“You mean you don’t insist on inspecting it, and the tomb, too? Good Gad, Peabody, do you feel well?”

“Quite well, my dear, thank you, and I intend to remain so.”

The children, still facing each other in somewhat belligerent attitudes, turned their heads to look at us. I was happy to observe that my reasonable remarks had lowered the emotional temperature. The corners of Nefret’s mouth quivered, and the angry color faded from Ramses’s face. His hands moved from her shoulders down her arms in a quick, caressing gesture. “Please,” he said.

Nefret tilted her head back and looked up into his eyes. “Since you put it that way…”

Emerson let out a gusty breath. “Very good. We’ll have to have him out, though, if we want to examine the tomb.”

“Common decency requires that we have him out,” I said. “And give him a proper burial. I suppose he met with an accident while looking for another tomb to rob.”

“It was no accident. He’d been arranged, propped up in a sitting position against the side of the passage, and held upright by…” Ramses hesitated for a moment before he went on. “… By a metal spike driven through his throat and into a crack in the rock.”

4

We retreated some distance down the wadi before opening the baskets of food. There was not a breath of air stirring and very little shade; we all removed as many garments as propriety allowed. I looked enviously from Ramses and Emerson, shirtless as well as coatless, to Selim and Daoud, who appeared perfectly comfortable in their enveloping but loose garments.

I knew I was going to have another argument with Emerson about how to proceed. He was bound and determined to get into the confounded tomb.

“We have not the proper equipment for dealing with a decomposing corpse,” I declared, peeling an orange. “And how would we get it back? You aren’t proposing we take it in turn to carry it over those hills, I hope?”

Emerson is the most stubborn individual of my acquaintance, but even he was temporarily silenced. He bit into a chicken leg and masticated vigorously. His blue eyes took on a dreamy, pensive look, and his noble brow was untroubled; but I knew he was only biding his time till he could think of a way of getting round the logic of my statement.

“Decidedly unpleasant, if not actually impossible,” said Ramses, who knew his father as well as I did. “I propose we go to Gurneh and try to locate his friends or his family. Someone may have reported him missing.”

“To the police?” Emerson snorted. “Not likely, with that lot.”

“They will admit the truth to us, or to Selim,” Ramses argued. “We will have to come back in any case. Mother is right about that.”

“Oh, very well.” Emerson finished his chicken leg and jumped up. “I will just have a quick look before -”

“No, you will not! You see what comes of your schemes, Emerson. We ought to have made inquiries before ever we came here. If you would listen to me -”

“Bah,” said Emerson.

Selim had tried several times to get a word in. Now he said, “I think I know who the man might be, Father of Curses. If you had asked me -”

“Not you too, Selim,” Emerson shouted. “I will not be criticized by my wife and my reis. One of you at a time, but not simultaneously.”

However, the combined arguments of Ramses, Selim, and myself carried the day. Emerson is stubborn, but he is not completely unreasonable – and he counted on getting into the wretched tomb another time.

Emerson chose another path this time, straight down to the end of the wadi and through another, narrower canyon, descending all the while. It was certainly easier than the way we had come, but it was necessary to watch where one stepped for fear of twisting an ankle, and Emerson set such a rapid pace that conversation was impossible. Neither of these considerations prevented me from ratiocination.

There was no doubt in my mind that the unfortunate individual whose remains Ramses had found had been murdered. Was it only a coincidence that Jamil was still in the vicinity, resentful of the men who had, as he claimed, robbed him of his fair share? Remembering the lazy, surly youth I had known, I found it hard to believe that Jamil was a killer. Someone was certainly guilty of something, however, and it behooved us to take all possible precautions.

The last of the foothills dwindled and I saw before me the Theban plain, stretching out across desert and cultivation to the river. I made Emerson stop while we drank thirstily, finishing the last of the water. He gave us no time to rest or converse, however.

“If you want to reach home before dark, we had best be getting on,” he said.

I patted my damp face daintily with my handkerchief. “There are still several hours of daylight left. Where are we?”

“A mile or so from Medinet Habu.” He gestured. “I thought we might go home by way of Deir el Medina, have a look round, see what -”

“Not today, Emerson.” I knew Emerson’s little “look round” and “mile or so.” The first could take up to three hours, the second might be two miles or more. I continued somewhat acrimoniously, “Why didn’t we take this path when we went out? We could have brought the horses as far as Medinet Habu at least.”

“Faster the other way.” Emerson rubbed his chin and gave me a puzzled look. “You aren’t tired, are you?”

“Good gracious, no,” I said, with a hollow laugh.

I must give Emerson credit; his mile or so was in fact only a little more than a mile. The path soon widened into a fairly well trafficked road and before long I saw the towering pylons of the temple of Ramses III. We were passing the gateway when a man emerged. He gave a start of surprise and came toward us.

“Stop, Emerson,” I ordered. “There is Cyrus.”

Emerson had seen him, of course. He had hoped he would not, but he was fairly caught. As Cyrus came hurrying up, Emerson burst into speech.

“Still here? I was under the impression you left off at midday. I commend your ambition. I – er -”

“I took your little lecture to heart,” Cyrus said. His voice had its usual soft drawl, but his expression was neither soft nor welcoming. “Gol-durn you, Emerson, where’ve you been? Not at Deir el Medina, where you’re supposed to be; you’re coming from the wrong direction. Did you have the consarned audacity to warn me away from those queens’ tombs and then go looking for them yourself, behind my back?”

The rest of the men had come straggling out of the temple, followed by Abu and Bertie. The latter immediately hastened toward us. Abu took one look at the flushed countenance of Emerson and the scowling countenance of his employer, and discreetly vanished.

“Good evening,” Bertie said, removing his pith helmet. In the heat of exasperation Cyrus had, for once, neglected to do this. He remedied the omission at once and gave me a rather sheepish look.

“I beg your pardon, Amelia, and yours, Nefret. Guess I shouldn’t have got so riled up.”

“Riled up?” Bertie repeated. The Americanism sounded odd in his diffident, educated English voice. “What about? Is something the matter?”

“No,” Ramses said, as Nefret acknowledged Cyrus’s apology with a smile. “Two such old friends as Cyrus and my father would never have a serious falling-out about a trivial matter.”

Emerson grinned and fumbled in his pockets. Any other man would have been searching for a handkerchief, to wipe the perspiration from his face, but Emerson never feels the heat and he can never find his handkerchief anyhow. Taking out his pipe, he studied it with great satisfaction and began another search for his tobacco pouch.

“Don’t do that now, Emerson,” I ordered. “We must be getting home.”

“May as well have the matter out,” Emerson said. “Vandergelt has some justice on his side. Perhaps I should explain that we were not looking for new tombs, only investigating that of the princesses.”