The Golden One (56 page)

Before any of us could stop her, she had thrown her arms round him in one of her gigantic hugs. We always pretended to be left breathless by her strength, but she knew at once that his gasp of
pain was not feigned, and began fussing and apologizing. She made him sit down and lifted both his feet onto a stool.

‘You’ve been and got yourselves into trouble again,’ said Gargery sternly. ‘Was it that Master Criminal chap? I trust, sir and madam, that he isn’t going to turn up
here. We’ve got enough problems without that.’

‘What sort of problems?’ I asked.

‘There is no trouble, Sitt,’ said Fatima, with a reproachful glance at Gargery. ‘Rest and I will bring tea.’

Gargery would not be silenced. ‘It’s mostly these young women, madam. That girl that was working for Miss Nefret has been round saying you promised to find her a husband. She’s
got a chap in mind and wants you to pin him down before he can get away.’

We all laughed except Sennia, who was still fussing over Ramses. ‘She didn’t put it that way, surely,’ Nefret said.

‘She keeps coming round,’ said Gargery gloomily. ‘And then there’s Jumana. Won’t eat, won’t talk, won’t work. It puts a person off, madam, just seeing
that gloomy face. And Mrs Vandergelt – ’

‘Enough, Gargery,’ Emerson snarled. ‘Can’t we have a single day of peace and quiet? No one is desperately ill, no one is dead, no one is missing? Good. Mrs Emerson will
deal with these minor difficulties in due time.’

‘Thank you, my dear,’ I said.

The sarcasm was wasted on Emerson. ‘Good to be back,’ he declared with great satisfaction. ‘No use asking Gargery how things are going at Deir el Medina, but I expect
Vandergelt will be here before long, with his own list of complaints. Never a dull moment, eh? Sennia, you haven’t given me a kiss. My arm is bothering me quite a lot.’

Cyrus was courteous enough not to disturb us for the greater part of the day. We were sitting on the veranda admiring the lovely sunset colours, as the calls of the muezzins drifted across the
desert in a melodious medley, when he turned up, riding Queenie.

‘Figured I’d arrive in time for drinks,’ he remarked, handing the reins to the stableman. ‘Sure good to have you folks back. I hear Ramses has had another little –
er – accident. I don’t suppose I should ask where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to.’

‘No,’ said Emerson. He handed Cyrus a glass.

It was the answer Cyrus had expected. He accepted it, and the glass of whiskey, with a smile. ‘Sure have missed you. Maybe you can do something with Jumana. She’s just wasting away,
poor little girl.’

‘No, she is not,’ I assured him. ‘Nefret and I both examined her this afternoon. She is somewhat off-colour, since she hasn’t left the house for days, but she
hasn’t lost an ounce.’

‘But Fatima said – ’

‘She has only picked at her meals. That means she is eating on the sly. I prescribed a particularly nasty-tasting tonic.’

‘She’s been putting it on?’ Cyrus demanded.

‘It’s not that simple, Cyrus,’ Nefret said thoughtfully. ‘Her unhappiness is genuine. She isn’t deliberately deceiving us, but I think – and Heaven knows I am
no expert – that her natural youthful optimism is engaged in a mental struggle with her sense of guilt. I honestly don’t know whether to slap her or coddle her.’

‘Put her to work,’ said Emerson. ‘Always the best medicine. How are things going at Deir el Medina, Vandergelt?’

‘ ’Bout the same. Found two more tombs. Empty.’

‘You haven’t broken your promise to me, I hope,’ I said.

‘I haven’t been in the southwest wadis, if that’s what you mean. But if you think I’ve forgotten what that young villain said, you’re wrong. I haven’t been
able to sleep, wondering what he meant. “The hand of the god.” What god? Where?’ Cyrus held out his empty glass. In silent sympathy, Emerson refilled it. He had no patience with
psychology, but this distress he could understand.

Cyrus went on, in mounting passion, ‘I even went back into that darned shrine – the one where we found the statue of Amon last year. Well, he’s a god, isn’t he? Bertie
and I examined every inch of the darned room. The walls and floor are solid.’

‘Bah,’ said Emerson. ‘Stop wasting time on fantasies, Vandergelt.’

‘Don’t be a hypocrite, Emerson,’ I said. ‘We have all been speculating and guessing and theorizing. It is a pretty little problem. Supposing Jamil was not trying to
mislead or tantalize us, which may well have been the case, there are a good many gods shown on a good many wall surfaces in Thebes. Deir el Bahri, Medinet Habu, every tomb on the West Bank –
What is it, Cyrus?’

