The Golden One

An Amelia Peabody Adventure

by Elizabeth Peters

TO TRACEY We praise the Golden One, the Lady of Heaven, Lady of Fragrance,Eye of the Sun, the Great Goddess,Mistress of All the Gods,Lady of Turquoise, Mistress of Joy, Mistress of Music . . .that she may give us fine children,happiness, and a good husband.

— Epithets of Hathor,compiled from various sources

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To err is human, and I am and I do, despite the fact that I go to considerable effort to get even small details right. I do not scruple to make use of my friends in this endeavor; several of them have read all or part of the manuscript and made suggestions. I am particularly indebted to Tim Hardman and Ann Crispin, for setting me straight on the (to me) esoteric subject of horses and cavalry. Catharine Roehrig, one of the few Egyptologists who have visited the area of the southwest wadis, was good enough to tell me where I went wrong in my initial description. Donald Ryan, one of the few others, also corrected mistakes in his usual tactful manner. Dennis Forbes, George Johnson, and Kristen Whitbread read the entire bulky manuscript and offered advice. If errors remain, they are mine, and not those of my advisers. PREFACE

The Editor is pleased to present another of the journals of Mrs. Amelia Peabody Emerson, Egyptologist, adventurer, wife, and mother. (She would, the Editor believes, approve that order.) Editing her prose is no easy task, for the original text contains some misinformation, a great deal of repetition, and certain omissions. In order to repair the latter fault, the Editor has, as before, inserted sections from Manuscript H, begun by Ramses Emerson at approximately the age of sixteen, and continued by him and his wife after their marriage. This manuscript describes events at which Mrs. Emerson was not present, and gives a viewpoint differing in significant ways from hers. She was an extremely opinionated lady. The rest of the Emerson papers are still being studied, collated, and edited. Material from these sources has appeared in earlier volumes (and may appear in the future), but none of it adds anything relevant to the present volume.

PART ONE

The Cemetery of the Monkeys

1

When I am in one of my philosophical moods, I am inclined to wonder whether all families are as difficult as mine. I was in such a mood as I dressed for dinner on the penultimate evening of our voyage. We would dock at Alexandria in two days, unless, of course, the ship was sunk by a German torpedo. A winter voyage from England to Egypt is never comfortable; but in that fateful December of 1916, after more than two years of war, the possibility of submarine attack had been added to the perils of rough seas and stormy weather. I was not thinking of that danger — for I make it a habit never to worry about matters that are beyond my control — nor of the difficulty of trying to keep my footing while the floor of the cabin rose and fell and the oil lamps swung wildly on their brackets — for mine is the sort of mind that rises above such things — but perhaps these considerations did affect me more than I realized, giving a pessimistic cast to my normally cheerful reflections. Mind you, I had no legitimate grounds for complaint about my immediate family. My husband, Radcliffe Emerson, is the most distinguished Egyptologist of this or any other era. His sapphirine-blue eyes, the cleft, or dimple, in his strong chin, his thick sable hair, and muscular but symmetrical frame are additional attractions to me and, I regret to say, to innumerable other females. He has a few minor eccentricities: his command of invective, which has earned him the Egyptian sobriquet of Father of Curses, his explosive temper, his autocratic, arbitrary method of dealing with the authorities of the Service des Antiquités, which had led in the past to our being barred from most of the interesting sites in Egypt . . . Well, but no proud mother could have asked for a better son than mine. Ramses had been named for his Uncle Walter, but everyone called him by the nickname given him by his father in infancy. He was as handsome and intellectually gifted as his father, idealistic, kind, and courageous . . . A little too courageous, perhaps? He had been one of the most infuriating children I have ever had the misfortune to encounter, and his reckless disregard for danger, when he believed the cause he supported to be morally right, was one trait that I had been unable to eradicate. The most terrifying of his adventures had occurred during the winter of 1914–15, when he had taken on a secret assignment for the War Office. He and his best friend, David, had completed their mission successfully, but both had been seriously injured, and Ramses’s true identity had been exposed to agents of the Central Powers. I had hoped his marriage would sober him, but although he was as passionately attached to his beautiful wife as Emerson was to my humble self, Nefret had not been the calming influence for which I had hoped. She would have thrown herself in front of a charging lion if Ramses were its destined prey, but what I wanted was someone who would prevent him from provoking lions in the first place. Nefret had been our ward, dear as a daughter, before she married our son. As a firm believer in the equality of the female gender, I could only approve the determination with which she had achieved against considerable odds her goal of qualifying as a surgeon. As a person of high moral principles I could only commend her for spending part of her large fortune in establishing in Cairo a hospital for women that served even the lowest and most despised members of that sex. If only she would consent to settle down — devote her ardent energies to medicine and to archaeology, and to Ramses — and perhaps . . . The boat gave a great lurch and I dropped the earring I was endeavoring to insert. With a muttered “Curse it” I lowered myself to hands and knees and began feeling about on the floor — without, I hardly need say, losing the track of my mental musing. Honesty compels me to admit that the propensity of my son and daughter to become engaged with individuals who desired to wreak grave bodily harm upon them was not entirely their fault. Emerson and I tended to attract such individuals too. Over the years we had dealt — effectively, I hardly need add — with murderers, forgers, tomb robbers, and criminals of various sorts. Several of them had been related to us. As I crawled under the dressing table in pursuit of the elusive earring, I remembered something Emerson had said about my side of the family, to the effect that not one of them had any redeeming qualities whatever. This was rude, but undeniably correct. One of my nephews had been — I am happy to employ the past tense — a thoroughly repellent human being. Sennia, his little daughter by a Cairo prostitute, who had been callously abandoned by her father, was now part of our family. The boat bounced again and the top of my head came into painful contact with the underside of the dressing table. Since I was alone, with no one to overhear, I permitted myself a few expletives. I do not approve of bad language, but everybody else in the family employs it freely. It is Emerson’s fault. He cannot or will not restrain himself and of course the children emulate him. There are times when Nefret’s language . . . The cursed earring continued to elude me, but I endeavored, as is my habit, to look on the bright side. Emerson’s kin were exemplary human beings: his brother Walter, a true scholar and gentle man; Walter’s wife, my close friend Evelyn; and their fine brood of children, in which category I must include the husband of their daughter Lia. David, a talented artist and trained Egyptologist, and Ramses’s best friend, was the grandson of our dear departed reis Abdullah. We had missed him terribly the year before, in both his professional and personal capacities. However, there was Emerson’s other brother. The door burst open and Emerson staggered in. Observing my position, he let out a bellow of alarm, seized me round the waist, and lifted me to my feet — and off them. “Did you fall, sweetheart? The cursed boat is bouncing like a rubber ball. Speak to me, Peabody.” I was touched by his use of my maiden name, which he employs as a term of approbation and endearment, and by his tender concern, but discomfort compelled me to utter a mild complaint. “I cannot breathe, Emerson, you are squeezing me too tightly.” “Oh.” Emerson removed one arm and caught hold of the doorframe. “I dropped an earring,” I explained, after drawing a long breath. “Pray put me down, my dear. I don’t want to lose it, it was one of the pair you gave me last Christmas.” “I will find it.” Emerson deposited me on the bed and began crawling round the floor. “Stay still or you will brain yourself. Ah — here you are, my love.” The gem winked and sparkled in his big brown hand. As a general rule I do not care for diamonds — an antique scarab or a string of mummy beads is much more to my taste — but Emerson had selected the stones and designed the settings. Having observed that other women seemed to like diamonds — it had only taken him thirty years to notice this — he had decided I should have some, too. “Why have you got yourself up so formally?” he demanded. “No one will dress for dinner tonight, the sea is too rough.” “It is necessary to keep up appearances, especially in times such as these. Have you forgotten the date?” “Yes,” said Emerson, in — I could only suppose — a desperate attempt to forestall my suggestion that he assume evening dress. Emerson dislikes the confinement of tightly fitting garments, and I would be the first to admit that his impressive form never shows to better advantage than when he is attired in the wrinkled flannels and open-necked shirts he wears on the dig. I felt obliged to persevere, however. “It is December the thirty-first, Emerson. We must toast the New Year and pray that 1917 will bring better hopes.” “Bah,” said Emerson. “It is an artificial distinction with no meaning. The only significance of January the first is that we will be one day closer to Alexandria. You are fine enough for both of us. That gown becomes you, my love. Is it new?” It was not, and he knew it — at least I think he did — it is difficult to be certain with Emerson, since he remains happily oblivious to things one expects him to notice, and sees things one hopes he will not. A glance in the mirror gave me little in the way of confirmation of his compliment, for my image was distorted by movement and shadow. However, I know my own appearance well enough — a form perhaps slightly more rounded than in the distant past, a rather too prominent chin, eyes of steely gray, and black hair that is long and thick but not sleekly shining, despite the hundred strokes of a brush it receives each evening. (In the pages of my private journal I will confess that its color owes a little something to art rather than to nature. Emerson is unaware of this small deception and I have seen no reason to enlighten him.) In short, beautiful I am not — except in the eyes of my husband. Softened by this touching thought, I smiled affectionately at him. “No, Emerson, you would be the only person not in evening dress. On this occasion especially it is necessary to display a stiff upper lip and —” “Damnation!” Emerson shouted. With my assistance and a good deal of grumbling, he did as he was told. He then offered me his arm, and the remnants of his ill humor vanished as I clung tightly to it. Emerson likes me to cling to him. I do not do it often, but I doubt I could have kept my footing that night without his support. We had not seen much of our fellow passengers, of whom there were far fewer than in the happy past. The inclement weather had kept most persons in their bunks. Thanks to the judicious application of whiskey and soda, which is, among other things, an excellent remedy for mal de mer, we had been unaffected, but there was little pleasure in walking the deck in a howling gale. More people than usual were at dinner that evening. The celebration of the New Year was no doubt the occasion, but few of them looked as if they were in a mood to celebrate. The tightly curtained windows of the dining saloon were a silent reminder of war, and the ship kept rolling about in a disconcerting fashion. Perhaps, I thought hopefully, submarines do not sail in bad weather. I must remember to ask someone. The others were already at our table; as we wove a somewhat erratic path toward them, Ramses rose, balancing lightly with a hand on the back of his chair. I was pleased to see that he was properly attired in black tie and that Nefret looked particularly lovely in the soft shade of blue that matched her eyes and set off her red-gold hair. The fifth member of the party was tightly wedged between them, in order to prevent her from flying off her chair. Sennia should have been in her cabin with Basima, her nurserymaid, for the hour was late for a seven-year-old, but Basima did not feel well, and Sennia had wanted to be with Ramses on this special occasion — and she had got her own way, as she often did. It was not surprising that many people believed my nephew’s child to be Ramses’s illegitimate daughter, for she had my dark gray eyes and his coloring. Ramses had always looked more like an Egyptian than an English person: wavy black hair, black eyes and thick lashes, skin several shades darker than is common in our island. (I cannot explain this, and I see no reason why I should be obliged to do so.) His looks are very pleasing, and I assure the reader that his fond mother has not been the only female to think so. He seated himself somewhat hastily and caught Sennia as she slipped sideways. She let out a high-pitched laugh, which sounded very loud in the subdued air of the saloon. Several persons looked and smiled; several others frowned disapprovingly; but that peal of childish laughter had unquestionably relieved some of the tension that filled the room. “Enjoying this, Little Bird?” Emerson inquired fondly. “Oh, yes, it’s great fun bouncing up and down. And if I spill soup in my lap Aunt Amelia cannot say it is my fault.” She gave me a cheeky grin, and I smiled back at her, glad she was too young to share the uneasiness that affected the rest of us. We had thought long and hard about exposing her to the perils of the voyage instead of leaving her in the tender care of Walter and Evelyn; but Sennia had not thought about it at all, she had simply assumed she would come along, and any attempt to prevent her would have led to consequences that were loud and unpleasant. Emerson could not bear to see her cry, and the little witch knew it. She had come into our lives under circumstances that were painful to recall even now, but what a joy she was to us all! She was quite like a grandchild . . . the only one . . . thus far . . . Nefret caught me staring at her and the color in her face deepened. “Yes, Mother?” she inquired. “Is there a smudge on my nose?” “Why, no, my dear. I was just thinking how that shade of blue becomes you.” The subject was one into which no person of sensibility could properly probe, and I felt certain I would be the first to be informed. After Ramses, of course. A great deal of soup was spilled, and not only by Sennia. Most of the diners stuck it out until the end, however, and after Sennia had finished the light meal which was all I allowed her, she began to fidget and look round. How she had got to know so many of the other passengers I could not imagine, since we had never let her out of our sight, but her waves and smiles were acknowledged by several persons. One was a tall gray-haired gentleman whom I had seen once or twice on deck; his forbidding face broke into a smile and he waved back. Sennia received an even more energetic response from a man seated at the captain’s table. He had a round face, as red and wrinkled as a well-preserved winter apple, and he bobbed up and down in his chair, waving, until the young man next to him put a restraining hand on his arm. He was as stiff as the older man — his father? — was friendly. Eyeglasses gave him a scholarly look, but he was dressed with foppish elegance, every hair in place. “Who are they?” I asked Sennia. “They are Americans. Can I have an ice?” “May I have an ice. Yes, you may.” “Is the lady his wife?” Nefret asked. “Goodness, look at that frock, andthe diamonds, andthe rubies.” “Vulgarly large,” I said with a sniff. “I think they are very beautiful,” said Miss Sennia. “She let me look at them one day — it was in the saloon — but only because Mr. Albion told her to. She is not as nice as he is, and their son is not nice at all.” She took firm hold of the bowl and dug her spoon into the pink mound. “Mr. Albion wanted to meet you, but I told him you did not meet people.” “Good girl,” said Emerson approvingly. Between bites Sennia told us about the gray-haired gentleman, who was going out to join a firm in Alexandria, and about several of the other passengers. The storm began to subside, the howls of the wind were not so loud, the motion not quite so violent; but I believe we were all relieved when the attendants came round with champagne and the captain rose to propose a toast. It was somewhat long-winded. I remember only the end. “To the health of His gracious Majesty and to victory in 1917!” Somehow I was not surprised to hear a familiar voice amend the statement. “To peace,” said Ramses. We drank to that.

As it turned out, we reached Alexandria without being torpedoed, and were met by Selim and Daoud. Selim had replaced his father Abdullah as our reis, or foreman; he and his Uncle Daoud, like Abdullah’s other relations, were as close as family, and valued assistants in all our endeavors. They assisted us in resuscitating poor Basima and Gargery, our butler, who had suffered horribly from seasickness the entire time, and Sennia’s cat, who had not been seasick but whose normally bad temper was even more strained by long confinement in a room that was in constant motion. It would have been impossible to leave the nasty beast behind because Sennia, and, to a lesser degree, Nefret, were the only persons who could control him. Horus was the only cat with us that year. Seshat, Ramses’s erstwhile companion and guardian, had given up a professional career for domesticity. Perhaps she felt she could now trust Nefret to look after him. Basima brightened as soon as she set foot on dry land, and Gargery, though still unsteady, went off with Daoud to see about the luggage. We had a great deal more than usual this time, for we had reached a momentous decision. Ordinarily we left for Egypt in the autumn and ended our excavation season before the summer heat set in; but this time we had come for an indefinite stay. Emerson, who does not fear man nor beast nor demon of the night on his own account, had declared his nerves were unequal to having the rest of us travel back and forth as long as the submarine menace remained. “It will get worse before it gets better, mark my words,” he had declared. “I don’t mind people shooting at us or shutting us up in pyramids or trying to brain us with heavy objects — that is to say, I don’t much like it, but I have become accustomed to it. Having a bloody ship sunk under us by a bloody U-boat is something else again. Call me a coward if you will . . .” None of us did; as Ramses remarked, there was not a man alive who would have dared. I knew how Emerson felt, for I have the same fear of air raids. We had, all of us, been in deadly peril on more than one occasion, and felt quite comfortable about our ability to deal with ordinary human adversaries. To be sure, there were human beings at the control of aeroplanes and submarines, but since one never saw them, one was inclined to think of the machine itself as the enemy — a remote mechanical menace. Nor for worlds would I have questioned Emerson’s motives in proposing the scheme, but he had always yearned to work year-round in Egypt instead of having to close down the dig in March or April, sometimes when the excavation was at its most interesting. For the past several seasons our archaeological activities had been even more constrained by family matters and by Ramses’s undercover work for the War Office. This season Emerson had been awarded the firman for a site in Luxor. It was of all places in Egypt the one we loved best — the scene of several of our greatest discoveries, our home for many happy years, and the home as well of our dear friends the Vandergelts, who were even then settling in for a long season of excavation. There was only one objection I could think of to such a splendid prospect. I do not refer to the blistering heat of Luxor in summer — an objection that would never have occurred to Emerson, who has the constitution of a camel — but to the fact that we would leave behind for Heaven knew how long our beloved family. The Reader will be cognizant, after my earlier remarks on the subject, that I was not thinking of the members of my side of the family. “Nonsense,” said Emerson, when I mentioned this. “You are hopelessly given to melodrama, Peabody. We are not bidding anyone a final farewell, only prolonging the separation a trifle. Circumstances may change; we will not be completely cut off.” He had readily agreed that we must spend Christmas with our loved ones and we did our best to make a merry time of it, for the sake of the children — Sennia, and Lia and David’s little Dolly, who was just old enough to toddle about. All our surviving nieces and nephews were there: Raddie and his new wife, the widow of a friend who had died in France; Margaret, newly engaged to a young officer; even Willie, on leave from France, who tried, dear lad, to make twice as many jokes to compensate for the absence of his twin brother, Johnny, who had been killed in action the year before. There were tears as well as laughter; the war was too much with us; but we carried it off, I think, and there was one moment of genuine hilarity when Emerson asked David if he had considered coming out later in the season. “Up to you, of course,” he added hastily. “But little Dolly is fit and healthy, and Lia —” “She is doing very well,” said Nefret. “All things considered.” She smiled at David, whose candid countenance betrayed his relief at her intervention. He had difficulty in refusing Emerson anything, and he had not known how to break the news. I, of course, had known the moment I set eyes on Lia. Emerson’s jaw dropped. “Oh, good Gad!” he shouted. “Not again! Just like her mother! It must be a hereditary —” “Emerson!” I exclaimed. The reminder was sufficient, for Emerson is really the kindest of men. He managed to choke out a few words of congratulatory import, but everyone had heard his bellow and most of them knew what had occasioned it. Even Evelyn, who had not laughed a great deal since Johnny’s death, had to retreat behind the Christmas tree to conceal her mirth. She was well aware that Emerson had never entirely forgiven her for abandoning a promising career as a copier of Egyptian scenes in favor of motherhood. We would miss David and Lia, and not only for their affectionate companionship; David was one of the best artists and epigraphers in the field and Lia had learned enough about Egyptology to have become a valued assistant. Their absence would leave us somewhat shorthanded that season. I did not allow that to worry me. We would manage somehow. As I stood on the dock at Alexandria, the old joy of being back in Egypt pervaded every atom of my being. We got ourselves and our baggage onto the train for Cairo with only the usual confusion, which was compounded by the presence of the cat. Horus had to sit between Sennia and Nefret, since he refused to tolerate anyone else. Other members of our Egyptian family awaited us at the station in Cairo. We were soon the center of a shouting, cheering mob, which included not only our friends but practically every Egyptian who happened to be there, all greeting us by our Egyptian names. Emerson disliked formal titles and would not allow our workers to address him as Effendi, but he rather reveled in his well-deserved sobriquet of the Father of Curses. Many Egyptians still called me Sitt Hakim, though a lady doctor I was not; however, in my early days in Egypt, when medical services for the fellahin were practically nonexistent, even my limited medical skills were appreciated. The title should have been Nefret’s, but she had long been known as Nur Misur, “Light of Egypt”; and Ramses was Brother of Demons — a tribute to his supposedly supernatural powers. Emerson was soon so enveloped by well-wishers that only his head (hatless, as usual) showed above the crowd, some of whom attempted to embrace him while others knelt for his blessing (and baksheesh). All at once Emerson’s voice rose in a vehement swearword. “Stop him!” he shouted, spinning round in a circle and swatting his admirers away with wide sweeps of his arms. “Where did he go?” “Why, Emerson, what is the matter?” I demanded, hastening to his side. Red-faced and shaking with rage, Emerson invoked the Creator in a manner of which I thoroughly disapprove. “He was here a second ago. Dressed in rags, smelling like a camel, squatting at my feet . . . Where is he?” “Vanished,” I said, as the crowd again closed in. “Did he speak to you?” “Oh, yes, he spoke. ‘Welcome back, brother! And thank you.’ ” Said Emerson, between clenched teeth, “I had just given him fifty piastres.”

