The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (7 page)

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

The appearance of Sethos at the Cairo railroad station had worried Ramses more than he admitted. He would have been the first to agree that his feelings for his uncle were ambivalent. You couldn’t help admiring the man’s courage and cleverness; you couldn’t help resenting the fact that he was always one or two steps ahead of you. Affection — yes, there was that, on both sides, he thought — a belated understanding of the tragedies that had turned Sethos to a life of crime, appreciation of the risks he had taken for them and for the country that had denied him his birthright . . . Ramses felt certain he was still taking those risks. Had he turned up to greet them because he was about to embark on another job, one from which he might not return? It was a far-fetched notion, perhaps, but Ramses had once been a player in “the Great Game,” and he was only too familiar with that fatalistic state of mind. He did not mention this, not even to his wife. It would worry her, and the others, including his father. Emerson’s pretense of indifference didn’t fool Ramses. “Bastard” was one of Emerson’s favorite epithets. It was indicative that he never used it to refer to his illegitimate brother. However, there had been no sign of Sethos since, and no indication that he was back in the antiquities business. Ramses was relieved when his father decided to leave Cairo. If Nefret had insisted on accompanying him on a tour of the coffeeshops he could not have denied her; she had demanded a role as equal partner in all his activities, and God knew she had earned it. He believed he had put up a fairly good show of willing acquiescence, but the idea of seeing her facing thieves and murderers still made his hair stand on end. Anyhow, he preferred Luxor to Cairo and the Theban cemeteries to those of ancient Memphis. Emerson had managed to get official permission to excavate the ancient village at Deir el Medina and Ramses was looking forward to a long, peaceful period of purely archaeological work. They wouldn’t find any buried treasure or long-lost tombs, which was fine with him. As for the recent discovery that had aroused Cyrus Vandergelt’s interest, he hoped he could persuade his father to stay out of that matter. They had had enough trouble with tomb robbers the year before. His mother’s energetic renovations had altered the house almost beyond recognition. There were new structures all around. The shaded veranda was the same, however, and the sitting room still had its handsome antique rugs and familiar furniture. Nefret went at once to the pianoforte and ran her fingers over the keys. “Is it not right?” Fatima asked anxiously. “I will find someone —” “I can’t imagine where,” Nefret said with a smile. “Actually it’s in remarkably good tune, considering.” “Sounds fine to me,” declared Emerson, who was blissfully tone-deaf. He looked round with an air of great satisfaction. “Help me unpack these books, Nefret. First things first.” A brief and inconclusive argument with his wife, who wanted him to inspect the new wing, ended with her marching off with Fatima and Selim and Emerson happily wrenching the tops from cases of books, which he proceeded to put in piles all over the floor. He hadn’t got very far before they were interrupted by visitors. News of their arrival had reached Gurneh before them. Abdullah’s extended family numbered almost fifty people, and it seemed to Ramses that most of them had come hurrying to welcome them back. The maids served coffee and mint tea, and a cheerful pandemonium ensued. Sennia was in her element, running from one pair of welcoming arms to another, and Emerson was talking to several people at once. Ramses looked round for Nefret, and saw she was deep in conversation with Daoud’s wife, Kadija, a very large, very dignified woman of Nubian extraction. According to Nefret, Kadija had a lively sense of humor, but the rest of them had to take that on faith since she never told them any of her stories. She was obviously telling one now; Nefret’s cheeks rounded with laughter. Ramses went to join them. He was disappointed but not surprised when Kadija ducked her head and slipped away. “What was so funny?” he asked. Nefret slipped her arm through his. “Never mind. It loses something in the translation.” “But I understand Arabic.” “Not that sort of translation.” She laughed up at him and he thought again, as he did several dozen times a day, how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. That lost something in the translation, too. “Yusuf isn’t here,” she said, a look of puzzlement replacing her smile. “That’s rather odd. As the head of the family, courtesy would demand he welcome us back.” “Selim says he isn’t well.” “Perhaps I ought to go to him and see if there is anything I can do.” “I don’t think your medical skills would help, darling.” Poor Yusuf’s world had been overturned the past year when he had lost his two favorite children. Jamil, the handsome, spoiled youngest son, had fled after becoming involved with a gang of professional thieves. He had not been seen since. Jumana, his sister, had found a happier ending; fiercely ambitious and intelligent, her hopes of becoming an Egyptologist were being fostered