The others had not yet arrived, so we commandeered a table on the terrace and settled down to wait for them. Luxor was at its most festive, since the hotels catering to foreign visitors put up Christmas decorations, and the Coptic shopkeepers had taken up the custom of celebrating the season with crèches and candles and fairly dreadful holy statues. It is amazing how, once an idea catches on, everyone tries to emulate and outdo his neighbors, in quantity if not quality.

  I always enjoy watching people, particularly when they are unaware of being observed. The couple standing on the steps below, she in a fashionable flannel suit and he in the best of Bond Street tailoring, both extremely red in the face, appeared to be arguing. Was their marriage at risk, or were they only temporarily out of sorts after a long day in the sun and dust? The dignified bearded Egyptian enveloped in fine robes and crowned with a green turban was laughing and talking with the woman in black who trotted along beside and a little behind him. Carriages drawn by smartly trotting horses passed; the drivers were not using their whips, though some of the passengers shouted to them to do so. Our efforts on behalf of animal welfare had had some positive results. As one driver had remarked to me, “One does not know when the Father of Curses or the Sitt Hakim may be watching.”

  After a while I excused myself and entered the hotel. When I inquired at the desk for Miss Minton, the clerk told me she had left early that morning and had not yet returned. No, she had not said where she was going or when she would be back.

  “Do you wish to leave a message for the lady, Mrs. Emerson?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.” I presented the clerk with a substantial baksheesh. “I would like to be informed when she does return. And—er—you need not mention it to the lady.”

  When I returned, the rest of our party had arrived. After a little bustle arranging tables and chairs, we ordered tea and then everyone began talking, comparing the day’s activities and dropping veiled hints about their purchases. Even Gargery had a few parcels, closely wrapped in newspaper. He was in fine form, declaring that he had fended off at least one potential abductor. Emerson shouted him down and asked Charla what she had bought for him.

  I found myself seated next to Sethos. “No potential abductors, I presume?” I asked.

  “A miserable old man trying to sell Sennia fake ushebtis. Gargery would have wrestled him to the ground if I hadn’t stepped in.” He stirred sugar into his tea. “Is she back yet?”

  He had seen me emerge from the hotel and drawn the obvious conclusion. “No,” I said. “She wasn’t in the Valley, at least not while we were there.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Where do you suppose she went?”

  “How should I know?”

  David John tugged at my sleeve. “Charla won’t tell me what she bought, Grandmama.”

  “Christmas is a time for secrets,” I said.

  For the next few days we devoted ourselves to the merriments of the season. Abdullah had been right; what did mundane distractions such as royal tombs and shadowy plotters matter? In future years they would take their places in the long list of adventures in which we had triumphed. We had much to be thankful for.

  When I expressed these sentiments to Emerson, he said only, “Kindly do not repeat yourself, Peabody. I can only endure a certain amount of such bloody optimism.”

  Since fir trees were at a premium in Egypt (nonexistent, in fact), we employed a feathery tamarisk, filling out its skimpy branches with a profusion of ornaments. In some families, I believe, the tree is not decorated until Christmas Eve. We do not follow that custom, since the children enjoyed hanging the ornaments and setting fire to the tree.

  “It makes for an exciting interlude,” Ramses said philosophically, after he had extinguished one such blaze and strictly forbidden Charla to light the candles unless he gave permission.

  “That applies to you as well,” I said, with a stern look at David John.

  “But Grandmama, I did not—”

  “You suggested it, though, didn’t you?”

  David John never lied. Like his father, he usually employed equivocation to avoid doing so. In this case the direct question allowed of only one truthful answer. Blue eyes wide and candid, he nodded his head. “Yes, Grandmama.”

  “And you provided the matches?” I knew Charla could not have taken them from the kitchen without being seen. Fatima watched her like a hawk, whereas David John was less suspect.

  “Yes, Grandmama.”

  “Where are the rest of them?”