Emerson’s other brother. Strictly speaking, he was a half brother, the son of Emerson’s father and a lady who had had the misfortune not to be married to that gentleman. Only recently had we discovered the true identity of the man who had been for many years our most formidable opponent, a master of disguise and the head of a ring of criminals that specialized in tomb robbing and antiquities fraud; and the additional, equally astonishing fact that Sethos, as he chose to be called, was one of Britain’s most valued secret agents. These revelations had forced us to reevaluate a relationship that had been marked by considerable acrimony. As I pointed out to Emerson, one cannot wholly despise a man who has risked his life for us and for his country. I made the point again as my seething spouse spun round and round in a vain attempt to locate the insolent beggar. Ramses and Nefret hastened to us, demanding to know what had happened. A few brief sentences of explanation sufficed; they were only too well acquainted with Sethos’s skill at disguise and bizarre sense of humor. Ramses’s enigmatic countenance remained unmoved except for a faint line between his brows, but Nefret’s dimples were very much in evidence. She had a certain weakness for the man. Most women did, and Sethos was not above exploiting it for his own advantage. There was nothing to be done about locating him in that mob, so, with the assistance of the children, I forced Emerson into a carriage and persuaded him to delay discussion of the matter until we had got ourselves settled into the hotel. Although he was anxious to get on to Luxor, Emerson had agreed to spend a few days in Cairo catching up on the news. Press censorship was so strict, we had only the faintest idea of what had been going on in our part of the world. We were staying at Shepheard’s; and it was with a sense of agreeable nostalgia that I found myself once again in the ambience that had provided the prelude to so many remarkable experiences. The villain Vincey (and his cat) searching our luggage in the bedroom; the Master Criminal, aka Sethos, aka (had I but known) my brother-in-law, slipping a sleeping potion into my wine in the dining saloon . . . “What’s he up to now?” Emerson demanded, as the servants carried in our bags and the manager advanced to welcome us. “Do stop shouting, Emerson,” I implored. “Wait until we are in private.” We had been given our old rooms on the third floor. By the time we had got everyone settled in and I had convinced Sennia that she must have an early supper with Basima instead of joining us for dinner, the sky was darkening and the lights of Cairo were twinkling through the dusk. The private discussion I had promised Emerson would have to wait a little longer; Gargery was not to be got rid of. Fully recovered and officious as usual, he was determined to carry out the duties of a valet. Emerson did not employ a valet, nor should the Reader suppose that under ordinary circumstances we would have taken a servant as useless as a butler with us to an archaeological dig. Gargery was something more and perhaps something less than a butler, however; he had taken part in several of our criminal investigations and had proved himself ready and willing to employ any methods he deemed necessary to protect us — and most particularly, Sennia. I completed my toilette and retired to the sitting room, where I found that the sufragi had delivered a number of messages and letters. I glanced through them, entertained by the growls and curses coming from the dressing room. Finally Emerson emerged, looking sullen but very handsome in black tie, and after admiring his handiwork and requesting my approval, Gargery retired. Emerson said, “Now, Peabody, curse it —” “No, my dear, not now. We will want to hear what the children have to say about this.” Nefret and Ramses were late in joining us in the dining saloon, so I took advantage of the interlude to see if there was anyone present from whom I could extract useful information. Pickings, as Emerson remarked, appeared to be slim. Many of our fellow archaeologists had left Egypt for war duties. I had hoped to see Howard Carter, who led a peripatetic existence, running back and forth between Luxor, where he excavated in a rather random manner, and Cairo, where he carried out certain mysterious activities on behalf of the War Office. However, he was not there. There was one familiar face among those present — one I would rather not have seen. He was looking directly at me, and I was not quick enough to avoid meeting his eyes; the thin lips compressed between a pointed nose and chin parted in a smile and he rose to his feet. “Curse it!” said Emerson. “It’s that bastard Smith.” “That is only his nom d’espionnage, Emerson.” “His what?” “You know what I mean. I thought it a rather clever term.” Emerson’s expression indicated that he did not agree. “His name is Boisgirdle-Bracedragon,” I added. “Or is it Bracegirdle-Boisdragon? The reason I have difficulty in remembering is, of course, because I dislike the fellow so thoroughly. It is a well-known psychological —” “Don’t talk psychology to me, Peabody. It is a damned ridiculous name in any case. If we must refer to him at all, Smith is good enough. He isn’t going to have the infernal gall to speak to us, is he?” If Smith had intended to do so, Emerson’s concentrated scowl made him think better of it. He sank back into his chair. I kept an unobtrusive eye on him, though, and when Ramses and Nefret joined us a few minutes later, he again rose, and this time, he bowed in our direction. Ramses misses very little, and this overture would have been difficult to overlook. His bland expression did not change, but Nefret let out a muffled swearword. She looked very beautiful in her favorite cornflower blue, with pearls and sapphires as her ornaments and her gold-red hair coiled into a coronet around her head; but her pretty face had assumed a scowl almost as forbidding as that of Emerson. “What’s he doing here?” she demanded. “One must suppose he is dining,” said Ramses coolly. “Here?” Nefret had a point. Shepheard’s was no longer the hotel favored by the smart set of Cairo. “Smith” was a member of that group of silly women and pompous officials, the majority of whom were probably unaware of his intelligence activities, believing him to be an official of the Department of Public Works. He was dining alone that evening. It would not have been difficult for interested parties to learn the date of our arrival and the name of the hotel where we had booked rooms. Some of those interested parties were in London, and I did not doubt that their particular interest was in my son. At the behest of his superiors, Smith had tried once before to recruit Ramses for a dangerous mission. Would he try again? Or — the idea had just occurred to me — did his presence have something to do with the reappearance of Emerson’s brother? Sethos had been connected in some way with the group Smith directed, whatever it may have been. Secretiveness is second nature to such persons; they may and do claim it is necessary, but in my opinion they revel in being mysterious. I did not mention this conjecture to Emerson, for that would have inflamed his temper even more. “The devil with Smith,” he declared. “What I want to know is — confound it, young man, what are you doing?” “Serving the next course,” I said, as the youth fumbled with the plates. “That is his job, Emerson. Stop terrorizing him.” “Oh. Well. Sorry, my boy,” he added, addressing the waiter, who went pale with horror. I groaned. “And don’t apologize to him!” It has proved impossible to train Emerson in the proper ways of dealing with servants. He treats prince and peasant, basket carrier and archaeologist the same — that is, he shouts at them when he is out of temper and begs their pardon when he has been unjust. The waiter ought to have been trained in the proper way of dealing with Emerson, whose peculiarities are well known to the staff at Shepheard’s, but he was very young and apparently he had not taken the warnings to heart. With the assistance of the headwaiter he managed to get the soup plates off the table and the fish course served, and Emerson, who was unaware of having done anything unusual, resumed where he had left off. “What’s Sethos doing in Cairo? What was the point of that impertinent encounter? Was it a challenge or a warning or —” “Why should it have been either?” Nefret asked. “We haven’t heard from him for months, and he knows we have good reason to be concerned about him. Perhaps it was only his way of telling us he is alive and well.” “Bah,” said Emerson. Nefret laughed, and I said, “Now, Emerson, you mustn’t hold a grudge, my dear.” “Grudge! It is petty-minded, no doubt, to resent a man because he tried to kill me and seduce my wife and steal my antiquities.” “That was all in the past. The services he has rendered us and his country in the past few years attest to the sincerity of his reformation, and his recent — er — arrangement with another lady should be sufficient assurance of his abandonment of an attachment that was, I do not doubt, occasioned as much by his resentment of you as by his interest in me.” I paused to draw a deep breath, and Emerson, who had been stabbing at his fish, placed his fork on the table. “Peabody,” he said mildly, “that was even more pompous and pedantic than your usual declarations. Do not suppose that the complexity of your syntax can conceal the inaccuracy of your conclusions. He has not reformed. He as good as said so last year. As for his arrangement with Miss Minton, for all you know that came to an end almost as soon as it began. Your attempts to communicate with the lady this past summer were unsuccessful, weren’t they? Don’t deny that you tried, for I know you did.” At this point hehad to pause in order to breathe. “Ha!” I exclaimed. “You did the same. And you learned, as did I, that after being incommunicado for several months she had been accredited as a war correspondent and was in France. You also tried to get information about him from the War Office — without success, as you ought to have anticipated. Why won’t you admit that you care about the man? After all, he is —” “Mother, please!” Nefret said. “You are becoming heated. And so are you, Father. Perhaps you might allow someone else to offer an opinion.” “Well?” Emerson demanded of his daughter. “What have you to say?” “Nothing, really.” “Ah,” said Emerson. “Ramses?” He had remained silent, only smiling faintly as he looked from one speaker (Emerson) to the other (me). Now he shrugged. “Speculation about the motives of my uncle are surely a waste of time. One never knows what he will do until he does it.” Reddening, Emerson started to speak. Ramses raised his voice a trifle. “Thus far, all he has done is greet you. An encounter of that sort would appeal to his peculiar sense of humor, and he couldn’t risk a face-to-face meeting, not if he is still working undercover.” “I don’t give a curse about that,” Emerson declared forcibly, if not entirely accurately. “What I want to know is whether he is still in the antiquities game. Ramses, supposing you and I make the rounds of the cafés tonight and interrogate the dealers. If ‘the Master’ is back in business —” “They won’t tell you,” I said. “No,” Nefret agreed. After the waiter had removed the plates without incident (Emerson’s attention being otherwise engaged), she planted her elbows on the table and leaned forward, her blue eyes sparkling. “Your methods are too direct, Father. Do you remember Ali the Rat and his — er — young friend?” Emerson choked on a sip of wine, and I said uneasily, “Ramses can’t be Ali the Rat again, Nefret. His masquerade was discovered.” “But the people who knew of it are dead,” Nefret argued. “And I made a very pretty boy, didn’t I, Ramses?” She turned to look him squarely in the eyes. He did not respond at once. Then he said equably, “Very pretty. I’d prefer not to risk Ali, in case some of the old crowd are still hanging about, but we might try a variation of the same thing.” I had been afraid of this, though I had not expected matters would come to a head quite so soon. Nefret was as courageous and capable as any man, and utterly devoted to her husband. He was equally devoted to her, and I could only imagine what a struggle it must have been for him to admit she had the right to share his adventures and his danger. Naturally I was in full agreement with her demand for equality; had I not demanded and (more or less) received the same from Emerson? That did not mean I liked Nefret’s doing it. Principles do not hold up well when they are challenged by personal affection. To my relief, Ramses went on, “Not tonight, though. It will take me a while to collect the appropriate disguises.” “Certainly not tonight,” I said. “It has been a long day. We should retire early.” “An excellent suggestion,” said Emerson, cheering up. “Yes, Mother,” said Ramses. We had a little private conversation, Emerson and I, sitting cozily side by side before the dying fire in the sitting room and sipping a last whiskey and soda. I summed it up by saying, “So it is agreed that we leave Cairo as soon as possible?” Emerson nodded emphatic agreement. “It is worrisome enough having Ramses prowling the suks and the coffeeshops looking for criminals, without her going with him.” “Not so worrisome as having him take on another filthy job from the War Office. Smith’s presence this evening was highly suspicious, Emerson.” “Nonsense,” said Emerson. “However . . . Good Gad, what with the intelligence services and my devious brother, Cairo is no place for a family of harmless archaeologists. But you are worrying unnecessarily, my love. There is no way on earth Ramses could be persuaded to take on another assignment.” Emerson’s tender affection did not miss the slight shiver that ran through my limbs. “Damnation, Peabody,” he snarled, “if you are having one of your famous forebodings, I don’t want to hear about it! Come to bed at once.”