by the Vandergelts and Ramses’s parents. Nefret understood. “I didn’t realize it had hit the poor old chap so hard.” “Neither did I, but it isn’t surprising. Having his daughter flout his authority, refuse the fine marriage he arranged for her, and go off to become a new woman — educated, independent, and Westernized — must have been almost as great a blow as discovering that his best-beloved son was in trouble with the law.” “Greater, perhaps, to a man of his traditional beliefs,” Nefret said. “Is it true that he disowned her and refuses to see her?” “Who told you that?” “Kadija. She tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen.” “Selim said the same. It’s a pity. Well, we’ll send Mother round to talk to him. If she can’t set him straight, no one can.” “What about Jamil?” “According to Selim, there’s been no sign of him. Don’t get any ideas about trying to track him down. There’s a trite old proverb about sleeping dogs.” “All right; don’t lose your temper.” “I thought you liked me to lose my temper.” “Only when we’re alone and I can deal with you as you deserve.” Before he could respond to that, his mother came back and began organizing everyone. The women of the family carried Sennia and her luggage off to her new quarters. His father refused to budge; he was having too fine a time making plans for the season’s work. He insisted that Ramses and Selim join him, but he lost Nefret to his wife. The two of them went off with Fatima. “So, Selim,” said Emerson. “Have you got a crew together? I hope you didn’t let Vandergelt take our best men.” “He has hired my father’s cousin’s son Abu as his reis, but we will have a full crew, Emerson. There is not much work here now.” Emerson did not ask about Yusuf. He was too busy making plans for work to begin the following day. A series of high-pitched shouts from the children who were playing on the veranda heralded a new arrival. “I might have known you couldn’t leave us in peace for a few hours,” Emerson grumbled; but he went quickly to meet the newcomer with an outstretched hand. Cyrus Vandergelt’s leathery face creased into smiling wrinkles. The American was dressed with his usual elegance, in a white linen suit and polished boots. “Yes, you might,” he said with a grin. “No use trying to sneak into town unnoticed — just got your telegram a while ago, but I’d already heard you were here. Good to see you. Here’s somebody else who couldn’t wait to say hello.” He had stood back for her to precede him through the door. Once inside, she put her back against the wall and watched them, wide-eyed and unsmiling, like a wary animal. Emerson, always the gentleman with women, took her small hand in his and gave it a hearty squeeze. “Jumana! Good of you to come, my dear. Er — how you’ve grown the past few months!” Not so you could notice, Ramses thought. She was a tiny creature, barely five feet tall, with the exotic coloring and wide dark eyes of a lady in a Persian miniature, but her clothing was defiantly English — neat little boots and a divided skirt, under a mannish shirt and tweed jacket. After spending the spring and summer with them in England, being tutored in various subjects and absorbing information as a dry sponge soaks up water, she had returned to Egypt in November with the Vandergelts. What was wrong with her? Usually her small face was alive with excitement and she could outtalk everyone in the family — which was no small feat. Now she replied to Emerson’s greeting with a wordless murmur and her dark eyes moved uneasily around the room. “Where is Nefret?” she asked. “She and Mrs. Emerson have gone off to look at the new house,” Emerson said. “I will go too. Please? Excuse me?” She hurried out of the room without waiting for a reply. She’s got something on her mind, all right, Ramses thought. Well, whatever it was, it was not his problem. His mother thought she could solve everything; let her deal with it. She came bustling in a few minutes later and went straight to Cyrus, holding out her hands. “Jumana told me you were here. Didn’t Katherine and Bertie come with you?” “Bertie wanted to, but Katherine had some chore or other for him,” Cyrus answered. Ramses wasn’t surprised to hear it. Katherine disapproved of her son’s fascination with the pretty Egyptian girl. “She was hoping you’d come to us for dinner tonight,” Cyrus went on. “Bah,” said Emerson. Cyrus burst out laughing and stroked his goatee. “I know, old pal, you don’t have time for social engagements. This’ll just be us, nothing formal, come as you are.” Emerson’s jaws parted, but his wife got in first. “Certainly, Cyrus, we accept with pleasure. Ramses, Nefret wants you to join her. She is at the new house.” “Oh? Oh, right.” A sensation his mother would have described as a “hideous premonition” came over him. Why hadn’t he realized? Of course — she had built the house for Nefret and him. It was just like her to do it without consulting them. And there was no way on earth they could refuse without sounding churlish and ungrateful and selfish. Nefret was too fond of his mother to tell her no to her face. She would want him to do it! He expected to find his wife on the doorstep, vibrating with indignation. She wasn’t there. He had to track her down, looking into room after room as he searched. The place was quite attractive, really — large, low-ceilinged rooms, with the carved mashrabiya screens he liked so much covering the windows, tiled floors, bookshelves on many of the walls. Otherwise the house was almost empty except for a few tables and chairs and couches. She’d had sense enough to leave the choice of furnishings and decorations to them. Not at all bad, on the whole. If it had been up to him . . . If it had been up to him, he would rather live in a hole in the rock than tell his mother he didn’t like it. He found Nefret sitting on the shady porch that looked out on a small courtyard. Jumana was with her, their heads close together. “I’m sorry, Nefret,” he began. “You apologize too often.” It was an old joke between them, but when she looked up he saw that her face was grave. “It’s not so bad, is it?” he asked. “She meant well, and it is some distance from the main house, and —” “It’s fine,” Nefret said impatiently. “Never mind the house, Ramses. Jumana has something to tell you.” There were wicker chairs and a table or two. He sat down. “Well?” She had obviously been talking freely with Nefret, but the sight of him froze her tongue. She twisted her hands together. “What is it?” Ramses asked. “Something about Bertie? Don’t worry about him, Jumana, you’ll be staying with us from now on. That was the agreement.” “Bertie?” She dismissed him with a shrug. “He is not a worry. No. I must tell you, but . . .” She swallowed, hard. “I have seen Jamil.” “My God.” Ramses breathed. “Where? When?” “Two weeks ago.” Now that she had got the worst of it out, the words flowed freely. “I went to Luxor Temple, while Mrs. Vandergelt was shopping at the suk and Mr. Vandergelt was at Mohassib’s. Bertie wanted to go with me, but Mrs. Vandergelt said —” “I understand,” Ramses said. “Jamil was at the temple?” She nodded. “He had been waiting for days to find me alone. He wanted money. He said that he had discovered a rich tomb, but the others had cheated him and he cursed them all and said he would get even, but he needed money . . . I gave him all I had.” “You shouldn’t have done that,” Nefret said. “The best thing for Jamil would be to turn himself in.” Her mouth drooped like that of a child on the verge of tears. “He is my brother. How could I refuse to help him? But he said . . . Oh, I have been so afraid! I didn’t know what to do. But now you are here, you will tell the Father of Curses, and he will not let Jamil —” Her voice broke. “It’s all right,” Ramses said gently. He took her small shaking hands in his. “He won’t let Jamil hurt you. Is that what he threatened? That he would harm you if you told anyone you had seen him?” “No, oh, no!” She clung tightly to his hands and looked up into his face. “It is you the Father of Curses must guard. It is you Jamil hates most. He said if I told anyone he would kill you.”

3

“Bah,” said Emerson. We were seated on the veranda drinking tea. The rays of the sun, low in the west, cast golden gleams through the roses that twined around the open arcades. It was like the old days, when we had so often gathered in that shaded spot; the wicker chairs and settees and tables were not much the worse for wear, and Ramses had taken up his old position, perched on the ledge with his back against a pillar. Now Nefret sat beside him, and her hand was in his. Fatima had insisted upon serving sandwiches and tea cakes, despite the fact that we were to leave shortly to dine with the Vandergelts. Rather than disappoint the dear woman, I nibbled on a cucumber sandwich or two. After learning of the reappearance of Jamil, I had decided a private council of war was imperative. Sennia, who had expected to take tea with us, strongly objected to being sent away and was only mollified when — before I could stop him — Emerson handed her the entire plate of cakes to take with her. As soon as she was out of earshot Nefret repeated what Jumana had said, and Emerson responded in characteristic fashion. “That is not much help, Emerson,” I said. “A threat cannot be dismissed so cavalierly.” “It was an idle threat,” Emerson declared. “How can that miserable little coward constitute a danger to Ramses?” He gave his tall son an approving look, and Ramses replied to the implied compliment with an exaggerated lift of his eyebrows. “Come to that, why Ramses?” Emerson went on. “I take it as an affront that he didn’t threaten me. Are you going to eat all the cucumber sandwiches, Peabody?” “I think,” said Nefret, passing Emerson the plate, “that in Jamil’s eyes Ramses was the hero of last year’s affair. Or villain, from Jamil’s viewpoint! Not to take anything away from you, Father — or you, Mother —” “You are quite right, my dear,” I said graciously. “We did our part, but if it had not been for Ramses —” “You ought to take it as a compliment, Father,” Ramses said. He does not often interrupt me, but he does not like to hear himself praised. “Jamil would consider it below his dignity to threaten a woman, and he obviously feels I am less dangerous than you. ‘No man dares threaten the Father of Curses!’ ” “What an annoying development!” I mused. “I had hoped the wretched boy had taken himself off to distant parts, or that he had met with a fatal accident.” “That is rather cold-blooded, Mother,” my son said. “Your mother is a practical woman,” Emerson declared. “I suppose now we’ll have to find him and turn him over to the police, which will be cursed embarrassing for everyone concerned, especially his father. We’ve left him alone, and instead of taking to his heels he has the effrontery to challenge us! He must be mad.” “Or mad for revenge,” Nefret said, her brows furrowing. “No,” I said judiciously. “He’s too much of a coward. However, his true motive is not difficult to discover. One of his most notable traits is greed. He also has an uncanny instinct for locating lost tombs. Depend on it, that is why he hasn’t left Luxor. He hopes to find another; good Gad, perhaps he has already done so!” An all-too-familiar glint brightened Emerson’s sapphirine orbs, but after a moment’s thought he shook his head regretfully. “Pure conjecture, Peabody, born of your rampageous imagination. It’s more likely that he hasn’t the courage to leave familiar surroundings and strike out on his own. He made enough from his share of the princesses’ treasure to live comfortably for a while; I would guess that the money has been squandered, and that he approached Jumana as a last resort. He won’t try it again. As for attacking Ramses — stuff and nonsense!” “Yes, but he might try and get back at Jumana,” I said. “Especially if he learns she told us he is still in Luxor. She probably won’t believe that she could be in danger from him, so we must make certain she is not allowed to go off alone. Katherine and I had agreed she would come to us; we will bring her back with us tonight. I will ask Fatima to get a room ready for her. David’s old room, I think; it is next to ours, Emerson, with windows that open only onto the courtyard. It will not be easy for anyone to get at her there — or for her to creep out unobserved.” “Are you going to tell Cyrus and Katherine about Jamil?” Nefret asked. “I am glad you raised that point, Nefret. I will explain the situation to them eventually, but I do not believe it would be advisable to mention it this evening. The walls have ears and the tongues of Luxor wag at both ends. We certainly don’t want Jamil to find out that his sister has informed on him.” “There you go, trying to make a mountain out of a molehill,” Emerson declared. “In my humble opinion, the sooner Jamil learns that we are aware of his pathetic threats, the better. He won’t dare show his face again.” “In your opinion?” I repeated. “Humble? I trust that you agree that Selim and Daoud must be informed. Harmless the wretched boy may be, but he is their cousin — of some degree — and —” “Here is Cyrus’s carriage, come for us,” Nefret said quickly. “Are we ready? Mother, where is your hat?” Cyrus’s carriage was a handsome open barouche, drawn by a splendid pair of grays. A brilliant sunset washed the western sky, and across the river the lights of Luxor began to shine. When the carriage turned into the narrow way that led to the Valley of the Kings, the hills rose up around us, cutting off the last of the sunset light. Few spots on earth are as magical as the Valley; it is not only the grandeur of the scenery, but the romance of its history. In the gray twilight one could easily imagine that the shadows cast by the carriage lamps were the ghostly forms of the royal dead, and that the howling in the hills came from the throat of the divine jackal Anubis, god of cemeteries. “Now that we are settled here for a long time, we must think seriously of getting our own carriage,” I remarked. “I don’t like depending on Cyrus or on the rattletraps for hire at the dock.” Emerson said something under his breath, and I said, “I beg your pardon?” and Emerson said, “Motorcar.” That subject caught everyone’s attention and we had a nice little argument that lasted all the way to the Castle. I pointed out that the utility of such vehicles was limited by the condition of the roads and Emerson retorted that the military was using them, and that the new Ford cars had proved to perform admirably in desert terrain. Nefret and Ramses contributed very little. To be fair, they didn’t get a chance to say much. Cyrus’s Theban residence was called the Castle, and it well deserved the name. From certain angles it reminded me of the Mena House hotel; it was almost as large as that excellent hostelry and had the same screened balconies attractively arranged at various levels. There was a stout wall around the entire estate; that night the heavy gates stood hospitably open, and flaming torches lined the drive leading to the house, where Cyrus stood waiting to greet us. He had, as promised, invited no other guests. I asked after William Amherst, who had worked for Cyrus the previous year, and was told that he had left. “Finally wangled his way into the army,” Cyrus said rather enviously. “Some kind of office job. Leaves me confounded shorthanded,” he added. “But Abu is a good reis, and Bertie’s filling in real well.” Katherine gave her son a fond look. She had grown a touch stouter, but the additional weight was, in my opinion, quite becoming. She wore a long loose gown in the Egyptian style and an emerald necklace that matched her eyes. Now that she was freed from worry about her son, who had been severely wounded in action the past year, her face had lost its haggard look and once again she resembled the pleasant, plump-cheeked tabby cat of which she had reminded me at our first meeting. Bertie was