He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [75]
“Looks like Eighteenth Dynasty,” he declared. “Where did you find it, if I may ask?”
“One of the damned antiquities dealers, no doubt,” Emerson grumbled. “Like the cursed heart scarab she gave me. Not that I don’t appreciate the thought,” he added quickly.
Nefret only laughed. She had heard Emerson’s views on buying from dealers too often to be discomposed by them. “It was from Aslimi, as a matter of fact. He had several nice things.”
“I don’t suppose you bothered to ask the rascal where he obtained them,” Emerson muttered.
“I would have done if he had been there, though I doubt he’d have confessed.”
Ramses, who had been examining the painted scrap appreciatively, looked up. “He wasn’t there?”
“He’s ill. The Professor would probably say it serves him right.” Nefret chuckled. “The new manager is much handsomer than Aslimi, and not nearly as skilled at bargaining.”
She made quite an entertaining little tale of our visit. Cyrus declared his intention of visiting the inept manager as soon as possible, and Katherine demanded a description of the beautiful young man. The only one who contributed nothing to the conversation was Ramses.
The table made a brave show, sparkling with crystal and aglow with candles, but as I looked upon the sadly diminished group I seemed to see the ghostly forms of those who had formerly been with us: the austere features of Junker, whose formal demeanor concealed the warmest heart in the world; the beaming face of Karl von Bork, mustaches bristling; Rex Engelbach and Guy Brunton, who had exchanged their trowels for rifles; and those who were dearest of all—Evelyn and Walter, David and Lia. Fortunately Cyrus had brought several bottles of his favorite champagne, and after we had toasted absent friends and a quick conclusion to the hostilities and everything else Cyrus could think of, our spirits rose. Even Anna smiled on us all. She was looking quite attractive that day, in a rose-pink muslin frock whose ruffles flattered her boyish frame, and I saw, with surprise, that she had put color on her lips and cheeks.
She had been at the hospital every day since Nefret had challenged her that night at the opera, and according to Nefret she had performed a good deal better than anyone had expected.
“I haven’t made it easy for her,” Nefret admitted. “She hasn’t any nursing skills, of course, so she’s doing all the filthy jobs—emptying bedpans and changing sheets and picking maggots out of wounds. The first day she threw up three times and I didn’t expect to see her again, but she was there bright and early next morning. I’m beginning to admire the girl, Aunt Amelia. I’ve given her a few little hints about her appearance, and she has taken them more graciously than I expected.”
We had only a brief interlude between the conclusion of the meal and the arrival of our guests. One of the first to arrive was young Lieutenant Pinckney, who made a beeline for Nefret and drew her aside. Mrs. Fortescue attempted to do the same with Emerson, but I was able to forestall her, keeping Emerson with me as I greeted additional guests. Her cavaliers must have all deserted her, since she came alone. There was no doubt in my mind that her cheeks and lips owed their brilliant color to art rather than nature, but she looked very handsome in black lace, with a mantilla-like scarf draping her head.
Many of the men—too many, alas—were in khaki. Among these were Mr. Lawrence and Leonard Woolley. Remembering what David had told me about his “drunken” encounter with them, I watched with some trepidation as they entered into conversation with Ramses, but the few words I overheard indicated that they were talking amiably of archaeological