“No,” said Howard shortly. Grudgingly he added, “Er—thank you.”

  “Mr. Carter,” said a too-familiar voice. “A question, if I may?”

  Howard made a growling sound reminiscent of Emerson at his best, and trotted down the slope into the pit. I turned to Kevin O’Connell.

  “Put your hat on,” I said. “Your nose is peeling. No luck?”

  “Not for meself nor for any of me kind,” said the irrepressible O’Connell in his best—or worst—brogue. He sighed and rubbed his itching nose. “Nor would the worthy officer of the law tell me anything of interest. I’ll just have to go for the curse.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” I demanded, observing that Ramses and Nefret were conversing with Aziz. The inspector’s face was a trifle flushed and he was gesticulating emphatically.

  “Oh, ’twill make a pretty tale,” O’Connell crooned. “First the demise of Carter’s golden bird, at the hands—er—jaws—of a royal cobra; now the mysterious death of a native—his name doesn’t matter—on the day the tomb is reopened and the pharaoh’s treasures are about to be removed from his last resting place by the impious hands of foreign infidels.”

  I waited for him to go on, but after one look at Emerson’s darkening countenance and Sennia’s round black eyes he decided not to mention specific curses against specific persons. “A pack of nonsense,” I said.

  “That is what such stories are, Mrs. E. Meaningless facts and a great deal of imagination. I ought to know, I’ve written several of them.”

  “I like stories about curses,” said Sennia, looking very businesslike in her neat coat and skirt. “But they are nonsense, Mr. O’Connell.”

  “Go away, Kevin,” I said.

  Naturally Kevin did nothing of the sort. Remaining at a safe distance from Emerson, he followed us to the spot where Aziz and my children were chatting.

  “Were you here all night?” I asked, observing that Aziz’s cheeks were dark with stubble. Like most Moslems he was bearded, but he was always meticulous about shaving the areas that weren’t part of the beard.

  “As was my duty, madam. Mr. Carter has informed me that I and my men are no longer wanted.”

  “Nor am I, it seems,” Nefret said pleasantly. “Mr. Aziz has removed poor Farhat’s remains to the zabtiyeh, and he believes there is no need for an additional examination.”

  “The cause of death is obvious even to an ignorant native like myself,” said Aziz. Regretting his snappish tone, he inclined his head to Nefret in tacit apology. “He is an ugly sight, even to such an experienced physician as yourself.”

  “Then he will be buried today?” I asked. “I wonder if we ought to attend the obsequies.”

  Emerson growled, Ramses raised his eyebrows, and even Aziz’s controlled countenance expressed astonishment.

  “Perhaps not,” I said.

  “Attendance will not be large,” said Aziz, with a touch of irony. “He was greatly disliked, for he brought shame on his family. I myself will be present in case his rascally brothers are there. Thus far I have not been able to lay my hands on them.”

  “You think they were involved in his death?” Ramses asked.

  “They were always involved with Farhat’s evil deeds. I want to question them. Now if you will excuse me, I must remove my unwanted presence.”

  He summoned his men with a brusque command and led them away.

  “Dear me,” I said. “Howard does seem to be intent on offending everyone he can. Emerson, why don’t you show Sennia the tomb and tell her what is going on?”

  Make no mistake about it, dear Reader; children are fascinated by horrid events and gruesome sights. I have never met a child who did not delight in mummies. However, in my opinion, little Miss Sennia had heard enough of horrors; I had no intention of allowing her to view what might be left of Farhat. Emerson indicated his agreement with my opinion and took Sennia back to the tomb. I proceeded, as had been my intention, toward the scene of the…accident.

  After all, there was not much to see. Aziz had done a thorough job of clearing away the mess. Every scrap had been removed, including the broken fragments of glass. Only darkened bloodstains remained.

  “The blast was what killed him,” I said to Nefret. “If he had been dead before it went off, there wouldn’t be so much blood.”

  “Not if he had died only moments before,” Nefret argued. “Struck down by a mortal wound.”