  David John dug into his pocket and produced a handful of questionable objects, including several nails, a dead mouse tenderly wrapped in tissue paper, several broken crayons, and the box of matches. I confiscated the matches, the nails (on general principles), and the mouse, and delivered a stern lecture on the dangers of fire. David John hung his head.

  “I didn’t have to do what he told me,” said Charla, throwing her arms round her brother.

  “That is true,” I said. “And I hope David John appreciates your coming to his defense. You are both culpable. However, in view of the season, we will let you off with a warning this time, so long as the offense is not repeated.”

  “Thank you, Grandmama,” David John said. “I assure you it will not. May we give the mouse a proper burial?”

  “Not in my flower beds,” I said, handing over the deceased.

  They went off, cheerfully discussing the funeral arrangements, and Ramses, who had listened in astonished silence, said, “Mother, you never cease to amaze me. How did you know?”

  “Psychology, my dear.”

  The hand-crafted ornaments David had made many years before were ceremonially put in place, the children taking turns to hang the little tin and ceramic animals. Paper chains filled in the empty spaces. Charla proved to be expert at making them, and I praised her accordingly. She spent much of her time with David, presumably working on her little books. Many of the surfaces in the house were sticky with paste, and Fatima had to buy more flour.

  Sethos took an active part in the proceedings, hobnobbing with Fatima and assisting her by tasting various products, helping make paper chains, and even bursting into song from time to time. He had a pleasant baritone voice, and, unlike his brother, he could carry a tune.

  Naturally I wondered what he was up to. Apparently he had decided not to make a Judas goat of himself. As he informed me when I asked him point-blank, he had concluded there was no need. The return of the document seemed to have satisfied our unknown adversaries; there had been no activity on their part. Margaret had returned unscathed from wherever she had been, and had taken up her routine in the Valley.

  “Shall we ask her here for Christmas?” I inquired of Sethos, who was helping me write out invitations.

  “I see no reason why you should. She hasn’t even apologized for banging you on the head.”

  “It is too sad to spend Christmas alone. I have forgiven her, as Scripture requires.”

  “The more fool you, then,” said Sethos, dropping a blot of ink on the paper he was inscribing.

  “Kevin O’Connell, too,” I said, consulting my list. “I suppose there is no use asking Howard or any of the Metropolitan Museum people.”

  Sethos crumpled the spoiled paper and tossed it into the wastepaper receptacle. “According to Daoud, they are having their own celebration at Metropolitan House. We won’t be asked.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall invite them,” I said, writing busily. “In a spirit of Christian love. If they choose not to reciprocate, that is their decision.”

  Sethos blotted another sheet of paper and threw it away.

  The only member of the “other camp” who had demonstrated Christian love (or simple good manners) was Harry Burton. He had come to tea one day, as promised, and described without reserve what the excavators had been doing. This occurred just in time to prevent a fit of bad temper from Emerson, whose enjoyment of the Christmas preparations did not entirely succeed in keeping his mind off Howard’s proceedings. We knew, from Daoud, that Professor Breasted had been allowed inside the tomb, together with Mr. Winlock and a few others; that Mr. Burton had begun photographing; and that Lucas had arrived from Cairo. Mr. Burton was able and willing to provide more detailed information.

  “We’ve cleared out KV55 to use as a darkroom,” he explained to his absorbed audience. “Most convenient, being just across the way.”

  “Quite,” said Emerson. “I trust that, in addition to photographs, Carter will make detailed sketches before removing any objects?”

  “He has begun doing so. He’s a good draftsman, you know, and he has Hall and Hauser to help.” Burton sipped his tea. “He hopes to remove the first of the artifacts shortly after Christmas. It will be taken to the tomb of Seti II, which is to serve as a conservation and storage place.”

  “Not too convenient, that,” said Emerson, who was looking for something to criticize.

  “It is some distance away, but it has several advantages, including a large open area in front. To judge from what I’ve seen thus far, Lucas is going to need a bit of fresh air; the chemicals he uses for conservation can be pervasive.”

