Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [70]
Her face glowed with pleasure. “Thank you, Sitt Hakim. Is there any more news?”
“Here’s a letter from Katherine Vandergelt,” said Emerson, tossing it to me. “Do you want to wait while we read it, Fatima?”
Sarcasm was wasted on the good woman. “Yes, Father of Curses, please.”
“Well, this is good news!” I exclaimed. “Bertie has got pneumonia—”
“Really, Amelia!” Emerson exclaimed. “Your habit of looking on the bright side has gone too far. What is good about pneumonia? It is preferable to gangrene or lockjaw, I suppose, but—”
“If you will please allow me to finish my sentence, Emerson? In fact,” I admitted, “it was something of a misstatement. He has had pneumonia and is much better, but the doctor believes a warm dry climate will hasten his recovery. Katherine and Cyrus are bringing him to Egypt. They will be here next week.”
“Ah,” said Emerson. It was certainly modified rapture, but I had not expected him to admit how much he missed the Vandergelts. His pleased expression was admission enough.
Fatima was more effusive. “It is very good, Sitt. Will they stay with us?”
“I hope we can persuade them to remain with us for a time, but Katherine expressed her intention of taking Bertie on to Luxor. The climate there is much more salubrious, as you know. She has asked us to make sure The Valley of the Kings is got ready for them.”
“I will begin the cleaning,” said Fatima.
“We may as well be on our way,” said Emerson. “There is no privacy in this house. Peabody, I warn you: If there is a confounded journalist lurking outside, I will throw him in the river.”
“The newspapers cannot have got wind of this so soon. Anyhow, they won’t be interested in the death of an anonymous Egyptian.”
How I could have overlooked the obvious, I cannot imagine. How often in the past had we found ourselves and our activities featured in sensational newspaper stories? Should the Reader be unfamiliar with that past, I will answer what would otherwise be a rhetorical question.
Very often.
Egyptological exploration fascinates the general public. That is understandable. I would not have objected to a reasoned, accurate description of our excavations, but—purely by chance—we had been involved in several cases of mysterious death with seemingly supernatural overtones, and it was those criminal cases that attracted the lurid imaginations of the press. Kevin O’Connell of the Daily Yell had been the first and the worst offender; it was he who invented “the Curse of the Pharaoh,” and that word—curse, that is, not pharaoh—was to haunt us for years. But Kevin had become a friend and had toned down his rhetoric accordingly, and it had been awhile since our criminal cases had involved any but normal murderers, thieves, and forgers.
What I had overlooked was the fact that Miss Minton was in Cairo, looking for an excuse to seek us out and willing to revert to the most despicable variety of yellow journalism in order to gain her end. When we reached Giza she was already there, notebook and pencil in her hands, confronting Selim. Her back was to us; Selim’s back was flat against the wall of the mastaba. He had retreated as far as he could and could retreat no farther, for she had him neatly cornered. She had always been good at that.
Emerson let out a roar and broke into a run. Miss Minton turned, cool and smiling. Selim could have got away then, but I give him credit; he stood his ground, though he looked as if he were glued to the wall, and his lips were moving—probably in prayer.
“Don’t be angry with him,” Miss Minton said. “He hasn’t told me anything I didn’t know.”
“Curse it,” Emerson began.
“Now, Emerson, be calm,” I said. “I ought to have anticipated this. I suppose, Miss Minton, that you have informants in the police department?”
“In all government departments,” she corrected. “It is customary. Now, Professor, perhaps you will tell me in your own words how you happened to discover the body.”
Emerson’s eyes bulged. “I will be everlastingly damned if I do!”
“Emerson, can’t you see that she is trying