David John, who was as fair as his sister was dark, raised a languid head. “I wanted to know what it felt like.”

  “Well, now you know,” I said, for of course I had immediately diagnosed the cause of the boy’s malaise. “It doesn’t feel very nice, does it? Put him to bed, Daoud, and let him sleep it off.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Ramses, taking the limp little body from Daoud, whose face was a picture of guilt. Daoud is a very large man with a very large face, so the guilt was extensive. Ramses gave him a slap on the back. “It wasn’t your fault, Daoud.” From the quirk at the corner of his mouth I knew he was remembering the time he had returned from the village after a similar debauch, though not in a similar condition. He had prudently rid himself of the liquor all over the floor of Selim’s house before leaving the village.

  “Are Selim and Fatima downstairs?” I asked. “They were afraid to come up, I suppose. Tell them it’s all right, Daoud. I expect you were all busy watching Charla.”

  “But I was good,” Charla informed us. She ran to her mother, who had sunk into a chair. “Wasn’t I, Mama? Not like David John.”

  In a way I couldn’t blame her for gloating a trifle. Usually she was the one who got in trouble.

  Nefret patted the child’s dusty curls. “No, you weren’t. Climbing the palm tree was not a good plan. She got halfway up before Daoud plucked her down,” she informed us.

  “But I didn’t get drunk, Mama.”

  “You must give her that,” said Emerson, chuckling. “Come and give Grandpapa a kiss, you virtuous young creature.”

  “She is absolutely filthy, Emerson,” I said, catching hold of Charla’s collar as she started to comply. “Come along, Charla, we will have a nice long bath and then Grandpapa will come in to kiss you good night. No, Nefret, you sit still. You look exhausted.”

  The advantage of having the children spend the day with Selim and Daoud’s kin at the nearby village of Atiyeh was that the enterprise usually left them so tired they went to bed without a fuss. David John was already asleep when I turned Charla over to Fatima, assured the latter that we did not consider she had neglected her duty, and returned to the sitting room to join my husband and son. Emerson was pouring the whiskey.

  Owing in part to our early departure from England, we four were the only members of our staff in Egypt. In fact, we were currently the only members of the staff. Ramses’s best friend David, our nephew by marriage, had finally admitted he would prefer to spend the winter in England with his wife, Lia, and their children, pursuing his successful career as an artist and illustrator. (He had admitted this under pressure from me, and over Emerson’s plaintive objections.) Emerson’s brother Walter and his wife, my dear friend Evelyn, who had been out with us before, had given up active careers in the field; Walter’s chief interest was in linguistics, and Evelyn was fully occupied with grandmother-hood. She had quite a lot of grandchildren (to be honest, I had rather lost track of the exact number), from Lia and their other sons and daughters.

  Other individuals whom we had hoped to employ the previous season had turned out to be murderers or victims of murder—a not uncommon occurrence with us, I must admit. Selim, our Egyptian foreman, was as skilled an excavator as most European scholars, and his crew had learned Emerson’s methods. Still, in my opinion we needed more people, particularly since I was determined to carry out my scheme of allowing Ramses and Nefret to spend the winter in Cairo instead of joining us in Luxor. I hadn’t proposed this to Emerson as yet, since I knew he would howl. Emerson is devoted to his son and daughter-in-law, as they are to him, but he tends to regard them as extensions of himself, with the same ambitions and interests. The dear children had given us loyal service for many years, and they were now entitled to pursue their own careers.

  I assumed that Emerson and I would be going on to Luxor, though I wasn’t certain of that. Emerson had reverted to his infuriating habit of keeping his plans secret, even from me, until the last possible moment.

  That moment, in my opinion, had come.

  “Very well, Emerson,” I said, after a few refreshing sips of whiskey. “The moment has come. You have had several interviews with the director of the Antiquities Service, and since you did not return from them in a state of profane exasperation I presume M. Lacau was agreeable to your request. What site has he allotted to us?”

  “You know,” Emerson said. “I told you before.”

  “No, you did not.”

  “The West Valley?” inquired Ramses.

