The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [87]
“Hurry and catch him up, Ramses,” I panted. “Don’t let him hit anyone!”
“All right, Mother.” Ramses was the only one of us who could cover ground as quickly as his father. It was as well I had anticipated the worst; we found them inside the lovely little chapel of Amenirdis, confronting a trio of tourists. Ramses had managed to get between them and his father, who was cursing at the top of his lungs.
“Damnation!” I said. “It’s the confounded Albions again. What do they want?”
“A spot of sight-seeing, one must suppose,” Nefret answered. She went to Emerson and slipped her arm through his. “Good afternoon, everyone.”
None of the Albions appeared perturbed by Emerson’s tirade. To judge by his broad apple-cheeked smile, Mr. Albion had enjoyed every profane word. “He sure can cuss,” he observed admiringly. “Not proper in the presence of a lady, though.”
Mrs. Albion, hands folded and face composed, emitted a genteel cough. Emerson looked a little sheepish. “I didn’t say a word that could—”
“What got you riled up?” Albion inquired curiously.
Emerson drew a deep breath. Fearing another tirade, Ramses said quickly, “For one thing, sir, this area is out of bounds to tourists. Didn’t you see the signs?”
“I wanted to examine the reliefs,” said Sebastian Albion. He was leaning against them, another archaeological sin in Emerson’s book.
“Stand up straight, Mr. Sebastian,” I ordered. He obeyed instantly, his eyes widening. I went on, “Touching or leaning against the walls mars the paint. Magnesium flares give off smoke which damages the reliefs. You risk a bad fall wandering round in the dark. Cyrus, I thought you were going to repair the floor.”
“Hadn’t got around to it,” Cyrus admitted. “Thought the signs would keep people out.”
“We assumed the prohibition did not apply to us,” said Mrs. Albion coldly.
“You were mistaken,” said Emerson. “Out, everyone.”
“The Cook’s people are leaving,” I added. “You had better hurry if you want to go with them.”
“We didn’t come with them.” Albion hopped nimbly over the rope while Emerson, endeavoring to make up for his rudeness to a lady, held it down for Mrs. Albion. He got not so much as a murmur of thanks, but the younger Mr. Albion squared his shoulders and began to apologize.
“You are quite right, madam, I of all people ought to have known better than to risk damage to the reliefs. We were also wrong to ignore the barriers, but, you see, we had heard you were working at Medinet Habu, but when we arrived no one was here, and my father—”
“Hmmm, yes,” said Emerson, scowling at the older man.
We started back toward the gate, with Emerson herding Mr. and Mrs. Albion ahead of him, and Nefret accompanying them, in case Emerson started to be rude. I followed with Jumana and Ramses and Mr. Sebastian Albion.
“I would appreciate the opportunity to examine those reliefs and perhaps take a few photographs,” the latter said. “If you could spare the time to explain them, it would be a great favor. At your convenience, of course.”
“We will be working elsewhere for a time,” I said. He had addressed Ramses, not me, but Ramses’s mouth was set in that way of his and he was obviously not inclined to be cooperative. “How much longer are you planning to remain in Luxor?”
“Indefinitely, Mrs. Emerson. I suppose you have heard about the resumption of submarine warfare? In any case, we had planned to spend the entire winter in Egypt. I am thinking of doing some excavating.”
“You had better stop thinking of it,” I said. “Unless you can obtain permission from the Service des Antiquités.”
“Is that really necessary? There’s hardly anyone working here at present. The Valley of the Kings, for instance—”
“That is out of the question,” I said sharply. “Few expeditions are in the field at this time, but most of the sites have been allocated. Lord Carnarvon holds the firman for the Valley of the Kings, and I assure you that the authorities would come down hard on anyone who began digging there.”
Instead of appearing abashed, the young man gave us a supercilious