Tomb of the Golden Bird, page 32
I always insisted that the twins write thank-you letters immediately upon receipt of gifts. It is the only proper way. And it provided a reason for them to sit down, at a table, on a chair, and curb their hilarity.
We all had a little rest, which some of us needed after the hilarity and Fatima’s bountiful late breakfast. Then it was time to dress for Cyrus’s soiree. Unfortunately Emerson and Selim had succeeded (or so they claimed) in getting the motorcar in running order. Fortunately there were too many of us to fit into it in comfort. Nefret and I and Fatima got into Cyrus’s carriage. I did not want the motorcar preceding us, because of the dust, or following us, because of the possibility that Emerson and Selim had been overly optimistic about the steering apparatus, so I finally managed to persuade them to ride horseback. Selim rode magnificently and knew it, and Emerson was persuaded when I allowed him to wear riding kit instead of evening clothes, which he detests. They followed us, and I must say that they made an imposing escort.
We were among the last to arrive (thanks to the discussion regarding the motorcar). Cyrus’s grand drawing room was filled with guests, all dressed in their best. The severe black and white of the gentlemen’s evening suits was brightened by the ladies’ gowns, in every shade from nile green to scarlet, and by the elegant robes of the Egyptian guests. Sir William stood by the buffet table, champagne glass in hand, chatting (and, I did not doubt, chuckling) with a gentleman who was a stranger to me. Probably a tourist; Cyrus always included a number of them in his invitations.
“I owe you an apology, Amelia,” said Cyrus, observing the direction of my gaze. “Didn’t get a chance to express myself adequately last night.”
“Why should you apologize, Cyrus? It was not your fault.”
“You didn’t bring Sennia.”
“I thought it better that she should not come.”
“I’ll make it up to her,” Cyrus said fervently. “A late Christmas present, maybe. What would she like?”
“Only your goodwill, Cyrus dear. And she knows she has that.”
We were joined at that point by Emerson. He was one of the few gentlemen not in evening kit, but honesty compels me to admit that he looks his best in less formal garments. He cut quite a handsome figure in boots and riding breeches and a well-tailored tweed coat; the eyes of many of the ladies dwelled admiringly upon him.
“I refuse to be polite to that bastard Portmanteau,” he announced. “How much longer must we put up with him?”
“You needn’t shout,” I said, giving Emerson a little poke. “He is leaving tomorrow, I understand.”
“No such luck,” Cyrus said. “He’s decided to stay on a few more days. But we won’t see much of him; he’s taking Suzanne to Abydos and Dendera. I think he’s trying to persuade her to return to England with him.”
“She can’t do that,” I said firmly. “Not without consulting me. I—we, that is—engaged her for the season.”
“It would sure leave me in a pretty pickle,” Cyrus said. “She never finished the drawings of Ay’s reliefs. Not that they were much good. I don’t suppose David—”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Katherine is gesturing at me. I must circulate.”
Cyrus had always been an excellent host, and Katherine added those little touches of elegance that only a wife can provide. Candles blazed in the elegant crystal chandeliers and sconces, potted plants provided quiet corners, and there were fresh flowers on each of the little tables scattered about. Several archaeological friends had come, though none of those from Metropolitan House. I deduced that they had refused Cyrus’s invitation, as they had mine. The visiting tourists compensated, in numbers at least, for their absence. All of them wanted to hear about Tutankhamon, and as I made my way from group to group, I offered little tidbits of description—and tactfully avoided requests that I get them admitted to the tomb. The gentleman with whom Sir William had been conversing was particularly persistent. He was head of the board of some company or other, which, he seemed to feel, entitled him to special privileges.
After several glasses of champagne I decided I had better have something to eat. I made my way to the buffet table, where I found my brother-in-law.
“Allow me,” he said, taking the plate from my hand. “What will it be? Foie gras, turkey, pickled oysters…Oh, of course. Cucumber sandwiches?”
Having indicated my selections, I allowed him to lead me to a table. “I have been chatting with Nadji,” he said. “He seems a trifle low-spirited.”
