Tomb of the Golden Bird (11 page)

Barton, who had been squirming, said, "We don't believe it, ma'am. I mean, it's known that you were in the Valley that night. The Gurnawis have been jeering at the ibn Simsah brothers for letting themselves be caught by the Professor, and Farhat has gone into hiding. But we all know you'd never have done anything wrong. I mean, confound it, you may have saved the tomb from being robbed. I think it's damned— er—darned ungrateful of his lordship not to thank you." "Have another cup of tea," said Ramses's mother with a friendly smile. "And a biscuit or two, before the children arrive and finish them." Barton helped himself. "Were they there?" he asked. "Unlike his lordship, we do not accuse others," Emerson said loftily. "I will say no more." "Admirable," Winlock said. "George has it right, Professor. No one would ever believe you had behaved in an underhanded manner. But—well—you folks understand the position we're in." Emerson took out his pipe. "So it's true that Carter has asked you to join in the excavation?" "Unofficially. I believe he is wiring Lythgoe in New York for official permission. So you see we can't afford to be drawn into your feud with Carnarvon. But," said Winlock emphatically, "no one, not even the President of the U.S. of A., tells me how to choose my friends." Emerson appeared touched by this declaration, but after their guests had left he remarked, "Friendship is all very well, but Winlock won't let it interfere with business." "I need to have a talk with Daoud," Emerson declared. "This is the third day in succession that he has been late." We had concluded the excavation of Ay's tomb and moved most of the crew to the unfinished tombs, numbers 24 and 25. The only onesleft behind were Suzanne, who had begun copying the paintings in the burial chamber, and Bertie, who was making his final plan. This arrangement pleased Jumana, for a staff artist was considered to be lower on the scale than an excavator. She was inclined to put on airs.

"Daoud is no shirker," I said. "And he is entitled to time off if he needs it." "But he won't answer questions," Emerson complained. "That isn't like Daoud. Curse it, he is verging on insubordination." "Perhaps he is taking steps to counter the curse of the golden bird," Nefret suggested. "What steps?" Emerson demanded. Nefret chuckled. "Praying." "He prays too cursed much," grumbled Emerson. Suzanne emerged from the entrance to the tomb, sketch pad in hand. Her blond curls hung limp around her face and her neat shirtwaist was soaked with perspiration. With a murmur of thanks she accepted the glass of tea Nefret handed her. "You ought not stay inside so long," the latter said with a look of concern. "You aren't accustomed to the heat." "I don't mind," Suzanne said valiantly. "The trouble is I drip perspiration onto the paper. The paint keeps smearing." Disconsolately she studied her sketch pad. The drawing was indeed blurry. "Have one of the men standing by to wipe your brow," I suggested. Suzanne seemed to find the image amusing. "It would make me feel silly. I will just keep on trying." "Come and see me if you feel unwell," Nefret said. "I'll prescribe a day of rest." "That is kind. Perhaps when Mr. Carter returns I may be allowed to watch him reopen the tomb. What I have seen of it has not been exciting." "None of us is going there," said Emerson. "You may do as you like, Emerson, but you cannot dictate how others spend their leisure hours," I said. "Did I hear you say something about the curse?" Suzanne asked, forestalling what would certainly have been a heated response from Emerson. "The men are all talking about it." "There is no curse," said Emerson, like Jehovah issuing a commandment. "Mais non, certainement. But it is a good story." She shivered in pretended alarm, and then laughed. "What's so funny?" Cyrus asked, joining the group. "I could use a good laugh." "It is only about the curse," Suzanne explained. "The curse of the golden bird." She broke into another peal of laughter. Cyrus smiled in sympathy, but shook his head. "Some people are going to take it seriously, my dear." "I think the Professor does. He says we may not go near the tomb." She gave Emerson a sidelong glance, eyes widening even more. Emerson looked at her with the same expression as the Great Cat of Re when Amira makes playful approaches. Daoud turned up at breakfast the following morning. He often did so, since he appreciated Maaman's cooking, but I could tell at once that he had a more compelling reason for being