“Good Gad,” exclaimed Emerson.

  “Just an idea,” Sethos said. He buried his face in his handkerchief and let out a reverberating sneeze.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WITH EMERSON OUT OF THE WAY WE GOT ON BETTER, THOUGH IF I had been able to do so I would have shut the twins and Amira in the latter’s doghouse and locked Gargery in his room. Egypt had revived the old rascal; he had always considered himself to be in charge of the household, and he and Fatima had had a number of run-ins about serving meals. He was at his most officious, puttering round the house from kitchen to parlor, rearranging the decorations and offering unwanted advice about how to prepare various dishes. However, by the time the men returned demanding luncheon, matters were proceeding nicely and I sat down with them to a cold collation of salads and sandwiches. They were singularly reticent about their activities, but under interrogation Ramses admitted they had encountered Kevin and Margaret.

  “They have both accepted my invitation,” I said. “Did they happen to mention that they would be coming?”

  “We talked of other matters,” Ramses said, and took a very large bite of his chicken sandwich.

  He and David took the twins (and the dog) off to his house and promised to keep them there until the party officially began. Charla had been behaving suspiciously well (except for inadvertently pasting herself to a chair), and I anticipated a breakdown. Overnight reformation cannot be expected of a five-year-old. Emerson retreated to his study and Sethos to his room, with a few aspirin and a supply of fresh handkerchiefs.

  At six o’clock everything was ready, and I inspected the house with a degree of complacency for which I believe I may be excused. I had managed to keep Fatima and Gargery from each other’s throats, and bullied Emerson into his best suit. The table in the dining room was laid with my best crystal and my Limoges, the parlor was hung with greenery and paper chains, and the tree sparkled with candles.

  “Let the festivities begin!” I cried.

  “Hmph,” said Emerson.

  Sethos blew his nose.

  We were to dine at eight, but some of our closer friends had been asked to come earlier, in order to watch the children open presents and stuff themselves with sweets. They (the children) would probably be sick later, but as I always say, occcasional excess is worth the consequences. Selim and Daoud were there, but Kadija had begged to be excused, since she did not enjoy large groups of strangers. At a quarter past six the Vandergelts arrived, and I was introduced to Sir William Portmanteau, Suzanne’s grandfather.

  Cyrus’s description had been accurate. He might have sat for a portrait of Father Christmas, with his snowy beard and twinkling eyes. The benevolence of his expression as he watched the children beggars description.

  “No pleasure equals that of having grandchildren gathered round one’s knee,” he declared. “Is that not so, Professor Emerson?”

  “Quite,” said Emerson, over Charla’s shriek of delight. An arrow wobbled feebly in his direction and fell at his feet.

  “Who…” I began. I thought I knew, though.

  Ramses removed the bow from his daughter, explaining that it was only to be employed out of doors, and Charla fell on another package.

  Their gifts for the adults had to be opened too; to do the twins credit, they took pleasure in giving as well as receiving, though perhaps not as much. Charla’s little books were an enormous success. Daoud was quite taken by the engravings of Stonehenge and Buckingham Palace. Sir William chuckled over his collection of fashionable ladies, and admired David John’s drawing of a pharaoh driving a chariot.

  Before the children were carried off to bed, we sang a few carols, accompanied by Sennia at the pianoforte. Nefret had declared that she herself was out of practice, but she had done it, I felt sure, to give Sennia a chance to exhibit her talent. The dear girl managed the simple tunes quite nicely; the pride with which she played was pleasant to see. The children’s sweet sopranos blended with the deeper voices, and Emerson’s enthusiastic, off-key basso did not detract (much) from the general effect. Selim and Daoud and Nadji listened with smiling faces, and Sethos sneezed his way through “Good King Wenceslas.” Sir William did not join in; he beat time with his fingers and chuckled. I began to understand why Cyrus’s praise of the old gentleman had held a sour note. After a while the chuckles began to sound mechanical.

