Tomb of the Golden Bird, page 27
“Sir Malcolm was in the Valley today,” I said. “I saw him looking on. He has acquired a new dragoman. The other fellow must have had enough of him.”
“He’s always in the Valley,” said Emerson. “You only want to make him guilty of something, Peabody. What good would it do him to have a bomb tossed into the entrance of Tutankhamon’s tomb?”
“It might risk damage to the antiquities,” I admitted.
“Or block the entrance,” Ramses said. “I agree with Mother’s original suggestion. This smacks of politics, not theft.”
“Dinner is served,” said Fatima, in the doorway.
As we filed in, she plucked at my sleeve. “Is he in danger, Sitt? Was the bomb meant for him?”
“We don’t know, Fatima. We must trust to God.”
Her worried face brightened. “Yes, Sitt, it is true. Allah would not let harm come to such a good man. I have placed charms in his room.”
Sethos may have overheard the exchange. He was an accomplished eavesdropper. Fatima served the soup course, and he said, almost casually, “I’ve been having second thoughts about the other business. Has it occurred to any of you that the mad pursuit and furious attacks don’t really amount to much? No one has been killed or seriously injured, except for the old holy man, whose death might not have been intended. We agree, do we not, that Farhat’s—er—accident had nothing to do with us?”
He had used almost the same words I had used when discussing the business with Ramses earlier—with Sethos as the suspect. “Then what was the point of it all?” I asked.
Sethos finished his soup before replying. “I don’t know. But it may be that our fears of violence were groundless. Take the cases one by one. Ramses and Emerson were never in serious danger; the fire was easily extinguished and there were other means of egress. The old man might have passed away from sheer terror while being searched. Nadji was left relatively unharmed after they realized he wasn’t me, and Gargery was delivered unscathed to the station in time to catch the train.”
I didn’t want to worry Fatima—she seemed to be more concerned about him than about the rest of us!—but I was curious to see what other facile explanations he could come up with. “You were shot at and wounded,” I pointed out. “And someone tried to push you under a train.”
“Oh, that was a long time ago. An initial burst of enthusiasm, let us say. The point is that no one else has been threatened, and I don’t believe they will be. Certainly not the children. Anyone who knows your lot knows you would tear the Middle East apart if either was harmed.”
He looked round the table, awaiting an objection. None was offered. Oh, well done, I thought. He is good at this sort of thing. Even Ramses looked impressed by the argument; Nefret’s blue eyes smiled, and David nodded slowly, as if in agreeement.
“So,” said Sethos breezily, “the logical conclusion is that our ‘friends’ know we haven’t deciphered the message, since we would have acted upon it. They have decided, correctly, that we can’t decipher it or we would have done so by now.”
“You aren’t suggesting that we relax our guard, are you?” Emerson asked.
“Not at all. All I’m suggesting is that we avoid stirring up trouble, and hope they will do the same. What’s this? Ah, Maaman’s famous stuffed lamb. Thank you, Fatima. I trust your concerns are relieved.”
“Oh, yes. So long as you wear the charm.”
“Wear? Charm?” Ramses asked.
I had not observed the thin silk cord round Sethos’s neck. Feeling all eyes upon him, he fished the little object out from under his shirt. It was a silver hegab, of the sort usually worn by women, cylindrical in shape and containing a small scroll with a written protective charm or religious verse.
“Very nice,” I said. Emerson chewed vigorously on his lower lip, repressing the rude comment that would have hurt Fatima’s feelings; and David said gently, “Yes, Fatima. What about us, though?”
“You are not in danger,” said Fatima with perfect composure, and finished serving the stuffed lamb.
It was very good, but my appetite was not at its best. Was Sethos so complacent that he failed to realize his reasoning pointed the finger of guilt straight at him? Every point he had made could be applied to him. He might even have shot himself. As he had once said to me, he was violently averse to pain, but the wound was not serious in itself. I could visualize him, eyes screwed shut and hand shaking, as he aimed and squeezed the trigger.
