Children of the Storm (4 page)

Bertie had never spoken of his attachment to the girl, but it was clear to a student of human nature like myself. I doubted it would come to anything; Jumana was intent on her career, and shy, amiable Bertie was not the man, in my opinion, to sweep any girl off her feet. If only she weren’t so confounded attractive! Men may claim they look for intelligence and moral worth in a wife, but I have observed that when they must choose between a brainless beauty and a woman of admirable character and plain face, the beauty wins most of the time.

“M. Lacau has not yet arrived?” I inquired, taking the chair Cyrus held for me.

“No.” Cyrus tugged at his goatee. “I wish he’d come so we could get this over with. I’m so consarned nervous—”

“He may not make his final decision this evening, Cyrus.”

“He cannot make a fair judgment, for I have not yet begun restoring the second robe. It will be magnifico, I promise.”

The speaker came forward, bowing and smiling a tight-lipped smile. He smiled a great deal, but without showing his teeth, which were, I had once observed, chipped and stained. He claimed to be Italian, though his graying fair hair and hazel eyes were atypical of that nation, and considered himself something of a ladies’ man, though his short stature and lumpish features were not prepossessing. He was, however, one of the most talented restorers I had ever encountered, and putting up with his gallantries was a small price to pay for his services (not the only price, either, for Cyrus paid him extravagantly).

I permitted him to kiss my hand (and then wiped it unobtrusively on my skirt).

“Good evening, Signor Martinelli,” I said. “So it will be your fault if M. Lacau takes everything for the museum?”

“Ah, Mrs. Emerson, you make a joke!” He laughed, turning his head aside, and reached for another of the cigarettes he smoked incessantly. “You permit?”

I could hardly object, since Emerson had taken out his pipe and Cyrus had lit a cheroot. Martinelli went on without waiting for a reply. “I may claim, I believe, to have done a job of work no one else could have accomplished. It would make my reputation had it not already been made. But if Lacau had had the patience to wait another week, he would have seen the finish.”

“So soon as that?” I inquired.

“Yes, yes, I must finish soon. I have other engagements, you know.”

He winked and smirked at me through the cloud of smoke. Another of his vexatious habits was to refer frequently if obliquely to a subject we never discussed, even among ourselves—namely, the fact that Martinelli had been for years in the employment of the world’s most formidable thief of antiquities, who also happened to be Emerson’s half-brother. It was Sethos, to use only one of his many aliases, who had recommended Martinelli. I had every reason to believe my brother-in-law was now a reformed character, but I didn’t count on it, and I certainly did not want to discuss his criminal past in the presence of persons who were only slightly acquainted with it. So I did not ask Signor Martinelli about the nature of those other “engagements,” though I would have given a great deal to find out.

Before Martinelli could go on teasing me, the servant announced M. Lacau. The enthusiasm with which he was greeted obviously pleased him, though a twinkle in his eye indicated he was not entirely unaware of ulterior motives.

Lacau was at that time in his late forties, but his beard was already white. Although he had been appointed in 1914 to the post which was traditionally the perquisite of a native of France, he had spent a good part of the past five years in war work. No one questioned his fitness for the position, but his patriarchal appearance was not the only reason why he had acquired the nickname of “God the Father.” He had already dropped a few ominous hints that he was considering toughening the laws about the disposal of antiquities. Generally speaking, the rule was that they should be shared equally between the excavator and the Egyptian collections. The former director of the Service, M. Maspero, had been generous—excessively generous, some might say—in his divisions of artifacts. The entire contents of the tomb of the architect Kha, consisting of hundreds of objects, had been handed over to the Turin Museum. But this was a royal cache, and Lacau could legitimately claim that the objects were unique. On the other hand, there were four sets of them—coffins, canopic jars, Books of the Dead. I smiled very sweetly at M. Lacau and told him how well he was looking.

With Katherine’s assistance I managed to keep the conversation general throughout dinner. Cyrus made sure the wineglasses were kept filled and Emerson refrained from criticizing the Museum, his fellow archaeologists, and the Service. That left him with very little to say, which was all to the good. After dinner we ladies retired, a custom of which I normally disapprove but which I felt would be approved by Lacau. By the time the gentlemen joined us, even I was unable to control my impatience.