looking well too. He had taken up the study of Egyptology, partly to please his stepfather, but primarily to win favor with Jumana, and there is nothing like the vigorous pursuit of archaeology to give an individual healthy color and a sturdy frame. I did notice, when he advanced to greet me, that one leg still dragged a little. I had hoped that time would bring about a complete cure. Evidently it had not. Ah well, I thought, it will keep him from going back into the military. The only other person present was Jumana, who sat as still as a little mouse until Emerson went to her. Everyone was talking and laughing; I believe I was the only one who heard what he said to her. “You did the right thing, child. The matter is in my hands now, and there is nothing to worry about.” I could only hope he was right. It wasn’t long before Cyrus turned the conversation to the subject that had obviously become an idée fixe. “I want a crack at that treasure,” he declared. “Emerson, you’re gonna have to help me with Mohassib.” Ramses glanced at me. His dark brows tilted in an expression of amused skepticism, and I intervened before Emerson could answer. “Now, Cyrus, you know perfectly well that Emerson is the last person in whom Mohassib would confide. Emerson has told him only too often and only too profanely what he thinks of dealers in antiquities. I would like to hear more about the business. How was the tomb found, has it been investigated, why hasn’t the Service des Antiquités taken steps?” That ought to keep Emerson quiet for a while, I thought complacently. Nothing loath, Cyrus launched into a tale that was even more bizarre than the usual stories of such discoveries — and that, I assure you, Reader, is saying a good deal. It does not often rain in Luxor, but when it does, the storms are severe. One such storm had struck the previous summer, washing away houses and cutting deep channels through the land. The canny thieves of Luxor knew that such downpours were more effective than excavation in removing accumulated debris and, perhaps, exposing tomb entrances. Scrambling around the cliffs, they had found a place where a stream of falling water disappeared into a crevice and then came out again, forty feet away. What they saw when they squirmed through the choked passageway into the tomb chamber must have left even those hardened thieves speechless. Unrobbed tombs aren’t found every day, and this one was spectacularly rich. Astonishment did not render them less efficient; within a few hours the treasure had been removed and deposited with Mohassib, who paid them in gold coins. The money was divided among the miscreants, who immediately began to spend it. “That old fool Mohammed Hammad bought himself a young wife,” Cyrus said. “It turned out to be a mistake. The news of the tomb got around, as it always does, and a few weeks later the local mamur and his lads descended on the village. Mohammed had time to hide the rest of his money in a basket of grain, and sent the girl off with it, but she hung around flirting with the guards, and one of them knocked the basket off her head. Well, folks, you can imagine what happened after that. There was a free-for-all, villagers and police rolling around the ground fighting each other for the gold pieces. Mohammed ended up with nothing, not even the girl. She went off with the mamur.” “Disgusting,” Katherine murmured. “Poetic justice,” said Emerson with an evil grin. “Mohammed must be feeling hard done by. He may be persuaded to show me the location of the tomb. They can’t have done a complete clearance.” “Oh, it’s been located,” Cyrus said. “In the Wadi Gabbanat el-Qirud — the Cemetery of the Monkeys. I’ve been thinking I might spend a little time out there looking for more tombs.” “You are supposed to be working at Medinet Habu,” Emerson said with a severe look at his friend. “Not going off on wild-goose chases.” “It’s all very well for you to talk,” Cyrus said indignantly. “You’ve had your big finds, but how about me? All those years in the Valley of the Kings and not a durned tomb for my trouble! There’s got to be more of them in the southwest wadis. With Carter’s find that makes two tombs of royal females in those wadis. What I figure is that that area could have been a kind of early queens’ cemetery.” “It is a strong possibility,” Ramses agreed. Cyrus’s eye brightened, but Emerson said firmly, “You’d be wasting your time, Vandergelt. Carter didn’t find that tomb of Hatshepsut’s, he trailed a group of the locals who had discovered it. You had better stop chasing rainbows and get to work, as I intend to do. You have the firman for Medinet Habu, and you were damned lucky to get it. It is one of the best-preserved temples on the West Bank.” “At least there are some tombs at Deir el Medina,” Cyrus muttered. “Private tombs,” Emerson pointed out. “And I will not be searching for more. I mean to finish excavating that settlement in its entirety. In archaeological terms it is far more important than any cursed royal tomb. Town sites are rare, and we will gain valuable information about the daily life, occupations, and amusements of the working classes . . .” There are few aspects of Egyptology that do not interest Emerson, but in this case he was bravely disguising a certain degree of disappointment and envy. He had always