“Mr. Burton must have finished the preliminary photographs,” I said. “Surely Howard wouldn’t move anything until the entire contents of the chamber had been recorded.”

  “Even Father admits, when he isn’t in a temper, that Carter is a responsible excavator,” Ramses replied. “I don’t doubt he is going about it in the proper way.”

  “I wonder which objects he will remove first.”

  “He’ll do it in order,” Ramses said. “From one end of the chamber to the other, leaving the larger, more difficult pieces until last. I don’t envy him the job.”

  He might not, but his father did. However, looking on the bright side (as I always endeavor to do), perhaps it was just as well that the task had not fallen to Emerson. Carter had assembled a staff unparalleled in its skill. It was unlikely that the Metropolitan Museum or any other institution would have been so accommodating to us. They counted on a share of the treasure, and Emerson would never have agreed to that. In addition, Emerson would have dragged every member of the family into the business. The job would take years, if I was any judge, and that would put a halt to David’s independent career and to my plans for Ramses and Nefret.

  There is a silver lining to every cloud, as I always say.

  The news of Howard’s intention must have got about, for the tourists were out in force and the area near the tomb was infested with journalists. The latter individuals must not have found Howard helpful, for they converged on us, whipping out their notebooks and asking what we knew.

  “No more than you, I fancy,” I replied. “That Mr. Carter intends to begin removing the first of the objects today. They will be carried to the tomb of Seti II, where they will be packed for eventual shipment and, if necessary, stabilized by Mr. Lucas and Mr. Mace. Many are in fragile condition.”

  They wrote all this down, as if it had been the word of the Prophet, and Mr. Bradstreet asked me to elaborate. “It is a complex subject, but I will make it as simple as possible,” I replied good-humoredly. “When air is introduced into a hitherto sealed tomb, all substances except metal and pottery are affected. Plaster may crack and fall off, paint may flake, fabric may rot. It is sometimes necessary to apply chemicals—or, as I have always preferred, melted paraffin wax—to hold loose pieces in place and preserve the original design.”

  “What the devil do you think you are doing?” Emerson whispered, directly into my left ear.

  “Why should I not oblige these amiable gentlemen?” I asked. “They have every right to the facts. This is not Lord Carnarvon’s tomb; it belongs to Egypt and to the world!”

  A somewhat ironic cheer greeted this statement, and Mr. Bradstreet said with a grin, “You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you, Mrs. Emerson? First time I’ve ever heard you say the press had a right to anything. Couldn’t be sour grapes, could it?”

  “If the press chooses to misrepresent my remarks, it cannot be surprised that I dislike being quoted,” I said severely.

  He was about to apologize, I believe, when a buzz and a bustle around the tomb entrance drew all eyes in that direction. The gentlemen of the press abandoned me, shoving and pushing and aiming their cameras. A squad of soldiers took up position by the barrier. Then Howard came into view. His hat was tipped to one side, his mustache carefully brushed; in one hand he held his stick, in the other a cigarette holder.

  “Back!” he shouted, brandishing his stick in military style. “Stand back, everyone.”

  From the entrance, carried on a wooden stretcher to which it was bound by strips of bandage, emerged the first object—the beautiful painted chest with scenes of the king in his chariot. Shouts of delight came from the spectators; the clicking of cameras rattled like hail. David, beside me, stood mesmerized and mute.

  “Come farther along the path,” I said, taking his arm. “You can get a better view from there.”

  We were the first to move; other spectators trooped after the bearers, trying to get a closer look at the lovely thing. A few actually reached out, trying to touch it, and were only prevented from doing so by the soldiers who surrounded the bearers.

  David followed the procession all the way to the storage tomb, staring and stumbling and running into people. I was in perfect sympathy with him. Nothing like that chest had ever been seen before.

  When he rejoined me he was pale with excitement. “Your description didn’t do it justice,” he gasped. “It couldn’t. Good Lord, Aunt Amelia, I would give my right hand to be allowed to paint it!”

