Four

•

Iof course reported Maspero’s offer to Emerson. “What about Abusir, Emerson? Or Medum? And there are large areas of Sakkara that cry out for excavation.”

“Are you so ready to abandon our home in Luxor, Peabody? We built the house because we planned to concentrate on that area for years to come. Curse it, I swore I would finish the job, and I resent your attempts . . .” But then his face softened and he said gruffly, “I know you still yearn for pyramids, my dear. Just allow me one more season in the Valley, and . . . Well, then we will see. Is that a satisfactory compromise?”

In my opinion it was not a compromise at all, for he had promised nothing. However, the affectionate demonstrations that accompanied his speechwere satisfactory. I responded with my customary appreciation, and the subject was dropped—for the time being.

We were staying at Shepheard’s, my favorite hotel in Cairo, when this conversation took place. Emerson had graciously agreed to my suggestion that we spend a few days there before leaving the city. My excuse for removing to the hotel was that it would be more convenient for making arrangements for my annual dinner party; but though I was loath to admit the fact, the dear old dahabeeyah was inconveniently small for our enlarged family. It had only four staterooms and a single bath chamber, and with all of us engaged in professional pursuits the saloon was so full of desks and books and reference materials there was no room for a dining table. Fatima could not be expected to sleep on the lower deck with the crewmen, which meant that one of the staterooms had to be given to her. (She had proposed sleeping on a pallet in the corridor, or on the floor in Nefret’s room—both out of the question.) So David and Ramses had to share a bedroom, and I believe I need not describe the condition of that room to any mother of young male persons. One had to wade through books and discarded garments to reach the beds.

With a mournful sigh I admitted the truth, to myself if not to Emerson (who, being a man, did not even notice the inconveniences I have reported). While the children were with us, theAmelia did not offer adequate living quarters. That state of affairs would not continue indefinitely, though, I reminded myself. David was twenty-one, and already establishing a reputation as an artist and designer. He would strike out on his own one day, as was only proper. Nefret would certainly marry; I was only surprised she had not yet accepted one of the numerous suitors who constantly besieged her. Ramses . . . It was impossible for any normal human being to predict what Ramses would do. I was fairly certain it was something I would not like, but at least he would eventually go off and do it somewhere else. The prospect ought to have been pleasing. To be alone again with Emerson, without those dear but distracting young persons, would once have been my fondest dream. It still was, of course . . .

After a useful conversation with M. Baehler making arrangements for my dinner party, I had retired to the terrace to wait for Emerson and Nefret to join me for tea. The sun shone from a cloudless sky, brightening the flamboyant tarbooshes and gold-trimmed vests of the dragomen gathered round the steps of the hotel; the scent of roses and jasmine on the carts of the flower vendors was wafted to my appreciative nostrils by a soft breeze. Even the rolling of wheels and the shouts of the cabdrivers, the braying of donkeys and bellowing of camels fell pleasantly on my ears because they were the sounds of Egypt, hallowed by familiarity and affection. Emerson hadsaid he was going to the French Institute. Nefret hadsaid she meant to do some shopping. In deference to what she was pleased to call my old-fashioned principles, she had taken Fatima with her. The boys had gone off somewhere; they no longer accounted to me for their activities, but I had no reason to suppose they were doing anything they ought not. Why then did vague forebodings trouble a mind that ought to have been at ease?

Those forebodings were not prompted by my old adversary and (as he claimed) admirer, the Master Criminal. Emerson had got in the habit of assuming that Sethos was behind every threatening incident or mysterious event. The fact that he was usually wrong had not lessened his suspicions, and I knew (though he had tried to conceal it from me) that he had been prowling the suks and the coffee shops looking for evidence that Sethos had followed us to Egypt.

I had my own reasons for feeling certain this was not the case—and this certainty, to be entirely candid, was one cause of my discontent. For the first time in many years there was no prospect of an interesting adventure, not even a threatening letter from villains unknown! I hadn’t realized how accustomed I had become to that sort of thing. Admittedly our adventures were often more enjoyable in retrospect than in actuality, but if I must choose between danger and boredom I will always choose the former. It was cursed discouraging, especially since our excavations offered no prospect of excitement.

I glanced at my lapel watch. Nefret was not really late, since we had not specified a time, but she ought to have been here by now. I decided to go in search of her.

When I knocked at her door I did not receive an immediate reply, and concluded she had not yet returned, but as I was about to turn away the door opened a few inches and Nefret’s face appeared. She looked a trifle fussed.

“Oh, it is you, Aunt Amelia. Are you ready for tea?”

“Yes, and have been this past quarter hour,” I replied, standing on tiptoe and trying to see past her into the room, from which I could hear surreptitious sounds. “Is someone with you? Fatima?”

“Er—no.” She tried to outstare me, but of course did not succeed. With a little smile she stepped back and opened the door. “It is only Ramses and David.”

“I don’t know why you were making such a mystery of it,” I remarked. “Good afternoon, boys. Are you joining us for tea?”

They were standing, but one of them must have been sprawled on the bed, for the spread was crumpled. I forbore comment, however, since they were both properly attired, except for Ramses’s tie, which was not around his neck or anyplace else that I could see.

“Good afternoon, Mother,” said Ramses. “Yes, we intend to take tea with you, if that is agreeable.”

“Certainly. Where is your tie? Find it and put it on before you come downstairs.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“We will meet you on the terrace, then.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“In half an hour.”

“Yes, Mother.”

             (v)     From Manuscript H

Nefret closed the door, waited for thirty seconds, and eased it open again just far enough to peer out.

“She’s gone.”

“Did you think she would be listening at the door?” David asked.

Neither of the others bothered to answer. Ramses carefully drew back the rumpled counterpane and let out a breath of relief. “No damage,” he reported. “But we cannot go on doing this sort of thing.”

“We won’t do it again,” Nefret said. “But we had to have a closer look, and we couldn’t risk it while we were on the boat. Our quarters are too cramped and Fatima was always popping in to see if I wanted anything. It was clever of you to persuade Aunt Amelia to book rooms at the hotel.”

“She thinks it was her idea,” Ramses said.

David had designed and built a container that displayed one twelve-inch panel at a time, with compartments at either end to hold the unrolled and re-rolled sections. The panel now visible showed the same subject depicted on the papyrus in the museum—the weighing of the soul—but this rendering was even surer and more delicate. The suppliant’s slender form showed through her robe of sheer white linen. Before her stood the balance, with her heart—the seat of understanding and conscience—in one pan, and in the other the feather of Maat, representing truth, justice and order. The fate that followed a guilty verdict was dreadful indeed: to be devoured by Amnet, Eater of Souls, a monster with the head of a crocodile, the body of a lion, and the hind quarters of a hippopotamus.

“Of course that never happened,” Ramses said. “The papyrus itself assured a successful outcome, not only by affirming it but by—”

“I don’t want to hear a lecture on Egyptian religion,” Nefret said. “This is like the queen’s papyrus, but it’s much longer and the workmanship is even finer.”

“It is two hundred years older,” David said. “Nineteenth Dynasty. Papyri of that period are lighter in color and less brittle than later examples. I don’t think we’ve damaged it but Ramses is right, we must keep it covered and not unroll any more of it.”

“I wonder,” Ramses said.

“What do you mean?”

“Ordinarily I would agree that it ought to be handled as little as possible. I have a feeling, though, that somebody wants it back. We ought to have a copy in case he succeeds.”

“Nonsense,” Nefret scoffed. “It’s been three days and no one has bothered us.”

“Except for the swimmer Mohammed saw night before last.”

“Mohammed imagined it. Or invented it, to prove he was alert and wakeful, after the Professor caught him sleeping on duty.”

“Possibly. All the same, I think we will have to risk it. David, how long would it take you to photograph the thing?”

David stared at him in consternation. “Hours! Days, if I do a proper job. What would I use for a darkroom? How do we keep Aunt Amelia from finding out? What if I damage it? How—”

“We’ll work out the details,” Nefret said, brushing these difficulties aside with her usual nonchalance. “I’ll help you. Where do you suppose it came from? Originally, I mean.”

“Thebes,” Ramses said. “She was a princess—one of the daughters of Ramses the Second. Precisely where in Thebes is the question.”

“The Royal Cache?” David suggested.

“Deir el Bahri?” Nefret stared at him. “But that tomb was cleared out years ago. The mummies and other objects are in the museum.”

“Not all of them.” David replaced the cover of the container. “You know the story, Nefret. Before they were caught, the Abd er Rassul family sold a number of objects to dealers and collectors. It’s possible not all of those objects were reported.”

“It’s a virtual certainty that some of them were not,” Ramses said.

There was a brief silence. Then Nefret said in exasperation, “Why don’t you say what you’re thinking? Sethos was in the business when the Abd er Rassuls were clandestinely marketing the objects from the Royal Cache. Let’s suppose one of the things he bought was the princess’s papyrus—”

“The possibility had occurred to me, of course,” said Ramses.

“Of course!” Nefret’s voice was rich with sarcasm. “Did you think I’d cower and scream at the mention of that dread name?”

“It was a possibility, nothing more. We’ve fahddled with every dealer in Cairo and found not the slightest hint that the Master, as they called him, has returned. Things like that can’t be kept secret; you may not know where the body is hidden, but you can’t miss the smell.”

“What an elegant metaphor,” Nefret remarked.

“We couldn’t have missed it,” Ramses insisted. “And yet there is the fact that the papyrus was used to lure us into a trap. If Sethos was responsible, that would mean we weren’t his main object. The one he wants is Mother. His attempt to abduct her in London failed, so he tried to get his hands on one or all of us as a means of reaching her.”

Nefret nodded. “That possibility had occurred to me, too, believe it or not. The Professor hasn’t let her out of his sight since the attack in London, and evenshe would have better sense than to go into the Old City alone at night.”

“Unlike us,” Ramses said wryly. “But she’d march into the fires of hell brandishing that parasol of hers if she thought one of us was in danger.”

“Yes,” David said softly. “She would.”

A sound outside the door made him start nervously. Nefret laughed and patted his hand. “It’s only the German count who has rooms farther along the corridor; he bellows like a hippopotamus. Were you afraid it was Aunt Amelia come back?”

“She will come back if we don’t hurry down,” Ramses said. “Here, Nefret, give me the box.”

“Put it under the bed. The suffragi never sweeps there.” Nefret went to the mirror and began tucking in strands of loosened hair.

“I’d rather not leave it with you. If someone comes looking for it—”

“They’d look for it in your room, or David’s,” Nefret said. “Even if they had identified you two, they couldn’t possibly have known I was your . . . What was that interesting word?”

“Little gazelle,” said Ramses, unable to repress a smile. “Never mind the other one.”

“Hmph. Need I change, do you think?”

She straightened her blouse and smoothed her skirt over her hips, frowning critically at her reflection in the mirror. After a moment Ramses said, “In my opinion you are properly attired.”

“Thank you. Where is your tie?”

They found it under the bed, when Ramses knelt to hide the papyrus there. He refused her offer to tie it for him, and after she had put on her hat David opened the door.

“When are you going to tell the Professor and Aunt Amelia?” he asked in a worried voice. “Strictly speaking, the papyrus is the property of the Foundation, and they are members of the Board. They are going to be furious when they learn we kept this from them.”

“They keep things from us, don’t they?” Ramses had fallen behind the other two so that he could indulge himself in the pleasure of watching Nefret walk. She claimed it made her nervous when he stared at her as he sometimes did—like a specimen under a microscope, as she described it. She’d have been even more unnerved if she had known why he stared. From any angle and in every detail she was beautiful—the tilt of her head under that absurdly becoming hat, the curls that brushed her neck, the square little shoulders and trim waist and rounded hips and . . . Good God, it’s getting worse every day, he thought in disgust, and forced himself to listen to what David was saying.

“I don’t feel right about deceiving them. I owe them so much—”

“Stop feeling guilty,” Ramses said. “They’ll blame me in any case, they always do. Let’s not say anything until after we’ve left Cairo. Father will raise bloody hell with Maspero for failing to shut down the black market in antiquities, and Mother will snatch up her parasol and go looking for Yussuf Mahmud.”

“You haven’t been looking for him, have you?” Nefret asked.

“Not as Ali the Rat, no. We agreed it would be advisable for that engaging character to lie low for a time.”

Nefret pulled away from David and turned on Ramses. “Not as Ali? As who, then? Confound it, Ramses, you gave me your word.”

“I’ve not broken it. But you know perfectly well our only chance of finding out where the papyrus came from is to start with Yussuf Mahmud.”

“Stop goading her, Ramses,” David said. He took Nefret’s arm. “Honestly, you two are enough to drive a sensible person wild. Shouting at one another in a public place!”

“I wasn’t shouting,” Nefret said sullenly. She let him lead her on. “Ramses would try the patience of a saint. And I’m no saint. What have you been up to?”

“Trying to buy antiquities,” David said. “Ramses as a very rich, very stupid tourist and I as his faithful dragoman.”

“Tourist,” Nefret repeated. Again she stopped and whirled round, so suddenly that Ramses had to rock back on his heels to avoid running into her. She shook her finger under his nose. “Not the silly-looking Englishman with straw-colored hair who ogled me through his monocle and said—”

“ ‘By Jove, but that’s a dashed handsome gel,’ ” Ramses agreed, in the silly-looking Englishman’s affected drawl.

Nefret shook her head, but could not help smiling. “What did you find out?”

“That a tourist with plenty of money and no scruples can find all the antiquities he wants. We’ve not been offered anything of the same quality as the papyrus, though, despite the fact that I sneered at everything I was shown and kept on demanding something better. Yussuf Mahmud never showed his face. He is usually one of the first to prey on gullible tourists.”

“They murdered him,” Nefret breathed.

“Or he has gone into hiding,” said Ramses. “Do shut up, Nefret, there is Mother. She can hear a word like ‘murder’ a mile away.”

:

Though the arrangements were all that could be desired, I did not enjoy our annual dinner party as much as usual. So many old friends were gone, into the shadows of eternity or less permanent exile. Howard Carter was not there, nor Cyrus Vandergelt and his wife; the knowledge that we would meet all three in Luxor did not entirely compensate for their absence. As for M. Maspero, I had of course invited him, but was secretly relieved when he pleaded a previous engagement. Though I knew resentment was unreasonable, I could not help feeling that emotion, and listening to the others wax enthusiastic about their pyramids and mastabas and rich cemetery sites, while we contemplated another tedious season among the lesser tombs of the Valley, only increased my vexation with the Director.

Mr. Reisner very kindly invited me to visit Giza, where he held the concession for the Second and Third Pyramids, but I declined, with the excuse that we were to sail on the next day but one. In fact, I saw no point in tantalizing myself by looking at other people’s pyramids when I had none of my own. Emerson, who had overheard the offer, gave me a self-conscious look, but he did not refer to the subject then or later. His demonstrations of affection were particularly engaging that night. I responded with the enthusiasm Emerson’s demonstrations always evoke, but a small seed of annoyance prickled my mind. It is so like a man to suppose that kisses and caresses will distract a woman from more serious matters.

The day after our dinner party Nefret joined us for luncheon at one of the new restaurants. She had been to the dahabeeyah that morning to get some of her things.

“Was that Ramses?” I asked, turning to peer at a familiar form that was retreating at a speed that suggested the individual in question did not wish to be detained. “Why is he not joining us?”

“He went with me,” Nefret said. “But he had an appointment, so could not stay.”

“With some young woman, I suppose,” I said disapprovingly. “There is alwayssome young woman, though I cannot imagine why they follow after him. It isn’t Miss Verinder, I hope. She has not a brain in her head.”

“Miss Verinder is no longer in the running,” Nefret said. “I have taken care of her.” Seeing my expression, she went on quickly, “Have you seen this, Aunt Amelia?”

The object she proffered was a newspaper, though not a particularly impressive example of that form. The type was smudged, the paper was thin enough to crumple at a touch, and there were only a few pages. I do not read Arabic as easily as I speak it, but I had no difficulty in translating the name of the newspaper.

“The Young Woman.Where did you get this?”

