Cyrus turned up early next morning, ready and eager, as he put it. He joined us for coffee, and at my request Nefret repeated her report on her visit with Margaret. “She’s hell-bent on getting an exclusive story,” Nefret said with wrinkled brow. “She kept asking about our ‘feud,’ as she called it, with Lord Carnarvon. I made light of it, and denied all her allegations, but we had better come up with something important or she’ll go for the scandal aspect.”

  “What scandal?” Ramses asked. “What allegations?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Nefret said, with an amused glance at her husband.

  “But there hasn’t been—”

  “Newspaper persons will invent scandal if none exists,” I said. “I want you to accompany me to the East Valley this morning, Nefret. You get on well with gentlemen, and Carnarvon can’t have anything against you. You weren’t even with us that night. In fact, the only one who was warned off was Emerson.”

  “Is that right?” Cyrus asked. “Then why have we all been pussyfooting around as if we’d done something wrong?”

  “Precisely,” I agreed. “I allowed myself to be influenced by…Never mind. From now on we will behave as if nothing untoward had occurred. If his lordship makes a fuss, it won’t be our fault.”

  Emerson had remained silent, pretending not to hear the hints or see the glances directed at him. He slammed his coffee cup into the saucer.

  “I am going to the West Valley,” he announced. “To work. There is an interesting area north of WV 25. I intend to have the crew excavate down to bedrock.”

  “Good luck,” said Cyrus.

  “Bah,” said Emerson.

  He stamped out. With a little cluck of disapproval, Fatima took the cracked cup and broken saucer away.

  For the benefit of ignorant Readers I should perhaps explain that the system of numbering tombs in the Valleys had begun in the 1820s. Since then other tombs had been added in the order of discovery. Those in the main East Valley were distinguished by the initials KV, those in the main West Valley as WV. There were only four of the latter, and my distinguished spouse had always suspected other entrances were hidden in the rugged cliffs that enclosed the Valley.

  Selim was in the stable, under the motorcar. Hearing our approach, he slid out, modestly adjusting his skirts. “I think I have repaired it, Sitt,” he announced. “Shall I drive you to the Valley?”

  “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…”

  “No wonder, sitting in the heat and dust all day,” Nefret said.

  “It must be done,” Callender said nobly. “To keep vultures like that one away.” He directed a scowl at one of the spectators who had pushed his pith helmet back to expose several locks of red hair.

  “Has the press been annoying?” I asked sympathetically, congratulating myself for ordering Kevin to keep his distance.

  “That fellow especially. He claims to be a friend of yours.”

  I laughed disdainfully. “He is no friend of mine, Mr. Callender. You know these newspaper persons, they will say anything to gain an advantage.”

  “They are wasting their time,” Callender said. “As you see, nothing of interest is going on.”

  “When is Mr. Carter due back from Cairo?” Cyrus asked.

  Callender hesitated. “Any day now.”

  “So then you will be reopening the tomb?” Cyrus persisted.

  I gave him a little poke with my parasol. Direct questions put people on the defensive.

  “We must be getting on,” I said. “Come to tea one day, Mr. Callender. You are always welcome. Here, take this.” I opened the parasol and pressed it into his hand. “I have others.”

  “A pity we couldn’t have got a photograph of Mr. Callender holding your parasol,” said Nefret.

  “He sure as heck didn’t tell us anything,” Cyrus said grumpily.

  “Ah, but we have inserted a wedge,” I replied. “Thanks in large measure to Nefret. Anyhow, I have other sources of information.”

  Ramses broke a long silence. “Were those the Carnarvon arms on that boulder?”

  “I assume so,” I replied.

  “Rather arrogant, isn’t it?”

  “It won’t go over well with the Egyptian government,” I agreed. “Seth—Anthony is unfortunately correct. Carnarvon is heading for trouble if he continues to behave as if the tomb is his personal property.”

  “Davis always did,” Ramses said fairly.

  “Times have changed, Ramses. Resentment of foreigners has only increased since the negotiations for independence began. This find is precisely the sort of thing that could focus that resentment.”

  “May I quote you, Mrs. E.?”

  “Certainly not,” I replied. I did not need to look to identify the speaker, who was behind me. “Go away, Kevin.”

