Tomb of the Golden Bird (17 page)

But—" "Bring them to visit my tomb on Issa's Day. They may each leave an offering," said Abdullah smugly. "A portrait of me by the little artist, a silver bangle from Charla—she is becoming too fond of possessions— and from Sennia, one of the pretty bows she wears in her hair. And money for the poor, in my name." I looked at him in surprised disapproval. "Your sainthood has gone to your head, Abdullah. Or are you trying to get me off the track?" "It is important to please the little ones, Sitt, and also to teach them charity and love. The Holy Koran and your own Holy Book tell us that we must share with those who have not our good fortune." He looked so sanctimonious, lips pursed and eyes raised, that I was tempted to laugh. He had been a worldly man, following the precepts of his faith but not allowing them—how shall I put it—to interfere with his enjoyment of life. Perhaps becoming a saint had enlightened him. "That is very true, Abdullah, and I will see that your wishes are carried out. Now what about some practical advice?" "You are meddling in matters that do not concern you, Sitt. Leave them be." "That has a familiar ring," I said dryly. "Perhaps you would care to be more specific. What matters should concern me?" "Two matters only. The happiness of the little ones and the tomb of the pharaoh." "I have taken steps to guard the children." "That is not what I mean. No one threatens the children. No man in Egypt would dare touch them for fear of the wrath of the Father of Curses." "That is what Selim said." "Selim is right—for once," said Selim's father. "Make them happy and guard the tomb." He got to his feet in a single flowing motion. Seeing that he was about to walk away in his usual abrupt fashion, I scrambled up. "Wait! The tomb of Tutankhamon is not ours to guard, Abdullah. It is Lord Carnarvon's." Abdullah turned in a whirl of white skirts. His face was set in a scowl and he spoke with unusual vehemence. "It is not his. It is not yours. It belongs to Egypt and to the world. Sitt, you are not usually so slow to understand. Guard the tomb, not only from petty thieves like the ibn Simsahs but from the greedy men who would seize its treasures for themselves." Chapter Eight "He was referring to carter and Carnarvon," i explained. I had described my dream of Abdullah to the assembled family at breakfast. I had kept the dreams secret at first, but by now everyone, including every villager on the West Bank, knew about them, and expressions of doubt or derision no longer bothered me. Not that I received many of either. The Gurnawis believed firmly in Abdullah's status as a saint. Ramses and Nefret were neutral—open-minded, I should say. Emerson had learned to confine his doubts to raised eyebrows and inarticulate grumbles. For the most part. "Not only them," Ramses said, accepting a bowl of porridge from Fatima. "The Metropolitan Museum will get its share, as such institutions have done in the past." Nefret chuckled. "Who would have supposed dear old Abdullah would have nationalist sympathies?" "Strangely similar to those held by Peabody," said Emerson. "Make up your mind, my dear," I said pleasantly. "Either my visions of Abdullah are true or they are the product of my unconscious mind." "I don't believe in the unconscious mind," Emerson grumbled. "There you are, then," I said. "We have almost finished the middle of bacon," said Fatima. "And I will use the rest of the raisins with my holiday baking. Will you order more, Sitt?" "Make a list," I said. "I will send it off to Cairo." Her effort to change the subject did not succeed. Smarting under my irrefutable riposte, Emerson inquired sarcastically, "Why not order direct from Fortnum and Mason? That is where Carnarvon gets his supplies. Tinned salmon and tongue and curried guinea fowl, good Gad." "The expense is unwarranted, Emerson," I replied. "To return, if I may, to my conversation with Abdullah. His other recommendation was that we make this a joyous season for the children. We have only a week left in which to prepare, and there is a good deal to do. I must start David John on the portrait. Abdullah specifically requested that." "How can he paint a portrait of a man he never met?" Emerson demanded. "We have photographs," I said patiently. "And David will help him. Won't you, David?" "Of course. He's becoming quite a talented little artist." We had almost finished when Sennia came running in. I observed that she was wearing one of her "working suits," which resembled those of mine and Nefret's, except that it had a divided skirt instead of trousers. "Why didn't you wake me?" she demanded, slipping into the chair Ramses held for her. "I am going with you today." "A growing girl needs her sleep," I replied. "Aren't you going to help Fatima decorate the house and bake the Christmas cake?" "The children can do that," said Miss Sennia loftily. "I want to see the tomb of Tutankhamon." "We aren't going there," said