  “Without a right hand you wouldn’t be able to,” I said, for I always think a little touch of humor helps excited persons to settle down. It had the desired effect on David. He took my arm.

  “I beg your pardon, Aunt Amelia. I ought not have left you in the midst of this jostling crowd.”

  “Quite all right, dear boy,” I said. “I had no trouble in fending for myself. I never do. Shall we go back? Howard may intend to bring out something else.”

  “I don’t think I want to see anything else,” David said softly. “Not today. I couldn’t take it in.”

  “Then we will go home, my dear.”

  “You do understand?”

  “Naturally. Your artist’s soul has been transported. You require peace and quiet to contemplate the full wonder of what you have seen. And,” I added, “perhaps a whiskey and soda.”

  Most of the spectators had pelted back to the tomb, but Kevin O’Connell was lying in wait for us. “What’s the idea of giving out all that information to me rivals, Mrs. E.?” he demanded.

  “Don’t be silly, Kevin,” I replied. “I didn’t tell them anything that wasn’t public knowledge. You were writing it all down too, I observed. I was surprised not to see Miss Minton.”

  “She didn’t turn up today,” Kevin said, falling in step with us. “Come to think of it, I haven’t laid eyes on her since the night of your party.”

  “We should never have allowed her to go alone,” I exclaimed.

  Inquiries, which I had immediately set in train, confirmed Kevin’s statement. No one had set eyes on Miss Minton since Christmas Eve. The night clerk, rousted out of his home, declared she had not returned to the Winter Palace that night. He had thought nothing of it. If a foreign lady decided to sleep elsewhere, it was none of his business.

  Kevin had returned to the house with the rest of us and waited until the reports came in.

  “It was my responsibility,” he said, eyes cast down. Then he took another longish sip of his whiskey and soda and brightened. “But, Mrs. E., I don’t see why you should suppose something has happened to her. Minton is always going off on her own, hoping to steal a march on the rest of us. She was perfectly sober when she left here and she was not alone. What has the carriage driver to say?”

  “We have not been able to locate him,” Emerson said. He and I were pacing up and down the length of the drawing room, avoiding each other with the skill of long practice.

  Obviously we could not explain to Kevin why we did not believe Margaret had left of her own free will. None of the boatmen recalled having taken her across the river, so she must have been abducted while still on the West Bank. The carriage driver had vanished as well. Selim, who knew everyone on this side of the river, had gone at once to the fellow’s house, only to discover that he had never returned home.

  As I crossed paths with Emerson, he said out of the corner of his mouth, “Get rid of him, Peabody.”

  Kevin heard him, as did everyone else in the drawing room. Placing his empty glass on the table, he rose with great dignity. “I can take a hint, Professor.”

  “Never known you to do so before,” Emerson retorted.

  Kevin took himself off, meaning, I supposed, to pursue his own inquiries. If Margaret was on the track of an interesting story, Kevin would be on her track.

  We knew better, of course. David and Ramses had gone off to search the riverbank and locate the few boatmen we had not been able to question thus far. Sethos was with them. He had been the first to propose we search for Margaret.

  “So much for the promises of our adversaries,” I said bitterly. “We relaxed our guard, and now they have struck.”

  “O’Connell may have it right,” Emerson muttered. “Perhaps she learned something from us that night that sent her haring off in pursuit of an exclusive.”

  “Nonsense. She had nothing with her except the clothes she was wearing and a small evening bag. The driver’s disappearance is highly significant. He was in cahoots with the kidnappers—or he was murdered to prevent him from talking.”

  “Do sit down, Mother,” Nefret begged, as Emerson and I swerved round each other. “You are wearing yourself out. If the people you suspect have abducted Margaret, they won’t harm her. This is only their way of ensuring that we remain silent.”

  She went herself to the sideboard and poured a soupçon of whiskey. I took the glass and sank into a chair.

  “We would remain silent in any case, since we do not know what they plan,” I said. “However, vain regrets and vague surmises are of no use to us now. Let us remain calm and consider what we do know.”

