The Golden One

by Elizabeth Peters

  “Excuse me, Amelia, I didn’t mean to interrupt. You just reminded me. This little piece of news ought to get your attention, Emerson,” he added, with a grimace at my husband. “Give you three guesses who has started an excavation in the Valley of the Kings.”

  Emerson’s look of lofty indifference turned to a scowl. “Without official permission? Confound it, Vandergelt -”

  “Not the Albions?” I exclaimed.

  “Might have known you’d hit it on the head first time,” said Cyrus. “You’re both right. It’s Joe and his family, and they don’t have official permission.”

  “And you let them?” Emerson demanded.

  “I notified Cairo. That was all I could do, as Joe gleefully pointed out to me. I haven’t got the authority to stop them.”

  “Where in the Valley?” Ramses asked.

  “In that southern branch of the wadi near Number Twenty – Hatshepsut’s tomb.”

  “Why there, I wonder?” Ramses said.

  “Dunno. It’s off the regular tourist track, so maybe they hoped they wouldn’t be spotted right away. Can’t think of any other reason why they would pick that area.”

  “Damnation,” muttered Emerson. “I had intended to start work first thing tomorrow morning. Now I will have to waste several hours expelling the Albions.”

  “How do you propose to do that?” I inquired. “You haven’t the authority either, and if you lay violent hands on any one of them – especially Mrs. Albion -”

  “Good Gad, Peabody, have you ever known me to lay violent hands on a woman? There are ways,” said Emerson, stroking his chin. “There are ways.”

  “Well, I sure don’t want to miss that,” Cyrus declared. “I’ll be waiting for you in the morning. You’ll all dine with us tomorrow evening, I hope. Katherine is anxious to see you.”

  Ramses and Nefret decided they did not want to miss it either. I went along to make certain Emerson behaved himself. Jumana went along because I insisted. Nefret’s diagnosis might be correct – it was in keeping with the principles of psychology I favored – but she had confessed herself uncertain as to the appropriate treatment. I had my own ideas on that subject. If my methods were not effective, at least they could do no harm.

  Jumana ate very little at breakfast, but I had checked the larder before retiring and again when I arose, and was not surprised to find that half a loaf of bread and a chicken breast had disappeared overnight. It was no wonder Fatima had not noticed anything amiss. The larder was open to everyone in the house, and Sennia had an appetite quite out of proportion to her little frame.

  Cyrus and Bertie had been looking out for us and joined us at the end of the track that led up to the Castle. It was a bright, beautiful morning with clear skies; after the fog of Cairo and the rainy weather of Palestine, I appreciated Luxor even more.

  “How well you look, Bertie,” I said. “The foot is completely healed?”

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you. I need not ask if you are in good health; you are blooming, as usual. We had heard that Ramses -”

  “The reports were exaggerated,” Ramses said with a smile. “As you can see.”

  “And your arm, Professor?” Bertie asked.

  “A confounded nuisance,” said Emerson. “Can we get on now? I want to finish this little job, so I can start work.”

  Bertie was not given the opportunity to ask after the person who interested him most. Jumana had not spoken to him or to Cyrus. She sat slumped in the saddle, her head bowed and her pretty mouth twisted. The taste of the medicine I had insisted she take lingered on the tongue.

  We left the horses in the donkey park and proceeded on foot, along paths long familiar to us. I should explain that the Valley of the Kings is not a single long canyon. From above it resembles a lobed leaf, like that of an oak or maple, with side wadis branching off to left and right. The tomb of Hatshepsut was at the far end of one of these branches. We had worked in that area before and knew it well.

  The tourists had come early to the Valley in order to avoid the heat of midday. We were not so early as Emerson would have liked, but in part it was his own fault; he had wasted some time playing with the Great Cat of Re, who had come to breakfast with Ramses and Nefret. It had grown quite fat, through overfeeding (by Sennia – she claimed to have been training it, to do what I could not imagine). She had also combed and brushed it every day, so that its fur had become long and silky. Emerson was highly entertained by its antics. As it leaped at the bit of chicken he dangled above it, it looked like a bouncing ball of fluff. (Horus’s look of contempt as he watched this degrading performance was equally entertaining.) However, when we left the house it declined to ride on his shoulder and climbed onto that of Ramses.

