“Nor you, Peabody,” my husband added. “Stay here and – and head him off if he comes down.”
“Give me back my pistol, then,” I shouted, as he and Ramses went trotting off, accompanied by Selim. Emerson did not pause but his reply was clearly audible. “Hit him with your parasol.”
I patted Nefret on the shoulder. “Don’t be concerned, my dear. He will have taken himself off by the time they get to the top.”
“Then what is the point of their going?” Nefret demanded. “Oh, I know; it’s Father, of course. He is determined to get into that bloody damned tomb one way or another.”
“Well now, you can’t blame him,” Cyrus said. “There must be something in there the fellow doesn’t want us to find or he wouldn’t have tried to scare us off.”
“It was an afrit, a demon,” Jumana muttered, twisting her slim brown hands together.
It was not one of her better performances, but Daoud, utterly without guile himself, patted her reassuringly. “Where the Father of Curses walks, no afrit dares approach.”
“That was no afrit, it was a man, wearing some sort of mask,” Bertie said coolly. “How could he have supposed such a silly stunt would frighten us away?”
I had wondered myself.
Knowing it would be some time before Emerson finished rooting around in the disgusting tomb, I found a (comparatively) comfortable seat and invited the others to do the same. We were able to observe some of their activities, rather like spectators in the pit of a theater or opera house, but after they had descended into the cleft, all three were out of sight. We saw no one else. I had not expected we would.
When they finally rejoined us, descending by means of the rope, they were all three in an appalling state of filth. Emerson, naturally, was the worst. He had removed his coat early in the day; he was now without his shirt. I recognized this garment in the bundle he carried under one arm. The bronzed skin of his chest and back was smeared with a disgusting paste compounded of dust, perspiration, bat guano, and blood from a network of scratches and scrapes, and his hands were even nastier. He did not smell very nice.
“Good Gad, Peabody, you won’t believe what a mess they made of the place,” he exclaimed. “The floor of the burial chamber looks like a rubbish heap, with chunks of rotted wood and soggy bones mixed with bits of stone.”
He squatted and began unwrapping his bundle. Selim, who was far more fastidious in his habits than my husband, set about scrubbing his hands and arms with sand.
“If there was nothing left, what were you doing all that time?” Nefret asked, handing Ramses a dampened handkerchief.
“Taking measurements and notes.” He wiped his mouth before he went on. “Father managed to salvage a few odds and ends.”
Still squatting, Emerson studied the motley objects he had collected. They included a rim fragment from a stone vessel, scraps of gold foil, and a number of jewelry elements, beads and inlays and spacers. Rapt in contemplation of these uninspiring artifacts, he did not so much as twitch when I uncorked my bottle of alcohol and trickled the liquid down his scraped back. I honestly believe I could amputate one of Emerson’s limbs without his taking notice if he had found something of archaeological interest.
“We had some trouble getting into the descending passage,” Ramses explained. “It had been blocked with stones, and the thieves removed only enough for them to wriggle through. It was rather a tight squeeze for Father.”
“And you,” said Nefret. “At least you had sense enough to wear your coat.”
“I had writing materials and a torch in my pockets,” Ramses said. He fished a wad of crumpled paper from inside his coat.
“You can work up your notes into a detailed plan tonight,” said Emerson, without looking up. “Curse it, Peabody, what are you doing?”
“You have scratches all over your chest too,” I said. “Lean back.”
“Not a scrap of organic material survived,” Emerson grumbled. “Wood, mummy wrappings, bones – Ouch.”
“I doubt that even we could have preserved the coffins or the mummies,” Ramses said.
“We could have tried,” Emerson muttered. “Damn the bastards! Who knows how much historical data was lost through their carelessness?”
“The damage is done, and regret is the most futile of all emotions,” I said.
“No, it damned well is not,” Emerson snarled. “Don’t quote aphorisms at me.”
“What, in your opinion -”
“Mother,” said Nefret, gently but firmly, “you and Father can argue about aphorisms all the way home if you like. I think we should start back.”
“A very sensible suggestion, my dear,” I replied. I could see she was itching to get Ramses home so she could clean him up and disinfect the abrasions that marked his hands and face. “Emerson, give me my pistol back.”
“Not on your life, Peabody. If any shooting is required, I will do it.”
None was required, though we kept a sharp lookout along the way. As the sun sank lower, the shadows lengthened, affording some relief from the heat but, as I was uneasily aware, offering greater possibilities of concealment for a following foe. We reached the place where the horses were waiting without incident, however, and started on the homeward path. Daoud walked beside Jumana, talking nonstop in an effort to cheer her up. Like the rest of us, Selim was not so charitably inclined toward the girl.
“She knows where he is,” he muttered. “She must be made to tell us.”
“Give her a little time,” Emerson said.
Selim’s eyes were as hard as obsidian. “Jamil has disgraced the family. It is a matter of honor.”
Oh dear, oh dear, I thought – more trouble! Men have very odd definitions of honor, and even odder notions of what to do about it. To all intents and purposes Selim was the head of the family, as his father had been. Yusuf was too old and vacillating to play the role that was nominally his. If Selim spoke for the family and they were of the same mind… They would be, of course. The men, at any rate.
“Selim, we don’t know that that was Jamil,” I said. “In fact, we don’t know that he has committed any criminal act except rob a few tombs. I doubt any court would bother prosecuting him for that. Everybody in Gurneh does it.”
“Not our family,” said Selim, displaying his teeth. “My father -”
“I know what Abdullah would have done,” Emerson broke in. “I promise you, family honor will be satisfied. If Jamil has a scrap of sense he will come to me and I will give him a chance to redeem himself. The Father of Curses does not break his word!”
“You needn’t shout, Emerson,” I exclaimed.
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “Confound it,” he added petulantly, “I have wasted too much time on this foolery. We will start work at Deir el Medina tomorrow.”
Dinner was a trifle late that evening, since Emerson was determined to stow his bits and pieces away before he bathed. They looked rather pitiful on the shelves of our storage room – the only artifacts we had discovered thus far. Emerson was pleased with them, however, and could talk of nothing else all through dinner. The meal was excellent. We had a new chef, Maaman, one of Fatima ’s cousins; our old cook, Mahmud, had been persuaded to retire. For years he had punished us for coming late to meals by scorching the soup and letting the beef dry out.
After dinner, when we had retired to the parlor, and Jumana had gone to her room to study, I managed to get Emerson off the subject of archaeology. “I hope you convinced Selim that he must leave Jamil to us. If he and the other men injured the boy, it would split the family apart. Not all of them take the matter as seriously as Selim does; some may even sympathize with Jamil.”
“Why do you suppose I was talking so loudly to Selim? I wanted the others, especially Jumana, to overhear. The boy has done nothing except bully his sister and play the fool – if it was he we saw. We don’t know that. We don’t know that he killed that fellow, or even that murder was committed! It may have been an accident, or self-defense. These beggars squabble constantly amongst themselves. All we know for certain is that some person unknown placed the body in position, possibly as a warning or a threat, possibly only to hide it.”