The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [49]
We refused Miss Maude’s kindly suggestion that we stop at her house for sartorial and medical repairs, since we were already shockingly late. The water in my canteen and my small medical kit sufficed to restore Emerson to relative respectability. The cuts and abrasions were numerous but shallow; wounds on the head and face always bleed quite a lot. We went straight to the tram station at Mena House, where we left the horses with Selim and bade farewell to our youthful acquaintances. Jack Reynolds assured us in parting that they would be delighted to lend us a hand if we wanted assistance at the dig, since they would not be starting work officially for several weeks.
Once arrived in Cairo, we took a cab to the hotel. During the drive I made Emerson put on the cravat I had brought, smoothed his hair with my folding comb, and shook the sand off his coat. He submitted to these attentions with sullen resignation, remarking only, “Aren’t you going to wash my face and brush my teeth?”
I shook my head. “I have done the best I could, Emerson, but I am afraid the children are going to get something of a shock. You look dreadful.”
The children were not the only ones who reacted to Emerson’s appearance with consternation. Every head of every diner turned to stare as my imposing and unkempt husband entered the dining salon. Nefret had been watching the door; she jumped up and hurried to meet us.
“Professor darling, what happened? Come back to the dahabeeyah at once and let me examine you.”
“What, now?” Emerson drew her hand through his arm and led her back to the table. “I need food, not fussing, my dear; we have had a busy morning.”
“So it would seem,” said Ramses, who had risen and was holding a chair for me. “You are not seriously injured, Father?”
“No, no, just a bump on the head. I’ll tell you all about it as soon as we have ordered. I’m ravenous. Where is the cursed waiter?”
Emerson is well-known to the staff at Shepheard’s. He is, I expect, part of the training given new waiters: how to fold a serviette, how to pour wine, how to deal with Professor Emerson. (Ignore his eccentricities of dress and speech, and obey his orders instantly.) The response to his summons was virtually instantaneous, and after I had ordered my modest repast I turned to the children.
“How was your morning, my dears? Nothing out of the ordinary occurred, I presume?”
“If you are referring to murderous attacks or inexplicable happenings, the answer is no,” said Ramses.
Nefret, who had opened her mouth, closed it again. Emerson handed the menus to the waiter, unfolded his serviette, and began describing the interesting features of the Layer Pyramid. Ramses asked a number of questions. Emerson began drawing on the tablecloth.
“Don’t do that,” I said. “Where is your notebook?”
Emerson reached into his pocket. Instead of the notebook he withdrew the potsherd he had found that morning.
“What is that?” Ramses asked, reaching for it.
“The cause of your father’s little misadventure,” I replied, as Emerson investigated his other pockets.
I proceeded to give a well-organized account of the events of the morning. Nefret’s expressive countenance indicated some amusement as I described our encounter with the Reynoldses and Geoffrey.
“Poor Maude,” she murmured. “All that way for nothing.”
Ramses, intent upon the potsherd, ostentatiously ignored this comment.
“The young fellows seem very keen,” said Emerson obliviously. “We may take advantage of their offer to give us a hand for a few weeks. Both of them know the site.”
“They might have warned you about the loosened stones,” said Ramses.
“Good Gad, there was no need to warn me; I could see for myself that the cursed structure is falling apart. I was a bit careless, that’s all.” Emerson finished his soup and beckoned the waiter. “It seemed a strange place to find a potsherd of that size lying out on the surface. Our first artifact, eh? I couldn’t make anything of the inscription, though.”
“Just random hieroglyphs,” said Ramses. “Hieratic, rather—Middle Kingdom type. Perhaps