there. For one thing, his left cheek was green. I recognized Kadija's famous ointment, which she applied to injuries. "Was there trouble?" I asked. "Only from the lady," said Daoud, his honest face falling. "But do not fear, Sitt Hakim. I have her safe." Margaret was safe, but, to judge from the scratches on Daoud's face, not in a pleasant frame of mind. Emerson's frame of mind was not much better. Thumping the table with such force that the crockery rattled, he shouted, "So that's what you've been up to. How dare you suborn my employees and plot against me, Peabody?" "Someone had to," I replied, anticipating an enjoyable argument. "None of the rest of you seem to have given a curse about Margaret's safety." Sethos ducked his head, avoiding my accusing look. Emerson lookedalmost as guilty. Nefret's eyes widened as enlightenment dawned. "Margaret is here? When? How? What's this all about?" "It is very simple, my dear," I replied. "I knew Margaret would come as soon as she heard about the tomb, and that she would pass through Cairo without stopping. There was not much chance of her being intercepted, by us or anyone else, while she was there. Crediting our adversaries with intelligence approaching my own, I assumed they would be on the watch for her arrival in Luxor. So was Daoud. Following my instructions," I added, with a provocative glance at Emerson. He was making bubbling noises, like a kettle on the boil. "Why didn't you tell me?" he sputtered. "When one wishes to keep a secret, one confides in as few people as is possible, Emerson." "Hmph," said Emerson. "Oh. Well."  I invited Daoud to sit down and tell us all about it. Nothing loath, he accepted a plate of eggs and toast from Fatima. "I knew her at once, Sitt Hakim, and she knew me and was pleased to see me. But then she said she would go to the hotel, and when I said no, she must come with me and wear the habara you told me to bring, and she said no, she would come to see you later, after she had got a room at the hotel. And I said there were no rooms, and she said she would find one, and what the—a bad word, Sitt—was I doing? And when I took hold of her, very gently, Sitt, she ..."He raised his hand to his cheek. "That's outrageous, Daoud," Nefret exclaimed. "What did you do, bind and gag her and wrap her in a habara and carry her off?" "The Sitt Hakim said she must not be seen by anyone who might recognize her." Daoud's eyes filled with tears, like those of a chidden child. He was not accustomed to hearing harsh words from Nefret. "Don't scold him, Nefret, he did exactly as I told him," I said. "I feared she might not take kindly to being ordered about." "She never does," said Sethos. "Thank you, Daoud. You did right." "One can only hope so," said Ramses grimly. "How many people saw you carrying a bundled-up woman, Daoud?" "Many. When they asked I said what the Sitt Hakim told me to say. That she was a young cousin who had run away from her father to make a foolish marriage." "Not bad," Sethos admitted. "Where is she?" Daoud had taken her to his house and delivered her into the kindly but powerful arms of Kadija. So there was no hurry. I finished my breakfast before I changed into my working costume. Everyone wanted to come with me (though Sethos's offer was somewhat perfunctory), but it did not take long to convince them that a descent in force would only attract undesired attention. Ramses retreated to his workroom, Daoud went with the others to the West Valley, and I set off alone for Gurneh, leaving Sethos coolly drinking coffee. Kadija was expecting me. "I am sorry to put you to this trouble," I began. Arms folded, she shrugged her broad shoulders. "It is no trouble, Sitt Hakim. Though it was trouble for Daoud," she added with one of her rare smiles. Kadija admired strong women. She had locked Margaret into one of the rooms reserved for visitors. It had only one small window, high in the wall, but it was pleasant enough, with a nice little bed, a basin of water for washing, and bottles of water and lemonade. I had supplied various items to make the prisoner more comfortable, including a reading lamp and several of the latest novels. Margaret was sitting on a pile of cushions when I entered. She looked up and then rose. Many people, including my husband, claimed Margaret and I resembled each other. I could never see it myself, though her hair, like mine, was thick and black. She was a few inches taller than my meager five feet and a bit, and her figure was not so full, particularly around the chest. Her features were strongly