Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [133]
“Carter’s excessive secrecy strikes me as unwarranted,” he declared. “Granted, he cannot admit great numbers of people for fear of causing damage to the artifacts, but there is no reason why he can’t describe them or distribute copies of Burton’s photographs.”
“They say that Carnarvon means to sell the photographs to the highest bidder,” Cyrus said.
Rex was too wise to indulge in gossip, but his mere presence that evening indicated to me that he was not on the best of terms with Howard and his patron. His position was difficult. In theory he had authority over all archaeological activities in Upper Egypt, including the Valley of the Kings. However, the control exercised by the Department of Antiquities over foreign excavators and expeditions had always been lax, and Rex had neither the power nor the inclination to incite trouble. He could not prevent Carnarvon from monopolizing the photographs, but he could and did indicate his disapproval by describing certain of the objects.
“There is one chair—a throne, rather—that would take your breath away. Every inch of it is overlaid with gold foil and with inlaid decorative elements. On the back are figures in high relief of Tutankhamon and his queen. Their faces and bodies are formed of reddish-brown glass, their robes of silver, their wigs and other details of semiprecious stones…”
David leaned forward, his eyes alight. Even photographs, supposing Howard could be persuaded to share them, would not capture the glorious colors and gleam of gold of such treasures as the throne.
Howard was being selfish and unreasonable. Seeing David’s rapt face, I determined that I would get him into that tomb somehow, by whatever means necessary.
Suzanne’s grandfather had not spoiled our evening but he had cast a stone into the tranquil pool of seasonal goodwill. Cyrus took him away early. The old wretch had no idea that he had misbehaved; he bade us good night with perfect aplomb. Chuckling.
Our other guests, with the exception of Kevin and Margaret, did not remain long. As soon as they were out of the way, the rest of us began abusing Sir William. I permitted Sennia to stay up past her usual bedtime, because I wanted her to hear what we thought of such persons and their ideas. Kevin described Sir William with a few picturesque Irish insults and Daoud offered to carry him off and lock him up for a few days. Gargery, white hair bristling, declared his intention of challenging Sir William to a fistfight. This noble offer completed Sennia’s cure; trying not to laugh (for that would have hurt her champion’s feelings), she led Gargery off to his room.
“At least the old villain didn’t get into the tomb,” said Emerson with satisfaction. “He’d have bragged about it if he had.”
“Not yet,” I said. “How long is the old villain staying?”
“I didn’t bother to ask,” said Emerson.
“He leaves for Cairo on Boxing Day,” said Nefret. “We won’t have to entertain him again.”
“We will have to encounter him at Cyrus’s tomorrow,” I said. “However, there will be a good many people present and we ought to be able to avoid him.”
Margaret had spoken very little. Having withdrawn to a quiet corner, she was writing in her notebook. I did not object, since nothing newsworthy had occurred (Sir William’s bigotry being, unfortunately, not unusual). I assumed she was making notes about the artifacts Rex had described.
“Will you sing more songs now?” Daoud asked. He loved music of all kinds and the pianoforte fascinated him.
“Nefret is looking tired,” I said. “And Sennia has gone to bed. You don’t play, do you, Margaret?”
“She plays very well,” said a voice from the doorway. “But it is against her principles to demonstrate womanly talents.”
Margaret’s pen scraped across the page, and I said, “How long