  “I yield to your medical expertise, of course,” I said. “But on logical grounds such a scenario is most unlikely. We would have heard the sound of a shot or a struggle. And if I understand how the infernal device works, it would explode immediately after one sort of acid mixed with the other.”

  I looked questioningly at Ramses, who pondered the question and then said, “It would take a few seconds for the nitric acid to penetrate the cotton wool. That would begin as soon as the pipe was laid flat. I doubt that a killer would risk its being dropped.”

  “Not to mention the absence of motive for a murderous attack,” I said. “At least I can’t think of one.”

  “Do I detect a certain note of regret?” Ramses asked gravely.

  It was just one of his little jokes. “I would prefer a nice simple murder to our present state of confusion,” I replied, only half in jest.

  I had forgotten about Kevin, who had the trained journalist’s ability to creep up on a victim unobserved. Reminded of his presence by a faint scratching sound, I turned to see him scribbling away in his beastly notebook.

  “You may not quote me, Kevin,” I said sternly.

  “If you say so, Mrs. E.”

  (I should add, in justice to Kevin, that he did not. When his story appeared, it said, “Mrs. Emerson is known to prefer murder to other forms of crime. She is also known to be an expert on ancient Egyptian curses.” My solicitor has informed me that no action can be taken.)

  FROM MANUSCRIPT H

  “I am becoming bored watching Mr. Carter swanking about,” Nefret declared. “Why do we give him the satisfaction of snubbing us?”

  Ramses was in full agreement, though he understood better than most the difficulties Carter faced. It had taken them more than a year to clear the tomb of Tetisheri, and that had been only a single room. Carter had at least four chambers to contend with, each jammed full of irreplaceable, delicate objects—including, perhaps, the mummy of the king. The eyes of the world, not to mention those of Emerson, would be fixed upon him, ready to criticize every move. He would also be harassed by visitors, journalists, and dignitaries, some of them too important to be turned away. Emerson had dealt with these infuriating interruptions—which also threatened the safety of the antiquities—by refusing to permit entry to anyone. Carter couldn’t do that. He had to keep on good terms with his patron, and Carnarvon would want to show off “his” discovery.

  Though he sympathized with his father’s yearning to be in charge of the most challenging task any Egyptologist had faced, Ramses felt certain that Carter could be depended upon to do a good job. He was a responsible excavator, and he had assembled a team of unquestioned experts. Emerson and his family had been deliberately passed over; there was nothing they could do. Watching the busy bustle of men coming in and out of the tomb, Ramses felt a stab of anger—on his father’s behalf, he told himself.

  “We may as well go,” he said to Nefret.

  Sennia was easily drawn away. “There is nothing exciting happening,” she complained. “And I’m hungry.”

  “I fear I neglected to bring a picnic basket,” his mother said, fanning herself with a folded paper.

  Neglected, my foot, Ramses thought. She wouldn’t have overlooked that if she had intended to spend the whole day.

  As they headed for the donkey park, they met another member of the staff of the Metropolitan Museum—Harry Burton, a slender, handsome man who was unquestionably the best archaeological photographer in Egypt. Burton had worked with them before, but Emerson, anticipating another rebuff, would have passed him with no more than a nod if Burton hadn’t stopped, whipped off his hat, and extended his hand.

  “You couldn’t keep away either, I see,” he said with a friendly smile. “I am not supposed to begin work until tomorrow, but I couldn’t resist having a look.”

  “You have quite a job ahead of you,” Emerson said.

  “From what we have heard,” his wife added smoothly.

  “I look forward to it. I plan to take a few moving pictures and perhaps try some of the new color films.”

  “Fascinating,” said Nefret.

  Her attempt at enthusiasm didn’t deceive Burton. The general air of reserve was palpable. Looking from one of them to the other, he said, “I hope I may be favored by an invitation to tea one day.”

  “Haven’t you been warned to stay away from us?” Emerson demanded.

  As was so often the case, Emerson’s bluntness cut through the discomfort like a blast of fresh air. Burton’s formal manners dissolved in a grin. “Carter did mention that Carnarvon had taken it into his head to bear a grudge of some sort. His lordship can be—er—unreasonable at times.”

