Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [126]
“Ha,” I said.
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Cyrus said. “But Carter has taken all possible precautions. He’s got three different sets of guards on duty day and night, each reporting to a different authority so they won’t be tempted to collaborate. The keys to the gates are held by him or another member of the staff.”
Sethos put down the paper chain he had been working on and cleared his throat in a pointed manner.
“I suppose you think you could get at those keys,” Emerson said.
“I can think of at least three different methods offhand,” Sethos said with a faraway look. “And two ways of distracting the guards.”
“Then it is a good thing you have reformed,” I said.
Cyrus looked as if he was not so sure it was a good thing.
I had several private errands of my own to carry out. They had nothing to do with our holiday preparations, but I made certain they did not mar the spirit of the season by not telling anyone about them. Running back and forth to Luxor on various errands provided sufficient excuse for my occasional absences. I did not lie to Emerson about the reason for them. While in Luxor I did do errands and call on friends. I saw no reason to mention what else I did.
Unfortunately I was seen leaving the zabtiyeh, and the word duly reached Emerson. He waited until we were alone, preparing for bed, before he went on the attack.
“Can’t you stay away from corpses even at this time of year?” he demanded.
“There were no corpses in which I took an interest, Emerson.”
“I cannot believe there is a corpse in which you do not take an interest. What did you go there for?”
I decided not to lie. Emerson had just returned from the bath chamber. His hair waved about his brow and his admirable form had a slight sheen of dampness.
“I prefer not to tell you, Emerson.”
“You prefer? You prefer?” Emerson drew a deep breath. His muscles swelled. So did the veins in his neck. I waited for the burst of outrage I had every reason to expect.
Alas, my expectations were not fulfilled. Emerson let his breath out. He placed a heavy but gentle hand on my shoulder.
“Peabody, my darling girl, I came close to losing you last year. I wish you would allow me to protect and cherish you. I wish you would not do this sort of thing.”
I wished he would not do that sort of thing. When Emerson stoops to appeal he makes me feel that I have taken unfair advantage. Turning into his outstretched arms, I murmured, “I give you my word, my dear, that I did nothing that requires me to be protected.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson—and spoke no more.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
The children were accustomed to visiting Abdullah’s tomb. Ramses’s mother had been right (as usual) when she claimed there was nothing morbid about remembering the honored dead. The twins and Sennia had heard the stories about his heroism and devotion; to them he was a distant figure of legend, like Charlemagne and King Arthur. They anticipated this particular visit with delight, since the whole family was going and they would be allowed to make a special offering.
Attired in their best, they set out for the small cemetery of which Abdullah’s tomb was the most prominent feature. It was a beautiful little structure, designed by David, with graceful columns supporting its domed roof. The servant of the tomb roused himself from his prayers and came forth to meet them. Having heard of their plans, a number of the villagers had turned up, not only to honor their local saint but to enjoy the spectacle. The Emersons could be depended upon to do things in style.
Daoud outshone all others in a new caftan and elaborately wound turban. Cyrus had brought Jumana and Nadji, and, to Ramses’s surprise, Suzanne.
Across the open entrance hung the usual offerings—trinkets and beads and bits of cloth. Ramses lifted Charla up so she could attach her gift of a little book, which she had decided Abdullah would prefer to an offering anyone might make. David had tactfully pointed out that Abdullah