Tomb of the Golden Bird

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TOMB OF THE GOLDEN BIRD Peabody Book 18 Elizabeth Peters

List of Characters The Emersons and their kin Professor Radcliffe Emerson, "the greatest Egyptologist of this or any other century" Amelia Peabody Emerson, his wife "Ramses," Walter Peabody Emerson, their son Nefret Emerson, Ramses's wife David John and Charlotte (Charla), their twin children Walter Emerson, Radcliffe's younger brother Evelyn Emerson, his wife Seth, alias Sethos, alias Anthony Bissinghurst, Radcliffe's "other brother";half-brother of Radcliffe and Walter Sennia Emerson, child of Amelia's nephew (formally adopted) David Todros, grandson of Abdullah (see below) Lia Todros, nee Emerson, his wife, daughter of Walter and Evelyn Gargery, their butler, who considers himself a member of the family Their Egyptian family Abdullah, their former reis (foreman), now deceased (or is he?) Selim, his youngest son, the present reis Daoud, Abdullah's cousin, assistant reis Kadija, his wife Sabir, his son Ali Yussuf, Hassan; his other sons Fatima, the Emersons' housekeeper in Luxor Vandergelts and staff Cyrus, American millionaire, longtime friend of the Emersons, and sponsorof excavations in Egypt Katherine, his wife Bertie, her son, adopted by Cyrus Jumana, daughter of Abdullah's brother, first Egyptian woman trained inEgyptology Suzanne Malraux, artist Nadji Farid, excavator Luxorites Inspector Ibrahim Aziz, chief of Luxor Police Lieutenant Gabra, his assistant Deib, Farhat and Aguil ibn Simsah, tomb robbers Azmi, enterprising water boy Wasim, a guard Elia, the twins' nursemaid Kareem, incompetent footman of the Emersons' Badra, sous-chef Jamad, stableman Maaman, the Emersons' cook Abdul, servant at Winter Palace Hotel Ishak, guard in Valley of the Kings Reis Girigar, Howard Carter's reis Ali, suffragi at Shepheard's Hotel, Cairo         Ali Ibrahim, boatman Journalists Margaret Minton, Morning Mirror (married to Sethos) Kevin O'Connell, Daily Yell Bradstreet, Morning Post (Cairo) NY Times Bancroft, Daily Mail Arthur Merton, London Times Archaeologists and hangers-on Howard Carter, excavating in the Valley of the Kings Lord Carnarvon, his patron, aka "Pups" Lady Evelyn Herbert, Carnarvon's daughter "Pecky" Callender, engineer and architect, friend of Carter Herbert Winlock, head of the Metropolitan Museum staff at Deir el Bahri, Luxor George Barton, one of his staff Pierre Lacau, Director of the Service des Antiquites Rex Engelbach, Chief Inspector for Upper Egypt Ibrahim Effendi, his assistant Theodore Davis, former American sponsor of excavations in the Valleyof the Kings Arthur Weigall, former Chief Inspector for Upper Egypt Arthur Mace, member of Metropolitan Museum staff Harry Burton, photographer, ditto Hall and Hauser, draftsmen, ditto Alfred Lucas, head of chemical laboratory of Survey Department, Egypt Mr. and Mrs. Davies, artists, copyists of Egyptian tombs Alan Gardiner, British philologist James Henry Breasted, American Egyptologist His wife; his son Charles Animals Amira, dog the Great Cat of Re Risha, Ramses's Arabian stallion Moonlight, Nefret's mare Asfur, David's horse Eva, Amelia's mare Ancient Egyptians and gods Mertseger, "She Who Loves Silence"; cobra-headed goddess, name given tothe pyramid-shaped mountain at Valley of the Kings Amon, chief god of Thebes Aton, the "sole god" of Akhenaton, below Akhenaton, "the Heretic," pharaoh of late Eighteenth Dynasty Nebkheperure Tutankhamon (Tutankhaton); possibly son of above Ankhesenamon (Ankhesenpaaton); wife of above, daughter of Akhenaton Nefertiti, wife of Akhenaton Seti II, one of the "confusing pharaohs," Twentieth Dynasty Ramses VI, one of the lesser Ramses, Twentieth Dynasty And Sir Malcolm Page Henley de Montague, wealthy collector Sir William Portmanteau, Suzanne's grandfather Fuad, King of Egypt Feisal, King of Iraq Saad Zaghlul, head of Egyptian Nationalist Party Gertrude Bell, English explorer, writer, king-maker Ibn Saud, ruler of Arabia Sayid Talib, Iraqi nationalist regarded by many as the most logical candidateto rule that country Mohammed Fehmi, aka Bashir, Egyptian nationalist and ex-revolutionary Bracegirdle-Boisdragon, aka Mr. Smith, head of a certain department that is unnamed Wetherby, his assistant Thomas Russell Pasha, Commandant of Cairo Police Lord Edmund Allenby, British High Commissioner, Egypt

Chapter One "Ramses!" Seated on the terrace of Shepheard's Hotel, I watched with interest as a tall young man stopped and turned, as if in response to the calling of his name. Yet this was not the fourteenth century B.C., but the year of our Lord 1922; and the tall man was no ancient pharaoh. Though his bronzed skin and black hair resembled those of an Egyptian, his height and bearing proclaimed him for what he was—an English gentleman of the finest quality. He was also my son, "Ramses" Walter Peabody Emerson, who was better known in Egypt by his sobriquet. He raised his hand to his brow, and realized that (as usual) he was not wearing a hat. In lieu of removing that which was not present he inclined his head in greeting, and one of his rare, attractive smiles warmed his thin face. I craned