  “If you are willing to risk his displeasure, you are always welcome,” Ramses’s mother said, thawing.

  “It is no risk, Mrs. Emerson. Finding another photographer would take some time, and he cannot begin clearing the outer chamber until photographs have been taken of all the objects in situ.”

  “He couldn’t find another one of your caliber,” Nefret said sincerely. “I’ve never forgotten what you did in that cramped chamber of the God’s Wives.”

  Burton placed his hand over his heart and bowed. “In any case, I do not allow Lord Carnarvon or Howard Carter to manage my social affairs. Vulgar sort of fellow, Carter,” he added, wrinkling his aristocratic nose. “Well, I mustn’t detain you. I hope to see you again soon. I trust there will be plum cake for tea?”

  He winked at Sennia, who assured him that she would make certain there was, and strolled off along the path.

  “What a nice man,” Sennia said.

  “Not such a bad chap,” Emerson agreed. “But Winlock said much the same thing, and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.”

  “We haven’t seen hide nor hair of Margaret Minton today either,” said his wife. “That isn’t like her. I do hope she hasn’t run into trouble.”

  “It’s more likely she is in pursuit of another story,” Nefret said. “Which is not a reassuring thought.”

  Sethos hadn’t come to the Valley either. Perhaps, Ramses thought, he was doing his uncle an injustice by wondering whether he had really spent the morning baking cakes.

  The enticing smell of sugar and spices wafted to our nostrils as we approached the house. For once the children did not come running to meet us. Everyone was in the kitchen with Fatima; the heat and the noise level were both outrageously high. Someone—I thought I knew who—had let the dog in, and Fatima was smacking it with a large wooden spoon. Amira cowered, but the way she kept licking her chops did not indicate genuine repentance.

  Though Fatima did not share our faith, this was her favorite time of year. The Lord Issa was a revered prophet, after all, and Fatima loved making other people happy. She was the admitted queen of the oven, and Maaman gave way to her with good grace.

  “Good Gad,” said Emerson. “What an uproar! Having a happy time, are you, my dears?”

  Charla embraced him round the waist, leaving floury handprints on his shirt. “You must stir the Christmas cake,” she shouted. “For good luck.”

  “I have already stirred it,” said Sethos, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Gargery was sitting next to him at the table, stoning raisins.

  There was a good deal of flour on the floor, the table, and the dog; but everyone seemed to be having a jolly time, to say nothing of the dog. Even Fatima laughed as I escorted Amira out of the room.

  “She ate all the biscuits I had cooling on the table. She burned her tongue, I think.”

  We all had the obligatory stir of the cake, including David, who had returned from the West Valley and come to see what was going on.

  “I trust there is something for luncheon,” said Emerson, licking the spoon he had dipped into the batter.

  “Salads,” said Maaman. “I have been helping Fatima.”

  “I will serve them,” said Kareem eagerly.

  I expected Gargery to offer, but either he and Fatima had come to an understanding or he was enjoying the pandemonium. The children always perked him up; he was chuckling like a thin beardless Father Christmas.

  Fatima declined Kareem in favor of one of her sous-chefs, a sturdy young woman named Badra, and shooed us out of the kitchen.

  Her pleasure was infectious. While we waited on the veranda for luncheon to be served, every face wore a smile and Emerson did not refer, even in passing, to the confounded tomb.

  “It is time we turned our attention to celebrating the blessed season,” he declared, with a provocative look at me. “What do you say, Peabody?”

  Blessed season indeed, I thought. Emerson considered Christmas a survival of pagan celebrations of the midwinter solstice. He was something of a pagan himself. At my request he had not expressed his opinions to the children, and since they were present I did not allow him to provoke me.

  “As you have observed, Emerson, those preparations are underway,” I replied.

  “We need a tree,” said Emerson.

  “And presents,” Charla offered.

  “Perhaps we should go to Luxor and do some shopping,” said Emerson, with the air of a man who had just made a major discovery.