marked, with dark brows and a prominent chin. It protruded even more than usual just then. "Would you like a proper chair?" I asked, observing that she had had some difficulty getting to her feet. "I would like an explanation." She sat down on the bed and folded her hands. "You are taking it well," I said. "Daoud said you stopped struggling as soon as he put you over his shoulder." "I accepted the futility of struggling with a man the size of Daoud." "And you knew he was acting on my orders." "I assumed so. But you cannot keep me a prisoner, Mrs. Emerson." Her dark eyes smoldered. "I'll get away by one means or another." So I was no longer Amelia to her. I couldn't blame her. "When I explain, you will understand why I had to act as I did. Are you aware that your husband is in mortal danger?" "There is nothing new about that." "Don't you care?" Her eyes no longer smoldered. They blazed. "He promised me before we were married that he would give up his career, if you can call it that. He lied. It was his choice. I cannot spend the rest of my life in agony over a man who cares so little for me that he . . ." Her voice cracked, and she bit her lip. So she did still care for him. I hadn't been certain. Their affair had been tempestuous. However, a lasting relationship is not based on passion alone but on mutual esteem as well. I had to admit Sethos hadn't shown much for her. However, this was not the time to settle their marital difficulties. I would work on that later. Without further delay I told her about Sethos's present situation. I held nothing back, for there was a chance she might have a useful idea. "The danger to you cannot be dismissed," I concluded. "The people who are after him may know his true identity, in which case they will know you are his wife." One quality of Margaret's that I believe I may claim to share was that she was quick to understand the ramifications. She at once realized that I had acted out of concern for her, and her face softened a trifle. "It is an interesting problem," she conceded. "The attack on that unfortunate young man—Nadji?—and the comments he overheard certainly suggest that he was mistaken for my husband. His opponents can't be very clever, though, since the two do not have the same physical characteristics. Does that mean they don't have an accurate description?" "That occurred to me, of course. It seems unlikely that they don'tknow what he looks like, but I confess I cannot explain the attack on Nadji." Margaret shrugged. "I wish I could help, but I know nothing about his recent activities. Must I stay here until the matter is resolved—one way or another?" I wasn't entirely certain what she meant by that, and I preferred not to ask. "Oh, it will be resolved. You certainly can't stay here indefinitely. I'll think of something." "I must accept that, I suppose. In the meantime . . ." "A chair," I promised, happy to find her so reasonable. "Whatever else you would like." "All you know about the tomb of Tutankhamon." "I beg your pardon?" I gasped. "That scoundrel O'Connell is already here," Margaret said, taking pencil and notebook from the pocket of her coat. The smolder was back, about to burst into flames. "While I sit immured in this . . . this cell. The least you can do for me is give me a story." The least I had done for her was, possibly, to have saved her life. Perhaps to a true journalist this meant less than an exclusive story. She and Kevin had been rivals for years, and as a woman she had had a hard struggle making a name for herself. A half promise would keep her quiet and give her something to do, but I attempted to temporize. "If you have read the newspaper accounts, you probably know more than I do. We have not been invited to view the tomb." "Why not?" The question came quick as a pistol shot. "I would not care to speculate." "But I would." The lines around her mouth folded into a grin. "Professional jealousy? Some personal disagreement? Did Lady Evelyn make eyes at Ramses and Nefret slap her face?" "Really, Margaret, your imagination has got out of hand." I handed her the book I had brought with me. "Here is the second volume of Emerson's History of Egypt. Why don't you write a nice biography of Tutankhamon and his more famous father-in-law Akhenaton?" "That will do to start." She took the book. "But I expect daily reports, Amelia, about what is going on in the Valley. And send Nefret to see me. She and Kadija are great chums, I understand, so a visit from her won't cause comment." I left feeling as if I had got off fairly