  “Not much,” said Emerson.

  “For one thing, we can now be certain that our adversaries are aware of Sethos’s true identity. Had they not known Margaret was his wife, they would not have taken her.”

  “He was in considerable distress,” Nefret said. “There were actually tears in his eyes.” Her own eyes were soft with sympathy, blue as turquoise.

  “A pity he didn’t demonstrate his feelings for her before it was too late,” Emerson said.

  “Let us hope and pray it is not too late,” I said.

  David and Ramses returned to report that they had discovered no trace of Margaret or the driver. That was good news, in a negative sense; I had been haunted by images of a limp body washed up on the shore. The carriage, which had been hired from a firm located in Luxor, was found abandoned some distance from the ferry landing.

  “It seems we have come to a dead end,” I said. “Where is Sethos?”

  “He went off by himself, saying he had an idea he meant to pursue.” Ramses declined his father’s offer of whiskey, saying he would wait for tea. “It occurred to me that he might intend to offer an exchange of hostages. Himself for Margaret.”

  “It is the least he can do,” Emerson grunted. “Good Gad, any man who gave a curse about his wife would do the same.”

  “He knows how to communicate with them,” I said. “Assuming, that is, they can still be reached through the address he once had. Oh dear. I can’t see that an exchange would leave us any better off.”

  Ramses put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I don’t believe there is any cause for concern, Mother. She’ll be released as soon as the abductors no longer need her.”

  The passage of time and a sip or two of whiskey had restored my reasoning powers to their normal efficiency. “Does this event suggest, perhaps, that that time is near at hand?” I asked.

  “I wondered about that,” Ramses admitted. “But if such is the case, there’s not a bloody thing we can do about it.”

  I put a warning finger to my lips. “I hear the children coming. David, dear, you look very careworn, and you have not had a chance to meditate on the wonders of the painted box. If you would like to retire, I am sure Fatima will bring you a cup of tea and a biscuit.”

  “I’ll wait until we hear from Sethos, if you don’t mind,” David said. “I can’t really concentrate on aesthetics at the moment. Don’t worry, Aunt Amelia, I am sure there is no reason to fear for her safety.”

  If one more person tells me that I will swear, I thought. How could he know? How could any of us know?

  The children and the dog burst in. We put the dog out, and Fatima served tea. She had prepared a number of delicacies, as she always did when she believed we were in need of comfort. As I had promised I would, I dispatched a note to Cyrus, informing him that as yet we had no news. After that there was nothing to do but wait.

  The chatter of the dear children proved a temporary distraction. As I had expected, several days of excessive virtue had taken their toll on both; Charla knocked over the chessboard David John had set up in the hope of finding an opponent, and David John kicked her. They fell upon each other. The dog began to howl. I was attempting to separate the combatants when there was a tap on the door.

  “Is it safe to come in?” Sethos inquired.

  “Get hold of the dog,” I gasped, taking Charla in a firm grip.

  “She’s already got hold of me,” said Sethos. “What seems to be the trouble?”

  Charla stopped struggling as soon as I got my arms round her; to do her credit, she never kicked or bit any of the family except her brother. David John, sobbing with rage and/or remorse, had subsided into the arms of his father. The dog stopped howling and began to whine. She never bit anyone either; she had only seized Sethos by the arm, leaving a large slimy spot on his sleeve.

  The children were sent off to bed and the dog admonished. “Any news?” I asked Sethos.

  “No. Thank you, Fatima, I don’t believe I care for tea. May I…?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Emerson. “Help yourself. And Peabody, if she would care for another.”

  “I believe I will, now that you mention it.”

  “You look worried,” said Sethos, handing me a brimming glass. “I didn’t know you were so fond of Margaret. She treated you rather shabbily, after all.”

  “How can I blame her for behaving as I might have done under similar circumstances? Of course I am fond of the cursed woman.”

  “I assure you, Amelia,” Sethos said earnestly, “that there is no cause for concern.”