  Charla insisted on kissing everyone good night. Sir William’s benevolent smile cracked briefly when her cheek, smeared with the peppermint she had been sucking, stuck to his beard. But one could hardly blame him for that. He had behaved like a perfect gentleman thus far, acknowledging his introductions to Selim and Daoud correctly if without warmth. One could hardly blame him for that…

  Once the children were out of the way, Fatima began clearing away the torn paper and scattered ribbons, and Emerson poured the whiskey.

  “That went well,” he declared, with the complacency of an individual who had had very little to do with its going well. “Who else is coming, Peabody?”

  “Not as many as in other years.”

  “Hmmm, yes,” said Emerson. “You didn’t invite—”

  “I asked only those who were not engaged elsewhere,” I said, for I saw no reason to mention the names of “Carter’s cronies,” as Emerson called them.

  “What about that bas—that fellow Montague? I trust you didn’t—”

  “No, Emerson, I did not.”

  Sir William looked up from his glass, which he seemed to be enjoying very much. “Is it Page Henley de Montague to whom you refer?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Are you acquainted with him?”

  “Not well. We served on several committees together. Mr. Vandergelt mentioned him, with,” he added, chuckling, “a certain degree of disparagement.”

  Our other guests began to arrive—Marjorie Fisher and Miss Buchanan from Luxor, Rex Engelbach, and finally, Kevin and Margaret Minton. They had come together, which surprised me until I caught Margaret’s ironical eye. She was taking no chances on being waylaid again.

  She was wearing what I took to be her best frock, of the same drab ash-brown as most of her other garments. A crimson scarf knotted loosely round her neck and a pair of small gold earrings were her only concessions to fashion. Compared with the other ladies present, in their emerald satins and blue silks, she looked like a governess. Even Miss Buchanan, who was noted for her sobriety of dress, had added a string of pearls and a tortoiseshell comb to her ensemble.

  I managed to have a private word with Margaret before we went in to dinner.

  “Do you dress badly on purpose?” I asked. “In your youth, as I recall, you kept up with the latest modes.”

  Her eyes glittered wickedly. “In my youth—and into my middle years—I was a fool. What is the purpose of decking oneself out in order to compete with silly women and attract foolish men?”

  I was wearing scarlet, Emerson’s favorite color, and the diamond earrings that had been his gift. Not one whit discomposed by her implicit criticism, I smiled and adjusted her scarf so that it framed her face more becomingly.

  After much nagging I had agreed that Gargery should serve the wine, and I had instructed him to make certain it flowed freely. The Reader may question my motives for doing so. The Reader would be correct. In vino veritas, as the saying goes.

  I got a little more veritas than I had bargained for. Margaret became more and more acerbic as the meal went on, and she and Kevin began sniping at each other. Rex Engelbach and Emerson got into a loud argument about Howard Carter, Emerson taking Carter’s part out of sheer perversity. Jumana—very pretty in pale yellow—made a point of telling David that his copies of the Ay tomb paintings were the finest she had ever seen. Suzanne made a point of telling Jumana that she ought to find herself a nice Egyptian husband. And, during one of those unfortunate lulls in the conversation that sometimes occur even with us, Sir William asked Ramses whether Sennia was his illegitimate daughter.

  He didn’t use the word. “Under the blanket,” accompanied by a wink and a chuckle, were the words he used.

  The vulgar rumor had first been spread about when Ramses took the abandoned child under his wing and we proceeded to adopt her. In fact, she was, as I believe I have mentioned, the offspring of my despicable nephew Percy and an Egyptian prostitute; but those who are incapable of understanding nobility of character (I refer to Ramses) and love never believed the true story. I was sorry but not surprised to find that the lie was still in circulation. Malice is often stronger than truth.

  Sennia’s eyes filled with tears. She knew what he meant; she had been subjected to even more unkind insults when she first attended school in Cairo. Emerson choked on his wine and Ramses went white around the mouth, as he did when in a violent rage.

