Elizabeth Peters: The Golden One

He met the new surgeon, a stocky, gray-haired American woman, who measured him with cool brown eyes before offering a handclasp as hard as that of most men. Ramses had heard Nefret congratulating herself on finding Dr. Ferguson. There weren’t many women being trained in surgery. On the other hand, there weren’t many positions open to women surgeons. Ferguson had worked in the slums of Boston, Massachusetts, and according to Nefret she had expressed herself as more concerned with saving abused women than men who were fool enough to go out and get themselves shot. She and Sophia ought to get along.

As Ramses had rather expected, Nefret decided to spend the rest of the day at the hospital. She was in her element, with two women who shared her skills and her beliefs, and Ramses felt a faint, unreasonable stir of jealousy. He kissed her good-bye and saw her eyes widen with surprise and pleasure; as a rule he didn’t express affection in public. It had been a demonstration of possessiveness, he supposed.

Walking back toward the hotel, head bent and hands in his pockets, he examined his feelings and despised himself for selfishness. At least he hadn’t insisted she wait for him to escort her back to the hotel. She’d have resented that. No one in el-Wasa would have dared lay a hand on her, but it made him sick to think of her walking alone through those noisome alleys, at a time of day when the houses would be opening for business and the women would be screaming obscene invitations at the men who leered at them through the open windows.

His parents were already at the hotel, and when he saw what his mother had found that morning, he forgot his grievances for a while. The little ointment jar was in almost perfect condition, and he was inclined to agree with her that the scraps of jewelry – beads, half of a gold-hinged bracelet, and an exquisitely inlaid uraeus serpent – had come from the same Eighteenth Dynasty tomb Cyrus had told them about.

“Aslimi claimed the seller was unknown to him?” he asked. “That’s rather odd. He has his usual sources and would surely be suspicious of strangers.”

“Aslimi would not dare lie to me ,” his mother declared. She gave her husband a challenging glance. Emerson did not venture to contradict her. He had something else on his mind.

“Er – I trust you and Nefret have given up the idea of visiting the coffeeshops?”

“I wasn’t keen on the idea in the first place,” Ramses said.

“Well. No need for such an expedition now; your mother questioned the dealers and none of them had heard of the Master’s return. Be ready to take the train tomorrow, eh?”

“That depends on Nefret. She may not want to leave so soon.”

“Oh. Yes, quite. Is she still at the hospital? You arranged to fetch her home, I presume.”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

Emerson’s brows drew together, but before he could comment his wife said, “Is there something unusual about that ointment jar, Ramses?”

He had been holding it, turning it in his hands, running his fingers along the curved sides. He gave her a smile that acknowledged both her tactful intervention and her perceptiveness. “There’s a rough section, here on the shoulder. The rest of it is as smooth as satin.”

“Let me see.” Emerson took it from him and carried it to the window, where the light was stronger. “By Gad, you’re right,” he said, in obvious chagrin. “Don’t know how I could have missed it. Something has been rubbed off. A name? An inscription?”

“The space is about the right size for a cartouche,” Ramses said.

“Can you see anything?”

“A few vague scratches.” Direct sunlight shimmered in the depths of the pale translucent stone. “It looks as if someone has carefully removed the owner’s name.”

“Not the thief, surely,” his mother said, squinting at the pot. “An inscribed piece would bring a higher price.”

“True.” Emerson rubbed his chin. “Well, we’ve seen such things before. An enemy, wishing to condemn the owner to the final death that befalls the nameless, or an ancient thief, who intended to replace the name with his own and never got round to it.”

Having settled the matter to his satisfaction, he was free to worry about Nefret. He didn’t criticize Ramses aloud, but he kept looking at his watch and muttering. Fortunately she returned before Emerson got too worked up.

“I hope I’m not late for tea,” she said breezily. “Have I time to change?”

“You had better,” Ramses said, inspecting her. Not even Nefret could pass through the streets of el-Wasa without carrying away some of its atmosphere. “How did it go?”

“Just fine. I’ll tell you about it later.”

She rather monopolized the conversation at tea, which they took on the terrace. Even Sennia found it difficult to get a word in.

I could tell Ramses was perturbed about something and I suspected it had to do with the hospital; yet nothing Nefret said indicated that she was unhappy about the arrangements. Unlike my son, Nefret does not conceal her feelings. Her eyes shone and her cheeks were prettily flushed as she talked, and when Sennia said pensively, “I would like to come and help you take care of the sick ladies, Aunt Nefret,” she laughed and patted the child’s cheek.

“Someday, Little Bird. When you are older.”

“Tomorrow I will be older,” Sennia pointed out.

“Not old enough,” Emerson said, trying to conceal his consternation. “Anyhow, we must be on our way to Luxor shortly. Nefret, when can you be ready?”

“Not tomorrow, Father. Perhaps the following day.”

She went on to explain that she had arranged to dine with Dr. Sophia and the new surgeon, Miss Ferguson. A flicker of emotion crossed my son’s enigmatic countenance when she indicated she would like him to be present. He nodded in mute acquiescence, but Emerson firmly declined the invitation. The idea of spending the evening with three such determined ladies, discussing loathsome diseases and gruesome injuries, did not greatly appeal to him.

So we had an early dinner with Sennia, which pleased her a great deal. It did not please Horus, who had to be shut in Sennia’s room, where (as I was later informed by the sufragi) he howled like a jackal the entire time. As we left the dining saloon, we were hailed by an individual I recognized as the apple-cheeked gentleman who had been one of our fellow passengers. His wife was even more resplendent in jewels and satin. Sennia would have stopped, but Emerson hustled her on past, and the gentleman, encumbered by the large menu and even larger napkin, was not quick enough to intercept us.

“Curse it,” said my spouse, “who are those people? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

After returning Sennia to Basima, who had taken refuge from Horus in the servants’ dining hall, I settled down with a nice book – but I kept an eye on Emerson. I can always tell when he is up to something. Sure enough, after pretending to read for fifteen minutes, he got up and declared his intention of taking a little stroll.

“Don’t disturb yourself, my dear,” he said. “You look very comfortable.”

And out he went, without giving me time to reply.

I waited a quarter of an hour before closing my book. A further delay ensued when I attempted to get out of my evening frock, which buttoned down the back; however, I was not in a hurry. I knew where Emerson was going, and I fancied it would take him a while to get there. After squirming out of the garment I assumed my working costume of trousers, boots, and amply pocketed coat, took up my parasol, left the hotel, and hailed a cab.

I assumed Emerson would have gone on foot and kept a sharp eye out for that unmistakable form, but there was no sign of him. When we reached the Khan el Khalili I told the driver to wait and plunged into the narrow lanes of the suk.