The Curse of the Pharaohs (Amelia Peabody, #2)

by Elizabeth Peters

Initially Sir Harold had threatened to take Emerson to law. He was prevented by some notion that this would be unsportsmanlike. (Seemingly no such stigma applied to the pursuit of a single fox by a troop of men on horseback and a pack of dogs.)

“Ah, the mummy of Seqenenre,” I said. “Have you got as far as that?” From the small figure on the cot came a reflective voice. “It appeaws to me that he was muwduwed.” “What?” said Emerson, baffled by the last word. “Murdered,” I interpreted. “I would have to agree, Ramses; a man whose skull has been smashed by repeated blows did not die a natural death.” Sarcasm is wasted on Ramses. “I mean,” he insisted, “that it was a domestic cwime.” “Out of the question,” Emerson exclaimed. “Petrie has also put forth that absurd idea; it is impossible because—” “Enough,” I said. “It is late and Ramses should be asleep. Cook will be furious if we do not go down at once.” “Oh, very well.” Emerson bent over the cot. “Good night, my boy.” “Good night, Papa. One of the ladies of the hawem did it, I think.”