Under ordinary circumstances the artifacts would have been sent to the Museum as soon as they were stable enough to be moved. Circumstances were abnormal, however. The war had left the Museum and the Service shorthanded; Lacau had been away from Egypt a good deal of the time, and political unrest the previous winter made the transport of such valuables risky. Cyrus’s home provided the security of stout walls and well-paid guards, as well as ample space for storage and laboratory facilities. The same could not be said of the Museum, which was already overcrowded and understaffed (and I only hoped Emerson had not said so to Lacau—one may know that something is true without wishing to hear it from others).

We went at once to the storage rooms. I had seen the display before, but it never ceased to take my breath away. As it looked now, it was a far cry from the jumbled, faded, broken contents of the small chamber we (Bertie, in fact) had discovered. It was not the original tomb, or, to be more precise, tombs; not one but four of the God’s Wives had found their final resting place there. When danger threatened their burials, the essential items had been removed and hidden away—the mummies in their inner coffins, the canopic jars containing the viscera, and other small, portable objects of value. One of the coffins was of solid silver, the face delicately shaped and serene, framed by a heavy wig and crown. The other coffins were of wood heavily inlaid with tiny hieroglyphs and figures of deities shaped of semi-precious stone. Delicately sculptured masks of silver and gold had covered the mummies’ heads. The canopic jars, four for each princess, were of painted calcite with the sculptured heads of the four sons of Horus, each of whom guarded a particular organ of the body. Ranged along the tables like a miniature army were hundreds of ushebtis, the small servant statues which would be animated in the afterworld to work for the deceased—some of faience, some of wood, and a few of precious metal. An amazing amount of material had been crammed into that little chamber: vessels of alabaster and hard stone, silver and gold, a dozen carved and painted chests, and the contents of the latter—sandals, linen, and jewelry. Glittering gold and burnished silver, deep-blue lapis, turquoise and carnelian shone in the glow of the electric lights.

“Astonishing,” Lacau murmured. “Formidable. I commend you—all of you—on a remarkable work of restoration.”

“It did take all of us,” I said, remembering one exhausting afternoon I had spent crouched in a corner of the chamber stringing hundreds of tiny beads. They lay in the order in which they had fallen after the original cords had rotted, and by restringing them on the spot I had been able to preserve the original design. “However,” I went on, “much of the credit belongs to Signor Martinelli. And we are very grateful for the assistance with the photography given us by Mr. Burton of the Metropolitan Museum. How he inserted his cameras into that narrow space was little short of miraculous. You know, monsieur, that the entire chamber was packed full, yet he managed to get a series of overhead views before we removed anything.”

“Yes, I have spoken with him,” Lacau said, nodding. “A complex arrangement of long poles and cords and le bon Dieu only knows what else! We are deeply indebted to him and the Metropolitan Museum.”

How indebted? I wondered. Enough to allow a certain number of artifacts to go to America, through Cyrus, whose collection would eventually be left to a museum in that country?

Martinelli, who had not yet received the praise he considered his due, drew Lacau’s attention to a piece of fabric stretched out across a long table. The entire surface was covered with beads and gold sequins that sparkled in the light. A long sheet of glass, raised a foot over it by steel supports, protected it from dust and air currents.

“This is unquestionably my masterpiece,” he said without undue modesty. “It was folded several times over and the fabric was so fragile, a breath would blow it away. I stabilized each layer with a chemical of my own invention before turning it back and exposing the next. No, monsieur!” as Lacau extended his hand. “Do not touch it. I am still debating as to the best method of preserving it permanently. I am not sure that even I can render it sturdy enough to be transported.”

Lacau’s eyes rested greedily upon the garment, for that is what it was—a robe of sheer, almost transparent, linen, bordered at hem and neck with four-inch strips of elaborate beading. He would certainly claim it, for the Museum had nothing remotely like it—nor had any other museum anywhere in the world.

“Perhaps Mr. Lucas could suggest a solution,” Lacau said, adding, presumably for Martinelli’s benefit, “he is the government chemist.”