“You are becoming quite a kindly soul,” I said.
“It’s a dull crowd.” Sethos leaned back. “Too many millionaires and their overdressed wives.”
I did not reply, since my mouth was full. Surveying the glittering assemblage, I conceded his point. I was pleased to see that Ramses and Nefret had taken charge of Emerson, who was inclined, when unsupervised, to start arguments. Nefret looked absolutely stunning that night, her face aglow and her hair a crown of gold.
“I haven’t seen Margaret,” I said.
“Perhaps she had enough of us last night.”
“But one would expect a dedicated journalist to attend, in the hope of picking up some bit of gossip.” Kevin’s carroty head moved through the crowd like a comet, and I identified several other guests as journalists. I can always spot them by the bulges in their coat pockets which indicate the presence of notebooks, and by their predatory looks. Messieurs Bradstreet of the New York Times and Bancroft of the Daily Mail were known to me personally (through no fault of mine).
A little before midnight Emerson came up to me. “Can we go now?” he demanded.
“If you like, my dear.”
“I do like. There are too many damned journalists and not enough Egyptologists, and if I don’t leave soon I will be impelled to tell Sir William what I think of him. Did you see the way he stared at Fatima, as if she were a servant who did not know her place?”
Emerson’s threat could not be taken lightly. I slipped my arm through his. “Come and say good night to Cyrus and Katherine, then. I will see if the others are ready to go.”
Fatima was more than ready. She was rather shy in company, and had come only because she did not want to offend Cyrus. She had been well looked after that evening, though, by Sethos and by Nefret and Ramses. The latter pair decided to come with us, and so did David, but Sethos declared he would stay on for a bit. Selim was having a splendid time, rolling his eyes at dazzled ladies and addressing them in an exaggerated accent, so I left him to it. The ladies appeared to be enjoying the performance.
As soon as we were seated in the carriage, Fatima fell asleep, leaning against Nefret’s shoulder. “She works too hard,” Nefret said softly. “We ought to get more help for her.”
“I have offered, Nefret, to no avail. She likes to be in charge.”
“We might at least keep the twins from bothering her so much. I know she adores them, but they can be very tiring.”
“You could do with more help yourself,” I said. “It is high time the children began their formal education.”
There was no response from Nefret. Her eyes were closed and her head drooped.
We spent Boxing Day recovering from the ones that had preceded it. There was a general, though unexpressed, consensus that much as we had enjoyed the holiday season, we were relieved it was over, and with no worse disasters than a scorched tree.
“No worse thus far,” I said. “I cannot conceive, Emerson, what mad urge prompted you to give Charla a bow and arrows.”
Emerson had retreated to his study, whither I had followed. “Cannot a man have a little peace and quiet to get on with his neglected work?” he demanded. “I gave up several days—willingly and without complaint, Peabody—to your nefarious schemes. Now leave me be.”
He picked up a pen and began writing at great speed. I sat down on the corner of his desk.
“You have misspelled artifact and stratification,” I said.
“Curse it!” Emerson looked round for some object at which to throw his pen. I took it from him, to prevent further ink stains on the furniture.
“Since it was you who gave the deadly object to Charla, it is your responsibility to see it is not misused.”
Emerson’s shoulders sagged and his keen blue eyes took on a haunted look. “I can’t take it away from her. I can’t, Peabody.”
“I know. It would be cruel and improper to take back a gift. What I propose is that you retain possession of the objects and allow her to use them only under your supervision.”
“Me?” Emerson demanded, neglecting grammar in his consternation. “I don’t know a cursed thing about archery. Nefret’s the one. She was once very good at it.”
“Then why don’t you ask her?”
Grumbling but admitting his responsibility, Emerson went in search of Nefret. The dear girl at once agreed to the scheme (which I had discussed with her earlier), and we all went into the desert behind the house to set up the butts (bales of hay from the stable with targets painted by David). Charla was so pleased at being the object of our attention that she obeyed her mother’s instructions faithfully and even agreed to let David John have his turn. It gave her no little satisfaction, I believe, when he proved to be less adept.