  “I trust he knows about paraffin wax,” I said. “Do have another slice of plum cake, Mr. Burton.”

  “Paraffin wax has always been your mainstay, hasn’t it?” Burton accepted the offering with a smiling nod at Sennia.

  “There is nothing like it,” I declared. “Especially for beads and loose bits of inlay.”

  Burton was ready to take the hint. “There’s plenty of that sort of thing. Most of the storage chests are packed full of everything from jewelry to clothing. Sandals, beaded robes, wadded up and jammed in.”

  No one interrupted him as he went on with his description. Howard had applied numbers to each object in the first room, which he had termed the Antechamber. These were large enough to show in the photographs and would be listed and described in Howard’s official index. The objects were to be removed one by one, working from north to south. The huge funerary couches would have to be taken apart, since they were too large to pass through the entrance corridor; they must have been assembled inside the tomb, after having been brought in piece by piece. The chariot parts would be left until last; they presented a particularly difficult job, since they were all in a jumble and bits of the gold and inlay were precariously attached. In the meantime, Mr. Lucas would unpack the storage chests. I knew—who better?—what a formidable task lay before him. According to Mr. Burton (and our own observations, which of course I did not mention), the contents of the chests were not in their original order. Tomb robbers are not noted for neatness; working in haste and fear of discovery, they had emptied the chests looking for gold, and when the priests entered to put things in order, they had acted in equal haste, tossing scattered objects into the nearest container and forcing the lid down.

  Sethos listened with the same absorbed expression as the rest of us. I knew he was thinking of his “restorer,” a member of his criminal organization, who had assisted us so ably with the fragile objects found in the tomb of the God’s Wives before he was murdered. People who assist us often meet that fate, but Signor Martinelli had only himself to blame; he had allowed himself to be lured away by a female on whom he had designs of an improper nature.

  Mr. Lucas had no such weakness. I could only hope he was as good at his job. It is a sad fact of life that honest persons sometimes lack the experience of the more unprincipled.

  Mr. Burton accepted a third slice of plum cake before declaring he must be getting back to Metropolitan House. “By the way,” he added, “Breasted has read the cartouches and confirmed that they are those of Tutankhamon.”

  “Reread them, you mean,” snapped Emerson.

  “Ah,” Burton said. “I wondered about that.”

  He said no more, but shook the hand of Ramses with particular warmth.

  “At least one person recognizes our contributions,” I said.

  “Oh, I expect there will be others,” Sethos said, with an evil smile. “Carter doesn’t work and play well with others. Mark my words, before he’s through he’ll have a good many people furious with him, from journalists and the Antiquities Department to certain of his colleagues.”

  I will confess, in the pages of this private journal, that I was not charitable enough to hope Sethos was wrong. We were among the few—the only ones, except for Cyrus—who had not received a formal invitation to view the tomb. The Breasteds, including their son Charles, Mrs. Burton, and even one of Winlock’s children had been allowed to putter about in the Antechamber. It was small consolation to know that we had had a private look of our own, since we couldn’t tell anyone about it. I felt for David, who would have had a keen appreciation of the wonderful artifacts. How he was going to carry out his assignment for the Illustrated London News I could not imagine. Howard was guarding the photographic and reproduction rights jealously. The ever-poisonous tongue of rumor had it that Carnarvon intended to sell them to the highest bidder, but I could not believe that, even of an individual who had treated us so shabbily.

  Cyrus felt the slight as deeply as we. We hadn’t seen a great deal of the Vandergelts recently; they were busy with their own holiday preparations, as we had been with ours. It was to escape the increasing strain of these that Cyrus dropped in one afternoon two days before Christmas.

  “Cat has the whole place torn apart,” he explained, “and the rest of them are aiding and abetting her, even Nadji. Sometimes I wish the blessed Savior had been found in the bulrushes, like Moses, date of birth unknown.”

