The Golden One (7 page)

‘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-defence, 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 humour 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 moustache
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 towards 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 rumour 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 favourite 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.