“From Fatima.” Nefret stripped off her gloves and accepted the menu the waiter handed her. “I always take time to talk with her and help her with her English.”

“I know, my dear,” I said affectionately. “It is good of you.”

Nefret shook her head so vigorously the flowers on her hat wobbled. “I don’t do it out of kindness, Aunt Amelia, but out of a strong sense of guilt. When I see how Fatima’s face lights up when she pronounces a new word—when I think of the thousands of other women whose aspirations are as high and who have not evenher opportunities—I despise myself for not doing more.”

Emerson patted the little hand that rested on the table. It was clenched into a fist, as if anticipating battle. “You feel what all decent individuals feel when they contemplate the unfairness of the universe,” he said gruffly. “You are one of the few who cares enough to act on your feelings.”

“That is right,” I said. “If you cannot light a lamp, light a little candle! Thousands of little candles can illumine a—er—a large space!”

Emerson, regretting his descent into sentimentality, shot me a critical look. “I do wish you would not spout those banal aphorisms, Peabody. What is this paper?”

“A journal written for and by women,” Nefret explained. “Isn’t it exciting? I had no idea such things were done in Egypt.”

“There have been quite a number of them,” I said.

Nefret’s face fell. People who relate what they believe to be new and startling information like to have such information received with exclamations of astonishment and admiration. It is a natural human tendency, and I regretted having spoiled the effect.

“It is not surprising that you should not know of them,” I explained. “Few people do. Most, unfortunately, were short-lived. This one is new to me, though the same name—al-Fatah—was employed by a journal published some years ago.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson, who had been perusing the first page. “The rhetoric is not precisely revolutionary, is it? ‘The veil is not a disease that holds us back. Rather, it is the cause of our happiness.’ Bah.”

“One does not reach the mountaintop in a single bound, Emerson. A series of small steps can . . . er, well, you catch my meaning.”

“Quite,” said Emerson shortly.

I deemed it advisable to change the direction of the discussion. “How did Fatima come by this, Nefret?”

“It was given to her and the other students at her reading class,” Nefret explained. “Did you know she has been attending classes every night, Aunt Amelia, after she finishes her duties?”

“No,” I admitted. “I am ashamed to say I did not know. I ought to have inquired. Where are the classes, at one of the missions?”

“They are conducted by a Madame Hashim, a Syrian lady; she is a wealthy widow who does this out of pure benevolence and a desire to improve the lot of women.”

“I would like to meet her.”

“Would you?” Nefret asked eagerly. “Fatima did not want to ask, she is in such awe of you, but I know she would be pleased if we would attend one of the classes.”

“I fear there will not be time before we leave. This is our last night in Cairo, you know, and I have asked the Rutherfords to dine with us here. I will try to call on the lady next time I am in the city, for as you know I am extremely supportive of such enterprises. Literacy is the first step toward emancipation, and I have heard of other ladies who conduct such small private classes, without encouragement or government support. They are lighting the—”

“You are lecturing again, Peabody,” said my husband.

“Would you mind if I went with Fatima this evening, then?” Nefret asked. “I would like to encourage her, and find out how the classes are conducted.”

“I suppose it would be all right. Emerson, what do you think?”

“Certainly,” said Emerson. “In fact, I will indicate my support for the cause of emancipation by accompanying her.”

I knew perfectly well what Emerson was up to. He loathes formal dinner parties and the Rutherfords. The ensuing discussion involved quite a lot of shouting (by Emerson) and I insisted we retire to our sitting room, where Nefret settled the matter by perching on the arm of Emerson’s chair and putting her arm around his neck.

“Professor darling, it is sweet of you to offer, but your presence would only make everyone uncomfortable. The classes are for women only; the students would be struck dumb with awe of the Father of Curses, and Madame would have to veil herself.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson.

“You might send a messenger to Madame, telling her you are coming, Nefret,” I said. “That is only courteous.”

           (vi)     From Letter Collection B

I had told Ramses and David where I was going. It was unnecessary in this case, but I make a point of conforming to our agreement sothey won’t have any excuse to squirm out of it. Ramses is getting to be as nervous as a little old maiden aunt; he tried to persuade me to abandon the scheme, and when I laughed at him he said he and David would go with me. Really, men can be very exasperating! Between Ramses and the Professor I thought we would never get away.

The Professor is a dear, though. He sent a cab to fetch Fatima from the dahabeeyah and take us on to her class. The poor little woman was absolutely overcome; when she joined us in the sitting room she could hardly speak coherently as she attempted to thank him.

The Professor went rather red in the face. He grunted at her the way he does when he is embarrassed or trying to hide his feelings. “Hmph. If I had known you were coming into the city to attend these classes I would have made arrangements for transportation. You ought to know better than to wander round by yourself.”

Someone who didn’t know him would have thought he was angry. Fatima knows him. Her eyes shone like stars over the black of her veil.

“Yes, Father of Curses,” she murmured. “I hear and will obey.”

He escorted us down to the street and put us in the cab and threatened the driver with a number of unpleasant things if he drove too fast or ran into another vehicle or got lost. There was no danger of his losing his way, for Fatima was able to give precise directions.

The house was on Sharia Kasr el Eini—a pretty little mansion with a small garden shaded by pepper trees and palms. A servant dressed in galabeeyah and tarboosh opened the door for us and bowed us into a room on the right.

It was a small room, unoccupied and rather shabbily furnished. We waited for what seemed like a long time before the door opened and Madame entered, with fulsome apologies for having kept us waiting.

She must have been very beautiful when she was young. Like many Syrians she was fair-skinned, with soft brown eyes and delicately shaped brows. She wore a black silk robe and a habara, or head covering, of the same fabric; but modish strap sandals showed under the ankle-length robe and her white chiffon veil had been lowered so that it framed her face like the wimple of a medieval nun. (I may take to wearing one myself when I reach middle age; it looks very romantic, and hides little difficulties like sagging chins and wrinkled necks.)

She greeted me in French. “C’est un honneur, mademoiselle. But I had hoped that the so distinguished Madame Emerson would be with you.”

I explained, in my rather stumbling French, that the distinguished Madame Emerson had had a previous engagement, but that she sent her compliments and hoped for a meeting in the future.

“I share that hope,” Madame said politely. “It is a small thing I do here; the support of Madame Emerson would be invaluable to our cause.” Opening another door, she preceded us into an adjoining room, where several women were seated on the floor. There were only eight of them, including Fatima; they ranged in age from girls of ten or twelve to a wrinkled old lady.

I took the chair Madame indicated and listened with considerable interest while the class proceeded. The textbook was the Koran. The women took turns reading, and I was pleased to find that Fatima was one of the most fluent. Some of the others spoke so low they could scarcely be heard; I suppose the presence of a visitor made them nervous. The elderly woman found the business heavy going, but she persisted, irritably refusing the attempts of the others to help her; and when she got through her verse she gave me a toothless, triumphant grin. I smiled back at her, and I am not ashamed to admit there were tears in my eyes.

The class lasted only forty minutes. After the students had filed out, I tried to express my admiration. My French ran out, as it does when I am moved; I thanked her for letting me come, and bade her good evening.

“You must not go so soon,” Madame exclaimed. “You will have a glass of tea and we will talk.”

She clapped her hands. The servant who entered was a man. Since Madame did not veil herself, I wondered if the poor fellow had been—how would Aunt Amelia put it?—rendered incapable of a particular physical function. Such things are now forbidden by law, but they were common enough in the past. He looked to be no older than forty, and there was more muscle than fat on his tall frame.

Madame turned to him and was about to speak when I heard a thunderous knocking at the door of the house. There was no mistaking that knock—or so I thought.

“Curse—” I began. “Er—mille pardons, Madame. I am afraid that is Professor Emerson, come to get me. He is not a patient man.”

Madame smiled. “Yes, I have heard this about Professor Emerson. He is welcome, of course.”

She gestured at the servant, who bowed and backed out. The white chiffon boukra had golden loops that hooked over the ears. Madame adjusted hers, and the door of the sitting room opened to admit, not the Professor, but Ramses and David.

I wanted to murder them, but I could not help feeling a little proud of my menfolk. They were looking particularly smart. David is always neat and well-groomed, and Ramses was wearing his best tweed suit. I supposed he had forgotten his hat, since his hair was somewhat windblown; it is very wavy and usually too long, since he dislikes taking the time to have it cut. I could tell Madame was favorably impressed, despite the veil that concealed most of her features. She looked them over, slowly and deliberately, and then gestured to Ramses to take a seat beside her on the divan.

Ramses shook his head. “Ma chère Madame, we would not dream of taking up your time. My sister is expected at the hotel for a dinner engagement. I am only pleased to be able to express my admiration and that of my parents for your encouragement of a cause we all support.”

Ramses speaks French, as he does many languages, fluently and idiomatically. When Madame replied, I thought she sounded amused. “Ah. So you too are a believer in the emancipation of women?”

“It could hardly be otherwise, Madame.”

“Naturellement. I had hoped I might persuade your mother to write a little article for our journal. Have you perhaps seen it?”

“Not yet, but I look forward to doing so. I will pass your request on to my mother. I am sure she would be pleased to assist in any way. Now, if you will excuse us . . .”

“Un moment, s’il vous plaît.” Her hands went to the back of her neck. After a moment she lowered them and displayed a gold chain from which depended a small carved pendant. “A small token of esteem for your distinguished mother,” she said. “It is the insignia of our organization.”

Ramses bowed. “You are most gracious, Madame. Surely this is of ancient Egyptian origin—the baboon, one of the symbols of Thoth.”

“It is appropriate, n’est-ce pas? The ape who sits beside the balance that weighs the heart. It might be considered a symbol of justice.”

“It might,” said Ramses.

It was an ungracious response, I thought, and anyhow Ramses had been monopolizing the conversation too long. I reached for the little trinket. “The justice women deserve, and that they will attain one day! I will give it to her, Madame. I know she will treasure it.”

“Let me put it round your neck so you won’t lose it.”

She insisted on fastening it with her own hands. The pendant was carved of a red-brown stone. It was surprisingly heavy.

She did not see us to the door. The little garden was a magical place in the night shadows, redolent with the sweet smell of jasmine, but I was not allowed to linger; Ramses had me by the arm, and he shoved me into the carriage with more energy than courtesy. David helped Fatima in and we started off.

“What was the point of that performance?” I demanded.

“I wanted to have a look at the lady,” Ramses replied coolly.

“So I deduced. And what did you think of her?”

“I concluded,” said Ramses, “that she was no one I had met before.”

I hadn’t expectedthat; I had assumed that Ramses was playing big brother on general principles. “Good Gad!” I exclaimed. “Sethos? Ramses, that is the most far-fetched hypothesis—”

“Not so far-fetched. However, it appears my theory was unfounded. Sethos is a master of disguise, but not even he could take eight inches off his height or reduce the size of that prominent aquiline nose. The lady’s veil was thin enough for me to make out the outline of her features.”

“And I saw those features unveiled,” I reminded him. “There can be no doubt of her gender. Her cheeks were smooth, her countenance benevolent and kind.”

“Kind,” said Fatima, who had been following the conversation intently and who had understood that word, at least. “Kind, good teacher.”

Ramses said in Arabic, “Yes. We will get another teacher for you when we reach Luxor, Fatima. Won’t we, Nefret?”

“You mean me, I suppose. By all means, if we can’t find someone better than I. Curse it, Ramses, what on earth put it into your head that Sethos might have taken up a teaching career?”

Ramses looked a little sheepish. It’s hard to tell, I admit, but I have been making a study of his expressions, such as they are. “Sheepish” is two quick blinks and a slight compression of his lips.

“Father put it into my head. Admittedly he is not entirely reasonable about Sethos, but once he inserted the idea it found fertile ground. You’ve never seen Sethos in action. The man is a confounded genius, Nefret.”

“Well, you and the Professor were wrong this time.”

“You aren’t angry that we came after you, are you?” David asked.

Iwas annoyed, but not with him. I knew perfectly well whose idea that “rescue” expedition had been. I leaned forward and brushed the curls back from Ramses’s forehead. He hates it when I do that.

“You meant well,” I admitted. “But I find it difficult to forgive you for bringing me back in time to dine with those boring people.”

:

It took us almost two weeks to reach Luxor, despite the assistance of the motorized tug that accompanied us. The delays were only the usual sort of thing, but my intuition, which is seldom in error, assured me that everyone seemed preoccupied and on edge. The boys were particularly restless, prowling the deck all day and half the night. There was no doubt about it, the dear old dahabeeyah was too cramped for such energetic individuals, though Fatima had gone on ahead by train to get the house in order and David was able to reclaim his room.

I attempted to distract my mind with scholarly work, but even I, well disciplined though I am, was unable to settle down to anything. In past years I had made something of a reputation with my translations of little Egyptian fairy tales, but when I looked over the material at hand I could not find anything that caught my interest. I had already done the most entertaining of them: The Tales of the Doomed Prince and the Two Brothers, the Adventures of Sinuhe, the Shipwrecked Sailor. When I voiced my difficulty to Emerson he suggested I turn my attention to historical documents.

“Breasted has published the first volume of his texts,” he added. “You could correct his translations.”

Emerson was making one of his little jokes. Mr. Breasted of Chicago was a linguist whom even Walter respected, and Volume One of hisAncient Records of Egypt had appeared that spring to universal acclamation. I smiled politely.

“I have no intention of treading on Mr. Breasted’s toes, Emerson.”

“Tread on Budge’s toes, then. His translation of the Book of the Dead is riddled with errors.”

“Ramses appears to be working on that,” I said. I had seen the photographs on Ramses’s desk and wondered when and where he had acquired them.

“That must be another version, not the one Budge mangled. His is in the British Museum, as you ought to know—one of Budge’s contemptible violations of the laws against purchasing antiquities from dealers. Why the authorities at the Museum continue to countenance that villain . . .”

I left the room. Emerson’s opinions of Mr. Budge were only too familiar to me.

What with one aggravation or another, I was even more pleased than usual to round the curve in the river and see before me the monumental ruins of the temples of Luxor and Karnak and the buildings of the modern village of Luxor. The village was rapidly becoming a town, with new hotels and government buildings rising everywhere. Tourist steamers lined the bank. There were a few dahabeeyahs among them; certain wealthy visitors, especially those who returned to Egypt every season, preferred the comfort of a private boat.

Our friend Cyrus Vandergelt was one of them. His boat, theValley of the Kings , was moored on the West Bank, across from Luxor. He was good enough to share his private dock with us, and as theAmelia glided in under the skillful hands of Reis Hassan, I saw the usual reception party awaiting us. Abdullah was there, stately as a high priest in the snowy robes he preferred, and Selim, his beloved youngest son, and Daoud and Ibrahim and Mohammed—the men who had worked for us so long and who had become friends as well as valued employees.

Over the years Abdullah’s once-formal manner toward me had gradually softened; now he took my outstretched hand in both of his and pressed it warmly.

“You look well, Abdullah,” I said. It was true, and I was relieved to see it, for he had suffered a mild heart attack the previous year. Precisely how old he was I did not know, but his beard had been grizzled when I first met him, and that had been over twenty years ago. We had given up trying to persuade him to retire with a well-deserved pension; it would have broken his heart to leave us and the work he loved as much as we did.

Abdullah straightened his shoulders. “I am well, Sitt. And you—you do not change. You will always be young.”

“Why, Abdullah,” I said, laughing. “I believe that is the first compliment you have ever paid me.”

I passed him over to the respectful embrace of his grandson David, and went to Ramses, who was embracing his horse. The beautiful Arabian stallion had been a gift from our old friend Sheikh Mohammed, with whom Ramses and David had lived for a time learning to ride and shoot—and, I suspected, learning other things they had never admitted to me. High-spirited yet gentle, as intelligent as he was handsome, Risha had won all our hearts, as had his consort Asfur, who belonged to David.

Emerson’s amiable curses ended the demonstration and we proceeded to the house. Fatima was waiting for us on the verandah, and I was delighted to see that the vines I had planted the previous year were flourishing. Abdullah had never bothered to water them. Now they twined green arms up the trellises that framed the open window apertures, and blooming roses scattered crimson petals onto the dusty ground.