  A general cry of approval greeted the idea. Even Sennia forgot her dignity and clapped her hands.

  Emerson’s good humor was only slightly dimmed when Gargery insisted on coming with us. The old fellow had informed me that he had brought gifts with him; however, it was his duty to watch over Miss Sennia, particularly in view of what had happened to him in Cairo. “She is a defenseless child, sir and madam,” he said.

  “And you think you can protect her?” Emerson demanded. “If you are so keen on your duty, why did you let her go to the Valley without you?”

  “That was an entirely different situation, sir,” said Gargery, squaring his narrow shoulders.

  “Oh, bah,” said Emerson. “Very well, very well.” After Gargery had gone off, smirking, he added, “We’ll have to keep a close eye on him.”

  Despite Emerson’s forebodings (which he would have described as “simple common sense, Peabody”) we had no difficulty keeping track of Gargery. Exhilarated and rejuvenated, he kept pace with Sennia, who never left his side. The rest of us divided forces, but there were enough of us to ride herd on the twins and watch over one another. We agreed to meet at the Winter Palace for tea, and I went off with the group that included Charla, Ramses, and David.

  Charla appeared uncharacteristically subdued. Clutching her little purse, she examined the wares on sale in the shops along the corniche without interest. “I wanted to get a book for David John,” she whispered. “But there is nothing he hasn’t read.”

  Laughing, I gave her a little hug. “He isn’t here. You need not whisper.”

  “We brought a number of books for him,” David said. “And I expect there are more in that parcel your other grandparents sent.”

  “But they are not from me,” Charla said, unconsoled. “And I don’t have enough money to buy nice presents for Grandpapa and Mama and Sennia and Selim and Fatima and Kareem and—”

  “Perhaps you have too many friends,” I suggested.

  Charla was not amused. Shaking her curly head, she put me in my place. “You keep saying a person cannot have too many friends, Grandmama.”

  “That is true.” I regretted my little joke, for I knew her distress was genuine. For all her faults she was a loving little soul.

  “Your friends don’t care about expensive presents,” Ramses said gently. “Why don’t you write a nice letter to each of them telling them that you love them?”

  “What an excellent idea,” I said. It would keep her occupied for hours.

  “I can’t draw pictures or write very well,” Charla murmured. “I am not as clever as David John.”

  I met Ramses’s eyes and saw in them the same sense of remorse that had seized me. Why hadn’t I realized that our constant scoldings (though often deserved) of Charla and our praise of David John had made his sister feel less loved than he? As a student of psychology I should have known her tantrums might be caused in part by frustration and resentment.

  “Yes, you are,” I said firmly. “You have different talents, but yours are as worthy as his.”

  Ramses echoed this statement, but without visible effect on his disconsolate daughter.

  “I’ll tell you what,” David said. “Supposing you and I put our heads together and think of something. I understand you are very nimble with a pair of scissors. Perhaps your grandmama has some old magazines she can spare. We will cut out pretty pictures and make little books for everyone.”

  “We will all help,” I said, with a grateful look at David.

  “Not too much,” said Charla, her face brightening. “Or it won’t be my present.”

  With Charla’s enthusiastic assistance we acquired the materials for the little books—colored paper and crayons and bright ribbons to tie the pages together—and made a quick call on my friend Marjorie Fisher to see if she had any old magazines to spare. She gave us several and promised to collect more from the ladies of Luxor. Her reward was a huge hug from Charla, which she returned with interest.

  By the time we reached the Winter Palace, Charla was her old self, skipping along with her hand in that of her father and speculating loudly about the variety of sweets that might be available. David and I followed them, carrying Charla’s purchases so that no one would suspect they belonged to her. (Thanks to private negotiations with the shopkeepers, the meager contents of her little purse had proved adequate.)

  “Thank you, David,” I said in a low voice. “I am ashamed I haven’t taken more pains to commend Charla. David John gets most of the compliments.”

  “I am an expert at walking the tightrope between competitive children,” David said with a laugh. “It’s more demanding even than excavation.”

 

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