Tomb of the Golden Bird, page 25
“Nothing would have happened to me.” She turned on him, eyes flashing. “You told me that yourself.”
“Perhaps I was lying.”
“It is a habit of yours.”
“Now, now,” I said.
“She only cares about her damned story,” Sethos said violently. “Didn’t you understand that she was threatening to accuse you, in print, of abducting her? Margaret, if you dare—”
“Then give me something else to write about!”
“Kindly lower your voices,” I ordered. “People are staring.”
Among the starers was Kevin O’Connell, red hair rampant, face sunburned, freckles blazing. He hadn’t been in the room when we arrived, so he must have followed us. Catching my eye, he raised his cup in salute.
“You see?” Margaret demanded. “He’s been on my trail all day. You promised you would keep me informed.”
His countenance almost as flushed as that of Kevin, Emerson rose in all his majesty. “And you, madam, were the first to break that agreement by perpetrating a physical attack against my wife—your friend. Come, Peabody. She has been warned. If she fails to heed that warning, on her own head be it.”
“Now, Emerson, don’t be so hasty,” I said. “I feel certain Margaret would never print such a story.”
“Not without inviting a lawsuit for slander,” Ramses said. “Everyone involved would deny the accusation.”
Margaret’s lips moved, as if she were silently going down the list of persons involved. “Hmmm,” she said. “Including you, Nefret?”
“You cannot possibly suppose otherwise,” Nefret said coolly.
“No harm in asking, was there?” Margaret said.
Her bland smile was too much for Emerson. His inherent chivalry even under such extreme provocation protected Margaret from his wrath; instead he turned on his brother. “Only a poor excuse for a man cannot control his own wife,” he hissed, and he would have said a good deal more, I expect, had I not interrupted with a loud “Good afternoon, Miss Minton. Come, Emerson.”
The reminder was sufficient. Silent and subdued, Emerson allowed himself to be led away. “Honestly,” I whispered. “You might as well have made a public announcement introducing your brother and his wife.”
“No one except ourselves heard me,” Emerson muttered. “And it was a—er—a generalization.”
“A very rude and improper generalization,” I said. “An insult to all womankind, especially your wife.”
“Come now, Peabody,” Emerson protested. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was only—”
“Striking out at him,” I said, looking back at Sethos. “Well, I forgive you this time, Emerson. I must admit that Miss Minton is an exasperating woman, and I cannot say we accomplished anything this afternoon. Ah well, we have done our duty.”
We were followed into the lobby by Kevin. “What was that all about?” he asked.
“None of your damned business,” growled Emerson.
I poked him with my parasol. “Miss Minton asked us to tea, and we accepted, in the belief that she intended it as a friendly gesture. As it turned out, she was only hoping to gain information from us.”
“You didn’t tell her about your secret visit to the tomb?” Kevin asked, trotting to keep up with Emerson’s long strides.
“As you observed, we parted acrimoniously,” I replied.
“Carter is reopening the tomb tomorrow.” Kevin offered this like a dog wagging its tail in the hope of reward.
Emerson stopped. “I know that. How do you know?”
“I have my sources.” Kevin winked. “Will you be there, sir?”
“No,” said Emerson. “Come along, Peabody.”
When we reached the house the twins were waiting for us, brushed and scrubbed within an inch of their lives. Looking as if no naughty thought had ever entered her pretty head, Charla begged all our pardons for her outburst of temper. The picture the two made was quite charming: hand in hand, blue eyes and dark raised imploringly; black curls and golden locks mingling, so close did they stand. They had missed tea with the family, which was one of the worst punishments we could devise, so I decided no further action was necessary. Making David John suffer for his sister’s bad manners was unfair, but he preferred it that way. As different as they were in appearance and behavior, they shared that strong bond one often finds between twins, and joined ranks when either was in trouble. They went off, still hand in hand, and I heard David John say, “If you like, I will read more to you from the fairy book, Charla, since you apologized so nicely.” She did like, as her vehement response made evident. Perhaps David John’s influence would be more effective than my lectures—if he could learn to be less patronizing.