The young people immediately went off to the stables, accompanied by Selim; he was an excitable young fellow, and even Ramses was unable to get a word in as Selim reported on the livestock that had been left in his charge. The donkeys had been washed, the goat Tetisheri was fatter than ever, and the filly . . .

Asfur and Risha had become proud parents the previous year. Nefret, whose claim to the beautiful little creature no one denied, had named her Moonlight; she was a gray, like her sire, but of a paler shade that glowed with a pearl-like luster. Nefret had a well-nigh uncanny rapport with animals of all kinds; by the time we left Egypt in the spring the filly had taken to following her like a puppy. She had, of course, never known the touch of saddle or bridle.

When Nefret came back, her face was alight with pleasure. “She remembers me!”

“She certainly does,” I said, for Moonlight was at her heels, quite prepared, as it appeared, to join us for luncheon. Frustrated in this purpose she went round to the window opening and poked an inquiring nose at Horus, who was sitting on the ledge. Horus was accustomed to horses, but not on his territory. He sprang up with a hiss, his fur bristling, and the filly began to browse on my roses.

Nefret finally persuaded her to go with Selim, and the rest of us sat down to eat. This sort of fraternization, which had become a custom with us, was a source of scandalized gossip among the European community of Luxor. The more “liberal” of them condescended from time to time to entertain Egyptians of the wealthy, educated class, but none of them would have sat at table with their own workers. Our people were of a superior sort, of course.

Naturally I did not invite Fatima to join us. She would have been as horrified at the idea of sitting with a group of men as the men themselves would have been. She bustled back and forth, superintending the service of the food and drink.

When we had caught up on the gossip—marriages, deaths, illness, new babies—Emerson pushed his chair back and took out his pipe.

“So, Selim,” he said genially. “What have your rascally relations in Gurneh been up to lately? Any new tombs?”

A shadow of vexation crossed the imperturbable countenance of my son, who had taken up his favorite position on the window ledge, with his back against a pillar. I thought I understood its cause, for I shared the emotion. Emerson is so direct and forthright he does not understand that inquiries of that sort should not be pursued so directly. Selim was related by blood or marriage to a good many of the Gurnawis, and a good many of the Gurnawis were accomplished tomb robbers. A direct question put all our men, especially Abdullah, in a difficult position; they had to choose between informing on their kin or lying to us.

Selim, sitting on the ledge next to Ramses and David, looked uncomfortable. He was a handsome young man, with the big dark eyes and well-cut features of his handsome family, and he bore a strong resemblance to his nephew David, who was only a few years younger than he. With an apologetic glance at Abdullah, he said, “No new tombs, Father of Curses. Nothing. Rumors only. The usual rumors . . .”

“What rumors?” Emerson demanded.

“Now, Emerson, this is not the time for that sort of discussion,” I said, taking pity on the afflicted youth. I knew Emerson had already quizzed Abdullah, but Abdullah had been away from Luxor most of the summer, visiting family in Atiyah near Cairo, so he could not be expected to know as much as Selim about what had been going on in Thebes. At least he had a good excuse for claiming not to know.

“What about the antiquities dealers?” I went on. “Has anything of unusual interest turned up?”

That was safer ground, for once a stolen or looted object reached the hands of the dealers it became public knowledge. Brightening, Selim rattled off a list of artifacts which had come onto the market. Even Emerson could find nothing of particular significance among them. It annoyed him a great deal; he had hoped there would be evidence that the Gurnawis had discovered a rich new tomb, which would give him an excuse to look for it.

The morning after our arrival I tried once again to persuade Emerson to a more sensible course of action. My approach was, as always, subtle and oblique.

“Cyrus and Katherine Vandergelt have asked us to dine this evening,” I remarked, looking through the messages that had awaited us.

Emerson grunted. He had covered half the breakfast table with his notebooks and was looking through them. I removed one of them from his plate, wiped off the buttery crumbs, and tried again. “Cyrus is planning to excavate in the Asasif this year. I am sure he would appreciate assistance. His staff—”

“. . . is adequate for the purpose.” Emerson looked up, scowling spectacularly. “Are you at it again, Amelia? We will start work today on the tombs in that small side valley—if I can locate the sketch map I made last year. Ramses, have you been borrowing my notes again?”

Ramses swallowed—he had just filled his mouth with the last bite of his porridge—and shook his head. “No, Father. Not those notes. I took the liberty—”

“Never mind.” Emerson sighed. “I suppose you and David won’t be joining us.”

“As I told you, sir, we intend to begin copying the inscriptions at the Seti I temple. But if you want us . . .”

“No, no.” Another deep sigh expanded Emerson’s muscular chest. “Your publication on the Colonnade Hall of the Luxor Temple was a splendid piece of work. You must continue with your copying. A series of such volumes will make your reputations and be an invaluable record.”

“If the boys were to help us we would be done sooner,” I remarked.

“No, Peabody, I will not allow it. Ramses is right, you know.”

“Ramses right?” I exclaimed. “What about?”

“About the importance of preservation over excavation. As soon as a monument, a temple or a tomb, is uncovered, it begins to deteriorate. There will come a time, in the not too distant future, when the only remainders of vital historical data are copies like the ones the boys are making. What Ramses and David are doing is of greater value to Egyptology than the totality of my work.”

His voice was low and broken, his brow furrowed. He bowed his head.

“Good Gad, Emerson!” I cried in alarm. “I have never heard you speak like this. What is wrong with you?”

“I am waiting for someone to contradict me,” said Emerson in his normal tones.

After Emerson had enjoyed his little joke at our expense, he admitted his earlier announcement had also been in the nature of a jest.

“We need not begin work for another day or two. I would like to have a general look round the Valley before I decide where to begin. The rest of you may do as you like, of course.”

Not surprisingly, everyone decided that a visit to the Valley was precisely what would suit them. As was our habit, we followed the path that led up the cliffs behind Deir el Bahri and across the plateau. Emerson forged ahead, holding my hand, and the children fell behind. Nefret was encumbered with the cat, who had indicated a desire to accompany her. She treated him like a kitten, which he was not (by a good fifteen pounds), and he took ruthless advantage of her.

The slanting sunlight of early morning outlined rocks and ridges with blue-black shadows. In a few hours, when the sun was directly overhead, the barren ground would be bleached to pale cream. Blistering hot by day, bitter cold in the winter nights, the desert plateau would have been considered forbidding, even terrifying, by most people. To us it was one of the most exciting places on earth—and beautiful, in its own fashion. The only signs of life were the marks on the white dust of the path we followed: the footprints of bare and booted feet, the hoofprints of donkey and goat, the slithering curves that marked the passage of snakes. Some of the more energetic tourists came this way, but from the other direction, after visiting the Valley. The only persons we met were Egyptians, all of whom greeted us with the smiling courtesy of their race. The graceful (if tattered) folds of their dusty robes suited the scene.

As did my spouse. Striding briskly, tall form erect and face alight with anticipation, Emerson was in his natural element here, and his casual attire set off his muscular frame far better than the formal garments convention forced upon him in civilized regions. Bronzed throat and arms bared, black hair blowing in the breeze, he was a sight to thrill the heart of any female.

“You were joking, Emerson, weren’t you? I agree with you about the importance of copying the records, but what you are doing is a kind of preservation too. If you had not found Tetisheri’s tomb, those wonderful objects would have been stolen or destroyed.”

Emerson looked at me in surprise. Then his well-cut lips curved in a smile. “My darling Peabody, it is like you to be concerned, but quite unnecessary, I assure you. When have you ever known me to suffer from a d fi eciency of self-assurance?”

“Never,” I said, returning his smile.

“I am the most fortunate of men, Peabody.”

“Yes, my dear. What do a few boring tombs matter? We are here, where we love to be, with those we love best.” I looked back over my shoulder. “What a handsome trio they are, to be sure, and how friendly with one another! I always said, Emerson, that they would turn out well.”

        (vii)     From Manuscript H

Nefret was lecturing again. “You said we would tell them after we left Cairo. Then you put it off until we reached Luxor. What are we waiting for? I agree with David, if we’re going to be scolded—”

“There’s noif about it,” Ramses said dourly.

“Then let’s get it over with! Anticipation is always worse than actuality.”

“Not always.”

“It is for me. When I looked in the mirror this morning I found two new wrinkles! Haven’t you noticed how pale and drawn I have become?”

Ramses looked down at the golden head near his shoulder. She was absolutely irresistible when she was in this mood, stamping along like a sulky child and scolding him in a voice that always held an undercurrent of laughter.

“No, I hadn’t noticed,” he said.

“You wouldn’t. I know what it is. You want to prove to the Professor and Aunt Amelia that you can handle a mess like this one with no help from them. You don’t want to show them the papyrus until you can tell them where it came from and hand over the thief, dead or alive—”

He was sure he had not reacted except by a slight break in his stride, but Nefret caught herself with a gasp and turned her head to look up into his face.

“I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I thought you’d got over it.”

“Over what?”

He began walking faster. She broke into a trot, keeping pace with him. “Damn it, Ramses—”

“And don’t swear. Mother doesn’t like it.”

Nefret stopped. “Hell and damnation!” she shouted.

“Now she’s looking back,” Ramses said apprehensively. “And Father is glowering at me over his shoulder. Could you please stop yelling and try to look pleasant before you get me in serious trouble?”

Nefret gave him a calculating look. Then she threw her head back and let out a piercing soprano peal of laughter. It rose to an even more piercing shriek as Horus stuck all his claws into her. He didn’t like people to yell in his ear.

“And put the damned cat down!” Ramses’s fingers itched with the urge to remove the beast from her arms and find out whether a cat always lands on its feet when it is dropped from a height. He knew better than to try it, though. “You can’t carry him all the way to the Valley, he weighs almost twenty pounds.”

“Would you . . .” Nefret began.

“I would gladly die to please you, but I draw the line at carrying that lazy carnivore.”

Nefret glanced at David, who was staring fixedly at the horizon. He didn’t care for Horus either. With a martyred sigh, she lowered Horus gently to the ground. The cat gave Ramses a malevolent look. He knew who was responsible for this indignity, but he had discovered early on that heavy boots were impervious to teeth and claws.

They went on, with the cat stalking after them. Ramses knew Nefret was angry with herself for probing that old wound, and with him for refusing to talk about it. No doubt she was right, it would have been better to get his feelings out into the open and accept the consolation she was aching to offer; but reticence was an old habit that was hard for him to overcome. A damned annoying habit too, he supposed, to Nefret, who never left anyone in doubt as to how she felt about anything. A little moderation wouldn’t do either of them any harm.

She hadn’t meant to upset him. How could she have known it would hurt so much, when he himself had been caught unawares? He seldom thought about that ugly business now, except on the rare occasions when a bad dream brought back every grisly detail of the desperate struggle in the dark and its unspeakable ending—the sound of bone and brain spattering against stone.

She remained silent, her face averted, and Ramses took up the conversation at the point it had reached before her unwitting blunder.

“I admit I wouldn’t mind showing off a bit, but there’s not much hope of our succeeding. We’re working in the dark, and in part it’s because Mother and Father still treat us like helpless infants who require to be protected—especially you, Nefret.”

Ramses kicked a stone. It missed Horus by a good two feet, but the cat howled and rolled over onto his back. Nefret picked him up, cuddled him, and crooned endearments. Ramses scowled at Horus, who sneered back at him over Nefret’s shoulder. One way or another Horus would get what he wanted.

They were approaching the end of the path and the steep descent from the plateau into the eastern Valley. Nefret’s shoulders sagged, probably from the dead weight of Horus, since she sounded quite her old self when she spoke.

“You’re right about that, and I intend to take steps to change it. I adore both of them, but they do infuriate me at times! How can they expect us to take them into our confidence when they won’t tell us what we need to know?”

:

The path leading down into the Valley is steep but not difficult if one is in fit condition, which all of us were. I persuaded Nefret to put the cat down and put her hat on. Horus complained, but even Nefret had better sense than to attempt the descent with her arms full of cat. The tourists were out in full force; this was the height of the season and the tombs closed at oneP.M. Some of them stared impertinently at our party, especially at Horus. Emerson scowled.

“It gets worse every year,” he grumbled. “They are all over the place, buzzing like flies. Impossible to find a spot remote enough where one can work in peace without being gaped at and subjected to impertinent questions.”

“The side wadi where we worked last year is relatively remote,” I reminded him. “We were not often interrupted by tourists.”

“That is because we were not finding anything that was worth a damn,” said Emerson. Tourists always put him in an evil humor. Without further ado or further comment, he stamped off along the cleared path that led, not to the rocky ravine I had mentioned, but toward the main entrance to the Valley and the donkey park.

“Where is he going?” Nefret asked.

I knew the answer, and—of course—so did Ramses. He has superb breath control and always gets in ahead of me. “He wants to have a look at numbers Three, Four and Five. He has not given up hope of being allowed to excavate them, especially number Five.”

Not even I can claim to be able to identify all the tombs in the Valley by number, but all of us knew these particular tombs. We had heard Emerson rant about them only too often. All had been known to earlier archaeologists; none had been properly cleared or recorded; no one particularly wanted to clear them; but the terms of Emerson’s firman did not permitHIM to investigate them, because they were considered to be royal tombs. Cartouches of Ramses III had been noted in number Three, though that monarch had actually been buried in another, far more elaborate, tomb elsewhere in the Valley. Number Four, attributed to Ramses XI, had been used as a stable by Christian Arabs and was assumed to have been thoroughly ransacked. The name of Ramses II had been seen in number Five, but he also had a tomb elsewhere, and attempts to investigate this tomb—the latest by our friend Howard Carter five years earlier—had been frustrated by the hard-packed rubble that filled the chambers.

Emerson would have been the first to admit that the possibility of discovering anything of unusual interest was slight, but it infuriated him to be prevented from making the attempt because of an arbitrary, unfair decree. The firman granting permission to look for new tombs in the Valley of the Kings was held by Mr. Theodore Davis and it was strictly enforced, not only by M. Maspero, but by the local inspector, Mr. Arthur Weigall.

“We had better catch him up,” I said uneasily. “If he should encounter Mr. Weigall he is sure to say something rude.”

“Or do something rude,” said Nefret with a grin. “The last time he met Mr. Weigall he threatened to—”

“Hurry,” I begged.

Most of the tourists were going in the opposite direction from ours, so our progress was slower than I would have liked. I had to agree with Emerson’s assessment; in general they were a silly-looking lot, unsuitably attired and vacantly gaping. The men had the advantage, since they were unencumbered by high-heeled shoes and corsets. Men and women alike stared at Nefret, who strode as easily as a slender boy in her sensible boots and trousers. At my insistence she wore a coat, but her shirt was open at the neck and golden-red locks had escaped from her pith helmet and curled round her face. She paid no heed to the impertinent stares—critical on the part of the women, quite otherwise on the part of the gentlemen.

As I had expected, we found Emerson planted firmly in front of tomb number Five. Only those tombs containing painted reliefs had been provided with locked gates. The barrier that prevented entrance to this one was equally effective—heaped-up rubble and miscellaneous trash that concealed all but the outline of a door.

I was sorry to see that my premonition had been accurate. Facing Emerson, his back to the tomb, was a young man wearing a neat tweed suit and a very large pith helmet—Mr. Weigall, who now held our friend Howard’s former position of Inspector for Upper Egypt. Neither their postures nor their expressions were combative, and I was about to dismiss my forebodings when Emerson swung his arm and struck Mr. Weigall full in the chest. Weigall toppled over backwards, into the half-filled opening.

•

Five

•

We celebrated Christmas in the good old-fashioned way, with a tree and carols and friends gathered round. To be sure, the setting was a trifle unusual—golden sand instead of snow, a balmy breeze wafting through the open windows instead of sleety rain pounding at the closed panes, a spindly tamarisk branch instead of an evergreen—but we had spent so many festal seasons in Egypt that it seemed entirely natural to us. Even the spindly tamarisk made a brave show, thanks to David’s ingenious decorations. Comical camels, garlands of delicate silvery stars, and innumerable other designs cut from tin or shaped of baked clay filled in the empty spaces and twinkled in the lights of the candles.