It had been a while since I dreamed of Abdullah; when I saw him coming toward me from the Valley of the Kings, looking from side to side as if enjoying the view, I was sufficiently vexed to say something silly.
“Where have you been?”
“Here,” said Abdullah, stroking his silky black beard.
It was not such a bad place to spend eternity. Bleak as a lunar landscape, the rocky plateau stretched out behind him, but the wind blew fresh from the river and the valley below lay unrolled like a woven carpet—silvery sand bordered by emerald-green fields and sparkling water, patterned with little villages and the tumbled stones of the ruined temples along the cultivation. We always met there, where we had so often stood together in life.
“Hmph,” I said.
Abdullah chuckled. “As Emerson would say. Have you ever wondered, Sitt, why I come to you and not to him, who was as close as a brother?”
“No.”
There was no need to say more. We stood in silence for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes.
“I didn’t mean to reproach you,” I said. “But I am in desperate need of advice. We have had our share of trouble, heaven knows, but never have I been in such a state of confusion. I don’t know whom to trust or what to do.”
“You want ME to tell YOU what to do?” Abdullah asked in exaggerated astonishment.
The moment had passed. It was just as well; such spiritual intimacy cannot be sustained.
I sat down on the ground and tucked my feet under me, hoping I would be able to rise without awkwardness. I didn’t want any more pointed remarks about my age and infirmities from Abdullah.
“I will tell you, then,” said Abdullah, dropping easily to a sitting position near me. “Celebrate your Christmas and make the little ones happy. But do not give Charla a bow and arrow.”
“As if I would. But—”
“Bring them to visit my tomb on Issa’s Day. They may each leave an offering,” said Abdullah smugly. “A portrait of me by the little artist, a silver bangle from Charla—she is becoming too fond of possessions—and from Sennia, one of the pretty bows she wears in her hair. And money for the poor, in my name.”
I looked at him in surprised disapproval. “Your sainthood has gone to your head, Abdullah. Or are you trying to get me off the track?”
“It is important to please the little ones, Sitt, and also to teach them charity and love. The Holy Koran and your own Holy Book tell us that we must share with those who have not our good fortune.”
He looked so sanctimonious, lips pursed and eyes raised, that I was tempted to laugh. He had been a worldly man, following the precepts of his faith but not allowing them—how shall I put it—to interfere with his enjoyment of life. Perhaps becoming a saint had enlightened him.
“That is very true, Abdullah, and I will see that your wishes are carried out. Now what about some practical advice?”
“You are meddling in matters that do not concern you, Sitt. Leave them be.”
“That has a familiar ring,” I said dryly. “Perhaps you would care to be more specific. What matters should concern me?”
“Two matters only. The happiness of the little ones and the tomb of the pharaoh.”
“I have taken steps to guard the children.”
“That is not what I mean. No one threatens the children. No man in Egypt would dare touch them for fear of the wrath of the Father of Curses.”
“That is what Selim said.”
“Selim is right—for once,” said Selim’s father. “Make them happy and guard the tomb.”
He got to his feet in a single flowing motion. Seeing that he was about to walk away in his usual abrupt fashion, I scrambled up.
“Wait! The tomb of Tutankhamon is not ours to guard, Abdullah. It is Lord Carnarvon’s.”
Abdullah turned in a whirl of white skirts. His face was set in a scowl and he spoke with unusual vehemence. “It is not his. It is not yours. It belongs to Egypt and to the world. Sitt, you are not usually so slow to understand. Guard the tomb, not only from petty thieves like the ibn Simsahs but from the greedy men who would seize its treasures for themselves.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“HE WAS REFERRING TO CARTER AND CARNARVON,” I EXPLAINED.