Emerson—but he said it less emphatically than usual. We had taken Sennia into our home when she was barely two years of age, and she had found a permanent place in Emerson's heart. "Perhaps we ought, Father," Nefret said. She finished a piece of toast and reached for another. "I expected to hear from Mr. Aziz this morning, but there has been no message." "He is a man of great delicacy," I said. "No doubt he is waiting for you to offer your services." "What can she do?" Emerson demanded. "There was nothing left of the fellow except pieces of ...er ..." "He was blown to bits," Sennia said, tucking into her porridge with hearty appetite. "Good Gad," Emerson cried. "Who told you that? Was it you, Fatima? I trust you have not shared that delightful description with the twins." "Goodness, but you are in a combative mood this morning, Emerson," I said. "Fatima would never do such a thing. I expect it was Kareem or one of the others." "Thank you, Sitt Hakim," said Fatima, giving Emerson a reproachful look. With great dignity she swept from the room—taking the coffeepot with her. "She always takes the coffeepot when she is annoyed with me," Emerson muttered, looking sadly at his empty cup. Fatima was persuaded to accept his apology and refill his cup. Emerson was then persuaded to accept my suggestion that we ought to return to the East Valley. "Sennia deserves a look," he admitted. "Anyhow, I had better make certain Carter installs that gate of his today. Fellow can't be trusted." This was unfair to Howard, but I did not say so. I was becoming less inclined to be fair to him, considering his treatment of us. David declined to accompany us, explaining that he had promised Cyrus he would make a few sketches in Ay's tomb. "Mlle. Malraux is on leave for a few days, entertaining her grandfather, you see. It would not be ...that is, I would rather not. . ." "Suggest that her work was not good enough," I finished, giving him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "It is like you, David, to be so sensitive to her feelings." "Bah," said Emerson, pushing his chair back. "The girl is barely competent. I cannot imagine why you took her on, Peabody." "It was you who took her on, Emerson." "At your recommendation." He probably hadn't even bothered to look at her portfolio. All the same, the responsibility was mine, so I felt obliged to defend myself. "It is difficult to find outstanding artists, Emerson. Howard and the Davies, and David, are becoming supplanted by photographers. Before long there will be color photography, and then—" "But we haven't it yet," said Emerson. "And it will never replace the trained eyes of a human observer like David. Speaking of that, my boy, if you could stay on for a few—" Knowing what he was about to ask, and determined to prevent him from asking it, I inquired of my brother-in-law, "What about you?" Sethos leaned back in his chair with a sigh of repletion. "I am going to help Fatima mix the Christmas cake." We weren't the only ones who found it impossible to stay away from Tutankhamon's tomb. After weeks of being inaccessible, it was now reopened, and soon the removal of the antiquities would begin. Hopeful spectators, cameras at the ready, lined the wall. They expected to see golden treasures being carried out and down the path to the tomb of Seti II, which had been selected to serve as a storage room and conservation laboratory. They were doomed to disappointment, at least for a few days. If Howard followed the proper methodology, the objects would have to be photographed in situ and a detailed sketch of their locations made. The jumble of objects in the first room resembled a game of spillikin; they would have to be cautiously disentangled, piece by piece, and some were in fragile condition. The slightest touch could damage them. My heart went out to my dear Emerson, who stood watching the activity round the tomb with a look of purest agony. "He'll need to devise a system of recording," he said, as if to himself. "Every scrap, every object, numbered, sketched, photographed, and listed. He'll muck it up, Peabody, I know he will." "Not with you looking over his shoulder," I said, taking his arm and squeezing it. "If he had an ounce of sense he would consult Father," Nefret said indignantly. "He has had the sense to acquire the best of assistants," Ramses said, adding, with a wry smile, "ourselves excepted. Hall and Hauser are excellent draftsmen, and they say Mr. Lucas has offered his services." "I wonder if Mr. Lucas knows about paraffin wax," I mused. "Considering that he is the head of the government's chemical department, and has had considerable experience in dealing with fragile antiquities, I expect he does," Ramses said. "But you will of course mention it to him." "Naturally," I said. "Callender has the steel gate up," Ramses said, in a further attempt to console Emerson, who replied with a growl. "I don't see Howard," I remarked. "Didn't he come today?" "There he is," Nefret