“You would like a few more days at the hospital, wouldn’t you?” Emerson asked.

“Well, yes; but I wouldn’t want you to change your plans on my account.”

I must give my dear Emerson credit; he was too forthright to pretend he was doing it on her account. “The tomb has already been robbed and the loot dispersed,” he explained. “And I expect everyone knows the identity of the thieves – the Abd er Rassuls, or one of the other Gurneh families who specialize in such activities. It is strange, though, to have some of the objects turn up in Cairo. The local boys usually work with Mohassib or another of the Luxor dealers. Ramses, are you certain that ointment vessel is Eighteenth Dynasty?”

“No, of course not,” Ramses said, somewhat defensively. “I’m not an expert on hard stone vessels. The same forms and materials were used over a long period of time. If you think it’s important, we might pay a visit to the Museum and see what examples they have.”

“If we can find them,” Emerson muttered. “The way that place is arranged is a damned disgrace.”

Emerson always complained about the Museum and about almost everything else that was not under his direct supervision. I pointed out that Mr. Quibell, the director, was doing the best he could under difficult circumstances. Emerson nodded grudgingly.

“No doubt. I suppose we ought to call on him. Or we might have one of your little archaeological dinner parties, Peabody. The Quibells, and Daressy, and anyone else you can collect.”

My dinner parties, celebrating our return to Egypt, had been very popular. For the past few years I had been loath to hold them; it was too painful to see the diminished company and reflect on the fates of those who were no longer with us: our German and Austrian colleagues departed, the ranks of the French and English Egyptologists depleted by death or military service. However, I had already been in receipt of friendly messages from those who were still in Cairo – the news of our arrival had, of course, immediately become known. Emerson’s proposal solved the difficulty of how I was to respond to these greetings and invitations, and astonished me not a little, for he was never inclined toward social engagements, and he had been insistent on leaving Cairo as soon as was possible.

A brief period of reflection explained his change of heart. The letter from Cyrus and the discovery of the artifacts at Aslimi’s had whetted his curiosity; Cyrus’s mention of Howard Carter being in some manner involved aroused an understandable desire to question that individual. There was another reason for his willingness to stay on in Cairo; he was hoping for a further communication from his brother. He had made a point of looking through the messages every day and his disappointment at finding nothing of the sort was evident to me at least. I confess I was also somewhat exasperated with Sethos. What had been the point of that brief encounter?

Unfortunately I was unable to locate the archaeologist whom Emerson had hoped to interrogate. Howard Carter was not in Cairo. No one knew where he was. However, when the sadly diminished group met next evening, he was the chief topic of conversation. Owing to the short notice, the Quibells were the only ones who had been able to accept my invitation.

“You just missed him,” Annie Quibell said. “He got back from Luxor a few days ago, and went off again without any of us seeing him. James was furious.”

She smiled at her husband, whose equable temper was well known, and who said calmly, “I presume his duties for the War Office called him away, but I had hoped to hear more about his recent work in Luxor.”

“And his dealings with Mohassib?” Emerson inquired, motioning the waiter to refill James’s wineglass.

“Who told you that?”

“Cyrus Vandergelt,” I replied. “Is it true?”

James shrugged. “I’ve heard the rumor too, but I doubt Carter would admit it to me, even if it were true. He spent several months out in the southwest wadis, where the princesses’ tomb was found; when he was in Cairo for a few days early in December, he gave me a brief report. Did you hear about his finding another tomb of Hatshepsut’s? This one was made for her when she was queen, before she assumed kingly titles. It was empty except for a sarcophagus.” He picked up his glass and sipped his wine appreciatively.

“Where?” Emerson asked.

“High in a cleft in the cliffs, in one of the western wadis,” Annie said. She and her husband were not great admirers of Howard; after his falling-out with the Service, he had begun dealing in antiquities, and this did not make him popular with his professional colleagues. She added, with a distinct and amusing touch of malice, “He didn’t find Hatshepsut’s tomb, James. Some of the Gurnawis did. He only followed them.”

“Bah,” said Emerson vehemently. “I wonder what else he did?”

“So do I,” said James.

Having failed to locate Howard, Emerson was ready to leave for Luxor at once. However, it was not to be. We were finishing breakfast en famille in our sitting room when a messenger arrived with a letter for Emerson. It was a delightful little domestic scene, with Sennia badgering Ramses to give her a lesson in hieroglyphs and Horus snarling at Gargery and Emerson reading the Egyptian Gazette and smoking his pipe, while Nefret told me about the new arrangements at the hospital. When I saw the envelope, with its official seal, it was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud.

“Whom is it from?” I demanded.

Emerson frowned over the epistle, which he was holding so I couldn’t read over his shoulder. “Wingate. He would like me to come to his office at my earliest convenience.”

“Sir Reginald Wingate? What does the Sirdar of the Sudan want with you?”

“He replaced MacMahon as high commissioner last month,” Emerson replied. “He doesn’t say what he wants.”

We had all fallen silent except for Sennia, who had no idea who the high commissioner was and cared even less. Emerson looked at his son. “Er – Ramses…”

“Yes, sir. When?”

“Later. He says ‘at our convenience.’ It is not convenient for me at present.”

Sennia understood that. “Ramses will have time to give me my lesson,” she announced firmly. Sennia was in the habit of making pronouncements instead of asking questions; it usually worked.

Ramses rose, smiling. “A short lesson, then. Let’s go to your room where we won’t be distracted.”

The door closed behind them – and Horus, who went wherever Sennia went unless forcibly prevented from doing so. Having got Sennia out of the way, Emerson turned stern blue eyes on Gargery, who stood with arms folded and feet slightly apart, exuding stubbornness. “Go away, Gargery,” Emerson said.

“Sir -”

“I said, go away.”

“But sir -”

“If there is anything you need to know, Gargery, I will tell you about it at the proper time,” I interrupted. “That will be all.”

Gargery stamped out, slamming the door, and Nefret said quietly, “Do you want me to leave too?”

“No, of course not.” Emerson leaned back in his chair. “It isn’t the military or the secret service this time, Nefret. Wingate probably wants us for some tedious office job.”

“Are you going to accept?”

“That depends.” Emerson got to his feet and began pacing. “Like it or not, and God knows we don’t, we cannot ignore the fact that there is a bloody war going on. They won’t let me carry a rifle, and Ramses won’t carry one, but there are other things we can do, and we have no right to refuse.”

“You and Ramses,” Nefret repeated, with a curl of her lip. “Men. Never women.”

“You offered your services as a surgeon, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Nefret’s eyes flashed. “The military isn’t accepting women physicians. But that would have been saving lives, not -”

“There are other ways of saving lives, or at least minimizing suffering. You can’t keep him out of this forever, Nefret; I’ve seen the signs, and so have you. He’s feeling guilty because he thinks he is not doing his part.”