  Emerson, who had been anticipating the prolongation of suspense, looked chagrined. “Er…yes. Quite right.”

  “What about Carter and Carnarvon?” I persisted. “If their dig in the East Valley comes up empty, won’t they want to move to the West Valley? It is properly part of their firman.”

  “If—that is to say, when—they give up the East Valley, Carnarvon may decide to end the season,” Emerson said. “If they do continue, it will most likely be in the tomb of Amenhotep III. Carter made a very cursory excavation there in 1919. It’s at the far end of the West Valley from the area in which we would be working. There’s room for half a dozen expeditions.”

  I seized my opening. “It would make better sense for us to join forces with Cyrus Vandergelt at the tomb of Ay. We are short on staff, and Cyrus has—”

  A timid tap at the door interrupted me.

  “Now who the devil can that be?” Emerson demanded. “I am ready for dinner. Where’s Nefret?”

  “She’ll be here directly,” Ramses said. “She wanted to bathe and change.”

  “Answer the door, Emerson,” I said impatiently.

  The suffragi on duty outside bowed low and handed Emerson a slip of pasteboard. “The gentleman is waiting, Father of Curses.”

  “He can damn well go on waiting,” said Emerson, inspecting the card. “Of all the impertinence. It’s that rascal Montague, Peabody. I won’t see him.”

  Emerson seldom wants to see anyone, but he had a particular animus against Sir Malcolm Page Henley de Montague. He was a wealthy collector of antiquities, a category to which my spouse objects on principle, and a very irritating man in his own right. I doubted that he had called upon us from motives of friendship. However, it is advantageous to discover the motives of such persons in order to guard oneself against their machinations.

  “Now, Emerson, don’t be rude,” I said. “We can’t go down to dinner until Nefret is ready, so we may as well hear what he has to say. Show him in, Ali.”

  Sir Malcolm carried a silver-headed stick, not for support but for swatting at the unfortunate Egyptian servants he employed. Carefully doffing his hat so as not to disturb his coiffured mane of white hair, he bowed and greeted us all in turn.

  “It is good to see you back in Egypt,” he began.

  “Bah,” said Emerson. “What do you want?”

  “Pray take a chair, Sir Malcolm,” I said, frowning at Emerson. “We were about to go down to dinner, but we can spare you a few minutes.”

  The door, which Ali had closed behind Sir Malcolm, opened again to admit Nefret. Her eyes widened at the sight of our visitor, but she extended her hand and let him bow over it. His look of admiration was justified; she looked very lovely, although the styles of that year were not nearly so pretty as they had been in my youth. The frock, of a soft blue that matched her eyes, had no sleeves, only narrow straps supporting a beaded bodice, and the skirt reached just below her knees. At least she had not given in to the fad of cutting her hair short; its red-gold locks were swept into a knot atop her head.

  “I apologize for coming at an inopportune time,” said Sir Malcolm. “Since I know the Professor dislikes social conventions, I will come straight to the point. May I ask where you intend to work this season?”

  “The West Valley of the Kings,” said Emerson shortly.

  “Not the East Valley?”

  “No.”

  “Then Carnarvon has not abandoned the concession?”

  “No.”

  I was surprised that Emerson had not informed Sir Malcolm at the outset that it was none of his (expletive) business where we intended to excavate. He can control his temper when it is to his advantage to do so, and I realized that, like myself, he was curious about the gentleman’s motives.

  “Ah,” said Sir Malcolm. “I would give a great deal to have the firman for that area.”

  Emerson shrugged and took out his watch. Sir Malcolm persisted. “I believe you are of the same mind. You attempted to persuade Carnarvon to give up the concession to you, did you not?”

  “Good Gad,” said Emerson, his color rising. “Is there no end to gossip in this business? Where did you hear that?”

  “From an unimpeachable but necessarily anonymous source,” said Sir Malcolm smoothly. “Come, Professor, let us not fence. You believe Carter will find a tomb—specifically, that of Tutankhamon. So do I.”