said, pointing. "He must have been examining the scene of the . . . accident." His face set in a frown, Howard approached us, pushing past various persons who tried to address him. I fully expected he would ignore us as well; instead he stopped, and after a moment removed his hat. "I understand you were present last evening when the incident occurred," he said, after the slightest of nods. "That is right," I said. "One of the ibn Simsahs, I am told?" "That is right." "And this man is here at your invitation?" He gestured at Mr. Aziz, who had followed him at a little distance. "He is here because a violent death occurred and he is chief inspector of the Luxor police," I said, poking my husband to keep him quiet. "Yes, quite. Well, the body has been removed, and I see no reason forhim to remain. He refuses to obey my orders," Howard went on, with a hard stare at Aziz. "Perhaps he will listen to you." "Confound it, Carter, you have not the authority to give him orders," Emerson burst out. "If you would only employ a little tact—" I poked Emerson harder, and he broke off with a pained grunt. He was in the right, but for Emerson to lecture someone else about tact was, to say the least, inappropriate. "We will speak to the inspector," I said. "Are you sure you don't want some of his men to remain on guard?" "No," said Howard shortly. Grudgingly he added, "Er—thank you." "Mr. Carter," said a too-familiar voice. "A question, if I may?" Howard made a growling sound reminiscent of Emerson at his best, and trotted down the slope into the pit. I turned to Kevin O'Connell. "Put your hat on," I said. "Your nose is peeling. No luck?" "Not for meself nor for any of me kind," said the irrepressible O'Connell in his best—or worst—brogue. He sighed and rubbed his itching nose. "Nor would the worthy officer of the law tell me anything of interest. I'll just have to go for the curse." "What on earth are you talking about?" I demanded, observing that Ramses and Nefret were conversing with Aziz. The inspector's face was a trifle flushed and he was gesticulating emphatically. "Oh, 'twill make a pretty tale," O'Connell crooned. "First the demise of Carter's golden bird, at the hands—er—jaws—of a royal cobra; now the mysterious death of a native—his name doesn't matter—on the day the tomb is reopened and the pharaoh's treasures are about to be removed from his last resting place by the impious hands of foreign infidels." I waited for him to go on, but after one look at Emerson's darkening countenance and Sennia's round black eyes he decided not to mention specific curses against specific persons. "A pack of nonsense," I said. "That is what such stories are, Mrs. E. Meaningless facts and a great deal of imagination. I ought to know, I've written several of them." "I like stories about curses," said Sennia, looking very businesslike in her neat coat and skirt. "But they are nonsense, Mr. O'Connell." "Go away, Kevin," I said. Naturally Kevin did nothing of the sort. Remaining at a safe distance from Emerson, he followed us to the spot where Aziz and my children were chatting. "Were you here all night?" I asked, observing that Aziz's cheeks were dark with stubble. Like most Moslems he was bearded, but he was always meticulous about shaving the areas that weren't part of the beard. "As was my duty, madam. Mr. Carter has informed me that I and my men are no longer wanted." "Nor am I, it seems," Nefret said pleasantly. "Mr. Aziz has removed poor Farhat's remains to the zabtiyeh, and he believes there is no need for an additional examination." "The cause of death is obvious even to an ignorant native like myself," said Aziz. Regretting his snappish tone, he inclined his head to Nefret in tacit apology. "He is an ugly sight, even to such an experienced physician as yourself." "Then he will be buried today?" I asked. "I wonder if we ought to attend the obsequies." Emerson growled, Ramses raised his eyebrows, and even Aziz's controlled countenance expressed astonishment. "Perhaps not," I said. "Attendance will not be large," said Aziz, with a touch of irony. "He was greatly disliked, for he brought shame on his family. I myself will be present in case his rascally brothers are there. Thus far I have not been able to lay my hands on them." "You think they were involved in his death?" Ramses asked. "They were always involved with Farhat's evil deeds. I want to question them. Now if you will excuse me, I must remove my unwanted presence." He summoned his men with a brusque command and led them away. "Dear me," I said. "Howard does seem to be intent on offending everyone he can. Emerson, why don't you show Sennia the tomb and tell her what is going on?" Make no mistake about it, dear Reader; children are fascinated byhorrid events and gruesome sights. I have never met a child who did not delight in mummies. However, in my opinion, little Miss Sennia had heard enough of horrors; I had no intention of allowing her to view what might be left of Farhat. Emerson