wanted to work at one of the great temples like Medinet Habu. To be honest, I was not especially excited about the village either, but we would not have got even that site if the individual who had held the firman the previous year had not been taken into police custody. According to Emerson, his excavation methods had been careless in the extreme, so there was a good chance we might come upon artifacts he had overlooked or discarded as worthless. And I just might have a look round for more of the private tombs. Some of them were beautifully decorated, and two had contained their original grave goods — not as rich as those of the princesses, but full of interest. Emerson concluded his speech by remarking, “I trust, Vandergelt, that you will concentrate on Medinet Habu. You cannot expect the Department of Antiquities to think well of you if you keep wandering off on fanciful quests.” When we took our departure, we were loaded down. There was room for Jumana on the seat with Ramses and Nefret, but her boxes and bundles took up quite a lot of space. Upon our arrival I showed the girl her room. I had the distinct impression that she was not impressed by its amenities. They were certainly inferior to the ones she had enjoyed as Cyrus’s guest. However, she expressed her appreciation very prettily. I then informed her that Emerson wanted a word with her. “What about?” she asked. “I think you know what about,
Jumana. For goodness’ sake, child, you look like a cornered rabbit. You aren’t afraid of him, surely.” “Not of him,” Jumana murmured. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of, Sitt Hakim.” “I didn’t say you had. Come along.” We had agreed in advance that Emerson and I would have a private chat with Jumana, so I was somewhat surprised to find the children with him in the sitting room. “We only waited to say good night,” Nefret said, coming to give me a kiss. “I hope the house is satisfactory,” I said, addressing Ramses, who had not yet given me his opinion. “And that you have everything you need for tonight.” “So long as there is a bed,” said my son, and broke off with a grunt as Nefret elbowed him in the ribs. “I want to leave at daybreak,” Emerson said self-consciously. “Yes, sir,” said Ramses. “Breakfast here at six,” I said. “Yes, Mother,” said Nefret. Jumana’s wide eyes followed them as they went off, arm in arm, their heads close together. Or was it Ramses she watched with such wistful attention? She was of an age where girls fancy themselves in love with unsuitable persons, and Ramses had every quality she could want in a prospective husband (aside from the inconvenient fact that he was already married). If Jamil knew or suspected her attachment it would explain why he had selected Ramses as the object of his ire. “By the by,” said I to Emerson, “you didn’t tell Cyrus about the artifacts I bought in Cairo. I had expected you would want to show them off.” “Quite the contrary,” said Emerson to me. “He’d go haring off to Cairo looking for more of the cursed things. He should be thinking of his excavations.” He fell silent, concentrating on his pipe. Now that the moment had come, he was regretting having offered to question Jumana; he was afraid she would cry. Emerson is a hopeless coward with women. He did not know this one. Before either of us could speak, Jumana sat up straight and raised her chin defiantly. “I was very silly,” she declared. “Jamil can’t do anything . . . can he?” “No,” said Emerson. “Except, perhaps, to you.” “He wouldn’t hurt me.” I was pleased to see she had recovered her nerve — timid women are a confounded nuisance — but her confidence was somewhat alarming. “He won’t get the chance,” I said. “Listen to me, Jumana. You were right to warn Ramses about Jamil, but you are wrong if you believe he is harmless. I want your word that you will go nowhere alone and that if Jamil attempts to communicate with you, you will inform us immediately.” “What will you do to him if you find him?” For once, Emerson was too quick for me. “Lock him up. You must see that we cannot allow him to hang about threatening people and . . . Why are you glaring at me, Peabody?” “I am not glaring, Emerson,” I said, forcing my features into a smile. “It is just that I believe I can explain our intentions more accurately than you. Jumana, if Jamil would come to us and express repentance, we will do all we can to help him.” “You would?” “Yes,” I said firmly. She still loved the wretched boy and probably believed she could redeem him. This is a common delusion of women. After all, I had not been specific. In my opinion the best way to help Jamil would be to put him in a cell — a nice, clean, comfortable cell, naturally — and let him consider the advantages of an honest life. I had expected Emerson would want to go straight to the site next morning. I had no objection to his doing so; there was a great deal to do round the house, and Emerson was more of a hindrance than a help, always grumbling and complaining. However, when we sat down to breakfast I saw that he and Ramses were dressed for rough terrain, in old tweeds and stout boots. It did not require much thought to deduce where they meant to go. I ought to have known! My hypocritical husband’s lecture to Cyrus had been meant to deter the latter from doing precisely what Emerson intended to