‘Excuse me, Amelia, I didn’t mean to interrupt. You just reminded me. This little piece of news ought to get your attention, Emerson,’ he added, with a grimace at my husband.
‘Give you three guesses who has started an excavation in the Valley of the Kings.’

Emerson’s look of lofty indifference turned to a scowl. ‘Without official permission? Confound it, Vandergelt – ’

‘Not the Albions?’ I exclaimed.

‘Might have known you’d hit it on the head first time,’ said Cyrus. ‘You’re both right. It’s Joe and his family, and they don’t have official
permission.’

‘And you let them?’ Emerson demanded.

‘I notified Cairo. That was all I could do, as Joe gleefully pointed out to me. I haven’t got the authority to stop them.’

‘Where in the Valley?’ Ramses asked.

‘In that southern branch of the wadi near Number Twenty – Hatshepsut’s tomb.’

‘Why there, I wonder?’ Ramses said.

‘Dunno. It’s off the regular tourist track, so maybe they hoped they wouldn’t be spotted right away. Can’t think of any other reason why they would pick that
area.’

‘Damnation,’ muttered Emerson. ‘I had intended to start work first thing tomorrow morning. Now I will have to waste several hours expelling the Albions.’

‘How do you propose to do that?’ I inquired. ‘You haven’t the authority either, and if you lay violent hands on any one of them – especially Mrs Albion –
’

‘Good Gad, Peabody, have you ever known me to lay violent hands on a woman? There are ways,’ said Emerson, stroking his chin. ‘There are ways.’

‘Well, I sure don’t want to miss that,’ Cyrus declared. ‘I’ll be waiting for you in the morning. You’ll all dine with us tomorrow evening, I hope. Katherine
is anxious to see you.’

Ramses and Nefret decided they did not want to miss it either. I went along to make certain Emerson behaved himself. Jumana went along because I insisted. Nefret’s diagnosis might be
correct – it was in keeping with the principles of psychology I favoured – but she had confessed herself uncertain as to the appropriate treatment. I had my own ideas on that subject.
If my methods were not effective, at least they could do no harm.

Jumana ate very little at breakfast, but I had checked the larder before retiring and again when I arose, and was not surprised to find that half a loaf of bread and a chicken breast had
disappeared overnight. It was no wonder Fatima had not noticed anything amiss. The larder was open to everyone in the house, and Sennia had an appetite quite out of proportion to her little
frame.

Cyrus and Bertie had been looking out for us and joined us at the end of the track that led up to the Castle. It was a bright, beautiful morning with clear skies; after the fog of Cairo and the
rainy weather of Palestine, I appreciated Luxor even more.

‘How well you look, Bertie,’ I said. ‘The foot is completely healed?’

‘Yes, ma’am, thank you. I need not ask if you are in good health; you are blooming, as usual. We had heard that Ramses – ’

‘The reports were exaggerated,’ Ramses said with a smile. ‘As you can see.’

‘And your arm, Professor?’ Bertie asked.

‘A confounded nuisance,’ said Emerson. ‘Can we get on now? I want to finish this little job, so I can start work.’

Bertie was not given the opportunity to ask after the person who interested him most. Jumana had not spoken to him or to Cyrus. She sat slumped in the saddle, her head bowed and her pretty mouth
twisted. The taste of the medicine I had insisted she take lingered on the tongue.

We left the horses in the donkey park and proceeded on foot, along paths long familiar to us. I should explain that the Valley of the Kings is not a single long canyon. From above it resembles a
lobed leaf, like that of an oak or maple, with side wadis branching off to left and right. The tomb of Hatshepsut was at the far end of one of these branches. We had worked in that area before and
knew it well.

The tourists had come early to the Valley in order to avoid the heat of midday. We were not so early as Emerson would have liked, but in part it was his own fault; he had wasted some time
playing with the Great Cat of Re, who had come to breakfast with Ramses and Nefret. It had grown quite fat, through overfeeding (by Sennia – she claimed to have been training it, to do what I
could not imagine). She had also combed and brushed it every day, so that its fur had become long and silky. Emerson was highly entertained by its antics. As it leaped at the bit of chicken he
dangled above it, it looked like a bouncing ball of fluff. (Horus’s look of contempt as he watched this degrading performance was equally entertaining.) However, when we left the house it
declined to ride on his shoulder and climbed onto that of Ramses.

‘Must we take it?’ he asked. ‘You rather overdid the grooming, Sennia, its fur is all over my face.’

‘His,’ said Sennia. ‘Yes, you must take him. What if you were attacked by a snake? I am coming too.’

