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‘What have you got there?’
    ‘Don’t unwrap them here,’ I cautioned, for Emerson was, in his impetuous fashion, tugging at the strings. ‘While you were wasting your time debating theology, I went
about the business for which we came to the Khan. Aslimi showed me some remarkable things, Emerson. He told me he had never known the supply of merchandise to be so great. He is getting objects
from all over Egypt, including Luxor.’
    ‘What the devil!’ Emerson came to a dead stop in the middle of the road. He began to unwrap the largest parcel, ignoring the camel advancing ponderously towards him. The driver,
recognizing Emerson, managed to stop the recalcitrant animal before it ran into my equally recalcitrant spouse. He turned an outraged glare on the camel, which responded with its usual look of
utter disgust. I stifled my laughter, for Emerson would not have found anything amusing about his attempt to stare down a camel.
    Somehow the driver got the beast past Emerson, who had not stirred an inch. I took the parcel from him.
    ‘It is not like you to be so careless, Emerson,’ I said severely. ‘Careless with antiquities, I mean. Come out of the middle of the road and let me undo the wrappings enough to
give you a peep.’
    Care was necessary, since there were two objects in the wrappings, both of them breakable – or at least, chippable. The one I showed Emerson was an alabaster disc with a thin band of gold
around the rim.
    ‘No hieroglyphs,’ he muttered. ‘Beautiful piece of work, though. It’s the lid of a pot or jar.’
    ‘A very expensive pot,’ I amended. ‘I have the pot as well – an exquisitely shaped alabaster container, most probably for cosmetics. Now shall we go back to the hotel
where we can examine it in private?’
    ‘Hmmm, yes, certainly.’ Emerson watched me rewrap the lid. ‘I beg your pardon, my dear. You were quite right to scold me. What else have you got?’
    ‘Nothing so exciting as the cosmetic jar,’ I said, ‘but I believe they are all from the same tomb – the one Cyrus told us about.’
    ‘So Mohassib didn’t get everything.’ Emerson strode along beside me, his hands in his pockets. ‘How did Aslimi come by these?’
    ‘Not from Sethos.’
    ‘You asked him point-blank, I suppose,’ Emerson grumbled. ‘Aslimi is a congenital liar, Peabody. How do you know he was telling you the truth?’
    ‘He turned pea-green at the very mention of “the Master”. It would have been rather amusing if he had not been in such a state of abject terror; he kept wringing his hands and
saying, “But he is dead. He is dead, surely. Tell me he is really dead this time, Sitt!” ’
    ‘Hmmm,’ said Emerson.
    ‘Now don’t get any ideas about pretending you are “the Master”, Emerson.’
    ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t,’ said Emerson sulkily. ‘You are always telling me I cannot disguise myself effectively. It is cursed insulting. So – from whom
did Aslimi acquire these objects?’
    ‘He claimed the man was someone he’d never seen before.’
    ‘I trust you extracted a description?’
    ‘Certainly. Tall, heavyset, black beard and mustache.’
    ‘That’s no help. Even if it was true.’
    ‘Aslimi would not lie to me . Emerson, please don’t walk so fast.’
    ‘Ha,’ said Emerson. But he slowed his steps and gave me his arm. We had emerged onto the Muski, with its roaring traffic and European shops. ‘We’ll just have time to tidy
up before luncheon,’ he added. ‘Do you suppose the children are back?’
    ‘One never knows. I only hope they haven’t got themselves in trouble.’
    ‘Why should you suppose that?’
    ‘They usually do.’
    From Manuscript H
    The infamous Red Blind district of Cairo was centred in an area embarrassingly close to the Ezbekieh and the luxury hotels. In the brothels of el-Wasa, Egyptian, Nubian, and
    Sudanese women plied their trade under conditions of abject squalor. In theory they were under government medical