Crocodile on the Sandbank (10 page)
Read Crocodile on the Sandbank Online
Authors: Elizabeth Peters
Tags: #Historical fiction, #Detective and mystery stories, #Mystery fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Historical, #Suspense, #Crime & mystery, #Political, #Women detectives - Egypt, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictious character), #Crime & Thriller, #Mummies, #Peabody, #Amelia (Fictitious character), #Egyptology, #Cairo (Egypt), #Mystery, #Detective, #Women detectives, #Emerson, #Radcliffe (Fictitious character), #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Archaeologists' spouses, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Egypt, #Fiction - Mystery
"No, but... Do you not think you might assume a more appropriate
costume?"
In some surprise I glanced down. I had forgotten I was wearing my
dressing gown and slippers.
"Perhaps you are right, Evelyn."
As the reader has no doubt realized, female fashion has never
interested me. However, while in London, I had learned of the Rational
Dress League, and had had a dress made in that style. It was of
slate-colored India cloth, with a plain, almost mannish bodice and a
few simple frills at the cuffs as its only ornament. But the daring
feature of this costume was the
divided
skirt.
The two legs were so
full that they resembled an ordinary kilted skirt and did not give me
nearly the freedom of action I desired, but they were a good deal more
practical than the so-called walking dresses then in vogue. I had kept
this garment at the very bottom of my trunk; in Cairo, I had not had
quite the courage to wear it. Now I took
it out, shook out the creases, and put it on.
As I scrambled down the rocky, hot path, I appreciated the
divided
skirt
; but I still yearned for trousers. At the foot of the
slope I
found Walter arguing with the cook, a morose-looking individual with
only one functional eye. I never did make out what the argument was
about, but I settled it, and saw the chicken, which the cook had been
waving under Walter's nose, plucked and in the pot before I proceeded.
Walter offered to accompany me, but I sent him back to his brother.
Emerson needed a watchdog; I did not.
I found the place where the workers were employed and introduced myself
to the foreman, Abdullah. He was a stately figure of a man, almost six
feet tall; his flowing snowy robes, long gray beard and voluminous
headcloth gave him the look of a biblical patriarch. He was not a
native of one of the local villages, but came from Upper Egypt and had
worked with Emerson before.
Abdullah directed me to the pavement, which was some distance away. It
was easy to find, however, because of the low wooden roof that had been
erected over it.
There was a great stretch of it— twenty feet across by perhaps fifteen
feet long— miraculously, magnificently preserved. The colors were as
fresh as if they had just been applied— exquisite blues, glowing reds,
and cool greens, with touches of white and deep blue-black to emphasize
details. Birds flew with outstretched wings in luxuriant gardens where
flowers bloomed. Young animals, calves and kids, frolicked amid the
undergrowth, kicking up their heels. I could almost hear them bellowing
and bleating with the sheer joy of living.
I was still squatting on the ground, looking, when Evelyn and Walter
found me.
"Amelia, it is the hottest part of the day; the workers have stopped
for food and rest, and all sensible people are indoors. Come back and
have lunch." "I won't eat a bite of that miserable-looking chicken,"
I said. "Evelyn, look; only look. I have never seen anything like it.
And
to think that the gold-trimmed sandals of the beautiful Nefertiti may
have walked across this surface!"
"It is exquisite," Evelyn agreed. "How I would love to sketch it!"
"What a splendid idea!" Walter exclaimed. "And how pleased my brother
would be to have a copy, in case of accident. I am the official
expedition artist, among other things, and I am very bad at it."
Evelyn promptly disclaimed any skill, but Walter continued to press
her. I grew tired of their mutual raptures after a time and staggered
to my feet.
We had an atrocious lunch— stringy, tough chicken and some
unidentifiable vegetables cooked into a tasteless mass. My devoted
Michael was at hand; I took him aside for a whispered conference. I
decided to put off discussing future arrangements with Evelyn and
Walter until that evening. It was rather hot,
and after my disturbed
night I was ready to take a siesta.
Michael was a jewel. When Evelyn and I came out of our tomb in the late
afternoon, the place was transformed. Tables and chairs, even a small
rug, had been spread out along the ledge, making a charming little
piazza or balcony — a balcony with a view such as few property owners
enjoy. The cool breeze of evening fanned our cheeks, and across the
river the most splendid sunset I had ever seen, even in Egypt, turned
the sky to a glowing tapestry of light. From below, a succulent odor
wafted up to my appreciative nostrils. Michael had brought food as well
as furniture, and was supervising the criminal of a cook.
