The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [184]
“Figured I’d arrive in time for drinks,” he remarked, handing the reins to the stableman. “Sure good to have you folks back. I hear Ramses has had another little—er—accident. I don’t suppose I should ask where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to.”
“No,” said Emerson. He handed Cyrus a glass.
It was the answer Cyrus had expected. He accepted it, and the glass of whiskey, with a smile. “Sure have missed you. Maybe you can do something with Jumana. She’s just wasting away, poor little girl.”
“No, she is not,” I assured him. “Nefret and I both examined her this afternoon. She is somewhat off-color, since she hasn’t left the house for days, but she hasn’t lost an ounce.”
“But Fatima said—”
“She has only picked at her meals. That means she is eating on the sly. I prescribed a particularly nasty-tasting tonic.”
“She’s been putting it on?” Cyrus demanded.
“It’s not that simple, Cyrus,” Nefret said thoughtfully. “Her unhappiness is genuine. She isn’t deliberately deceiving us, but I think—and Heaven knows I am no expert—that her natural youthful optimism is engaged in a mental struggle with her sense of guilt. I honestly don’t know whether to slap her or coddle her.”
“Put her to work,”said Emerson. “Always the best medicine. How are things going at Deir el Medina, Vandergelt?”
“ ’Bout the same. Found two more tombs. Empty.”
“You haven’t broken your promise to me, I hope,” I said.
“I haven’t been in the southwest wadis, if that’s what you mean. But if you think I’ve forgotten what that young villain said, you’re wrong. I haven’t been able to sleep, wondering what he meant. ‘The hand of the god.’ What god? Where?” Cyrus held out his empty glass. In silent sympathy, Emerson refilled it. He had no patience with psychology, but this distress he could understand.
Cyrus went on, in mounting passion, “I even went back into that darned shrine—the one where we found the statue of Amon last year. Well, he’s a god, isn’t he? Bertie and I examined every inch of the darned room. The walls and floor are solid.”
“Bah,” said Emerson. “Stop wasting time on fantasies, Vandergelt.”
“Don’t be a hypocrite, Emerson,” I said. “We have all been speculating and guessing and theorizing. It is a pretty little problem. Supposing Jamil was not trying to mislead or tantalize us, which may well have been the case, there are a good many gods shown on a good many wall surfaces in Thebes. Deir el Bahri, Medinet Habu, every tomb on the West Bank— What is it, Cyrus?”
“Excuse me, Amelia, I didn’t mean to interrupt. You just reminded me. This little piece of news ought to get your attention, Emerson,” he added, with a grimace at my husband. “Give you three guesses who has started an excavation in the Valley of the Kings.”
Emerson’s look of lofty indifference turned to a scowl. “Without official permission? Confound it, Vandergelt—”
“Not the Albions?” I exclaimed.
“Might have known you’d hit it on the head first time,” said Cyrus. “You’re both right. It’s Joe and his family, and they don’t have official permission.”
“And you let them?” Emerson demanded.
“I notified Cairo. That was all I could do, as Joe gleefully pointed out to me. I haven’t got the authority to stop them.”
“Where in the Valley?” Ramses asked.
“In that southern branch of the wadi near Number Twenty—Hatshepsut’s tomb.”
“Why there, I wonder?” Ramses said.
“Dunno. It’s off the regular tourist track, so maybe they hoped they wouldn’t be spotted right away. Can’t think of any other reason why they would pick that area.”
“Damnation,” muttered Emerson. “I had intended to start work first thing tomorrow morning. Now I will have to waste several hours expelling the Albions.”
“How do you propose to do that?” I inquired. “You haven’t the authority either, and if you lay violent hands on any one of them—especially Mrs. Albion—”
“Good Gad, Peabody, have you ever known me to lay violent hands on a woman? There are ways,” said