indicated his agreement with my opinion and took Sennia back to the tomb. I proceeded, as had been my intention, toward the scene of the . . . accident. After all, there was not much to see. Aziz had done a thorough job of clearing away the mess. Every scrap had been removed, including the broken fragments of glass. Only darkened bloodstains remained. "The blast was what killed him," I said to Nefret. "If he had been dead before it went off, there wouldn't be so much blood." "Not if he had died only moments before," Nefret argued. "Struck down by a mortal wound." "I yield to your medical expertise, of course," I said. "But on logical grounds such a scenario is most unlikely. We would have heard the sound of a shot or a struggle. And if I understand how the infernal device works, it would explode immediately after one sort of acid mixed with the other." I looked questioningly at Ramses, who pondered the question and then said, "It would take a few seconds for the nitric acid to penetrate the cotton wool. That would begin as soon as the pipe was laid flat. I doubt that a killer would risk its being dropped." "Not to mention the absence of motive for a murderous attack," I said. "At least I can't think of one." "Do I detect a certain note of regret?" Ramses asked gravely. It was just one of his little jokes. "I would prefer a nice simple murder to our present state of confusion," I replied, only half in jest. I had forgotten about Kevin, who had the trained journalist's ability to creep up on a victim unobserved. Reminded of his presence by a faint scratching sound, I turned to see him scribbling away in his beastly notebook. "You may not quote me, Kevin," I said sternly. "If you say so, Mrs. E." (I should add, in justice to Kevin, that he did not. When his storyappeared, it said, "Mrs. Emerson is known to prefer murder to other forms of crime. She is also known to be an expert on ancient Egyptian curses." My solicitor has informed me that no action can be taken.) From Manuscript H "I am becoming bored watching Mr. Carter swanking about," Nefret declared. "Why do we give him the satisfaction of snubbing us?" Ramses was in full agreement, though he understood better than most the difficulties Carter faced. It had taken them more than a year to clear the tomb of Tetisheri, and that had been only a single room. Carter had at least four chambers to contend with, each jammed full of irreplaceable, delicate objects—including, perhaps, the mummy of the king. The eyes of the world, not to mention those of Emerson, would be fixed upon him, ready to criticize every move. He would also be harassed by visitors, journalists, and dignitaries, some of them too important to be turned away. Emerson had dealt with these infuriating interruptions— which also threatened the safety of the antiquities—by refusing to permit entry to anyone. Carter couldn't do that. He had to keep on good terms with his patron, and Carnarvon would want to show off "his" discovery. Though he sympathized with his father's yearning to be in charge of the most challenging task any Egyptologist had faced, Ramses felt certain that Carter could be depended upon to do a good job. He was a responsible excavator, and he had assembled a team of unquestioned experts. Emerson and his family had been deliberately passed over; there was nothing they could do. Watching the busy bustle of men coming in and out of the tomb, Ramses felt a stab of anger—on his father's behalf, he told himself. "We may as well go," he said to Nefret. Sennia was easily drawn away. "There is nothing exciting happening," she complained. "And I'm hungry." "I fear I neglected to bring a picnic basket," his mother said, fanning herself with a folded paper. Neglected, my foot, Ramses thought. She wouldn't have overlooked that if she had intended to spend the whole day. As they headed for the donkey park, they met another member of the staff of the Metropolitan Museum—Harry Burton, a slender, handsome man who was unquestionably the best archaeological photographer in Egypt. Burton had worked with them before, but Emerson, anticipating another rebuff, would have passed him with no more than a nod if Burton hadn't stopped, whipped off his hat, and extended his hand. "You couldn't keep away either, I see," he said with a friendly smile. "I am not supposed to begin work until tomorrow, but I couldn't resist having a look." "You have quite a job ahead of you," Emerson said. "From what we have heard," his wife added smoothly. "I look forward to it. I plan to take a few moving pictures and perhaps try some of the new color films." "Fascinating," said Nefret. Her attempt at enthusiasm didn't deceive Burton. The general air of reserve was palpable. Looking from one of them to the other, he said, "I hope I may be favored by an invitation to tea one day." "Haven't you been warned to stay away from us?" Emerson demanded. As was so often the case, Emerson's bluntness cut through the discomfort