“Just one more question,” Cyrus interrupted. “You don’t have to answer it, but I’m real curious. Was that so-called beggar anybody I know?”
Caught off-guard and at a loss as to how to answer, Emerson turned for help to his wife. “You have met the gentleman,” she said smoothly.
“And he’s on our side now?”
“Oh, yes. Cyrus, would you think me rude if I asked for a whiskey and soda?”
She looked so smug, her son had to fight to keep from laughing. Trust his mother – she never lied “unless it was absolutely necessary,” and this time she had spoken the literal truth. Cyrus had been well acquainted with Sir Edward Washington, but it had not been that gentleman he meant.
Naturally, Emerson felt obliged to criticize me for encouraging Selim to tell a pack of lies and, with typical inconsistency, for telling Cyrus more than he deemed advisable. We had quite a refreshing little argument about it on the drive home. I had always felt somewhat guilty about keeping Cyrus in the dark – if he was in the dark. He was too intelligent and he knew us too well to overlook certain happenings. I had told him no more than he already suspected, and it pleased him to be taken into our confidence.
He was even happier next day, when he found a new tomb. It wasn’t much of a tomb; the offering chapel had been completely destroyed and the burial chamber was empty of all but scraps, but there were several well-preserved paintings.
“That will keep him out of mischief for a while,” remarked Emerson to me. “It will take several days to carry out a meticulous excavation and make plans. He can have Jumana to help him.”
“Kind of you,” I said. “She gets on your nerves, doesn’t she?”
“She talks too much. I almost preferred her moping. What did you do to get her out of it?”
“Nothing – unless it was that nasty medicine. I hope there is not a sinister -”
“Sinister, bah! There you go again, borrowing trouble.”
“You are right, Emerson,” I admitted. “I am so accustomed to having some worry on my mind that it is difficult to realize our enemies have been vanquished and our problems solved.”
“Except for one,” Emerson muttered. “ ‘The hand of the god.’ What god? Where?”
Sennia joined us for tea that afternoon, so full of exciting news, she neglected the biscuits. “The Great Cat of Re has caught a snake!”
We all looked at the cat, who had assumed one of those Yoga-like positions necessary for the proper cleaning of feline underparts. It looked so silly, with one leg in the air and the other behind its ear, we all burst out laughing.
“A very large snake?” Emerson inquired.
“No larger than this,” said Fatima, measuring approximately five inches with finger and thumb. “But it was still alive, Father of Curses, and I do not know whether there will be any dinner tonight, because it is still somewhere in the kitchen and Maaman says -”
“It has probably escaped long ago,” Emerson said comfortably.
“Then you tell Maaman,” said Fatima, thumping the teapot down on the table. “He says he will not cook.”
“Oh, curse it,” said Emerson. “I suppose I’ll have to do something or we won’t get any dinner.”
“Take the Great Cat of Re,” Sennia suggested.
“Not a bad idea,” said Emerson, scooping the cat up. Sennia crammed two biscuits into her mouth and went with them.
“Let’s go and watch,” Nefret suggested. “Jumana, have you ever seen the Father of Curses perform an exorcism? It will be even more entertaining if he works the cat into it.”
Jumana shuddered. “I am afraid of snakes. I hope it does not go into my room.”
I also declined the treat. I am not afraid of snakes, but I see no point in cultivating them.
One of the men had gone to the post office that morning, so there was quite a stack of letters and messages and newspapers. By the time the others came back I had had a nice leisurely time, sorting the mail and reading the more interesting missives.
“Did you find it?” I inquired.
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Emerson said. He deposited the cat on the floor, where it resumed its interrupted bath. “I hadn’t supposed we would, and was preparing an exorcism specifically designed for serpents, but the cat fished it out almost at once from behind one of the water jars. A perfectly harmless Clifford’s snake. Ramses took it outside and let it loose.”
“I told you I have been training the Great Cat of Re,” Sennia said triumphantly. “Someday it will catch an even bigger snake and save Ramses’s life at the last second.”
“Pure chance,” said Emerson – but he said it under his breath. “Anything in the post, Peabody?”
“A nice long letter from Evelyn, and one for Nefret from Lia, and one for Ramses from David…” I distributed the missives as I spoke.
“What about me?” Sennia demanded.
“Three for you.” They were from the family. They knew she loved getting mail.
“Nothing else?”
I handed Emerson the rest of his letters. “Two telegrams from Cairo. I took the liberty -”
“Yes, of course you did,” Emerson muttered. “Well, what do you think of that? Wingate and General Murray request my presence at my earliest convenience.”
“I presume it will not be convenient early or late,” I said.
Emerson emitted a wicked chuckle. “Why do you suppose I made a quick departure from Cairo? We reported to General Chetwode, handed over our prisoner, and assured him and his intelligence staff that they’d seen the last of Ismail Pasha – which is true, since Sethos won’t use that disguise again. If they have any further questions they can come to us, but they will get damned few answers. Nothing from Carter or – er -”
I shook my head. “Here is an interesting invitation, however. The Albions are giving a dinner party and dance on Friday. The honor of our presence is requested. There is a little note penned by Mrs. Albion herself, hoping that Jumana will also honor her.”
“Me?” Jumana’s eyes opened very wide.
“Her?” Emerson exclaimed. “What the devil for?”
“She is one of the family,” Nefret said. “I expect they are trying to make up for… for any inadvertent rudeness in the past.”
“They have not been rude,” Jumana said. “They sent me flowers, when I was sick.”
“They did? You didn’t tell me.”
“Many people sent me presents,” Jumana said proudly. “Bertie, and Mr. Vandergelt, and Daoud, and an American gentleman I met at Mr. Vandergelt’s party. Will we go? There will be dancing. I like to dance.”
“I believe not,” I said.
“Why not?” Emerson inquired. “It should be a – er – enjoyable outing.”
“Emerson!” I exclaimed. “What are you up to now?”
Emerson’s sapphirine-blue eyes met my own with a wholly unconvincing look of candor. “I only wish to give you pleasure, my dear. You like such things. It is the least a fellow can do.”
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Ramses knew perfectly well what his father was “up to.” Deny it as he might, he was as obsessed as Cyrus with Jamil’s tomb. In a way, Ramses couldn’t blame him. The words ran through his own head like a litany: The hand of the god. What god? Where? It was beginning to interfere with his personal life. Nefret shook him awake that night, complaining that he had been muttering the words in his sleep. “If you must talk in your sleep, you might at least mumble about me!”
After he had apologized by reciting the epithets of Hathor – “Golden One, Lady of Fragrance, Mistress of All the Gods” – and acted upon them – she settled down with her head on his shoulder and admitted she couldn’t get that enigmatic clue out of her head either.