my neck and half rose from my chair in order to see the individual who had occasioned this response, but the crowds that filled the street blocked my view. Cairo traffic had grown worse since my early days in Egypt; motorcars now mingled with donkeys and camels, carts and carriages, and the disgusting effluvions their enginesemitted offended the nostrils more than the odors of the above-mentioned beasts—to which, admittedly, I had become accustomed. I deduced that the person my son addressed was of short stature, and most probably female (basing this latter assumption on Ramses's attempt to remove his hat and the affability of his smile). A portly person wearing a very large turban and mounted on a very small donkey passed in front of my son, and by the time he had gone by Ramses was wending his way toward the steps of the hotel and the table where I sat awaiting him. "Who was that?" I demanded. "Good afternoon to you too, Mother." Ramses bent to kiss my cheek. "Good afternoon. Who was that?" "Who was whom?" "Ramses," I said warningly. My son abandoned his teasing. "I believe you are not acquainted with her, Mother. Her name is Suzanne Malraux, and she studied with Mr. Petrie." "Ah yes," I said. "You are mistaken, Ramses, I heard of her last year from Professor Petrie. He described her work as adequate." "That sounds like Petrie." Ramses sat down and adjusted his long legs under the table. "But you must give him credit; he has always been willing to train women in archaeology." "I have never denied Petrie any of the acclaim that is his due, Ramses." Ramses's smile acknowledged the ambiguity of the statement. "Training is one thing, employment another. She has been unable to find a position." I wondered if Ramses was implying that we take the young woman on to our staff. She might have approached him rather than his father or me. He was, I admit, more approachable, particularly by young ladies. Let me hasten to add that he did not invite the approaches. He was devoted to his beautiful wife Nefret, but it might be asking too much of a lady who is approaching a certain time of life to allow her husband closeassociation with a younger female. Miss Malraux was half French. And she was bound to be attracted to Ramses. Women were. His gentle manners (my contribution) and athletic frame (his father's), his somewhat exotic good looks, and a certain je ne sais quoi (in fact I knew perfectly well what it was, but refused to employ the vulgar terms currently in use . . .).         No, despite our need for additional staff, it might not be advisable. "Have you had any interesting encounters?" Ramses asked, looking over the people taking tea on the terrace. They were the usual sort— well dressed, well groomed, and almost all white—if that word can be used to describe complexions that ranged from pimply pale to sunburned crimson. "Lord and Lady Allenby stopped to say hello," I replied. "He was most agreeable, but I understand why people refer to him as the Bull. He has that set to his jaw." "He has to be forceful. As high commissioner he is under fire from the imperialists in the British government and the Nationalists in Egypt. On the whole, I can only commend his efforts." I did not want to talk politics. The subject was too depressing. "There is your father," I said. "Late as usual." Ramses looked over his shoulder at the street. There was no mistaking Emerson. He is one of the finest-looking men I have ever beheld: raven locks and eyes of a penetrating sapphirine blue, a form as impressive as it had been when I first met him, he stood a head taller than those around him and his booming voice was audible some distance away. He was employing it freely, greeting acquaintances in a mixture of English and Arabic, the latter liberally salted with the expletives that have given him the Egyptian sobriquet of Father of Curses. Egyptians had become accustomed to this habit and replied with broad grins to remarks such as "How are you, Ibrahim, you old son of an incontinent camel?" My distinguished husband, the finest Egyptologist of this or any era, had earned the respect of the Egyptians with whom he had lived for so many years because he treated them as he did his fellow archaeologists. That is to say, he cursed all of them impartially when theydid something that vexed him. It was not difficult to vex Emerson. Few people lived up to his rigid professional standards, and time had not mellowed his quick temper. "He's got someone with him," said Ramses. "Well, well," I said. "What a surprise." The individual who followed in Emerson's mighty wake was none other than Howard Carter. Perhaps I should explain the reason for my sarcasm, for such it was. Howard was one of our oldest friends, an archaeologist whose career had undergone several reversals and recoveries. He was presently employed by Lord Carnarvon to search for royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings. Searching for royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings was Emerson's great ambition—one he could not fulfill until Carnarvon gave up his concession. Rumor had it that his lordship was about to do so, having come to the conclusion—shared