While we breakfasted in our rooms, Emerson looked through the post (distractions of various kinds having prevented him from doing so earlier) and came upon a letter from Cyrus Vandergelt that aroused such indignation he leaped to his feet, rushed to the door, and would have bolted out in his dressing gown had I not caught hold of him. “For pity’s sake, Emerson, where are you going?” Emerson waved the close-written pages at me. “They’re at it again. Another tomb. Looted. The artifacts already at the Luxor dealers. Damnation! Ramses —” “If you want to share this with Ramses,” I said, interpreting his incoherent comments with the skill of long experience, “I will send the sufragi to invite him and Nefret to join us. Sit down, Emerson, or, if you prefer, put on your clothes. A few more minutes’ delay cannot worsen a situation which —” “Curse it,” said Emerson, heading for the dressing room. He took the letter with him. Being accustomed to my husband’s impetuous behavior, I dispatched the sufragi on his errand and went on with my breakfast. The children must have been already up and dressed, for they came almost at once. “Is something wrong?” Ramses asked. “Why should you suppose that?” I replied, over the cries of outrage from the adjoining room. Some of them had to do with his inability to find his shirts, whose location (in the second drawer of the bureau) I had pointed out to him the previous night. “A summons at such an early hour —” Emerson came charging out of the dressing room, attired in trousers and shirt. “Ah, there you are. Good. Just listen to this.” “Finish your breakfast, Emerson,” I said, deftly removing the crumpled pages from his clenched fist and handing them to Ramses. I will summarize the account, which Ramses, at my request, read aloud. A few months earlier, rumors had spread that a hitherto unknown tomb had been discovered by the indefatigable thieves of Luxor. It had contained objects of rare value and distinction: royal diadems, vessels of stone and precious metal, and jewelry of all kinds. For once, the rumors were correct. Cyrus, who had heard the tales shortly after he arrived on the scene in November, had gone straight to the shop of our old acquaintance Mohammed Mohassib, who had been dealing in antiquities for thirty years. The canny old scoundrel, looking as pious as only a Luxor dealer can, had denied any knowledge of the reputed treasure. He always did, though it was well known that he had handled many of the big finds. There was nothing anybody could do about it, since he never kept the valuables in his own house, but distributed them among his various relations, and when he was in the process of marketing the goods he conducted private negotiations with interested parties who were not inclined to turn him in because they wanted the artifacts themselves. Knowing this habit of dear old Mohassib’s, Cyrus had persisted until Mohassib finally remarked that he had just happened to have acquired an interesting object — not from a tomb robber, of course! It proved to be a heavy gold bar approximately two inches long, set with five small figures of reclining cats, two of which were missing; the surviving three were of gold and carnelian. Cyrus knew his antiquities too well to remain long in doubt as to the meaning of what he saw. “The gold spacer was part of a woman’s armlet,” he had written. “Had to be a female’s because of the cats. It had the cartouches of Thutmose III. They’re saying there were three burials in the tomb, folks — queens or princesses related to Thutmose III.” Attempting (in vain, if I knew Cyrus) to conceal his excitement, he had immediately made Mohassib an offer. The old gentleman had regretfully declined. Another party had expressed interest, and he was obliged to give him the first chance. What else could a man of honor do? “That’s how it stands,” Cyrus ended his letter. “I’m pretty sure the ‘other party’ is Howard Carter, acting as agent for Carnarvon or some gol-durned museum. Mohassib is trying to raise the price by playing the bidders off against each other. You better get down here and talk to Mohassib, Emerson; he’s a wily old skunk and you’re the only one he’s scared of.” “We are leaving Cairo at once,” Emerson declared. Ramses exchanged glances with his wife. “Excuse me, Father, but I don’t see the need for such haste. The tomb has been cleared and Mohassib isn’t going to admit anything, even to you. It would make better sense to talk with Carter. Isn’t he working for the War Office? He may be in Cairo even now.” “Hmph,” said Emerson thoughtfully. “We cannot leave immediately,” Nefret said. “I must go to the hospital. I’ve been out of touch for months, and there are a number of matters I must settle with Sophia before I go away again.” “Hmph,” said Emerson again. Emerson’s grunts are quite expressive, to those who have learned to differentiate them. This one expressed disagreement and protest. The hospital Nefret had founded for the fallen women of Cairo was in a particularly vile part of the city; as she had pointed out, the unhappy creatures she wanted to help would not have dared venture into a respectable neighborhood. “It’s all right, Father,” Ramses said. “You don’t suppose I would allow my helpless, timid little wife to go alone to el-Wasa?” Nefret put out her tongue at Ramses. She had never entirely abandoned such childish gestures. This one appeared to amuse Ramses a great deal. “Ah,” said Emerson, brightening. “Good. What about you, Peabody? Are you going with them?” “I have other plans,” I said, folding my napkin. Emerson’s eyes narrowed into sapphirine slits. “Oh, no, you don’t, Peabody. You are coming with me. Or,” he added, “to put it another way, I am going with you.” The children left us and I sent Emerson off to finish dressing. I knew the process would take him some time, so I went to see how Sennia and her entourage were getting on. She and Basima and Gargery — and the cat — were still at breakfast. Sennia had a perfectly astonishing appetite for so small a person. When she saw me, she dropped her slice of toast — jelly-side down — and ran to throw her arms round me, demanding to know where we were going that day. “You and Gargery and Basima will have to amuse yourselves today,” I replied, in the tone that brooked no argument. “The rest of us have errands. I suggest a visit to the Museum, or perhaps you would like to hire a carriage and go out to Giza.” “I do not believe that is a good plan, madam,” said Gargery, winking furiously and wrinkling up his face in a most alarming manner. “After what happened last year —” “That was last year, Gargery. The people responsible for that incident are no longer a threat to us.” “But, madam! She will want to take the da — — the cat with us.” He scowled at Horus, who was sitting by Sennia’s chair cleaning his whiskers. Horus left off long enough to sneer at Gargery. All cats can sneer, but Horus did it better than most. He had a very large head and the dark stripes on his face reminded one of a gargoyle. “Shall we go to Atiyeh?” Basima asked. “Others of the family will want to see the Little Bird.” “And you will want to see them,” I said, realizing I ought to have thought of it. Basima was a devoted and dedicated woman who seldom asked anything for herself. In fact, it was an admirable idea; the village near Cairo where the northern branch of Abdullah’s family lived was not far off, and Sennia would be under the close supervision of dozens of affectionate friends who would prevent her from getting into mischief. I expressed my approval, and Gargery was pleased to agree. Nobody asked Horus for his opinion. “Where is Ramses going?” demanded Sennia, who was nothing if not persistent. “Somewhere you cannot go. We will be back in time for tea.” I left her pouting and Gargery fingering some object in his pocket which I hoped was not a pistol, though I feared it was. He took his duties as Sennia’s guard very seriously. After I had collected Emerson and made him put on a waistcoat and tie, and had changed my blouse, which bore several sticky handprints, we left the hotel and strolled along the Muski, waving away offers from cabdrivers. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Don’t be coy with me, Peabody,” said Emerson amiably. “You are going to the suk, aren’t you, to bully, harass, and interrogate antiquities dealers about Sethos.” “I thought I might ask a few questions of a few people, yes. Wouldn’t that be preferable to having the children prowling about the city after nightfall, with Nefret decked out as Ramses’s — er — his — um —” Emerson shuddered. “Good Gad, yes. But — but she didn’t mean it, did she?” “She meant it.” It is a nice healthy stroll from Shepheard’s to the Khan el Khalili, along the Muski and through the old Fatimite city with its mosques and gateways. Yet how the character of the city had changed! Motorcars and motorbicycles wove hazardous paths among horse-drawn cabs and donkey-drawn carts and caravans of camels. Uniforms were everywhere, the men who wore them as diverse as their insignia: tall rangy Australians and bearded Sikhs, dark-skinned Nubians and pink-cheeked boys fresh from the English countryside. It was a depressing sight. These men, now so bright-eyed and cheerful, were destined for the battlefields of Palestine and Europe, from which most would never return. The Khan el Khalili at least had not changed — the same narrow lanes, covered with matting and lined with small shops selling every variety of goods from silks to carpets to silver. Peddlers and sellers of sweetmeats wended their way through the crowds; a waiter, carrying aloft a tray with small cups of Turkish coffee, hastened to the shopkeeper who had ordered it. Not far from the mosque of the venerated Saint Hosein is the area given over to the stalls of the booksellers, and it was here I hoped to rid myself of the amiable but inconvenient presence of my spouse. Somewhat to my surprise he did not put up much of an argument. “You are calling on Aslimi, I suppose,” he said. “And perhaps a few others.” “Very well.” Emerson took out his watch. “I will give you three hours, Peabody. If you aren’t back by then, I will come looking for you.” “Anything but that!” I exclaimed jestingly. Emerson grinned. “Quite. Enjoy yourself, my love, and don’t buy any fakes.” Aslimi did deal in fake antiquities, as had his father, who had met a very ugly death in his own shop some years before. At first I did not recognize him. He had gained an enormous amount of weight and was almost as fat as his father had been. Seated on the mastaba bench outside his shop, he was importuning passersby in the traditional fashion and in a mixture of languages: “Oh, Howadji, I have beautiful antiquities! Monsieur et madame, écoutez-vous!” and so on. When he saw me he broke off with a gurgle and began wriggling, trying to stand. “Good morning, Aslimi,” I said. “Stay where you are.” Aslimi swallowed. “The Father of Curses —” “Is not with me.” “Ah.” Aslimi put his hands on the approximate region of his waist and sighed heavily. “He gives me pains in the stomach, Sitt Hakim.” “It is as God wills,” I said piously. Aslimi shot me a look that indicated he was more inclined to put the blame on Emerson than on Allah, but he rallied enough to go through the prescribed gestures of hospitality, offering me coffee or tea and a seat on the mastaba. Then we got down to business. I left the shop an hour and a half later, with several parcels. Bargaining takes quite a long time, and the subtle interrogation at which I excel takes even longer. Since I had time to spare, I stopped at a few more stalls, learning little more than I had from Aslimi, but purchasing a number of items that would be needed in our new home: a set of handsome copper cooking vessels, thirty yards of blue-and-silver Damascus silk, and two elegant carpets, all of which I directed to be sent to the hotel. I found Emerson surrounded by loosely bound volumes and piles of manuscripts and several of the more learned booksellers, with whom he was engaged in heated argument. I had begun to suspect that they enjoyed egging him on, for his views on religion — all varieties of religion — were unorthodox and eloquently expressed. The discussion ended when I appeared, and after an exchange of compliments all round, I led Emerson away. “Why do you do that?” I scolded. “It is very rude to criticize another individual’s religious beliefs, and there is not the slightest possibility that you will convert them.” “Who wants to convert them?” Emerson demanded in surprise. “Islam is as good a religion as any other. I don’t approve of Christianity or Judaism or Buddhism either.” “I am well aware of that, Emerson. I don’t suppose you learned anything of interest?” “It was very interesting. I raised several unanswerable points . . .” He noticed my parcels and took them from me. “What have you got there?” “Don’t unwrap them here,” I cautioned, for Emerson was, in his impetuous fashion, tugging at the strings. “While you were wasting your time debating theology, I went about the business for which we came to the Khan. Aslimi showed me some remarkable things, Emerson. He told me he had never known the supply of merchandise to be so great. He is getting objects from all over Egypt, including Luxor.” “What the devil!” Emerson came to a dead stop in the middle of the road. He began to unwrap the largest parcel, ignoring the camel advancing ponderously toward him. The driver, recognizing Emerson, managed to stop the recalcitrant animal before it ran into my equally recalcitrant spouse. He turned an outraged glare on the camel, which responded with its usual look of utter disgust. I stifled my laughter, for Emerson would not have found anything amusing about his attempt to stare down a camel. Somehow the driver got the beast past Emerson, who had not stirred an inch. I took the parcel from him. “It is not like you to be so careless, Emerson,” I said severely. “Careless with antiquities, I mean. Come out of the middle of the road and let me undo the wrappings enough to give you a peep.” Care was necessary, since there were two objects in the wrappings, both of them breakable — or at least, chippable. The one I showed Emerson was an alabaster disk with a thin band of gold around the rim. “No hieroglyphs,” he muttered. “Beautiful piece of work, though. It’s the lid of a pot or jar.” “A very expensive pot,” I amended. “I have the pot as well — an exquisitely shaped alabaster container, most probably for cosmetics. Now shall we go back to the hotel where we can examine it in private?” “Hmmm, yes, certainly.” Emerson watched me rewrap the lid. “I beg your pardon, my dear. You were quite right to scold me. What else have you got?” “Nothing so exciting as the cosmetic jar,” I said, “but I believe they are all from the same tomb — the one Cyrus told us about.” “So Mohassib didn’t get everything.” Emerson strode along beside me, his hands in his pockets. “How did Aslimi come by these?” “Not from Sethos.” “You asked him point-blank, I suppose,” Emerson grumbled. “Aslimi is a congenital liar, Peabody. How do you know he was telling you the truth?” “He turned pea-green at the very mention of ‘the Master.’ It would have been rather amusing if he had not been in such a state of abject terror; he kept wringing his hands and saying, ‘But he is dead. He is dead, surely. Tell me he is really dead this time, Sitt!’ ” “Hmmm,” said Emerson. “Now don’t get any ideas about pretending you are ‘the Master,’ Emerson.” “I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” said Emerson sulkily. “You are always telling me I cannot disguise myself effectively. It is cursed insulting. So — from whom did Aslimi acquire these objects?” “He claimed the man was someone he’d never seen before.” “I trust you extracted a description?” “Certainly. Tall, heavyset, black beard and mustache.” “That’s no help. Even if it was true.” “Aslimi would not lie to me. Emerson, please don’t walk so fast.” “Ha,” said Emerson. But he slowed his steps and gave me his arm. We had emerged onto the Muski, with its roaring traffic and European shops. “We’ll just have time to tidy up before luncheon,” he added. “Do you suppose the children are back?” “One never knows. I only hope they haven’t got themselves in trouble.” “Why should you suppose that?” “They usually do.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H The infamous Red Blind district of Cairo was centered in an area embarrassingly close to the Ezbekieh and the luxury hotels. In the brothels of el-Wasa, Egyptian, Nubian, and Sudanese women plied their trade under conditions of abject squalor. In theory they were under government medical supervision, but the government’s only concern was the control of venereal disease. There had been no place for the women who had suffered beatings or botched abortions or illnesses of other kinds. Even more difficult to control were the brothels in the adjoining area of Wagh el-Birka, which were populated by European women and run by European entrepreneurs. They were foreigners and therefore subject only to the authority of their consuls. Ramses had heard Thomas Russell, the assistant commander of the Cairo police, cursing the restrictions that prevented him from closing down the establishments. The alleys of el-Wasa were fairly quiet at that early hour. The stench was permanent; even a hard rain only stirred up the garbage of the streets and gathered it in oily pools, where it settled again once the water had evaporated. There were no drains. Ramses glanced at his wife, who walked briskly through the filth, giving it no more attention than was necessary to avoid the worst bits, and not for the first time he wondered how she could bear it. To his eyes she was always radiant, but in this setting she glowed like a fallen star, her golden-red hair gathered into a knot at the back of her head and her brow unclouded. Initially the clinic had been regarded with suspicion and dislike by the denizens of the Red Blind district, and Nefret and her doctor friend Sophia had deemed it advisable not to advertise its presence. Now it was under the protection of the Cairo police. Russell sent patrols around frequently and came down hard on anyone who tried to make trouble. Emerson had also come down hard on a few offenders who had not known that the person in charge was the daughter of the famed Father of Curses. They knew now. Nefret had found another, unexpected supporter in Ibrahim el-Gharbi, the Nubian transvestite who controlled the brothels of el-Wasa, so the expanded building now proclaimed its mission in polished bronze letters over the door, and the area around it was regularly cleaned of trash and dead animals. “I’ll not come in this time,” Ramses said, when they reached the house. Nefret gave him a provocative smile. “You don’t like trailing round after me and Sophia, do you?” He didn’t, especially; he felt useless and ineffective, and only too often, wrung with pity for misery he was helpless to relieve. This time he had a valid excuse. “I saw someone I want to talk with,” he explained. “I’ll join you in a bit.” “All right.” She didn’t ask who; her mind was already inside the building, anticipating the duties that awaited her. He went back along the lane, kicking a dead rat out of his path and trying to avoid the deeper pools of slime. The man he had seen was sitting on a bench outside one of the more pretentious cribs. He was asleep, his head fallen back and his mouth open. The flies crawling across his face did not disturb his slumber; he was used to them. Ramses nudged him and he looked up, blinking. “Salaam aleikhum, Brother of Demons. So you are back, and it is true what they say — that the Brother of Demons appears out of thin air, without warning.” Ramses didn’t point out that Musa had been sound asleep when he approached; his reputation for being on intimate terms with demons stood him in good stead with the more superstitious Egyptians. “You have come down in the world since I last saw you, Musa. Did el-Gharbi dismiss you?” “Have you not heard?” The man’s dull eyes brightened a little. It was a matter of pride to be the first to impart information, bad or good, and he would expect to be rewarded. He looked as if he could use money. As a favorite of el-Gharbi he had been sleek and plump and elegantly dressed. The rags he wore now barely covered his slender limbs. “I will tell you,” he went on. “Sit down, sit down.” He shifted over to make room for Ramses. The latter declined with thanks. Flies were not the only insects infesting Musa and his clothes. “We knew the cursed British were raiding the houses and putting the women into prison,” Musa began. “They set up a camp at Hilmiya. But my master only laughed. He had too many friends in high places, he said. No one could touch him. And no one did — until one night there came two men sent by the mudir of the police himself, and they took my master away, still in his beautiful white garments. They say that when Harvey Pasha saw him, he was very angry and called him rude names.” “I’m not surprised,” Ramses murmured. Harvey Pasha, commander of the Cairo police, was honest, extremely straitlaced, and rather stupid. He probably hadn’t even been aware of el-Gharbi’s existence until someone — Russell? — pointed out to him that he had missed the biggest catch of all. Ramses could only imagine the look on Harvey’s face when el-Gharbi waddled in, draped in women’s robes and glittering with jewels. Musa captured a flea and cracked it expertly between his thumbnails. “He is now in Hilmiya, my poor master, and I, his poor servant, have come to this. The world is a hard place, Brother of Demons.” Even harder for the women whose only crime had been to do the bidding of their pimps and their clients — many of them British and Empire soldiers. Ramses couldn’t honestly say he was sorry for el-Gharbi, but he was unhappily aware that the situation had probably worsened since the procurer had been arrested. El-Gharbi had ruled the Red Blind district with an iron hand and his women had been reasonably well treated; he had undoubtedly been replaced by a number of smaller businessmen whose methods were less humane. The filthy trade could never be completely repressed. “My master wishes to talk with you,” Musa said. “Do you have a cigarette?” So Musa had been on the lookout for him, and had put himself deliberately in Ramses’s way. Somewhat abstractedly Ramses offered the tin. Musa took it, extracted a cigarette, and calmly tucked the tin away in the folds of his robe. “How am I supposed to manage that?” Ramses demanded. “Surely you have only to ask Harvey Pasha.” “I have no influence with Harvey Pasha, and if I did, I wouldn’t be inclined to spend it on favors for el-Gharbi. Does he want to ask me to arrange his release?” “I do not know. Have you another cigarette?” “You took all I had,” Ramses said. “Ah. Would you like one?” He extracted the tin and offered it. “Thank you, no. Keep them,” he added. The irony was wasted on Musa, who thanked him effusively, and held out a suggestive hand. “What shall I tell my master?” Ramses dropped a few coins into the outstretched palm, and cut short Musa’s pleas for more. “That I can’t do anything for him. Let el-Gharbi sweat it out in the camp for a few months. He’s too fat anyhow. And if I know him, he has his circle of supporters and servants even in Hilmiya, and methods of getting whatever he wants. How did he communicate with you?” “There are ways,” Musa murmured. “I’m sure there are. Well, give him my . . .” He tried to think of the right word. The only ones that came to mind were too friendly or too courteous. On the other hand, the procurer had been a useful source of information in the past, and might be again. “Tell him you saw me and that I asked after him.” He added a few more coins and went back to the hospital. Dr. Sophia greeted him with her usual smiling reserve. Ramses admired her enormously, but never felt completely at ease with her, though he realized there was probably nothing personal in her lack of warmth. She had to deal every day with the ugly results of male exploitation of women. It would not be surprising if she had a jaundiced view of all men. He met the new surgeon, a stocky, gray-haired American woman, who measured him with cool brown eyes before offering a handclasp as hard as that of most men. Ramses had heard Nefret congratulating herself on finding Dr. Ferguson. There weren’t many women being trained in surgery. On the other hand, there weren’t many positions open to women surgeons. Ferguson had worked in the slums of Boston, Massachusetts, and according to Nefret she had expressed herself as more concerned with saving abused women than men who were fool enough to go out and get themselves shot. She and Sophia ought to get along. As Ramses had rather expected, Nefret decided to spend the rest of the day at the hospital. She was in her element, with two women who shared her skills and her beliefs, and Ramses felt a faint, unreasonable stir of jealousy. He kissed her good-bye and saw her eyes widen with surprise and pleasure; as a rule he didn’t express affection in public. It had been a demonstration of possessiveness, he supposed. Walking back toward the hotel, head bent and hands in his pockets, he examined his feelings and despised himself for selfishness. At least he hadn’t insisted she wait for him to escort her back to the hotel. She’d have resented that. No one in el-Wasa would have dared lay a hand on her, but it made him sick to think of her walking alone through those noisome alleys, at a time of day when the houses would be opening for business and the women would be screaming obscene invitations at the men who leered at them through the open windows. His parents were already at the hotel, and when he saw what his mother had found that morning, he forgot his grievances for a while. The little ointment jar was in almost perfect condition, and he was inclined to agree with her that the scraps of jewelry — beads, half of a gold-hinged bracelet, and an exquisitely inlaid uraeus serpent — had come from the same Eighteenth Dynasty tomb Cyrus had told them about. “Aslimi claimed the seller was unknown to him?” he asked. “That’s rather odd. He has his usual sources and would surely be suspicious of strangers.” “Aslimi would not dare lie to me,” his mother declared. She gave her husband a challenging glance. Emerson did not venture to contradict her. He had something else on his mind. “Er — I trust you and Nefret have given up the idea of visiting the coffeeshops?” “I wasn’t keen on the idea in the first place,” Ramses said. “Well. No need for such an expedition now; your mother questioned the dealers and none of them had heard of the Master’s return. Be ready to take the train tomorrow, eh?” “That depends on Nefret. She may not want to leave so soon.” “Oh. Yes, quite. Is she still at the hospital? You arranged to fetch her home, I presume.” “No, sir, I didn’t.” Emerson’s brows drew together, but before he could comment his wife said, “Is there something unusual about that ointment jar, Ramses?” He had been holding it, turning it in his hands, running his fingers along the curved sides. He gave her a smile that acknowledged both her tactful intervention and her perceptiveness. “There’s a rough section, here on the shoulder. The rest of it is as smooth as satin.” “Let me see.” Emerson took it from him and carried it to the window, where the light was stronger. “By Gad, you’re right,” he said, in obvious chagrin. “Don’t know how I could have missed it. Something has been rubbed off. A name? An inscription?” “The space is about the right size for a cartouche,” Ramses said. “Can you see anything?” “A few vague scratches.” Direct sunlight shimmered in the depths of the pale translucent stone. “It looks as if someone has carefully removed the owner’s name.” “Not the thief, surely,” his mother said, squinting at the pot. “An inscribed piece would bring a higher price.” “True.” Emerson rubbed his chin. “Well, we’ve seen such things before. An enemy, wishing to condemn the owner to the final death that befalls the nameless, or an ancient thief, who intended to replace the name with his own and never got round to it.” Having settled the matter to his satisfaction, he was free to worry about Nefret. He didn’t criticize Ramses aloud, but he kept looking at his watch and muttering. Fortunately she returned before Emerson got too worked up. “I hope I’m not late for tea,” she said breezily. “Have I time to change?” “You had better,” Ramses said, inspecting her. Not even Nefret could pass through the streets of el-Wasa without carrying away some of its atmosphere. “How did it go?” “Just fine. I’ll tell you about it later.” She rather monopolized the conversation at tea, which they took on the terrace. Even Sennia found it difficult to get a word in.

