The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [20]
A brief period of reflection explained his change of heart. The letter from Cyrus and the discovery of the artifacts at Aslimi’s had whetted his curiosity; Cyrus’s mention of Howard Carter being in some manner involved aroused an understandable desire to question that individual. There was another reason for his willingness to stay on in Cairo; he was hoping for a further communication from his brother. He had made a point of looking through the messages every day and his disappointment at finding nothing of the sort was evident to me at least. I confess I was also somewhat exasperated with Sethos. What had been the point of that brief encounter?
Unfortunately I was unable to locate the archaeologist whom Emerson had hoped to interrogate. Howard Carter was not in Cairo. No one knew where he was. However, when the sadly diminished group met next evening, he was the chief topic of conversation. Owing to the short notice, the Quibells were the only ones who had been able to accept my invitation.
“You just missed him,” Annie Quibell said. “He got back from Luxor a few days ago, and went off again without any of us seeing him. James was furious.”
She smiled at her husband, whose equable temper was well known, and who said calmly, “I presume his duties for the War Office called him away, but I had hoped to hear more about his recent work in Luxor.”
“And his dealings with Mohassib?” Emerson inquired, motioning the waiter to refill James’s wineglass.
“Who told you that?”
“Cyrus Vandergelt,” I replied. “Is it true?”
James shrugged. “I’ve heard the rumor too, but I doubt Carter would admit it to me, even if it were true. He spent several months out in the southwest wadis, where the princesses’ tomb was found; when he was in Cairo for a few days early in December, he gave me a brief report. Did you hear about his finding another tomb of Hatshepsut’s? This one was made for her when she was queen, before she assumed kingly titles. It was empty except for a sarcophagus.” He picked up his glass and sipped his wine appreciatively.
“Where?” Emerson asked.
“High in a cleft in the cliffs, in one of the western wadis,” Annie said. She and her husband were not great admirers of Howard; after his falling-out with the Service, he had begun dealing in antiquities, and this did not make him popular with his professional colleagues. She added, with a distinct and amusing touch of malice, “He didn’t find Hatshepsut’s tomb, James. Some of the Gurnawis did. He only followed them.”
“Bah,” said Emerson vehemently. “I wonder what else he did?”
“So do I,” said James.
Having failed to locate Howard, Emerson was ready to leave for Luxor at once. However, it was not to be. We were finishing breakfast en famille in our sitting room when a messenger arrived with a letter for Emerson. It was a delightful little domestic scene, with Sennia badgering Ramses to give her a lesson in hieroglyphs and Horus snarling at Gargery and Emerson reading the Egyptian Gazette and smoking his pipe, while Nefret told me about the new arrangements at the hospital. When I saw the envelope, with its official seal, it was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud.
“Whom is it from?” I demanded.
Emerson frowned over the epistle, which he was holding so I couldn’t read over his shoulder. “Wingate. He would like me to come to his office at my earliest convenience.”
“Sir Reginald Wingate? What does the Sirdar of the Sudan want with you?”
“He replaced MacMahon as high commissioner last month,” Emerson replied. “He doesn’t say what he wants.