So that caused another delay. I did not want her to see – or hear – Emerson evicting the Albions. He was bound to lose his temper and employ bad language. We pacified her by
promising to stop back at the house and take her to Deir el Medina, and distracted her by asking her to help Fatima prepare a very elabourate picnic basket.

Draped over Ramses’s shoulder, with his tail hanging down behind, the Great Cat of Re resembled a luxuriant fur piece. Several ladies wanted to stroke him; several gentlemen stared and
laughed. Among the latter was Mr Lubancic, whom I had met at Cyrus’s soiree. ‘Still here, are you?’ I called, as we passed.

‘Yes, ma’am. What on earth – ’

‘Another time.’ I waved. Emerson had not slowed his pace.

The signs of energetic activity were visible some distance off; a cloud of dust blurred the brilliant blue of the sky, and voices rose in one of the chants with which Egyptians lighten their
work. The sight we beheld when we reached the spot was unusual enough to bring us all to a halt.

In the background a group of men were digging and hauling away debris. In the foreground, some distance from the dust and racket, was a little kiosk, a sturdy wooden frame with a roof and sides
of canvas. Two of the canvas side pieces had been rolled up, and under the canopy, comfortably seated in armchairs, were the three Albions. Oriental rugs covered the ground; a table was spread with
various articles of food and drink, over which a turbaned servant stood guard with a fly whisk. Another servant waved a fan over Mrs Albion. She wore a frock that would have been suitable for tea
at Buckingham Palace, and a hat wreathed with chiffon veiling. Mr Albion had adopted what he believed to be proper archaeologist’s attire: riding breeches and boots, a tweed coat, and a very
large solar topee. His son was similarly attired, but since he was a good deal taller than Mr Albion, he did not so closely resemble a mushroom.

One of the workmen came trotting up to Mr Albion with a bit of stone in his hand. Albion took it, glanced at it, and tossed it away. He then condescended to notice us.

‘Morning, folks. Out bright and early, are you?’

‘Not so early as you,’ said Emerson, advancing with shoulders squared and brows thunderous. ‘You have been told, I believe, that you are in violation of Lord Carnarvon’s
firman. Close down your excavation at once.’

‘Who’s gonna make us?’ Mr Albion inquired. He looked even more cherubic, his eyes twinkling and his lips pursed. ‘You?’

‘Yes,’ said Emerson. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘Father, if I may?’ Sebastian Albion had got to his feet. ‘Not everyone appreciates your sense of humour. Won’t you sit down, ladies and gentlemen, and discuss the
situation? Mrs Emerson, please take my chair. I’m afraid the rest of you will have to – er – ’

‘Squat,’ said Nefret, doing so. ‘Let’s hear what they have to say, Father. It won’t cause much of a delay and it might be amusing.’

‘I agree,’ said Ramses, subsiding with boneless ease onto the rug beside Nefret and crossing his legs.

‘Amusing,’ Mr Albion repeated. ‘Yes, sirree, that’s our aim in life, to amuse people and be polite. Here, young lady, take my chair. We heard you’ve been
ailing.’

Jumana started, and so, I believe, did we all. Such gallantry was not only unexpected but was, in my opinion, highly suspicious.

‘No, thank you,’ she stammered. ‘Sir.’

‘I insist.’ He was on his feet, his face wreathed in smiles. ‘Sebastian, you persuade her.’

‘With pleasure.’ The young man offered his hand. Jumana blushed and ducked her head.

‘Sit down, Jumana,’ I ordered. ‘Since Mr Albion is kind enough to offer.’

Mrs Albion ignored this little byplay. She was leaning forward with the first sign of amiable interest I had seen her display. ‘What a beautiful cat. What is its name?’

‘The Great Cat of Re,’ I replied. ‘You would call it Fluffy, I suppose.’

Mr Albion chuckled. ‘No, she gives her cats names like Grand Duchess Olga of Albion. Fond of the creatures. I put up with ’em because she’s fond of ’em.’

‘Now see here,’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘I will be cursed if I will spend the morning talking about cats. What do you people think you are doing?’

Sebastian Albion removed his eyeglasses, wiped them on a handkerchief, and replaced them. ‘As you have no doubt observed, sir, we are clearing the tomb of Prince Mentuherkhepshef. It was
found by Belzoni and reexamined in 1905 by – ’

‘Don’t tell me facts I know better than you,’ Emerson interrupted. Curiosity had weakened his wrath, however; the Albions were so blandly outrageous, it was difficult to remain
angry with them. And Sebastian had pronounced the prince’s name correctly. He knew more about Egyptology than we had supposed.