At my insistence we all assumed proper attire for dinner with the Vandergelts. It is virtually impossible to force Emerson into formal evening garb, but he looked very handsome in the nice tweed suit I had selected (flecked with blue to match his eyes). The garments I had ordered, ostensibly for Ramses, had arrived, and Sethos was formally attired in a dinner jacket and black tie. I assumed he had done so in order to annoy Emerson. Nefret’s frock glittered with gold and silver beads from neck to hem. Sennia studied it enviously. “I wish I could have a dress like that,” she said.
Nefret gave her a hug. “Not until you are a little older. That frock becomes you very well.”
It had, in my opinion, too many ruffles. Sennia favored ruffles. However, it was suitable for a young girl, and the pale pink set off her black hair and brown cheeks.
In honor of the newcomers, Cyrus and Katherine had gone to some effort; porcelain and crystal, flowers in silver vases graced the table. This was Sennia’s first outing as a grown-up, and Bertie himself led her in to dinner. Spreading her skirts, she seated herself and surveyed the glittering rows of utensils with an air of great complacency.
“I know which fork to use,” she said to Bertie, in what my old nurse referred to as a pig’s whisper—the reference being, I supposed, to the pig’s manners rather than its vocalization.
“Then you can show me,” Bertie said. They were great friends, for she had nursed him during his postwar illness. Observing her smiles and flirtatious looks, I wondered if she had transferred her youthful affections to him. She had at one time been determined to marry Ramses when she grew up, but that had only been a childish fantasy, born of her great affection and gratitude. Now she was thirteen, the age at which a young person’s fancy turns to thoughts of the opposite gender.
“And you can show me,” said Jumana, across the table. She and Sennia both laughed heartily. They hadn’t always got on well, but they were now united in their common dislike of Suzanne. The French girl had made the fatal error of treating Sennia as if she were six years old, asking her about her dollies and laughing when Sennia said she preferred ushebtis.
Nadji had made a better impression. He greeted Sennia as he did the rest of us, with a bow and a handshake, and then retreated to a corner as was his habit. Whenever I glanced in his direction I saw that he was listening and looking, and his fixed, amiable smile reminded me of that perceptive observation of Mr. Robert Burns: “A chiel’s amang you takin’ notes.” I couldn’t make him out. Was he as shy as he appeared, or was he hiding something? According to Cyrus, he was working with skill and efficiency. Even Emerson had been unable to find fault with him.
As might have been expected, conversation centered on the latest news about Tutankhamon’s tomb. Everybody had a snippet of news or a surmise.
“He’ll have to start letting people in,” Cyrus said. “There have been a lot of complaints from local dignitaries.”
“Including you?” Nefret asked.
Cyrus coughed self-consciously. “To tell the truth, I did write a nice letter of congratulation to Carter. I sort of expected a response, if not an invitation, but I haven’t heard from him. Course he’s been away…”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Sethos advised. “I fear you’ve been tarred with the same brush as the rest of us. The rest of Luxor and Cairo society, come to that. They say he’s behaving as if the tomb is his and Carnarvon’s personal property. A number of people have complained, and the Egyptian press is up in arms.”
“He is under considerable stress,” Ramses said. “You know from our own experience how maddening it is to have one’s work interrupted by idle curiosity seekers.”
“I believe it is more complex than that,” I said. “Now, Emerson, don’t grumble, I am not talking psychology, only plain common sense—based, I should add, on my profound study of human nature. After all these years of being scorned and patronized, Howard is suddenly in the catbird seat. It has gone to his head. I am not surprised. The people who jeered at his common background and mocked his manners are now suing humbly for his favors. Subconsciously—er—that is, I mean to say, without realizing it himself, Howard may even have resented our attempts to assist him.”
“He’s got nothing against me,” Cyrus protested. “I never jeered at him and I’m no idle curiosity seeker.”
“But you are a rival of Lord Carnarvon’s in the collecting game,” Sethos pointed out. “He was green with envy when you acquired the Tutankhamon statuette last year.”