Mr. Weigall and his wife had declined our invitation. They appeared to harbor a grudge, though I could not imagine why; Emerson’s prompt action had saved the young man from far more serious injuries than he received when he landed (rather heavily, I admit) on the hard surface, and my heroic husband was still favoring his left leg, which had been badly bruised by the shower of stones dislodged by idiot tourists trying to climb the rocks above the tomb.

“Perhaps,” I had remarked, following the event, “you need not have pushed him quite so hard, Emerson.”

Emerson gave me a look of hurt reproach. “There was no time to calculate, Peabody. Do you suppose I would deliberately set out to injure an official of the Antiquities Service?”

No one could possibly have proved that he had, but I feared relations between ourselves and the Weigalls had not become any warmer. However, the presence of older and better friends made their absence unimportant. Cyrus and Katherine Vandergelt were there, of course; Cyrus was one of our dearest friends, and we had become very fond of the lady he had espoused a few years earlier, despite her somewhat questionable past.

When we first met her, Katherine was busily bilking a gullible acquaintance of ours in her then-capacity as a spiritualist medium. She had come round to a right way of thinking and had been on the verge of honorably refusing Cyrus’s offer of marriage when I persuaded her to reconsider. I had never regretted my intervention (I seldom do), for they were very happy together, and Katherine’s caustic wit and cynical view of humanity made her a most entertaining companion.

Prices had gone up shockingly since my early days in Egypt; despite Fatima’s skills in bargaining, the turkey cost almost sixty piastres, four times what it would have cost twenty years ago. After dinner—including a splendid plum pudding in a blaze of brandy, borne in by Fatima—we retired to the verandah to watch the sunset. As Katherine sank gratefully into a chair she cast an envious eye upon Nefret, who was wearing one of her loose, elaborately embroidered robes, and declared her intention of acquiring a similar garment herself.

“I ate far too much,” she declared. “And my corsets are killing me. I ought to have followed your advice, Amelia, and left them off, but I am a good deal stouter than you.”

“You are just right as you are,” Cyrus declared, looking fondly at her.

The others hastened to express their agreement. We had only two other guests—Howard Carter and Edward Ayrton, with whom Ramses had struck up a friendship the previous year. Ned, as he had invited me to call him, was the archaeologist in charge of Mr. Davis’s excavations. He got little credit from Davis, who referred to his discoveries in the first person singular, but since the American was completely ignorant of excavation procedures and disinclined to follow them anyhow, Maspero had required him to employ a qualified person. Ned was a slight young fellow, pleasant-looking rather than handsome. I thought he seemed a little shy with us, so I put myself out to include him in the conversation.

“Your official season begins, I believe, on January the first. You have had remarkable good fortune thus far in finding interesting tombs for Mr. Davis. Not that I mean to disparage the archaeological skills which have contributed to your success.”

“You are too kind, Mrs. Emerson,” the young man replied in a soft, well-bred voice. “In fact, we didn’t find anything last year that measured up to Yuya and Thuya.”

“Good Gad, how many unrobbed tombs does the bas—er—man expect to find in one lifetime?” Emerson demanded.

“He has rather got into the habit of expecting at least one a year.” The comment came from Howard, who had taken a seat a little distance from the rest of us. “I don’t envy you your job, Ayrton.”

There was a brief, embarrassed silence. Howard had once supervised Davis’s excavations, in addition to holding down the post of Inspector for Upper Egypt. Now he had lost both positions, and the bitterness in his voice belied his claim of indifference.

In the spring of 1905 Howard had been transferred to Lower Egypt in place of Mr. Quibell, who had taken over Howard’s position as Inspector for Upper Egypt. Not long after Howard moved to Sakkara, a group of drunken French tourists had tried to enter the Serapeum without the necessary tickets. When they were refused entry, they attacked the guards with fists and sticks. Upon being summoned to the scene, Howard ordered his men to defend themselves, and a Frenchman was knocked down.

Since the inebriated individuals had also invaded the house of Mrs. Petrie that same morning and behaved rudely to her, there was no doubt that they had been in the wrong—but for a “native” to strike a foreigner, even in self-defense, was a greater wrong in the eyes of the pompous officials who controlled the Egyptian government. The French demanded an official apology. Howard refused to give it. Maspero transferred him to a remote site in the Delta, and after several months of brooding Howard resigned. Since then he had been scraping a dubious living by selling his paintings and acting as a guide to distinguished tourists. He had no private means, and the career which had been so promising was now cut short.

It was Emerson who broke the silence, with the sort of comment he had promised me he would not make. The previous year he had had a major falling-out with Mr. Davis—as opposed to his minor fallings-out with other people. He had sworn he would not disturb the felicity of the day by cursing Davis, but I might have known he would be unable to resist.

“You’re well out of it, Carter,” he growled. “Quibell couldn’t stick working with Davis, that’s why he got himself transferred back north, and after Weigall took over the inspectorate he persuaded Davis to hire Ayrton becausehe couldn’t stand the old idiot either.”

Emerson’s fulminations had a better effect than my attempts at tact. They broke the ice as emphatically as a boulder crashing onto a frozen stream. Everybody relaxed, and even Howard grinned sympathetically at Ned Ayrton. Nevertheless, I felt obliged to utter a gentle remonstrance.

“Really, Emerson, you are the most tactless man alive. I had hoped that on this day of all times we might avoid topics that lead to cursing and controversy.”

Cyrus chuckled. “That would be doggone dull, Amelia dear.”

Nefret went to sit on the arm of Emerson’s chair. “Quite right. The Professor only said what we were all thinking, Aunt Amelia. Allow us the pleasure of a little malicious gossip.”

“I never gossip,” said Emerson loftily. “I am only stating facts. Where are you planning to work this season, Ayrton?”

This sounded to Ned like a relatively innocent question, and he was quick to answer. “The area south of the tomb of Ramses IX was what I had in mind, sir. The heaped-up rubble doesn’t appear to have been disturbed since . . .”

After a while Cyrus drew up a chair and joined in, so I went to sit beside Katherine, who had been listening with considerable amusement.

“Poor Cyrus,” she said. “It is no wonder he resents Mr. Davis, after all those unproductive years he spent digging in the Valley.”

“He might not be so resentful if Davis didn’t swagger and gloat whenever they chance to meet. It really isn’t fair. Cyrus was at his dig every day, supervising and assisting; Davis only turns up after his archaeologist has found something interesting.”

A burst of laughter drew our attention back to the group. Ramses must have said something particularly rude (or possibly witty), for they had all turned to him, and Nefret went to sit beside her brother on the ledge. The rays of the setting sun gilded her luxuriant golden-red hair and flushed, laughing face. Katherine drew in her breath.

“She is frighteningly beautiful, isn’t she? I know, Amelia, I know—beauty is only skin-deep, and vanity is a sin, and nobility of character is more important than appearance—but most women would sell their souls to look like that. I had better go and remind Cyrus that he is a happily married man. Only see how he is staring.”

“They are all staring,” I said, with a smile. “But Nefret is completely without vanity, thank heaven, and it is the qualities within that render her beautiful. Without them she would be only a pretty little doll. She is in tearing high spirits today.”

“There is certainly a glow about her,” Katherine said thoughtfully. “The sort of glow one sees on the face of a girl who is in the company of an individual who has engaged her affections.”

“It is not like you to employ circumlocutions, Katherine. If you mean that Nefret has fallen in love, I fear your instincts have, for once, led you astray. Her feelings for Howard and Ned Ayrton are friendly at best, and I assure you she would never set her cap for a married man.”

My little jest brought a smile to Katherine’s lips. “No doubt I am mistaken. I often am.”

The first star of evening had appeared in the sky over Luxor and I was about to suggest we retire to the parlor when Ramses turned his head. “Someone is coming,” he said, interrupting his father in mid-expletive.

The Egyptians call Ramses “the brother of Demons,” and some of them believe he can see in the dark, like an afreet or a cat. I would not deny that his vision is excellent. Several seconds had passed before I made out the shadowy form of a man on horseback. He dismounted and advanced toward us, and when the dying light illumined his well-cut features I let out an exclamation.

“Good Gad! Is it—can it be—Sir Edward? What are you doing here?”

Sir Edward Washington—for it was indeed he—removed his hat and bowed. “I am flattered that you remember me, Mrs. Emerson. It has been several years since we last met.”

It had been over six years, to be precise. He had not changed appreciably; his tall form was as trim, his fair hair as thick, and his blue eyes met mine with the same look of lazy amusement. I remembered my manners, which astonishment had made me forget. Astonishment—and a certain degree of uneasiness. At that last meeting I had bluntly informed Sir Edward that he must give up any hope of winning Nefret and he had informed me, less bluntly but just as unequivocally, that he intended to try again. And here he was, and there was Nefret, smiling and dimpling in a particularly suspicious manner.

I rose and went to meet him. “It is unlikely that I would forget an individual who worked so diligently with us on Tetisheri’s tomb, and who was, moreover, responsible for rescuing me from a particularly awkward situation.”

This reference reminded Emerson ofhis manners. At their best they were far from perfect, and he had never been very fond of Sir Edward; but gratitude won out over dislike. “I suppose being strangled could be described as an awkward situation,” he said dryly. “Good evening, Sir Edward. I had not expected to see you again, but so long as you are here you may as well sit down.”

Sir Edward appeared to be amused rather than offended by this less-than-effusive invitation. His own manners were admirable. His greeting to Nefret was warm but in no way familiar; his comments on how Ramses and David had grown since he had last seen them were only a little condescending. Ramses’s reaction was to rise to his full height, an inch or two greater than that of Sir Edward, and shake hands rather more vigorously than courtesy demanded.

As it turned out, Sir Edward was acquainted with all the others except Katherine.

“I had heard of Mr. Vandergelt’s good fortune, and am delighted to make the acquaintance of a lady who has been so widely praised,” he said with a graceful bow.

“How very kind,” Katherine replied. “I had heard of you too, Sir Edward, but was not aware of the remarkable incident to which the Professor referred. Is it a secret, or will you tell us about it?”

Sir Edward remained modestly silent, and I said, “It is no longer a secret. Is it, Emerson?”

Emerson glowered at me. “People are not infrequently moved to strangle you, Amelia. This—er—incident occurred a few years ago, Katherine, when my discreet, prudent wife took a notion to go haring off to confront a suspect without bothering to inform me of her intentions. Had not Sir Edward followed her—for reasons which were never explained to my entire satisfaction—she might have been efficiently murdered by—”

“Emerson!” I exclaimed. “Enough of this morbidity. We were just about to retire to the parlor for refreshment and a bit of carol singing, Sir Edward. You will join us, I hope?”

“I had no intention of intruding,” the gentleman in question exclaimed. “I came only to wish you the felicitations of the season, and to present you with a small token of my esteem.” He took a small box from his coat pocket and offered it to me. “It is nothing, really,” he went on, overriding my thanks. “I happened to come across it in an antiquities shop the other day, and I thought it might appeal to you.”

Inside the box was an amulet of blue faience, approximately two inches long. The molded loop showed that it had been worn on a cord or string as a protective amulet—almost certainly by a woman, since the protruding muzzle and swollen belly were those of the hippopotamus goddess Taueret, who watched over mothers and children.

“How charming,” I murmured.

“A memento of our last meeting?” Brows elevated, voice harsh, Emerson addressed Sir Edward. “You exhibit less than your usual tact, Sir Edward; Taueret was for us a symbol of danger and bad luck.”

“But you triumphed over both,” Sir Edward said winsomely. “I thought it might be a reminder of your success, but if Mrs. Emerson does not care for it she must feel free to discard it. It is probably a forgery; some of the Gurnawis produce excellent fakes.”

He carefully avoided looking at David, but I could not help wondering if the reference had been accidental. Sir Edward had been with us the year we met David, who had been working for one of the best forgers in Gurneh.

“Not at all,” I said quickly. “That is—thank you, Sir Edward. I am acquiring quite a collection of nice little amulets; yours will be a welcome addition to the Bastet Ramses gave me some years ago, and this one, which I received only recently.”

I had had the little statue of the baboon added to the chain on which I wore Ramses’s cat and the scarab of Thutmose III, which had been Emerson’s bridal gift. Sir Edward leaned forward to examine them.

“The baboon is a symbol of the god Thoth, is it not? A handsome piece, Mrs. Emerson. What special significance does this amulet have, if I may ask?”

“It symbolizes a cause dear to my heart, Sir Edward—that of equal rights for women. ‘Huquq al ma’ra,’ as they say here. It was given me by a lady who is taking an active part in the movement.”

“I am not surprised that you should wear it, then. But is there really such a movement in Egypt, of all places?”

“The flame of freedom burns in the hearts of all women, Sir Edward.”

Emerson snorted—not, I felt sure, at the sentiment, but at my manner of expressing it. I took my revenge by delivering a little lecture (or, to be accurate, rather a long lecture) on the history of the women’s movement in Egypt, mentioning the periodical we had seen and the literacy classes. Sir Edward was too well-bred to appear bored, but in fact I felt certain he was genuinely interested, as his occasional questions indicated.

Emerson was bored, and soon said so.

As I had expected, Sir Edward’s reluctance to intrude was readily overcome; I led the way into the house and we gathered round the pianoforte. Sir Edward’s mellow baritone swelled the chorus and after a while Emerson stopped scowling at him and joined in. Emerson always suspects men of having designs on me. It is a flattering but inconvenient delusion of his, and in this case it was completely without foundation. If Sir Edward had designs on anyone, it was on another; seeing his face soften as he watched Nefret I knew he had not abandoned his hopes. She was careful to avoid his eyes, which was even more suspicious.

The only one who did not participate was Ramses. As a child he had been prone to croon in a wordless, tuneless fashion that was particularly annoying to my ears. He had abandoned the habit, at my request, and it had taken considerable persuasion by Nefret before he would condescend to join in our little family concerts. To my surprise, I found that his singing voice was not unpleasing, and that in some manner (not from his father) he had learned to carry a tune. He excused himself that evening on the grounds that his throat was a trifle sore. Nefret did not urge him.

      (viii)     From Manuscript H

“It’s him!” Careless of grammar and the legs of the furniture, Ramses flung himself into a wicker armchair. “He’s the one she was meeting in London.”

“What makes you think that? She always has followers.” David closed the door of Ramses’s room and settled himself in another chair.

“She met that fellow on the sly, and lied about it. That isn’t like her.”

“Perhaps she’s tired of hearing you ridicule her admirers.”

“Most of the victims have made sufficient fools of themselves without any help from me. Well—not much help.”

“Why don’t you tell her how you feel? I know, by your Western standards you are still too young to think of marriage, but if she agreed to an engagement you would at least be sure of her.”

“Oh, yes,” Ramses said bitterly. “She might just be soft-hearted and soft-headed enough to accept my proposal out of sheer pity, and if once she gave her word she wouldn’t break it. Are you suggesting I take advantage of her kindness and affection, and then ask her to remain true to me for four or five years?”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” David said quietly.

“You aren’t fool enough to fall in love with a girl who doesn’t love you. I will not admit my feelings until she shows some sign of returning them. So far I don’t seem to be making much progress.”

“Someone has to take the first step,” David said sensibly. “Perhaps she would respond if you took the trouble to demonstrate your feelings.”

“How? Nefret would fall over laughing if I turned up with flowers in my hand and flowery speeches on my lips.”

“She probably would,” David agreed. “You don’t seem to have any difficulty making other women fall in love with you. How many of them have you—”

“That is a question no gentleman should ask, much less answer,” Ramses said, in the same repressive tone his mother would have used, but with a faint smile. “I wouldn’t blame Nefret for—er—amusing herself with other men. I’d hate it, but I’m not hypocrite enough to condemn her for it. And I would never stand in her way if she truly cared for a man who was worthy of her.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Only lovers and deadly enemies look directly into one another’s eyes.

