Part 10 (1/2)

The door opened to admit Nefret. He started guiltily, s.n.a.t.c.hed a towel and fled, mumbling apologies for being so long. Had he really been lolling in the bath running over the list of his . . . conquests, some might call them? In his own defense he could truthfully claim that a good many of them had been one-sided and unconsummated. Except for Enid and Layla and one or two others . . . three or four others . . . No. It was a ridiculous theory, and he wouldn't think about it again.

THE SUNSET CALLS OF THE muezzins died into silence and the skies darkened as they drove along the path to the Castle. Selim arrived a few moments later, while they were getting out of the carriages. He made a das.h.i.+ng figure in his flowing robes, astride his favorite stallion; in the crimson glow of the torches that lit the courtyard he was a picture of pure romance, and he obviously knew it. Evelyn exclaimed in admiration, and Lia applauded. Selim grinned complacently.

”Well-timed, Selim,” Ramses said.

Selim swung himself out of the saddle and handed the reins to one of Cyrus's stablemen. ”I should have come earlier or later. Someone shot at me.”

Exclamations of alarm and concern arose, especially from the newcomers. Having got the sensation he desired, Selim put on an air of manly indifference. ”I am not hurt. It did not touch me.”

”Those d.a.m.ned-fool hunters, I presume,” said Emerson, unimpressed. ”They go out at twilight to shoot jackals. There are more of them than there were in the old days, Walter, and some of them shouldn't be trusted with a weapon.”

”Dear me,” said his brother in alarm. ”Isn't that dangerous?”

”Dangerous, no. Annoying, yes. Just don't go for a quiet stroll at twilight near the Valley or the Ramesseum.”

”Come on in, folks,” Cyrus called from the doorway of the house. ”Welcome! It's great to have you back.”

While Cyrus was shaking hands all round, Selim beckoned Ramses aside.

”One does not wish to frighten the women,” he began in a low voice.

”Frighten my mother?”

”The Sitt Hakim fears neither man nor beast nor demon of the night,” said Selim, adapting one of Daoud's sayings about Emerson. ”But someone should speak to the police about the hunters, Ramses. They are becoming careless.”

He held out his arms, stretching the fabric of his outer garment. The light was poor, but Ramses knew what to look for. There were several holes. When Selim lowered his arms, the fabric fell into graceful folds, and the rents overlapped. One bullet. But it had pa.s.sed dangerously close to Selim's side.

”I'll have a word with Father,” Ramses promised. ”And you be more careful.”

The gathering was informal; in deference to Emerson's well-known dislike of evening kit, Cyrus wore one of his elegant white linen suits. Bertie was looking more and more like one of the minor poets, with a scarf draped round his neck and, on this occasion, a blue velvet coat and a pensive expression.

The pleasure with which Cyrus had greeted them soon pa.s.sed, however, and his long face relapsed into lines like those of a mournful hound. As Ramses had expected, his mother didn't allow that state of affairs to continue.

”Now, Cyrus, it is high time you got a proper perspective on this business,” she said, briskly b.u.t.tering a roll. ”It is not really that important.”

”Not important!” Cyrus cried in anguished tones. ”But I-”

”There are literally hundreds of objects in the collection, Cyrus, including other bracelets and several pectorals. After a single visit M. Lacau cannot claim to remember every one of them. It would be his word against ours.”

Her tone was so matter-of-fact that for a moment the preposterous suggestion almost made sense. Emerson stared at his wife. ”Good Gad, Peabody, you can't be serious. That would be . . . Hmmm.”

”It would be extremely difficult as well as thoroughly unethical,” Ramses said, alarmed by the look of dawning speculation on his father's face. ”We would have to alter all the records-there are dozens of references to those pieces, all methodically cross-indexed. Your reputation would be seriously damaged, Cyrus, if we were caught trying to play a trick like that. As it is, you have preserved for Egypt and the world a spectacular find, giving unstintingly of your energy and your wealth. Not even Lacau can hold you accountable for the venality of an employee. That sort of thing happens all the time.” He added, ”Mother was making one of her little jokes. Weren't you, Mother?”

She met his accusatory look with a bland smile. ”A little joke is never out of place. You have put the case very nicely, my dear.”

”Do you think Lacau will see it that way?” Cyrus asked, looking a little less tragic.

”If he does not,” said Emerson, ”I will point out a few embarra.s.sing incidents involving the Service des Antiquites. Good Gad, their own storage magazines have been robbed, and as for the Museum-”

”Yes, Father, we know what you think of the Museum,” Nefret said.

Emerson was not to be repressed. ”Our mummy,” he growled. ”The one we found in Tetisheri's tomb. They lost it, you know. Lost it!”

”We do know, Emerson,” said his wife. ”You have presented an excellent argument, and I feel sure it will make an impression upon M. Lacau. Anyhow . . .” She paused to nibble daintily on a slice of tomato. ”Anyhow, he won't be back for several weeks. Something may yet turn up!”