by most Egyptologists—that the Valley had yielded all it ever would. Emerson did not share that conclusion. At the end of the previous season he had admitted to me that he believed there was at least one more royal tomb to be found—that of the little-known king Tutankhamon. He had done his best, without actually lying, to conceal this belief from Howard. One of the reasons why we had come to Egypt so much earlier than was our custom was to discover what plans Howard and his patron had made for the coming season. One look at Emerson's expressive countenance told me what I wanted to know. Despite the heartiness of his vociferous greetings, his sapphirine eyes were dull, his well-cut lips set in a downward curve. Carnarvon had not abandoned his concession. However, Howard Carter appeared no more cheerful. Nattily dressed as was his habit in a tweed suit and bow tie, a cigarette holder in his hand, he addressed me with a rather stiff bow before assuming the seat I indicated. "How nice to see you, Howard," I said. "We tried several times this summer to communicate with you, but without success." "Sorry," Howard muttered. "I was in and out, you know. Busy." "I ran into him by accident at the office of the director," said Emerson, who had been haunting that spot for two days. He relapsed into gloomy silence. Ramses gave me a meaningful look and tried to revive the conversation. "Like ourselves, you are out early this year, Carter." "Had to be." The waiter approached with a tray. He had, with the efficiency one expects at Shepheard's, noted our number and brought cups and biscuits for all. "The area where I mean to excavate is very popular with tourists," Howard resumed. "Want to get it over before they arrive in full force." "Ah," said Ramses. "So Lord Carnarvon has decided on another season. We had heard he was thinking of giving up the firman." Emerson made a soft growling sound, but Howard perked up a trifle. "One more season, at least. I persuaded him we must examine that small triangle we left unexcavated near Ramses VI before we can claim we have finished the job we set out to do." He glanced at Emerson, and added, "I have the Professor to thank for that. Initially his lordship was of the opinion that another season in the Valley would be a waste of time, but when I told him that Professor Emerson had offered to take over the concession and my services, Carnarvon had second thoughts." "Naturally," I said, managing not to look at Emerson. "Well, Howard, we wish you good fortune and good hunting. When are you off to Luxor?" "Not for a while. I want to visit the antiquities dealers. Though I don't suppose I will come across anything as remarkable as that statuette you found last year." "I doubt you will," said Emerson, cheering up a bit. Howard asked about our own plans, and we thanked him for allowing us to continue working in the West Valley, which was properly part of his lordship's concession. After we had finished tea and Howard had taken his leave, I turned to Emerson. "Don't say it," muttered my husband.        "Emerson, you know I would never reproach you for failing to follow my advice. I did warn you, however, that making that offer to Lord Carnarvon would have an effect contrary to what you had hoped. Given your reputation, your interest was bound to inspire a spirit of competition in—"         "I told you—" Emerson shouted. People at a nearby table turned to stare. Emerson glared at them, and they found other objects of interest. With a visible effort he turned the glare into a pained smile, directed at me. "I beg your pardon, my dear Peabody."         That brief moment of temper was the most encouraging thing I had seen for months. Ever since my near demise the previous spring Emerson had treated me as if I were still on my deathbed. He hadn't shouted at me once. It was very exasperating. Emerson is never more imposing than when he is in a rage, and I missed our animated discussions.       I smiled fondly at him. "Ah, well, it is water over the dam. We will not discuss it further. Ramses, when are Nefret and the children due back from Atiyeh?" Ramses consulted his watch. "They ought to have been here by now, but you know how difficult it is to extract the twins from their admirers in the village." "You ought to have gone with them," said Emerson, still looking for someone to quarrel with. "Nonsense," I said briskly. "Selim and Daoud and Fatima went with them, which was only proper, since they wanted to visit with their friends and kinfolk. They ought to be able to keep two five-year-olds from taking harm." "It would take more than three or four people to keep Charla from doing something harmful, to herself or others," said Emerson darkly. In this assumption he was justified, since his granddaughter had a more adventurous spirit than her brother, and an explosive temper. However, it was not Charla who returned cradled in the muscular arms of Daoud. We had returned to our sitting room in the hotel, and when Emerson saw David John limp as a dead fish and green-faced as a pea, he sprang up from his chair with a resounding oath. "Hell and damnation! What is wrong with the boy? Daoud, I trusted you to—"