The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [60]
“You all know each other, I guess,” he said. “Herr Lidman was good enough to respond immediately to my message.”
“So pleased,” Lidman said, bowing at everyone in turn. “An honor. I only hope I can be of—”
“Quite, quite,” said Emerson. “Let’s go.”
Lidman fell modestly to the rear, beside Jumana. He rode well for a fat man, and his normal loquacity seemed to have deserted him. Or maybe he just couldn’t get a word in once Jumana started talking.
Cyrus edged the mare close to Ramses.
“Funny thing happened last night,” he whispered. “Fellow paid me a call. Fellow name of Montague. But it wasn’t…er…”
“Sethos? No. It was the real article.”
“That’s what I figured. Better warn him, then.”
“He knows. What did Montague want?”
“Bet you can guess. How is…er…he gonna get out of this one?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Ramses said wryly. “He’s changed his appearance, but I suspect there will be a few awkward incidents to explain.”
They left the horses in the donkey park and passed the barrier into the Valley itself.
“I told Abu I’d be hiring tomorrow,” Cyrus said. “It was too late to get a full crew together today. I haven’t even had a chance to read up on what’s been done there.”
“There’s not much to read,” Emerson replied. “The curse of our profession is the failure to publish. You may as well assume you’re starting from scratch. That is what I intend to do. Ah—there’s Selim.” He raised a hand in greeting.
“Where are the rest of your fellows?” Cyrus asked.
“Don’t need them today. I’m going to have a look round, make sure there’s been no illegal digging. I promised Carter, you see.”
“Sure, I see,” Cyrus said with a knowing grin. “Mind if we tag along?”
They made their way to the far end of the Valley and into the side wadi where the tomb of Thutmose III lay high in the cliff. “I thought those bas——the Simsahs would be back,” said Emerson, inspecting the pile of rubble. It looked pretty much the same to Ramses, but his father’s eye was infallible. “They didn’t find anything, though.”
“Is there anything to find?” Cyrus asked hopefully.
“Who knows?” Emerson rubbed his chin and looked pensive. “One would have to clear the area down to bedrock, and there’s the devil of a lot of rubble.”
The day passed as they tramped along. The sun beat down; there was no shade, and the heat, trapped between narrow stony walls, climbed rapidly. Emerson kept Nefret and Selim busy with the cameras. Cyrus suggested they return to the Castle for tea. Emerson promptly vetoed the idea and was about to lead the way into another side wadi when a familiar voice hailed them.
“It’s Mother.” Ramses nudged his preoccupied father. “And Nasir, with a tea basket. Good. I’m parched.”
“You should have said so, my boy,” Emerson exclaimed.
“Who’s that with Mrs. Emerson?” Bertie asked, squinting in the sunlight.
“A friend,” Ramses said, wishing he could remember Sethos’s latest alias.
Cyrus stared and began to cough violently.
They joined the others, in the entrance to a “nice” empty tomb, where his mother introduced “Anthony Bissinghurst.”
Jumana studied “Bissinghurst” with a puzzled frown. “Have we met, sir? Your face is familiar.”
Sethos smiled. “I would certainly remember having met you, Miss Jumana. I have heard a great many complimentary things about you.”
Ramses eyed his uncle with professional interest. He’d learned a lot from Sethos, but he doubted he would ever match his abilities. The physical alterations—the suspiciously black hair and mustache, the tinted glasses that darkened his eyes—were the least of it. Speech patterns, posture, the frequent smiles and expansive gestures were perfectly in character with an Anthony Bissinghurst. Whoever he might be. He hoped that this time Sethos had had the sense to invent an identity instead of assuming one.
“Only an amateur,” Sethos explained modestly, in response to a question from Cyrus. “No formal training, you see. But keen, very keen.”
They ended the day in front of Tomb 55. It was on the main