“She refused to elaborate, which was suspicious in itself.” I paused to think as I gazed at the exquisite hues of the sunset reflecting in the distance of the Western Desert. “I told her to come to the site tomorrow morning so that I can advise her about retrieving von Raubritter’s body in Minya and arranging for its return to Germany for a proper burial. I presume she will need to communicate with Mr. Russell, the Deutsche Orient-Gesellschaft, and the German embassy.”

Emerson grimaced. “Paperwork and bureaucrats be damned! It may take weeks before his body can be transported. I hope you do not intend to accompany her on her thankless tasks, Peabody. I need you here to offer your expertise. Furthermore, two of the Godwin brothers may be skulking nearby, waiting for the opportunity to cause you grief. I cannot allow that to happen. I would be forever lost without you to scold me, laugh at me, argue with me, and . . . and see to my shirts,” finished my spouse, who was not given to verbal displays of emotion.

I was inundated with warmth as we regarded each other. I had formulated a response when a voice from below interrupted us.

“Ahoy!” called Miss Smith. “May we come aboard?”

Ignoring an exasperated grunt from Emerson, I stood up and peered over the railing. “Please do,” I called in a falsely jolly fashion, “and you, too, Mr. Dullard. We shall come down at once and escort you to the salon for an aperitif.”

In spite of my assertion that we did not dress elaborately for dinner, Miss Smith wore a daring red silk gown and numerous strands of pearls. Her makeup had been applied with a heavier hand than usual; the pink circles on her cheeks clashed with her scarlet lips. Had I not known she was an author, I might have ascribed to her a less savory profession. In contrast, Mr. Dullard’s brown suit and necktie were decidedly dull. He had trimmed his hair and beard, but the overall transformation was negligible. Not even Meryma’at, the Eighteenth Dynasty barber of the Temple of Amun, could have triumphed over such a copious quantity of hair. I caught myself speculating if Mr. Dullard could hear it grow in the night. I could not repress a shudder of revulsion, but sternly reminded myself that he was the victim of a genetic malfunction.

“So kind of you to invite me,” he squeaked.