Was that one of his mother’s famous aphorisms? It sounded like the sort of thing she would say; and as his eyes met those of his friend in a direct unblinking gaze, Ramses felt a chill run through him. David looked away, clasping his arms around his body as if he too felt suddenly cold.

After a moment Ramses said, “You must be getting frightfully bored with my histrionics.”

“Anything that is important to you is important to me, Ramses. You know that. I only wish I could . . .”

“You look tired. Go to bed, why don’t you?”

“I’m not tired. But if you don’t want to talk any longer—”

“You’ve heard it all before. To the point of tedium, I expect.” He forced a smile. “Good night, David.”

The door closed softly. Ramses sat without moving for a long time. The suspicion that had entered his mind was despicable and baseless. A single meeting of eyes, an altered note in the voice that had responded to his statement: “I would never stand in her way if she cared for someone who was truly worthy of her . . .” Davidwas worthy of her. Not by the false standards of the modern world, perhaps, but Nefret’s formative years had been spent in quite a different world. The strange culture of the oasis had not been free of bigotry and cruelty, but its prejudices were based on caste rather than race or nationality. Nefret didn’t think of David as an inferior. Neither did Ramses. David was—might be—a rival more dangerous than any he had yet encountered. And David, being the sort of man he was, would feel guilty and ashamed at coming between his best friend and the girl his friend wanted.

:

We resumed work the following morning. Others of the English community in Luxor might make a festival of Boxing Day, but I had had a hard enough time persuading Emerson to celebrate Christmas, which he considered a heathen festival. “Why don’t we just wreathe mistletoe around our brows and sacrifice someone to the sun?” he had inquired sarcastically. “That is all it is, you know, the ancient celebration of the winter solstice. Nobody knows what year the fellow was born, much less what day, and furthermore . . .”

But I cannot in conscience reproduce Emerson’s heretical remarks on Christian dogma.

When we started for the Valley Abdullah walked with me, as he often did. He honestly believed he was helping me, so I gave him my hand on the steeper slopes; and when we reached the top I tactfully suggested we rest for a moment before following the others.

“We are not so young as we once were, Sitt,” said Abdullah, subsiding rather heavily onto a rock.

“None of us is. But what does it matter? It may take us a little longer to reach the summit, but never fear, we will get there!”

The corners of Abdullah’s mouth twitched. “Yours are words of wisdom, as always, Sitt.”

He did not appear in any hurry to go on, so we sat for a time in silence. The air was cool and clean. The sun had just risen above the eastern cliffs and the morning light spread slowly across the landscape like a wash of water-color, turning the gray stone to silver-gold, the pale river to sparkling blue, the dull-green fields to vivid emerald. After a while Abdullah spoke.

“Do you believe, Sitt, that we have lived other lives on this earth and will come back to live again?”

The question startled me, not only because philosophical speculation was not a habit of Abdullah’s, but because it was an uncanny reflection of my own thoughts. I had been thinking that the golden palaces of heaven could be no more beautiful than the morning light on the cliffs of Thebes, and that my definition of Paradise would be a continuation of the life I loved with those I loved beside me.

“I do not know, Abdullah. Sometimes I have wondered . . . But no; our Christian faith does not hold with that idea.”

Neither did the faith of Islam. Abdullah did not mention this. “I have wondered too. But there is only one way to know for certain, and I am not eager to explore that path.”

“Nor I,” I said, smiling. “This life holds pleasure enough for me. But I fear we will have a dull season, Abdullah. Emerson is very bored with his little tombs.”

“So am I,” said Abdullah.

With a grunt he got to his feet and offered a hand to help me rise. We tramped on together in silence and in perfect amity. He was bored, I was bored, Emerson was bored. We were all bored to distraction, and there was nothing I could do about it. Glumly I followed the familiar path into the small side wadi in which we were working.

The tomb of Amenhotep II was at its far end, and we had been investigating the small pit tombs along the way that led toward the main valley. Most of them had been found by Ned Ayrton in his previous seasons with Mr. Davis. He had removed the only objects of interest, and there had not been many of those. Three of the miserable little tombs had contained animal burials. They were certainly curious—a yellow dog, standing upright, with its tail curled over its back, nose to nose with a mummified monkey, and a squatting ape wearing a pretty little necklace of blue beads—but I could understand why Ned’s patron had not been thrilled by the discoveries of that season.

Emerson of course found objects Ned had overlooked. He always does find things other archaeologists overlook. There were several interesting graffiti (described and translated in our forthcoming publication) and a number of beads and pottery fragments which were to lead Emerson to a remarkable theory concerning the length of the reign of Amenhotep II. These details will be of even less interest to my Reader than they were (candor compels me to admit) to me.

           (ix)     From Manuscript H

Ramses sat up with a start. At first he couldn’t think what had waked him. The room was quite dark, for vines covered part of the single window, but his night vision was good—if not as uncannily acute as some of the Egyptians believed—and he saw only the dim shapes that ought to have been there—table and chairs, chest of drawers, and the garments hanging on hooks along the wall.

He threw back the thin sheet. Ever since an embarrassing incident a few years ago he had taken to wearing a pair of loose Egyptian-style drawers to bed. They did not encumber his movements as he went to the door, noiseless on bare feet, and eased it open.

Like the other bedchambers his opened onto a walled courtyard. Nothing moved in the starlight; a spindly palm tree and the potted plants his mother nurtured cast dim, oddly shaped shadows. No lights showed at the windows. His parents’ room was at the far end of the wing, then David’s, then his, with Nefret’s at this end. Like his parents’ room, hers had windows on an outer wall as well as the courtyard.

He took in the peaceful scene without pausing, drawn on by the same indefinable sense of uneasiness that had waked him. He had reached Nefret’s door before he heard her cry out—not a scream, a soft, muffled sound that would have been inaudible a few feet away.

She hadn’t locked her door. It would not have mattered; the hinges gave way when his shoulder hit the panel, and he pushed the door aside. The room was as dark as his had been; something was blocking the outer window, cutting off the starlight. Then the obstruction disappeared and he saw the glimmer of Nefret’s white nightdress, motionless on the floor between the bed and the window.

“Curse it!” she gasped, raising herself to a sitting position. “He got away! Go after him!”

The full sleeve of her gown fell back as she flung out her arm. It had been slit from elbow to wrist, and the fabric was no longer white.

“Too late,” Ramses said. At least that was what he intended to say. His heart was pounding, trying to compensate for the beats it had skipped before she moved and spoke, and the words caught in his throat. She was wriggling around, trying to stand up, but her movements were slow and unsteady and her long skirts were twisted around her legs. He dropped to his knees and took her by the shoulders. “Stay still. He’s long gone, whoever he was, and you’re going to faint.”

Nefret said indignantly, “I’ve never fainted in my . . .” Her head fell back, and he gathered her limp body into his arms.

He was still holding her when a light appeared in the doorway and he looked up to see David, a lamp in one hand, his knife in the other.

“Good Lord! Is she—”

“Half-smothered,” said Nefret in a muffled voice.

She probably was at that, Ramses thought. He relaxed his grip enough for her to turn her head away from his shoulder, and she gave him a cheerful grin. “That’s better. Close the door, David, and bring the lamp over here. Put me down, Ramses. No, not on the bed, there’s no sense in getting blood on the sheets.”

Wordlessly Ramses lowered her onto the rug.

“You look as ifyou are about to faint,” she remarked. “Sit down and put your head between your knees.”

Ramses sat down. He did not put his head between his knees, but he left it to David to clean and bandage the cut. By the time the job was done, his hands and his voice were fairly steady.

“All right,” he said harshly. “What happened?”

Nefret let David help her to her feet and lead her to a chair. “A man climbed in through the window,” she explained. “I didn’t wake up until he was already in the room. He was after the papyrus.”

“How do you know?” Ramses demanded.

“Because that was when I woke up, when he dragged the case out from under the bed. He let out a sort of hiss, and—”

“And you tried to stop him?” Fury roughened his voice, and Nefret glared back at him.

“I did stop him. He didn’t get it. I’d have caught him, too, if you hadn’t burst in.”

“Oh, yes, right,” Ramses said. “What with, a hair ribbon?”

“I had my knife. I always sleep with it under my pillow.” She gestured at the puddle of blood on the floor. “That’s not all mine. I slashed at his arm, to keep him from picking up the case, you know—I was afraid he’d drop it once we got to fighting—and then he backed away, and I got out of bed and went after him, and he—”

“Got to fighting?” David stared at her in horror. “Went after him? For the love of heaven, Nefret! Ramses is right, you are too damned impulsive. Why didn’t you call for help?”

“There wasn’t time. I blocked his blow, the way Ramses taught me, but I guess I wasn’t quite quick enough. It was only a little cut,” she added defensively. “But I slipped in the blood on the floor. Then Ramses broke the door down, and the man got away.”

“You didn’t recognize him?” Ramses asked, ignoring the implied reproof.

“I didn’t get a good look at him, it was dark, and he had a scarf wound round his head. It might have been Yussuf Mahmud; his height and build were the same.”

“An ordinary thief,” David began.

“No,” Ramses said. “Sneak thieves don’t carry knives, or use them—especially on the family of the dread Father of Curses. He went straight for the papyrus. That’s another interesting point. How did he know Nefret had it? No proper gentleman would leave such a potentially dangerous object in the hands of a poor little weak woman.”

“Ha,” said Nefret.

“Ha indeed. Nefret, are you sure you didn’t tell anyone? Or let slip . . . No, of course not.”

“Damn right.”

She might have let something slip, though, without being aware of it—to a man who asked the right questions. She’d been seeing a lot of Sir Edward the past few days . . .

He knew better than to hint at that theory. “Get some rest, Nefret. We’ll have a look round in the morning.”

“I’ll wipe up the blood,” David offered. “We don’t want Aunt Amelia to see it, do we.”

“Don’t bother,” Ramses said. “I cannot imagine why Mother is not already on the scene—she usually is—but she’ll certainly notice the door being off its hinges and Nefret favoring her arm, and . . . And we’ve no right to keep silent, not now.”

“Oh dear,” Nefret murmured. “The Professor is going to roar.”

“Undoubtedly. And Mother will lecture. On the whole, I prefer Father’s roars.”

“We’ll confess tomorrow, then.” Nefret stood up. “Good night.”

She waved away David’s supporting arm and followed them to the door. “Ramses,” she said.

“Yes?”

“How did you get here so quickly? I didn’t cry out until he cut my arm, and you must have been already outside my door.”

“Something woke me. Perhaps he made a sound climbing in the window.”

A window on the opposite wall of her room, with a mudbrick partition between. Luckily she didn’t notice the illogic of that. “I’m sorry if I was rude,” she said.

“No more than usual.”

“Thank you for being there when I needed you, my boy.” She put an affectionate hand on his arm and smiled at him. Ramses stepped back.

“Not at all.”

“Don’t be angry. I said I was sorry.”

“I’m not angry. Good night, Nefret.”

Leaving David to deal with the damaged door, he strode toward the back gate and went out. It would have been more in keeping with the Byronic tradition to pace back and forth under her window—groaning and clutching his brow—but he didn’t want to risk disturbing footprints or other clues; so he sat down with his back against the wall of the house and hugged his knees for warmth, and damned himself for a sentimental fool. The intruder, whoever he had been, would not return that night, and the air was cold. There was no point in going to bed, though. He wouldn’t sleep.

Sometime later he became aware of movement. The moon had set, but the stars were bright. A form emerged from the shadows. It moved with a swagger, ears pricked and tail swinging. Seeing him, it stopped several feet away and stared at him.

Ramses stared back.

Some of the Egyptians believed he could communicate with animals. It required no extrasensory perception to know where Horus had been and what he had been doing. He had been doing it every night since they arrived in Luxor. Having a vile temper, a well-muscled, well-fed body, and an ego the size of a lion’s, he had no difficulty in running off rivals for the affections of the local female felines. The cat Bastet would never have allowed an intruder to get within six feet of Nefret, but this selfish, single-minded beast had been too busy satisfying his appetites to guard her.

He had a feeling Horus knew exactly what he was thinking, and that Horus didn’t give a damn. After a long, silent, supercilious survey, the cat proceeded on his way. He sprang onto Nefret’s windowsill and turned for a final contemptuous look before vanishing inside.

For the first time in his life Ramses was tempted to throw something at an animal. Something hard and heavy.

:

“Where did this come from?” Emerson asked.

He spoke in the soft, purring voice his acquaintances had come to know and dread. Nefret met his keen blue eyes without flinching, but I saw her brace herself.

“It is the property of the Foundation,” she replied.

“Ah, yes. The Foundation for the Exploration and Preservation of Egyptian Antiquities.” Emerson sat back, fingering the cleft in his chin. In the same mild voice he added, “Your Foundation.”

“Ours,” Nefret corrected. “You are on the Board; so are Ramses and David and Aunt Amelia.”

“Good Gad,” Emerson exclaimed. “The fact must have slipped my mind. Or is it the fact that the Board gave its approval for this particular purchase? Dear me, I am getting old and forgetful.”

“Enough, Emerson,” I said sharply.

Emerson might have ignored my suggestion, for he really was in a considerable rage. It was the sight of Nefret’s face that stopped him. Her rounded chin was quivering and her eyes were luminous with tears. When one crystal drop overflowed the cornflower-blue depths and slid down her cheek, Emerson let out a roar.

“Stop that immediately, Nefret! You are taking unfair advantage, curse it.”

Nefret’s trembling lips curved into a broad, relieved smile. No one minded Emerson’s bellows. She sat down on the arm of his chair and ruffled his hair. “Professor darling, you let me set up the Foundation when I came into my money—in fact, you encouraged the idea—but you have never accepted a penny or allowed anyone else in the family to do so. It has hurt me deeply, though of course I have never complained.”

“You may as well give in, Father,” said Ramses. “If you don’t, she’ll start crying again.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson. “I see she has already got round you and David. If I remember correctly, any major expenditure requires the consent of a simple majority of the Board. You three are a majority. Amelia, why the devil didn’t you point this out to me when the papers were drawn up?”

“I didn’t think of it either,” I admitted. I had always considered his refusal to accept financial assistance from Nefret absurd—another example of masculine pride. Why shouldn’t she use her money as she liked? And what worthier recipient could there be than the greatest Egyptologist of this or any other age—Radcliffe Emerson, to be precise?

Tactfully I turned Emerson’s attention back to the papyrus. “It is one of the finest I have ever seen,” I said. “A worthy purchase for the Foundation, for if you had not acquired it—illegally, I suppose?—it would have been sold to a private collector and lost to science. Now, Emerson, don’t start ranting about the iniquities of buying from the dealers, we have all heard that lecture a thousand times. In this case it had to be done. You do grasp the subtler implications of this discovery, I suppose?”

Emerson glared at me. I was pleased to see that my question had taken his attention away from the children.

“Do you take me for a fool, Peabody? Of course I grasp them. However, I refuse to allow you to waste time in idle speculation until we have ascertained the facts. Pray allow me to conduct this interrogation. I repeat: Where did you get this?”

His ice-blue gaze swept over the three young persons. Nefret’s smile faded; David flinched; and both looked hopefully at Ramses, who was, as I had expected, not unwilling to do the talking.

“From Yussuf Mahmud in Cairo. David and I were—”

“Impossible,” Emerson said. “Yussuf Mahmud deals in forgeries and second-rate antiquities. How could he lay his hands on something like this?”

“It is a pertinent question,” said Ramses. “Father, if you will allow me to complete my narrative without interruption . . .”

Emerson folded his hands. “That goes for you too, Peabody. Proceed, Ramses.”

As Ramses’s narrative unfolded I found it difficult to repress exclamations of horror, surprise, and consternation. I must do Ramses the justice of believing that on this occasion he told not only the truth, but the whole truth. It had to be the whole truth because nothing could have been worse. Emerson’s countenance did not change; but his hands gripped one another until the fingers turned white and the tendons stood out like cords.

“We made it back to the boat without further incident,” Ramses concluded.

