Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [100]
He could talk to David as to no one else, and he spilled the whole story, from Emerson’s initial discovery of the buried step to the cursing of Carnarvon and their own illicit entry into the treasure chamber. Some parts of the tale sent David into spasms of laughter, but he sobered when Ramses described what they had seen on that memorable night. He kept pressing Ramses for more details about the great funerary couches, the golden goddess his mother had seen, the sealed funerary shrine, the black-and-gold statues of the king guarding the burial chamber. When an ear-splitting yawn interrupted Ramses’s description of the chariot, he said, “You can tell me more tomorrow. We’d better get some rest before the family descends on us in the morning.”
David was asleep within minutes, breathing evenly. Ramses had a number of things on his mind, but he was not long in following his friend’s example. It was good to have David back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“THAT RASCAL CARTER HAS PURCHASED A MOTORCAR,” EMERSON shouted. “Can you believe it?”
Imposing as the statue of a Roman emperor, he stood with feet apart and arms akimbo, his bare black head dulled by a film of dust. Emerson’s commanding presence always attracts attention; this shout, delivered at the top of his lungs, made everyone on the station platform stare.
“What sort of greeting is that?” I demanded, descending from the carriage with the help of Ramses. “Here we are, safely back with our dear guests, and you cannot even say you are glad to see them.”
“Oh,” said Emerson. “Curse it, of course I am glad to see them. David, my boy! Sennia, my love, give me a kiss. Hallo, Gargery.”
Everyone had come to meet us, including the twins. Like the little gentleman he was, David John gravely offered his hand to David, but Charla, held aloft in the strong arms of Daoud, was squirming and screaming like a banshee.
“Emerson ought not have brought her,” I said to Ramses.
“Charla can always talk him round,” Ramses said.
“She can talk Daoud round too. Get hold of her, Ramses, and don’t let her wriggle away.”
It wasn’t the easiest job in the world. After hugging her father passionately, as if he’d been away for a month instead of two days, Charla demanded to be put down. It was like trying to hold on to a large, undisciplined puppy. I considered, not for the first time, of equipping Charla with a leash and harness. Emerson had been outraged at the suggestion (and David John had smirked in a provocative fashion). Anyhow, Charla could probably unbuckle herself from any contrivance we could construct. Constant vigilance was the only defense. I certainly did not intend to let her run loose on the station platform, among the lemonade sellers and porters balancing heavy loads and a train on the verge of departure.
I took the child from Ramses so that he could greet his wife. I was pleased to see him hold her close and whisper something that brought a smile to her face.
“So what do you think of that?” Emerson demanded, hoisting Sennia onto his broad shoulders. “That villain Carter—”
“You make it sound as if his sole motive was to annoy you,” I said.
“What other reason could he have? Blatant imitation, that is what it is. A motorcar is of no use here.”
Realizing he had left himself open to a caustic comment, he went on before I could deliver it. “Well, well, let’s get out of this crush, shall we? I don’t know why you want to stand round gossiping, Peabody, when our guests are anxious to get home.”
Someone—probably Selim—had had the forethought to order several carriages for us and our luggage. We sorted ourselves out, and I found myself seated with Emerson and Daoud.
Turning to the latter, I said, “I suppose it was you who found out about the motorcar.”
Daoud beamed with pride. “It came on the train, and also a steel gate for the tomb.”
The driver’s head was half-turned, listening avidly. Our old friend’s reputation as an