The Golden One (32 page)

‘Sorry be damned,’ said his father gruffly. ‘For all you knew, there was not a moment to lose. Ramses, my boy – er – thank you. Again.’

Ramses’s thin brown face broke into a smile. ‘It wasn’t me, Father, it was Daoud and Jumana. Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have done better.’

Daoud beamed. ‘Who is Sherlock Holmes?’ he asked.

‘The greatest detective who ever lived,’ Ramses replied. None of us laughed, for fear of hurting Daoud’s feelings, but Ramses directed another smile at me. ‘Except for
Mother.’

Then we could laugh. I joined in as heartily as the others, my heart swelling with affection.

‘Sennia, it is long past your bedtime,’ I said. ‘Off you go.’

She had to give everyone a good-night kiss and of course she had to have the last word. ‘The Great Cat of Re would have found you.’

‘Ha,’ I said, but I said it under my breath. The kitten had grown very fat and lazy. Curled up on Ramses’s lap, it resembled a shapeless bundle of spotted grey fur.

After Sennia had gone I took another cucumber sandwich. I was ravenous, for the peas and the foie gras that had preceded them had done very little to assuage the hunger resulting from long hours
of strenuous manual labour.

‘Let us now,’ I said, ‘discuss what we have learned. It has not been wasted effort, though we did let Jamil get away from us.’

‘I haven’t learned a blamed thing except that you two are incorrigible,’ Cyrus grumbled.

‘Not at all, Cyrus. First, there is the interesting matter of Jamil’s costume. He was not wearing Jumana’s clothes. They would have been far too small for him. He cannot have
purchased them because . . . Need I explain my reasoning?’

‘No,’ Katherine said. ‘Aside from the question of how he could pay for them, I can’t see him going into one of the shops and trying on blouses and skirts.’

‘That is right. We will leave that matter for the moment. I think I know the answer, and it can easily be proved. The second clue . . . Ramses, at one time you were able to recall the
entire contents of a crowded storeroom some hours after you had seen it. Do you remember what was in Jamil’s hideout?’

‘Rugs, several jars . . . I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Sorry, Mother.’

‘Quite understandable, my dear,’ I said. His impulsive embrace had touched me deeply, even if it had hurt my back. To see my imperturbable son forget all else in the joy of finding
his parents alive and well assured me that his affection was sincere and profound.

‘Fortunately I had ample time to inspect the place,’ I went on. ‘It was well stocked, but the most interesting items were the tins of food. European food – peas and beans
and cabbage, beef, even a tin of foie gras. Someone supplied him with those delicacies, or with the money to purchase them. No, Jumana, I know it wasn’t you.’

I knew because I had been careful to keep all the cash in the house under lock and key. Trust is a beautiful thing, but when someone has done you an injury, you are a fool if you give him the
chance to do you another.

‘It is beginning to look as if he
has
found another tomb,’ Ramses said thoughtfully. ‘It’s the only way he could lay his hands on that much money, by selling some
of the artifacts. Mother, what did you do with that cosmetic jar you bought in Cairo? I’d like to have a closer look at it.’

‘Wait until after dinner,’ I said, rising with a suppressed groan. Those long hours on hands and knees in the passage, pulling the rubble out, had taken their toll on my back, and
ruined a good pair of leather gloves.

The Vandergelts stayed, of course. Wild horses could not have dragged Cyrus away, and nothing made Fatima happier than having more people to feed. Some of us were rather inclined to gobble, I am
afraid; but I noticed that Bertie was not eating with his usual healthy appetite. Under cover of the animated speculations about another tomb, I said softly, ‘Are you feeling well, Bertie?
How is your ankle?’

‘It’s fine. I could walk or climb with no trouble, if everyone would stop fussing over me.’ Repenting his surly tone almost at once, he gave me an apologetic smile. ‘You
told me last year you’d let me take a hand in your next adventure, remember? I haven’t done a bl— blasted thing to help! It’s nobody’s fault but mine, I know that;
I’m so confounded clumsy and stupid – ’

‘Now don’t say that, Bertie. Anyone could suffer an accident like yours, and we are still a long way from a solution to this matter. Who knows, your opportunity may come at any
moment.’

