Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (113 page)

‘I am coming up, Peabody,’ he shouted.

‘Just a moment, Emerson.’ I sat down on the door with my back against the loosened block and my feet braced against the opposite wall. ‘Ramses,’ I said. ‘Proceed along the passage, around the next corner.’

I fully expected another of those eternal ‘But, Mama’s.’ Instead Ramses said quietly, ‘Very well,’ and went trotting off. I waited until he was out of sight and then called to Emerson to proceed.

The ensuing moments were not among the most comfortable I have undergone. As I had feared, Emerson’s tugging and jerking of the rope had a deleterious effect on the block that held it, and though I pressed against the stone with every ounce of strength I possessed, it outweighed me by some six hundred pounds. The cursed thing gave a centimetre or so every time Emerson’s hands took a fresh hold on the rope, and it made an obscene groaning sound as it rubbed against the adjoining surface. The softest, gentlest touch on my hand, which was pressed against the floor, almost brought a cry to my lips – but, I hope I need not add, that cry was suppressed before it found utterance. The touch was that of sand – the crumbled substance of ancient mud brick – trickling slowly and horribly from the widening crack.

It seemed hours before I finally saw his shaggy, slime-smeared head appear at the opening. By that time the pressure of the stone against my back had raised my knees to an acute angle from the floor. I was afraid to speak aloud; it seemed as if the slightest vibration would push the block past the delicate point on which it hung balanced.

‘Emerson,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t delay an instant, but follow me. On hands and knees, if you please, and with the most felicitous combination of speed and delicacy of movement.’

Once again I had reason to bless the unity of spirit that binds my husband and me. Without question he at once obeyed. I abandoned my strained position and with aching back and pounding heart crawled ahead of him down the passage. When we turned the corner and reached the place where Ramses was waiting, I felt it was safe to stop for a brief rest.

If this were a sensational novel instead of an autobiography, I would report that the wall collapsed just as we scrambled to safety. However, it did not. I remain convinced that the peril was imminent, despite the assurances of those who examined the spot later and insisted that the stone would have moved no farther.

But to resume. Like the preceding section, this part of the passageway was lined with blocks of limestone. It was barely four feet high. Even Ramses had to duck his head. I wiped my bleeding hands on my trousers, tucked my shirtwaist in, and tidied my hair, which had been sadly disarranged. ‘Lead on, Ramses,’ I said. ‘That is – are you fully recovered, Emerson?’

‘I may never fully recover,’ said Emerson, still prone. ‘But I am ready to go on. First let me retrieve the rope. We may need it.’

‘No! We must do without the rope, Emerson. It is a miracle the wall has not collapsed. I won’t let you go back there.’

‘A rope will not be required,’ said Ramses. ‘At least … I hope it will not.’

With that doubtful assurance we had to be content.

There were several places in which we might have made good use of a rope, for the ancient architects had used every trick they could think of to foil grave robbers, from gaping pits in the floor to concealed entrances high in the walls. Fortunately for us, the long-dead thieves had been shrewder than the architects. I never believed I would think kindly of these ghouls who had looted the treasures buried with the pharaohs, foiling modern archaeologists in their quest for knowledge; but as I scrambled around a huge portcullis stone, through the narrow tunnel dug by the invaders of the pyramid, I blessed their greedy and ambitious souls.

I also blessed Ramses’ uncanny sense of direction. The maze-like corridors and chambers turned and twisted, some ending in blind alleys, but he led us unerringly towards his goal. ‘I believe we can assume that these complex substructures are typical of Twelfth Dynasty pyramids,’ I remarked to Emerson, as we crawled along single-file. ‘This example resembles the one at Hawara that Petrie explored in ’87.’

‘It seems a reasonable assumption,’ was the reply. ‘I suspect our pyramid is of the same period, so it will probably have a similar substructure. A pity we have not been able to find an inscription naming the pharaoh for whom it was built.’

‘We may yet find it, Emerson. I think this must be earlier than ours. It is more sturdily built – ’

At this point I was struck smartly on the head by a mass of mixed mud brick and sand falling from a gap in the ceiling and had to save my breath for moving more rapidly. Emerson also quickened his pace, and we did not resume our conversation until we had gone a little distance.