  Emerson whooped with laughter. I refrained from comment, since the children were not present. “How many guests are you expecting?” I asked.

  “Cat’s in charge of that. Half the town of Luxor, from what I can make out, plus every tourist we ever met on the street. You folks will be there, of course?”

  “We wouldn’t miss it,” Sethos said.

  Cyrus favored him with a brusque nod. We had explained to our friend that Sethos was in the process of coming to terms with his adversaries, and that we anticipated no further difficulty with them, but Cyrus clearly had reservations.

  “And you, I trust, will attend our Christmas Eve gathering,” I said. “Katherine asked if she might bring Suzanne’s grandfather, and naturally I said she might. What is he like?”

  “Sweetest old gent you would ever want to meet,” Cyrus replied somewhat sourly. “He loves everything and everybody. He’s even polite to Nadji.”

  “Even?” Ramses asked.

  “Well, he’s a man of his generation and nation,” said Cyrus poetically. “And from what I’ve heard, a real shark at business. But he’s on his best behavior; only slips now and then, with some generalization about the great British Empire and her civilizing mission.”

  “It will be interesting to see how he treats Selim and Daoud,” Nefret said, pursing her lips. “If he is rude I will show him the door.”

  Insofar as Emerson was concerned, this went without saying. He turned to a more interesting topic. “I take it he hasn’t been able to get you admitted to the tomb?”

  “Not so far. He had a letter from Carnarvon, which he duly sent on to Carter. Hasn’t had an answer.”

  “There’s one way you may be able to gain entry,” said Emerson, chewing on his pipe. “Grovel to Carter and tell him you have broken off relations with us.”

  Cyrus paused in the act of lighting his cheroot. “As if I’d stoop so low!” he cried.

  “Emerson was only making a little joke, Cyrus,” I assured him. “Not a very amusing one.”

  “Hmmm, yes,” muttered Emerson.

  “All right, then.” Cyrus applied the match and puffed. “I wouldn’t mind so much,” he said, in a burst of candor, “if Carnarvon wasn’t going to get some of the artifacts.”

  “To say nothing of the Metropolitan Museum,” said Ramses. “You don’t suppose the board is donating the services of their staff members out of sheer altruism, do you? They’ve come to an understanding with Carnarvon and Carter.”

  “At any rate, Sir Malcolm won’t get anything,” I said in an effort to console Cyrus.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Emerson said darkly. “He’s been hanging round the tomb with an increasingly lean and hungry look. Yesterday his wig fell off. He must have been so preoccupied he forgot to glue it on. When that miserable servant of his handed it back to him, Sir Malcolm gave him a thrashing.”

  My amusement at Sir Malcom’s discomfiture was tempered by indignation. “Shameful,” I said. “I must have a word with the fellow. He shouldn’t have to put up with such treatment. How do you know that, Emerson? Not from Daoud, he would have told all of us. Oh, dear—have you been bribing that child, Azmi, to report to you? I saw him yesterday near the kitchen, but assumed he had come round for some of Fatima’s sugar biscuits. She feeds everyone.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Emerson demanded.

  “I have no objection to her giving treats to the children, but you should not encourage them to spy and eavesdrop.”

  “It is on Carter’s account that I employ Azmi,” Emerson said virtuously. “Montague hasn’t given up. He may have another try at the tomb.”

  “Ha,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” Cyrus said. “But Carter has taken all possible precautions. He’s got three different sets of guards on duty day and night, each reporting to a different authority so they won’t be tempted to collaborate. The keys to the gates are held by him or another member of the staff.”

  Sethos put down the paper chain he had been working on and cleared his throat in a pointed manner.

  “I suppose you think you could get at those keys,” Emerson said.

  “I can think of at least three different methods offhand,” Sethos said with a faraway look. “And two ways of distracting the guards.”

  “Then it is a good thing you have reformed,” I said.

  Cyrus looked as if he was not so sure it was a good thing.