I sank down luxuriously in one of the chairs. Michael came trotting up
the cliff with tall glasses of lemonade. Walter soon joined us. I was
about to ask when I might check on my patient, when a sound
of rattling
pebbles turned all our heads around.
Emerson stood in the door of his tomb. He was fully dressed and looked
comparatively respectable, except for his face; it was as gray as the
shadows in the darkening western cliffs;
and one of his hands was tightly clenched on the stone jamb.
Men are never of any use in an emergency. I was the only one who moved;
and I reached Emerson just in time to catch him by the shoulders and
prevent his head from striking against the rock as he fell. It was
hard, prickly rock; I could feel a thousand sharp points through my
skirts as I sat down, rather more suddenly than I had planned, for
Emerson was a considerable weight. I was forced to hold him tightly
against me with both arms, or he would have tumbled off the ledge.
"There is absolutely no limit to this man's arrogant stupidity," I
exclaimed, as Walter came rushing to us. "Fetch Michael and help your
brother back to bed, Walter. And for pity's sake," I added angrily, as
Emerson's unconscious head rolled against my breast and bristly black
hairs scratched me through the fabric of my bodice, "for pity's sake,
get rid of this beard!"
on a relapse, but it was obvious that he would be too
weak to assume command for some days. Clearly something had to be done;
equally clearly, I was the one to do it.
I brought Emerson out of his faint, forced another dose of quinine down
him, and left Abdullah sitting
on his legs to keep him down. His curses
floated out across the valley as I left him.
Without, the sky had darkened. A glittering web of stars covered the
indigo-blue vault; the afterglow transformed the cliffs into glowing
ghost shapes, the shadows of rock. Side by side Evelyn and Walter
sat
looking out across the valley.
I had intended to discuss my plans with them; but one look told me they
wouldn't care. I did not need to see their faces, their very outlines
were eloquent.
I had decided mere was no purpose in removing Emerson to a more
civilized milieu. By the time we reached Cairo he should be on the road
to recovery— unless the removal from his beloved antiquities induced a
stroke from sheer rage, which was more than likely. I had told Michael
we would remain
where we were for approximately a week, by which time
Emerson should be out of danger. Michael assured me that the boat crew
would be delighted to rest for a week, so long as
they were paid. He was distressed that I refused to stay on the boat,
traveling back and forth to the excavations daily. I saw no need for
this, it would simply be a waste of time.
For the next two days everything went smoothly. At least I thought it
did. Later I discovered that there had been ominous signs, if anyone of
intelligence had been watching for them. Unfortunately I was not.
I was
totally preoccupied with my— that is, with Emerson's pavement.
His notion of tapioca and water was good, but I improved on it, adding
a teaspoonful of starch and two
of bismuth to each quart of water. He
had been correct about the impossibility of using an ordinary brush to
apply the mixture. I had used my right hand, my left hand— and was
almost ready to remove shoes and stockings in order to use my toes—
when
Evelyn intervened.
She had been copying the painting, and was doing splendidly. I was
amazed at her skill; she caught not only the shapes and colors, but the
vital, indefinable spirit underlying the mind of the ancient artist.
Even Emerson was moved to admiring grunts when she showed him her first
day's work. She spent the second morning at the task, and then went up
for a rest, leaving me at work. Having covered the edges of the
painting, I had set some of the workers to building walkways across the
pavement; the supports rested on blank spaces where pillars had once
stood, so there was no defacement of the painting, but I had to watch
the men closely. They thought the process utterly ridiculous, and would
have dragged planks across the fragile surface if I had not supervised
them every moment.
They had finished the job and I was lying flat across the walk working
on a new section when Evelyn's voice reached me. Glancing up, I was
surprised to see that the sun was declining. My last useful finger was
beginning to bleed, so I decided to stop; bloodstains would have been
impossible to remove from the painting. I crawled back along the boards.
When I reached the edge, Evelyn grasped me by the shoulders and tried
to shake me.
"Amelia, this must stop! Look at your hands! Look at your complexion!
And your dress, and your hair, and— "
"It does seem to be rather hard on one's wardrobe," I admitted, gazing
down at my crumpled, dusty, tapioca-spotted gown. "What is wrong with
my complexion, and my hair, and— "
Making exasperated noises, Evelyn escorted me back to the tomb, and put
a mirror in my hands.