  “Now, Mrs. E., what harm can it do?”

  “A great deal of harm, as you well know. Good Gad, Kevin, don’t you have any other sources except us?”

  Emerson hadn’t really forgotten that Christmas was only a few weeks away. He had not been allowed to; David John had pinned a calendar to the wall of the playroom and was crossing off the days one by one. Charla kept presenting us with lists.

  “A bo and arro,” I read, after receiving one such document. “Your spelling is as reprehensible as your request, Charla. You cannot possibly suppose I would permit you to own a weapon.”

  “I will ask Grandpapa, then,” said Miss Charla, scowling blackly.

  “He won’t let you have one either.”

  However, the lists reminded me that I had shopping to do. One more duty among many others. Some might say that a happy Christmas was less important than averting the danger to Sethos or deciding how to keep Margaret quiet, but since I hadn’t figured out how to deal with either of those difficulties, I decided to concentrate on a more cheerful topic. My last visit to Margaret had been less than satisfactory. She was chafing at her imprisonment, as she called it, and she berated me for not providing her with information about the tomb.

  When I announced my intention of running over to Luxor, Sethos was the first to offer to come with me. “Why?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Presents for the children, of course,” said Sethos, widening his eyes à la Suzanne Malraux. “And you should have an escort, Amelia dear. Who knows what enemies may be waiting to find you alone?”

  “You’d run at the first sign of trouble,” said Emerson.

  “I don’t require an escort,” I said firmly. “But I will be happy to have company. What about you, Nefret?”

  “I suppose I’d better. I haven’t anything for the twins, and I’d like to find gifts for Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Walter and David.”

  So it was only the three of us. Sethos looked very dapper in flannel trousers and a brown tweed coat I recognized as coming from Ramses’s wardrobe. While Daoud’s son Sabir was occupied with starting the engine of his boat, I said to my brother-in-law, “Do you plan to continue wearing Ramses’s clothes? He hasn’t that many extras.”

  “You can hardly expect me to place an order with my haberdasher in Cairo,” Sethos said reproachfully.

  “Under which of your names? Oh, never mind. I will have to place the order in Ramses’s name, I suppose. Fortunately Davies, Bryan and Company has his measurements.”

  I hadn’t been to Luxor for some time, and my spirits rose as Sabir’s boat took us smoothly across the sun-rippled water. Earlier Ramses had taken me aside and asked me not to leave Nefret’s side, and to stay in safe areas, which I had intended to do anyhow. I was prepared to insist that Sethos remain with us, should he declare his intention of going off alone, but he made no such attempt, strolling along like any casual tourist, with Nefret on one arm and me on the other.

  If he intended to make his presence known, he succeeded. We were always running into people we knew, and most of them wanted to stop and chat. So did a number of people we did not know. Unavoidable conversations with the latter ran along the same lines: “Ah, Mrs. Emerson, I am sure you remember me. Miss Jones of the Joneses of Berkshire. May I hope you and your family will dine with us one evening soon?”

  I gave them all to understand that they might not hope.

  We made the round of the shops. Sethos was at his most gregarious, introducing himself to all and sundry, and bargaining expertly for silver bangles and woven scarves. There was not a great deal of variety to be found in the shops of Luxor—mostly souvenirs and fake antiquities—but some of the good ladies at the school had begun encouraging local handicrafts such as woodwork, weaving, and alabaster carving. We finished our expedition at the Winter Palace Hotel, where a few establishments carrying European goods were to be found, just in time for luncheon.

  “Let us lunch on the terrace,” Sethos suggested. “It is too nice a day to be inside.”

  “If we can get a table,” said Nefret, for the terrace was full.

  “Amelia can always get a table,” said Sethos.

  And so it proved. After we had settled ourselves, Nefret began rummaging through her purchases. “Paints and pencils for David John…silver chains for Charla…I couldn’t find anything for Uncle Walter.”

  “Men are always difficult,” I agreed.

  Half-turned in his chair, looking out over the street, Sethos said, “I’ve been thinking of going up to Cairo to meet them. Give me a list, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Do you think that is a good idea?” I inquired.

  “Why not?”

