The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [27]
“There are other possibilities,” I said. But this was one none of us had proposed, and I made the fatal mistake of asking a direct question. “Where could such a tomb be located?”
Mr. Lidman proceeded to tell us, talking faster and faster, with scarcely a pause to draw breath. Mr. Barton finally took pity on me, and himself, and uttered the magic words.
“Shut up, Heinrich.”
Ramses, who had been studying the visitor intently, said, “The West Valley is a possibility, I suppose; the tombs of Akhenaton’s father and one of his immediate successors are there, as you pointed out, Mr. Lidman. You seem very familiar with the Amarna period.”
“I worked at the site before the war.” For once, Mr. Lidman’s loquacity had deserted him. He looked sadly at his empty plate.
“With Borchardt?” Ramses asked.
“Yes. You would not know my name, of course. It has been some years since I published anything, and since the war I have been unable…” He looked up; something he saw in our faces encouraged him to go on. “To speak truth, I am looking for another position. I know the language, I have had experience in excavation under one of the best, I speak Arabic and am accustomed to dealing with native workmen…”
“Am I to understand that you are applying for a position with us?” I asked, taking pity on the poor man. I did feel sorry for him. The war had interrupted many promising careers, some of them ended forever.
“I will accept any position, however humble, if not with you, perhaps with Mr. Cyrus Vandergelt. I know the influence you have with him…”
His imploring eyes were fixed on Ramses, as if his decision were the only one that mattered. Just like a man, I thought.
My son had also been moved by the fellow’s obvious need. Like many who had risked their lives during the conflict, he bore no grudge against former enemies. They had all been victims of the arrogance and stupidity of their leaders.
“My father is the one who makes such decisions,” Ramses said. “I will speak to him about you when he returns.”
“Thank you. Thank you. I will be forever grateful.”
It had been an awkward interlude, and I was thankful when George Barton changed the subject. Holding up the statuette, he said, “If this was bought from a dealer, it could have originated anywhere in Egypt. Right, Mrs. Emerson?”
“Quite right,” I said. “The most logical way of tracing its origin is through the dealer from whom it was purchased. Mrs. Petherick claims she does not know his name, and I am inclined to believe her, since she is a silly woman and keeps rambling on about curses.”
Realizing I was beginning to sound like Mr. Lidman, I stopped myself and offered the gentlemen another cup of tea.
“Thank you, ma’am, but we must be getting back,” Barton said. “Sorry to have missed the Professor, but we’ll be seeing him soon, I hope.”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Lidman said. “It will be an honor. I trust you have a safe hiding place for this remarkable object. Every thief in Luxor will be after it.”
“No one would dare rob the Father of Curses,” Barton said with a grin. “That’s one of Daoud’s sayings, and it’s right on the mark. Do let us know, ma’am, if the Professor plans to perform one of his notorious—er—famous exorcisms.”
After our visitors had left, I asked Nefret what crime the children had been guilty of. “I presume it was Carla—as usual.”
“Carla was the instigator,” Nefret said with a sigh. “Honestly, Mother, I sometimes think that temper of hers will be the death of me. She tore up the drawing David John was making as a welcome-home present for Father. He’d been working on it for hours—beautiful little colored hieroglyphs and a picture of a cat.”
“Then why did you punish