easily. "Sharp" was certainly the word for Margaret. One of the words. She hadn't asked to see Sethos. I didn't want to see him either, so instead of returning to the house I went straight to the West Valley. Emerson had been on the lookout for me; he hurried to meet me, with Nefret close on his heels. "Well?" he demanded. "How is she?" Nefret asked anxiously. "I presume you are inquiring about her mental state, since you can hardly suppose Daoud or Kadija would have offered her bodily harm." I allowed Emerson to lift me down from the saddle. He set me on my feet with a thump. "Don't equivocate, Peabody." "I explained the situation and she has agreed to remain where she is for the time being." I took my handkerchief out and patted my damp forehead and cheeks before I added, "So long as I keep her informed about what is happening with the tomb." Hands on hips, head tilted, Emerson considered this. The sun woke highlights in his raven locks, for he was, of course, without a hat. Finally he said, "I must give you credit, Peabody, for deviousness exceeding your usual talents in that direction. You have found the sole excuse I would have accepted for joining that lot in the East Valley." "I assure you, Emerson, no such idea entered my mind until Margaret—" "Hmph," said Emerson loudly. "She also requested that Nefret visit her." "Requested?" "It was more along the lines of a demand," I admitted. "I haven't been to see Kadija for some time," Nefret said. "Of course I will go. Margaret must be frightfully worried about him." "On the surface she appears more angry than worried," I said. "However, anger is one sign of profound concern, according to—" "She is hoping you will be more indiscreet than Peabody," said Emerson loudly. He was afraid I was about to utter the forbidden word "psychology." "You will have to watch what you say, Nefret." Nefret looked alarmed. "What shouldn't I say?" "Hmmm," I said. "We had better talk about that before you go." Since I endeavor to be truthful whenever possible, I will admit to the Reader that Margaret's request/demand was like the answer to a prayer. I do not like being kept out of things. We had been excluded from interesting archaeological activities before (and, I must add, for the same reason), but this discovery was so extraordinary that it rankled to be treated like outsiders instead of the experts we were. In my opinion Lord Carnarvon was being petty-minded to react so vindictively to a few curses. Like Emerson, I had no intention of humbly suing for favors from him, but I had hopes of Howard—and there were others who owed us consideration. However, I decided to postpone my visit till the following day. I had a number of other problems to deal with. Among them was what to tell Cyrus. He had been pestering me (his word, and a most expressive word too) about Sethos. I had managed to put him off so far, but I owed my old friend at least part of the truth, particularly in view of the fact that one of his staff had been affected. Sethos had to be dealt with, and so did Margaret. I had told her that the matter would be resolved, but just then I hadn't the faintest idea what to do about it. Life was becoming complicated. I withdrew to a quiet corner and made one of my little lists. From Manuscript H Ramses had given
the others the impression that he had abandoned his attempt to decipher the message, but he hadn't been able to resist tinkering with it. The number groups were susceptible to several variations, and he had tried all of them without success. What dangerous secret could the damned thing contain? A threatened coup, a secret alliance, plans for a war? Disclosure would presumably constitute a danger to those plans, which implied that they were of vital importance. However, he was only too familiar with the peculiar thinking of the intelligence services, and he had known men to massacre their fellowmen, and -women, for reasons that made no sense to a normal mind. Tossing a Hebrew Old Testament aside in disgust, he went back to work on his hieratic translations and managed to concentrate on his work for a few hours before he realized that his ears were pricked, listening for sounds of his mother's return from Gurneh. Leaning back in his chair, he ran his fingers through his hair. She was getting out of hand. Kidnapping Margaret Minton was really beyond the pale. Her reasons for doing so had made sense at the time—those steely gray eyes and firm chin had a way of hypnotizing her listeners—but the more he thought about them the more he was inclined to