The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [51]
They made their way to the shelter his mother had erected in the shade of the Ptolemaic temple. Assisted by Nasir, she was laying out the contents of the picnic basket and giving orders to all and sundry.
“Emerson, stop grumbling and sit down. Selim, Daoud, come and join us. Ah, there you are, Cyrus. Bertie—Jumana—may I present Sir Malcolm Page Henley de Montague, an old friend.”
Cyrus looked “Sir Malcolm” over, from his pristine pith helmet to his expensive boots, and held out his hand. “Good to see you again, sir. We met several years ago in London, though I dare not hope you remember me.”
“It would be impossible to forget you, Mr. Vandergelt,” Sethos said cautiously.
“Especially since I outbid you on that Seventeenth Dynasty crown.”
“Ah, yes.” Sethos acknowledged the tactful reminder with a nod. “No hard feelings, Mr. Vandergelt. It was a rather ugly object, and quite possibly a forgery.”
“You really think so?”
“I came to that conclusion later.” Sethos permitted himself a condescending smile. “Sour grapes, you will say. But let us not dwell on the past. How is your work here proceeding?”
Having enjoyed his teasing, Cyrus accepted the change of subject. “Pretty well. We’re turning the site over to the French Institute. Emerson’s got us permission to work in the Valley of the Kings.”
Emerson was not amused by the little charade. He gave them only a few minutes to eat and drink before he got everybody back to work.
“Thank God, David will be here in a few days,” he grumbled. “No offense, Nefret, you are doing a fine job with the photography, but we could use another pair of hands.”
“That is certainly the case,” his wife agreed emphatically. “Cyrus, what happened to the young man who applied for the position of artist?”
“Never heard from him again. Odd, now that you mention it.”
“We don’t need any more people,” said Emerson, contradicting himself without shame. “Peabody, back to your rubbish heap. Sir—er—Malcolm, you can give her a hand.”
Sethos smoothed the white kidskin gloves which he had removed while he ate. “Nothing I’d like better, old chap. Unfortunately, my physician has warned me against manual labor. I bruise easily.”
He spent the rest of the afternoon lounging in the shade while the rest of them sweated.
Sethos had got away with his masquerade so far, though Jumana kept looking at him curiously. She had met him before, on several occasions and under several names, and she was a sharp little thing. I wondered how long it would be before she put two and two together. Like his stepfather, Bertie knew of Sethos’s real relationship to our family, but the dear boy was not the world’s quickest thinker. He had followed the exchange between Cyrus and Sethos with a puzzled frown. An hour or two later he edged up to me and hemmed and hawed until I took pity on him and confirmed the identification he had just then arrived at.
“So is it all right if I call him by his real name?” Bertie asked. “That is—he knows that I know, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. Just don’t use his real name in the presence of those who don’t know.”
“Oh.” Bertie scratched his chin. “Righto, Mrs. E. And may I—that is—would it be appropriate if I asked after Maryam?”
“I see no reason why you should not.”
“Oh. Righto.”
He repeated his oath of secrecy and went off looking relieved. He was such a nice boy. Hopelessly nice, in fact. I was only surprised that some forceful young woman had not bullied him into marrying her. Apparently the only forceful young woman he fancied was not interested in marrying him.
I got Emerson to stop work by reminding him that he had promised the children we would join them for tea; otherwise he would have gone on until the rest of us dropped. It was an unusually warm day, but Emerson never feels the heat and is genuinely astonished when others suffer from it.
I had never been more appreciative of my nice tin bathtub. While I lay back, enjoying the cool water that stroked my tired limbs, Emerson availed himself of a more primitive arrangement, standing on a stone slab while