  “She is my beloved adopted little sister,” Ramses said, very quietly. “Cyrus, has Father told you of his theory that there is another unknown royal tomb in the Valley?”

  It wasn’t Emerson’s theory; it was something Abdullah had told me. Cyrus, who had gone purple with indignation, took up his cue, and everyone began talking at once.

  We got through the rest of the meal without incident. Sethos had excused himself from dinner, claiming that he did not want to inflict his cold on the other guests. It had reached a rather unpleasant stage, to judge by the number of times he used his handkerchief during the earlier part of the evening.

  With my usual skill as a hostess, I kept the conversation centered on Egyptology, knowing Emerson wouldn’t permit a word on any other subject. I had to catch myself several times when people speculated on the splendid objects in the tomb chamber, and once or twice I saw Jumana flinch when someone stepped on her foot to remind her she wasn’t supposed to have seen them. However, stories had spread, as they will, and Rex Engelbach was ready and willing to talk.

  “Carter’s excessive secrecy strikes me as unwarranted,” he declared. “Granted, he cannot admit great numbers of people for fear of causing damage to the artifacts, but there is no reason why he can’t describe them or distribute copies of Burton’s photographs.”

  “They say that Carnarvon means to sell the photographs to the highest bidder,” Cyrus said.

  Rex was too wise to indulge in gossip, but his mere presence that evening indicated to me that he was not on the best of terms with Howard and his patron. His position was difficult. In theory he had authority over all archaeological activities in Upper Egypt, including the Valley of the Kings. However, the control exercised by the Department of Antiquities over foreign excavators and expeditions had always been lax, and Rex had neither the power nor the inclination to incite trouble. He could not prevent Carnarvon from monopolizing the photographs, but he could and did indicate his disapproval by describing certain of the objects.

  “There is one chair—a throne, rather—that would take your breath away. Every inch of it is overlaid with gold foil and with inlaid decorative elements. On the back are figures in high relief of Tutankhamon and his queen. Their faces and bodies are formed of reddish-brown glass, their robes of silver, their wigs and other details of semiprecious stones…”

  David leaned forward, his eyes alight. Even photographs, supposing Howard could be persuaded to share them, would not capture the glorious colors and gleam of gold of such treasures as the throne.

  Howard was being selfish and unreasonable. Seeing David’s rapt face, I determined that I would get him into that tomb somehow, by whatever means necessary.

  Suzanne’s grandfather had not spoiled our evening but he had cast a stone into the tranquil pool of seasonal goodwill. Cyrus took him away early. The old wretch had no idea that he had misbehaved; he bade us good night with perfect aplomb. Chuckling.

  Our other guests, with the exception of Kevin and Margaret, did not remain long. As soon as they were out of the way, the rest of us began abusing Sir William. I permitted Sennia to stay up past her usual bedtime, because I wanted her to hear what we thought of such persons and their ideas. Kevin described Sir William with a few picturesque Irish insults and Daoud offered to carry him off and lock him up for a few days. Gargery, white hair bristling, declared his intention of challenging Sir William to a fistfight. This noble offer completed Sennia’s cure; trying not to laugh (for that would have hurt her champion’s feelings), she led Gargery off to his room.

  “At least the old villain didn’t get into the tomb,” said Emerson with satisfaction. “He’d have bragged about it if he had.”

  “Not yet,” I said. “How long is the old villain staying?”

  “I didn’t bother to ask,” said Emerson.

  “He leaves for Cairo on Boxing Day,” said Nefret. “We won’t have to entertain him again.”

  “We will have to encounter him at Cyrus’s tomorrow,” I said. “However, there will be a good many people present and we ought to be able to avoid him.”

  Margaret had spoken very little. Having withdrawn to a quiet corner, she was writing in her notebook. I did not object, since nothing newsworthy had occurred (Sir William’s bigotry being, unfortunately, not unusual). I assumed she was making notes about the artifacts Rex had described.