  “You know perfectly well why not. Could it be that you want to avoid Margaret? You haven’t once been to see her.”

  “It was you, I believe, who pointed out we ought to stay away from her. Perhaps I can—”

  He broke off abruptly. A man had come to stand beside us. He removed his hat and inclined his head.

  “Ah, Sir Malcolm,” I said, wondering how much he had overheard. “Where have you been keeping yourself? I haven’t seen you since we met unexpectedly in the Valley of the Kings.”

  The hair had to be a wig. It was too snowy white, too smooth.

  Sir Malcolm acknowledged my hit with a smile. “An interesting evening, was it not? May I join you for a few minutes?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “Do you remember Anthony Bissinghurst? You met him last year, but briefly.”

  “A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Bissinghurst.” Sir Malcolm bowed again, very cautiously, and subjected Sethos to an intense stare. “I heard you had joined the Emersons’ crew. An excavator, are you?”

  “My specialty is demotic,” said Sethos. “I am privileged to further my acquaintance with the subject with an expert like Ramses.”

  The waiter came to take our orders and I asked him to fetch another chair. Sethos studied Sir Malcolm with what I could only regard as professional interest, taking note of every detail. I hoped he didn’t intend to impersonate Sir Malcolm again. He had done so briefly the year before, and had been thoroughly confounded when Sir Malcolm arrived on our doorstep without warning. Sethos’s hasty retreat had barely avoided a confrontation. Almost I could have wished that the confrontation had taken place—two Sir Malcolms, face-to-face, equally aghast. Even Sethos could not have talked his way out of that.

  “Mother,” said Nefret. I realized the charm of that image had made me lose track of the conversation. Sir Malcolm had addressed a remark to me.

  “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  “Let me put it more directly,” said Sir Malcolm, mistaking my momentary abstraction for surprise. “I believe we can be of use to one another, Mrs. Emerson. Your distinguished husband would still like to get his hands on that tomb. I can help him to do so.”

  “Impossible,” I said.

  “Not at all. Carnarvon’s folly in entering the tomb illegally puts him in a dubious position. If M. Lacau were convinced he and Carter had removed valuable artifacts, the Department of Antiquities would have grounds to cancel the concession.”

  Nefret let out a stifled exclamation, but she left it to me to reply. Pondering the outrageous suggestion, I remained silent and Sir Malcolm went on, with mounting passion. “The rumors are spreading, but so far they are no more than that. If you—those of you who were witnesses that night—and I were to go to Lacau and corroborate one another’s testimony, he could not ignore it. If he were tempted to do so, a threat of public exposure would do the job. You have friends in the newspaper world; one of them was another witness to Carnarvon’s actions. He would be delighted to publish the story.”

  “I see you have thought it out carefully,” I said.

  “The Professor’s evidence is crucial,” Sir Malcolm said. “His reputation is unimpeachable. And no one could believe he and I are—er—”

  “In cahoots,” I murmured. “Very true. His dislike of you is well known. I presume that should this scheme come to fruition you would expect something in return.”

  Sir Malcolm’s pale cheeks took on a feverish glow. “You have seen the contents of that tomb. Any one of the objects would be the prize of a collection.”

  Nefret could contain herself no longer. She burst out, “How dare you suggest—”

  “Now, now,” I said. “Without wishing to be rude, Sir Malcolm, I think you had better go, before my daughter loses her temper. She is a person of integrity, you see.”

  The subtle insult was lost on Sir Malcolm. He was a true collector, a fanatic whose principles, assuming he had any, would always yield to the lust for possession. He was a clever-enough strategist to know better than to pursue the argument, however. Rising to his feet, he beckoned his attendant, who hastened to his side and handed him his stick.

  “Think it over, Mrs. Emerson, and consult your husband. I hope to hear from you in due course.”

  He snapped his fingers. His servant opened a parasol; canopied like a potentate, Sir Malcolm stalked off.

  “Mother,” said Nefret in ominous tones. “You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.”

  The waiter presented me with a platter of chicken and rice. “That looks very good,” I said. “Eat, Nefret. You need to keep up your strength. Naturally I have no intention of collaborating in such a reprehensible scheme.”