The corners of his mouth drooped. ‘Yes, ma’am, I hope so. I’ve been sitting in that chair staring at the same scenery for so long, it’s driving me crazy. I swear, I know
every crack in that cliff face and every brick in those house walls.’

‘We will have another look at your foot, Nefret and I,’ I promised. ‘Perhaps with a little strapping you can begin to move about more.’

As soon as we had finished dinner we retired to the drawing room, and I went to fetch the cosmetic jar and lid and the other odds and ends I had purchased from Aslimi. Emerson arranged the lamps
to give the maximum amount of light and Ramses took the jar in his long fingers.

‘There
was
a cartouche,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I think I can make out a few lines.’ He turned the jar from side to side, so that the light came at it from
different angles. ‘Paper and pencil, Nefret, please.’

The sketch he produced was, I confess, something of a letdown. There was a great expanse of blank paper and a few random lines, some horizontal, some perpendicular, some curved. Ramses studied
it for a few moments and then began filling in the missing spaces, connecting one section to another, as one does in a certain kind of child’s puzzle. Finally he put the pencil down.
‘That’s all I can be certain of. It’s enough, though.’

Not to me, I thought, studying the hypothetical hieroglyphs in puzzlement. There were only a few: a long, thin, squared-off sign, the jagged line of the water hieroglyph, and a pair of curving
horns.

‘Not to me,’ said Emerson.

‘There is only one royal cartouche that contains those particular signs,’ Ramses said. ‘To the best of my knowledge, that is. This is how the rest of it looks.’ He
completed the name and Emerson let out a gasp.

‘Shepenwepet. By the Almighty, the boy has found one of the Divine Wives of Amon!’

Chapter Eight

We sat up late that night, going over and over the astonishing revelation – for none of us doubted Ramses’s reconstruction of the cartouche. In the end we were
forced to the conclusion that there was absolutely no way of knowing where in the immense Theban necropolis Jamil’s hypothetical tomb might be. The cosmetic pot in itself told us nothing,
except that Jamil was not as stupid as we had believed.

‘It is a common error,’ I admitted, in chagrin, ‘to assume that because someone is uneducated and illiterate he is necessarily ignorant. There are ways of acquiring knowledge
other than by reading. Jamil had worked for a number of Egyptologists and he knew a great deal about tomb robbing – more than we know, I expect. He had sense enough to realize that such a
cartouche would arouse speculation, so he removed it, even though he lost money thereby. Are you certain it was done recently, Ramses, not in ancient times, by someone who wanted to reuse the
jar?’

Ramses was certain. The little pot was not an essential part of the funerary equipment, like a canopic jar or a sarcophagus. Besides, the marks were fresh. The patina –

Emerson had cut him off at that point, remarking that we would take his word for it.

The other bits and pieces I had purchased from Aslimi were even less informative. As we all knew, the same techniques and motifs had been used throughout pharaonic history. They might not have
come from the same place as the jar; there was no way of dating them.

‘So where are we gonna look next?’ Cyrus asked hopefully. ‘The western wadis again?’

‘We certainly are not going off on a series of random searches,’ Emerson replied, extracting his pipe and tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket. ‘Damnation,’ he added,
acknowledging the difficulty of proceeding with the process.

‘Let me do that for you, my dear.’ I took them from him.

Bertie coughed deprecatingly. ‘I may be on the wrong track altogether, but if I were trying to conceal something I wouldn’t hang about the place howling like a banshee and making a
spectacle of myself.’

‘I agree,’ Ramses said. ‘That’s the one area we can forget about. If he wants us to go there, it’s because there’s nothing to find.’

The men all nodded. I hoped they were right, since I had not much enjoyed our excursions to that remote region, but I was not entirely convinced. Jamil obviously enjoyed taunting people, and
youth suffers, among other weaknesses, from overconfidence. It might amuse the wretched boy to lead us to the general area and watch us wear ourselves out looking for a well-concealed entrance.