“Further incident,” Emerson repeated. “Hmmm, yes. There had been incidents enough. Well, well. It is not the first time you have behaved recklessly, and it will probably not be the last. There is only one thing I fail to understand.”

“Yes, sir?” Ramses said warily. He was not deceived by Emerson’s mild tone.

“I do not understand why . . .” Emerson’s voice broke with sheer fury and then rose to a roar that rattled the cups in their saucers. “Why in the name of God you took your sister with you!”

The cat Horus shot out from under the table and headed for the door, his ears flattened and his tail straight out. There he encountered Abdullah, who had been waiting for us on the verandah and who had, I supposed, been alarmed by Emerson’s shouts and hurried to discover what disaster had prompted them. The cat got entangled in Abdullah’s skirts and a brief interval of staggering (by Abdullah), scratching (by Horus) and swearing (by both parties) ensued before Horus freed himself and departed.

So Ramses had to go over it again, while I applied iodine to Abdullah’s shins. Ordinarily he would have objected to this procedure, but the interest of the narrative distracted him; his eyes got rounder and rounder and when Ramses finished he gasped, “You took Nur Misur with you?”

“They didn’t take me,” Nefret said. “We went together. Abdullah, please don’t get excited. It is not good for you.”

“But—but—Yussuf Mahmud,” Abdullah exclaimed. “That crawling snake . . . Into el Was’a At night . . .”

“If you don’t calm down I am going to get my stethoscope and listen to your heart.” She pressed him back into his chair with one small brown hand and offered him a glass of water with the other.

The threat was sufficient. Abdullah viewed modern medical procedures with deep suspicion, and the very idea of being examined by a young woman filled him with horror.

“If she had not been with us, I might not be here with you now, Grandfather,” David said. “She is as quick as a cat and as brave as a lion.”

I decided it was time for me to take charge of the discussion, which had degenerated into a series of emotional exchanges. This is often the case when men carry on a conversation.

“Let us hear the rest of it, Ramses,” I said.

Emerson, who had begun to relax, came to attention with an audible snap of muscles. “There is more?”

“I rather think so. We will have to call Ibrahim to repair the hinges of Nefret’s door. Well, Ramses?”

“I’ll tell it,” Nefret said.

Emerson must already have reached the pinnacle of outrage, for his only reaction was to twitch a bit. Abdullah sipped his water, watching Nefret suspiciously over the rim of the glass. Nefret did not give either of them the opportunity to comment.

“I admit we ought to have told you about the papyrus earlier,” she said. “But that’s over and done with, and we know how you feel, and you know how we feel, so let us not waste time shouting at one another.”

“Now see here, young lady,” Emerson began.

“Yes, Professor darling, we all know you never shout. The question is, what are we to do now? As I see it,” she continued, without waiting for a reply, “there are two questions to be answered. First, who was the man who entered my room last night? Second, where did the papyrus originate? Has a new tomb been discovered?”

“Well-reasoned,” I said approvingly. “I was about to put the same questions myself. You think the intruder was Yussuf Mahmud?”

“It was not an ordinary thief,” Abdullah grunted. “No man of Thebes would risk the anger of the Father of Curses.”

Emerson growled agreement. “He left no clue?”

It was Ramses who answered. “I searched the area under Nefret’s window this morning. The sand had been disturbed, but it does not take footprints. He was not so considerate as to lose an article of clothing or—”

“Yes, yes,” said Emerson, who recognized the start of one of Ramses’s lectures. “I find it difficult to believe that Yussuf Mahmud would have the intestinal fortitude to break into the house. He’s a second-rater in every way.”

“He might have summoned up the intestinal fortitude if he feared someone else more than he did us,” Ramses said.

“Hmmm.” Emerson rubbed his chin. “The individual from whom he got the papyrus, you mean. He was sent here to retrieve it, with the promise that his worthless life would be spared if he succeeded? Possible. Curse it, Ramses, why didn’t you tell me this before we left Cairo? I can think of several people who deal in antiquities of exceptional quality and whose scruples are questionable.”

“So can I, Father. I saw no point in pursuing that line of inquiry, however. The guilty person would not admit anything, and questioning the others would only arouse speculation of the sort we want to avoid.”

“I suppose so.” The admission came grudgingly. Emerson would have preferred to call on all his suspects and bully one of them into a confession.

His eyes returned to the papyrus, which lay on the table in David’s ingeniously designed case. One of the charming little painted vignettes had been exposed; it showed the mummy case of the princess being drawn to the tomb by a pair of oxen. Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin, as was his habit when perplexed or in deep thought. Half to himself, he said, “It’s odd, though. The papyrus is very fine, no question of that; but I would not have believed any of the persons I had in mind would go to such lengths to get it back. Attacking a scruffy fellow swindler like Ali the Rat is one thing. Attempting to robME requires more audacity than I would have supposed them to possess.”

“Have you any ideas about who such an audacious person might be, sir?” Nefret inquired politely.

Emerson shot her a wary look. “No. How should I? The question of the origin of this object is equally mysterious. It came from Thebes, obviously, but where in Thebes?”

“It occurred to David,” Ramses said, “that this papyrus might have come from the Royal Cache. The Abd er Rassul brothers had been looting the tomb of small objects for years before they were—er—persuaded to lead Herr Brugsch to the site. Some things were sold to collectors—”

“And other things they concealed in their house in Gurneh,” said Abdullah. “There were papyri among those things.”

Emerson was smoking furiously. “There is another possibility. Brugsch could easily have overlooked something, he bundled everything out of the place in such a cursed hurry.”

“Surely it is unlikely that he and the Abd er Rassuls would both overlook something as valuable as this,” I mused. “However, a proper excavation might yield interesting results.”

Emerson gave me a critical look. “Bored with our tombs, are you, Peabody? Don’t suppose you can distract me from my duty with your tempting suggestions. What we are endeavoring to determine is how the papyrus got to Cairo and where it originated. I see four possibilities. The first, that it came from the undiscovered tomb of the princess, is cursed unlikely. Other objects from that tomb would have surfaced. The second, third, and fourth theories assume it was part of the Deir el Bahri cache. It was sold by the thieves either shortly after they discovered the tomb, or later, after having been concealed in their house for an undetermined number of years; or it was found and marketed only recently.”

I opened my mouth to speak. Emerson said in a loud voice, “Don’t begin theorizing, Peabody, I am having difficulty enough controlling my temper. We have not sufficient evidence to construct a theory as yet. Unless our dear dutiful children are concealing evidence from us?”

“Wearen’t concealing anything,” Nefret said. “Ramses held nothing back. If I had been telling the story I would have been strongly tempted to omit a few of the more—um—interesting details.”

“I suppose I must give him that,” Emerson said. “Confound it, Ramses, for how long have you and David been prowling the streets of Cairo in those disgusting disguises? ‘Curse the unbeliever’ indeed!”

“We established those identities three years ago, Father.”

“Well, you had better dis-establish them. It has occurred to you, I trust, that someone more acute than your father must have penetrated your disguises? I confess,” Emerson added with grudging admiration, “that you took me in completely.”

“The events of last night confirm that assumption, sir. Though I cannot explain how. We were very careful.”

“Hmph. Well, if we can find Yussuf Mahmud he can answer all our questions. Our first move should be to learn whether he has shown himself in Luxor. I will just have some little chats with the antiquities dealers. Abdullah, you will question your friends and relatives in Gurneh?”

Abdullah nodded. He looked so grim I felt sorry for the friends and relatives. “It must be made known that the object the thief sought is no longer in Nur Misur’s room.”

“It is a good thought, my father.” Ramses switched from English to Arabic. “But after today it will be my room, and she will occupy mine. Do not speak of this, or of the papyrus. I would be very glad if the man would come back.”

Clipping fromAl Ahram, December 29, 1906:

The body of a man was drawn from the Nile yesterday at Luxor, under strange circumstances. The hands and feet had been bound, and the remains were horribly mutilated, apparently by the jaws of a large animal such as a crocodile. There are no longer any crocodiles in the Luxor area.

•

Six

•

The news was all over Luxor next morning. We heard of it from Abdullah, who had heard of it from his cousin Mohammed, who had been told of it by his son Raschid, who had spoken with one of the unfortunate boatmen who had found the remains. I did not doubt that the discovery had been unpleasant enough, but by the time it reached us it had been magnified and exaggerated to an astonishing degree.

“A crocodile,” Abdullah insisted. “Raschid said Sayed said it could have been nothing else.”

“Nonsense, Abdullah. You know there have been no crocodiles in Egypt since . . . well, not in our lifetimes.”

Abdullah rolled his eyes. “Let us hope it was a crocodile, Sitt. For if it was not, it was something worse.”

“What could be worse?” I demanded.

Abdullah leaned forward and planted his hands on his knees. “There are men who believe the old gods are not dead, but only sleeping. Those who violate the tombs of the dead—”

“Some believe that,” I agreed. “Surely you are not one of them, Abdullah?”

“Not believing is not the same as not knowing, Sitt.”

“Hmm,” I said, after I had worked my way through the string of negatives. “Well, Abdullah, if it is true that the old gods resent those who enter the tombs we are all in trouble—you and I and Emerson. So let us hope it is not true.”

“Yes, Sitt. But there is no harm in protecting oneself against that which is not true.” He gestured at the amulets on the chain round my neck, and then reached into the breast of his robe. “I have brought you another one.”

Like most of the amulets found in Egypt, it was of blue-green faience, and it had been molded with a loop on the back so that it could be hung on a cord. I didn’t doubt it was genuine. Abdullah had his connections. Smiling, I took the trinket from his hand.

“Thank you,” I said. “But what of Emerson? Have you brought amulets for him too?”

“He would not wear them, Sitt.”

“No. Abdullah, are you sure that is the reason why you gave this to me and not to Emerson? It couldn’t be, could it, that you consider me more in need of protection than he?”

Abdullah’s face remained grave, but there was a glint in his black eyes that I had learned to recognize. Had he been teasing me the whole time? He was certainly laughing at me now. “You are not careful, Sitt. You do foolish things.”

“If I do, you and Emerson will watch over me,” I said cheerfully. “And now I will have Sobek to protect me too.”

I unfastened the chain and added the little figure of the crocodile god to the others.

Ramses went to view the body. The rest of us declined the treat, even Emerson, who remarked—ostentatiously not looking at Ramses—that he did not need to provehis manhood by inspecting mangled corpses.

Emerson was out of temper with Ramses. I knew why, of course. He blamed the boy for allowing Nefret to accompany him and David on their midnight foray into the Old City. To be sure, Emerson had taken me into areas of Cairo almost as dirty and dangerous, but he still thought of his adopted daughter as a sweet-faced, golden-haired child. She was no longer a child, as a number of young gentlemen could testify, but fathers are absurdly sentimental about their daughters. (I have been informed that some mothers are just as silly about their sons. This has never been a failing of mine.)

I did not hold Ramses accountable for Nefret’s behavior on that occasion. However, when I found that he had let her go with him to examine the corpse, I discovered I was not so broad-minded as I had believed.

The rest of us were on the verandah taking tea when she and Ramses rode up, and one look at her face told me she had been doing something other than paying calls in Luxor, as she had said she intended. Ramses’s face was set like stone, a certain indication of some strong emotion rigidly controlled. Ignoring his attempt to help her dismount, she slipped out of the saddle, tossed the reins to the stableman, and joined us round the tea table.

“Will you have a slice of cake?” I inquired, offering the plate. The cake was especially rich, stuffed with nuts and dates and thickly iced.

Nefret swallowed and turned her head away. “No, thank you.”

“Ah,” I said. “So you did go with Ramses. Nefret, I strictly forbade you—”

“No, Aunt Amelia, you didn’t. No doubt you would have done if you had thought of it, but you didn’t.” She gave me a rather strained smile and reached out a hand to pat Emerson’s rigid arm. “Professor darling, stop sputtering. Recall, if you please, that I am the only one of us who has had medical training.”

“She was sick,” said Ramses. Arms folded, he leaned against the wall and fixed a critical look on his sister.

“Not until afterwards! You were a bit green around the mouth yourself.” She snatched up a bit of cake and thrust it at him. “Here, have a bite.”

“No, thank you,” said Ramses, averting his eyes.

“That bad, was it?” I inquired.

“Yes.” Nefret replaced the sticky morsel on the plate and wiped her fingers on a serviette.

“Yes.” Ramses had gone to the side table. He came back with two glasses of whiskey and soda and handed one to Nefret. “I trust you do not object, Mother. As you have often said, the medicinal effects of good whiskey—”

“Quite,” I agreed.

Ramses raised his glass in a salute to Nefret before drinking quite a quantity himself. He settled himself in his favorite place on the ledge and remarked, “She made a closer examination of the wounds than I would have cared to do. They appeared to be consistent with the assumption that has been made.”

“What, a crocodile?” I exclaimed. “Ramses, you know perfectly well—”

“Peabody.” Emerson had recovered himself. His tone was calm, his face composed—except for a certain glitter in his blue eyes. “Does this strike you as suitable conversation for the tea table?”

“Many of our conversations would not be considered suitable for polite society,” I replied. “If the young people can put themselves through the discomfort of actually viewing the remains, we can do no less than listen to their description. Er—you might just get me a whiskey and soda too, if you will be so good.”

“Bah,” said Emerson. But he complied with my request and filled a glass for himself. David declined the offer. Except for an occasional glass of wine he did not imbibe. At least not in my presence.

Stroking Horus, who had settled himself solidly across her lap, Nefret said, “I won’t go into lurid detail, Professor dear. The wounds were consistent with those that might have been made by the large jaws of an animal with long sharp teeth. Since we know that no such animal is to be found in this area, we must conclude that they were made by some man-made tool. I was reminded of the Iron Maiden we saw in the museum in Nuremberg.”

“Good Gad,” I cried. “Are you suggesting that someone has imported an instrument of medieval torture?”

“Stop that, Peabody,” said Emerson, who had forgot his qualms and was listening with intense interest. “The Iron Maiden, so called because it was the size and shape of a human body, had spikes protruding from the interior of the back and the lid. When the lid was closed the spikes penetrated the victim’s body. The same effect could be produced by a less complex mechanism—long nails driven into a heavy wooden plank, for instance.”

“Exactly,” said Nefret, finishing her whiskey. “The wounds were confined to the head and torso, and I distinctly saw the gleam of metal in one of them. It was, as I suspected, the broken-off point of a spike or nail.”

“You—you extracted it?” David asked, swallowing.

“Yes. It is evidence, you know.” She touched her shirt pocket. “I brought it back with me, since no one at the zabtiyeh seemed to want it. There was only one other extraneous object on the body—a piece of cord deeply imbedded in his neck.”

“A strangling cord,” I breathed. “The devotees of the goddess Kali—”

An odd sound from Ramses interrupted me. His lips were so tightly compressed they formed a single narrow line.

“The poor fellow wasn’t strangled, Aunt Amelia,” Nefret said. “The fragment was at the back of his neck, not his throat. It seems more likely that he was wearing a crucifix do amulet round his neck, and that someone or something pulled at the cord until it snapped.”

“I suppose you—er—extracted that, too,” Emerson said resignedly.

“Yes. The question is, why would anyone go to such elaborate lengths to kill someone?”

“A new murder cult,” I exclaimed. “Like the cult of Kali in India. A revival, by insane fanatics, of the worship of the crocodile god, Sobek—”

“Kindly control your rampageous imagination, Peabody,” Emerson snarled. “The metal jaws of some machine, such as—er—some machine or other could cause similar wounds. If he was drunk and stumbled into something of the sort—”

“Headfirst?” I inquired with, I believe, pardonable sarcasm. “And the operator of the machine, not noticing a pair of protruding legs, started it up?”

David, gentle soul that he was, turned a shade paler.

Since the hypothesis was obviously absurd, Emerson did not try to defend it. “A more important question is: Who was the dead man?”

“The face was unrecognizable,” said Ramses. “However, Ali Yussuf was missing the first two joints of the third finger of his left hand. The extremities had been nibbled at by smaller predators, but only the ends of the fingers and toes were gone, and that particular finger—”

David rose precipitately and hurried away.

