Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [125]
Cyrus felt the slight as deeply as we. We hadn’t seen a great deal of the Vandergelts recently; they were busy with their own holiday preparations, as we had been with ours. It was to escape the increasing strain of these that Cyrus dropped in one afternoon two days before Christmas.
“Cat has the whole place torn apart,” he explained, “and the rest of them are aiding and abetting her, even Nadji. Sometimes I wish the blessed Savior had been found in the bulrushes, like Moses, date of birth unknown.”
Emerson whooped with laughter. I refrained from comment, since the children were not present. “How many guests are you expecting?” I asked.
“Cat’s in charge of that. Half the town of Luxor, from what I can make out, plus every tourist we ever met on the street. You folks will be there, of course?”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Sethos said.
Cyrus favored him with a brusque nod. We had explained to our friend that Sethos was in the process of coming to terms with his adversaries, and that we anticipated no further difficulty with them, but Cyrus clearly had reservations.
“And you, I trust, will attend our Christmas Eve gathering,” I said. “Katherine asked if she might bring Suzanne’s grandfather, and naturally I said she might. What is he like?”
“Sweetest old gent you would ever want to meet,” Cyrus replied somewhat sourly. “He loves everything and everybody. He’s even polite to Nadji.”
“Even?” Ramses asked.
“Well, he’s a man of his generation and nation,” said Cyrus poetically. “And from what I’ve heard, a real shark at business. But he’s on his best behavior; only slips now and then, with some generalization about the great British Empire and her civilizing mission.”
“It will be interesting to see how he treats Selim and Daoud,” Nefret said, pursing her lips. “If he is rude I will show him the door.”
Insofar as Emerson was concerned, this went without saying. He turned to a more interesting topic. “I take it he hasn’t been able to get you admitted to the tomb?”
“Not so far. He had a letter from Carnarvon, which he duly sent on to Carter. Hasn’t had an answer.”
“There’s one way you may be able to gain entry,” said Emerson, chewing on his pipe. “Grovel to Carter and tell him you have broken off relations with us.”
Cyrus paused in the act of lighting his cheroot. “As if I’d stoop so low!” he cried.
“Emerson was only making a little joke, Cyrus,” I assured him. “Not a very amusing one.”
“Hmmm, yes,” muttered Emerson.
“All right, then.” Cyrus applied the match and puffed. “I wouldn’t mind so much,” he said, in a burst of candor, “if Carnarvon wasn’t going to get some of the artifacts.”
“To say nothing of the Metropolitan Museum,” said Ramses. “You don’t suppose the board is donating the services of their staff members out of sheer altruism, do you? They’ve come to an understanding with Carnarvon and Carter.”
“At any rate, Sir Malcolm won’t get anything,” I said in an effort to console Cyrus.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Emerson said darkly. “He’s been hanging round the tomb with an increasingly lean and hungry look. Yesterday his wig fell off. He must have been so preoccupied he forgot to glue it on. When that miserable servant of his handed it back to him, Sir Malcolm gave him a thrashing.”
My amusement at Sir Malcom’s discomfiture was tempered by indignation. “Shameful,” I said. “I must have a word with the fellow. He shouldn’t have to put up with such treatment. How do you know that, Emerson? Not from Daoud, he would have told all of us. Oh, dear—have you been bribing that child, Azmi, to report to you? I saw him yesterday near the kitchen, but assumed he had come round for some of Fatima’s sugar biscuits. She feeds everyone.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Emerson demanded.
“I have no objection to her giving treats to the children, but you should not encourage them to spy and eavesdrop.”
“It is on Carter