  “Must we take it?” he asked. “You rather overdid the grooming, Sennia, its fur is all over my face.”

  “His,” said Sennia. “Yes, you must take him. What if you were attacked by a snake? I am coming too.”

  So that caused another delay. I did not want her to see – or hear – Emerson evicting the Albions. He was bound to lose his temper and employ bad language. We pacified her by promising to stop back at the house and take her to Deir el Medina, and distracted her by asking her to help Fatima prepare a very elaborate picnic basket.

  Draped over Ramses’s shoulder, with his tail hanging down behind, the Great Cat of Re resembled a luxuriant fur piece. Several ladies wanted to stroke him; several gentlemen stared and laughed. Among the latter was Mr. Lubancic, whom I had met at Cyrus’s soiree. “Still here, are you?” I called, as we passed.

  “Yes, ma’am. What on earth -”

  “Another time.” I waved. Emerson had not slowed his pace.

  The signs of energetic activity were visible some distance off; a cloud of dust blurred the brilliant blue of the sky, and voices rose in one of the chants with which Egyptians lighten their work. The sight we beheld when we reached the spot was unusual enough to bring us all to a halt.

  In the background a group of men were digging and hauling away debris. In the foreground, some distance from the dust and racket, was a little kiosk, a sturdy wooden frame with a roof and sides of canvas. Two of the canvas side pieces had been rolled up, and under the canopy, comfortably seated in armchairs, were the three Albions. Oriental rugs covered the ground; a table was spread with various articles of food and drink, over which a turbaned servant stood guard with a fly whisk. Another servant waved a fan over Mrs. Albion. She wore a frock that would have been suitable for tea at Buckingham Palace, and a hat wreathed with chiffon veiling. Mr. Albion had adopted what he believed to be proper archaeologist’s attire: riding breeches and boots, a tweed coat, and a very large solar topee. His son was similarly attired, but since he was a good deal taller than Mr. Albion, he did not so closely resemble a mushroom.

  One of the workmen came trotting up to Mr. Albion with a bit of stone in his hand. Albion took it, glanced at it, and tossed it away. He then condescended to notice us.

  “Morning, folks. Out bright and early, are you?”

  “Not so early as you,” said Emerson, advancing with shoulders squared and brows thunderous. “You have been told, I believe, that you are in violation of Lord Carnarvon’s firman. Close down your excavation at once.”

  “Who’s gonna make us?” Mr. Albion inquired. He looked even more cherubic, his eyes twinkling and his lips pursed. “You?”

  “Yes,” said Emerson. “Oh, yes.”

  “Father, if I may?” Sebastian Albion had got to his feet. “Not everyone appreciates your sense of humor. Won’t you sit down, ladies and gentlemen, and discuss the situation? Mrs. Emerson, please take my chair. I’m afraid the rest of you will have to – er -”

  “Squat,” said Nefret, doing so. “Let’s hear what they have to say, Father. It won’t cause much of a delay and it might be amusing.”

  “I agree,” said Ramses, subsiding with boneless ease onto the rug beside Nefret and crossing his legs.

  “Amusing,” Mr. Albion repeated. “Yes,
sirree, that’s our aim in life, to amuse people and be polite. Here, young lady, take my chair. We heard you’ve been ailing.”

  Jumana started, and so, I believe, did we all. Such gallantry was not only unexpected but was, in my opinion, highly suspicious.

  “No, thank you,” she stammered. “Sir.”

  “I insist.” He was on his feet, his face wreathed in smiles. “Sebastian, you persuade her.”

  “With pleasure.” The young man offered his hand. Jumana blushed and ducked her head.

  “Sit down, Jumana,” I ordered. “Since Mr. Albion is kind enough to offer.”

  Mrs. Albion ignored this little byplay. She was leaning forward with the first sign of amiable interest I had seen her display. “What a beautiful cat. What is its name?”

  “The Great Cat of Re,” I replied. “You would call it Fluffy, I suppose.”