“I believe I will just have another whiskey and soda, Emerson,” I said.

On the face of it, the news was cursed discouraging. One cannot interrogate a dead man. To look at it another way—and I am always in favor of looking on the bright side—Yussuf Mahmud’s murder confirmed our theory that another group of villains was involved, villains more interesting than a seller of second-rate antiquities. Emerson could (and did) jeer all he liked at my theories of mysterious and deadly cults, but I remained convinced that Yussuf Mahmud’s death had all the hallmarks of ritual murder—execution, even. In some way he had betrayed the others, and he had paid a hideous price. But in what way had he betrayed them?

The answer was obvious. Yussuf Mahmud’s desperate attempt to retrieve the papyrus—for only a desperate man would risk invading the house of the Father of Curses—was his last hope of saving himself from the vengeance of the cult. I did not doubt that the Followers of Sobek (as I termed them) employed valuable antiquities like the papyrus to lure prospective victims into their murderous hands. Not only had Yussuf Mahmud allowed the victims and the valuable to slip through his hands, but he had selected for the slaughter, not a naive tourist, but the members of a family known the length and breadth of Egypt for its success in tracking down evildoers.

Yussuf Mahmud could not have known who Ali the Rat was, or he would not have approached him. Someone undoubtedly was cognizant of the fact now, however. I concluded that the children must have betrayed themselves in some manner during the struggle and ensuing flight. Yussuf Mahmud had been given one last chance to compensate for his fatal error. He had failed—and he had paid the price.

My solution was the only one possible, but Emerson dismissed it with an emphatic “Balderdash, Peabody!” and did not even allow me to finish my explanation.

Of course I knew why. Though he would not admit it, Emerson was still obsessed with Sethos. This was patently ridiculous. Sethos would never become involved with anything so crude as a murder cult.

Ramses and Nefret had changed rooms, and I knew my son was bitterly disappointed when no further intrusion took place. I was disappointed too, although I had not expected the cult would risk another man. Our interrogations of the antiquities dealers and the men of Gurneh, though time-consuming, were unproductive. No one had seen Yussuf Mahmud; no one admitted to being a member of a murder cult. I had not really expected that anyone would.

The week between Christmas and New Year’s Day continued to be filled with social activities, and we received a number of invitations from what Emerson referred to as “the dahabeeyah dining society”—an increasingly inaccurate term, since the majority of the individuals concerned stayed at the hotels, particularly the elegant new Winter Palace. In social terms they were a glittering group, some titled, all wealthy. In intellectual terms they were deadly bores, and I did not object to Emerson’s insistence that we refuse most of the invitations. However,I insisted that we behave civilly to archaeological friends and old acquaintances.

Among the latter I had to include Mr. Davis, who had arrived in Luxor on board his dahabeeyah. Emerson might and did despise the man, but he had become a prominent figure in Egyptological circles and he had always been civil to me. His cousin, Mrs. Andrews, who always traveled with him, was an amiable individual. (I will not repeat Emerson’s rude speculations concerning the relationship between her and Mr. Davis.)

In point of fact, we did not receive an invitation from Mr. Davis. He and Mrs. Andrews (his cousin, as I kept telling Emerson) were among the most enthusiastic members of the dining society, hobnobbing not only with favored archaeologists but with any tourist who had the slightest pretension to social status or distinction. Apparently we were not in either category. This fact did not disturb me; it relieved my mind, rather, for Emerson could not be counted upon to behave properly when he was in the company of Mr. Davis. It was inevitable that we should meet, however, and when I received an invitation to a particularly elegant affair at the Winter Palace Hotel, hosted by the manager in honor of several members of the British nobility, I did not press Emerson to accompany the rest of us. I knew Davis would be there, because he doted on the nobility.

To my surprise and annoyance, Emerson volunteered. Not only that, but he got himself into his evening clothes without argument and with a minimum of grumbling. A strong sense of foreboding filled me.

Everyone who was anyone in Luxor had been invited. We were late in arriving, but though the room was crowded with people, our entrance drew all eyes to us. Emerson, of course, looked magnificent. I cannot complain about the appearance of the boys.

It had proved impossible to remove all the cat hairs from Nefret’s skirt, but they did not show too much against the satin-striped ivory chiffon. The soft shade set off the golden tan of her skin—a little too much of it, in my opinion. Between leaving the house and arriving at the hotel she must have done something to the neckline, for it looked a good deal lower than it had. At least her elbow-length gloves hid the unladylike scab on her forearm.

Emerson headed straight as a bullet for Mr. Davis. He was a little man with a large mustache who thought he was tall. (That was another of the reasons why he and Emerson did not get on; it is difficult to think of yourself as tall when Emerson is looming over you.) I managed to pull Emerson away before he could say anything except, “Hmph. So you’re back, are you?”

The rest of Davis’s party was with him: Mrs. Andrews, resplendent in jet-beaded black satin; several young ladies who were introduced as her nieces; and an American couple named Smith, who were staying with the Weigalls. Mr. Smith was a painter who had spent a number of seasons in Egypt and had copied for Davis and other archaeologists—a sprightly, convivial man in his mid-forties.

As soon as she had passed through the receiving line, every young (and not so young) man in the room converged on Nefret, leaving a number of ladies abandoned and forlorn. I saw my ward led onto the dance floor by the gentleman she had accepted, and turned toward Emerson. However, he had wandered off.

“Would you care to dance, Mother?” Ramses asked.

“Hmmm,” I said.

“I will try not to tread on your feet.”

I presumed he was making one of his peculiar jokes. Truth compels me to admit he is a better dancer than his father. No one waltzes more magnificently than Emerson; the only problem is that he insists on waltzing no matter what sort of music is being played.

I gave Ramses my hand, and as he guided me respectfully around the floor, I explained, “My momentary hesitation was not occasioned by concern for my feet, but by concern about your father. Someone ought to be with him. He is going to start an argument with someone; I know the signs.”

“We are taking him in turn,” Ramses replied. “David has the first dance.”

Glancing around the room I saw Emerson near the buffet table, talking with M. Naville. David stood next to them. He looked very handsome in his evening clothes, but he also looked, I thought, a trifle apprehensive.

“My dear boy, David cannot possibly stop your father once he gets to ranting,” I said. “I had better go and—”

“It’s my turn next.” The music stopped, and Ramses offered me his arm to lead me from the floor. He was showing off again, and I wondered which of the young ladies present he was trying to impress with his fine manners.

Before we reached the chairs along the wall we were intercepted. “May I beg the honor of the next dance, Mrs. Emerson?” said Sir Edward Washington, with an elegant bow.

I had not seen him since Christmas Day, but I suspected Nefret had. We circled the floor in silence for a time. Then he said, “I suppose, Mrs. Emerson, that your detectival talents are busy at work on our latest mystery.”

“Which mystery did you have in mind, Sir Edward?” I countered.

“Is there more than one? I was referring to the mangled body pulled from the Nile recently. The murderer cannot have been a crocodile.”

“No,” I admitted.

“I was informed that you allowed Miss Forth to examine the remains.”

“Good heavens, how gossip spreads in this village! I do not allow Miss Forth to do a good many things, Sir Edward. She does them anyhow.”

“A very spirited young lady,” Sir Edward murmured. His eyes moved to Nefret, who was talking with Mr. Davis. Both of them appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely, and it seemed to me her neckline had slipped even lower.

“But what of the murder, Mrs. Emerson?” Sir Edward resumed. “You must have a theory.”

“I always have a theory,” I replied. “But I will not tell you this one, Sir Edward. You would only laugh at me. Emerson has already informed me that it is balderdash.”

“I would never laugh at you, Mrs. Emerson. Please.”

“Well . . .”

Naturally I omitted any reference to those aspects of the case that concerned us personally. “What the man was doing here in Luxor we will never know,” I concluded.

“Was he not a Luxor man, then?”

Curse it, I thought. The slip had been so slight, only a very astute individual would have caught it. I kept forgetting that Sir Edward was a very astute individual. Fortunately the music stopped and I sought an excuse to end the discussion.

“I can’t recall where I got that impression,” I replied evasively. “No doubt I misinterpreted some bit of gossip. If you will excuse me, Sir Edward, I must head Emerson off before he—”

“One other question, Mrs. Emerson, if I may.” I stopped, perforce. He had taken my arm in quite a firm grip preparatory to escorting me to a chair.

“Once again I am seeking employment,” he went on, and his courteous social smile broadened as he saw my look of surprise. “Not because I am in need of it—that little inheritance I mentioned has made me financially independent—but because I want something to occupy me. Mine is not the sort of temperament that enjoys idleness, and I have always been keen on archaeology. I don’t suppose your husband is in need of a photographer, or any other sort of assistant?”

I was not taken in by this disingenuous explanation. Sir Edward was about to make his move! He would get no help from me. I explained, with perfect truth, that we had all the staff we needed at present.

“Yes, I understand.” His raised eyebrow and half-smile made it clear that he did understand. “If he should change his mind, please let me know.”

I had observed Emerson talking with a lady who was unfamiliar to me. His handsome head was bent attentively and his well-cut lips were wreathed in a smile. The lady was elegantly dressed and extravagantly bejeweled. A diamond ornament as big as my hand crowned the coils of her dark hair. It was shaped like a cluster of roses with the flowers and leaves set en tremblant, so that the slightest movement of her head made the roses sway on the thin wires. They sent off sparks of diamond fire as she tilted her head to gaze up at Emerson.

“Ah,” said Emerson. “Here is my wife now. Peabody, allow me to introduce Mrs. Marija Stephenson. We were talking about cats.”

“A fascinating subject,” I said, bowing politely to the lady. She bowed politely to me. Rainbow fire glittered atop her head. A diamond necklace and matching bracelets glittered too, if not as extravagantly. I blinked.

“Quite,” said Emerson. “She has one. A cat. Its name is Astrolabe.”

“An unusual name.”

“Your husband tells me you favor Egyptian names for your cats,” said Mrs. Stephenson. She had a pleasant voice, marred only by an unfortunate American accent.

We exchanged conventional questions—“Is this your first visit to Egypt? How long are you planning to stay? Is your husband with you?”—and conventional answers—“Yes, I am enjoying it excessively; two weeks longer in Luxor and then back to Cairo; unfortunately he was unable to get away from his business.” I was conscious throughout this exchange of the lady’s dark eyes examining my own simple ornaments. The faience and carved stone amulets did not make much of a show compared with that galaxy of diamonds.

After introducing Mrs. Stephenson to someone else—for I hope I have better manners than to leave a stranger alone—I drew Emerson away.

“ ’Pon my word, Peabody, you were cursed inquisitive,” Emerson remarked. “Did you have one of your famous premonitions about the lady? I thought her very pleasant.”

“So I observed. You haven’t asked me to dance, Emerson. They are playing a waltz.”

“Certainly, my dear.” His strong arm caught me to him and swung me onto the floor.

I looked round for Nefret. I had been pleased to note that the boys had rather monopolized her that evening, taking most of her dances and preventing her from stealing out into the gardens unchaperoned. She was now dancing with Ramses, who was demonstrating more panache than he had with me. Her full skirts swung out as he spun her in a sweeping turn, and she smiled up at him.

Emerson was deep in thought, his manly brow furrowed.

“You are uncommonly taciturn, Peabody. Was it the diamonds? I saw you staring at them. You can have all you want, you know. I didn’t think you cared for such things.”

His sensitive perception and generous offer made me feel ashamed of myself. “Oh, Emerson,” I murmured. “You are so good to me.”

“Well, I try to be, curse it. But if you won’t tell me what you would like, how am I supposed to know?”

“I don’t want diamonds, my dear. You have given me everything I want and more.”

“Ah,” said Emerson. “Shall we go home, Peabody, so that I can give you—”

“That would be very agreeable, Emerson.”

:

You may be certain, dear Reader, that Emerson had not allowed us to neglect our professional activities. I have not reported on them in detail because they produced nothing of interest. While the rest of us toiled in the remote corners of the Valley, Ramses and David worked at the Seti I temple copying inscriptions.

The weather had turned unusually warm, which did not lighten our labors. Under the burning rays of the solar orb the bare rock walls of the Valley absorb heat as a sponge soaks up water—a commodity, I might add, that is in exceedingly short supply there. We all felt it excepting Emerson, who appears to be impervious to temperatures hot or cold.

I attempted to find little tasks for Abdullah that would keep him from overexertion, but eventually he saw through my schemes and went at it harder than ever, his aristocratic nose pinched with indignation. I kept a close eye on him, therefore, and so was the first to see him fall.

He sat up when I ran to him and tried to tell me there was nothing wrong, but he could not summon up enough breath to speak. Nefret was at his side almost as soon as I. From her shirt pocket she took an envelope and reached into it.

“Hold his mouth open,” she ordered, in the tone she would have used to a servant. Naturally I obeyed at once. In went her fingers and out they came; she clamped her small brown hands around Abdullah’s bearded jaws and brought her face so close to his that their noses were almost touching.

Abdullah stared as if mesmerized into her intent blue orbs. Gradually his breathing slowed and deepened, and Nefret released her grasp and sat back on her heels. Abdullah blinked. Then he looked at me.

I gave him a reassuring nod. “It is well, Abdullah. Nefret, go and tell the Professor we are stopping work.”

So she did, and as soon as Emerson learned what had happened he came out of the tomb and lectured Abdullah, which made him sulk, and sent Selim to ask Cyrus for the loan of his carriage, which made Abdullah swear.

“We are finished for the day,” Emerson said, in the voice that brooked no argument. “Go home and rest, you stubborn old villain.”

“Why not?” Abdullah said tragically. “I am old and of no use to anyone. It is a sad way to end, sitting in the sun like a toothless infant . . .”

Daoud took him by the arm. We watched them walk slowly away, Abdullah irritably swatting at Daoud.

“What the devil am I going to do with him?” Emerson demanded. “He will drop dead in his tracks one day and it will be my fault.”

“Perhaps he would prefer it that way,” Nefret said. “Wouldn’t you?”

Emerson’s worried face softened, and he put an affectionate arm around her. “You are very wise for such a young creature, my dear. What was it you gave him?”

“I knew he would lose or throw away those nitroglycerine tablets I gave him, so I brought a fresh supply. I always carry them with me.”

The boys had returned to the house by the time we got there, and when Nefret said she wanted to ride to Gurneh and make sure Abdullah was all right, they went with her.

             (x)     From Manuscript H

The house, one of the largest in Gurneh, was midway up the hill, near the tomb of Ramose. Abdullah shared it with his nephew Daoud and Daoud’s wife Kadija, a tall, gray-haired woman with dark brown skin and muscles almost as impressive as Daoud’s. Nefret claimed she was a very entertaining conversationalist, with a delightful sense of humor, but Ramses had to take her word for it since Kadija never unveiled in his presence or spoke more than a murmured greeting.

They had to pretend they had dropped in for a social call while exercising the horses. Kadija served them with cups of dark sweet tea and then retired to a corner. After Nefret had watched Abdullah for a while without seeming to, she joined Kadija and a murmured undercurrent of conversation began, broken at intervals by Nefret’s musical chuckles.

They took their leave without the unpleasant subject of Abdullah’s health ever being mentioned. Once outside, David said anxiously, “He looks better, but he is bound to have more of these attacks. What will happen if you aren’t there with your medicine?”

“I gave Kadija a supply and told her what to watch out for. She’ll make certain he takes it.”

“She has the strength to do it,” Ramses said. “But has she the will?”

“Of course. She is a very intelligent woman. She told me the most amusing story, about . . .” Nefret laughed. “Well, perhaps it is not suitable for delicate masculine ears.”

It was still early, so at David’s suggestion they took a stroll through the village—“revisiting the scenes of my youth,” as he put it with uncharacteristic irony. The house where he had spent so many miserable years as the apprentice of a forger of antiquities had passed into the hands of Abd el Hamed’s cousin, who was carrying on the same trade. In theory the workshop turned out copies which were sold as such, but everyone knew that business was only a cover for the production of fakes.

