Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [62]
“Do not give way, Emerson, I beg you.” I directed a severe look at Sethos, who had covered his mouth with his hand in an attempt to stifle his laughter. “Allow me to add a note of common sense. Kevin, you will come with us. Jumana and Bertie too.”
“Oh, but I haven’t seen the tomb,” Jumana cried. “You wouldn’t be so cruel, after all the trouble I went to? Please, Professor—”
“Er,” said Emerson, deflating under the spell of her pleading voice. He is a perfect fool where women are concerned. “Well…”
“She doesn’t deserve to be rewarded for her reckless behavior,” Bertie exclaimed.
I had been about to say the same thing. “A quick look won’t hurt,” I said. “Go with her, Ramses. Just a look, and come straight back.”
“In that case…” said Kevin eagerly.
“If she goes…” Sir Malcolm began.
“No!” I shouted. “Good Gad, of all the effrontery!”
“Now, Peabody, don’t lose your temper,” said Emerson. “I am the only one allowed to do that. Sir Malcolm, I advise you to leave at once. I cannot always control Mrs. Emerson when she is in this exasperated state of mind.”
“Very well,” said that gentleman with sudden meekness.
I took a deep breath, and then another. “Don’t think you can linger until we have departed, Sir Malcolm. The tomb will be guarded now.”
“I would be delighted to oblige,” said Sethos quickly.
“I don’t doubt it,” muttered Emerson. “Stay if you like. With me.”
Bertie had—of course—gone down the steps with Ramses and Jumana. They now returned, both men more or less dragging the girl between them.
“It wasn’t long enough,” she gasped. “There was so much…I want one more…Bertie, let me go at once!”
She pulled free from him, but not from Ramses.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said. “Jumana, don’t try me too far. And,” he added with an unwilling grin, as she leaned against him and gazed imploringly into his face, “don’t try that either. You’ve got your own way, and gone one up on Suzanne. That should be enough.”
Jumana chuckled.
Emerson sighed. “Jumana, go home at once. With Bertie. Don’t argue with him, don’t try to get away from him—”
“Don’t call him bad names,” I said.
“Don’t call him bad names,” said Emerson in some confusion. “Er—I have made myself clear, haven’t I, Jumana?”
“Yes, sir. I will go straight back to the Castle and I will not call Bertie bad names.”
“Good. Ramses, take your mother and that…that…journalist back to the house.”
“What about them?” I asked, nudging one of the ibn Simsah brothers with my foot.
“Oh, please, Sitt,” he moaned. “Let us go. We repent. We are reformed. Do not leave us for the jackals to eat.”
“It’s a tempting idea,” said Emerson, scratching his chin. “But against our principles, eh? Untie them, Ramses. We know where to find them if we want them. At the moment they are only in the way. So are you, Sir Malcolm. Be off with you.”
In the end it was Ramses who stayed with his father and Sethos who escorted Kevin and me back to the donkey park where we had left the horses. Sir Malcolm had already departed—with, I supposed, his unfortunate servant running along beside. Jumana and Bertie had come on foot and would return the same way. I had given the girl one of my little lectures, so I felt sure she would do as she was told. As we rode off I could hear her and Bertie bickering in loud voices, but, to give her credit, I did not hear any bad words.
Kevin had come without argument. He knew Emerson well enough to recognize the futility of learning more from him.
“A whiskey and soda would certainly hit the spot,” he said cheerfully.
“Don’t count on it,” I said. “Over the years you and the Daily Yell have caused me considerable embarrassment, Kevin.”
“But, ma’am, remember the times I proved a true friend in your times of need.” His voice was as caressing as that of an Irish tenor.
“We will see,” I said, “if friendship takes precedence over journalism on this