally I said she might. What is he like?" "Sweetest old gent you would ever want to meet," Cyrus replied somewhat sourly. "He loves everything and everybody. He's even polite to Nadji." "Even?" Ramses asked. "Well, he's a man of his generation and nation," said Cyrus poetically. "And from what I've heard, a real shark at business. But he's on his best behavior; only slips now and then, with some generalization about the great British Empire and her civilizing mission." "It will be interesting to see how he treats Selim and Daoud," Nefret said, pursing her lips. "If he is rude I will show him the door." Insofar as Emerson was concerned, this went without saying. He turned to a more interesting topic. "I take it he hasn't been able to get you admitted to the tomb?" "Not so far. He had a letter from Carnarvon, which he duly sent on to Carter. Hasn't had an answer." "There's one way you may be able to gain entry," said Emerson, chewing on his pipe. "Grovel to Carter and tell him you have broken off relations with us." Cyrus paused in the act of lighting his cheroot. "As if I'd stoop so low!" he cried. "Emerson was only making a little joke, Cyrus," I assured him. "Not a very amusing one." "Hmmm, yes," muttered Emerson. "All right, then." Cyrus applied the match and puffed. "I wouldn't mind so much," he said, in a burst of candor, "if Carnarvon wasn't going to get some of the artifacts." "To say
nothing of the Metropolitan Museum," said Ramses. "You don't suppose the board is donating the services of their staff members out of sheer altruism, do you? They've come to an understanding with Carnarvon and Carter." "At any rate, Sir Malcolm won't get anything," I said in an effort to console Cyrus. "I wouldn't be so sure," Emerson said darkly. "He's been hanging round the tomb with an increasingly lean and hungry look. Yesterday his wig fell off. He must have been so preoccupied he forgot to glue it on. When that miserable servant of his handed it back to him, Sir Malcolm gave him a thrashing." My amusement at Sir Malcolm's discomfiture was tempered by indignation. "Shameful," I said. "I must have a word with the fellow. He shouldn't have to put up with such treatment. How do you know that, Emerson? Not from Daoud, he would have told all of us. Oh, dear— have you been bribing that child, Azmi, to report to you? I saw him yesterday near the kitchen, but assumed he had come round for some of Fatima's sugar biscuits. She feeds everyone." "What's wrong with that?" Emerson demanded. "I have no objection to her giving treats to the children, but you should not encourage them to spy and eavesdrop." "It is on Carter's account that I employ Azmi," Emerson said virtuously. "Montague hasn't given up. He may have another try at the tomb." "Ha," I said. "I wouldn't put it past him," Cyrus said. "But Carter has taken all possible precautions. He's got three different sets of guards on duty dayand night, each reporting to a different authority so they won't be tempted to collaborate. The keys to the gates are held by him or another member of the staff." Sethos put down the paper chain he had been working on and cleared his throat in a pointed manner. "I suppose you think you could get at those keys," Emerson said. "I can think of at least three different methods offhand," Sethos said with a faraway look. "And two ways of distracting the guards." "Then it is a good thing you have reformed," I said. Cyrus looked as if he was not so sure it was a good thing. I had several private errands of my own to carry out. They had nothing to do with our holiday preparations, but I made certain they did not mar the spirit of the season by not telling anyone about them. Running back and forth to Luxor on various errands provided sufficient excuse for my occasional absences. I did not lie to Emerson about the reason for them. While in Luxor I did do errands and call on friends. I saw no reason to mention what else I did. Unfortunately I was seen leaving the zabtiyeh, and the word duly reached Emerson. He waited until we were alone, preparing for bed, before he went on the attack. "Can't you stay away from corpses even at this time of year?" he demanded. "There were no corpses in which I took an interest, Emerson." "I cannot believe there is a corpse in which you do not take an interest. What did you go there for?" I decided not to lie. Emerson had just returned from the bath chamber. His hair waved about his brow and his admirable form had a slight sheen of dampness. "I prefer not to tell you, Emerson." "You prefer? You prefer?" Emerson drew a deep breath. His muscles swelled. So did the veins in his neck. I waited for the burst of outrage I had every reason to expect. Alas, my expectations were not fulfilled. Emerson let his breath out. He placed a heavy but gentle hand on my shoulder. "Peabody, my darling girl, I came close to losing you last year. I wish you would allow me to protect and cherish you. I wish you would not do this sort of thing." I wished he would not do that sort of thing. When Emerson stoops to appeal he makes me feel that I have taken unfair advantage. Turning into his outstretched arms, I murmured, "I give you my word, my dear, that I did nothing that requires me to be protected." "Hmph," said Emerson—and spoke no more. From Manuscript H The children were accustomed to visiting Abdullah's tomb. Ramses's mother had been right (as