Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [65]
I sighed. “I was afraid of that. Goodness, what a hotbed of gossip this place is! It was one of Emerson’s characteristic diatribes, Cyrus, complete with curses. One cannot blame Carnarvon for being angry—especially in view of the fact that Emerson’s accusations were probably true.”
“They are saying that the Professor accused Mr. Carter and the others of taking jewelry from the tomb,” Jumana offered.
“They wouldn’t do that,” Bertie protested, his ingenuous face troubled.
Jumana shook her head. “You are soooo naive, Bertie.”
Bertie flushed, but before he could respond, Emerson appeared in the mouth of Ay’s tomb, arms akimbo and brow threatening.
“What are you doing there?” he shouted. “Get back to work. Bertie, you can start your measurements of the burial chamber now.”
The other three jumped up. I had not finished my tea, so I remained seated. “Have you finished clearing the floor?” I called.
“Do you expect me to carry the sarcophagus lid out single-handed?”
It was an outrageous complaint, since he had himself sent the men away for a rest, but Cyrus called, “Coming. Coming right away,” and trotted off.
I took a final sip of tea and with a nod of thanks handed the glass to Cyrus’s excellent servant, who was in charge of the refreshments. I didn’t believe Lord Carnarvon would actually go so far as to evict us—M. Lacau had confirmed our right to remain in the West Valley—but I was very vexed to hear that someone had spread the word about Emerson’s curses. Carter and Carnarvon would not have dared to do so, since they would have had to admit entering the tomb illicitly. We could not accuse them without admitting our own presence, even if we had been disposed to behave dishonorably. The only other persons who had overheard the exchange were the tomb robbers and Sir Malcolm, and perhaps Kevin O’Connell and Bertie and Jumana…
Some of them could not be trusted to hold their tongues, and for all we knew, other spectators had been there. At least the rumors were only that, unconfirmed and deniable.
We became for a time very popular with visitors, who assumed (as any reasonable person might) that we were among Howard’s confidants. When we disavowed special knowledge or influence, some refused to believe us and a few tried to bribe us. Emerson sent Wasim to the guardhouse with his antique rifle.
Conspicuous among the ones who did not call were the members of the Metropolitan Museum crew at Deir el Bahri. They had all been friends of ours for many years, and I was unable to account for their absence until Ramses offered an explanation.
“Carter has approached them for help. He needs all the expert assistance he can get, and he’s had special relations with the Met for years.”
“Special relations, bah,” said Emerson. “He’s been selling them antiquities.”
“They can afford to pay well,” Ramses said equably. “And Carter is, after all, a dealer. No doubt the Metropolitan is hoping for a share of the artifacts in return for its help. It isn’t surprising that they should avoid us now that we are in disfavor with Carnarvon.”
He had come to tea straight from the workroom, where he had been closeted most of the afternoon. Emerson, who had been sulking most of the afternoon, nodded glumly.
“They’ve got the experts he needs,” he admitted. “Burton for photography, Hauser and Hall as draftsmen. They say…” He grimaced painfully at the fact that he had been reduced to repeating rumors. “They say Breasted will be asked to assist with the translations.”
“Your old mentor,” I said, with a nod at Ramses. “We ought to ask him to tea, don’t you think?”
“No,” said Emerson.
“Don’t you like him?” asked Charla, who had been occupied with the plate of biscuits.
“Your grandfather only means that Mr. Breasted will be very busy,” I explained, before Emerson could reply with the truth. In his opinion Breasted had never given Ramses the credit he deserved. “Cheer up, Emerson, things will quiet down once Howard has