I could tell Ramses was perturbed about something and I suspected it had to do with the hospital; yet nothing Nefret said indicated that she was unhappy about the arrangements. Unlike my son, Nefret does not conceal her feelings. Her eyes shone and her cheeks were prettily flushed as she talked, and when Sennia said pensively, “I would like to come and help you take care of the sick ladies, Aunt Nefret,” she laughed and patted the child’s cheek. “Someday, Little Bird. When you are older.” “Tomorrow I will be older,” Sennia pointed out. “Not old enough,” Emerson said, trying to conceal his consternation. “Anyhow, we must be on our way to Luxor shortly. Nefret, when can you be ready?” “Not tomorrow, Father. Perhaps the following day.” She went on to explain that she had arranged to dine with Dr. Sophia and the new surgeon, Miss Ferguson. A flicker of emotion crossed my son’s enigmatic countenance when she indicated she would like him to be present. He nodded in mute acquiescence, but Emerson firmly declined the invitation. The idea of spending the evening with three such determined ladies, discussing loathsome diseases and gruesome injuries, did not greatly appeal to him. So we had an early dinner with Sennia, which pleased her a great deal. It did not please Horus, who had to be shut in Sennia’s room, where (as I was later informed by the sufragi) he howled like a jackal the entire time. As we left the dining saloon, we were hailed by an individual I recognized as the apple-cheeked gentleman who had been one of our fellow passengers. His wife was even more resplendent in jewels and satin. Sennia would have stopped, but Emerson hustled her on past, and the gentleman, encumbered by the large menu and even larger napkin, was not quick enough to intercept us. “Curse it,” said my spouse, “who are those people? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.” After returning Sennia to Basima, who had taken refuge from Horus in the servants’ dining hall, I settled down with a nice book — but I kept an eye on Emerson. I can always tell when he is up to something. Sure enough, after pretending to read for fifteen minutes, he got up and declared his intention of taking a little stroll. “Don’t disturb yourself, my dear,” he said. “You look very comfortable.” And out he went, without giving me time to reply. I waited a quarter of an hour before closing my book. A further delay ensued when I attempted to get out of my evening frock, which buttoned down the back; however, I was not in a hurry. I knew where Emerson was going, and I fancied it would take him a while to get there. After squirming out of the garment I assumed my working costume of trousers, boots, and amply pocketed coat, took up my parasol, left the hotel, and hailed a cab. I assumed Emerson would have gone on foot and kept a sharp eye out for that unmistakable form, but there was no sign of him. When we reached the Khan el Khalili I told the driver to wait and plunged into the narrow lanes of the suk. Aslimi was not happy to see me. He informed me that he was about to close. I informed him that I had no objection, entered the shop, and took a chair. Aslimi waddled about, closing and locking the shutters, before he seated himself in a huge armchair of Empire style, its arms and legs ornately gilded, and stared hopelessly at me. “I told you all I know, Sitt. What do you want now?” “Are you expecting someone, Aslimi?” “No, Sitt, I swear.” “I am. He will be here soon, I expect.” We sat in silence. The sweat began to pour down Aslimi’s face. It shone like polished amber. I was about to offer him my handkerchief when there was a soft sound from behind the closed door at the back of the shop. Aslimi kept his most valuable antiquities in the back room, which opened onto a narrow slit of a passage next to the shop. His eyes opened so wide I could see the whites all round the dark pupils. For an instant cowardice struggled with greed. Greed won out; with a grunt he heaved himself to his feet. By the time he accomplished this feat, I had burst through the door, parasol in hand. Facing me was the intruder. There was enough light from the open door behind me to show his tall, heavyset form and his black beard and mustache. It was the man Aslimi had described that afternoon! The seller of stolen antiquities had returned! Aslimi screamed and thudded to the floor in a dead faint. I twisted the handle of my parasol, releasing the sword blade concealed therein. “Stop where you are!” I exclaimed in Arabic. With a sudden sweep of his arm, the man knocked the blade aside and seized me in a bruising grip. 2

“How many times have I told you not to attack an opponent with that damned parasol?” Emerson demanded. “I did not attack you. You attacked me!” Emerson handed me into the cab and got in beside me. He was still wearing the beard and clothing he had borrowed from Ramses’s collection of disguises. “It was self-defense, Peabody. I can never predict what you are likely to do when you are in one of your combative moods. You didn’t recognize me, did you?” “I certainly would not have gone on the attack without provocation,” I retorted. “Come, Peabody, be a sport. Admit you didn’t know me.” “I knew you the moment you took hold of me.” “I should hope so!” He put his arm round me, which I permitted; but when his face approached mine I turned my head. “That is a very prickly beard, Emerson.” “Well, curse it, I can’t just peel it off; this adhesive won’t come loose unless it is soaked in water.” Emerson was still in a high good humor and rather inclined, in my opinion, to rub it in. “I told you Aslimi had lied to you.” “Was that why you went disguised as the man he had described?” “No, I did that because I wanted to,” said Emerson, chuckling. “The description I finally pried out of him was the exact opposite of the one he gave you: medium height, slim, young.” “But unknown to Aslimi.” “It doesn’t fit any of the thieves or go-betweens known to me either. We must accept it, however.” The beard assumed a particularly arrogant angle. I was forced to agree with him. After I had restored Aslimi from his faint, he could not quite get it straight in his head who the intruder was: a thief bent on robbing and murdering him; or the Father of Curses, bent on something equally unpleasant; or both in the same body. He was certainly too confused and terrified to lie. We reached the hotel without anything of interest happening, to find that the children had not yet returned from dinner. Emerson had removed the turban and caftan, but the beard and mustache occasioned a certain hesitation in the desk clerk; had it been anyone but me asking for the key, he might have questioned the identity of the fellow I was taking with me to my suite. “He didn’t recognize me either,” Emerson declared smugly. “Ha,” I said. Emerson was sitting with his chin and mouth in a basin of water, breathing through his nose, and I was enjoying a restorative whiskey and soda when there was a tap on the door. I responded, and Nefret put her head in. “We only stopped by to say . . .” she began; catching sight of Emerson, she flung the door wide and hurried to his side. “Father! Are you hurt?” “No,” said Emerson, gurgling. He spat out a mouthful of water. Ramses’s face twitched in a frantic attempt to control his amusement. “It’s the beard,” he got out. “I think that’s done the job,” Emerson said. He peeled the thing off and gave Nefret a cheerful smile. “Hold it over the basin, Emerson,” I said, as water streamed from the bedraggled object onto the carpet. “What? Oh.” Chagrin wrinkled his brow, and he attempted to wring the water out of the beard. “Hope I haven’t spoiled it, my boy. I would have asked you for the loan of it, but you see, the idea came to me after you left, and I had to act at once.” “That’s quite all right, sir,” said Ramses. “Might one ask . . .” “Certainly, certainly. I will tell you all about it. Make yourselves comfortable.” It was evident that he planned to revel in every detail, so the children followed his suggestion, settling themselves on the sofa side by side and listening with interest. Neither of them interrupted until Emerson, with great gusto, told of my pulling out the sword. “Good God, Mother!” Ramses exclaimed. “How many times have I told you —” “She didn’t know me, you see,” Emerson said, beaming. “She won’t admit it, but she didn’t.” “I did not recognize you immediately,” I admitted. “But the room was dark and Aslimi was shrieking in alarm, and I didn’t expect you would come that way. Nefret, my dear, are you laughing?” “I’m sorry. I was picturing the two of you scuffling in Aslimi’s back room. Neither of you was hurt?” “No,” I said, while Emerson grinned in a particularly annoying fashion. “It may take Aslimi a while to recover, though.” “He admitted that his original description was false in every particular,” Emerson said smugly. “The seller was bearded, of course — most Egyptians are — but he was young, slender, and of medium height.” Ramses could not come up with a name to match the new description either. “Someone new to the business,” he said thoughtfully. “Someone who has been in Luxor recently,” Emerson added. “Assuming, that is, that the artifacts did come from the tomb of the princesses. He must have got them direct from one of the robbers, who had withheld them from the rest of the loot. Those scoundrels cheat even one another.” “I suppose you are now even more on fire to go on to Luxor and track down the thieves,” Nefret said, tucking her feet under her and leaning against Ramses. “You would like a few more days at the hospital, wouldn’t you?” Emerson asked. “Well, yes; but I wouldn’t want you to change your plans on my account.” I must give my dear Emerson credit; he was too forthright to pretend he was doing it on her account. “The tomb has already been robbed and the loot dispersed,” he explained. “And I expect everyone knows the identity of the thieves — the Abd er Rassuls, or one of the other Gurneh families who specialize in such activities. It is strange, though, to have some of the objects turn up in Cairo. The local boys usually work with Mohassib or another of the Luxor dealers. Ramses, are you certain that ointment vessel is Eighteenth Dynasty?” “No, of course not,” Ramses said, somewhat defensively. “I’m not an expert on hard stone vessels. The same forms and materials were used over a long period of time. If you think it’s important, we might pay a visit to the Museum and see what examples they have.” “If we can find them,” Emerson muttered. “The way that place is arranged is a damned disgrace.” Emerson always complained about the Museum and about almost everything else that was not under his direct supervision. I pointed out that Mr. Quibell, the director, was doing the best he could under difficult circumstances. Emerson nodded grudgingly. “No doubt. I suppose we ought to call on him. Or we might have one of your little archaeological dinner parties, Peabody. The Quibells, and Daressy, and anyone else you can collect.” My dinner parties, celebrating our return to Egypt, had been very popular. For the past few years I had been loath to hold them; it was too painful to see the diminished company and reflect on the fates of those who were no longer with us: our German and Austrian colleagues departed, the ranks of the French and English Egyptologists depleted by death or military service. However, I had already been in receipt of friendly messages from those who were still in Cairo — the news of our arrival had, of course, immediately become known. Emerson’s proposal solved the difficulty of how I was to respond to these greetings and invitations, and astonished me not a little, for he was never inclined toward social engagements, and he had been insistent on leaving Cairo as soon as was possible. A brief period of reflection explained his change of heart. The letter from Cyrus and the discovery of the artifacts at Aslimi’s had whetted his curiosity; Cyrus’s mention of Howard Carter being in some manner involved aroused an understandable desire to question that individual. There was another reason for his willingness to stay on in Cairo; he was hoping for a further communication from his brother. He had made a point of looking through the messages every day and his disappointment at finding nothing of the sort was evident to me at least. I confess I was also somewhat exasperated with Sethos. What had been the point of that brief encounter? Unfortunately I was unable to locate the archaeologist whom Emerson had hoped to interrogate. Howard Carter was not in Cairo. No one knew where he was. However, when the sadly diminished group met next evening, he was the chief topic of conversation. Owing to the short notice, the Quibells were the only ones who had been able to accept my invitation. “You just missed him,” Annie Quibell said. “He got back from Luxor a few days ago, and went off again without any of us seeing him. James was furious.” She smiled at her husband, whose equable temper was well known, and who said calmly, “I presume his duties for the War Office called him away, but I had hoped to hear more about his recent work in Luxor.” “And his dealings with Mohassib?” Emerson inquired, motioning the waiter to refill James’s wineglass. “Who told you that?” “Cyrus Vandergelt,” I replied. “Is it true?” James shrugged. “I’ve heard the rumor too, but I doubt Carter would admit it to me, even if it were true. He spent several months out in the southwest wadis, where the princesses’ tomb was found; when he was in Cairo for a few days early in December, he gave me a brief report. Did you hear about his finding another tomb of Hatshepsut’s? This one was made for her when she was queen, before she assumed kingly titles. It was empty except for a sarcophagus.” He picked up his glass and sipped his wine appreciatively. “Where?” Emerson asked. “High in a cleft in the cliffs, in one of the western wadis,” Annie said. She and her husband were not great admirers of Howard; after his falling-out with the Service, he had begun dealing in antiquities, and this did not make him popular with his professional colleagues. She added, with a distinct and amusing touch of malice, “He didn’t find Hatshepsut’s tomb, James. Some of the Gurnawis did. He only followed them.” “Bah,” said Emerson vehemently. “I wonder what else he did?” “So do I,” said James.