In the afternoon we distributed the Christmas boxes, most of which contained money. A few of the villagers dropped in, on the chance that they might be included. We handed out sweets to the children among them, and I caught Emerson dispensing baksheesh to young Azmi. I was on the veranda at the time, waiting for tea.
“For what services are you rewarding him?” I demanded. “I told you, Emerson, that you must not encourage a child to spy and sneak.”
“The lad is learning a useful lesson,” said Sethos, who had been an amused listener. “That he can earn more from sneaking and spying than from carrying water jars.”
Since I could not in honesty deny this, I sniffed and picked up the newspaper I had laid aside.
“Reading a newspaper?” Sethos inquired. “Good Lord, Amelia. What has come over you?”
“Bloody waste of time,” Emerson said, seating himself and taking out his pipe. “Isn’t tea ready?”
“Shortly. I was just having a glance at the social column. I expect most of the honorables and sirs and lords will be descending upon Luxor before long.”
“Is there any other news?” Sethos asked.
“Rioting in the Delta and the attempted assassination of the Minister of Public Works,” I said, forgetting that I had “just” glanced at the social column.
Waxing impatient for his tea, Emerson got up and went into the house to encourage Fatima. Leaning forward, Sethos said softly, “You are still expecting some dramatic action from…them, aren’t you? Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, my dear. We’ve been left in peace, as they promised.”
I flung the newspaper aside. “Something is bound to happen to someone, otherwise there would be no point to the business. I feel as if I were waiting for a bomb to go off.”
“If it does, you won’t learn about it from a day-old newspaper,” said Sethos.
He was right about that. I learned of it next morning, from, of all people, Kevin O’Connell.
We had gone back to work in the West Valley. Emerson was fired up about a new theory, that the undecorated tomb number 25 had been meant for Akhenaton. He told us all about it at breakfast.
“Akhenaton did not transfer his residence to Amarna until year five of his reign. He would have started to excavate his tomb by then, in Thebes. Where else but in the West Valley, where his father was buried? It was never finished because he began, and completed, another tomb at Amarna.”
“It makes sense, Father,” said Ramses politely. “But there is no evidence.”
“I am going to find it,” Emerson declared, tossing his napkin onto the table. “I gave number 25 a cursory examination last year; this time I intend to examine every wall surface and every scrap with a magnifying glass.”
“Good luck,” said Sethos, accepting another cup of coffee from Fatima.
“Aren’t you coming?” Emerson demanded.
“Oh, I suppose I may as well. As soon as I’ve finished this excellent coffee.”
David had promised Cyrus he would continue copying the reliefs in the tomb of Ay, so after Sethos had dawdled over his coffee we all set out on horseback. An extremely unfortunate incident then occurred. An increasingly loud roar and a series of hoots made the horses start. Looking back, I saw a motorcar coming up behind us at considerable speed, carts and donkeys scattering before it.
We managed to get out of its way in time, though Emerson would have been seriously inconvenienced had not Ramses caught hold of the bridle of his horse and pulled it aside. The motorcar passed us in a cloud of dust and pebbles. Next to the chauffeur sat Howard, holding on to his hat. In the tonneau were Harry Burton—who gave us a cheery wave with the hand that was not holding his hat; Mr. Lucas, the chemist; and another gentleman whom I recognized as Arthur Mace, one of the Metropolitan Museum staff who had worked at Lisht in Lower Egypt. He was too preoccupied with holding on to his hat to acknowledge us, though I felt sure he would have done so otherwise. A pleasant, courteous man, he had had a good deal of experience working with fragile materials, and fully agreed with me on the superior usefulness of melted paraffin. The Metropolitan had certainly got its hand in.
Emerson’s language is really not to be repeated. It took all my eloquence to prevent him from galloping back to the house and going in pursuit of Howard in our motorcar.
“You will never catch him up now,” I insisted.
“He did it deliberately, in order to insult me,” Emerson raged.