After dinner they went upstairs to view the collection. It took Cyrus several minutes to open the door; there were two new locks, one of them a padlock heavy enough to have anch.o.r.ed a small boat. Meeting Ramses's quizzical eye, Cyrus smiled sheepishly.

”Locking the barn door after the horse has been stolen, I reckon.”

”Not at all, sir. Martinelli had the key to the other lock. One must presume he still has it.”

”Wherever the son of a . . . gun is.”

”How many other people have been let in?”

”Not as many as wanted in,” Cyrus replied, tugging at his goatee. ”You know what it's like when you've found something unusual. For a while I was getting requests from every tourist who arrived in Luxor, all claiming to be old friends of mine or friends of my old friends, or of some important person. I turned most of 'em down. There were a few I couldn't refuse, though-those that had letters of introduction from Lacau, and colleagues like Howard Carter . . . Say. You aren't suggesting that one of them had a hand in the theft?”

”I don't see how,” Ramses admitted.

A question from Lia called Cyrus away, leaving Ramses to wonder what had prompted him to ask about visitors. Even if one of them had yielded to temptation, he (or she) wouldn't have found it easy to pocket an object under Cyrus's very nose, and the timing made Martinelli's guilt certain. Yet the limited extent of the theft was more in line with an attack of kleptomania than the work of a professional thief who had had access to the entire collection and plenty of time in which to operate. A good many of the smaller items could be safely transported, including the rest of the jewelry, and they wouldn't take up much s.p.a.ce if properly packed.

But if a lucky amateur had been responsible, then what had become of the Italian?

Cyrus expanded with pride as the newcomers exclaimed over the dazzling exhibition. Perhaps David was the only one who fully appreciated the effort that had gone into preserving the pieces. He had helped with the clearance of Tetisheri's tomb and been actively involved in restoring many of the artifacts. Walter inspected the other objects appreciatively but casually before gravitating to the inlaid coffins.

”The standard inscriptions,” he said to Ramses. ”No papyri except the Books of the Dead?”

”No, sir, but there's plenty of inscribed material from the village itself-ostraca and sc.r.a.ps of papyrus. A few weeks ago we came across an astonis.h.i.+ng cache of papyri-it might almost have been someone's private library, thrown into a pit and covered over by a descendant who wasn't a reader. There appear to be parts of a medical book and several literary texts, among other things. I've been trying to find the time to work on them, but . . .”

His uncle's thin face broke into a smile. ”I understand. Well, my boy, perhaps I can lend a hand. A medical text, you say?”

Emerson, whose hearing was annoyingly acute when one hoped he wasn't listening, strode up to them. ”Never mind the cursed texts, they will keep. I need you both on the dig. Unless you have forgotten everything I taught you about excavation technique, Walter.”

”It's been a long time” was the mild response.

”You'll soon pick it up again,” Emerson declared.

Before they left, Emerson had settled everything to his own satisfaction. ”Everybody at Deir el Medina tomorrow morning, eh?” He didn't wait for answers.

I TRY TO AVOID CONTRADICTING Emerson's dogmatic p.r.o.nouncements in public. It is ill-mannered, and although a good brisk argument never bothers me-or, to do him justice, Emerson-it upsets some members of the family. However, I had no intention of allowing him to brush aside the needs and interests of his staff so dictatorially. I had not realized, until I overheard the conversation between Walter and Ramses about the ma.s.ses of ostraca we had found, how badly Ramses wanted to get at those texts. Like his uncle, he was primarily interested in the ancient language and its literature. The eager note in his voice, the brightness of his eyes were those of an excited boy. Those eyes were somewhat sunken, however; he must have been sitting up half the night, every night, over the ostraca, after putting in a long day at the site. That could not be good for his health-or, come to think of it, his marriage. The instincts of a mother informed me that I had failed him. I ought to have stood up to his father. Emerson takes a good deal of standing up to.

I would have to stand up for Walter, too. And for Cyrus. In a few weeks the majority of the objects from the tomb would be removed to the Museum. Heaven alone knew how they would survive the transport and the handling they would receive in Cairo. Now was the time to make copies, and the opportunity to avail ourselves of the skills of two trained artists was not to be missed.

I did not doubt that Emerson had also decided to ignore other, more serious, matters. M. Lacau had not questioned Martinelli's antecedents when Cyrus hired the latter, but now that he had turned out to be a cunning thief, Lacau might well inquire why we had employed a restorer who was unknown to the Department of Antiquities. Sethos might turn up at any minute, in some guise or other, to make a nuisance of himself. Then there was that strange encounter of Ramses's. I had formulated a little theory about it, which I meant to investigate when I found the time.

I raised several of these issues with Emerson after we had retired to our room that night. One after the other he pooh-poohed them. One after the other I demolished his arguments. We ended up nose to nose, shouting at each other. Emerson shouted because he had lost his temper, whereas I raised my voice only because I had to do so in order to be heard.

”So how do you explain the veiled lady?” I demanded.