Erica turned. He was standing in the doorway to his room. “Raman’s widow is still alive. Would you care to speak with her?”

“Would she be willing to talk with me?” asked Erica.

“I’m sure of it,” called the imam. “She worked as Carter’s housekeeper and speaks better English than I do.”

As Erica followed the imam higher up the hillside, she wondered how anyone could wear such heavy robes in the heat. Even as lightly dressed as she was, the small of her back was damp with perspiration. The imam led her to a whitewashed house set higher than the others in the southwestern part of the village. Immediately behind the house the cliffs rose up dramatically. To the right of the house Erica could see the beginning of a trail etched from the face of the cliff, which she guessed led to the Valley of the Kings.

The whitewashed facade of the house was covered with faded childlike paintings of railroad cars, boats, and camels. “Raman recorded his pilgrimage to Mecca,” explained the imam, knocking on the door.

In the courtyard next to the house was one of the platforms Erica had seen earlier. She asked the imam what it was.

“People sometimes sleep outside in the summer months. They use these platforms to avoid scorpions and cobras.”

Erica felt gooseflesh rise on her back.

A very old woman opened the door. Recognizing the imam, she smiled. They spoke in Arabic. When the conversation concluded, she turned her heavily lined face to Erica.

“Welcome,” she said with a strong English accent, opening the door wider for Erica to enter. The imam excused himself and left.

Like the small mosque, the house was surprisingly cool. Belying the crude exterior, the interior was charming. There was a wood floor covered with a bright Oriental carpet. The furniture was simple but well made, the walls plastered and painted. On three walls there were numerous framed photographs. On the fourth a long-handled shovel with an engraved blade.

The old woman introduced herself as Aida Raman. She told Erica proudly that she was going to be eighty years old come April. With true Arabic hospitality she brought out a cool fruit drink, explaining that it had been made from boiled water so that Erica need not fear germs.

Erica liked the woman. She had sparse dark hair brushed back from her round face and was cheerfully attired in a loose-fitting cotton dress printed with brightly colored feathers. Around her left wrist she wore an orange plastic bracelet. She smiled frequently, revealing that she had only two teeth, both on the bottom.

Erica explained that she was an Egyptologist, and Aida was obviously pleased to talk about Howard Carter. She told Erica how she had adored the man even though he was a little strange and very lonely. She recalled how much Howard Carter loved his canary and how sad he was when it had been eaten by a cobra.

As Erica sipped her drink, she found herself enthralled by the stories. It was obvious that Aida was enjoying their meeting just as much as she was.

“Do you remember the day when Tutankhamen’s tomb was opened?” asked Erica.

“Oh, yes,” said Aida. “That was the most wonderful day. My husband became a happy man. Very soon after that, Carter agreed to help Sarwat obtain the right to run the concession stand in the valley. My husband had guessed that the tourists would soon come by the millions to see the tomb Howard Carter had found. And he was right. He continued to help with the tomb, but he spent most of his effort on building the rest house. In fact, he built it almost all by himself, even though he had to work at night…”

Erica allowed Aida to ramble on for a moment, then asked, “Do you remember everything that happened the day the tomb was opened?”

“Of course,” said Aida, a little surprised at the interruption.

“Did your husband ever say anything about a papyrus?”

The old woman’s eyes instantly clouded. Her mouth moved, but there was no sound. Erica felt a surge of excitement. She held her breath, watching the old woman’s strange response.

Finally Aida spoke. “Are you from the government?”

“No,” answered Erica.

“What makes you ask such a question? Everyone knows what was found. There are books.”

Putting her drink down on the table, Erica explained to Aida the curious discrepancy between Carnarvon’s letter to Sir Wallis Budge and the fact that Carter’s notes listed no papyrus. She was not from the government, she added reassuringly. Her interest was purely academic.

“No,” said Aida after an uncomfortable pause. “There was no papyrus. My husband would never take a papyrus from the tomb.”

“Aida,” said Erica softly, “I never said your husband took a papyrus.”

“You did. You said my husband-”

“No. I just asked if he ever said anything about a papyrus. I’m not accusing him.”

“My husband was a good man. He had a good name.”

“Indeed. Carter was a demanding individual. Your husband had to be the best. No one is challenging your husband’s good name.”

There was another long pause. Finally Aida turned back to Erica. “My husband has been dead for over twenty years. He told me never to mention the papyrus. And I haven’t, even after he died. But no one has mentioned it to me either. That’s why it shocked me so much when you said it. In a way, it’s a relief to tell someone. You won’t tell the authorities?”

“No, I won’t,” said Erica. “It is up to you. So there was a papyrus and your husband took it from the tomb?”

“Yes,” said Aida. “Many years ago.”

Erica now had an idea what had happened. Raman had gotten the papyrus and sold it. It was going to be hard to trace. “How did your husband get the papyrus out of the tomb?”

“He told me he picked it up that first day when he saw it in the tomb. Everyone was so excited about the treasures. He thought it was some kind of curse, and he was afraid that they would stop the project if anyone knew. Lord Carnarvon was very interested in the occult.”

Erica tried to imagine the events of that hectic day. Carter must have initially missed seeing the papyrus in his haste to check the integrity of the wall into the burial chamber, and the others had been dazzled by the splendor of the artifacts.

“Was the papyrus a curse?” asked Erica.

“No. My husband said it wasn’t. He never showed it to any of the Egyptologists. Instead he copied small sections and asked the experts to translate them. Finally he put it all together. But he said it wasn’t a curse.”

“Did he say what it was?” asked Erica.

“No. He just said it was written in the days of the pharaohs by a clever man who wanted to record that Tutankhamen had helped Seti I.”

Erica’s heart leaped. The papyrus associated Tutankhamen with Seti I, as had the inscription on the statue.

“Do you have any idea what happened to the papyrus? Did your husband sell it?”

“No. He didn’t sell it,” said Aida. “I have it.”

The blood drained from Erica’s face. While she sat immobilized, Aida shuffled over to the shovel mounted on the wall.

“Howard Carter presented this shovel to my husband,” said Aida. She pulled the wooden shaft from the engraved metal blade. There was a hollow in the end of the handle. “This papyrus has not been touched for fifty years,” continued Aida as she struggled to extract the crumbling document. She unrolled it on the table, using the two pieces of the shovel as paperweights.

Slowly rising to her feet, Erica let her eyes feast on the hieroglyphic text. It was an official document with seals of state. Immediately Erica could pick out the cartouches of Seti I and Tutankhamen.

“May I photograph it?” asked Erica, almost afraid to breathe.

“As long as my husband’s name is not blackened,” said Aida.

“I can promise you that,” said Erica, fumbling with her Polaroid. “I won’t do anything without your permission.” She took several photos and made sure they were good enough to work from. “Thank you,” she said when she was finished. “Now, let’s put the papyrus back, but please be careful. This might be very valuable, and it could make the Raman name famous.”