Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [106]
Nadji had made a better impression. He greeted Sennia as he did the rest of us, with a bow and a handshake, and then retreated to a corner as was his habit. Whenever I glanced in his direction I saw that he was listening and looking, and his fixed, amiable smile reminded me of that perceptive observation of Mr. Robert Burns: “A chiel’s amang you takin’ notes.” I couldn’t make him out. Was he as shy as he appeared, or was he hiding something? According to Cyrus, he was working with skill and efficiency. Even Emerson had been unable to find fault with him.
As might have been expected, conversation centered on the latest news about Tutankhamon’s tomb. Everybody had a snippet of news or a surmise.
“He’ll have to start letting people in,” Cyrus said. “There have been a lot of complaints from local dignitaries.”
“Including you?” Nefret asked.
Cyrus coughed self-consciously. “To tell the truth, I did write a nice letter of congratulation to Carter. I sort of expected a response, if not an invitation, but I haven’t heard from him. Course he’s been away…”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Sethos advised. “I fear you’ve been tarred with the same brush as the rest of us. The rest of Luxor and Cairo society, come to that. They say he’s behaving as if the tomb is his and Carnarvon’s personal property. A number of people have complained, and the Egyptian press is up in arms.”
“He is under considerable stress,” Ramses said. “You know from our own experience how maddening it is to have one’s work interrupted by idle curiosity seekers.”
“I believe it is more complex than that,” I said. “Now, Emerson, don’t grumble, I am not talking psychology, only plain common sense—based, I should add, on my profound study of human nature. After all these years of being scorned and patronized, Howard is suddenly in the catbird seat. It has gone to his head. I am not surprised. The people who jeered at his common background and mocked his manners are now suing humbly for his favors. Subconsciously—er—that is, I mean to say, without realizing it himself, Howard may even have resented our attempts to assist him.”
“He’s got nothing against me,” Cyrus protested. “I never jeered at him and I’m no idle curiosity seeker.”
“But you are a rival of Lord Carnarvon’s in the collecting game,” Sethos pointed out. “He was green with envy when you acquired the Tutankhamon statuette last year.”
“That’s no reason to keep me out of the tomb,” Cyrus said stubbornly. “Doggone it, I’d give anything to get a look. I’m not after any of the artifacts, I just want a look.”
Suzanne, on Bertie’s other side, had sat in sullen silence while he and Sennia chatted and laughed. She had gone to great pains to get herself up in a silken gown that spelled money to my experienced eyes; her face was painted and her hair confined by a silver fillet. Being supplanted in Bertie’s favor by a little girl of thirteen did not sit well with her.
“Perhaps I can help,” she said unexpectedly.
She got everyone’s attention. Incredulity was the common reaction. Jumana rolled her eyes and Emerson blurted out, “You?”
Suzanne smiled a little cat smile. “My grandfather—my mother’s father—is a neighbor of Lord Carnarvon’s. They are old friends. I had a wire from him last week, to say that he is coming out to spend Christmas with me. And see the tomb, of course.”
Katherine was the first to recover from her surprise. “We would be happy to have him stay with us.”
“Oh, no, no, he would never invite himself; I have taken rooms for him at the Luxor. He looks forward to meeting you all. I have written much about you, especially, Mr. and Mrs. Vandergelt, about your kindness to me.”
“Who the dev—Who is your grandfather?” Emerson demanded, expressing in his blunt fashion a question some of us might have put more politely.
“Sir William Portmanteau.