do that day. The southwest wadis are remote and difficult of access. I attempted to catch Emerson’s eyes but failed; he was looking at the sugar bowl, the coffeepot, the salt cellar — anything but me. “Emerson,” I said loudly, “I trust you had the courtesy to inform Fatima last night that we would want a packed luncheon?” “Luncheon? We?” Emerson’s heavy black brows drew together. “See here, Peabody —” “I will tell her now,” I said with a sigh. “Fortunately she always has a full larder. Are we taking Selim and Daoud with us?” “Yes. No. Oh, curse it,” said Emerson. “What about Jumana?” I persisted. “No,” said Emerson firmly. “I don’t believe we ought to leave her alone.” “She won’t be alone. There are a dozen people . . . Damnation. You don’t think she would creep out to meet that young swine? She gave me her word —” “No, she did not. I don’t trust her out of my sight. She’s been climbing over those hills since she was a child, she can keep up as well as the rest of us.” “If you are going to make a full-scale expedition of this —” “You would have gone off without so much as a water bottle,” I retorted. “I will change my boots and get my parasol, and have a few words with Fatima.” Emerson made one last, and as he ought to have known, futile attempt to head me off. “But, Peabody, I thought you meant to spend the day here. There is a great deal to do, unpacking and —” “Yes, my dear, there is. Obviously it will have to wait. I won’t be long.” I had my few words with Fatima and sent one of the maids to tell Jumana she was wanted in the sitting room. It took me a while to find my boots, which were buried under a heap of Emerson’s clothes. The most important part of my costume was ready at hand. Though my working attire of trousers and tweed coat is well equipped with pockets, I have never abandoned my invaluable belt of tools. Over the years I had refined and added to these accoutrements: a pistol and knife, a coil of rope, a small flask of brandy, candles and matches in a waterproof box, and other useful items. On an expedition such as this, one could not take too many precautions. I hung a small first-aid kit and a brush from two of the empty hooks, and returned to the breakfast room, where I found that Jumana had joined the others. Emerson, who objects to my being hung all round with sharp-edged or blunt objects, gave me a sour look but refrained from comment. I turned to Nefret. “Are you coming, my dear, or would you prefer to stay here and get your new quarters in order? I purchased goods for draperies — a very pretty blue, shot with silver — but I haven’t done anything about servants, since I assumed you would wish to select them yourself. One of Yusuf’s brother’s cousins has already come round asking —” “Yes, Mother, you mentioned that. I am coming, of course. Do you suppose I would allow my poor helpless husband to go off without me to protect him?” Jumana gave her a startled look, and Ramses’s lips parted in a grin. He must have told Nefret of the plan the night before. She certainly had him well in hand — better than I had Emerson! Fatima bustled in with two heavily laden baskets, and we went to the stable, where we found Daoud chatting with the stableman and Selim chatting with the horses. He was a fine rider, and he had been in charge of the splendid Arabians while we were away. Risha and Asfur had been gifts to Ramses and David from a Bedouin friend. Their progeny, which included Nefret’s mare Moonlight, had increased over the years. “Are we taking the horses?” I inquired. I knew the answer even before Emerson shook his head. He had told Selim and Daoud to meet him in the stable so I wouldn’t see them! Neither appeared surprised to see me, however. Selim greeted me with a knowing smile. He and Daoud both carried coils of rope. I had a feeling we would need ropes before the day was over, if the paths Emerson meant to take were too rough for the horses. I have clambered over the Theban mountains many a time, by day and by night. The exercise is delightful during the time of full moon, when the rugged surface is a symphony of silver and shadow. The first part of the trek was familiar to me, and not difficult — up the slope behind Deir el Bahri to the top of the plateau and the path that led from the workmen’s village to the Valley of the Kings. How often had I stood there gazing out upon the panorama of temples and villages, desert and sown, with the waters of the Nile sparkling in the sunlight! It was a hallowed spot; for as our dear departed reis Abdullah grew older, I would often pretend fatigue after the climb so that he could stop and catch his breath. I dreamed of him from time to time, and it was always in this setting that I saw him. Difficult as it is to believe of such a barren, rocky region, the wadis of the Western Desert were cut by water pouring down the cliffs of the high plateau to the plain below. I believe I can best make the Reader come to an understanding of this particular terrain, which is nothing at all like the sand deserts of the Sahara, by comparing the plateau to a plum cake which has been set down on a flattish platter (the Nile Valley). Imagine that some monstrous being has thrust taloned claws into the soft top and sides of this confection and withdrawn them, leaving ragged fissures and tumbled lumps. (When Emerson