The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [93]
“What is the text about?” I asked.
“It dates to the reign of Kamose and seems to describe the war against the Hyksos. Right up your alley, eh, Mrs. E.? The story of Sekenenre and the hippopotami which you so ably—er—interpreted a few years ago precedes the events of this tale by only a few years. Perhaps you can write a sequel.”
“Not for a while. My next task will be a revision of the story of Sinuhe. I was not entirely satisfied with my earlier—er—interpretation.”
Howard laughed and accepted a honey cake from the plate Fatima offered him. “Poor old Sinuhe! But what was wrong with your earlier—er—interpretation, Mrs. E.?”
I had not meant to mention it, for that would have seemed like boasting, but since he asked …
“An American publisher has just offered me a considerable sum of money for my little fairy tales,” I explained modestly. “David and me, I should say, for it was his sketches that were the attraction, I believe. He dashed off a set of them for ’The Tale of the Two Brothers,’ just for the sake of amusement, and the reaction was so enthusiastic, we have gone into partnership! He has recently sent me the drawings for Sinuhe, so I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to correct some of my interpretations. I do not believe Sinuhe was guilty of—”
“You are mistaken, Peabody,” said Emerson. “But,” he added quickly, “I refuse to discuss it now.”
We sat down two dozen to dinner, for I had asked all of our archaeological acquaintances who were separated from home and loved ones. They came from as far away as the Delta and the Fayum and included Petrie’s lot, as Emerson called them; Mr. Petrie was still in hospital, and in any case the Petries were not noted for their lavish hospitality. Turkeys were easily obtainable in Egypt, and Fatima had learned to make an excellent plum pudding, so we had all the good old English fare, and Cyrus’s champagne flowed freely. As I looked round at the smiling faces I was humbly grateful that I had been able to perform an act of Christian kindness on such a day.
The fact that several of the guests were among my suspects did not mar the gesture in the slightest. Nor did I have much of an ulterior motive when I kept the wineglasses filled. The first toast was offered by Howard—to me—and as I nodded a gracious acknowledgment I did sincerely hope he would prove to be innocent.
After the usual healths had been drunk—to the ladies, to absent friends, to His Majesty, to President Taft—the young men vied with one another in proposing amusing or touching toasts. We drank to Mr. Petrie’s stitches and the Carnarvon Tablets and to Horus, who had been shut in Nefret’s room and was howling like a banshee. We never followed the archaic custom of having the ladies withdraw and leave the gentlemen to their port and cigars, so when the meal was concluded I led the company to the courtyard. I had done my best to adorn it in festive fashion with masses of poinsettias in seried ranks, and colored lanterns hanging from the arches. There were still a few berries left on Nefret’s mistletoe.
Most of the guests were known to one another and everyone seemed to be having a merry time, so I felt I could neglect my duties as hostess for a bit and indulge in a spot of detectival introspection. Withdrawing to a shadowy corner, I was somewhat taken aback to find it already occupied. I coughed loudly, and the two forms drew apart.
“Give Miss Maude a cup of tea, Ramses,” I said. “Unless she would prefer coffee.”
“Yes, Mother.”
She shot me a distinctly unfriendly look as he led her toward the tea table, but I thought there had been a note of relief in his voice. At least I hoped there was. Not that I had anything against the girl, but she did not measure up to my standards as a daughter-in-law. Egypt did not seem to agree with her. I had observed at dinner that she was not looking her usual self, and she had only picked at