think his mother had yielded to her fondness for melodrama. He'd have to have a talk with her. What was taking her so long? Perhaps she had gone to the West Valley, leaving Sethos—and him— to stew. A little chat with Sethos might not be a bad idea. Tossing his pen onto the table, he went in search of his uncle. After looking in the garden, where the children were playing, and on the veranda, he ran Sethos to earth in the courtyard behind the house. The women of the household were going about their business, preparing food, washing clothes; in a quiet corner where his mother's hibiscus flaunted crimson blossoms around a carved bench, Sethos sat with hands folded and head bent as if in profound meditation. He looked up with a start. "Time for luncheon?" "No." There was room on the bench, but Ramses was disinclined to give an impression of congeniality. He sat down on the ground, folding his legs under him with the ease of long habit. "Sorry to disturb your nap." "I wasn't asleep." Sethos yawned, as if to give the lie to his statement. He's trying to annoy me, Ramses thought. And he's succeeding. "What are you going to do?" he asked. "About what? Oh—Margaret? Your mother has her well in hand." Another gaping yawn. "About the situation in general," Ramses said, holding on to his temper. "We can't go on like this indefinitely." "Something is sure to happen sooner or later." He added pensively, "I have a plan." "You wouldn't care to share it with me, I suppose." Sethos scratched his chin. He hadn't shaved that morning, and now that Ramses took a closer look at him, he saw signs of strain—sunken eyes, new lines on his face. Then the old mocking smile curved his mouth. "It's not much of a plan yet. Stay out of it, Ramses." "I'm already in it, thanks to you. And so are the rest of us." "I made a mistake," Sethos admitted. "I should not have come here. But that's all water over the dam." That was undeniably true, but, in Ramses's opinion, inadequate. He knew it was as close to an apology as he was likely to get, though. Sethos went on breezily, "I will tell you part of my plan. I shall come out of seclusion and make myself visible." "In order to draw attention to you and away from us?" Ramses raised skeptical eyebrows. "How noble." "Not at all. It's time I took an interest in that tomb." Ramses duly reported this statement to his mother when she returned from the Valley. Her only response was a brief "We will discuss it later." She was dusty and flushed and he knew she was anxious to get to the comfort of her "nice tin bathtub," but he held her back. "Mother, has it occurred to you that we have only Sethos's word that he is in danger? Even the attacks, on Father and me, and on Nadji, bear his hallmarks—melodramatic but not life-threatening. Designed, perhaps, to bear out his claim of being in imminent danger. The only fatality has been the death of the old holy man, and that might not have been intended. Every incident could have been engineered by him, and the so-called code may be a fake." She took off her hat and pushed the damp hair back from her face. "Why would he arrange such an elaborate scheme?" "He's after Carter's tomb." "Naturally the possibility had occurred to me." Ramses managed not to swear. Observing his expression, she smiled. "Dear boy, I admit I have a tendency to claim the credit for prescience after the fact. In this case, however, I am not exaggerating. The conjunction of a rich find and an unexpected visit from a former antiquities thief could not but arouse suspicion. Certain facts do cast doubt on that theory, however—the timing, for one thing. The first attack, on you and your father, occurred long before Howard's discovery." "Sethos has his sources," Ramses argued. "Father suspected the tomb was there, and so might Sethos have done." "The bout of malaria could not have been planned." "It was fortuitous, but if it hadn't happened he'd have found some other excuse for coming here." "You make a compelling case." She patted his arm. "Now if you will excuse me, I must tidy up. Cyrus is coming for tea." "Are you going to let him in on this?" "High time I did, don't you think?" When his father and Cyrus arrived, Suzanne was with them. Ramses had the distinct impression that his mother had not included the girl in her invitation, but she greeted the unexpected and unwanted guest with bland courtesy, and suggested Suzanne might want to "tidy herself" before tea. "I could use a bit of tidying too," Nefret said with a rueful smile. "Come with me, Suzanne. You haven't seen our