like a blast of fresh air. Burton's formal manners dissolved in a grin. "Carter did mention that Carnarvon had taken it into his head to bear a grudge of some sort. His lordship can be—er—unreasonable at times." "If you are willing to risk his displeasure, you are always welcome," Ramses's mother said, thawing. "It is no risk, Mrs. Emerson. Finding another photographer would take some time, and he cannot begin clearing the outer chamber until photographs have been taken of all the objects in situ." "He couldn't find another one of your caliber," Nefret said sincerely. "I've never forgotten what you did in that cramped chamber of the God's Wives." Burton placed his hand over his heart and bowed. "In any case, I do not allow Lord Carnarvon or Howard Carter to manage my social affairs. Vulgar sort of fellow, Carter," he added, wrinkling his aristocratic nose. "Well, I mustn't detain you. I hope to see you again soon. I trust there will be plum cake for tea?" He winked at Sennia, who assured him that she would make certain there was, and strolled off along the path. "What a nice man," Sennia said. "Not such a bad chap," Emerson agreed. "But Winlock said much the same thing, and we haven't seen hide nor hair of him." "We haven't seen hide nor hair of Margaret Minton today either," said his wife. "That isn't like her. I do hope she hasn't run into trouble." "It's more likely she is in pursuit of another story," Nefret said. "Which is not a reassuring thought." Sethos hadn't come to the Valley either. Perhaps, Ramses thought, he was doing his uncle an injustice by wondering whether he had really spent the morning baking cakes. The enticing smell of sugar and spices wafted to our nostrils as we approached the house. For once the children did not come running to meet us. Everyone was in the kitchen with Fatima; the heat and the noise level were both outrageously high. Someone—I thought I knew who—had let the dog in, and Fatima was smacking it with a large wooden spoon. Amira cowered, but the way she kept licking her chops did not indicate genuine repentance. Though Fatima did not share our faith, this was her favorite time of year. The Lord Issa was a revered prophet, after all, and Fatima loved making other people happy. She was the admitted queen of the oven, and Maaman gave way to her with good grace. "Good Gad," said Emerson. "What an uproar! Having a happy time, are you, my dears?" Charla embraced him round the waist, leaving floury handprints on his shirt. "You must stir the Christmas cake," she shouted. "For good luck." "I have already stirred it," said Sethos, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Gargery was sitting next to him at the table, stoning raisins. There was a good deal of flour on the floor, the table, and the dog; but everyone seemed to be having a jolly time, to say nothing of the dog. Even Fatima laughed as I escorted Amira out of the room. "She ate all the biscuits I had cooling on the table. She burned her tongue, I think." We all had the obligatory stir of the cake, including David, who had returned from the West Valley and come to see what was going on. "I trust there is something for luncheon," said Emerson, licking the spoon he had dipped into the batter. "Salads," said Maaman. "I have been helping Fatima." "I will serve them," said Kareem eagerly. I expected Gargery to offer, but either he and Fatima had come to an understanding or he was enjoying the pandemonium. The children always perked him up; he was chuckling like a thin beardless Father Christmas. Fatima declined Kareem in favor of one of her sous-chefs, a sturdy young woman named Badra, and shooed us out of the kitchen. Her pleasure was infectious. While we waited on the veranda for luncheon to be served, every face wore a smile and Emerson did not refer, even in passing, to the confounded tomb. "It is time we turned our attention to celebrating the blessed season," he declared, with a provocative look at me. "What do you say, Peabody?" Blessed season indeed, I thought. Emerson considered Christmas a survival of pagan celebrations of the midwinter solstice. He was something of a pagan himself. At my request he had not expressed his opinions to the children, and since they were present I did not allow him to provoke me. "As you have observed, Emerson, those preparations are underway," I replied. "We need a tree," said Emerson. "And presents," Charla offered. "Perhaps we should go to Luxor and do some shopping," said Emerson, with the air of a man who had just made a major discovery. A general cry of approval greeted the idea. Even Sennia forgot her dignity and clapped her hands. Emerson's good humor was only slightly dimmed when Gargery insisted on coming with us. The old fellow had informed me that he had brought gifts with him; however, it was his duty to watch over Miss Sennia, particularly in view of what had happened to him in Cairo. "She is a defenseless child, sir and madam," he said. "And you think