Having failed to locate Howard, Emerson was ready to leave for Luxor at once. However, it was not to be. We were finishing breakfast en famille in our sitting room when a messenger arrived with a letter for Emerson. It was a delightful little domestic scene, with Sennia badgering Ramses to give her a lesson in hieroglyphs and Horus snarling at Gargery and Emerson reading the Egyptian Gazette and smoking his pipe, while Nefret told me about the new arrangements at the hospital. When I saw the envelope, with its official seal, it was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. “Whom is it from?” I demanded. Emerson frowned over the epistle, which he was holding so I couldn’t read over his shoulder. “Wingate. He would like me to come to his office at my earliest convenience.” “Sir Reginald Wingate? What does the Sirdar of the Sudan want with you?” “He replaced MacMahon as high commissioner last month,” Emerson replied. “He doesn’t say what he wants.” We had all fallen silent except for Sennia, who had no idea who the high commissioner was and cared even less. Emerson looked at his son. “Er — Ramses . . .” “Yes, sir. When?” “Later. He says ‘at our convenience.’ It is not convenient for me at present.” Sennia understood that. “Ramses will have time to give me my lesson,” she announced firmly. Sennia was in the habit of making pronouncements instead of asking questions; it usually worked. Ramses rose, smiling. “A short lesson, then. Let’s go to your room where we won’t be distracted.” The door closed behind them — and Horus, who went wherever Sennia went unless forcibly prevented from doing so. Having got Sennia out of the way, Emerson turned stern blue eyes on Gargery, who stood with arms folded and feet slightly apart, exuding stubbornness. “Go away, Gargery,” Emerson said. “Sir —” “I said, go away.” “But sir —” “If there is anything you need to know, Gargery, I will tell you about it at the proper time,” I interrupted. “That will be all.” Gargery stamped out, slamming the door, and Nefret said quietly, “Do you want me to leave too?” “No, of course not.” Emerson leaned back in his chair. “It isn’t the military or the secret service this time, Nefret. Wingate probably wants us for some tedious office job.” “Are you going to accept?” “That depends.” Emerson got to his feet and began pacing. “Like it or not, and God knows we don’t, we cannot ignore the fact that there is a bloody war going on. They won’t let me carry a rifle, and Ramses won’t carry one, but there are other things we can do, and we have no right to refuse.” “You and Ramses,” Nefret repeated, with a curl of her lip. “Men. Never women.” “You offered your services as a surgeon, didn’t you?” “Yes.” Nefret’s eyes flashed. “The military isn’t accepting women physicians. But that would have been saving lives, not —” “There are other ways of saving lives, or at least minimizing suffering. You can’t keep him out of this forever, Nefret; I’ve seen the signs, and so have you. He’s feeling guilty because he thinks he is not doing his part.” “He’s done his part and more,” Nefret cried. “It wasn’t only that ghastly business two years ago, it was the same sort of thing again last winter; if he hadn’t risked his life twice over, the War Office would have lost its favorite spy and a German agent would have got away. What more do they want from him?” It did seem to me as if she were underestimating my contribution and that of Emerson, but I did not say so; where her husband was concerned, Nefret was passionately single-minded. Her eyes were bright with tears of anger. Emerson stopped by the chair in which she sat and put his hand on her shoulder. “I know, my dear,” he said gently. “But I cannot suppose they want us to go chasing spies again. The situation has changed. With the Turks driven out of the Sinai, the Canal is no longer in danger, and the Senussi are in full retreat. There is nothing going on that requires Ramses’s unusual talents, or,” he added with a grin, “mine.” “Unless,” I said, “this has something to do with Sethos.” Emerson shot me a reproachful glance, but I had only voiced aloud what was in all our minds. “There’s been no further word from him?” Nefret asked. I shook my head. “If Ramses gets in trouble because of him, I’ll murder him,” she muttered. She did not go to the hospital that morning. She did not want to leave the hotel, though I pointed out that we could probably not expect Emerson and Ramses back before luncheon. Finally I managed to persuade her to go walking in the Ezbekieh Gardens with Sennia and me. I always say there is nothing like the beauties of nature to distract one from worrisome thoughts. The Gardens are planted with rare trees and shrubs and the air is harmonious with birdsong. Sennia was even more of a distraction; it required both of us to keep track of her as she ran up and down the graveled paths. It did Nefret good, I believe. When we started back, both of us holding tight to Sennia’s hands, she said ruefully, “You think I’m behaving like a silly coward, don’t you?” “Perhaps just a bit. But I understand. One becomes accustomed to it, you see,” I continued. “One never likes it, but one becomes resigned.” “I know I can’t keep him out of trouble,” Nefret said. “It’s just this particular —” “Little pitchers have big ears,” I warned. “If you are referring to me,” said Sennia, with great dignity, “my ears are not at all large. Ramses says they are pretty ears. Is he in trouble?” Nefret laughed and picked her up. We were about to cross the street, which was crowded with traffic. “No, Little Bird. And we will make sure he doesn’t get into it, won’t we?” We had been waiting for almost an hour before they returned. Sennia was reading aloud to us from a little book of Egyptian fairy tales, but the moment the door opened she dropped it and ran to meet them. Throwing her arms round Ramses’s waist, she asked anxiously, “Are you in trouble?” “Not unless you crack one of my ribs,” Ramses said, with a theatrical gasp of pain. “Who told you that?” “Let us go to luncheon,” I said. “Yes, I am starving,” Sennia announced, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ramses.” Emerson detached her from Ramses and swung her up onto his shoulder. “We will go down now.” I let them go ahead. “Well, Ramses?” I inquired. “You shouldn’t worry the child, Mother.” “It wasn’t Mother, it was me.” Nefret took his arm. “I’m sorry.” “It’s all right.” He offered me his other arm, and as we proceeded to the dining saloon he explained. “All he wanted was a consultation. He’s new at the job, and apparently nobody bothered to put him in the picture about certain matters. The military and the civil administration have always been at odds. He’d heard of some of our activities, and wanted to know the facts.” “That’s all?” Nefret demanded. “Nothing about . . .” “He wasn’t mentioned.” Ramses grinned. “Under any of his pseudonyms. Father agreed to stay on in Cairo for another day or two, and meet with Wingate again. That should please you; you’ll have more time at the hospital.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

The second meeting with Wingate was shorter than the first, and somewhat more acrimonious. Wingate wanted more details about a number of people Emerson was not anxious to discuss, and the roles they had played; when he asked about their dealings with “a certain gentleman named Smith,” Emerson lost his temper. (He had been itching to do so for some time.) “Good Gad, man, if you don’t know who the bastard is and what he’s up to, how should we? Come, Ramses; we have wasted enough time telling people things they ought to have known anyhow and going over and over facts that are either self-explanatory or irrelevant.” The new high commissioner took this rudeness better than Ramses had expected. Now in his sixties, he had had a long and illustrious career as governor of the Sudan, and Ramses got the impression that he was finding it harder to deal with his peers in Cairo than with rebellious Sudanese. As Emerson stalked out of the room, Wingate said mildly, “Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” and returned to his papers. “That’s that,” Emerson declared. “It’s high time we got out of this bloody city. Is Nefret ready to leave?” On the morning of their departure Nefret and Ramses breakfasted alone in their room, at what struck Ramses as an obscenely early hour. “I need all the time I can get at the hospital,” she declared. “Since Father is determined on leaving today.” “He’d have put it off again if you had asked him.” “I couldn’t do that. He’s on fire to get to Luxor and catch a few tomb robbers. There was no need for you to get up so early. You don’t have to escort me.” “Would you rather I didn’t?” “You can if you like.” Frowning slightly, she concentrated on the piece of toast she was cutting into strips. “It’s boring for you, though. You hardly said a word the other night when we dined with Sophia and Beatrice.” “I’m sorry,” he began. “Don’t apologize, damn it!” She put her knife down and gave him a rueful smile. “There’s no need for you to be so defensive, darling. I didn’t mean it as a reproach. You couldn’t have got a word in anyhow! It was rude of us not to include you in the conversation.” “That’s all right.” The pronouns jarred, though. Us and you. “I think I will come along, if you don’t mind. There’s someone I want to see, if I can find him.” “Who?” He described his encounter with Musa as they walked through the ornate lobby and out the door of the hotel. “You didn’t tell me,” Nefret said, and then laughed and took his arm. “You couldn’t get a word in, could you? Sophia told me about el-Gharbi’s being arrested. Did you know he had put the word out that we were not to be bothered?” “I thought he might have done.” “I never supposed I would regret the arrest of the worst procurer in Cairo.” Her face was troubled. “But Sophia says things have got worse. More injuries, and fewer of the women are coming to us.” “Musa wants me to intervene on behalf of el-Gharbi. Shall I try to get him out?” “Could you?” “Do you want him out?” “Oh, I don’t know,” Nefret said despairingly. “How does one choose between two evils? Leave it alone, darling. I don’t want you getting involved with the police again. Russell would try to recruit you for some rotten job, and I won’t allow it.” “Russell’s sticking to ordinary police work these days. There’s a new military intelligence organization — or will be, if they ever get it right. They keep shuffling people around. Clayton and the Arab Bureau are now —” “How did you find that out?” Her eyes narrowed and her voice was sharp. “From Wingate, for the most part. Plus odds and ends of gossip here and there.” “Oh, very informative. Ramses, I don’t care who is doing what with whom, so long as ‘whom’ isn’t you. Promise me you’ll stay away from them. All of them.” “Yes, ma’am.” Her tight lips relaxed into one of her most bewitching smiles, complete with dimples, and as a further inducement to good behavior, she told him she would be back in time for luncheon. Ramses watched her run lightly up the steps and in the door before he turned away. Could he get el-Gharbi paroled? The answer was probably no. Unless . . . the idea hadn’t occurred to him until Nefret asked. It had probably been Thomas Russell who reeled him in. If he could persuade Russell that el-Gharbi had information that could be of use to him . . . The answer was still no. Russell wouldn’t make a deal with someone he despised as much as he did the procurer. Anyhow, there were only two questions Ramses would like to have answered: the whereabouts of his infuriating uncle, and the identity of the man who had sold the artifacts to Aslimi. El-Gharbi had once had contacts with every illegal activity in Cairo, but drugs and prostitution were his chief interests; he dealt with illegal antiquities and espionage only when they impinged on his primary business. Musa was nowhere to be found, so Ramses spent a few hours wandering through the green groves of the Ezbekieh Gardens, to get the smells of el-Wasa out of his system. It was a little after midday when he returned to the hotel. Nefret was not there, so he went to see what his parents were doing. He found his mother alone in the sitting room, placidly working at a piece of embroidery. Wondering what had prompted this unusual exercise — she hated sewing and did it very badly — he joined her on the sofa. “Where is Father?” he asked. “He took Sennia for a walk, in order to work off some of her energy. Have you finished packing?” “No,” Ramses admitted. “Nefret told me I mustn’t, she says I always make a mess of it.” “Just like your father. His notion of packing is to dump the entire contents of a drawer into a suitcase and then throw his boots on top.” “What’s wrong with that?” Ramses asked, and got a smile in return. “I’ll ask Gargery to take care of it,” she promised. “That’s all right, Nefret said she’d be back before luncheon. I suppose you are all ready?” “Certainly.” She looked searchingly at Ramses. “Is something wrong? You seem somewhat pensive.” “No, nothing is wrong. I’m sorry if I . . .” Her steely gray stare remained fixed on him, and he felt a sudden need to confess. His mother’s stare often had that effect on people. “I’m jealous — oh, not of another man, it’s even worse. Jealous of the hospital and the time she spends there. Contemptible, isn’t it, that I should resent Nefret’s skills and interests?” “Quite understandable,” his mother said calmly. She poked her needle into the piece of fabric, muttered something, and wiped her finger on her skirt. Ramses noticed that the skirt and the embroidered fabric were spotted with blood. “Do you want her to give up her medical work?” “Good God, no! I’d hate her to do that on my account. I’d hate myself if she did.” “She will have to make a choice, though. While we were working at Giza she could spend a certain amount of time at the hospital, but it appears we will be in Luxor for some time to come.” “Someone will have to make a choice.” His mother dropped her fancywork and stared at him. “You don’t mean you would give up Egyptology!” “Nothing so drastic. I can always get a position with Reisner, at Giza.” She looked so horrified, he put his hand over hers. “I don’t want to work with anyone but Father, you know that. But I have to be with her and I want her to be happy. Why should I expect her to give up her work when I’m not willing to make a reasonable compromise?” “Honestly, Ramses.” His mother gave him a look of exasperation. “I would expect any son of mine to appreciate the talents and aspirations of women, but you are carrying fairness to a ridiculous extreme. What makes you suppose Nefret wants to abandon archaeology? Have you asked her?” “No. I didn’t want —” “To force the issue? Well, my dear, Nefret is not the woman to keep her opinions to herself. You are leaping to unwarranted conclusions and tormenting yourself about something that will never happen. It is a bad habit of yours.” “D’you really think so?” “I am certain of it.” She hesitated, but not for long. Indecision was not one of his mother’s weaknesses. “She once told me something that perhaps you should know. ‘I would leave the hospital forever, without a backward glance, if it would help to keep him safe.’ ” “She said that?” “I do not claim to remember the precise words, but that was unquestionably the gist of her remark. Goodness gracious, Ramses, don’t look so stupefied. If you are really unaware of the strength of your wife’s affection, you have not been paying her the proper attentions.” He didn’t dare ask what she meant by that. Her prim circumlocutions always amused him, but he said humbly and without a smile, “You are right, Mother, as always. I haven’t said anything to her, and I never shall. Please don’t tell her.” “Why, Ramses, I would never betray another individual’s confidence.” She patted his hand. He flinched, and she let out an exclamation of distress. “Oh, dear. I forgot I was holding the needle. Suck it.” Ramses dutifully obeyed. “What is that you’re making?” he asked. It was hard to tell the bloodstains from the pattern. “It’s just a little something to keep my hands occupied. Stop fretting, dear boy, I will talk to Nefret myself. Tactfully.” She stuck the needle into the fabric and folded her work. “It is past time for luncheon. Emerson is late as usual.” He turned up a few minutes later, with Sennia, and dropped rather heavily into a chair. Emerson could work under the hot Upper Egyptian sun from dawn until sunset without any sign of fatigue, but a few hours with Sennia left even him worn out. “Are we ready for lunch?” he asked. “Nefret isn’t back yet,” his wife said. Ramses had been watching the clock. It was after one. His father gave him a critical look. “Is she waiting for you to fetch her?” “No,” Ramses said, and went on, before his father could voice his opinion of a man who would allow his wife to walk the alleys of el-Wasa unattended. “I expect she’s got involved and lost track of the time. The rest of you go down, I’ll run over to the hospital.” He wasn’t worried — not really — but she knew they were due to leave that evening, and she had said she’d be back before luncheon. He took the most direct way to the hospital, the one they always followed, expecting at every turn of the street to see her hurrying toward him. The foul alleys were deserted; the denizens were indoors, resting during the heat of the day. Anger, born of concern, quickened his steps. She had no business worrying him like this, after he had done her the courtesy of leaving her free of his escort. He had almost reached the hospital when a man stepped out into his path. “You must come with me, Brother of Demons.” “Get out of my way, Musa. I haven’t time to listen to el-Gharbi’s compliments.” “You must!” the other man repeated. He held out his hands. Stretched between his palms was the filmy scarf Nefret had worn round her neck that morning. Seeing Ramses’s expression, Musa jumped back a few feet and began to babble. “Do not strike me, Brother of Demons, she is not hurt, she is safe, I will take you to her.” “Damned right you will.” Ramses’s hand shot out, catching Musa’s stringy arm in a bruising grip. “Where is she?” “Come. Come with me, it is not far. She is unharmed, I tell you. Would any of us dare injure —” “Shut up. Which way?” Knowing he was no longer in imminent danger of violence, Musa said plaintively, “You are hurting my arm, Brother of Demons. I can walk faster if you do not hold on to me. I will not run away. I was ordered to bring you to her.” Ramses didn’t bother to ask who had given the order. He released his grip and brushed at the enterprising fleas that had already found his hand. “Where?” “This way, this way.” Musa trotted ahead, around a corner and through a pile of discarded fruit rinds and peelings that squelched under his bare feet. “This way,” he said again, and turned his head to nod reassuringly at Ramses. “Do you have a cigarette?” “Don’t push me too far, Musa.” He was no longer worried about Nefret, though. The man who must be responsible for this would not harm her. They ended up where Ramses had expected: in an outstandingly filthy alley behind the house el-Gharbi had once occupied. Musa went to the small inconspicuous door Ramses remembered from earlier visits. The police had barricaded it with heavy boards, but someone had removed most of the nails; Musa pulled the planks aside and climbed through the opening. The house that had once been alive with music and the other colorful accompaniments of a contemptible trade was dark, deserted, and dusty. The windows had been boarded up, the rich furnishings removed or left to molder. There was a little light, streaking through cracks in the boards. When they reached the room in which el-Gharbi had held court, Ramses made out a massive shape squatting on the ruined cushions. Nefret sat next to him. A ray of sunlight sparked in her hair. “Sorry,” she said cheerfully. “I did it again.” Ramses got the words out through lips unsteady with relief. “Not your fault this time. Another black mark against you, el-Gharbi. What do you mean by this?” “But, my dear young friend, what choice had I?” The voice was the well-remembered high-pitched whine, but as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Ramses saw that the procurer was dressed in a ragged galabeeyah instead of his elegant white robes. He didn’t appear to have lost any weight, though. Shifting uncomfortably, he went on, “You would not come to the camp. You would not have come to me here — so I invited your lovely wife. We have been having a most enjoyable conversation. Sit down, won’t you? I regret I cannot offer you tea —” “What do you want?” Ramses interrupted. “Why, the pleasure of seeing you and your lovely —” “I don’t have timefor this,” Ramses said rather loudly. “You cannot keep us here against our will, you know.” “Alas, it is true.” The procurer sighed. “I do not have the manpower I once had.” “What is your point, then?” “You won’t sit down? Oh, very well. It is the camp, you see. It is no place for a person of refinement like myself.” A shudder of distaste ran through the huge body. “I want out.” “You are out,” Ramses said, unwilling amusement replacing his annoyance. El-Gharbi was unconquerable. “Only for a few hours. If I am not there tonight when they make the rounds, that rude person Harvey will turn out every police officer in Cairo to look for me. I do not intend to spend the rest of my life running away from the police, it is too uncomfortable.” “Yes, I suppose it would be. Can you give me one good reason why I should intercede on your behalf, even if I were able?” “But my dear young friend, surely the many favors I have done for you —” “And I have done several for you. If the score is not even, the debt is on your side.” “I was afraid you would see it that way. What of future favors, then? I am at your command.” “There is nothing I want from you. Nefret, let’s go. The parents will be getting anxious.” “Yes, of course.” She rose. “Good-bye, Mr. el-Gharbi.” She used the English words, possibly because the Arabic terms of farewell invoked a blessing or an expression of goodwill. El-Gharbi didn’t miss the implications. He chuckled richly. “Maassalameh, honored lady. And to you, my beautiful young friend. Remember what I have said. The time may come . . .” “I hope to God it won’t come,” Ramses muttered, as they left the room. “Nefret, are you all right?” “Musa was very polite. No damage, darling, except . . .” She scratched her arm. “Let’s hurry. I expect Father is frantic by this time, and I’m being devoured by fleas.” “That makes two of us.” “My poor darling. What you suffer for me!” The narrow back door was still unbarred. Ramses did not bother replacing the boards. Taking the coward’s way out, he sent a servant to the dining saloon to announce their return, and they went straight to their room and the adjoining bath chamber. When he emerged, wearing only a towel, his father was sitting in an armchair, pipe in hand. “Where is she?” he demanded. “Still bathing. I’ll tell her you’re here.” “Oh,” said Emerson, belatedly aware of his intrusion on their privacy. “Oh. Er —” Ramses opened the door to the bath chamber and announced his father’s presence. Water splashed and Nefret called out, “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Father.” It wasn’t often that Ramses could embarrass his father and he was rather inclined to enjoy those moments. Emerson was blushing. “You’ve been the devil of a long time,” he complained. “We are due to leave in a few hours, you know.” “It couldn’t be helped.” Ramses dressed as he told Emerson what had happened. He expected an outburst; Emerson had nothing but contempt for procurers in general and el-Gharbi in particular. Instead of shouting, Emerson looked thoughtful. “I wonder if he knows anything about — um — Sethos.” “I didn’t ask. I don’t want to be in his debt, and I was in a hurry to get away. It’s highly unlikely, Father. The illegal antiquities trade was only a sideline, and he’s been shut up in Hilmiya for weeks.” “Hmm, yes.” Emerson brooded. The door of the bath chamber opened and Nefret appeared, wreathed in steam. She was wrapped in a long robe that covered her from chin to bare feet, but Emerson fled, mumbling apologies. Getting my family onto the train — any train — is a task that tries even my well-known patience. Emerson had sent Selim and Daoud on to Luxor a few days earlier, to survey the site and determine what needed to be done. That left seven of us, not counting the cat, who was more trouble than anyone. The railroad station is always a scene of pure pandemonium; people and luggage and parcels and an occasional goat mill about, voices are raised, and arms wave wildly. What with Horus shrieking and thrashing around in his basket, and Sennia trying to get away from Gargery and Basima so she could dash up and down the platform looking for acquaintances, and Emerson darting suspicious glances at every man, woman, and child who came anywhere near him, my attention was fully engaged. The train was late, of course. After I had got everyone on board and in the proper compartment, I was more than ready for a refreshing sip of whiskey and soda. Removing the bottle, the gasogene, and the glasses from the hamper, I invited Emerson to join me. As I could have told him — and indeed, did tell him — it had been a waste of time to look for Sethos. He never did the same thing twice, and he had had ample time to communicate with us had he chosen to do so. Emerson said, “Bah,” and poured more whiskey. I had dispatched telegrams to the Vandergelts and to Fatima, our housekeeper, informing them of the change in schedule, but being only too familiar with the leisurely habits of the telegraph office in Luxor, I was not surprised to find that no one was waiting to meet us at the station. No doubt the telegrams would be delivered later that day, after the unofficial telegraph, gossip, had already announced our arrival. It did not go unremarked. There were always people hanging about the station, meeting arrivals and bidding farewell to departing travelers, or simply wasting time. A great shout went up when the loungers recognized the unmistakable form of Emerson, who was — I believe I may say this without fear of contradiction — the most famous, feared, and respected archaeologist in Egypt. Some crowded round and others dashed off, hoping to be the first to spread the news. “The Father of Curses has returned! Yes, yes, I saw him with my own eyes, and the Sitt Hakim his wife, and his son the Brother of Demons, and Nur Misur, the Light of Egypt, and the Little Bird!” It took some little time to unload our “traps,” as Emerson called them, and get them from the station to the riverbank and onto the boats which would take us across. I managed to arrange matters so that Sennia was in one boat, with Basima and Gargery in close attendance — it required at least two people to hang on to her and keep her from falling overboard — and Emerson and I in another. On this occasion I wanted to be alone with my dear husband. “Ah,” I exclaimed. “How good it is to be back in Luxor.” “You always say that,” Emerson grunted. “I always feel it. And so do you, Emerson. Breathe in the clear clean air,” I urged. “Observe the play of sunlight on the rippling water. Enjoy once again the vista before us — the ramparts of the Theban mountains enclosing the sepulchres of the long-dead monarchs of —” “I suggest you write a travel book, Peabody, and get it out of your system.” But his arm went round my waist and his broad breast expanded as he drew a long satisfied breath. After all, there is no place like Thebes. I did not say this, since it would only have provoked another rude comment from Emerson, but I knew he shared my sentiments. The modern city of Luxor is on the east bank, together with the magnificent temples of Karnak and Luxor. On the west bank is the enormous city of the dead — the sepulchres of the long-dead monarchs of imperial Egypt (as I had been about to say when Emerson interrupted me), their funerary temples, and the tombs of nobles and commoners, in a setting unparalleled for its austere beauty. The stretch of land bordering the river, fertilized by the annual inundation and watered by irrigation, was green with growing crops. Beyond it lay the desert, extending to the foot of the Libyan mountains — a high, barren plateau cut by innumerable canyons or wadis. For many years we had lived and worked in western Thebes, and the house we had built was waiting for us. I moved closer to Emerson and his arm tightened around me. He was looking straight ahead, his clean-cut features softened by a smile, his black hair wildly windblown. “Where is your hat, Emerson?” I asked. “Don’t know,” said Emerson. He never does know. By the time I had located it and persuaded him to put it on, we were landing. Fatima had not received our telegram. Not that it mattered; she had been eagerly awaiting us for days, and the house was in its usual impeccable order. I must say that our relations with Fatima and the other members of Abdullah’s family who worked for us was somewhat unusual; they were friends as well as servants, and that latter word carried no loss of dignity or implication of inferiority. Indeed, I believe Fatima thought of us as sadly lacking in common sense and of herself as in charge of the entire lot of us. My first act, after we had exchanged affectionate greetings with Fatima, was to inspect our new quarters. The previous winter a remarkable archaeological discovery had necessitated our spending some months in Luxor. Our old house was then occupied by Yusuf, the head of the Luxor branch of Abdullah’s family, but he had amiably agreed to move himself and his wives and children to an abode in Gurneh village. It had not taken me long to realize that the house was no longer commodious enough for all of us to live in comfort and amity. I had therefore ordered several subsidiary structures to be added. In spite of Emerson’s indifference and total lack of cooperation, I had seen the work well under way before our departure, but I had been obliged to leave the final details to Fatima and Selim. I invited Fatima to accompany me on my tour of inspection. Selim, who had been awaiting us, came along, not because he wanted to, but because I insisted. Like his father, he was never quite sure how I would respond to his efforts along domestic lines. Abdullah had been inclined to wax sarcastic about what he considered my unreasonable demands for cleanliness. “The men are sweeping the desert, Sitt,” he had once remarked. “How far from the house must they go?” Dear Abdullah. I missed him still. At least he had tried, which was more than Emerson ever did. In fact, I found very little to disapprove, and Selim’s wary expression turned to a smile as I piled compliment upon compliment. The new wing, which I intended for Sennia and her entourage — Basima, Gargery, and the cat — had a number of rooms surrounding a small courtyard, with a shaded arcade along one side and a charming little fountain in the center. The new furniture I had ordered had been delivered, and while we were there, one of the maids hurried in with an armful of linens and began to make up the beds. “Excellent,” I exclaimed. “All it needs is — er — um — well, nothing really, except for some plants in the courtyard.” “We thought we should leave that to you, Sitt,” said Selim. “Yes, quite. I enjoy my gardening.” I meant to make a few other changes as well, but they could wait. The others were still in the sitting room, with several other members of the family who had turned up, including Kadija, Daoud’s wife, all talking at once and doing absolutely nothing useful. I made a few pointed remarks about unpacking, to which no one listened, dismissed Selim, and asked Nefret to join me and Fatima for the rest of the tour. She had seen only the unfinished shell of the second house, which was situated a few hundred yards away. The intervening space would be filled in with flowering plants, shrubs, and trees as soon as I could supervise their planting and cultivation. Just now it was desert-bare, but the structure itself looked very nice, I thought, its mud-brick walls plastered in a pretty shade of pale ocher. My orders had been carried out; the interior was as modern and comfortable as anyone could wish, including an elegant bath chamber and a small courtyard, enclosed for privacy. As we went from room to room I found myself chattering away with scarcely a pause for breath, pointing out the amenities and explaining at unnecessary length that any desired alterations could be accomplished quickly and easily. Nefret listened in silence, nodding from time to time, her face unsmiling. Finally she said quietly, “It’s all right, Mother,” and I got hold (figuratively speaking) of my wagging tongue. “Dear me,” I said somewhat sheepishly. “I sound like a tradesperson hoping to sell a house. I beg your pardon, my dear.” “Don’t apologize. You mean this for us, don’t you — for Ramses and me. You didn’t tell me last year that was what you intended.” “My intentions are not relevant, Nefret. It is entirely up to you. If you prefer to stay on the dahabeeyah, as you used to do, that is perfectly all right. But I thought . . . It is some distance from our house, you see, and once I have the plantings in place they will provide additional privacy, and we would not dream, any of us, of intruding without an invitation, and —” “Can you imagine Father waiting for an invitation?” Nefret inquired seriously. “Or Sennia?” “I will make certain they do,” I said. “It is a beautiful house. But a trifle large for two people, perhaps?” “D’you really think so? In my opinion —” “Oh, Mother!” Laughter transformed her face, from shining blue eyes to curving lips. She put her arm round me, and Fatima, who had listened anxiously to the exchange, broke into a broad smile. Nefret gave her a hug too. “It is a beautiful house,” she repeated. “Thank you — both of you — for working so hard to make it perfect.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