  Mr. Albion chuckled. “No, she gives her cats names like Grand Duchess Olga of Albion. Fond of the creatures. I put up with ‘em because she’s fond of ’em.”

  “Now see here,” Emerson exclaimed. “I will be cursed if I will spend the morning talking about cats. What do you people think you are doing?”

  Sebastian Albion removed his eyeglasses, wiped them on a handkerchief, and replaced them. “As you have no doubt observed, sir, we are clearing the tomb of Prince Mentuherkhepshef. It was found by Belzoni and reexamined in 1905 by -”

  “Don’t tell me facts I know better than you,” Emerson interrupted. Curiosity had weakened his wrath, however; the Albions were so blandly outrageous, it was difficult to remain angry with them. And Sebastian had pronounced the prince’s name correctly. He knew more about Egyptology than we had supposed.

  “What do you hope to find?” Emerson went on. “The tomb is empty. Ayrton, who was here in 1905, found only a few scraps. The paintings… oh, good Gad!”

  He whirled round and ran toward the workmen. A stentorian bellow stopped diggers and basket men, and as the cloud of dust subsided, Emerson vanished into the dark opening of the tomb. He was out again in ten seconds, waving his fists. “Someone has been hacking at the walls. There was a painting of the prince offering to Khonsu -”

  “Defaced or missing?” Ramses asked.

  “Missing. Completely cut out, leaving a great hole. Probably in pieces. Curse it!”

  “We didn’t do it,” Sebastian hastened to say. “We haven’t touched the paintings.”

  “You aren’t doing them any good,” Emerson retorted furiously. “All that dust and debris floating about… My patience is at an end. Stop work at once.”

  “What are you going to do, carry us out of here bodily?” Mr. Albion inquired. “There’s nothing to stop us from coming back.”

  “Your workmen won’t come back. I am about to put a curse on the place. They won’t dare go near it after that, and neither will any of the other men on the West Bank.”

  “You better listen, Joe,” Cyrus advised. “The Professor’s curses are famous around here.”

  “That so?” Mr. Albion’s eyes narrowed until they virtually disappeared. Then they resumed their normal appearance and a smile fattened his cheeks. “Well, I guess we know how to give in gracefully, eh, Sebastian? It’s a shame about those fellows, they really need the work.”

  That aspect of the matter had not occurred to Emerson. It did not affect his decision, but I could see he was moved by it. He stood for a moment in thought, fingering the cleft in his chin. “It’s a new tomb you’re after, I presume? That’s what every dilettante wants. There are one or two areas I’ve been meaning to explore for some time. Very promising sites.”

  Mrs. Albion had been stroking the Great Cat of Re, who politely permitted the liberty. (I had hoped it would hiss or scratch.) She looked up at Emerson. “Where are these sites, Professor?”

  We delayed long enough to see the men begin to dismantle the comfortable little tent, and Mrs. Albion lifted, armchair and all, onto the shoulders of the servants. She was extremely gracious, though not to me; she thanked Emerson for his advice, spared a frosty smile for Jumana, and shook a playful finger at Ramses when he rose and settled the Great Cat of Re more securely onto his shoulder. “You really ought to select a more appropriate name for that charming creature, Mr. Emerson. The name of a lovely Egyptian goddess, perhaps? Hathor or Isis.”

  “I fear that would not be appropriate, ma’am,” Ramses replied. “The cat is not of the female sex – uh – gender.”

  “I may have been mistaken about Mrs. Albion,” I admitted, as we walked away. “Cats are generally good judges of character. Playfulness does not become her, however. What on earth were you thinking of, Emerson, proposing other sites for them? You have no right to do anything of the sort.”

  “Good Gad, Peabody, I expected you would approve of my mild methods.” Striding along, hands in his pockets, Emerson glanced at me in feigned surprise. “I am familiar with men of Albion’s character; if I had not offered them alternatives, they would simply have moved to some other forbidden area. I can’t put curses on every site on the West Bank.”

  “But the southwest wadis? The Valley of the Queens?”

  “The entrance to the Valley of the Queens,” Emerson corrected. “There’s nothing of interest there. If they mount an expedition to the southwest wadis I will be surprised; it’s too far and too uncomfortable. Besides, you heard my condition. They will hire Soleiman Hassan as their reis. I will make sure he reports to me the instant they find anything – which is, in my opinion, unlikely. Why are you looking so glum, Vandergelt?”