  “Bloody hell and damnation!” I shouted.

  A united gasp shivered through the air, and Fatima dropped a cup.

  “Peabody!” Emerson said in shocked surprise.

  “I beg your pardon.” I took a restorative sip of whiskey and drew a deep, calming breath. “Fatima, stop wringing your hands, it was my fault. But I weary of meaningless reassurance. How the devil—excuse me—do you know there is no cause for concern? Why aren’t you worried?”

  “What makes you suppose I am not?” Sethos asked. He sank heavily into a chair, and now that I got a good look at him I saw that his appearance did suggest a certain degree of distraction. Hair windblown, mustache drooping, garments wrinkled, he was the image of a concerned spouse.

  “I was attempting to reassure you,” he said, his eyes lowered. “We have as yet no evidence that Margaret is in the hands of my enemies. Even if she is, they have no reason to offer her harm.”

  “Your confidence in their goodwill is not borne out by their actions,” I exclaimed. “They have broken their word to leave us in peace.”

  “Perhaps they suspect we have broken our word,” Sethos said.

  “Have you?”

  “No.”

  Her face drawn with sympathy, Fatima thrust a plate of sugar biscuits at him. Sugar biscuits do not really go well with whiskey, but he took one.

  “Let us discuss this sensibly,” Emerson said, taking out his pipe. “You”—he gestured at his brother—“you say you have done nothing to prompt such a reaction. Has anyone else?”

  “You’re on the wrong track, Father,” Ramses said. Emerson blinked at his uncharacteristic lack of tact, and Ramses said, “I beg your pardon. But look at it this way. Supposing we had received a sudden revelation, which God knows we haven’t, what would we have done about it?”

  “Informed the authorities,” I said.

  “How?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “By telegraph or in person, isn’t that right? Most probably the latter. Telegrams may become lost in the bureaucratic muddle or be intercepted. No; we’d have gone straight to Cairo, to Thomas Russell or the high commissioner. They know that hasn’t happened. We are under surveillance still. We always have been. For all we know, someone close to us is passing on information about our activities.”

  It was a damning and convincing summary. While we digested it, Sethos raised a haggard face. “Are you accusing me of betraying my own wife?”

  “He doesn’t mean you,” I said. “Strangers in our midst…Nadji or Suzanne? But which?”

  FROM MANUSCRIPT H

  Nefret sat at her dressing table brushing her hair. The dress she meant to wear lay across the bed. It was one of Ramses’s favorites, a pale blue sprinkled with small white flowers and green leaves, but to him she was even more beautiful in her clinging silk slip, her white shoulders and little feet bare.

  “You’re looking absolutely marvelous these days,” he said, capturing a stray lock of hair and winding it round his finger. “I like that dress. What’s the occasion?”

  “I felt like cheering myself up. And Mother.”

  “Women are lucky. We men haven’t such easy means of cheering ourselves up.”

  “It’s your own fault for following fashion so slavishly. Go and tell David it’s time for dinner, will you? He’s been brooding for hours.”

  There was no answer to Ramses’s knock. After a second, louder knock he opened the door. The room was unoccupied. A drawing pad lay open on the writing table; David had started a sketch of the painted chest. Incomplete as it was, it had David’s inimitable touch.

  While Ramses was admiring it, the houseman came in with an armful of fresh towels.

  “Where’s Mr. David?” Ramses asked.

  “I do not know. He told me to give you this,” he said, as he handed over a folded sheet of paper.

  Ramses read the brief message and swore under his breath. “When did he leave?”

  “Just now, Brother of Demons.”

  Ramses hurried back to his room.

  “What—” Nefret began, her eyes widening.

  “Read this.” He handed her the note.

  She read it aloud. “‘Have gone for a walk. Won’t be long. Don’t worry.’ What does he mean, don’t worry? It isn’t like David to go off like this.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’m going after him.” He buckled on the belt that held his knife.

  “Not alone!” Nefret got up and came to him.