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

3

“Bah,” said Emerson. We were seated on the veranda drinking tea. The rays of the sun, low in the west, cast golden gleams through the roses that twined around the open arcades. It was like the old days, when we had so often gathered in that shaded spot; the wicker chairs and settees and tables were not much the worse for wear, and Ramses had taken up his old position, perched on the ledge with his back against a pillar. Now Nefret sat beside him, and her hand was in his. Fatima had insisted upon serving sandwiches and tea cakes, despite the fact that we were to leave shortly to dine with the Vandergelts. Rather than disappoint the dear woman, I nibbled on a cucumber sandwich or two. After learning of the reappearance of Jamil, I had decided a private council of war was imperative. Sennia, who had expected to take tea with us, strongly objected to being sent away and was only mollified when — before I could stop him — Emerson handed her the entire plate of cakes to take with her. As soon as she was out of earshot Nefret repeated what Jumana had said, and Emerson responded in characteristic fashion. “That is not much help, Emerson,” I said. “A threat cannot be dismissed so cavalierly.” “It was an idle threat,” Emerson declared. “How can that miserable little coward constitute a danger to Ramses?” He gave his tall son an approving look, and Ramses replied to the implied compliment with an exaggerated lift of his eyebrows. “Come to that, why Ramses?” Emerson went on. “I take it as an affront that he didn’t threaten me. Are you going to eat all the cucumber sandwiches, Peabody?” “I think,” said Nefret, passing Emerson the plate, “that in Jamil’s eyes Ramses was the hero of last year’s affair. Or villain, from Jamil’s viewpoint! Not to take anything away from you, Father — or you, Mother —” “You are quite right, my dear,” I said graciously. “We did our part, but if it had not been for Ramses —” “You ought to take it as a compliment, Father,” Ramses said. He does not often interrupt me, but he does not like to hear himself praised. “Jamil would consider it below his dignity to threaten a woman, and he obviously feels I am less dangerous than you. ‘No man dares threaten the Father of Curses!’ ” “What an annoying development!” I mused. “I had hoped the wretched boy had taken himself off to distant parts, or that he had met with a fatal accident.” “That is rather cold-blooded, Mother,” my son said. “Your mother is a practical woman,” Emerson declared. “I suppose now we’ll have to find him and turn him over to the police, which will be cursed embarrassing for everyone concerned, especially his father. We’ve left him alone, and instead of taking to his heels he has the effrontery to challenge us! He must be mad.” “Or mad for revenge,” Nefret said, her brows furrowing. “No,” I said judiciously. “He’s too much of a coward. However, his true motive is not difficult to discover. One of his most notable traits is greed. He also has an uncanny instinct for locating lost tombs. Depend on it, that is why he hasn’t left Luxor. He hopes to find another; good Gad, perhaps he has already done so!” An all-too-familiar glint brightened Emerson’s sapphirine orbs, but after a moment’s thought he shook his head regretfully. “Pure conjecture, Peabody, born of your rampageous imagination. It’s more likely that he hasn’t the courage to leave familiar surroundings and strike out on his own. He made enough from his share of the princesses’ treasure to live comfortably for a while; I would guess that the money has been squandered, and that he approached Jumana as a last resort. He won’t try it again. As for attacking Ramses — stuff and nonsense!” “Yes, but he might try and get back at Jumana,” I said. “Especially if he learns she told us he is still in Luxor. She probably won’t believe that she could be in danger from him, so we must make certain she is not allowed to go off alone. Katherine and I had agreed she would come to us; we will bring her back with us tonight. I will ask Fatima to get a room ready for her. David’s old room, I think; it is next to ours, Emerson, with windows that open only onto the courtyard. It will not be easy for anyone to get at her there — or for her to creep out unobserved.” “Are you going to tell Cyrus and Katherine about Jamil?” Nefret asked. “I am glad you raised that point, Nefret. I will explain the situation to them eventually, but I do not believe it would be advisable to mention it this evening. The walls have ears and the tongues of Luxor wag at both ends. We certainly don’t want Jamil to find out that his sister has informed on him.” “There you go, trying to make a mountain out of a molehill,” Emerson declared. “In my humble opinion, the sooner Jamil learns that we are aware of his pathetic threats, the better. He won’t dare show his face again.” “In your opinion?” I repeated. “Humble? I trust that you agree that Selim and Daoud must be informed. Harmless the wretched boy may be, but he is their cousin — of some degree — and —” “Here is Cyrus’s carriage, come for us,” Nefret said quickly. “Are we ready? Mother, where is your hat?” Cyrus’s carriage was a handsome open barouche, drawn by a splendid pair of grays. A brilliant sunset washed the western sky, and across the river the lights of Luxor began to shine. When the carriage turned into the narrow way that led to the Valley of the Kings, the hills rose up around us, cutting off the last of the sunset light. Few spots on earth are as magical as the Valley; it is not only the grandeur of the scenery, but the romance of its history. In the gray twilight one could easily imagine that the shadows cast by the carriage lamps were the ghostly forms of the royal dead, and that the howling in the hills came from the throat of the divine jackal Anubis, god of cemeteries. “Now that we are settled here for a long time, we must think seriously of getting our own carriage,” I remarked. “I don’t like depending on Cyrus or on the rattletraps for hire at the dock.” Emerson said something under his breath, and I said, “I beg your pardon?” and Emerson said, “Motorcar.” That subject caught everyone’s attention and we had a nice little argument that lasted all the way to the Castle. I pointed out that the utility of such vehicles was limited by the condition of the roads and Emerson retorted that the military was using them, and that the new Ford cars had proved to perform admirably in desert terrain. Nefret and Ramses contributed very little. To be fair, they didn’t get a chance to say much. Cyrus’s Theban residence was called the Castle, and it well deserved the name. From certain angles it reminded me of the Mena House hotel; it was almost as large as that excellent hostelry and had the same screened balconies attractively arranged at various levels. There was a stout wall around the entire estate; that night the heavy gates stood hospitably open, and flaming torches lined the drive leading to the house, where Cyrus stood waiting to greet us. He had, as promised, invited no other guests. I asked after William Amherst, who had worked for Cyrus the previous year, and was told that he had left. “Finally wangled his way into the army,” Cyrus said rather enviously. “Some kind of office job. Leaves me confounded shorthanded,” he added. “But Abu is a good reis, and Bertie’s filling in real well.” Katherine gave her son a fond look. She had grown a touch stouter, but the additional weight was, in my opinion, quite becoming. She wore a long loose gown in the Egyptian style and an emerald necklace that matched her eyes. Now that she was freed from worry about her son, who had been severely wounded in action the past year, her face had lost its haggard look and once again she resembled the pleasant, plump-cheeked tabby cat of which she had reminded me at our first meeting. Bertie was looking well too. He had taken up the study of Egyptology, partly to please his stepfather, but primarily to win favor with Jumana, and there is nothing like the vigorous pursuit of archaeology to give an individual healthy color and a sturdy frame. I did notice, when he advanced to greet me, that one leg still dragged a little. I had hoped that time would bring about a complete cure. Evidently it had not. Ah well, I thought, it will keep him from going back into the military. The only other person present was Jumana, who sat as still as a little mouse until Emerson went to her. Everyone was talking and laughing; I believe I was the only one who heard what he said to her. “You did the right thing, child. The matter is in my hands now, and there is nothing to worry about.” I could only hope he was right. It wasn’t long before Cyrus turned the conversation to the subject that had obviously become an idée fixe. “I want a crack at that treasure,” he declared. “Emerson, you’re gonna have to help me with Mohassib.” Ramses glanced at me. His dark brows tilted in an expression of amused skepticism, and I intervened before Emerson could answer. “Now, Cyrus, you know perfectly well that Emerson is the last person in whom Mohassib would confide. Emerson has told him only too often and only too profanely what he thinks of dealers in antiquities. I would like to hear more about the business. How was the tomb found, has it been investigated, why hasn’t the Service des Antiquités taken steps?” That ought to keep Emerson quiet for a while, I thought complacently. Nothing loath, Cyrus launched into a tale that was even more bizarre than the usual stories of such discoveries — and that, I assure you, Reader, is saying a good deal. It does not often rain in Luxor, but when it does, the storms are severe. One such storm had struck the previous summer, washing away houses and cutting deep channels through the land. The canny thieves of Luxor knew that such downpours were more effective than excavation in removing accumulated debris and, perhaps, exposing tomb entrances. Scrambling around the cliffs, they had found a place where a stream of falling water disappeared into a crevice and then came out again, forty feet away. What they saw when they squirmed through the choked passageway into the tomb chamber must have left even those hardened thieves speechless. Unrobbed tombs aren’t found every day, and this one was spectacularly rich. Astonishment did not render them less efficient; within a few hours the treasure had been removed and deposited with Mohassib, who paid them in gold coins. The money was divided among the miscreants, who immediately began to spend it. “That old fool Mohammed Hammad bought himself a young wife,” Cyrus said. “It turned out to be a mistake. The news of the tomb got around, as it always does, and a few weeks later the local mamur and his lads descended on the village. Mohammed had time to hide the rest of his money in a basket of grain, and sent the girl off with it, but she hung around flirting with the guards, and one of them knocked the basket off her head. Well, folks, you can imagine what happened after that. There was a free-for-all, villagers and police rolling around the ground fighting each other for the gold pieces. Mohammed ended up with nothing, not even the girl. She went off with the mamur.” “Disgusting,” Katherine murmured. “Poetic justice,” said Emerson with an evil grin. “Mohammed must be feeling hard done by. He may be persuaded to show me the location of the tomb. They can’t have done a complete clearance.” “Oh, it’s been located,” Cyrus said. “In the Wadi Gabbanat el-Qirud — the Cemetery of the Monkeys. I’ve been thinking I might spend a little time out there looking for more tombs.” “You are supposed to be working at Medinet Habu,” Emerson said with a severe look at his friend. “Not going off on wild-goose chases.” “It’s all very well for you to talk,” Cyrus said indignantly. “You’ve had your big finds, but how about me? All those years in the Valley of the Kings and not a durned tomb for my trouble! There’s got to be more of them in the southwest wadis. With Carter’s find that makes two tombs of royal females in those wadis. What I figure is that that area could have been a kind of early queens’ cemetery.” “It is a strong possibility,” Ramses agreed. Cyrus’s eye brightened, but Emerson said firmly, “You’d be wasting your time, Vandergelt. Carter didn’t find that tomb of Hatshepsut’s, he trailed a group of the locals who had discovered it. You had better stop chasing rainbows and get to work, as I intend to do. You have the firman for Medinet Habu, and you were damned lucky to get it. It is one of the best-preserved temples on the West Bank.” “At least there are some tombs at Deir el Medina,” Cyrus muttered. “Private tombs,” Emerson pointed out. “And I will not be searching for more. I mean to finish excavating that settlement in its entirety. In archaeological terms it is far more important than any cursed royal tomb. Town sites are rare, and we will gain valuable information about the daily life, occupations, and amusements of the working classes . . .” There are few aspects of Egyptology that do not interest Emerson, but in this case he was bravely disguising a certain degree of disappointment and envy. He had always wanted to work at one of the great temples like Medinet Habu. To be honest, I was not especially excited about the village either, but we would not have got even that site if the individual who had held the firman the previous year had not been taken into police custody. According to Emerson, his excavation methods had been careless in the extreme, so there was a good chance we might come upon artifacts he had overlooked or discarded as worthless. And I just might have a look round for more of the private tombs. Some of them were beautifully decorated, and two had contained their original grave goods — not as rich as those of the princesses, but full of interest. Emerson concluded his speech by remarking, “I trust, Vandergelt, that you will concentrate on Medinet Habu. You cannot expect the Department of Antiquities to think well of you if you keep wandering off on fanciful quests.” When we took our departure, we were loaded down. There was room for Jumana on the seat with Ramses and Nefret, but her boxes and bundles took up quite a lot of space. Upon our arrival I showed the girl her room. I had the distinct impression that she was not impressed by its amenities. They were certainly inferior to the ones she had enjoyed as Cyrus’s guest. However, she expressed her appreciation very prettily. I then informed her that Emerson wanted a word with her. “What about?” she asked. “I think you know what about, Jumana. For goodness’ sake, child, you look like a cornered rabbit. You aren’t afraid of him, surely.” “Not of him,” Jumana murmured. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of, Sitt Hakim.” “I didn’t say you had. Come along.” We had agreed in advance that Emerson and I would have a private chat with Jumana, so I was somewhat surprised to find the children with him in the sitting room. “We only waited to say good night,” Nefret said, coming to give me a kiss. “I hope the house is satisfactory,” I said, addressing Ramses, who had not yet given me his opinion. “And that you have everything you need for tonight.” “So long as there is a bed,” said my son, and broke off with a grunt as Nefret elbowed him in the ribs. “I want to leave at daybreak,” Emerson said self-consciously. “Yes, sir,” said Ramses. “Breakfast here at six,” I said. “Yes, Mother,” said Nefret. Jumana’s wide eyes followed them as they went off, arm in arm, their heads close together. Or was it Ramses she watched with such wistful attention? She was of an age where girls fancy themselves in love with unsuitable persons, and Ramses had every quality she could want in a prospective husband (aside from the inconvenient fact that he was already married). If Jamil knew or suspected her attachment it would explain why he had selected Ramses as the object of his ire. “By the by,” said I to Emerson, “you didn’t tell Cyrus about the artifacts I bought in Cairo. I had expected you would want to show them off.” “Quite the contrary,” said Emerson to me. “He’d go haring off to Cairo looking for more of the cursed things. He should be thinking of his excavations.” He fell silent, concentrating on his pipe. Now that the moment had come, he was regretting having offered to question Jumana; he was afraid she would cry. Emerson is a hopeless coward with women. He did not know this one. Before either of us could speak, Jumana sat up straight and raised her chin defiantly. “I was very silly,” she declared. “Jamil can’t do anything . . . can he?” “No,” said Emerson. “Except, perhaps, to you.” “He wouldn’t hurt me.” I was pleased to see she had recovered her nerve — timid women are a confounded nuisance — but her confidence was somewhat alarming. “He won’t get the chance,” I said. “Listen to me, Jumana. You were right to warn Ramses about Jamil, but you are wrong if you believe he is harmless. I want your word that you will go nowhere alone and that if Jamil attempts to communicate with you, you will inform us immediately.” “What will you do to him if you find him?” For once, Emerson was too quick for me. “Lock him up. You must see that we cannot allow him to hang about threatening people and . . . Why are you glaring at me, Peabody?” “I am not glaring, Emerson,” I said, forcing my features into a smile. “It is just that I believe I can explain our intentions more accurately than you. Jumana, if Jamil would come to us and express repentance, we will do all we can to help him.” “You would?” “Yes,” I said firmly. She still loved the wretched boy and probably believed she could redeem him. This is a common delusion of women. After all, I had not been specific. In my opinion the best way to help Jamil would be to put him in a cell — a nice, clean, comfortable cell, naturally — and let him consider the advantages