I looked like a Red Indian witch. Although the wooden shelter had
protected me from the direct rays of the sun, even reflected sunlight
has power in this climate. My hair hung in dusty elf-locks around my
red face.
I let Evelyn freshen me and lead me out to our little balcony. Walter
was waiting for us, and Michael promptly appeared cool drinks. This
evening was an occasion, for Emerson was to join us for the first time.
He had made a remarkable recovery; once he grasped the situation he
applied himself to recuperation with the grim intensity I might have
expected. I had agreed that he might dress and join us for dinner,
provided he wrapped up well against the cool of evening.
He had acrimoniously refused any assistance in dressing. Now he made a
ceremonious appearance, waving Walter aside; and I stared.
I knew the beard was gone, but I had not seen him since the operation.
I had overheard part of the procedure that morning. It was impossible
not
to overhear it; Emerson's
shouts of rage were audible a mile away,
and Walter had to raise
his
voice in order to be heard.
"Excessive hair drains the strength," I had heard him explain, in a
voice choked with laughter. "Hold his arms, Michael; I am afraid I may
inadvertently cut his throat. Radcliffe, you know that fever victims
have their hair cut off— "
"That is an old wives' tale," Emerson retorted furiously.
"And even if it were not, hair on the head and hair on the face are not
the same."
"I really cannot proceed while you struggle so," Walter complained.
"Very well... Miss Peabody will be pleased."
There was a brief silence.
"Peabody will be pleased that I retain my beard?" Emerson inquired.
"Miss Peabody claims that men grow beard in order to hide weak
features. Receding chins, spots on the face..."
"Oh, does she? She implies my chin is weak?"
"She has never seen it," Walter pointed out.
"Hmph."
That was all he said; but since silence followed the grunt, I knew
Walter had won his point.
Seeing, as I now did, the beardless countenance of Emerson, I
understood why he had cultivated whiskers. The lower part of his face
looked a little odd, being so much paler than the rest, but the
features were not displeasing— although the mouth was set in such a
tight line I could not make out its shape. The chin was certainly not
weak; indeed, it was almost too square and protuberant. But it had a
dimple. No man with a dimple in his chin can look completely
forbidding. A dimple, for Emerson, was out of character. No wonder he
wished to hide it!
Emerson's defiant eyes met mine, and the comment I had been about to
make died on my lips.
"Tea or lemonade?" I inquired.
When I handed him his cup, a half-stifled expletive burst from his
lips. Walter followed his gaze.
"My dear Miss Peabody, your poor hands!"
"There must be some better way of going about it," I muttered, trying
to wrap my skirt around the members in question. "I haven't given the
matter much thought as yet."
"Naturally not," Emerson said gruffly. "Women don't think. A little
forethought would prevent most of
the suffering they constantly
complain about."
Walter frowned. It was the first time I had seen the young fellow look
at his brother with anything but affectionate admiration.
"You should be ashamed to speak so, Radcliffe," he said quietly. "Miss
Peabody's hand was swollen and painful for hours after you passed the
crisis of your sickness, you held it so tightly; and I had to carry her
to her bed because her limbs were cramped from kneeling beside you all
night long."
Emerson looked a little uncomfortable, but I think I was even more
embarrassed. Sentimentality always embarrasses me.
"No thanks, please," I said. "I would have done as much for a sick cat."
"At least you must stop working on the pavement," Walter said.
'Tomorrow I will take over the task."
"You can't do the pavement and supervise the workers at the same time,"
I argued, conscious of an inexplicable annoyance.
Emerson, slouching in his chair, cleared his throat.
"Abdullah is an excellent foreman. There is no need for Walter to be on
the spot at all times. Or is there, Walter?"
How he had sensed the truth I do not know, but Walter's uneasy silence
was answer enough.
"Come," Emerson insisted, in a voice of quiet firmness. "I knew this
evening that something was worrying you. What is it? Fruitless
speculation will be worse for me than the truth, Walter; be candid."
"I am willing to be candid, but it isn't easy to be explicit," Walter
said, smiling faintly. "You know how one becomes sensitive to the
feelings of the men. There are so many meaningful signs— the singing of
the work crews, the way in which they move about, the joking and
laughter— or the lack thereof. I don't know how long it has been going
on. I only sensed it today."
"Then it has not been going on long. You are too experienced to be
unaware, preoccupied though you are." Emerson glanced meaningfully at
Evelyn, who sat listening with her hands folded in her lap. "Are
the men hostile? Are they hiding
something they don't want us to know about?"
