Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [110]
Nefret’s face was paler than usual, but she managed a smile. “Not Mother. She’ll be swigging brandy and telling them all about it.”
In the shadow of the western cliff the rest of their party was gathered round his mother. Seated on the wall by the entrance to the tomb of Ramses III, she was talking and gesticulating with the hand that held her flask of brandy. Jumana held Bertie tightly by the arm. Reassured as to his wife’s well-being, Emerson had planted himself in the middle of the path and was holding the curious back with shouts and a few shoves.
“No one is to approach. The police have been sent for.”
“Aziz?” Ramses asked his father.
“You don’t suppose the British authorities would be concerned about the death of a native?” his father replied with heavy sarcasm.
“I would suppose Howard Carter might be concerned about this one.”
Ramses’s father spared him a narrow-eyed glance. “You are thinking along those lines, are you? Well, well, we will discuss it later. O’Connell, stay where you are.”
One of Emerson’s more moderate shoves sent Kevin staggering back. His hat fell off. Someone laughed, and O’Connell lost his temper. “You are interfering with the freedom of the press, Professor,” he shouted.
“Quite right,” said Margaret Minton, notebook in hand. It was she who had laughed. She slid neatly past Emerson, evaded Sethos’s outstretched hand, and trotted toward the scene of the…accident? Sethos started after her, but stopped after a few steps and stood with arms folded, his expression indecipherable.
Kevin tried to pull away from Emerson, who held him off with one hand. “You let her pass,” Kevin panted. “Blatant discrimination! Mrs. Emerson, I appeal to you!”
“Let him go, Emerson” was her calm reply. “As he will see, there is no news in this. Only the unfortunate death of a local fellah.”
“Don’t you want to have a look?” Ramses asked his uncle.
“Unlike my…unlike Miss Minton I do not revel in bloody corpses,” said Sethos. “Amelia’s description was quite enough for me. Is anyone watching the tomb? Most of the guards seem to be here.”
Margaret came into view, a little green in the face but quite composed. “What was his name?” she demanded.
“What do you care?” Sethos replied. “He was only a native.”
“What happened to him?” Margaret addressed the question to Ramses.
Sounds of retching reached them, and after a moment Kevin appeared. He was wiping his mouth on his sleeve, but his journalist’s instincts were unaffected. “What happened to him?” he gurgled.
Emerson turned. “Obviously the unfortunate man came upon some explosive device and accidentally set it off. That’s all there is to it. The police are on their way. Now get away from here, all of you.”
Margaret stood her ground until Emerson advanced upon her. “You are interfering with the press, Professor,” she exclaimed, backing away.
“Damn right,” said Emerson. “Leave of your own accord or be carried away. I want everyone out of the Valley immediately.”
His wife leaped to her feet. “Witnesses, Emerson. Suspects! We must interrogate all who were present.”
“Now?” Emerson exclaimed. “See here, Peabody—”
“At least take all their names and addresses.” She replaced the brandy flask and whipped out paper and pencil.
This comment cleared the scene more effectively than Emerson’s shouts. Ramses felt certain she had expected this; as a “profound student of human nature,” she knew most people prefer not to be involved with the police. Most of the spectators melted away. Cursing, Emerson dragged a few diehards out from their hiding places and pursued them along the path to the entrance. When everyone had left except their own party, he addressed Girigar. “Everything all right here?”
“Yes, Father of Curses.” The reis was obviously shaken. “Is there danger to the tomb, do you think? Shall I send word to Carter Effendi?”
“There will be no danger if you and your men remain true to their duty,” Emerson said sternly. “Yes, Carter should be notified. Send one