“That’s no reason to keep me out of the tomb,” Cyrus said stubbornly. “Doggone it, I’d give anything to get a look. I’m not after any of the artifacts, I just want a look.”
Suzanne, on Bertie’s other side, had sat in sullen silence while he and Sennia chatted and laughed. She had gone to great pains to get herself up in a silken gown that spelled money to my experienced eyes; her face was painted and her hair confined by a silver fillet. Being supplanted in Bertie’s favor by a little girl of thirteen did not sit well with her.
“Perhaps I can help,” she said unexpectedly.
She got everyone’s attention. Incredulity was the common reaction. Jumana rolled her eyes and Emerson blurted out, “You?”
Suzanne smiled a little cat smile. “My grandfather—my mother’s father—is a neighbor of Lord Carnarvon’s. They are old friends. I had a wire from him last week, to say that he is coming out to spend Christmas with me. And see the tomb, of course.”
Katherine was the first to recover from her surprise. “We would be happy to have him stay with us.”
“Oh, no, no, he would never invite himself; I have taken rooms for him at the Luxor. He looks forward to meeting you all. I have written much about you, especially, Mr. and Mrs. Vandergelt, about your kindness to me.”
“Who the dev—Who is your grandfather?” Emerson demanded, expressing in his blunt fashion a question some of us might have put more politely.
“Sir William Portmanteau. Perhaps you know him, sir?”
The question was addressed to Cyrus. Frowning thoughtfully, he said, “I had business dealings with him some years ago, before I retired. Railroads and coal, those were his interests. He hadn’t been knighted then.”
“His Majesty honored him in reward for his services to England during the war,” Suzanne said proudly.
“That’s right,” said Cyrus. “Well, my dear, perhaps he will join us here for our Christmas celebration.” He didn’t want to ask, but he couldn’t help himself. “And if he has any influence with Lord Carnarvon…”
“He would be delighted to exert it on your behalf,” Suzanne said.
“I say,” Bertie exclaimed. “That’s kind of you, Miss Malraux.”
“Please.” She turned her wide-eyed gaze upon him. “I have asked you to call me by my first name.”
Jumana and Sennia exchanged pointed glances.
Emerson seldom sulks (he prefers more direct methods of expressing his feelings). He would have resented Suzanne’s offer to include him, but he was equally resentful at not being asked. Loudly declaring he had heard enough about bloo—blooming Tutankhamon, he began describing to David our work in the West Valley.
“Perhaps you can give Miss Malraux a hand with her paintings of the scenes in Ay’s tomb,” he said, with a malignant look at the young Frenchwoman. “She appears to be having some difficulties.”
“It is difficult working under such conditions,” David said, with a friendly smile at Suzanne.
“But there are few artists with your talent,” Suzanne replied, lowering her eyes and blushing prettily. “Never could I claim to equal it, Mr. Todros. I would be humbly grateful for any advice.”
“Tomorrow morning,” said Emerson. “Six A.M.”
When Emerson speaks, the gods obey, much less mere mortals. We were all up before dawn and ready to go at the hour Emerson had decreed. We were able to get out of the house without Sennia; wearied by her first excursion into society, followed by a long chat with Gargery, who wanted to hear all about it, she slept late. Fatima had declared her intention of beginning preparations for her holiday baking, so I hoped that would keep the children and Sennia occupied until we returned. I had plans for the day.
The only one missing from Cyrus’s crew was Suzanne. “I told her she could meet her granddad’s train,” Cyrus explained.
“He arrives today?” I asked in surprise. “I wonder why she didn’t mention before last night that he was coming.”
“Didn’t want to make us feel obliged to entertain him, I suppose,” Cyrus said.
“Who gives a curse?” Emerson demanded. “We are wasting time. David, I want to show you the areas we have investigated. Perhaps you will spot something I missed.”
He strode off, with the others following like ducklings after their mother.
I waited until the luncheon baskets had been opened before announcing my plans. I could tell they came as no surprise to Emerson. His protests were somewhat half-hearted.
“You needn’t come,” I said, selecting a cucumber sandwich. “But David hasn’t even seen the famous tomb. By tomorrow the word of its being reopened will have spread and everyone in Luxor will be there.”
