“Must we take it?” he asked. “You rather overdid the grooming, Sennia, its fur is all over my face.”
“His,” said Sennia. “Yes, you must take him. What if you were attacked by a snake? I am coming too.”
So that caused another delay. I did not want her to see – or hear – Emerson evicting the Albions. He was bound to lose his temper and employ bad language. We pacified her by promising to stop back at the house and take her to Deir el Medina, and distracted her by asking her to help Fatima prepare a very elaborate picnic basket.
Draped over Ramses’s shoulder, with his tail hanging down behind, the Great Cat of Re resembled a luxuriant fur piece. Several ladies wanted to stroke him; several gentlemen stared and laughed. Among the latter was Mr. Lubancic, whom I had met at Cyrus’s soiree. “Still here, are you?” I called, as we passed.
“Yes, ma’am. What on earth -”
“Another time.” I waved. Emerson had not slowed his pace.
The signs of energetic activity were visible some distance off; a cloud of dust blurred the brilliant blue of the sky, and voices rose in one of the chants with which Egyptians lighten their work. The sight we beheld when we reached the spot was unusual enough to bring us all to a halt.
In the background a group of men were digging and hauling away debris. In the foreground, some distance from the dust and racket, was a little kiosk, a sturdy wooden frame with a roof and sides of canvas. Two of the canvas side pieces had been rolled up, and under the canopy, comfortably seated in armchairs, were the three Albions. Oriental rugs covered the ground; a table was spread with various articles of food and drink, over which a turbaned servant stood guard with a fly whisk. Another servant waved a fan over Mrs. Albion. She wore a frock that would have been suitable for tea at Buckingham Palace, and a hat wreathed with chiffon veiling. Mr. Albion had adopted what he believed to be proper archaeologist’s attire: riding breeches and boots, a tweed coat, and a very large solar topee. His son was similarly attired, but since he was a good deal taller than Mr. Albion, he did not so closely resemble a mushroom.
One of the workmen came trotting up to Mr. Albion with a bit of stone in his hand. Albion took it, glanced at it, and tossed it away. He then condescended to notice us.
“Morning, folks. Out bright and early, are you?”
“Not so early as you,” said Emerson, advancing with shoulders squared and brows thunderous. “You have been told, I believe, that you are in violation of Lord Carnarvon’s firman. Close down your excavation at once.”
“Who’s gonna make us?” Mr. Albion inquired. He looked even more cherubic, his eyes twinkling and his lips pursed. “You?”
“Yes,” said Emerson. “Oh, yes.”
“Father, if I may?” Sebastian Albion had got to his feet. “Not everyone appreciates your sense of humor. Won’t you sit down, ladies and gentlemen, and discuss the situation? Mrs. Emerson, please take my chair. I’m afraid the rest of you will have to – er -”
“Squat,” said Nefret, doing so. “Let’s hear what they have to say, Father. It won’t cause much of a delay and it might be amusing.”
“I agree,” said Ramses, subsiding with boneless ease onto the rug beside Nefret and crossing his legs.
“Amusing,” Mr. Albion repeated. “Yes, sirree, that’s our aim in life, to amuse people and be polite. Here, young lady, take my chair. We heard you’ve been ailing.”
Jumana started, and so, I believe, did we all. Such gallantry was not only unexpected but was, in my opinion, highly suspicious.
“No, thank you,” she stammered. “Sir.”
“I insist.” He was on his feet, his face wreathed in smiles. “Sebastian, you persuade her.”
“With pleasure.” The young man offered his hand. Jumana blushed and ducked her head.
“Sit down, Jumana,” I ordered. “Since Mr. Albion is kind enough to offer.”
Mrs. Albion ignored this little byplay. She was leaning forward with the first sign of amiable interest I had seen her display. “What a beautiful cat. What is its name?”
“The Great Cat of Re,” I replied. “You would call it Fluffy, I suppose.”
Mr. Albion chuckled. “No, she gives her cats names like Grand Duchess Olga of Albion. Fond of the creatures. I put up with ‘em because she’s fond of ’em.”
“Now see here,” Emerson exclaimed. “I will be cursed if I will spend the morning talking about cats. What do you people think you are doing?”
Sebastian Albion removed his eyeglasses, wiped them on a handkerchief, and replaced them. “As you have no doubt observed, sir, we are clearing the tomb of Prince Mentuherkhepshef. It was found by Belzoni and reexamined in 1905 by -”
“Don’t tell me facts I know better than you,” Emerson interrupted. Curiosity had weakened his wrath, however; the Albions were so blandly outrageous, it was difficult to remain angry with them. And Sebastian had pronounced the prince’s name correctly. He knew more about Egyptology than we had supposed.
“What do you hope to find?” Emerson went on. “The tomb is empty. Ayrton, who was here in 1905, found only a few scraps. The paintings… oh, good Gad!”
He whirled round and ran toward the workmen. A stentorian bellow stopped diggers and basket men, and as the cloud of dust subsided, Emerson vanished into the dark opening of the tomb. He was out again in ten seconds, waving his fists. “Someone has been hacking at the walls. There was a painting of the prince offering to Khonsu -”
“Defaced or missing?” Ramses asked.
“Missing. Completely cut out, leaving a great hole. Probably in pieces. Curse it!”
“We didn’t do it,” Sebastian hastened to say. “We haven’t touched the paintings.”
“You aren’t doing them any good,” Emerson retorted furiously. “All that dust and debris floating about… My patience is at an end. Stop work at once.”
“What are you going to do, carry us out of here bodily?” Mr. Albion inquired. “There’s nothing to stop us from coming back.”
“Your workmen won’t come back. I am about to put a curse on the place. They won’t dare go near it after that, and neither will any of the other men on the West Bank.”
“You better listen, Joe,” Cyrus advised. “The Professor’s curses are famous around here.”
“That so?” Mr. Albion’s eyes narrowed until they virtually disappeared. Then they resumed their normal appearance and a smile fattened his cheeks. “Well, I guess we know how to give in gracefully, eh, Sebastian? It’s a shame about those fellows, they really need the work.”
That aspect of the matter had not occurred to Emerson. It did not affect his decision, but I could see he was moved by it. He stood for a moment in thought, fingering the cleft in his chin. “It’s a new tomb you’re after, I presume? That’s what every dilettante wants. There are one or two areas I’ve been meaning to explore for some time. Very promising sites.”
Mrs. Albion had been stroking the Great Cat of Re, who politely permitted the liberty. (I had hoped it would hiss or scratch.) She looked up at Emerson. “Where are these sites, Professor?”
We delayed long enough to see the men begin to dismantle the comfortable little tent, and Mrs. Albion lifted, armchair and all, onto the shoulders of the servants. She was extremely gracious, though not to me; she thanked Emerson for his advice, spared a frosty smile for Jumana, and shook a playful finger at Ramses when he rose and settled the Great Cat of Re more securely onto his shoulder. “You really ought to select a more appropriate name for that charming creature, Mr. Emerson. The name of a lovely Egyptian goddess, perhaps? Hathor or Isis.”
“I fear that would not be appropriate, ma’am,” Ramses replied. “The cat is not of the female sex – uh – gender.”
“I may have been mistaken about Mrs. Albion,” I admitted, as we walked away. “Cats are generally good judges of character. Playfulness does not become her, however. What on earth were you thinking of, Emerson, proposing other sites for them? You have no right to do anything of the sort.”