“If he is behaving so childishly, you need not descend to his level.”
“Bah,” said Emerson, eyes narrowed and jaw set.
I wondered if I could detach a bit of our motorcar and hide it.
After brushing off the sand the wheels of Howard’s car had sprayed on us, we continued on our way. Even at that early hour the road to the main valley had begun to fill with tourists; after we turned aside toward the West Valley, blessed quiet descended, except for the muttering of Emerson. As always, the West Valley cast its spell. A great amphitheater walled by cliffs carved into fantastic formations by wind and water, it is a very silent place, unmatched for rugged grandeur. The sun rose over the eastern cliffs as we rode along, bringing a blush of pale gold to the rock. We and our horses might have been the only living creatures on earth.
Our working area was several miles from the entrance. When we arrived, we found that Cyrus and his crew had got there just before us.
Catching Cyrus’s arm in a firm grip, Emerson immediately launched into a bitter tirade, accusing Howard of daring to drive his own motorcar along a public road.
“Well, now,” said Cyrus, when Emerson ran out of breath. “I reckon there’s nothing we can do about it, is there? Shall we start work?”
“What? Oh.” Emerson rubbed his chin. “You want David, I suppose. The rest of you gather round. I have a plan…”
With a wink and a nod at me, David descended into the torrid depths of Ay’s tomb, accompanied by several of the workmen carrying torches. Emerson delivered a brief lecture on Tomb 25 and set the men to work clearing the stairs. In a single season sand and blowing debris had partially refilled them. I was given the task of resifting the debris we had removed the year before.
This is not the most absorbing of chores, especially when it is a repetition of work one has done before. My attention wandered, and at increasingly frequent intervals I rose to stretch cramped limbs. Thus it was that I was the first to see the boy Azmi coming full-tilt along the rough path. He was mounted on a donkey, which he encouraged to run by means of shouts and—until I advanced toward him—whacks of a stick.
He would have swerved round me had not the donkey decided to stop. No doubt it recognized a defender. I caught Azmi by the neck of his robe. “You know we do not permit an animal to be beaten,” I said sternly. “Even if we do not see you, we know.”
“You did see me,” Azmi remarked. He scratched his side, captured a flea, and squashed it. “But I will not do it again, Sitt Hakim.”
He tried to pull away from me. I held on. “What are you doing here? Why have you come?”
“To speak to the Father of Curses. I have news.”
“Speak to me first.”
Our discussion had attracted attention. Sensing potential drama, the men began drifting toward us, and Emerson hurried to my side.
“What is it?” he demanded of the boy.
“The Sitt orders that I should tell her first,” said Azmi, basking in the attention.
“Er—tell us both,” said Emerson, abandoning any hope of a private conversation with his juvenile informer. David must have been told that something interesting was happening; he emerged from the tomb, and joined the rest of the audience.
Azmi’s little brown face opened in a grin. He was too young to have suffered from the dental problems that affect so many Egyptians; his teeth shone white as pearls. He spoke in a squeaky whisper. “They are taking the treasures from the tomb. Today. Soon. Now!”
“Make up your mind,” Ramses said.
“It is of no concern to me,” said Emerson. It was one of his more unconvincing lies. Undaunted, Azmi held out a slim brown hand, and after a sidelong glance at me, Emerson dropped a few coins into his palm.
“Be off with you,” he grunted. “Back to work, everyone.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “How can any of us concentrate on work now? Especially David; this may be his best and only chance of getting a glimpse of the artifacts.”
“And mine,” Cyrus cried. “Let’s go!”
We overruled Emerson’s objections, which he had counted on our doing, and were soon on our way, trailed by Azmi, who held up his empty hands and grinned at me whenever I looked in his direction. He was a rather prepossessing lad, and I couldn’t blame him for having no principles. To the very poor, morality is a luxury. He must be doing well, if he had the wherewithal to hire a donkey.
Ramses kept me company as we rode. Nefret, a far better horsewoman than I, had forged ahead with Cyrus and David.