Walter shook his head; the dark hair tumbled over his high brow, giving
him the look of a worried schoolboy.
"Neither of those, I think. Your illness disturbed them; you know how
superstitious they are, how ready to find evil demons behind every
accident. But I can't really account for the feeling. There is a
general laxity, a slowing down, a— a stillness. As if they knew
something we don't know— and are afraid of it."
Emerson's brows drew together. He struck his hand on his knee.
"I must see for myself."
"If you venture out into that sun tomorrow, you will be back in bed by
noon," I said firmly. "Perhaps I can have a look around myself. But I
hate to neglect my pavement, even for a day."
"Peabody, you are not to touch the pavement tomorrow," Emerson said.
"Infection is in the air here;
you will lose a finger or two if you
continue to rub them raw."
I am not accustomed to be spoken to in that tone. Oddly enough, I was
not angered by the order, or by the name. Emerson was looking at me
with a kind of appeal. His mouth had relaxed. It was, as I had
suspected, a well-shaped organ.
"Perhaps you are right," I said.
Evelyn choked on her tea and hastily set the cup down.
"Yes," I continued. "No doubt you are right. Then I will supervise the
workers tomorrow and see what I can ascertain. What are you digging up
at present, Walter?"
The conversation became technical. Evelyn showed us the progress of her
drawing; this time Emerson unbent far enough to mutter, "Not at all
bad," and suggest that Evelyn might copy some of the tomb reliefs when
she had finished the pavement.
"A trained artist would be a godsend on expeditions like this," he
exclaimed, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm. "We cannot save all the
relics; we are like the boy with his finger in the
dike. But if we had copies of them before they are destroyed..."
"I would like to learn something of the hieroglyphic signs," Evelyn
said. "I could copy them more accurately if I knew what they meant. For
example, there seem to be a dozen different kinds of birds,
and I
gather each has a different meaning. When the inscriptions are worn it
is not always possible to see what the original form was; but if one
knew a little of the language ..."
Emerson beetled his eyebrows at her, but it was clear that he was
impressed; before long be was drawing birds on his napkin and Evelyn
was attempting to copy them. I looked at Walter. His ingenuous face was
luminous with pleasure as he watched his admired brother and the girl
he loved. Yes, he loved her; there could be no question of that. She
loved him too. And at the first declaration from him, she would
ruthlessly destroy their happiness because of a convention that seemed
more absurd the more I considered it. Knowing what was in store, my
heart ached at the sight of Walter's face.
We sat late on our little balcony that night, watching the afterglow
fade and the stars blaze out; even Emerson was companionably silent
under the sweet influence of the scene. Perhaps we all had a
premonition of what was to come; perhaps we knew that this was our last
peaceful evening.
I was brushing my hair next morning when I heard the hubbub below.
Within a few minutes Walter came running up the path and shouted for
me. I went out, fearing some disaster; but his expression was one of
excitement rather than alarm.
"The men have made a discovery," he began. "Not in the ruins of the
city— up in the cliffs. A tomb!"
"Is that all? Good Gad, the place is overfumished with tombs as it is."
Walter was genuinely excited, but I noticed that his eyes strayed past
me to where Evelyn stood before the mirror, listening as
she tied a ribbon around her hair.
"But this one has an occupant! All the other tombs were empty when we
found them—robbed and rifled in antiquity. No doubt this new tomb has
also been robbed of the gold and jewels it once contained, but there is
a mummy, a veritable mummy. What is even more important, Miss Peabody,
is that the villagers came to me with the news instead of robbing the
tomb. That shows, does it not, that the fancies I expressed last
evening were only fancies. The men must trust us, or they would not
come to us."
They trust Mr. Emerson because he pays them full value for every
valuable object they find," I said, hastily bundling my hair into its
net. "They have no reason to resort to antiquities dealers under those
conditions."
"What does it matter' Walter was fairly dancing with impatience. "I am
off, I cannot wait to see, but I thought you might like to accompany
me. I fear the trail will be rough..."
"I fear so, too," I said grimly. "I must apply myself to the question
of appropriate costume. My rationals are an improvement on skirts, but
they do not go far enough. Do you think, Evelyn, that we could fashion
some trousers out of a skirt or two?"