It may seem strange to some that we should carry on a scholarly discussion at a time when our sole preoccupation should have been bent towards escape from deadly peril. Yet the act of crawling does not in itself engage all the critical faculties, and what better way to pass the time than in conversation? Archaeological passion burns brightly in our family, thank heaven, and I sincerely trust that my penultimate breath will be employed in speculating on the latest Egyptological theories. The ultimate breath, I hardly need say, will be reserved for the affectionate descendants who stand by my couch.

The fall of rubble that raised another lump on my aching head was not the only such peril we had to contend with. In several places the stone lining of the corridor had given way. One place was almost completely blocked, with only a narrow tunnel through at one side of the fallen stones. Ramses became very quiet at this point – he had been lecturing us about the construction of Middle Kingdom pyramids – and looked even more enigmatic than usual as we carefully widened the tunnel to permit our larger bodies to pass. I said nothing; I had determined to reserve my remarks on his mendacious behaviour until after the other criminals had been dealt with.

Except for such occurrences and Ramses’ falling into a pit (from which Emerson drew him up by means of my waist flannel – proving once again the usefulness of this article of dress), we had no real difficulty until we reached the end of our underground journey. A long, straight passageway led into a sizable chamber cut in the rock. It, too, had been robbed in antiquity (at least I assumed so at the time); for it contained nothing but an empty stone sarcophagus. Here at last we were able to stand upright, and Ramses directed Emerson to hold his candle up towards the roof.

One of the stones was missing. ‘It is de opening of de shaft from de surface,’ said Ramses. ‘De depth is not great – twelve feet eight inches, to be precise. My only concern is dat de stone I placed atop de surface opening of de shaft may be too heavy for Papa to move. It took bot’ Selim and Hassan to put it dere.’

I promised myself an interview with Selim and Hassan later. ‘What do you think, Emerson?’ I asked.

Emerson’s fingers rasped across his unshaven chin. ‘I can but try, Peabody. After all we have been through I don’t mean to let a mere stone stop me.’

The shaft was so narrow he could climb by bracing his back against one side and his feet against another – chimney climbing I believe the process is called. It was an awkward position from which to exert pressure on a considerable weight, and Emerson’s grunts and groans testified to the effort he was putting forth. ‘Try sliding it to one side instead of lifting it, Emerson,’ I called.

‘What the devil do you think I am doing?’ was the reply. ‘It is hard to get a grip on the cursed thing… Ah, there. I believe – ’

His speech was interrupted by a shower of sand, some of which sprinkled my upturned face. The bulk of it, unfortunately, fell full on Emerson’s head. I have seldom heard such a rich wealth of invective, even from Emerson. ‘You should have kept your mouth closed, my dear,’ I said. ‘– – –,’ said Emerson.

‘I had to spread sand on de stone,’ Ramses explained, ‘in order to conceal de location of de – ’

A positive avalanche of sand and pebbles put an end to this inapropos remark. Emerson continued to curse inventively as he put his back into his task; no doubt mental irritability and physical discomfort gave him additional strength. At last the downpour slowed to a trickle. ‘Look out below,’ Emerson cried grittily. ‘I am coming down.’

He descended with a rush and a thud. The candle flame quivered in my hand as I contemplated him; sand coated every inch of his body, sticking to the perspiration and slimy water. From the stony mask of his face two red-rimmed eyes blazed blue sparks.

‘Oh, my dear,’ I said sympathetically. ‘Let me bathe your eyes. This little flask of water, which I always carry with me …’

Emerson’s tightly pressed lips parted. He spat out a mouthful of mud and remarked, ‘Not now, Peabody. I feel my usually equable temper beginning to fray. You first. Let me give you a hand up.’

He assisted me into the mouth of the shaft. It was not the first time in our adventures I had ascended a narrow fissure in such a fashion, but for a moment I was unable to move. A few feet above me was a square of deep-blue velvet strewn with sparkling gems. It looked so close I felt I could reach up and touch it. My shaken mind refused to recognize it for what it was – the night sky, which I had wondered if I would ever see again.

Then a querulous question from Emerson, below, reminded me of my objective, and I began my final labour. Not until I lay at full length upon the hard desert floor, with the night breeze cooling my flushed face, did I fully realize our dreadful ordeal was over.