  “Will you sing more songs now?” Daoud asked. He loved music of all kinds and the pianoforte fascinated him.

  “Nefret is looking tired,” I said. “And Sennia has gone to bed. You don’t play, do you, Margaret?”

  “She plays very well,” said a voice from the doorway. “But it is against her principles to demonstrate womanly talents.”

  Margaret’s pen scraped across the page, and I said, “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Quite some time. I was lurking, you see,” Sethos explained. “I wanted to have a cheering word with Sennia before she went to bed. Well, Margaret? You wouldn’t want to disappoint Daoud, would you?”

  The look she transferred from Sethos to Daoud brought the latter to his feet. “It does not matter,” Daoud said quickly. “I will go now.”

  And go he did, after hasty but heartfelt good wishes. Margaret closed her notebook. The crimson scarf hung limp round her neck, as if she had been tugging at it. “Are you ready, O’Connell?” she asked.

  “Come, don’t break up the party,” Sethos exclaimed. “Have another whiskey.”

  “Well, now,” said Kevin.

  Margaret snatched her wrap. “Thank you for a delightful evening,” she snapped, and stalked out of the room.

  “Aren’t you going to escort her back to the hotel?” I asked Kevin. He was in a mellow mood, as he always was after a lot of wine and a few whiskeys, and he was basking in the air of goodwill. His freckles glowed and so did his peeling nose.

  “No need, no need, Mrs. E. The carriage we hired is waiting and I don’t doubt she’ll take it, leaving me stranded.”

  “Sufficient unto the day is the transportation thereof,” said Sethos, taking the empty glass from Kevin’s hand.

  I turned to my son and discovered he had already left the room. He returned almost at once to report that Margaret had indeed got into a waiting carriage and driven off before he could offer his services as escort.

  Nefret admitted she was tired—not surprising, after such a day—and Ramses went away with her. The rest of us settled down to what proved to be a very enjoyable time. Emerson insisted we sing, and rendered “Here we come a-wassailing” a cappella, very loudly and very off-key. Kevin sang several songs in a sweet tenor, and Sethos joined him in “The Cherry Tree Carol.” We hailed the dawn of the day of the Savior’s birth with a final chorus and went to the door with Kevin. He refused Emerson’s offer to drive him to the river in the motorcar, declaring the fresh air would do him good. He strolled away, not too unsteadily, followed by our repeated farewells of “Happy Christmas,” for on that day of all days it would have been churlish to remember Kevin’s past offenses.

  I will not deny that the whiskey may have had something to do with our state of mind.

  Emerson seldom overindulges, but on the rare occasions when he does he is a perfect bear next morning, demanding sympathy and denying that he has taken too much to drink.

  “Sethos has given me his bloody damned cold,” he insisted.

  “You haven’t sneezed once,” I retorted. “A cold shower and a few aspirin will put you right. Pull yourself together. The children are joining us for breakfast.”

  Deprived of the sympathy he did not deserve, Emerson followed my instructions, and by the time we were all gathered round the tree and the remaining presents, he was almost himself again. Sethos had pulled himself together too, though he winced whenever one of the children let out a shriek.

  “I see your cold is much better,” I said to him. “How is your head?”

  “Fatima gave me aspirin,” Sethos said, pressing his hand to his brow.

  Over the past weeks we had received several parcels from England; it was these we had saved for Christmas morning, knowing that most of them would be for the twins. Everyone except dear Evelyn had long since given up on Emerson. He conjured up a smile when he opened her gift of a nice pair of gloves, and put them carefully aside. He had no others, since he kept losing them, and I did not suppose these would last any longer.

  At my suggestion the grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins had bought books for David John. I hoped they would hold him for a while, since children’s books in English were difficult to obtain in Luxor, but I noticed that he already owned several of them, and that some others were far below his reading ability. However, as I said to David John, he must express proper appreciation and refrain from mentioning the duplications.