“He did not have to say. One death may be an accident, but two is a warning. Jamil had threatened them. They laughed.” He shrugged, spreading his hands wide. “They are not laughing now.”

“Ah,” said Emerson. “There would be a reward for the man who told us where the boy is hiding.”

“A large reward?” The fellow thought it over and shrugged again. “Money is of no use to a dead man, Father of Curses.”

“Quite a philosopher, isn’t he?” Emerson remarked in English. He dropped a few more coins into the leathery brown palm and turned away.

The interview had taken place on the street, if it could be called that; in contrast to the ancient workmen’s village, with its gridlike plan, the houses of Sheikh el Gurneh had been fitted into whatever space was available – along the slopes of the hill, around the tombs of the nobles of the Empire. Some of the less important, uninscribed tombs were occupied; the forecourt, where offerings had been made to the honored dead, now served the ignominious role of stables for the beasts of the tomb dwellers. In front of many of these tomb-caves stood cylindrical mud-brick structures like giant mushrooms with their edges turned up. They served the double purpose of granaries and sleeping quarters. The hollow on top is safe from scorpions, and there are even egg-cup-shaped projections along the rim to hold water jars – an interesting and unusual adaptation to local conditions, which I mention for the edification of the Reader.

After he had gone a few feet, Emerson stopped. “Mohammed can’t have got the note directly from Jamil.”

I might have accused him, as he often accuses me, of jumping to conclusions, but in this case I had to agree. “I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted handsomely. “It does seem unlikely that Jamil would show his face openly in the village or risk betrayal by a man he had threatened.”

“But he might have come secretly, by night, to a house where at least one person was likely to welcome him,” Emerson said.

A brief, rather awkward silence followed. Jumana had stuck close by me; she was obviously uncomfortable in the village of her birth. How could she be otherwise, dressed as she was, the object of curious and hostile glances, especially from the older women?

“Is it my father you mean?” she asked.

“Yes,” Emerson admitted. “How does he feel about Jamil?”

“I have not spoken to my father since he told me to leave his house and never come back.”

There was not much anyone could say to that. Her hard, cold voice told me that even an expression of regret would be unwelcome.

“I meant to call on Yusuf before this,” I said. “Shall we go round to see him now?”

Emerson took out his watch, looked at it, groaned, and said, “We are already late.”

“Supposing you go on, then,” I said. “You and Jumana. Nefret and I will inquire after his health and offer our medical skills. Ramses will go with us. No, Emerson, I really believe that is the best course. You would go thundering into the house and bully the old man until he confessed to anything and everything. My methods of interrogation -”

“I know what they are like,” said Emerson, eyeing my parasol, which I had been using as a walking stick. “Oh, very well.”

He stalked off. Jumana shot me a grateful look and trotted after Emerson. The rest of us went on up the hillside toward Yusuf’s house, which was one of the finest in the village, and as we wended a tortuous path round granaries, walls, and rubbish heaps, I could not help thinking what an admirable place this would be for hide-and-go-seek – or for a fugitive who knew every turn of the path and every concealed tomb entrance.

Our arrival was not unheralded; we were trailed by a number of the curious, some of whom ran on ahead to announce we were coming, so that when we reached the courtyard in front of the house the entire household was waiting to greet us. Most of them were women and children; the men, skilled workers like the majority of Abdullah’s kinsmen, had been employed by us or by Cyrus.

Courtesy demanded that we accept refreshments, and it was necessary to go through the formal rituals of greeting before I could get round to my inquiries. When I asked after Yusuf, there was no reply at first. Then Yusuf’s chief wife, Mahira – a wrinkled little old lady who looked as if a strong wind would blow her over, but whom I had seen carrying loads that would have strained my back – replied, “He is at the mosque, Sitt Hakim. He will be sorry to have missed you.”

“It is not the hour for prayer,” said Ramses.

“He is always at prayer” was the reply. “At the mosque, here, or elsewhere. Will you have more tea, Sitt?”

I made our excuses and we took our departure.

“I thought you were going to question them about Jamil,” Nefret said, as we made our way down the hill.

“It is unlikely that they know any more than we do,” I replied. “Jamil’s mother is long dead, and I fancy that the mothers of Yusuf’s other sons were secretly delighted at seeing the old man’s favorite fall from grace. He wouldn’t ask any of them for help.”

“I wonder what Yusuf is praying for,” Nefret mused.

“One could hazard a guess,” Ramses said dryly. “We may be on the wrong track here, Mother. Has it struck you that neither Jamil nor Yusuf can read or write?”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure about Yusuf. Jamil gave no evidence of literacy when he was working for us. But,” Ramses admitted, “he might have had limited skills, which he was embarrassed to display because they were limited, or acquired them since.”

He cupped his hands and helped me into my saddle.

“Ah well,” I said, “we have done all we can for the moment, and speculation can get us no further. Perhaps this latest incident has finally convinced Jamil to leave Luxor.”

The more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Jamil was capable of cold-blooded murder. The attack on Nefret had not been deliberate; he had responded in sheer panic, like a cornered animal. As for the body in the tomb, there was no evidence that Jamil had been responsible, nor did we know precisely how the man had died. He might have been struck on the head or pushed over a precipice, or fallen by accident. (Though that last possibility was, in my opinion, the least likely.)

The most worrisome part of the business was Jamil’s claim that he had found another tomb – not because I believed he had, but because I feared Emerson did believe it. Jamil was a braggart and a liar, and I could think of several reasons why he might have wished to mislead us and his sister. In my opinion it would be the better part of wisdom to ignore his capering about the cliffs of the western wadis. He might be stupid enough to suppose he could frighten us off, but it was more likely that he was trying to entice us to follow him. But if he’d got in the habit of pushing people off cliffs…

As soon as we reached Deir el Medina I took Emerson aside and explained my conclusions. He listened in frowning silence, and when I went on to inform him of our failure to speak with Yusuf, he cut me off with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t suppose you would learn anything from him anyhow, Peabody. The devil with him and Jamil.”

By the end of the week we had surveyed the site and laid it out in regular grids. Emerson had of course decided to re-excavate the area our predecessor had examined, and the wisdom of his decision soon became evident. We found a number of interesting objects, including a basket of papyri. They were in wretched condition, but Ramses’s eyes lit up at the sight of them, and for several evenings he worked late in the little laboratory he had set up at the house, carefully repairing and restoring them.

Sennia had been out with us twice, and had enjoyed herself a great deal running from one person to another and “helping” them. Gargery took to his bed as soon as we returned from these excursions. I pointed out to him that there was no need for him to follow so close on her heels; the site was enclosed, dozens of people were there, and I had strictly forbidden her to climb the hills on either side.