I had to admit that thus far his confidence had been justified; he had outwitted us on every occasion.

Emerson announced that we would return to Deir el Medina next morning. ‘We will finish that plan of yours, Bertie,’ he said. ‘Fine job, my boy. There are only a few more
details to be added.’

‘Tomorrow’s Friday,’ Cyrus objected. ‘My men have the day off, and you ought to rest, Emerson.’

‘We can finish the surveying without the men,’ Emerson said dogmatically. ‘And I have no intention of allowing a minor injury to keep me from my usual activities – all my
usual activities.’

Nor did it. I wished Nefret had not made the cast quite so heavy.

We managed to get off next morning without Sennia or the Great Cat of Re. Nefret did not accompany us either. I had suggested – tactfully, as is my habit – that she might want to
give a little luncheon party, since she had not had the opportunity to entertain our friends in her new abode. Under threat of losing our custom, Abdul Hadi had actually finished a dining table and
several chairs. She readily consented, but added with a knowing smile, ‘I won’t ask what you are up to, Mother, since I know you enjoy your little surprises.’

Early morning in Luxor, particularly at that season of the year, is always beautifully cool and stimulating. I was even more keenly aware of it that day, after those long hours in the stifling
darkness of the buried chamber. Truth compels me to admit that I had wondered at times whether I would ever again behold the shining cliffs of western Thebes and feel the morning breeze against my
face. Logic had informed me that Jamil could not continue pouring stones into the shaft indefinitely, but the space in the passage and the chamber itself was limited, and so was the air.

I had not, and would not, confess this weakness to any other. After all, it had turned out right in the end.

When we arrived at Deir el Medina, Bertie was working on his plan, and Selim had also turned up. He was not as devout as his Uncle Daoud, who always attended Friday services when he could.

‘That is very well done, Bertie,’ I exclaimed. ‘Obviously you didn’t spend all the time staring at the cliffs! But where is Cyrus? Didn’t he come with
you?’

‘Up there.’ Bertie gestured. ‘I offered to go with him, but he said – ’

‘Damnation!’ Emerson exclaimed loudly. Cyrus was high on the hillside, north of the area where most of the tombs were located. Hearing Emerson’s shout, he straightened and
waved.

‘What’s he doing up there?’ Ramses asked.

‘He wanted to have a look at the tombs of the Saite princesses,’ Bertie explained.

‘Why, for Heaven’s sake?’ I demanded. ‘They aren’t the original tombs of the princesses – the God’s Wives, to be more precise – or even their
reburials. Two of their sarcophagi were – ’

‘Yes, yes, Peabody,’ said Emerson. ‘Damned old fool climbing around up there . . .’ He set off towards the slope with his usual brisk stride.

Ramses caught my eye, nodded, and went trotting after him. The rest of us followed more slowly. Bertie was determined to accompany us, so I walked with him, giving him little suggestions as to
where to place his feet.

The shafts – tombs, I should say – were not in the main cemetery on the western hill, but on the northern slope, closer to the temple, so we did not have far to go. We found Emerson
on his hands and knees – one hand and both knees, that is – peering down into a dark opening while Ramses directed his torch into it. It did not look much like a tomb entrance; the
edges were broken and irregular.

‘Are you sure this is it?’ I inquired. ‘It doesn’t look like a tomb entrance.’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ was the querulous reply. A chunk of rock broke off from under his hand. ‘Curse it,’ said Emerson, recovering his balance without difficulty.
‘The whole place is falling in. Nobody has been down there for a while.’

‘Which one of the princesses’ tombs is it?’ Cyrus asked eagerly.

Emerson got to his feet. ‘None, as a matter of fact. This is the tomb where they found the reused sarcophagus of Ankhnesneferibre. Another sarcophagus was found nearby.’

‘Here,’ said Ramses, a little distance away.

We must have looked somewhat absurd clustered round that hole in the ground peering intently at nothing. There was nothing to be seen, not even rubble. The shaft was fairly clear, but so deep,
the light of our torches did not reach the bottom.