The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense by Elizabeth Peters Page B

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