Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [23]
The apparent absence of activity didn’t reassure Ramses. During his war years he had acquired a sort of sixth sense about being watched—it was a necessary survival trait—and he knew the watchers were out there, somewhere. The ambush might have been a feint, a crude attempt to distract them from more subtle methods.
He didn’t like uncertainty, and there were too many unsettled problems. They were in the West Valley on sufferance, since technically it was part of Carnarvon’s concession. If they did find any new tombs, Carnarvon was sure to take over, especially if his excavation in the East Valley came up empty. There had been no further discussion about Nefret and him moving to Cairo for the winter, but he knew his mother had not abandoned the scheme.
And where the devil was Sethos?
He didn’t suppose his mother would put up with this state of affairs for long. She brought matters to a head one evening when the Vandergelts were dining with them. The cook had prepared all Emerson’s favorite dishes and he had almost finished his postprandial whiskey and soda before his wife cleared her throat portentously.
“I have a few things to discuss with you, Emerson. No, my friends, don’t go. We have nothing to hide from you.”
“She believes I will behave better with you here,” Emerson explained. Replete and relaxed, he was in an affable mood, his pipe in one hand and his glass in the other. “Very well, Peabody, have at me.”
The affability lasted only until she mentioned her intention of hiring new staff. Emerson sputtered and glared. When she went on to inform him that the younger Emersons planned to spend the winter in Cairo, Ramses braced himself for an explosion. Emerson’s reaction was worse. His massive form seemed to shrink.
“Is this what you want, my boy?” he asked in faltering tones.
“No, sir. That is—we haven’t really…That is…” He gave Nefret a helpless look. She came to sit on the arm of Emerson’s chair and put her arm round his bowed shoulders.
“We’ve talked of it, Father, but we haven’t come to a decision.”
“It’s up to you, of course.” Emerson fumbled for a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. “I shall miss the kiddies.”
Now that, Ramses thought, was a bit too much. Emerson’s emotions were completely sincere, but instead of shouting he was using guile to get his own way.
“Shame on you, Emerson,” said his wife coldly.
Cyrus, who hadn’t ventured to speak until then, said tentatively, “If you want my opinion…”
“I don’t,” said Emerson, forgetting his role.
“I do,” said his wife. “We are all in this together when it comes to our plans for the remainder of this season and for seasons to come. It is agreed, is it not, that we wish to continue the arrangement that has proved so successful—combining our forces into a single group?”
“Nothing would please me more,” Cyrus exclaimed. “It would only be making it official. I’m no Egyptologist, and I would be more than happy to have Emerson take over as director.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “Well…”
“Excellent,” said his wife briskly. “We cannot continue in the West Valley indefinitely. It was a temporary arrangement in any case. We must settle on another site and add to our staff.”
“I tell you what we need,” said Cyrus. “An artist. I don’t suppose Mr. or Mrs. Davies would be available?”
“No, no,” Emerson said. “Not a chance. They have other commitments. But David—”
“Also has other commitments,” said his wife, in a tone that brooked no argument. “What about that young Frenchwoman, Mlle. Malraux?”
She had done it again. Emerson became so involved in arguing about details that he tacitly conceded her point. She made two of her little lists, one of sites they should consider, and another of potential staff members.
“I shall just pop up