“He’s not as good as my late and unlamented master,” David said. “I’ve seen some of his fakes in the antiquities shops, and they are so poor only the most gullible tourist would buy them. I’ll wager half the great museums of the world have Abd el Hamed’s reproductions.”

“You sound as if you regret his death,” Nefret exclaimed. “After the way he treated you!”

“It’s a pity talent and moral worth don’t go together,” David said. A shiver passed through his tall frame and he turned abruptly away from the house. “Abd el Hamed was a sadistic swine, but he was also a genius. And it was through him that I met you. Come, let’s go. I’ve had enough of nostalgia.”

They had left the horses at the bottom of the slope. As they made their way down the path single file, Ramses fell behind. The rays of the setting sun did remarkable things to Nefret’s hair.

Something dropped onto the path in front of him with a soft plop. Startled out of his dreamy state, he jumped back and then relaxed when he saw it was only a flower—a hibiscus blossom, velvety-petaled and bright orange red. He heard a soft laugh. The door of the house he was passing had opened. A woman stood there, leaning against the frame. He knew her at once for what she was; her face was unveiled and she wore only a vest and a pair of diaphanous trousers. Such clothing was worn in the privacy of the harem, but no respectable woman would have appeared in public without an enveloping robe.

Over one ear she had pinned a matching blossom; the vivid color set off her dark hair. It was difficult to judge her age. She had the body of a young woman but there were threads of silver in her hair and a certain tightness around her full lips.

Ramses stooped and picked up the flower. It seemed rude not to do so, though he suspected the gesture might have another significance. “Thank you, Sitt. May you be well.”

“An offering,” she said, in a low, intimate voice. “Did not the ancients offer flowers to the king?”

“Alas, Sitt, I am no king.”

“But you bear a royal name. It is not for a humble servant like myself to use it; shall I call you ‘my lord?’ ”

Her eyes were not brown or black but an unusual shade between green and hazel. She had framed them with powdered malachite.

Ramses was rather enjoying the banter—it was a different approach, at least—but Nefret and David had stopped to wait for him, and he was reasonably certain that Nefret would not wait long. He saluted the woman and started to turn away.

“You are very like your father.”

She had spoken English. That, and the astonishing statement, roused his curiosity. “Not many people think so,” he said.

She struck a match against the doorframe and lit the cigarette she had taken from somewhere in the folds of the voluminous trousers. Her eyes moved slowly from his face to his feet and then back, even more deliberately. “Your body is not so heavy as his, but it is strong and tall, and you move in the same way, light as a panther. Your eyes and skin are darker; in that you might almost be one of us, young lord! But the shape of your face, and your mouth . . .”

Ramses felt himself blushing—something he had not done for years. But then no woman had ever talked to him this way, or examined him as a buyer would examine a horse.

Or as some men examined women.

Sauce for the gander, as his mother would say. Wry amusement replaced embarrassment, and he cut off the catalog of his charms with a compliment on her English. Her vocabulary was certainly extensive.

“It is the new way for women” was the reply. “We go to school like obedient children, so that one day we will no longer be children but the rulers of men. Have you not heard of it, young lord? Your lady mother knows. Ask her whether women cannot be as dangerous as men when they—”

“Ramses!”

He started. Nefret’s voice held a note that was unpleasantly reminiscent of his mother’s. “I must go,” he said.

Her closed-lipped smile reminded him of one of the statues in the museum—the painted limestone bust called “the White Queen.” This woman’s skin was not alabaster pale, but a soft deep brown, lustrous as satin. “You obey when she summons you? You are more like your father than I thought. My name is Layla, young lord. I will be here, waiting, if you come.”

When he joined the others, he realized he was still holding the flower. Offering it to Nefret would probably not be a wise move. He did not toss it away until after they were out of the woman’s sight.

Nefret waited until they had reached the bottom of the hill. She let him lift her into the saddle and then said coolly, “Wait a moment. Stand still. I want to look at you.”

“Nefret—”

“I suppose you don’t do it deliberately. Or do you?”

“Do what?” He knew why she had mounted before she started on him. Her pose and manner were those of a high-born lady addressing a groom, and it cost him something of an effort to throw his shoulders back and meet her eyes squarely.

Nefret nodded. “Yes. It’s very interesting. The Professor has it too, in a different sort of way. David doesn’t, though you and he look enough alike to be brothers.”

David, already in the saddle, said lightly, “Is that an insult or a compliment, Nefret?”

“I’m not sure.” She turned back to Ramses, who had taken advantage of her momentary distraction to mount Risha. He knew she wasn’t going to let him off so easily, though.

“Who is she?”

“She said her name is Layla. That’s all I know.”

“Layla!” David exclaimed. “I thought she looked familiar. I haven’t seen her for five years or more.”

“You knew her, David?” Nefret asked in surprise.

“Not—not to say know. Not in that way.”

“I don’t suppose you could have afforded her,” Nefret conceded.

David let out a sputter of laughter. “Really, Nefret, you ought not say such things.”

“It’s true, though, isn’t it?”

“Oh, quite.” They had left the village behind and were riding side by side at an easy walk. David went on, “Don’t you remember her? She was the third wife of Abd el Hamed, my former employer. Hers was rather a remarkable career. They say she started out in the House of the Doves in Luxor—”

“The house of what?” Nefret exclaimed.

“One must assume the name is either euphemistic or ironic,” Ramses murmured. “I wouldn’t care to say which. Would you prefer to drop the subject? Mother would certainly disapprove of our discussing it.”

“Go on,” Nefret said grimly.

“You understand, I am only repeating what I overheard when I was living in Gurneh,” David insisted. “The place is the best—uh—place in Luxor, which isn’t saying a great deal. The girls are reasonably well paid, and some of them marry after they—um—after a certain time. Layla was one of these. With her help, her husband began dealing in antiquities and stolen goods, and acquired a small fortune. Then he died—rather suddenly, it was said—which left Layla a wealthy widow. Later she married that old swine Abd el Hamed, I never understood why. She refused to live in his house, so perhaps you never met her.”

“She had met Father,” Ramses said thoughtfully. “She commented on the resemblance between us.”

Nefret gave him an enigmatic look, but before she could comment, David said in a shocked voice, “Everyone in Egypt knows the Father of Curses, Ramses. He would never have had anything to do with a—with a woman like that.”

“No,” Nefret said. “No decent man would.” She must have seen them exchange glances, for she went on in a voice shaking with indignation. “Oh, yes, I know some eminently respectable ‘gentlemen’ go to prostitutes. At least they call themselves gentlemen! Theirgentlemen’s laws forbid women to earn a decent living at a respectable profession, and when the poor creatures are forced into a life of disease and poverty and degradation the pious hypocrites visit them and then punish thewomen for immorality!”

Her eyes swam with tears. David reached out and patted her hand. “I know, Nefret. I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”

“You can’t reform the world overnight, Nefret. Don’t break your heart about things you can’t help.” Ramses knew his voice sounded hard and uncaring, but it tore him apart to see her cry when he couldn’t comfort her as he ached to do. If he ever dared hold her close he would give himself away.

Anyhow, he thought, dragging a girl out of her saddle and dumping her onto his would probably be more painful than romantic.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and gave him a watery but defiant smile. “Ican help. And I will one day, just wait and see.”

Seeing her chin jut out and her mouth set tightly, Ramses understood what his mother meant when she talked about forebodings and premonitions. He was in complete sympathy with Nefret’s sentiments, but she had a dangerous habit of rushing in where angels feared to tread, and this particular cause could lead her into real trouble. Somehow, God only knew how, he would have to keep her away from the House of the Doves—and Layla. Two of Layla’s husbands had died suddenly and violently. If he’d ever seen a woman who did not need help and sympathy, it was that one.

:

We were dining with Cyrus and Katherine one evening that same week when a casual remark of the latter reminded me of a promise I had not kept. Katherine had asked when we expected the younger Emersons and Lia, and Cyrus had offered to put them up at the Castle. He was a sociable individual and enjoyed company, but though his residence was far more commodious and elegant than our humble abode, I declined the invitation with proper expressions of appreciation.

“They are due to arrive in Alexandria on Monday next, but I don’t know how long they will remain in Cairo before coming on.”

“Not long, I expect,” Katherine said. “They will be anxious to be with you. We hope to see a great deal of them. I believe you mentioned that little Miss Emerson is determined to go to university next autumn. If she wants to keep up her studies this winter, remember that I am a former governess and teacher.”

“Good gracious,” I exclaimed. “That reminds me—Fatima! We promised we would find a teacher for her. She is so timid she would not venture to ask again.”

“She has more enterprise than you suppose, Aunt Amelia,” Nefret replied. “She has already made her own arrangements. It seems there is a lady in Luxor who holds private classes.”

The reference was of course lost on Katherine, who requested elucidation. She responded to my explanation with the sympathetic enthusiasm I had come to expect of her.

“To think of that humble little woman harboring such aspirations! She makes me feel thoroughly ashamed of myself. I ought to be conducting such classes myself.”

“Why not start a school?” Cyrus suggested. “Find a suitable building and hire teachers.”

“Do you mean it?” Her face lit up. Katherine had always reminded me of a pleasant tabby cat, with her gray-streaked hair and rounded cheeks and green eyes. One would never have called her beautiful, but when she looked at her husband as she was looking now, she appeared quite beautiful to my eyes—and, it was clear, to his. “Do you mean it, Cyrus? In addition to reading and writing, we could instruct the girls in household management and child care, train those who show ability in a particular area such as typewriting and—”

Cyrus burst out laughing. “And provide college scholarships for the lot! My dear, you may start a dozen schools if it will make you happy.”

After dinner we retired to the drawing room, where we were affectionately greeted by the Vandergelts’ cat, Sekhmet. She had belonged to us originally; we had brought her to Egypt in the hope that she would compensate Ramses for the loss of his longtime companion, the cat Bastet. He had not taken to Sekhmet, referring to her contemptuously as “the furry slug.” It is true that Sekhmet was so fatuously and indiscriminately affectionate she did not care whose lap she occupied, but this very trait had endeared her to Cyrus. She now lived like a princess in “the Castle,” fed on cream and filleted fish by the majordomo when the Vandergelts were in America, and never leaving the walled borders of the estate—for Cyrus would not allow her to mingle with common cats.

She settled down on David’s knee, purring hysterically, and Nefret went to the pianoforte. Cyrus took me aside.

“Thank you, Amelia, my dear,” he said warmly. “You have given Katherine a new interest. She was moping a bit before you arrived; missed the kiddies, you know.”

“And so did you, I daresay.”

Katherine’s children by her first, unhappy marriage were at school in England. I had not met them, since they spent their holidays in America with their mother and stepfather; but Cyrus, who had always wanted a family of his own, had taken them to his generous heart. He sighed wistfully.

“Yes, my dear, I did. I wish you could persuade Katherine to let them come out with us next season. I’ve offered to hire tutors, teachers, anything she wants.”

“I will talk to her, Cyrus. It strikes me as an excellent idea. There is no climate so salubrious as that of Luxor in winter, and the experience would be extremely educational.”

He took my hand and pressed it warmly. “You are the best friend in the world, Amelia. We could not get on without you. You will—you will take care of yourself, won’t you?”

“I always do,” I said, laughing. “And so does my dear Emerson. What makes you say that, Cyrus?”

“Well, I just sort of figured you were up to something, since you always are. The quieter things look, the more I expect an explosion. You wouldn’t refuse me the chance to help, would you?”

“Dear Cyrus, you are the truest of friends. At the moment, however, I am not up to anything. I only wish—”

But at that moment Emerson called my name, ostensibly to request that we come join in the singing. Emerson had quite got over his jealousy of Cyrus, but he does not appreciate having other men hold my hand quite so long or quite so warmly.

I am extremely fond of music, but it was the genial company rather than the quality of the performances that made our little impromptu concerts so enjoyable. Emerson cannot carry a tune at all, but he sings very loud and with great feeling. His rendering of “The Last Chord” was one of his best. (A good deal of the melody is on the same note, which was all to the good.) We did a few of the jollier choruses of Gilbert and Sullivan, and Nefret badgered Ramses into joining her in a song from the new Victor Herbert operetta. Cyrus always brought the latest American music out with him, and none of us had heard this one.

“It’s a duet,” Nefret pointed out. “I can’t sing two parts simultaneously, and you’re the only other one who can sight-read.”

Ramses had been reading the words over her shoulder. “The lyrics are even more banal and sentimental than usual,” he grumbled. “I won’t be able to keep a straight face.”

Nefret chuckled. “What’s wrong with golden hair and eyes of blue? It’s hard to find words that rhyme with ‘brown.’ You come in on the chorus: ‘Not that you are fair, dear . . .’ ”

I must confess they sounded very well together, even though Ramses could not resist breaking into a tremulous falsetto on the last high note.

After the impromptu concert had concluded with Cyrus’s rendition of his favorite “Kathleen Mavourneen”—making calf’s eyes at his wife the whole time, as Emerson inelegantly expressed it—we went out to the courtyard to wait for the carriage. The night was beautifully cool and the stars blazed as bright as Mrs. Stephenson’s diamonds. Katherine, all afire with her new scheme, suggested we go to Luxor next day to call on Fatima’s teacher.

“Impossible,” said Emerson.

“Why?” I demanded. “You can certainly spare me for a few hours. That nasty number Fifty-three—”

“We are not going to work at Fifty-three. I have a little surprise for you, Peabody. Great news! Tomorrow we start on tomb Five!”

“How exciting,” I said hollowly. There could be nothing of interest in that rubble-filled tomb, and the labor involved would be monstrous.

“How’d you manage that?” Cyrus asked. There was a note of envy in his voice. He missed the Valley where he had excavated for so many years without success, but with great enjoyment.

“Tact,” said my husband smugly. “I simply pointed out to Weigall that nobody else would ever bother with the confounded place, especially Davis, who is such an egotistical ignoramus—”

“You didn’t say that!” I exclaimed, as a ripple of laughter ran through the group.

“What difference does it make what I said? Weigall has agreed, and he is the man in charge.”

“It was very kind of him to overlook your knocking him down the other day.”

“I did it for his own good,” said Emerson hypocritically. “Never mind that. We are going to need more men than we have been using with the smaller tombs. I will need Nefret and David as well, for I mean to take quantities of photographs.”

Emerson sent us all off to bed after we got home, since he meant to make an early start next day. After I had brushed and braided my hair I put on my dressing gown and slipped out of the room, leaving him bent over his notes.

Nefret responded at once to my soft tap on the door. She was alone except for the cat, who occupied the precise center of her bed. “Is something wrong, Aunt Amelia?” she asked.

“Nothing. I am only a little curious. Was it you who persuaded Mr. Weigall to give in to Emerson’s request? I do hope, my dear, that you did not resort to underhanded means. Mr. Weigall is a married man, and—”

“Quite devoted to his Hortense,” said Nefret, trying not to smile. “I never flirt with married men, Aunt Amelia. I am shocked that you should suggest such a thing.”

“Ah,” I said. “Mr. Davis is not a married man, is he? And Mr. Weigall does whatever Mr. Davis tells him to do. I noticed the other evening—”

Nefret burst out laughing. “So did Ramses. He accused me of flirting with Mr. Davis. Mr. Davis is quite harmless, Aunt Amelia, but like many older men he is particularly susceptible to flattery and compliments. I did it for the Professor.”

“Hmmm. Do you have an idea as to why he is so set on working in that part of the Valley?”

“An idea did occur to me. It must have occurred to you as well.”

“Yes.” I sighed. “We must hope Mr. Ayrton does not come across any interesting tombs this season.”

I refer the Reader to my plan of the Valley and invite him to note the relative areas of tomb Five and the area in which Mr. Ayrton was working. If there were unknown tombs in the Valley of the Kings, such areas were precisely where one might expect to find them. And if Ned did find such a tomb, Emerson would be there, watching every move he made and criticizing everything he did.

I expected trouble and I was (of course) right. But not evenI could have anticipated the magnitude of the disaster that actually occurred.

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