you can protect her?" Emerson demanded. "If you are so keen on your duty, why did you let her go to the Valley without you?" "That was an entirely different situation, sir," said Gargery, squaring his narrow shoulders. "Oh, bah," said Emerson. "Very well, very well." After Gargery had gone off, smirking, he added, "We'll have to keep a close eye on him." Despite Emerson's forebodings (which he would have described as "simple common sense, Peabody") we had no difficulty keeping track of Gargery. Exhilarated and rejuvenated, he kept pace with Sennia, who never left his side. The rest of us divided forces, but there were enough of us to ride herd on the twins and watch over one another. We agreed to meet at the Winter Palace for tea, and I went off with the group that included Charla, Ramses, and David. Charla appeared uncharacteristically subdued. Clutching her little purse, she examined the wares on sale in the shops along the corniche without interest. "I wanted to get a book for David John," she whispered. "But there is nothing he hasn't read." Laughing, I gave her a little hug. "He isn't here. You need not whisper." "We brought a number of books for him," David said. "And I expect there are more in that parcel your other grandparents sent." "But they are not from me," Charla said, unconsoled. "And I don't have enough money to buy nice presents for Grandpapa and Mama and Sennia and Selim and Fatima and Kareem and—" "Perhaps you have too many friends," I suggested. Charla was not amused. Shaking her curly head, she put me in my place. "You keep saying a person cannot have too many friends, Grandmama." "That is true." I regretted my little joke, for I knew her distress was genuine. For all her faults she was a loving little soul. "Your friends don't care about expensive presents," Ramses said gently. "Why don't you write a nice letter to each of them telling them that you love them?" "What an excellent idea," I said. It would keep her occupied for hours. "I can't draw pictures or write very well," Charla murmured. "I am not as clever as David John." I met Ramses's eyes and saw in them the same sense of remorse that had seized me. Why hadn't I realized that our constant scoldings (though often deserved) of Charla and our praise of David John had made his sister feel less loved than he? As a student of psychology I should have known her tantrums might be caused in part by frustration and resentment. "Yes, you are," I said firmly. "You have different talents, but yours are as worthy as his." Ramses echoed this statement, but without visible effect on his disconsolate daughter. "I'll tell you what," David said. "Supposing you and I put our heads together and think of something. I understand you are very nimble with a pair of scissors. Perhaps your grandmama has some old magazines she can spare. We will cut out pretty pictures and make little books for everyone." "We will all help," I said, with a grateful look at David. "Not too much," said Charla, her face brightening. "Or it won't be my present." With Charla's enthusiastic assistance we acquired the materials for the little books—colored paper and crayons and bright ribbons to tie the pages together—and made a quick call on my friend Marjorie Fisher to see if she had any old magazines to spare. She gave us several andpromised to collect more from the ladies of Luxor. Her reward was a huge hug from Charla, which she returned with interest. By the time we reached the Winter Palace, Charla was her old self, skipping along with her hand in that of her father and speculating loudly about the variety of sweets that might be available. David and I followed them, carrying Charla's purchases so that no one would suspect they belonged to her. (Thanks to private negotiations with the shopkeepers, the meager contents of her little purse had proved adequate.) "Thank you, David," I said in a low voice. "I am ashamed I haven't taken more pains to commend Charla. David John gets most of the compliments." "I am an expert at walking the tightrope between competitive children," David said with a laugh. "It's more demanding even than excavation." The others had not yet arrived, so we commandeered a table on the terrace and settled down to wait for them. Luxor was at its most festive, since the hotels catering to foreign visitors put up Christmas decorations, and the Coptic shopkeepers had taken up the custom of celebrating the season with creches and candles and fairly dreadful holy statues. It is amazing how, once an idea catches on, everyone tries to emulate and outdo his neighbors, in quantity if not quality. I always enjoy watching people, particularly when they are unaware of being observed. The couple standing on the steps below, she in a fashionable flannel suit and he in the best of Bond Street tailoring, both extremely red in the face, appeared to be arguing. Was their marriage at risk, or were they only temporarily out of sorts after a long day in the sun and dust? The