Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [119]
Though he sympathized with his father’s yearning to be in charge of the most challenging task any Egyptologist had faced, Ramses felt certain that Carter could be depended upon to do a good job. He was a responsible excavator, and he had assembled a team of unquestioned experts. Emerson and his family had been deliberately passed over; there was nothing they could do. Watching the busy bustle of men coming in and out of the tomb, Ramses felt a stab of anger—on his father’s behalf, he told himself.
“We may as well go,” he said to Nefret.
Sennia was easily drawn away. “There is nothing exciting happening,” she complained. “And I’m hungry.”
“I fear I neglected to bring a picnic basket,” his mother said, fanning herself with a folded paper.
Neglected, my foot, Ramses thought. She wouldn’t have overlooked that if she had intended to spend the whole day.
As they headed for the donkey park, they met another member of the staff of the Metropolitan Museum—Harry Burton, a slender, handsome man who was unquestionably the best archaeological photographer in Egypt. Burton had worked with them before, but Emerson, anticipating another rebuff, would have passed him with no more than a nod if Burton hadn’t stopped, whipped off his hat, and extended his hand.
“You couldn’t keep away either, I see,” he said with a friendly smile. “I am not supposed to begin work until tomorrow, but I couldn’t resist having a look.”
“You have quite a job ahead of you,” Emerson said.
“From what we have heard,” his wife added smoothly.
“I look forward to it. I plan to take a few moving pictures and perhaps try some of the new color films.”
“Fascinating,” said Nefret.
Her attempt at enthusiasm didn’t deceive Burton. The general air of reserve was palpable. Looking from one of them to the other, he said, “I hope I may be favored by an invitation to tea one day.”
“Haven’t you been warned to stay away from us?” Emerson demanded.
As was so often the case, Emerson’s bluntness cut through the discomfort like a blast of fresh air. Burton’s formal manners dissolved in a grin. “Carter did mention that Carnarvon had taken it into his head to bear a grudge of some sort. His lordship can be—er—unreasonable at times.”
“If you are willing to risk his displeasure, you are always welcome,” Ramses’s mother said, thawing.
“It is no risk, Mrs. Emerson. Finding another photographer would take some time, and he cannot begin clearing the outer chamber until photographs have been taken of all the objects in situ.”
“He couldn’t find another one of your caliber,” Nefret said sincerely. “I’ve never forgotten what you did in that cramped chamber of the God’s Wives.”
Burton placed his hand over his heart and bowed. “In any case, I do not allow Lord Carnarvon or Howard Carter to manage my social affairs. Vulgar sort of fellow, Carter,” he added, wrinkling his aristocratic nose. “Well, I mustn’t detain you. I hope to see you again soon. I trust there will be plum cake for tea?”
He winked at Sennia, who assured him that she would make certain there was, and strolled off along the path.
“What a nice man,” Sennia said.
“Not such a bad chap,” Emerson agreed. “But Winlock said much the same thing, and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.”
“We haven’t seen hide nor hair of Margaret Minton today either,” said his wife. “That isn’t like her. I do hope she hasn’t run into trouble.”
“It’s more likely she is in pursuit of another story,” Nefret said. “Which is not a reassuring thought.”
Sethos hadn’t come to the Valley either. Perhaps, Ramses thought, he was doing his uncle an injustice by wondering whether he had really spent the morning baking cakes.
The enticing smell of sugar and spices wafted to our nostrils as we approached the house. For