“Bah,” Emerson declared. “She thinks the Albions, father and son, are entitled to use any means possible to get anything they want. They want Jamil’s tomb. They believe Jumana can help them find it. It isn’t difficult to understand why they are so keen. Jamil gave them enough to whet their appetites.”
He smiled provocatively at me.
“So that is where you were tonight,” I said. “I suspected as much.”
“No, Peabody, you didn’t suspect a cursed thing, or you would have insisted on going with me, and you’d have been caught in the act, as I almost was.”
“Tell us all about it,” said Nefret, her dimples showing.
“I have every intention of doing so, if the rest of you have finished chattering. It wasn’t my fault that I was almost caught,” Emerson went on. “One of the cursed sufragis turned up while I was trying my skeleton keys in the lock. He recognized me, of course, so I sent him on his way with a fistful of money and a few small curses. Once inside, I assumed my disguise.”
He paused – ostensibly to sip his whiskey. I didn’t ask why he had bothered with a disguise. A disguise is its own excuse as far as Emerson is concerned.
“You may well ask,” Emerson continued, smirking at me, “why I bothered with a disguise. It was a necessary precaution. If I had been found inside the room, by one of the Albions or a servant, the individual would only have caught a glimpse of a bearded Egyptian before I made my getaway, through the window or out the door. In fact, I was not disturbed. I had ample time to search all the rooms, which were interconnected. The loot, if I may so express it, was in Albion’s room. He and his wife occupy separate bedchambers.”
“That is an extraneous fact, Emerson,” I said. “And none of our business.”
“One never knows what may be relevant, Peabody. It is possible, though not probable, that she is unaware of Albion’s dealings with Jamil. He had a boxful of artifacts, including some fragments of the painting of Khonsu. Jamil must have sold him those and hinted that they were a meaningful clue. The lad had quite a sense of humor. As for the rest… Here’s the list, as nearly as I can remember. First, another cosmetic jar like the one you purchased, with the cartouche intact. It was, as Ramses deduced, that of the God’s Wife Shepenwepet. Second and third, two ushebtis inscribed for the same woman, approximately eight inches high, of blue-green faience. Fourth, and most remarkable, a sistrum of bronze inlaid with gold.” He took a sheet of paper from the table beside him. “I did this while you were all fussing over Bertie,” he explained. “My artistic skills are not as good as David’s, but I wanted to capture the details while I remembered them.”
We gathered round to inspect the drawing. The sistrum was a musical instrument, rather like a rattle, played before various gods. It was dedicated to Hathor, goddess of music, whose image appeared here as the head of a woman with long curling locks and the characteristic cow’s ears. From this sculptured head rose a long loop of copper wire threaded with rods which were strung with beads, so that when the sistrum was held by its handle – this one in the shape of a lotus column – and shaken, it produced a pleasing if somewhat monotonous sound. All the elements I have described were present in Emerson’s sketch, which meant that this object was truly unusual, undamaged, and intact.
“Couldn’t get the face right,” Emerson admitted. “It’s very beautiful. Obviously from a royal workshop.”
“And made for a royal woman,” Ramses said. “I admire your forbearance, Father, I’d have been strongly tempted to take this. It ought to be in a museum.”
“It will be,” Emerson assured him, with a snap of his teeth. “We’ll give the Albions plenty of rope, before we pull the noose tight. There can be no doubt; Jamil’s tomb is that of one of the Divine Wives of Amon, and if these small objects are representative of the contents, Heaven only knows what else may be there.”
Cyrus let out a low moan. “I’d sell my soul for a find like that. And if Joe Albion gets to it first, I’ll strangle him with my bare hands.”
Next day I penned a courteous note to Mrs. Albion thanking her for her delightful party. It was somewhat hypocritical, as Emerson was quick to point out, but in my opinion a certain amount of hypocrisy is necessary in maintaining the social amenities. If everyone said exactly what he or she thought of everyone else, there would be no social amenities.
“Anyhow,” I added, folding the note, “breaking off relations with the Albions would be a serious error until we get the goods on them.”
We went to work as usual, but did not accomplish a great deal. Emerson’s discovery of the artifacts had whetted his appetite and stimulated his imagination. He tried to concentrate on the work at hand, but he would stop from time to time and stare off into space, mumbling to himself. How well I understood! The broken mud-brick walls of Deir el Medina were so pitiful in comparison to golden dreams of a royal tomb.
Jumana had come late to breakfast, looking so woebegone and red around the eyes that Sennia demanded to know where it hurt and what she could do to make it better. Nefret distracted the child by describing the decorations of the ballroom and the lavish menu, and the Great Cat of Re provided an additional diversion by appearing with an agitated mouse in its mouth. With Sennia’s assistance Ramses managed to pry the cat’s jaws apart and remove the mouse, which he carried outside and released, to the utter disgust of Horus. I hoped that the presentation of unharmed, living prey was not becoming a habit with the confounded cat. Horus at least had the decency to dispose of his in private.
I decided to say no more to Jumana. She had been punished by our combined disapproval and Nefret’s tongue-lashing, and after all, she had not committed a serious misdemeanor, only an error in judgment understandable in a young girl. After having been raised in one society she had had to learn the ways of another; and since she had only been acquainted with men whose moral sensibilities were irreproachable, it was not surprising that she should have misunderstood the despicable intentions of Sebastian Albion.
She accepted the tedious task of sifting the fill without complaint and worked steadily all morning. When we stopped for luncheon she sat to one side, her eyes downcast, and Cyrus, kindhearted individual that he was, made an attempt to cheer her up.
“How about helping me this afternoon?” he asked. “You’ve been at that rubbish dump all morning. That all right with you, Emerson?”
“Certainly, certainly,” said my equally tenderhearted husband.
“You were asking the other day about the theodolite,” Bertie said. “I’ll show you how to use it, if you like.”
It was the first remark he had addressed to her, for she had kept out of his way. Her expressive face brightened.
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
By the end of the day she had recovered her good spirits. Whether she had had the decency to apologize to Bertie I did not know, but she was painstakingly polite to him and he responded like the nice lad he was, with no evidence of hard feelings.
Several days passed without our hearing a word from the Albions, to the disappointment of Emerson, who had rather hoped they would notice that the stolen objects had been disturbed. If they questioned the sufragi who had found him trying to open the lock they would know the identity of the intruder.
“The sufragi wouldn’t betray the Father of Curses,” said Ramses. “You ought to have left your card.”
Emerson curled his lip in acknowledgment of this touch of humor.
“Why stir them up?” Nefret asked. “They’ve abandoned their plans to excavate. Perhaps they’ve given up on finding the tomb.”
“No, they have not,” Emerson grumbled. “Selim says they have hired that rascal Mohammed Hammad as their dragoman. He came back from wherever he was as soon as he got the word that Jamil was dead. He’s no more a dragoman than I am an opera singer.”