house yet, I believe." "Bring the kiddies back with you," Emerson ordered. He settled himself in a cushioned chair and stretched his legs out. "Never mind tea, Peabody. I want a whiskey and soda." She raised her eyebrows, but went to the door and called to Fatima. The housekeeper appeared with the tray so promptly that Ramses realized she must have been lurking. She often did when Sethos was among those present. Seated modestly at a little distance from the others, he was the perfect picture of a humble subordinate, a propitiatory smile on his lips and his eyes fixed on Emerson as if awaiting an order. "I could do with something too," Cyrus declared. "Never mind the soda. Now what about it, Amelia? You got rid of Suzanne very neatly; she more or less invited herself. Start talking before she comes back." She whisked one of her little lists from the pocket of her skirt. "How to begin," she mused, perusing it. "Perhaps you had better let me begin," Sethos said. He had abandoned his subservient pose. "Cyrus knows what I do. He won't be surprised to hear that I ran into a spot of trouble on my last assignment. I...er ...borrowed a certain document which seems to be of interest to a number of people. They've been on my trail ever since." Cyrus nodded. His pale blue eyes were fixed on Sethos, and his expression was not friendly. "They took poor Nadji for you. I thought so. What's in the blamed document?" "That's the trouble," Sethos said. "It's in code. I couldn't read it." "So you came here, with a bunch of thugs at your heels." Cyrus took the glass Emerson handed him. "A low-down trick to play on friends." "He was ill with malaria," Ramses said, wondering why the hell he was defending his uncle. "And they, whoever they are, would have come looking for him here in any case." His mother had been waiting for an opening. "Ramses is correct, Cyrus. These people know Sethos's true identity, and that means they know who his friends are. And," she added portentously, "who his wife is." "Good Lord," Cyrus exclaimed. "She'd be the perfect hostage, wouldn't she? Where is the lady?" As if drawn by a magnet, all eyes turned toward Ramses's mother. She cleared her throat. "In a safe place, Cyrus. I saw her this morning—" "She's here?" Cyrus was accustomed to the Emersons' unorthodox habits, but this obviously took him aback. "Where? How? When did she—" "Please, Cyrus, allow me to continue. Some of the others haven'theard about my interview with Margaret either, so if you will permit me . . ." Emerson let out a pained groan and emptied his glass. "This may take a while, Cyrus. You know Peabody's narrative style. Have another whiskey." "Allow me." Sethos, who hadn't been offered one, went to the table and helped himself as well as Cyrus. "How is my beloved spouse, Amelia?" "Perfectly comfortable and in a very bad temper." "With me?" Sethos inquired. "With everyone, especially you. However, she has agreed to remain where she is so long as I keep her informed about the excavation of Tutankhamon's tomb." "So that's what brought her here," Sethos muttered. "You expected it, didn't you? When have you ever known Margaret to miss an important story? She knows Kevin is in Luxor, and is counting on us to provide her with exclusive information." "Hmph," said Emerson. "She's due to be disappointed, then. We haven't any exclusive information." "That is what I hope to obtain tomorrow," said his wife smoothly. "Cyrus and I, Nefret and Ramses—" "Here they come," Ramses interrupted. The others had heard them too; only a deaf person could have failed to do so: the dog's ecstatic barking, the shouts of the children, and mingling with them, Suzanne's high-pitched laughter. "Never mind the dam—the darned tomb," Cyrus said quickly. "What are you gonna do to get out of this mess?" "If you have any suggestions I would be happy to hear them," said Emerson. "Get an expert to read that message," said Cyrus. "If I understand you rightly, that's what those fellows are trying to prevent." Emerson's jaw dropped. It was such an obvious solution, none of them had thought of it—except Ramses. Painfully aware of his own lack of expertise, he had known better than to propose it; his motherand father would have scoffed at the idea that the family couldn't handle anything, up to and including murder, without outside help. But there were a number of objections to the idea. Experts on codes weren't numerous, and most of the ones he knew worked for the Department. If his hypothesis was correct, even an expert couldn't read the message without