Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [129]
Emerson’s adversary was none other than Sir Malcolm Page Henley de Montague. Holding his stick like a dueling sword, he shouted back whenever Emerson paused for breath. “No right!” and “How dare you?” formed the refrain of his remarks. His rage was so enormous it overcame his fear of Emerson—and perhaps he counted on the three other people present to step in if Emerson was moved to violence. In that, Ramses thought, he deceived himself. Margaret Minton to the right and O’Connell to the left of the furious pair were busily taking notes.
Seeing Ramses and David, Montague’s servant dropped to his knees and clasped his hands. “Brother of Demons, help my master! Todros Effendi, speak to the Father of Curses!”
Emerson whirled round. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Do you know what this bastard is doing?”
“No,” Ramses said. “What?”
“Er…Hmph.” Emerson rubbed his chin.
“I have every right to be here,” Sir Malcolm said shrilly.
His appearance had deteriorated since Ramses had last seen him. Goatee and wig had taken on a grayish hue, and his cravat was unpressed. Evidently his latest servant, a youngish man, well-set-up and broad-shouldered, had not been trained for valet duties. His robe was shabby and his sandals patched.
“This is the tomb that will be used as a storage room and laboratory,” Emerson said. “Don’t tell me his presence here is a coincidence!”
“Of course not.” Sir Malcolm brushed dust from his sleeve. “Any more than yours is. I was curious. There is no law against that, I believe?”
In the silence that followed, Ramses heard O’Connell muttering as he continued to write. “…presence a coincidence…”
“Stop taking notes, O’Connell,” Ramses said. “There’s no news in this.”
“But readers love hearing about Professor Emerson’s little encounters,” Margaret said innocently. “Isn’t that right, O’Connell?”
“Indeed but it is. And the Times won’t have this exclusive!”
Belatedly aware of what he had done—and what his wife would say about it—Emerson attempted to redress his error. The forced smile he directed at Sir Malcolm made him look as if his jaw would crack.
“Just a friendly discussion between—er—old acquaintances,” he declared. “Isn’t that right—er—old chap?”
Montague was no more anxious than Emerson to be featured in the pages of the Daily Yell or its competitor. “Quite, quite—er—old chap. We will continue our—er—discussion another time, eh?”
He made good his escape, followed by his servant, who gave Ramses an ingratiating smile. The fellow’s face was familiar, but Ramses couldn’t remember where he had seen him.
“Sorry,” Ramses said to Margaret. “There won’t be an encounter. Or a story.”
“One can’t make a story out of a friendly argument between archaeologists,” David added. “They do it all the time.”
O’Connell uttered a fulsome Irish curse but Margaret only smiled. “What about this tomb, then?” she asked. “What’s so interesting about it?”
Since he could see no reason not to answer, Ramses explained. Margaret’s face took on its journalist’s stare. “So they will be carrying the objects along this path, all the way from Tut’s tomb?”
“They will be guarded every step of the way,” Ramses said.
“Oh, I wasn’t planning to steal them,” Margaret said. “Which reminds me—I haven’t seen my—Mr. Bissinghurst today. Didn’t he come with you?”
“He’s not feeling well,” Ramses said.
“Something lingering, with boiling oil in it, I hope.” She closed her notebook with a snap and walked away. After a doubtful look at Emerson’s darkening countenance, O’Connell followed her.
“Don’t say a word,” Emerson ordered.
“You got out of it very neatly,” Ramses said.
“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. “So there’s no need to mention this to Peabody.”
“No, sir,” said Ramses and David in chorus.
Emerson hadn’t finished with the tomb of Seti II. “Carter will need guards here too. And a locked gate.”
Ramses was a trifle surprised that Carter had selected this particular tomb for his storage area. The second Seti was one of the confusing pharaohs, as his mother called them, a series of rulers of whom little