“I know who he is,” said the Italian. His disgust was so great as to cause him to bare his stained teeth. “He can teach Martinelli nothing, monsieur.”

God the Father shot him a look before which most people would have quailed, and I hastened to spread the soothing oil of tact upon the troubled waters.

“There are several similar garments, Monsieur Lacau, still folded in the chests. It took Signor Martinelli almost a month to deal with this robe. If the worst should happen, the garment can be reconstructed. We have numerous photographs, and in a few weeks we hope to have a precise colored scale drawing, of this and several other objects.”

“Made by whom?” the director inquired. “Mr. Carter?”

“David Todros. He and the rest of our family will be joining us next week, and I know he is itching to get at the job. You remember him, of course?”

“Ah, yes. The Egyptian boy who once worked for a notorious forger here in Luxor, making fake antiquities?”

“Now a trained Egyptologist and skilled artist,” said Emerson, who had controlled himself quite well up to that time, but who resented the condescension in Lacau’s voice. “He is married to my brother’s daughter, monsieur, in case that had escaped your attention.”

“You are fortunate indeed to have so many experts on your staff,” Lacau said somewhat stiffly. He turned to Ramses. “How are you getting on with the written material?”

“As you know, sir, there wasn’t much,” Ramses replied. “Only the inscriptions on the coffins and miscellaneous notations on some chests and boxes. The copies of the Book of the Dead require careful handling. I have not had the time to give them the attention they deserve.”

“The arrival of your uncle will no doubt be welcome,” Lacau said.

He was referring to Walter, but I could tell by Ramses’s involuntary start that he had been reminded of his other uncle. I only hoped to goodness that Sethos would not decide to pay us a visit. He liked to drop in without advance notice. I had not heard from him for several months, at which time he had been in Germany. I assumed he was there on behalf of the Secret Service; he had been one of Britain’s top intelligence agents since the beginning of the war and was, to the best of my knowledge, still involved in the business.

In one corner of the room, lying in simple wooden cases lined with unbleached cotton, were the owners of all that splendor. Only an individual insensitive to the mystery of death could fail to pay those shrouded forms the tribute of silent reverence. M. Lacau was unmoved.

“You removed them from the coffins,” he said, frowning.

I took it upon myself to reply to the implicit and undeserved criticism. “It was necessary, monsieur. The wood of which three of the coffins were made was dry and brittle and many of the inlays were loose. Before they could be moved they were stabilized, inside and out, with a compound of Signor Martinelli’s invention. You see the results, which are, in my opinion, quite excellent.”

“Yes, of course,” Lacau said. “I see you have resisted the temptation to unwrap the ladies,” he went on, with a nod at Nefret. “You have had, I believe, some experience.”

“She is a trained surgeon and anatomist,” I said indignantly. “No one could do a better—”

“Naturally I wouldn’t dream of touching them without your permission, Monsieur Lacau,” Nefret said quickly. “Nor in fact would I like to see it done. The wrappings are in perfect condition, and the mummies have been undisturbed since they were placed in their coffins—unlike all the other royal mummies we have. It would be a sin to rip them apart.”

“You feel strongly about this, madame,” Lacau said, stroking his beard. “But what of the ornaments, the amulets, the jewels, that are unquestionably to be found on the bodies?”

“We have many beautiful pieces of jewelry,” Nefret explained. “We don’t know what condition the mummies themselves are in, or what lies under those bandages. In the present state of our knowledge we may not be able to learn all that can be learned from those poor remains, or preserve them undamaged for future scholars whose knowledge will certainly be greater than ours.”

“A moving plea, madame,” said Lacau with a patronizing smile.

Nefret flushed but kept her temper. “What I would like to do is subject them to X-ray examination.”

“The Museum does not have the equipment.”

“But I do—that is to say, my hospital in Cairo does. Mr. Grafton Elliot Smith carried the mummy of Thutmose the Fourth to a private clinic to have it X-rayed, if you recall.”

“By cab, yes. Somewhat undignified and inconvenient.”

“We could do better than that,” Nefret said eagerly. “A proper ambulance—”