knowing which book was referred to. The twins burst in, demanding their tea and offering to share the biscuits with Suzanne. They had taken a fancy to her, which rather surprised their father. After an unfortunate incident a few years earlier, Charla had developed a suspicion of pretty yellow-haired ladies. Suzanne must have put herself out to win them over. Laughing, she allowed them to lead her to a chair and David John brought out his chess set. "Let Mam'selle have her tea," his grandmother said sternly. "She may not wish to play chess." "Oh, but I promised I would. I am sure he will win." She rounded her eyes at David John, who stared like a hypnotized rabbit. Unlike his sister, he had a weakness for pretty yellow-haired ladies. Turning to Sethos, Suzanne said, "David John says you are a very good player." "He wins every time," Sethos said, smoothing his mustache and leering. He had a tendency to overplay a role. Suzanne returned his smile. She wasn't really pretty, Ramses thought dispassionately; her cheekbones were flat and her chin weak. Admittedly he was prejudiced. As far as he was concerned, no woman in the world could compare with his wife. Nefret had gone to Gurneh, to pay the promised visit to Kadija and her guest. At least she had had sense enough to go in daylight, instead of waiting till after dinner. There were lots of people around, and she had promised to ask Daoud to walk her home. When he returned his attention to the others, he saw that Sethos had got Emerson out of his fit of the sulks by talking about the tomb. (The word no longer required a defining adjective; there was only one tomb in Egypt just then.) "Where did you hear that?" Emerson demanded. "I read the newspapers, Professor. Carnarvon sent a statement to the Times ten days ago asserting that the tomb had been robbed during the Twenty-first Dynasty." "Stuff and nonsense," Emerson exclaimed. "If the existence of the tomb had been known at that time, it would have been emptied completely. And furthermore—" "We know the other arguments, Emerson," his wife cut in. "The tomb can't have been entered after the Twentieth Dynasty; the workmen's huts from the time of Ramses VI covered the entrance and were not disturbed until Howard cleared them away. Why would Howard allow Carnarvon to make such a ludicrous claim?" "It's obvious, isn't it?" Sethos inquired meekly. "An intact tomb belongs in its entirety to the Department of Antiquities. The definition of 'intact' is open to argument, but if the robbery occurred during the period when most of the other royal tombs were looted, the discoverers are entitled to a share of the contents." Emerson growled in agreement. Suzanne gave Sethos an admiring smile. "How clever of you, Mr. Bissinghurst. You know a great deal about the subject." "Enough to know that Carter and Carnarvon are heading for trouble," Sethos said, ducking his head in pretended modesty. "Thus far the Times is the only newspaper to get information directly from the excavators. The other papers resent having to get their news secondhand, and the Egyptian journalists are furious at being passed over. With nationalist sentiment on the rise . . ." He shook his head. "And Lacau looking for an excuse to change the rules about the division of antiquities," Emerson added. "Carnarvon's concession stipulates that the museum is to keep royal mummies and coffins and all other objects of historical and archaeological importance. Every object in that tomb can be said to fall into the last category, and in totality they constitute a unique assemblage. The entire contents should go to the Cairo Museum. We didn't claim any of the objects from Tetisheri for ourselves." "But we," said his wife, her chin protruding, "are not Lord Carnarvon. At heart he is nothing more than a collector." "I guess maybe you could say the same about me," Cyrus said selfconsciously. "I sure didn't refuse when Lacau offered me some of the artifacts from the tomb of the God's Wives." "You have worked in Egypt for years," Emerson said. "Worked hard and conscientiously." Compliments from Emerson were rare. Cyrus's lined face shone with pleasure. "Carnarvon thinks of archaeology as entertainment," Emerson went on. "And Carter deals in antiquities, for his patron and others. They expect to make money out of this one way or another." "Now, Emerson, you don't know that," his wife said. "And you are being unfair to Howard; he has done excellent work in his time, but since he lost his position with the Department of Antiquities he has been dependent on