happened to read this particular section of my narrative, he remarked that in his opinion no rational person could make such an absurd comparison. In my opinion, it is a valid figure of speech, and very descriptive.) Paths wind to and fro across the slopes and over the gebel; some are fairly easy, others are more suitable for goats. These latter were the ones we followed, for whenever there was a choice between an easier, roundabout route, or a steeper, direct path, Emerson chose the second. I had to trust to his leadership, since I had never come this way, but various landmarks gave me a general sense of where we were. Above rose the great pyramid-shaped peak known as the Qurn; beyond, below, and behind it were ravines of all sizes, including the great Valleys of the Kings and the Queens. As we went on, scrambling up stony slopes and over projecting ridges, the scenery became wilder and more spectacular, but even in that remote region there were signs of the presence of man, both ancient and modern: a scrap of newspaper that might have wrapped someone’s lunch, the tumbled stones of crude huts, scraps of broken pottery and animal bones. After an hour of strenuous walking I persuaded Emerson to stop for a brief rest and a sip of water. The view was breathtaking but monotonous — tumbled stone and bare ground, with the blue of the sky above the only color. “Emerson, are you sure you know where you are going?” I inquired, mopping my perspiring face. “Certainly,” said Emerson, looking surprised. He pointed. “We are only eight thousand feet from Medinet Habu. Cheer up, Peabody, we’ll be going down from here; there is a perfectly good path to the next wadi and from there it’s only a hop, skip, and a jump to the Cemetery of the Monkeys.” By the time we reached the end of his “perfectly good path,” which was nothing of the sort, the sun was high overhead. A long, relatively low ridge of rock separated the first wadi from the second, though I certainly would not have described its traverse as a hop, skip, and a jump. A scramble, a slip, and a stretch would be more like it. Once over the ridge we saw a narrow, irregular canyon, stretching out to the north. The ground was extremely uneven, littered with fallen rock and archaeological debris — fragments of red pottery, flints, and so on. Hot, out of breath, and faced with this unpromising view, I allowed myself to speak candidly. “That, I take it, is the wadi where the princesses’ tomb is located. Would you now care to explain what the devil we are doing here? You told Cyrus he would be wasting his time looking for tombs here.” “Hmph,” said Emerson. “Modesty forbids me to mention that I am perhaps a trifle more qualified than Vandergelt. However, that is not my primary aim. I just — er — want to have a look at the princesses’ tomb. The bastards can’t have made a complete clearance.” “Oh, yes, they could have. I tell you, Emerson, you won’t find anything of interest — and how are we to locate the exact spot? The tomb was well hidden, and there are dozens of clefts and rifts in those walls.” “There may be signs,” Emerson insisted. “Watermarks, fresh stone chips, possibly even scraps of the burial equipment. Do you see anything, Ramses?” “No, sir.” Ramses bent and picked up a piece of worked stone, covered with a thick patina. He tossed it away. “Paleolithic.” We made our way slowly along the uneven floor of the wadi, scanning the rocky walls on either side. There was a good deal more debris, in the form of pottery shards and scraps of stone. I came to a halt next to a gaping hole and let out a cry of excitement. “Emerson! A pit tomb, is it not? And here —” I reached for an object half hidden in dusty chips — something that was surely metallic, for a glint of sunlight had shone off it. “Here is — oh.” It was a crumpled cigarette tin. “Carter,” said Emerson, making the name sound like an expletive. “How do you know?” “None of the local men can afford European cigarettes,” Emerson said. “It’s the brand he smokes, isn’t it?” As we went on, the ground underfoot became even more uneven; it appeared as if someone had conducted a random but extensive excavation. Emerson growled. “Either Carter has lost all remnants of archaeological conscience, or the locals have been digging, looking for tombs.” “The latter, surely,” said Ramses. “Carter had every right to be here, Father; he has done nothing wrong.” “Hmph,” said Emerson, who could not deny this, but who, in his heart of hearts, regarded the entire country of Egypt as his personal property, archaeologically speaking. We had almost reached the end of the canyon when I became aware of a faint, unpleasant smell. I looked up, expecting to see floating overhead the winged predators that feed on carrion; but the sky was empty of all but light. Jumana was the first to see the signs for which we had been searching. She ran on ahead, quick and sure-footed over the uneven ground, and came to a stop. “See!” The object she held up was a small gold bead. “Ha,” said Emerson. “Well done, Jumana. Yes, just as I expected. The tomb must have been partially filled with rock fallen from the walls and ceiling. The villains were careful not to remove any more of it than they had to, but they were bound to lose a few items. By Gad, that looks like a bone.” It fell to pieces in a shower