usual) when she claimed there was nothing morbid about remembering the honored dead. The twins and Sennia had heard the stories about his heroism and devotion; to them he was a distant figure of legend, like Charlemagne and King Arthur. They anticipated this particular visit with delight, since the whole family was going and they would be allowed to make a special offering. Attired in their best, they set out for the small cemetery of which Abdullah's tomb was the most prominent feature. It was a beautiful little structure, designed by David, with graceful columns supporting its domed roof. The servant of the tomb roused himself from his prayers and came forth to meet them. Having heard of their plans, a number of the villagers had turned up, not only to honor their local saint but to enjoy the spectacle. The Emersons could be depended upon to do things in style. Daoud outshone all others in a new caftan and elaborately wound turban. Cyrus had brought Jumana and Nadji, and, to Ramses's surprise, Suzanne. Across the open entrance hung the usual offerings—trinkets and beads and bits of cloth. Ramses lifted Charla up so she could attach hergift of a little book, which she had decided Abdullah would prefer to an offering anyone might make. David had tactfully pointed out that Abdullah might not appreciate pictures of ladies in low-cut frocks, so the pages contained photographs of the family. David John was next. Strictly speaking, his portrait violated the law against representations of the human form, and it bore a strong resemblance to M. Lacau (except for the turban), but the spectators only smiled approvingly, as they did when Sennia added a particularly large, colorful ribbon. After the servant had led the proper prayers, they made their contributions to the fund for the maintenance of the tomb and its attendant, and prepared to depart. Emerson blew out his breath in a sigh of relief. He considered religious ceremonies of all kinds to be gross superstition, but he had learned to keep his opinions to himself around the children. "Well, now, that was fine," said Cyrus, who had contributed largely to the fund. He replaced his hat. "I hope Abdullah was pleased." They had all become accustomed to speaking of him as if he were still among them. Ramses's mother was responsible for that, of course. She had followed the proceedings with a smile, and from time to time she had nodded, her smile broadening, as if she were listening to words no one else could hear. "Oh, yes," she said. "He was a great man," said Nadji seriously. "I have heard much about him." "Did you know that he saved Grandmama's life by giving his own?" David John asked. "If you have not heard the story, I will tell you." Nadji smiled down at the little boy. "I would like to hear it." Emerson edged away. To say he was jealous of his wife's attachment to Abdullah would have been absurd, but there was something . . . The excitement reached its peak on the morning of Christmas Eve. One would have supposed that after days of preparation there was nothing left to be done, but Charla had thought of several other friends who required little books and Fatima was convinced she had not prepared enough food for the party. Shrieks and curses came from the kitchen, mingled with the sobs of Maaman, for Fatima in a frenzy tried the nerves of those around her. When Kareem spilled an entire pot of coffee across the breakfast table, Emerson leaped to his feet with a roar. "I am going to—to the Valley," he announced, mopping at the stains on his shirt and trousers with a napkin. "An excellent idea," said his wife, exchanging glances with Nefret. "Yes, go away, all you men," said Nefret. "None of you is up to this sort of thing." "Does that include me, madam?" asked Gargery, who had finally been persuaded to take meals with them—but only if guests were not present. "Yes," Nefret said. "No," said Emerson. Eventually the women got all the men out of the house, except for Gargery. Emerson had pointed out that he would have to ride a donkey. Gargery did not care for donkeys. "That was an excellent idea, Father," Ramses said feelingly, as they rode out of the stable. "Don't know why women get in such a pother about holidays," Emerson grumbled. "Where are we going?" Sethos asked. He had resisted coming at first, but had been shoved out with the rest of them. "Cyrus won't be working in the West Valley today." "Does it matter?" David adjusted his pith helmet and buckled the strap under his chin. There was a stiff breeze that morning, and the sun was veiled by light clouds. Emerson mumbled something, and Ramses said, "I doubt Carter will be working either." "I don't give a curse what he's doing," said Emerson. So it was to be the East Valley. Emerson had probably had that in mind from the first. He had stayed away for several days, and curiosity was eating at him. They rode single file in order not to impede the traffic, which included local villagers as well as tourists. The latter were not so considerate; their hired carriages yielded the way to no one except the camels, who yielded the way to nothing. The donkey riders spread out across the road, and some of them stopped to photograph anything that moved: camels, rude carts loaded with produce, a man perched on a donkey with his wife walking alongside, women balancing heavy water jars on their heads. When they were able to do