  Emerson returned his watch to his pocket and stared fixedly at Sir Malcolm. After waiting in vain for a verbal reaction, Sir Malcolm was forced to continue.

  “Evidence of such a tomb exists. You know it and I know it. Theodore Davis believed he had found it, but he was wrong; that cache of miscellaneous objects was clearly leftover materials from Tutankhamon’s burial. The statuette that was in your possession last year obviously came from his tomb. Tomb 55, the only other East Valley tomb of the same period, is directly across the way from the area Carter means to investigate.”

  “I do know that,” said Emerson impatiently. “But the evidence, such as it is, is irrelevant. Carnarvon has the concession, and that is that.”

  Sir Malcolm leaned forward. “What if Lacau could be persuaded to revoke it?”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Emerson said softly, “By you?”

  “There are ways,” Sir Malcolm murmured. “He wouldn’t award it to me, but he could hardly deny an excavator of your reputation.”

  “Supposing you could accomplish that,” Emerson said, fingering the cleft in his chin. “What would you want in return?”

  “Only the right to share the expenses and the…er…rewards,” Sir Malcom said eagerly.

  “Emerson,” I cried, unable to contain myself. “You would not enter into such an immoral—”

  “Hush, Peabody.” Emerson raised a magisterial hand. “It seems to me, Sir Malcolm, that you are risking your influence on a very slim hope. Even if such a tomb exists, even if it is in the area in question, the likelihood is that it was looted in antiquity, like all the other royal tombs.”

  “It’s not much of a financial risk,” Sir Malcolm declared. He thought he had won his case; his eyes shone with poorly concealed excitement. “You, of all men, know it doesn’t cost all that much to excavate here. Wages are low and one can manage quite well without expensive equipment. Carnarvon may complain about getting a low return on his investment, but the return can’t be measured in terms of objects found. It’s the thrill of the hunt, the gamble!”

  For a moment Emerson’s expressive countenance mirrored the enthusiasm that had transformed that of our visitor. Then he shook his head. “The return is in terms of knowledge gained. Your protestations would be more convincing, Sir Malcolm, if you were not known as a rabid collector. I cannot participate in such a scheme. I bid you good evening.”

  Sir Malcolm rose to his feet. “I am staying here at the hotel and I can be reached at any time.”

  “Good evening,” said Emerson.

  Sir Malcolm smiled and shrugged, and started for the door. “Oh,” he said, turning. “It nearly slipped my mind. It is common knowledge that you are shorthanded this year. I know a well-qualified fellow who—”

  “Good evening!” Emerson shouted.

  “Well,” I exclaimed, after Ali had shown the gentleman out. “What effrontery! Does the man never know when to give up?”

  “He is a collector,” said Emerson, in the same tone in which he might have said, “He is a murderer.” “And he is still smarting about losing the statuette to Vandergelt.”

  The little golden statue, which had been temporarily in our hands the year before, was certainly enough to inspire the lust of any collector. An exquisitely fashioned image of a king, it had been identified (by us) as that of the young Tutankhamon, stolen from his tomb shortly after his burial by a thief whose confession had miraculously survived among the papyri found (by us) at the workmen’s village of Deir el Medina. Tutankhamon’s tomb was one of the few that had never been located, and Ramses’s translation of the papyrus had led Emerson to believe it yet lay hidden in the royal valley. He was not the only one to think so, as Sir Malcolm’s offer proved.

  “Do you suppose Sir Malcolm really has that much influence?” I asked.

  Ramses said thoughtfully, “It’s possible. But of course any collaboration with a man like that is out of the question. It would ruin your reputation, Father.”

  “I am not such a fool as to be unaware of that,” Emerson retorted.

  “Besides,” I added, “you said last spring that you would leave the matter in the hands of Fate. Fate appears to have made up her mind. It would be dishonorable to do anything more.”

  “I am not such a fool as to be unaware of that, either,” said Emerson somewhat reproachfully. “As for taking on a staff member recommended by him, I would as soon hire a—a damned journalist. Where did he get the notion that we need more people?”

  I was about to tell him when Nefret jumped up. “I’m ravenous! Shall we go down to dinner now?”