  “I kinda hoped for more fireworks,” Cyrus admitted. “Don’t count on Joe doing what you told him, Emerson. He holds a grudge against people who try to order him around.”

  “Bah,” said Emerson.

  “They were very polite,” Jumana murmured.

  “Yes,” I said thoughtfully.

  We collected Sennia and the picnic basket – and a reluctant but dogged Gargery – and went on to Deir el Medina, where we were forced to listen to another lecture, this one from Daoud. Selim had regaled him and a select audience with an edited version of our recent adventures, and Daoud was vibrating with indignation.

  We had to apologize for leaving him behind and promise never to do it again.

  “So Daoud knows all about it,” Cyrus remarked. His voice was mild but his expression was severe. The same look of reproach marked Bertie’s features.

  “You promised me, ma’am,” he began.

  “My dear boy, you must not take it personally. We don’t plan these things, you know; most of them just – well, they just happen.”

  “This one didn’t,” Cyrus said. “You were in the war zone, I got that much from what Daoud said. Do you have less confidence in us than you do in him?”

  “My sentiments exactly, ma’am,” said Bertie.

  “Of course not,” I said heartily. “We will tell you all about it this evening; how’s that?”

  “Precisely what are we going to tell them?” demanded Emerson, after he had succeeded in drawing me aside.

  I had had a little chat with Selim before we left Cairo. I knew Ramses had told him part of the story, and I felt fairly certain he had worked the rest of it out. He had known Sir Edward Washington; he had known a great deal about Sethos; he had been present on several occasions when we had discussed matters that would enable a clever man, which Selim was, to put the pieces together. So I took him into my confidence, holding nothing back. If any man deserved that confidence, it was he.

  “Ah,” said Selim, unsurprised. “I knew when I saw him clean-shaven that he must be a kinsman of the Father of Curses. They are very much alike. We do not speak of this to others, Sitt?”

  “Except for Ramses and Nefret, you are the only one who knows. We do not speak of it, even to Vandergelt Effendi.”

  His face brightened with gratified pride. “You can trust me, Sitt Hakim.”

  “I am sure I can. But now we must work out what we are to tell the others, including Daoud.” />
  I repeated the conversation to Emerson, adding, “You may be sure Selim produced a thrilling narrative without giving anything important away. Anyhow, I am tired of all this confounded secrecy. The more tight-lipped and mysterious we are, the more suspicious people will be. A partial truth will put them off the track far better than silence.”

  “You may be right,” Emerson agreed. “I will leave it to you, then, my dear. What have you done with my field notes?”

  I found his notebook in the pile of papers he had brought, and set about erecting my little shelter.

  “I must say it looks rather pitiful compared with the Albions’s arrangement,” I remarked to Nefret, who was helping me.

  Nefret chuckled. “Did you ever see anything more ridiculous than Mrs. Albion in her armchair being hoisted aloft by those two poor fellows? God help either of them if he stumbles and spills her out. Mr. Albion would probably have him beheaded.”

  “What did you think of their excessive courtesy to Jumana? That young man is not still under the impression that he can – er – win her over, surely.”

  “Surely not,” Nefret said. “They were only trying to ingratiate themselves with us, Mother. And they succeeded. I’m like Cyrus; I was rather hoping Father would blow them to bits and perform one of his famous curses.”

  “Oh, were you?” said Emerson, appearing upon the scene. “I cannot imagine why everyone in this family is under the false impression that I am a violent and unreasonable man. Bring the camera, Nefret; we are about to start on a new section.”

  FROM MANUSCRIPT H

  Emerson stood staring up at the hillside, his hand shading his eyes. He was, as usual, without a hat.

  “May I have a moment of your time, Father?” Ramses asked.

  “What the devil is Bertie doing up there?”

  “Continuing his survey, I suppose. May I -”

  “Certainly, my boy, certainly. Something about that new section?”

  “No, sir. Something about the Albions. I would be happy to assist in whatever you’re planning, if you care to let me in on it.”