of an honest life. I had expected Emerson would want to go straight to the site next morning. I had no objection to his doing so; there was a great deal to do round the house, and Emerson was more of a hindrance than a help, always grumbling and complaining. However, when we sat down to breakfast I saw that he and Ramses were dressed for rough terrain, in old tweeds and stout boots. It did not require much thought to deduce where they meant to go. I ought to have known! My hypocritical husband’s lecture to Cyrus had been meant to deter the latter from doing precisely what Emerson intended to do that day. The southwest wadis are remote and difficult of access. I attempted to catch Emerson’s eyes but failed; he was looking at the sugar bowl, the coffeepot, the salt cellar — anything but me. “Emerson,” I said loudly, “I trust you had the courtesy to inform Fatima last night that we would want a packed luncheon?” “Luncheon? We?” Emerson’s heavy black brows drew together. “See here, Peabody —” “I will tell her now,” I said with a sigh. “Fortunately she always has a full larder. Are we taking Selim and Daoud with us?” “Yes. No. Oh, curse it,” said Emerson. “What about Jumana?” I persisted. “No,” said Emerson firmly. “I don’t believe we ought to leave her alone.” “She won’t be alone. There are a dozen people . . . Damnation. You don’t think she would creep out to meet that young swine? She gave me her word —” “No, she did not. I don’t trust her out of my sight. She’s been climbing over those hills since she was a child, she can keep up as well as the rest of us.” “If you are going to make a full-scale expedition of this —” “You would have gone off without so much as a water bottle,” I retorted. “I will change my boots and get my parasol, and have a few words with Fatima.” Emerson made one last, and as he ought to have known, futile attempt to head me off. “But, Peabody, I thought you meant to spend the day here. There is a great deal to do, unpacking and —” “Yes, my dear, there is. Obviously it will have to wait. I won’t be long.” I had my few words with Fatima and sent one of the maids to tell Jumana she was wanted in the sitting room. It took me a while to find my boots, which were buried under a heap of Emerson’s clothes. The most important part of my costume was ready at hand. Though my working attire of trousers and tweed coat is well equipped with pockets, I have never abandoned my invaluable belt of tools. Over the years I had refined and added to these accoutrements: a pistol and knife, a coil of rope, a small flask of brandy, candles and matches in a waterproof box, and other useful items. On an expedition such as this, one could not take too many precautions. I hung a small first-aid kit and a brush from two of the empty hooks, and returned to the breakfast room, where I found that Jumana had joined the others. Emerson, who objects to my being hung all round with sharp-edged or blunt objects, gave me a sour look but refrained from comment. I turned to Nefret. “Are you coming, my dear, or would you prefer to stay here and get your new quarters in order? I purchased goods for draperies — a very pretty blue, shot with silver — but I haven’t done anything about servants, since I assumed you would wish to select them yourself. One of Yusuf’s brother’s cousins has already come round asking —” “Yes, Mother, you mentioned that. I am coming, of course. Do you suppose I would allow my poor helpless husband to go off without me to protect him?” Jumana gave her a startled look, and Ramses’s lips parted in a grin. He must have told Nefret of the plan the night before. She certainly had him well in hand — better than I had Emerson! Fatima bustled in with two heavily laden baskets, and we went to the stable, where we found Daoud chatting with the stableman and Selim chatting with the horses. He was a fine rider, and he had been in charge of the splendid Arabians while we were away. Risha and Asfur had been gifts to Ramses and David from a Bedouin friend. Their progeny, which included Nefret’s mare Moonlight, had increased over the years. “Are we taking the horses?” I inquired. I knew the answer even before Emerson shook his head. He had told Selim and Daoud to meet him in the stable so I wouldn’t see them! Neither appeared surprised to see me, however. Selim greeted me with a knowing smile. He and Daoud both carried coils of rope. I had a feeling we would need ropes before the day was over, if the paths Emerson meant to take were too rough for the horses. I have clambered over the Theban mountains many a time, by day and by night. The exercise is delightful during the time of full moon, when the rugged surface is a symphony of silver and shadow. The first part of the trek was familiar to me, and not difficult — up the slope behind Deir el Bahri to the top of the plateau and the path that led from the workmen’s village to the Valley of the Kings. How often had I stood there gazing out upon the panorama of temples and villages, desert and sown, with the waters of the Nile sparkling in the sunlight! It was a hallowed spot; for as our dear departed reis Abdullah grew older, I would often pretend fatigue after the climb so that he could stop and catch his breath. I dreamed of him from time to time, and it was always in this setting that I saw him. Difficult as it is to believe of such a barren, rocky region, the wadis of the Western Desert were cut by water pouring down the cliffs of the high plateau to the plain below. I believe I can best make the Reader come to an understanding of this particular terrain, which is nothing at all like the sand deserts of the Sahara, by comparing the plateau to a plum cake which has been set down on a flattish platter (the Nile Valley). Imagine that some monstrous being has thrust taloned claws into the soft top and sides of this confection and withdrawn them, leaving ragged fissures and tumbled lumps. (When Emerson happened to read this particular section of my narrative, he remarked that in his opinion no rational person could make such an absurd comparison. In my opinion, it is a valid figure of speech, and very descriptive.) Paths wind to and fro across the slopes and over the gebel; some are fairly easy, others are more suitable for goats. These latter were the ones we followed, for whenever there was a choice between an easier, roundabout route, or a steeper, direct path, Emerson chose the second. I had to trust to his leadership, since I had never come this way, but various landmarks gave me a general sense of where we were. Above rose the great pyramid-shaped peak known as the Qurn; beyond, below, and behind it were ravines of all sizes, including the great Valleys of the Kings and the Queens. As we went on, scrambling up stony slopes and over projecting ridges, the scenery became wilder and more spectacular, but even in that remote region there were signs of the presence of man, both ancient and modern: a scrap of newspaper that might have wrapped someone’s lunch, the tumbled stones of crude huts, scraps of broken pottery and animal bones. After an hour of strenuous walking I persuaded Emerson to stop for a brief rest and a sip of water. The view was breathtaking but monotonous — tumbled stone and bare ground, with the blue of the sky above the only color. “Emerson, are you sure you know where you are going?” I inquired, mopping my perspiring face. “Certainly,” said Emerson, looking surprised. He pointed. “We are only eight thousand feet from Medinet Habu. Cheer up, Peabody, we’ll be going down from here; there is a perfectly good path to the next wadi and from there it’s only a hop, skip, and a jump to the Cemetery of the Monkeys.” By the time we reached the end of his “perfectly good path,” which was nothing of the sort, the sun was high overhead. A long, relatively low ridge of rock separated the first wadi from the second, though I certainly would not have described its traverse as a hop, skip, and a jump. A scramble, a slip, and a stretch would be more like it. Once over the ridge we saw a narrow, irregular canyon, stretching out to the north. The ground was extremely uneven, littered with fallen rock and archaeological debris — fragments of red pottery, flints, and so on. Hot, out of breath, and faced with this unpromising view, I allowed myself to speak candidly. “That, I take it, is the wadi where the princesses’ tomb is located. Would you now care to explain what the devil we are doing here? You told Cyrus he would be wasting his time looking for tombs here.” “Hmph,” said Emerson. “Modesty forbids me to mention that I am perhaps a trifle more qualified than Vandergelt. However, that is not my primary aim. I just — er — want to have a look at the princesses’ tomb. The bastards can’t have made a complete clearance.” “Oh, yes, they could have. I tell you, Emerson, you won’t find anything of interest — and how are we to locate the exact spot? The tomb was well hidden, and there are dozens of clefts and rifts in those walls.” “There may be signs,” Emerson insisted. “Watermarks, fresh stone chips, possibly even scraps of the burial equipment. Do you see anything, Ramses?” “No, sir.” Ramses bent and picked up a piece of worked stone, covered with a thick patina. He tossed it away. “Paleolithic.” We made our way slowly along the uneven floor of the wadi, scanning the rocky walls on either side. There was a good deal more debris, in the form of pottery shards and scraps of stone. I came to a halt next to a gaping hole and let out a cry of excitement. “Emerson! A pit tomb, is it not? And here —” I reached for an object half hidden in dusty chips — something that was surely metallic, for a glint of sunlight had shone off it. “Here is — oh.” It was a crumpled cigarette tin. “Carter,” said Emerson, making the name sound like an expletive. “How do you know?” “None of the local men can afford European cigarettes,” Emerson said. “It’s the brand he smokes, isn’t it?” As we went on, the ground underfoot became even more uneven; it appeared as if someone had conducted a random but extensive excavation. Emerson growled. “Either Carter has lost all remnants of archaeological conscience, or the locals have been digging, looking for tombs.” “The latter, surely,” said Ramses. “Carter had every right to be here, Father; he has done nothing wrong.” “Hmph,” said Emerson, who could not deny this, but who, in his heart of hearts, regarded the entire country of Egypt as his personal property, archaeologically speaking. We had almost reached the end of the canyon when I became aware of a faint, unpleasant smell. I looked up, expecting to see floating overhead the winged predators that feed on carrion; but the sky was empty of all but light. Jumana was the first to see the signs for which we had been searching. She ran on ahead, quick and sure-footed over the uneven ground, and came to a stop. “See!” The object she held up was a small gold bead. “Ha,” said Emerson. “Well done, Jumana. Yes, just as I expected. The tomb must have been partially filled with rock fallen from the walls and ceiling. The villains were careful not to remove any more of it than they had to, but they were bound to lose a few items. By Gad, that looks like a bone.” It fell to pieces in a shower of dust when he picked it up. “Water-rotted,” Emerson muttered, and began rooting around in the debris. “The tomb must be up there,” Ramses said, shading his eyes with his hand. “Directly above, in that rift.” Emerson got to his feet. Only then did something odd seem to strike him. He threw his shoulders back, raised his head, and sniffed. “Have the local lads been up to their old tricks — throwing the carcass of a dead animal into the shaft to deter other explorers? You remember the Abd er Rassuls, and the Royal Cache.” “Why would they bother to do that, if there is nothing left in the tomb?” I asked. I pinched my nose with my fingers. “Precisely,” said Emerson, looking pleased. “I will just have a look.” We were at the far end of the valley, facing a steep cliff that I judged to be over a hundred feet high. Some thirty feet above us I made out a cleft running deep into the rock. “Emerson,” I said, choosing my words with care, “it is a sheer drop from the cleft down to the base of the cliff. If you are bent on breaking your arm or your leg or your neck or all three, find a place closer to home so we won’t have to carry you such a distance.” Emerson grinned at me. “You do enjoy your little touches of sarcasm, Peabody. I can make it.” “No, sir, I don’t believe you can,” Ramses said, quietly but firmly. “I wouldn’t care to try it either. I’ll go round and up, with the rope, and lower myself from the top as the thieves did.” I let out a sigh of relief. Ramses seldom contradicted his father, but when he did, Emerson heeded his advice — a compliment he paid few people, including me. “Oh,” he said, stroking his chin. “Hmph. Very well, my boy. Be careful.” “Yes, sir.” “I will go too,” Daoud volunteered. “To hold the rope.” He slung a coil of rope over his shoulder and the two of them set out toward the mouth of the wadi, where the enclosing cliffs were lower and easier to climb. They would have quite a scramble to get to the top, but I was not concerned about them; Ramses was the best rock climber in the family and Daoud had been up and down cliffs like these since childhood. He would make certain Ramses took sensible precautions. I occupied the time by writing up a few notes about the appearance and location of the tomb, while Emerson dug in the rubble as happily as a dog looking for buried bones, and Nefret paced restlessly back and forth, glancing from time to time at the top of the cliff. The sun was almost directly overhead and it was very warm. I removed my coat, folded it neatly, placed it on the ground beside me, and went on with my journal. The smell did not seem so strong now. The olfactory sense is quick to adjust. Despite Nefret’s frequent glances upward, Jumana was the first to see them. She began jumping up and down and waving her arms. The two figures, diminished by distance, made me realize how high the cliff was, and how precipitous the drop. I wondered if the rope would be long enough, and if they could find some stout object to which it could be fastened, and if Ramses would have sense enough not to rely solely on Daoud to hold it. Our friend’s strength was legendary, but if a slip or a snakebite caused him to lose his grip, even for a second . . . The rope came tumbling down, and one of the small figures began to descend — rather too rapidly, in my opinion. It was Ramses, as I had known it would be. It was hard to make out the outlines of his form, even with the sunlight full upon him, since his dusty clothing blended with the color of the stone, but his bare black head was clearly discernible. When he reached a point some forty-five feet above us he stopped, feet braced against the cliff, and waved. “Keep hold of the damned rope!” I shouted. He heard me. A faint and unquestionably mocking “Yes, Mother” floated down to us. Then he disappeared. “Into the cleft,” Emerson muttered. “How long . . .” It was only a few minutes before Ramses reappeared. Instead of reascending he looked up and shouted something at Daoud. Apparently the rope was not long enough to reach all the way to the ground; after Daoud had untied it, Ramses pulled it down and busied himself doing something I could not see — fastening it again, I assumed, since in a short while it uncoiled, the lower end touching the ground not far from where we stood. It had been knotted at regular intervals — a primitive but effective method of preventing the climber from losing his grip. Ramses swung himself out of the cleft and descended. Even before he turned to face us I knew something was amiss. “It isn’t an animal,” he said. “It’s a man. Was a man.” Nefret reached for the rope. Ramses pulled her back and turned her to face him, holding her by the shoulders. “He’s dead, Nefret. You can’t do anything for him.” “I can tell how he died.” She tried to twist away from him but he tightened his grasp. “Nefret, will you listen to me? I’m not talking about a nice dry mummy. There’s still water in the chamber, and he’s been there for days, possibly weeks.” Her face was flushed with heat and rising temper. “Damnation, Ramses, I’ve examined more cadavers than you have!” “You aren’t going to examine this one.” “Who’s going to stop me?” “Er,” said Emerson. I poked him with my parasol. “Not you, Emerson. Nefret, stop and think. I am in full sympathy with your interest in corpses, but I do not see that anything is to be gained by your inspecting this one at this time.” The smell seemed to have intensified since Ramses’s announcement. I pressed my handkerchief to my nose, and Emerson gaped at me. “You mean you don’t insist on inspecting it, and the tomb, too? Good Gad, Peabody, do you feel well?” “Quite well, my dear, thank you, and I intend to remain so.” The children, still facing each other in somewhat belligerent attitudes, turned their heads to look at us. I was happy to observe that my reasonable remarks had lowered the emotional temperature. The corners of Nefret’s mouth quivered, and the angry color faded from Ramses’s face. His hands moved from her shoulders down her arms in a quick, caressing gesture. “Please,” he said. Nefret tilted her head back and looked up into his eyes. “Since you put it that way . . .” Emerson let out a gusty breath. “Very good. We’ll have to have him out, though, if we want to examine the tomb.” “Common decency requires that we have him out,” I said. “And give him a proper burial. I suppose he met with an accident while looking for another tomb to rob.” “It was no accident. He’d been arranged, propped up in a sitting position against the side of the passage, and held upright by . . .” Ramses hesitated for a moment before he went on. “. . . By a metal spike driven through his throat and into a crack in the rock.” 4