so, Emerson went ahead with David, and Ramses drew up beside his uncle. Sethos hadn't spoken since they left the house. He rode with his usual ease, but his mouth was set and his forehead furrowed. Tinted glasses darkened his eyes to hazel. "You received another private communication yesterday," Ramses said. "Hassan was bribed to tell no one," Sethos said. "I bribed him to tell me." "Dear me," said Sethos, with a fair show of insouciance. "Don't you trust me?" "Should I?" Sethos reached into his breast pocket and took out a folded paper, which he handed to Ramses. The message was short and to the point. "Yours received. Do nothing more." "English," Ramses said. Sethos sneezed and swabbed his nose with a handkerchief. "Brilliant." "Don't be rude," Ramses said equably. "What's put you in such a bad humor? The response was what we expected." "Precisely." Another, louder sneeze was muffled by the folds of the handkerchief. "Have you caught cold?" "It would appear so." "You could give it to Margaret," Ramses suggested. His uncle turned the tinted spectacles toward him, and then, unexpectedly, burst into laughter. "What a charming idea. Will you aid and abet me when I catch her in a close embrace and breathe heavily on her?" "She'll probably be there this morning." "I know." Sethos sighed and dabbed at his nose. "You are omniscient, so you have anticipated that I'm not looking forward to encountering her. As for the message, I would have liked something more positive. Something along the lines of 'count on us to behave ourselves.' " "Or a simple 'Happy Christmas'?" His uncle's mouth twitched. "Point taken. I'll do my best not to shed gloom over the proceedings. After all, we've no reason to assume our unknown acquaintances (who do write excellent English) mean to bother us. As for Margaret, why should I give a damn about her? She doesn't give a damn about. . . about anything except her bloody newspaper." Ramses had been mistaken about Carter. He was at work, and so were several others of his crew. His nose in the air, Emerson strode past the tomb without so much as a sidelong look, but Ramses and the others joined the spectators, of whom there were quite a number. There wasn't much to see; most of the activity was being carried on in the tomb chamber, deep underground. "Yes, they are drawing pictures and taking photographs," said one of the guards, in response to a question from David. Leaning on his rifle, he yawned. "There is nothing much to do," Ramses said. "It is a boring job." "Boring?" The man scratched his beard. "There are worse tasks, Brother of Demons. As soon as the gentlemen leave we can lie down and talk and smoke and have a sleep. Tomorrow is your holiday, yes? So we will have another day of rest." "Possibly two days," David said. It is so? "On the day after Christmas the English take a holiday and give presents to those who have served them well," David explained. "So I have been told. But there will be none for us, I think." "I think he's right," Ramses said, as he and David turned away. "One can hardly expect Carter to reward this entire lot," David said. There were certainly a large number of guards. They lined the wall around the tomb, wearing a variety of uniforms and headgear. Ramses recognized the khaki of local troops and the fezzes of the men from theMinistry. Margaret and Kevin O'Connell were not in evidence. Looking around, he realized Sethos and his father were also missing. "Where's Father got to?" he asked. He got an immediate answer, though not from David. Sounds of a loud altercation reached his ears. It was safe to assume that whenever voices were raised, Emerson's would be one of them. He and David hurried toward the spot, which turned out to be the area in front of the remote tomb of Seti II. It was some distance away, at the far end of a path that branched off to the right from the more traveled route that led to the tomb of Thutmose III. Only his father's voice would have carried that far, Ramses thought. Of course the echoes helped. Emerson's adversary was none other than Sir Malcolm Page Henley de Montague. Holding his stick like a dueling sword, he shouted back whenever Emerson paused for breath. "No right!" and "How dare you?" formed the refrain of his remarks. His rage was so enormous it overcame his fear of Emerson—and perhaps he counted on the three other people present to step in if Emerson was moved to violence. In that, Ramses thought, he deceived himself. Margaret Minton to the right and O'Connell to the left of the furious pair were busily taking notes. Seeing Ramses and David, Montague's servant dropped to his knees and clasped his hands. "Brother of Demons, help my master! Todros Effendi, speak to the Father of Curses!" Emerson whirled round. "Oh, it's you," he said. "Do you know what this bastard is doing?" "No," Ramses said. "What?" "Er . . . Hmph." Emerson rubbed his chin. "I have every right to be here," Sir Malcolm said shrilly. His appearance had deteriorated since Ramses had last seen him. Goatee and wig had taken on a grayish hue, and his cravat was unpressed. Evidently his latest servant, a youngish man, well-set-up and broad-shouldered, had not been trained for valet duties. His robe was shabby and his sandals patched. "This is the tomb that will be used as a storage room and laboratory," Emerson said. "Don't tell me his presence here is a coincidence!"