“May I go, sir?” Jumana asked.
“Sure,” said Cyrus. “I’d kind of like to have a look myself.”
“Oh, go on, the lot of you,” Emerson shouted. “You’re no use anyhow. Selim and I can manage quite well without you.”
Selim, who had hoped to join us, looked crestfallen. I gave him a wink and a pat on the shoulder.
Ordinarily the tourists left the Valley around midday, returning to their hotels across the river or to the Cook’s rest house near Deir el Bahri. I delayed until later in the afternoon in the hope of avoiding the crowds. We made quite a large party in ourselves, for in the end everyone, with the exception of Emerson, had declared their intention of accompanying me, and he had grumpily given Selim permission. He rode with us as far as the end of the path from the West Valley and galloped away with his nose in the air. I suspected he would not go far.
Lounging near the entrance was Kevin O’Connell. “I expected you before this, ma’am,” he said, removing his pith helmet.
“Go away, Kevin,” I said automatically.
“Why?” He fell in step with me, nodding pleasantly at David, on my other side. “You are persona non grata in any case. Be nice, Mrs. E., and I will return the favor. Carter has most of the entrance cleared.”
“Where is Miss Minton?”
“Hovering over the tomb,” said Kevin, scowling. “She has tried twice to approach Carter, but she had no more success than I did. I must say, his manners leave a great deal to be desired.”
Some persons find the Valley of the Kings stark and forbidding, its monochromatic buff cliffs unrelieved by greenery or rippling water. Yet it has a beauty of its own. Shaped by wind and weather, the walls of the narrow wadis have assumed fantastic shapes and the shadows exhibit subtle changes in color, from soft lavender to gray-blue, as the direction of the sun’s rays changes. In my opinion it was not as impressive as it had been before Howard Carter and his successors tidied the place, smoothing the paths, bringing electric lights into the most popular tombs and erecting walls round their entrances. It had to be done, not only to make access easier for the tourists who provided income to the local people, but to prevent rainwater from rushing down the cliffs into the tombs. Rainstorms in Luxor are infrequent, but formidable; I had beheld several myself, and knew how damaging they could be. And yet, and yet…the sheer romance of clambering over fallen rubble, of creeping down the narrow bat-filled passages with only a flickering candle to light the way, of being among the first to behold a burial chamber littered with the broken remnants of the treasures its occupant had taken to the tomb—and the remnants of the occupant himself—a snapped-off arm, its fingers extended like claws, a face whose withered lids were half open, showing slits of white, seeming to blink in the wavering flame…
How fortunate I had been to experience such delights! My deep sigh made David look curiously at me. “All right, are you, Aunt Amelia?”
“I was remembering the old days. Did you know,” I said dreamily, “that sometimes onions were inserted under the eyelids of the mummy to give a lifelike appearance?”
David’s sympathetic imagination understood the seeming irrelevance. He laughed a little, and slipped my arm through his. “That must have been a wonderful sight.”
The stairwell leading to the tomb entrance lay in a pit approximately twenty feet below ground level. More tidying, I thought sadly, observing the cleared space before the stairwell, the rough shed that had been constructed, the electric cable snaking its way across the ground. Several tents had been erected, presumably for the use of the guards; I doubted very much that Lord Carnarvon or Howard would settle for such rude accommodations. Just above and behind the pit lay the rectangular opening to the tomb of Ramses VI. A low retaining wall of unmortared stone surrounded the declivity.
David and I joined the rest of our party near the entrance to the tomb. Howard’s activities had not gone unobserved, and a few of the more dedicated sightseers lingered, leaning over the wall. They might be said to brighten the drab hues of the Valley, though not in an appropriate manner; some of the ladies wore frocks of saffron and nile green and the gentlemen, gaudily striped flannels. Many held cameras. Mingling with them and squatting on the paths that led like a spiderweb over the hills of debris on either side were representatives of the local villagers wearing turbans and galabeeyahs. Margaret Minton, close to the wall, raised her arm and waved. I did not wave back.
