“Thank you, my dear,” I said.
The sarcasm was wasted on Emerson. “Good to be back,” he declared with great satisfaction. “No use asking Gargery how things are going at Deir el Medina, but I expect Vandergelt will be here before long, with his own list of complaints. Never a dull moment, eh? Sennia, you haven’t given me a kiss. My arm is bothering me quite a lot.”
Cyrus was courteous enough not to disturb us for the greater part of the day. We were sitting on the veranda admiring the lovely sunset colors, as the calls of the muezzins drifted across the desert in a melodious medley, when he turned up, riding Queenie.
“Figured I’d arrive in time for drinks,” he remarked, handing the reins to the stableman. “Sure good to have you folks back. I hear Ramses has had another little – er – accident. I don’t suppose I should ask where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to.”
“No,” said Emerson. He handed Cyrus a glass.
It was the answer Cyrus had expected. He accepted it, and the glass of whiskey, with a smile. “Sure have missed you. Maybe you can do something with Jumana. She’s just wasting away, poor little girl.”
“No, she is not,” I assured him. “Nefret and I both examined her this afternoon. She is somewhat off-color, since she hasn’t left the house for days, but she hasn’t lost an ounce.”
“But Fatima said -”
“She has only picked at her meals. That means she is eating on the sly. I prescribed a particularly nasty-tasting tonic.”
“She’s been putting it on?” Cyrus demanded.
“It’s not that simple, Cyrus,” Nefret said thoughtfully. “Her unhappiness is genuine. She isn’t deliberately deceiving us, but I think – and Heaven knows I am no expert – that her natural youthful optimism is engaged in a mental struggle with her sense of guilt. I honestly don’t know whether to slap her or coddle her.”
“Put her to work,”said Emerson. “Always the best medicine. How are things going at Deir el Medina, Vandergelt?”
“ ’Bout the same. Found two more tombs. Empty.”
“You haven’t broken your promise to me, I hope,” I said.
“I haven’t been in the southwest wadis, if that’s what you mean. But if you think I’ve forgotten what that young villain said, you’re wrong. I haven’t been able to sleep, wondering what he meant. ‘The hand of the god.’ What god? Where?” Cyrus held out his empty glass. In silent sympathy, Emerson refilled it. He had no patience with psychology, but this distress he could understand.
Cyrus went on, in mounting passion, “I even went back into that darned shrine – the one where we found the statue of Amon last year. Well, he’s a god, isn’t he? Bertie and I examined every inch of the darned room. The walls and floor are solid.”
“Bah,” said Emerson. “Stop wasting time on fantasies, Vandergelt.”
“Don’t be a hypocrite, Emerson,” I said. “We have all been speculating and guessing and theorizing. It is a pretty little problem. Supposing Jamil was not trying to mislead or tantalize us, which may well have been the case, there are a good many gods shown on a good many wall surfaces in Thebes. Deir el Bahri, Medinet Habu, every tomb on the West Bank – What is it, Cyrus?”
“Excuse me, Amelia, I didn’t mean to interrupt. You just reminded me. This little piece of news ought to get your attention, Emerson,” he added, with a grimace at my husband. “Give you three guesses who has started an excavation in the Valley of the Kings.”
Emerson’s look of lofty indifference turned to a scowl. “Without official permission? Confound it, Vandergelt -”
“Not the Albions?” I exclaimed.
“Might have known you’d hit it on the head first time,” said Cyrus. “You’re both right. It’s Joe and his family, and they don’t have official permission.”
“And you let them?” Emerson demanded.
“I notified Cairo. That was all I could do, as Joe gleefully pointed out to me. I haven’t got the authority to stop them.”
“Where in the Valley?” Ramses asked.
“In that southern branch of the wadi near Number Twenty – Hatshepsut’s tomb.”
“Why there, I wonder?” Ramses said.
“Dunno. It’s off the regular tourist track, so maybe they hoped they wouldn’t be spotted right away. Can’t think of any other reason why they would pick that area.”
“Damnation,” muttered Emerson. “I had intended to start work first thing tomorrow morning. Now I will have to waste several hours expelling the Albions.”
“How do you propose to do that?” I inquired. “You haven’t the authority either, and if you lay violent hands on any one of them – especially Mrs. Albion -”
“Good Gad, Peabody, have you ever known me to lay violent hands on a woman? There are ways,” said Emerson, stroking his chin. “There are ways.”
“Well, I sure don’t want to miss that,” Cyrus declared. “I’ll be waiting for you in the morning. You’ll all dine with us tomorrow evening, I hope. Katherine is anxious to see you.”
Ramses and Nefret decided they did not want to miss it either. I went along to make certain Emerson behaved himself. Jumana went along because I insisted. Nefret’s diagnosis might be correct – it was in keeping with the principles of psychology I favored – but she had confessed herself uncertain as to the appropriate treatment. I had my own ideas on that subject. If my methods were not effective, at least they could do no harm.
Jumana ate very little at breakfast, but I had checked the larder before retiring and again when I arose, and was not surprised to find that half a loaf of bread and a chicken breast had disappeared overnight. It was no wonder Fatima had not noticed anything amiss. The larder was open to everyone in the house, and Sennia had an appetite quite out of proportion to her little frame.
Cyrus and Bertie had been looking out for us and joined us at the end of the track that led up to the Castle. It was a bright, beautiful morning with clear skies; after the fog of Cairo and the rainy weather of Palestine, I appreciated Luxor even more.
“How well you look, Bertie,” I said. “The foot is completely healed?”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you. I need not ask if you are in good health; you are blooming, as usual. We had heard that Ramses -”
“The reports were exaggerated,” Ramses said with a smile. “As you can see.”
“And your arm, Professor?” Bertie asked.
“A confounded nuisance,” said Emerson. “Can we get on now? I want to finish this little job, so I can start work.”
Bertie was not given the opportunity to ask after the person who interested him most. Jumana had not spoken to him or to Cyrus. She sat slumped in the saddle, her head bowed and her pretty mouth twisted. The taste of the medicine I had insisted she take lingered on the tongue.
We left the horses in the donkey park and proceeded on foot, along paths long familiar to us. I should explain that the Valley of the Kings is not a single long canyon. From above it resembles a lobed leaf, like that of an oak or maple, with side wadis branching off to left and right. The tomb of Hatshepsut was at the far end of one of these branches. We had worked in that area before and knew it well.
The tourists had come early to the Valley in order to avoid the heat of midday. We were not so early as Emerson would have liked, but in part it was his own fault; he had wasted some time playing with the Great Cat of Re, who had come to breakfast with Ramses and Nefret. It had grown quite fat, through overfeeding (by Sennia – she claimed to have been training it, to do what I could not imagine). She had also combed and brushed it every day, so that its fur had become long and silky. Emerson was highly entertained by its antics. As it leaped at the bit of chicken he dangled above it, it looked like a bouncing ball of fluff. (Horus’s look of contempt as he watched this degrading performance was equally entertaining.) However, when we left the house it declined to ride on his shoulder and climbed onto that of Ramses.