  Emerson had had a trying day, what with one thing and another, so I attempted to keep the dinner conversation light and cheerful. (It is a well-known fact that acrimony at mealtime adversely affects the digestion.) Finding a neutral topic was not easy; any mention of archaeology would remind Emerson of his failure to obtain the concession for the Valley, and a discussion of family matters might start him complaining about David’s absence.

  After we retired to our room I assumed my most becoming dressing gown and settled myself at the toilet table to give my hair its usual one hundred strokes. Emerson likes to see my hair down, but even this did not rouse him from his melancholy mood. Instead of preparing for bed, he sat down in an armchair and took out his pipe.

  “I wish you wouldn’t smoke in our bedroom,” I said. “The smell permeates my hair.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Emerson demanded. “I like the smell of pipe smoke.”

  But he laid the pipe aside without lighting it. I put down my brush and turned to face him. “I am sorry, my dear, that Lord Carnarvon refused to yield to you.”

  “Don’t rub it in,” Emerson grumbled.

  The matter was more serious than I had supposed. More drastic methods were required. I went to him and sat down on his lap, my arms round his neck.

  “Hmmm,” said Emerson, his dour expression lightening. “That is very pleasant. What are you up to now, Peabody?”

  “Must I always have an ulterior motive when I invite my husband’s attentions? In fact I was about to thank you again for keeping your vow. You said last year, when I was so ill—”

  “That I would give up every damned tomb in Egypt if you were spared to me.” Emerson’s strong arms enclosed me. “You are right to remind me, Peabody. I have been behaving badly. I shall not err in that fashion again.”

  I felt quite certain that he would, but I gave him credit for good intentions, and gave him a little something else besides.

  FROM MANUSCRIPT H

  Insofar as Ramses was concerned, the sooner they left for Luxor, the better. Despite his claim of disinterest, Emerson was obviously up to no good. He spent more time than usual at the Museum and the office of the Directorate of Antiquities, and he cultivated Howard Carter in a highly suspicious manner. The city itself had an uneasy feel. The official declaration of independence in February had satisfied no one. The high commissioner, Lord Allenby, was vilified by the imperialists in the British government for giving too much power to Egypt; the Egyptian nationalists were furious with Britain for exiling their revered leader Saad Zaghlul; the king, Fuad, wanted to be an absolute monarch instead of being bound by the limits allowed him by the proposed constitution. Ramses was glad his friend David had not come out that year. David had been involved with one of the revolutionary groups before the war, and although his service to Britain since had won him a pardon, he was still devoted to the cause of independence. Some of his former associates held a grudge against him for what they considered his betrayal of their cause; others wanted nothing more than to involve him in their plots and counterplots.

  His mother was plotting too. Ramses began to get an idea of what she was up to when she announced she meant to give “one of my popular little dinner parties.” It had been a habit of hers to meet with their archaeological colleagues soon after their arrival in Egypt, to catch up on the news, as she put it. The war had interrupted this pleasant custom because so many of their friends were on the front lines or engaged in work for the War Office. When she announced her intentions Emerson grumbled but gave in without a struggle. Howard Carter was to be one of the guests.

  When they gathered in the elegant dining salon at Shepheard’s it was something of a shock to see so many new faces. The Quibells were friends from the old days, as was Carter, but many of the guests were of the new generation. Among them was Suzanne Malraux. She had come alone, and when he saw her standing in the doorway Ramses went to welcome her. She was a wispy-looking little thing, with large protuberant blue eyes and silvery fair hair so fine, the slightest breeze lifted it around her small head. She made Ramses think of an astonished dandelion. He presented her to his wife and parents. Nefret’s greeting was warm; she must have taken Suzanne’s hesitation for shyness, and she always went out of her way to encourage career-minded young women. She was only too well aware of the difficulties they faced, after the trouble she herself had had in obtaining her medical degree and in starting a woman’s hospital in Cairo. His mother was pleasant but less effusive. After subjecting Suzanne to a searching stare she drew the girl aside and began to talk about her studies with Petrie.