Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [140]
“Why should I not oblige these amiable gentlemen?” I asked. “They have every right to the facts. This is not Lord Carnarvon’s tomb; it belongs to Egypt and to the world!”
A somewhat ironic cheer greeted this statement, and Mr. Bradstreet said with a grin, “You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you, Mrs. Emerson? First time I’ve ever heard you say the press had a right to anything. Couldn’t be sour grapes, could it?”
“If the press chooses to misrepresent my remarks, it cannot be surprised that I dislike being quoted,” I said severely.
He was about to apologize, I believe, when a buzz and a bustle around the tomb entrance drew all eyes in that direction. The gentlemen of the press abandoned me, shoving and pushing and aiming their cameras. A squad of soldiers took up position by the barrier. Then Howard came into view. His hat was tipped to one side, his mustache carefully brushed; in one hand he held his stick, in the other a cigarette holder.
“Back!” he shouted, brandishing his stick in military style. “Stand back, everyone.”
From the entrance, carried on a wooden stretcher to which it was bound by strips of bandage, emerged the first object—the beautiful painted chest with scenes of the king in his chariot. Shouts of delight came from the spectators; the clicking of cameras rattled like hail. David, beside me, stood mesmerized and mute.
“Come farther along the path,” I said, taking his arm. “You can get a better view from there.”
We were the first to move; other spectators trooped after the bearers, trying to get a closer look at the lovely thing. A few actually reached out, trying to touch it, and were only prevented from doing so by the soldiers who surrounded the bearers.
David followed the procession all the way to the storage tomb, staring and stumbling and running into people. I was in perfect sympathy with him. Nothing like that chest had ever been seen before.
When he rejoined me he was pale with excitement. “Your description didn’t do it justice,” he gasped. “It couldn’t. Good Lord, Aunt Amelia, I would give my right hand to be allowed to paint it!”
“Without a right hand you wouldn’t be able to,” I said, for I always think a little touch of humor helps excited persons to settle down. It had the desired effect on David. He took my arm.
“I beg your pardon, Aunt Amelia. I ought not have left you in the midst of this jostling crowd.”
“Quite all right, dear boy,” I said. “I had no trouble in fending for myself. I never do. Shall we go back? Howard may intend to bring out something else.”
“I don’t think I want to see anything else,” David said softly. “Not today. I couldn’t take it in.”
“Then we will go home, my dear.”
“You do understand?”
“Naturally. Your artist’s soul has been transported. You require peace and quiet to contemplate the full wonder of what you have seen. And,” I added, “perhaps a whiskey and soda.”
Most of the spectators had pelted back to the tomb, but Kevin O’Connell was lying in wait for us. “What’s the idea of giving out all that information to me rivals, Mrs. E.?” he demanded.
“Don’t be silly, Kevin,” I replied. “I didn’t tell them anything that wasn’t public knowledge. You were writing it all down too, I observed. I was surprised not to see Miss Minton.”
“She didn’t turn up today,” Kevin said, falling in step with us. “Come to think of it, I haven’t laid eyes on her since the night of your party.”
“We should never have allowed her to go alone,” I exclaimed.
Inquiries, which I had immediately set in train, confirmed Kevin’s statement. No one had set eyes on Miss Minton since Christmas Eve. The night clerk, rousted out of his home, declared she had not returned to the Winter Palace that night. He had thought nothing of it. If a foreign lady decided to sleep elsewhere, it was none of his business.
Kevin had returned to the house with the rest of us and waited until the reports came in.
“It was my responsibility,” he said, eyes cast down. Then he took another longish sip of his whiskey and soda and brightened. “But, Mrs. E., I don’t see why