limited by the
condition of the roads and Emerson retorted that the military was using them, and that the new Ford cars had proved to perform admirably in desert terrain. Nefret and Ramses contributed very
little. To be fair, they didn’t get a chance to say much.
Cyrus’s Theban residence was called the Castle, and it well deserved the name. From certain angles it reminded me of the Mena House hotel; it was almost as large as that excellent hostelry
and had the same screened balconies attractively arranged at various levels. There was a stout wall around the entire estate; that night the heavy gates stood hospitably open, and flaming torches
lined the drive leading to the house, where Cyrus stood waiting to greet us.
He had, as promised, invited no other guests. I asked after William Amherst, who had worked for Cyrus the previous year, and was told that he had left.
‘Finally wangled his way into the army,’ Cyrus said rather enviously. ‘Some kind of office job. Leaves me confounded shorthanded,’ he added. ‘But Abu is a good
reis, and Bertie’s filling in real well.’
Katherine gave her son a fond look. She had grown a touch stouter, but the additional weight was, in my opinion, quite becoming. She wore a long loose gown in the Egyptian style and an emerald
necklace that matched her eyes. Now that she was freed from worry about her son, who had been severely wounded in action the past year, her face had lost its haggard look and once again she
resembled the pleasant, plump-cheeked tabby cat of which she had reminded me at our first meeting.
Bertie was looking well too. He had taken up the study of Egyptology, partly to please his stepfather, but primarily to win favour with Jumana, and there is nothing like the vigorous pursuit of
archaeology to give an individual healthy colour and a sturdy frame. I did notice, when he advanced to greet me, that one leg still dragged a little. I had hoped that time would bring about a
complete cure. Evidently it had not. Ah well, I thought, it will keep him from going back into the military.
The only other person present was Jumana, who sat as still as a little mouse until Emerson went to her. Everyone was talking and laughing; I believe I was the only one who heard what he said to
her.
‘You did the right thing, child. The matter is in my hands now, and there is nothing to worry about.’
I could only hope he was right.
It wasn’t long before Cyrus turned the conversation to the subject that had obviously become an idée fixe. ‘I want a crack at that treasure,’ he declared.
‘Emerson, you’re gonna have to help me with Mohassib.’
Ramses glanced at me. His dark brows tilted in an expression of amused scepticism, and I intervened before Emerson could answer.
‘Now, Cyrus, you know perfectly well that Emerson is the last person in whom Mohassib would confide. Emerson has told him only too often and only too profanely what he thinks of dealers in
antiquities. I would like to hear more about the business. How was the tomb found, has it been investigated, why hasn’t the Service des Antiquités taken steps?’
That ought to keep Emerson quiet for a while, I thought complacently.
Nothing loath, Cyrus launched into a tale that was even more bizarre than the usual stories of such discoveries – and that, I assure you, Reader, is saying a good deal.
It does not often rain in Luxor, but when it does, the storms are severe. One such storm had struck the previous summer, washing away houses and cutting deep channels through the land. The canny
thieves of Luxor knew that such downpours were more effective than excavation in removing accumulated debris and, perhaps, exposing tomb entrances. Scrambling around the cliffs, they had found a
place where a stream of falling water disappeared into a crevice and then came out again, forty feet away.
What they saw when they squirmed through the choked passageway into the tomb chamber must have left even those
condition of the roads and Emerson retorted that the military was using them, and that the new Ford cars had proved to perform admirably in desert terrain. Nefret and Ramses contributed very
little. To be fair, they didn’t get a chance to say much.
Cyrus’s Theban residence was called the Castle, and it well deserved the name. From certain angles it reminded me of the Mena House hotel; it was almost as large as that excellent hostelry
and had the same screened balconies attractively arranged at various levels. There was a stout wall around the entire estate; that night the heavy gates stood hospitably open, and flaming torches
lined the drive leading to the house, where Cyrus stood waiting to greet us.
He had, as promised, invited no other guests. I asked after William Amherst, who had worked for Cyrus the previous year, and was told that he had left.
‘Finally wangled his way into the army,’ Cyrus said rather enviously. ‘Some kind of office job. Leaves me confounded shorthanded,’ he added. ‘But Abu is a good
reis, and Bertie’s filling in real well.’
Katherine gave her son a fond look. She had grown a touch stouter, but the additional weight was, in my opinion, quite becoming. She wore a long loose gown in the Egyptian style and an emerald
necklace that matched her eyes. Now that she was freed from worry about her son, who had been severely wounded in action the past year, her face had lost its haggard look and once again she
resembled the pleasant, plump-cheeked tabby cat of which she had reminded me at our first meeting.
Bertie was looking well too. He had taken up the study of Egyptology, partly to please his stepfather, but primarily to win favour with Jumana, and there is nothing like the vigorous pursuit of
archaeology to give an individual healthy colour and a sturdy frame. I did notice, when he advanced to greet me, that one leg still dragged a little. I had hoped that time would bring about a
complete cure. Evidently it had not. Ah well, I thought, it will keep him from going back into the military.
The only other person present was Jumana, who sat as still as a little mouse until Emerson went to her. Everyone was talking and laughing; I believe I was the only one who heard what he said to
her.
‘You did the right thing, child. The matter is in my hands now, and there is nothing to worry about.’
I could only hope he was right.
It wasn’t long before Cyrus turned the conversation to the subject that had obviously become an idée fixe. ‘I want a crack at that treasure,’ he declared.
‘Emerson, you’re gonna have to help me with Mohassib.’
Ramses glanced at me. His dark brows tilted in an expression of amused scepticism, and I intervened before Emerson could answer.
‘Now, Cyrus, you know perfectly well that Emerson is the last person in whom Mohassib would confide. Emerson has told him only too often and only too profanely what he thinks of dealers in
antiquities. I would like to hear more about the business. How was the tomb found, has it been investigated, why hasn’t the Service des Antiquités taken steps?’
That ought to keep Emerson quiet for a while, I thought complacently.
Nothing loath, Cyrus launched into a tale that was even more bizarre than the usual stories of such discoveries – and that, I assure you, Reader, is saying a good deal.
It does not often rain in Luxor, but when it does, the storms are severe. One such storm had struck the previous summer, washing away houses and cutting deep channels through the land. The canny
thieves of Luxor knew that such downpours were more effective than excavation in removing accumulated debris and, perhaps, exposing tomb entrances. Scrambling around the cliffs, they had found a
place where a stream of falling water disappeared into a crevice and then came out again, forty feet away.
What they saw when they squirmed through the choked passageway into the tomb chamber must have left even those
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