Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [91]
“As you ordered me, Sitt Hakim.” Reminded of what he considered his failure, Daoud frowned. “Sabir said she left the hotel early this morning and went across the river. He offered to take her, but she said (a bad word), ‘No, not you.’ She has hired Rashid ibn Ibrahim as her dragoman.”
“He is an honest man,” I said, relieved. “And very strong, I understand.”
“Not so strong.” Daoud’s countenance remained dour. “I can take her again, Sitt, if you say so.”
“The idea has its appeal,” I said musingly. “It would serve her right, after what she did to me. But no. She wouldn’t let you within arm’s length, not again. I suppose she has gone to the East Valley. Yes, I feel certain she has. Did Sabir observe anyone following her?”
Daoud looked puzzled, so I elaborated. “Anyone suspicious?”
“He did not say so.”
Well, it had been a foolish question. To ask Sabir to note suspicious behavior, when I might not have been able to do so myself, was unreasonable. The boat landing was always crowded in the morning.
I thanked Daoud and sent him off to work. His massive strength was particularly useful when there was a great deal of rubble to be carried away, and that was all Emerson had found.
As the morning wore on, I wished I had worn a soft straw hat instead of my pith helmet. I didn’t want to go about in the sun without it, but it pressed painfully on my sore head. The work was boring in the extreme. Cyrus had finished with Ay’s tomb, finding very little of interest in the hardened mud of the burial chamber, except for the lid of the sarcophagus. As soon as Bertie finished the final plan, the entrance would be filled in. Not that there was anything valuable left, but the tomb robbers of Luxor were always on the lookout for something they could sell, including pieces of painted relief from tomb walls.
The two unfinished tombs had yielded very little. As a rule Emerson would have taken meticulous notes on these scraps; however, he had left that job to Selim and Nefret and was ranging around the cliffs, digging here and digging there. Poor dear, he wanted a tomb—any tomb, finished or unfinished, robbed or not—that could be added to the list of tomb numbers. It was not treasure Emerson sought, but knowledge. I wished I could give it to him, but I could not. And the work was not interesting enough to keep my thoughts from wandering.
To be sure, Margaret had behaved badly to me, but that did not relieve me of my responsibility toward her. By offering the olive branch of forgiveness I might be able to win her confidence again, and offer useful advice. I therefore sought a shady spot (which was not easy to come by, in that desolate cliff-enclosed valley) and wrote a few more little notes.
I persuaded Emerson to stop work early, which he was not unwilling to do because of the frustration of his search. When he joined me on the veranda after we had both bathed and changed, he studied my arrangements suspiciously. Fatima was trotting to and fro with platters of sandwiches and tea cakes, and she had put little crocheted doilies on the tables.
“What is this?” Emerson demanded. “Are you giving a party? You didn’t tell me.”
I was tempted to whisk the doilies away, but that would have hurt Fatima’s feelings. She considered them the ultimate in elegance and had spent hours starching and ironing them.
“I invited a number of people, but I doubt some of them will come.” I showed him a note that had been waiting for me when I got back from the West Valley. “Mrs. Breasted sends her regrets. They are engaged elsewhere.”
“Thank God,” said Emerson sincerely. “She always sends regrets, doesn’t she? Why did you bother asking her?”
“As a matter of common courtesy, my dear. I don’t know why she insists on accompanying her husband to Egypt. She has no interest in Egyptology and spends most of the time complaining about the inconveniences.”
“Unlike you, my love,” said Emerson, giving me a quick kiss. “Whom else are you expecting?”
“Cyrus and his group,