Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [79]
“Where is Emerson?” I asked, surprised he was not assisting in the repairs.
“He saddled his horse and rode off in a great hurry, cursing,” said Selim. “He would not wait.”
“Just as well, I expect,” I said. “He is not in a happy frame of mind. The rest of us are going to the East Valley, but you had better go to the West Valley with Emerson, Selim. Not in the motorcar.”
Selim looked mutinous, but he knew better than to argue with me. “Is it true that David and the Little Bird are coming soon?”
Little Bird was Sennia’s nickname. She was adored by our Egyptian family, as was David, who was related, through his grandfather, to most of them.
“Gargery too,” I said.
“Ah,” said Selim.
He helped Jamad saddle the horses and rode with us as far as the beginning of the road that led off to the West Valley, where he left us with a wave of farewell. We went on to the entrance to the East Valley and left the horses in the donkey park before we joined the stream of tourists. As we neared the tomb we were accosted by an individual I had hoped not to see. Jauntily attired in pith helmet and Norfolk jacket, Kevin O’Connell fell in step with me. “Good morning, Mrs. E. I thought you’d be coming round before this.”
“Go away,” I muttered, giving him a shove. Kevin put on a hurt expression, and then grinned.
“I wouldn’t want to queer your pitch, ma’am. I’ll see you later.”
Rough retaining walls had been built around the entrance to the tomb, and a small shack, for storage and for the use of the guards, was under construction. Howard had learned something from that memorable night a few weeks earlier; the tomb entrance was now guarded by Egyptian soldiers and by Mr. Callender, perched on the wall with a rifle across his knees. When he saw us he sat up straight and burst into a fit of coughing. There was quite a lot of dust in the air.
I hailed him with my usual good humor.
“Good morning, Mr. Callender. You really should put on your hat, you know.”
He looked warily from me to Ramses to Nefret to Cyrus to Sethos. Failing to see Emerson, he relaxed and replied with a courteous good morning.
The debris over the tomb entrance had been removed, but the stairwell was still half-filled. Square in the center of the rubble stood a large boulder painted with a coat of arms—that of Lord Carnarvon, I assumed, since no one else was armigerous.
“No trouble, I hope?” I inquired, edging closer.
“No, ma’am.”
A loud cough from Sethos, at my elbow, made me add, “I believe you have not met our new staff member, Mr. Anthony Bissinghurst. His specialty is demotic, but he is something of an authority on the Amarna period.”
“A pleasure, sir,” said Sethos effusively. “Your dedication and ability have become a legend in Egypt.”
Like myself, Sethos knew people will believe themselves worthy of even the most outrageous compliment. Callender beamed. No doubt he was pleased to have companionship in his boring job. He heaved himself to his feet. “Excuse me, ladies, for not rising at once. Will you take a—a piece of wall?”
“We mustn’t disturb you,” Nefret said, with a smile that brought her hidden dimples into play. “We only dropped by to say hello and bring you a bottle of Fatima’s lemonade.”
The lemonade had been her idea, and it met with an enthusiastic reception. Callender drank thirstily. “Very good of you,” he said, wiping his mouth on a very dusty handkerchief. “And may I say, Mrs. Emerson, how well you are looking. It has been some time since I saw you.”
The speech was not directed at me. Nefret said sweetly, “We have been remiss in not coming before. So many duties…But we are ready and willing to help in any way we can. If, heaven forbid, you should be in need of medical attention, I hope you will come to me.”
This was another approach I hadn’t thought of. Everyone knew that Nefret was the best physician in Luxor. Mr. Callender mopped the beads of perspiration off his balding head.
“Very kind of you, ma’am. I have been feeling a trifle seedy