I raised my head. Three feet away, silent in the moonlight, an amber statue sat motionless, staring at me with slitted eyes. So might the ancient goddess of love and beauty welcome a devotee after his journey through the perilous paths of the underworld.

The cat Bastet and I communed in silence. There was considerable criticism in my mind, mild curiosity in hers, to judge by the placidity of her expression. She tilted her head inquiringly. I snapped, ‘He will be with you in a moment.’

Ramses soon emerged. His fingers and toes found purchases in the stones of the shaft I had not even seen. When I dragged him out, the cat Bastet mewed and trotted to him. She began busily licking his head, spitting irritably between licks. After Emerson had pulled himself from the shaft he shook himself like a large dog. Sand flew in all directions.

The ruined mound of the Black Pyramid rose up beside us. We were on its north side. To the west, calm in the starlight, stood the silver slopes of the Bent Pyramid, with its more conventional neighbour visible farther north. Silence and peace brooded over the scene. Eastward, where the village of Menyat Dahshoor lay amid the palm groves and tilled fields, there was not a light to be seen. It must be late; but not so late as I had feared, for the eastern sky still waited in darkness for the coming of dawn.

The cat Bastet had given up her attempt to clean Ramses. She was an intelligent animal and had no doubt realized that only prolonged immersion would have the desired effect. The same had to be said about Ramses’ parents. Emerson looked like a crumbling sandstone statue, and as for myself … I decided not to think about it.

I reached for the cat. A ragged scrap of paper was still attached to her collar. ‘Half of the note is still here,’ I said. ‘It is just as well we decided not to wait to be rescued.’

‘Furder training would seem to be indicated,’ said Ramses. ‘I had only begun dis aspect of de program, since I had no reason to anticipate dat an emergency would – ’

‘We have a good three-mile walk ahead of us,’ Emerson interrupted. ‘Let us be off.’

‘Are you up to it, Emerson? We are closer to Menyat Dahshoor; perhaps we ought to arouse de Morgan and request his assistance. He could supply us with donkeys and men.’

‘Be honest, Peabody – you are no more keen than I to go crawling to de Morgan for help.’

‘But, my dear, you must be tired.’

Emerson thumped himself on the chest. ‘I have never felt better. The air is like wine, particularly after the noisome substitute for air we have been breathing. But you, my dear Peabody – perhaps you ought to go to Dahshoor. You are shivering.’

‘I will not leave you, Emerson. Where you go, I go.’

‘I expected you would say that,’ Emerson replied, his sandy mask cracking in a fond smile. ‘Excelsior, then. Ramses, put down the cat and Papa will carry you.’

The assorted bruises and aches that had stiffened as we stood talking were soon forgotten. Brisk walking warmed us and the pleasures of familial intimacy were never more keenly felt. Had I not been anxious to come to grips with the villains who had attempted to exterminate us, I might have wished that stroll to be prolonged.

Our plans were soon made. They were simple: to collect our loyal men and procure a fresh supply of firearms (my pistol, being choked with mud, was unusable) before proceeding to the village to arrest the Master Criminal.

‘We must catch him unawares,’ I said. ‘He is desperate and may be armed.’

‘He?’ Emerson said. ‘Miss Charity is not your choice for the role?’

I had had time to revise my first hasty impression, so I replied, ‘We never saw the face of the elusive figure, Emerson. Any young person, male or female, could have worn Charity’s dress, and that unfashionable bonnet concealed the person’s features as effectively as a mask could do. Nor does the message I received incriminate her, for I have never seen her handwriting. Anyone could have written that note.’

‘Not anyone, Peabody.’

‘Correct, Emerson. If the note was a forgery, as I believe, it could only have been penned by Brother Ezekiel or Brother David.’

‘Which have you settled on?’ Emerson asked.

We were now so close to concluding the case that further equivocation seemed futile. ‘Brother Ezekiel, of course,’ I said.

‘I disagree. Brother David.’

‘You only choose him because you dislike his manners.’

‘People who live in glass houses, Peabody. You have a weakness for pretty young men with smooth tongues. Whereas Brother Ezekiel – ’

‘All the clues point to him, Emerson.’

‘Quite the contrary, Peabody. They point to Brother David.’