Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [172]
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“Hither and yon. Is it time for luncheon? Sennia has informed me that she is ravenous.”
We collected Sennia and Gargery and found a nice empty tomb. Seated in a circle round the picnic basket, we let Sennia explore the contents and hand them out.
“Where’s Margaret?” Sethos asked, accepting a cheese sandwich.
“She and Nefret have gone back to the house to fetch David’s painting materials,” I said. “Howard has given him permission to copy one of the artifacts for the ILN.”
“Has he indeed?”
“I think we should go home after luncheon,” Sennia announced. “Gargery looks tired.”
“What?” Gargery straightened and got a firmer grip on the sandwich that had been about to fall from his hand. “Tired? Me?”
“I want to wait until Nefret returns,” I said. “That will be a while. Why don’t you and Gargery go back with Emerson, or perhaps Ramses.”
“I will escort them,” Sethos said, foraging in the basket. “What do you recommend, Sennia, tomato or chicken?”
Upon her advice, he selected the chicken and settled back to eat it.
“There is still brown dye behind your ear,” I said, out of the corner of my mouth.
Sethos grinned and went on eating.
The three of them went off after luncheon, and Ramses, Emerson, and I waited for Nefret. I was not the only one who had deduced the explanation for Howard’s volte-face.
“Which one was he?” Ramses asked.
“The very ragged messenger with the very rude vocabulary, I think. You know his tendency to overplay a role.”
“Good Gad,” Emerson exclaimed. “You mean he…Sethos was the…How the devil did he counterfeit a telegram from Lord Carnarvon?”
“As he will no doubt say, he has his methods. I don’t think he wants David to know. David’s principles are so rigid he might feel Howard had been taken unfair advantage of.”
“He was,” said Emerson, a pleased grin spreading across his face. “Excellent! I must commend my dear, dear brother. For once he has put his questionable talents to good use. And the best of it is,” he went on, “Carter will find out in due course that he has been deceived—when it’s too late for him to do anything about it!”
He burst into a peal of hearty laughter, in which he was joined by Ramses. I confess I let out a little chuckle of my own.
We had resigned ourselves to a long wait, but were pleasantly surprised when Nefret turned up a good half hour before we could reasonably expect her. She was accompanied by Selim, carrying David’s easel and paints.
“How quick you were,” I exclaimed, hastening to meet them. “I trust you did not tire the poor horses.”
“No,” said Selim. He mumbled something.
“I beg your pardon, Selim?” I said. “Speak up.”
“We drove the motorcar,” Selim bellowed.
Emerson let out a cry of delight. “What a fine day this is turning out to be! You repaired it, Selim?”
“Yes,” said Selim, studiously avoiding looking at Nefret, who was carefully not looking at me.
“Go along, Selim,” I said. “Mr. Lucas is expecting you.”
He went off at a run.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Nefret whispered to me. “I thought the emergency excused the betrayal.”
“You were correct,” I said with a sigh. “Into every life a little rain must fall.”
Naturally Emerson insisted on driving home in the motorcar. That left the rest of us to deal with the horses and several reluctant donkeys. We left David’s Asfur for him. He would not stop until the last of the light had faded.
Dusk was well advanced and our other guests had assembled before Asfur came, at a walk, with David cradling a covered box as tenderly as if it were a baby. He handed it down to Ramses and Jamad led Asfur away. When David lifted the lid, a universal cry of admiration arose—except from David, whose cry was one of woe. “It’s smudged—here and here—it was wet, I couldn’t wait for it to dry…Damn!”
“It can be repaired,” I said. “Or copied again. David, it is splendid! You have captured the colors and the vivacity of the scene as no one else could.”
“Darn right,” Cyrus exclaimed. “Congratulations, my boy. The Illustrated London News will be delighted.”
David looked up