The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [200]
She accepted the tedious task of sifting the fill without complaint and worked steadily all morning. When we stopped for luncheon she sat to one side, her eyes downcast, and Cyrus, kindhearted individual that he was, made an attempt to cheer her up.
“How about helping me this afternoon?” he asked. “You’ve been at that rubbish dump all morning. That all right with you, Emerson?”
“Certainly, certainly,” said my equally tenderhearted husband.
“You were asking the other day about the theodolite,” Bertie said. “I’ll show you how to use it, if you like.”
It was the first remark he had addressed to her, for she had kept out of his way. Her expressive face brightened.
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
By the end of the day she had recovered her good spirits. Whether she had had the decency to apologize to Bertie I did not know, but she was painstakingly polite to him and he responded like the nice lad he was, with no evidence of hard feelings.
Several days passed without our hearing a word from the Albions, to the disappointment of Emerson, who had rather hoped they would notice that the stolen objects had been disturbed. If they questioned the sufragi who had found him trying to open the lock they would know the identity of the intruder.
“The sufragi wouldn’t betray the Father of Curses,” said Ramses. “You ought to have left your card.”
Emerson curled his lip in acknowledgment of this touch of humor.
“Why stir them up?” Nefret asked. “They’ve abandoned their plans to excavate. Perhaps they’ve given up on finding the tomb.”
“No, they have not,” Emerson grumbled. “Selim says they have hired that rascal Mohammed Hammad as their dragoman. He came back from wherever he was as soon as he got the word that Jamil was dead. He’s no more a dragoman than I am an opera singer.”
“He’s a thief,” I agreed. “But you may be sure he doesn’t know any more about Jamil’s tomb than we do. He’d have been looting it before this if he did.”
The weather had turned unusually hot for that time of year. Even the nights were still and warm. We were all affected by it to some extent, except for Emerson, who never feels the heat and who can sleep through an earthquake. Never would I relinquish the comfort of my husband’s presence, but I must say that lying next to him was rather like being in close proximity to an oven. After several restless nights, I had just got to sleep—or so it felt—when he mumbled loudly in my ear. It was the too-familiar refrain: “Hand of the god . . . what . . . where?”
I gave him a rather sharp poke. He rolled over, shoving me to the edge of the bed.
Wide awake and somewhat vexed, I abandoned any hope of repose. I went to the window and leaned out. The room was still dark but there was a freshness in the air that betokened the coming of dawn. It cooled my warm cheeks, and my temper. I had been standing there for several minutes when I heard the creak of an opening door. It was the door at the far end of the courtyard. I had been meaning to have Ali oil the hinges.
It was light enough by now for me to see dim shapes. There were two of them in the doorway, huddled close together. A whisper reached my ears; one form vanished, the other moved slyly and quietly toward the house.
I saw no need to wake Emerson; it is a laborious process at best, and I preferred to deal with this myself. I waited until she had almost reached her window before I climbed out of mine. She let out a stifled shriek and turned to flee, but I was too quick for her.
“Where have you been?” I demanded, seizing her in a firm grip.
“I—I—” Invention failed; she gasped, “Oh, Sitt Hakim, you frightened me!”
“Where have you been, Jumana?”
“Only for a walk. It was hot. I could not sleep.”
“You were with a man. Don’t lie, I saw him.”
“I did nothing wrong. Please believe me!”
“So you have said before. What precisely did you do?”
“I—I promised I would not tell. I gave my word!”
Exasperation had caused me to raise my voice, and defiance, as I thought it,