We retreated some distance down the wadi before opening the baskets of food. There was not a breath of air stirring and very little shade; we all removed as many garments as propriety allowed. I looked enviously from Ramses and Emerson, shirtless as well as coatless, to Selim and Daoud, who appeared perfectly comfortable in their enveloping but loose garments. I knew I was going to have another argument with Emerson about how to proceed. He was bound and determined to get into the confounded tomb. “We have not the proper equipment for dealing with a decomposing corpse,” I declared, peeling an orange. “And how would we get it back? You aren’t proposing we take it in turn to carry it over those hills, I hope?” Emerson is the most stubborn individual of my acquaintance, but even he was temporarily silenced. He bit into a chicken leg and masticated vigorously. His blue eyes took on a dreamy, pensive look, and his noble brow was untroubled; but I knew he was only biding his time till he could think of a way of getting round the logic of my statement. “Decidedly unpleasant, if not actually impossible,” said Ramses, who knew his father as well as I did. “I propose we go to Gurneh and try to locate his friends or his family. Someone may have reported him missing.” “To the police?” Emerson snorted. “Not likely, with that lot.” “They will admit the truth to us, or to Selim,” Ramses argued. “We will have to come back in any case. Mother is right about that.” “Oh, very well.” Emerson finished his chicken leg and jumped up. “I will just have a quick look before —” “No, you will not! You see what comes of your schemes, Emerson. We ought to have made inquiries before ever we came here. If you would listen to me —” “Bah,” said Emerson. Selim had tried several times to get a word in. Now he said, “I think I know who the man might be, Father of Curses. If you had asked me —” “Not you too, Selim,” Emerson shouted. “I will not be criticized by my wife andmy reis. One of you at a time, but not simultaneously.” However, the combined arguments of Ramses, Selim, and myself carried the day. Emerson is stubborn, but he is not completely unreasonable — and he counted on getting into the wretched tomb another time. Emerson chose another path this time, straight down to the end of the wadi and through another, narrower canyon, descending all the while. It was certainly easier than the way we had come, but it was necessary to watch where one stepped for fear of twisting an ankle, and Emerson set such a rapid pace that conversation was impossible. Neither of these considerations prevented me from ratiocination. There was no doubt in my mind that the unfortunate individual whose remains Ramses had found had been murdered. Was it only a coincidence that Jamil was still in the vicinity, resentful of the men who had, as he claimed, robbed him of his fair share? Remembering the lazy, surly youth I had known, I found it hard to believe that Jamil was a killer. Someone was certainly guilty of something, however, and it behooved us to take all possible precautions. The last of the foothills dwindled and I saw before me the Theban plain, stretching out across desert and cultivation to the river. I made Emerson stop while we drank thirstily, finishing the last of the water. He gave us no time to rest or converse, however. “If you want to reach home before dark, we had best be getting on,” he said. I patted my damp face daintily with my handkerchief. “There are still several hours of daylight left. Where are we?” “A mile or so from Medinet Habu.” He gestured. “I thought we might go home by way of Deir el Medina, have a look round, see what —” “Not today, Emerson.” I knew Emerson’s little “look round” and “mile or so.” The first could take up to three hours, the second might be two miles or more. I continued somewhat acrimoniously, “Why didn’t we take this path when we went out? We could have brought the horses as far as Medinet Habu at least.” “Faster the other way.” Emerson rubbed his chin and gave me a puzzled look. “You aren’t tired, are you?” “Good gracious, no,” I said, with a hollow laugh. I must give Emerson credit; his mile or so was in fact only a little more than a mile. The path soon widened into a fairly well trafficked road and before long I saw the towering pylons of the temple of Ramses III. We were passing the gateway when a man emerged. He gave a start of surprise and came toward us. “Stop, Emerson,” I ordered. “There is Cyrus.” Emerson had seen him, of course. He had hoped he would not, but he was fairly caught. As Cyrus came hurrying up, Emerson burst into speech. “Still here? I was under the impression you left off at midday. I commend your ambition. I — er —” “I took your little lecture to heart,” Cyrus said. His voice had its usual soft drawl, but his expression was neither soft nor welcoming. “Gol-durn you, Emerson, where’ve you been? Not at Deir el Medina, where you’re supposed to be; you’re coming from the wrong direction. Did you have the consarned audacity to warn me away from those queens’ tombs and then go looking for them yourself, behind my back?” The rest of the men had come straggling out of the temple, followed by Abu and Bertie. The latter immediately hastened toward us. Abu took one look at the flushed countenance of Emerson and the scowling countenance of his employer, and discreetly vanished. “Good evening,” Bertie said, removing his pith helmet. In the heat of exasperation Cyrus had, for once, neglected to do this. He remedied the omission at once and gave me a rather sheepish look. “I beg your pardon, Amelia, and yours, Nefret. Guess I shouldn’t have got so riled up.” “Riled up?” Bertie repeated. The Americanism sounded odd in his diffident, educated English voice. “What about? Is something the matter?” “No,” Ramses said, as Nefret acknowledged Cyrus’s apology with a smile. “Two such old friends as Cyrus and my father would never have a serious falling-out about a trivial matter.” Emerson grinned and fumbled in his pockets. Any other man would have been searching for a handkerchief, to wipe the perspiration from his face, but Emerson never feels the heat and he can never find his handkerchief anyhow. Taking out his pipe, he studied it with great satisfaction and began another search for his tobacco pouch. “Don’t do that now, Emerson,” I ordered. “We must be getting home.” “May as well have the matter out,” Emerson said. “Vandergelt has some justice on his side. Perhaps I should explain that we were not looking for new tombs, only investigating that of the princesses.” It wasn’t much of an apology, but, as Cyrus knew, it was a considerable concession for Emerson. “So what did you find?” he demanded. “You’ll never guess,” said Emerson, his keen blue eyes twinkling. “Now stop it this minute, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “We will tell you all about it, Cyrus, but can’t we converse as we walk — or, even better, wait until we get home, where we can be comfortable?” Cyrus insisted I ride his mare, Queenie, and Bertie offered his mount to Nefret. She declined, but Jumana, who had had very little to say since the discovery of the body, was persuaded to accept. Cyrus and Emerson walked along beside me, and Emerson gave Cyrus a condensed version of our activities. I regret to say that Cyrus’s first reaction was one of amusement. “Every year another dead body, as Abdullah used to say,” he remarked with a chuckle. “Your frivolous attitude does not become you, Cyrus,” I chided. “A man is dead — horribly murdered.” “You don’t know that,” Emerson growled. “And even if he was, he probably had it coming to him. Let us have no more of your imaginative speculations, Amelia. Wait until the others can join in before we discuss the matter further.” Since I had been forbidden to talk, I proceeded to speculate. By the time we reached the house, I had my conclusions well organized and was ready to express them; but Sennia was on the veranda, vocally annoyed because she had been left “alone” all day with “nothing to do.” Clearly we could not discuss a grisly corpse, or the unpleasant speculations it aroused, in her presence. “Why don’t you wash your face and hands and put on one of your good frocks?” I suggested. “You see Bertie and Mr. Vandergelt are here; we will have a little party. Jumana, please tell Fatima we have guests and — er — tidy yourself a bit.” I knew it would take Sennia at least a quarter of an hour to primp; she was a vain little creature and loved parties. My excuse for dismissing Jumana was less convincing. The rest of us were as much in need of tidying as she, but my inventiveness had given out, and I did not want her present when we discussed the possibility of her brother’s being a murderer. Selim was no fool. His eyes followed the girl’s slim form as she retreated into the house. Then he looked at me. “Why did you send her away?” “Her brother is in Luxor,” I said. “Jamil.” “Is it so?” Selim’s eyes widened. I repeated what Jumana had told us. “We intended to inform you — all of you — in due course, but in my opinion there was no reason to take his threats seriously. Our discovery today casts a different light on the matter. Selim, you said you know who the corpse might be — er — might have been?” Selim was slow to answer. He appeared to be brooding about something. “The wife of Abdul Hassan has been looking for him. He was one of the men who found the princesses’ tomb.” Then he burst out, “Why did you not tell me that Jumana had seen Jamil and spoken with him?” “We didn’t find out until yesterday.” Emerson does not like to be put on the defensive. He came back with a question of his own. “How is it that you had not heard of his return, you, who are respected by all in Gurneh?” “Not by tomb robbers and thieves. There were rumors . . .” Selim looked up, his jaw set. “I thought they were lies, or not important. I was wrong. I ask your pardon.” “Now, now, Selim, no one is blaming you,” I said soothingly. “Let us return to the point. I sent Jumana away because in my opinion she is not yet ready to accept the possibility that her brother is a thoroughgoing villain and possibly a murderer. If he were directly accused by one of us, she might try to steal out of the house in order to warn him.” “I say,” Bertie interrupted. “Here, I say . . .” But he didn’t; indignation had rendered him incapable of reasoned speech. “No one is accusing her of anything except misplaced loyalty,” I informed him. “Our principal concern is for her, Bertie, but we cannot dismiss the possibility that Jamil is capable of violence against others — including us.” “That’s right.” Cyrus, who had listened interestedly, lit one of his cheroots. “But, Amelia, I think you’ve gone a little overboard. Jamil never amounted to much. I feel sorry for him if he’s fool enough to face the whole lot of us, not to mention Daoud.” We were indeed an impressive group. My eyes followed those of Cyrus, from Emerson’s stalwart form to that of Ramses, who was leaning on the back of Nefret’s chair, lean and lithe as a panther. Either of them would have been more than a match for Jamil. And so would I. “I believe we have covered the main points,” I said. “Selim, you will speak with your kin and your friends in Gurneh; perhaps some of them will respond to direct threats — questions, I mean to say. It only remains to inform Gargery of what is going on.” “Good Gad,” said Emerson, his brow furrowing. “You don’t suppose there is any danger to Sennia, do you?” “I don’t know, Emerson, but I propose to take no chances. Fatima and Basima must be warned as well.” It was agreed that we would return to the Valley of the Monkeys next day, after stopping at Gurneh to interrogate the family of the missing man and the other thieves. There was no time for further discussion; Sennia bounced in and took command of the proceedings. She directed Ramses to take a seat on the settee so that she could sit beside him. Horus, who had followed close on her heels, proceeded to spread his considerable bulk across the rest of the space, and Nefret had to find another chair, which she did without resentment. As she had once said to me, “She had planned to marry him herself when she was older. A less amiable child wouldn’t tolerate me at all.” Cyrus and Bertie did not linger long. Selim soon followed them; his grim expression indicated that he meant to make up for his failure, as he considered it, as soon as possible. The sight of Sennia had reminded me that arrangements for her continuing education should not be long delayed. There was in Luxor an excellent girls’ school run by the American mission, but to send her there presented insurmountable difficulties, in the shape of Emerson. The American ladies were worthy individuals, he did not deny that; however, religious instruction was part of the curriculum, and Emerson does not hold with religion in any form. At my request he attempted to keep his heretical opinions to himself when Sennia was present, but if Sennia came home quoting the Bible at us, sooner or later Emerson would crack under the strain. There was now an additional reason for keeping her closer to home. Jamil’s threat had been directed against Ramses; but who could tell what form his malice would take? So I interrupted Miss Sennia in the middle of a long peroration with the announcement that she would begin her schooling next day. She turned an indignant look on me and tossed her black curls. “But, Aunt Amelia, I have a great deal to do!” “You just now complained that you hadn’t enough to do,” I retorted. “I have it all worked out. Mrs. Vandergelt has kindly offered to tutor you in the basic subjects — history (of England, that is), English grammar and composition, mathematics, and botany.” “Flowers?” Sennia’s pretty little mouth drew up in a good imitation of Emerson’s sneer. “I don’t want to learn about boring flowers, Aunt Amelia, I want to learn about animals and mummies and bones.” “Biology,” I said. “Hmmm. Well, that will have to wait. Mrs. Vandergelt prefers not to discuss mummies and bones.” “What about Aunt Nefret? She knows all about them.” She fluttered her long lashes at Nefret, who grinned at this transparent flattery. “I don’t know how good a teacher I might be, Sennia, but I could try. Two or three lessons a week, perhaps.” “And when shall I take my lessons in hieroglyphs with Ramses?” was the next question. The little witch had the entire curriculum worked out in her head and knew exactly how to get her way. Emerson cravenly agreed to tutor her in ancient Egyptian history, and having settled the essentials to her satisfaction, Sennia kindly agreed to go to Katherine three days a week for the less important subjects. She then settled down to make serious inroads on the tea cakes.