Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [2]
No, despite our need for additional staff, it might not be advisable.
“Have you had any interesting encounters?” Ramses asked, looking over the people taking tea on the terrace. They were the usual sort—well dressed, well groomed, and almost all white—if that word can be used to describe complexions that ranged from pimply pale to sunburned crimson.
“Lord and Lady Allenby stopped to say hello,” I replied. “He was most agreeable, but I understand why people refer to him as the Bull. He has that set to his jaw.”
“He has to be forceful. As high commissioner he is under fire from the imperialists in the British government and the Nationalists in Egypt. On the whole, I can only commend his efforts.”
I did not want to talk politics. The subject was too depressing.
“There is your father,” I said. “Late as usual.”
Ramses looked over his shoulder at the street. There was no mistaking Emerson. He is one of the finest-looking men I have ever beheld: raven locks and eyes of a penetrating sapphirine blue, a form as impressive as it had been when I first met him, he stood a head taller than those around him and his booming voice was audible some distance away. He was employing it freely, greeting acquaintances in a mixture of English and Arabic, the latter liberally salted with the expletives that have given him the Egyptian sobriquet of Father of Curses. Egyptians had become accustomed to this habit and replied with broad grins to remarks such as “How are you, Ibrahim, you old son of an incontinent camel?” My distinguished husband, the finest Egyptologist of this or any era, had earned the respect of the Egyptians with whom he had lived for so many years because he treated them as he did his fellow archaeologists. That is to say, he cursed all of them impartially when they did something that vexed him. It was not difficult to vex Emerson. Few people lived up to his rigid professional standards, and time had not mellowed his quick temper.
“He’s got someone with him,” said Ramses.
“Well, well,” I said. “What a surprise.”
The individual who followed in Emerson’s mighty wake was none other than Howard Carter.
Perhaps I should explain the reason for my sarcasm, for such it was. Howard was one of our oldest friends, an archaeologist whose career had undergone several reversals and recoveries. He was presently employed by Lord Carnarvon to search for royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings. Searching for royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings was Emerson’s great ambition—one he could not fulfill until Carnarvon gave up his concession. Rumor had it that his lordship was about to do so, having come to the conclusion—shared by most Egyptologists—that the Valley had yielded all it ever would.
Emerson did not share that conclusion. At the end of the previous season he had admitted to me that he believed there was at least one more royal tomb to be found—that of the little-known king Tutankhamon. He had done his best, without actually lying, to conceal this belief from Howard. One of the reasons why we had come to Egypt so much earlier than was our custom was to discover what plans Howard and his patron had made for the coming season.
One look at Emerson’s expressive countenance told me what I wanted to know. Despite the heartiness of his vociferous greetings, his sapphirine eyes were dull, his well-cut lips set in a downward curve. Carnarvon had not abandoned his concession.
However, Howard Carter appeared no more cheerful. Nattily dressed as was his habit in a tweed suit and bow tie, a cigarette holder in his hand, he addressed me with a rather