I had described my dream of Abdullah to the assembled family at breakfast. I had kept the dreams secret at first, but by now everyone, including every villager on the West Bank, knew about them, and expressions of doubt or derision no longer bothered me. Not that I received many of either. The Gurnawis believed firmly in Abdullah’s status as a saint. Ramses and Nefret were neutral—open-minded, I should say. Emerson had learned to confine his doubts to raised eyebrows and inarticulate grumbles. For the most part.
“Not only them,” Ramses said, accepting a bowl of porridge from Fatima. “The Metropolitan Museum will get its share, as such institutions have done in the past.”
Nefret chuckled. “Who would have supposed dear old Abdullah would have nationalist sympathies?”
“Strangely similar to those held by Peabody,” said Emerson.
“Make up your mind, my dear,” I said pleasantly. “Either my visions of Abdullah are true or they are the product of my unconscious mind.”
“I don’t believe in the unconscious mind,” Emerson grumbled.
“There you are, then,” I said.
“We have almost finished the middle of bacon,” said Fatima. “And I will use the rest of the raisins with my holiday baking. Will you order more, Sitt?”
“Make a list,” I said. “I will send it off to Cairo.”
Her effort to change the subject did not succeed. Smarting under my irrefutable riposte, Emerson inquired sarcastically, “Why not order direct from Fortnum and Mason? That is where Carnarvon gets his supplies. Tinned salmon and tongue and curried guinea fowl, good Gad.”
“The expense is unwarranted, Emerson,” I replied. “To return, if I may, to my conversation with Abdullah. His other recommendation was that we make this a joyous season for the children. We have only a week left in which to prepare, and there is a good deal to do. I must start David John on the portrait. Abdullah specifically requested that.”
“How can he paint a portrait of a man he never met?” Emerson demanded.
“We have photographs,” I said patiently. “And David will help him. Won’t you, David?”
“Of course. He’s becoming quite a talented little artist.”
We had almost finished when Sennia came running in. I observed that she was wearing one of her “working suits,” which resembled those of mine and Nefret’s, except that it had a divided skirt instead of trousers.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” she demanded, slipping into the chair Ramses held for her. “I am going with you today.”
“A growing girl needs her sleep,” I replied. “Aren’t you going to help Fatima decorate the house and bake the Christmas cake?”
“The children can do that,” said Miss Sennia loftily. “I want to see the tomb of Tutankhamon.”
“We aren’t going there,” said Emerson—but he said it less emphatically than usual. We had taken Sennia into our home when she was barely two years of age, and she had found a permanent place in Emerson’s heart.
“Perhaps we ought, Father,” Nefret said. She finished a piece of toast and reached for another. “I expected to hear from Mr. Aziz this morning, but there has been no message.”
“He is a man of great delicacy,” I said. “No doubt he is waiting for you to offer your services.”
“What can she do?” Emerson demanded. “There was nothing left of the fellow except pieces of…er…”
“He was blown to bits,” Sennia said, tucking into her porridge with hearty appetite.
“Good Gad,” Emerson cried. “Who told you that? Was it you, Fatima? I trust you have not shared that delightful description with the twins.”
“Goodness, but you are in a combative mood this morning, Emerson,” I said. “Fatima would never do such a thing. I expect it was Kareem or one of the others.”
“Thank you, Sitt Hakim,” said Fatima, giving Emerson a reproachful look. With great dignity she swept from the room—taking the coffeepot with her.
“She always takes the coffeepot when she is annoyed with me,” Emerson muttered, looking sadly at his empty cup.
Fatima was persuaded to accept his apology and refill his cup. Emerson was then persuaded to accept my suggestion that we ought to return to the East Valley.
“Sennia deserves a look,” he admitted. “Anyhow, I had better make certain Carter installs that gate of his today. Fellow can’t be trusted.”
This was unfair to Howard, but I did not say so. I was becoming less inclined to be fair to him, considering his treatment of us.
David declined to accompany us, explaining that he had promised Cyrus he would make a few sketches in Ay’s tomb. “Mlle. Malraux is on leave for a few days, entertaining her grandfather, you see. It would not be…that is, I would rather not…”
“Suggest that her work was not good enough,” I finished, giving him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “It is like you, David, to be so sensitive to her feelings.”
“Bah,” said Emerson, pushing his chair back. “The girl is barely competent. I cannot imagine why you took her on, Peabody.”
“It was you who took her on, Emerson.”
“At your recommendation.”
He probably hadn’t even bothered to look at her portfolio. All the same, the responsibility was mine, so I felt obliged to defend myself. “It is difficult to find outstanding artists, Emerson. Howard and the Davies, and David, are becoming supplanted by photographers. Before long there will be color photography, and then—”
“But we haven’t it yet,” said Emerson. “And it will never replace the trained eyes of a human observer like David. Speaking of that, my boy, if you could stay on for a few—”
Knowing what he was about to ask, and determined to prevent him from asking it, I inquired of my brother-in-law, “What about you?”
Sethos leaned back in his chair with a sigh of repletion. “I am going to help Fatima mix the Christmas cake.”
We weren’t the only ones who found it impossible to stay away from Tutankhamon’s tomb. After weeks of being inaccessible, it was now reopened, and soon the removal of the antiquities would begin. Hopeful spectators, cameras at the ready, lined the wall. They expected to see golden treasures being carried out and down the path to the tomb of Seti II, which had been selected to serve as a storage room and conservation laboratory. They were doomed to disappointment, at least for a few days. If Howard followed the proper methodology, the objects would have to be photographed in situ and a detailed sketch of their locations made. The jumble of objects in the first room resembled a game of spillikin; they would have to be cautiously disentangled, piece by piece, and some were in fragile condition. The slightest touch could damage them.
My heart went out to my dear Emerson, who stood watching the activity round the tomb with a look of purest agony.
“He’ll need to devise a system of recording,” he said, as if to himself. “Every scrap, every object, numbered, sketched, photographed, and listed. He’ll muck it up, Peabody, I know he will.”
“Not with you looking over his shoulder,” I said, taking his arm and squeezing it.
“If he had an ounce of sense he would consult Father,” Nefret said indignantly.
“He has had the sense to acquire the best of assistants,” Ramses said, adding, with a wry smile, “ourselves excepted. Hall and Hauser are excellent draftsmen, and they say Mr. Lucas has offered his services.”
“I wonder if Mr. Lucas knows about paraffin wax,” I mused.
“Considering that he is the head of the government’s chemical department, and has had considerable experience in dealing with fragile antiquities, I expect he does,” Ramses said. “But you will of course mention it to him.”
“Naturally,” I said.
“Callender has the steel gate up,” Ramses said, in a further attempt to console Emerson, who replied with a growl.
“I don’t see Howard,” I remarked. “Didn’t he come today?”
“There he is,” Nefret said, pointing. “He must have been examining the scene of the…accident.”
His face set in a frown, Howard approached us, pushing past various persons who tried to address him. I fully expected he would ignore us as well; instead he stopped, and after a moment removed his hat.
“I understand you were present last evening when the incident occurred,” he said, after the slightest of nods.
“That is right,” I said.
“One of the ibn Simsahs, I am told?”
“That is right.”
“And this man is here at your invitation?” He gestured at Mr. Aziz, who had followed him at a little distance.
“He is here because a violent death occurred and he is chief inspector of the Luxor police,” I said, poking my husband to keep him quiet.
“Yes, quite. Well, the body has been removed, and I see no reason for him to remain. He refuses to obey my orders,” Howard went on, with a hard stare at Aziz. “Perhaps he will listen to you.”
“Confound it, Carter, you have not the authority to give him orders,” Emerson burst out. “If you would only employ a little tact—”
I poked Emerson harder, and he broke off with a pained grunt. He was in the right, but for Emerson to lecture someone else about tact was, to say the least, inappropriate.
“We will speak to the inspector,” I said. “Are you sure you don’t want some of his men to remain on guard?”