The trail was rough, but I managed it. A few of the villagers
accompanied us. As we walked, Walter explained that the tombs we were
inhabiting were known as the Southern Tombs. Another group of ancient
sepulchers lay to the north, and were, logically enough, referred to as
the Northern Tombs. The newly discovered tomb was one of this group.
After several long miles I finally saw a now-familiar square opening in
the cliffs above us, and then another beyond the first. We had reached
the Northern Tombs, and a scramble up a steep slope of detritus soon
brought us to the entrance to the new tomb.
costume?"
In some surprise I glanced down. I had forgotten I was wearing my
dressing gown and slippers.
"Perhaps you are right, Evelyn."
As the reader has no doubt realized, female fashion has never
interested me. However, while in London, I had learned of the Rational
Dress League, and had had a dress made in that style. It was of
slate-colored India cloth, with a plain, almost mannish bodice and a
few simple frills at the cuffs as its only ornament. But the daring
feature of this costume was the
divided
skirt.
The two legs were so
full that they resembled an ordinary kilted skirt and did not give me
nearly the freedom of action I desired, but they were a good deal more
practical than the so-called walking dresses then in vogue. I had kept
this garment at the very bottom of my trunk; in Cairo, I had not had
quite the courage to wear it. Now I took
it out, shook out the creases, and put it on.
As I scrambled down the rocky, hot path, I appreciated the
divided
skirt
; but I still yearned for trousers. At the foot of the
slope I
found Walter arguing with the cook, a morose-looking individual with
only one functional eye. I never did make out what the argument was
about, but I settled it, and saw the chicken, which the cook had been
waving under Walter's nose, plucked and in the pot before I proceeded.
Walter offered to accompany me, but I sent him back to his brother.
Emerson needed a watchdog; I did not.
I found the place where the workers were employed and introduced myself
to the foreman, Abdullah. He was a stately figure of a man, almost six
feet tall; his flowing snowy robes, long gray beard and voluminous
headcloth gave him the look of a biblical patriarch. He was not a
native of one of the local villages, but came from Upper Egypt and had
worked with Emerson before.
Abdullah directed me to the pavement, which was some distance away. It
was easy to find, however, because of the low wooden roof that had been
erected over it.
There was a great stretch of it— twenty feet across by perhaps fifteen
feet long— miraculously, magnificently preserved. The colors were as
fresh as if they had just been applied— exquisite blues, glowing reds,
and cool greens, with touches of white and deep blue-black to emphasize
details. Birds flew with outstretched wings in luxuriant gardens where
flowers bloomed. Young animals, calves and kids, frolicked amid the
undergrowth, kicking up their heels. I could almost hear them bellowing
and bleating with the sheer joy of living.
I was still squatting on the ground, looking, when Evelyn and Walter
found me.
"Amelia, it is the hottest part of the day; the workers have stopped
for food and rest, and all sensible people are indoors. Come back and
have lunch." "I won't eat a bite of that miserable-looking chicken,"
I said. "Evelyn, look; only look. I have never seen anything like it.
And
to think that the gold-trimmed sandals of the beautiful Nefertiti may
have walked across this surface!"
"It is exquisite," Evelyn agreed. "How I would love to sketch it!"
"What a splendid idea!" Walter exclaimed. "And how pleased my brother
would be to have a copy, in case of accident. I am the official
expedition artist, among other things, and I am very bad at it."
Evelyn promptly disclaimed any skill, but Walter continued to press
her. I grew tired of their mutual raptures after a time and staggered
to my feet.
We had an atrocious lunch— stringy, tough chicken and some
unidentifiable vegetables cooked into a tasteless mass. My devoted
Michael was at hand; I took him aside for a whispered conference. I
decided to put off discussing future arrangements with Evelyn and
Walter until that evening. It was rather hot,
and after my disturbed
night I was ready to take a siesta.
Michael was a jewel. When Evelyn and I came out of our tomb in the late
afternoon, the place was transformed. Tables and chairs, even a small
rug, had been spread out along the ledge, making a charming little
piazza or balcony — a balcony with a view such as few property owners
enjoy. The cool breeze of evening fanned our cheeks, and across the
river the most splendid sunset I had ever seen, even in Egypt, turned
the sky to a glowing tapestry of light. From below, a succulent odor
wafted up to my appreciative nostrils. Michael had brought food as well
as furniture, and was supervising the criminal of a cook.
I sank down luxuriously in one of the chairs. Michael came trotting up
the cliff with tall glasses of lemonade. Walter soon joined us. I was
about to ask when I might check on my patient, when a sound
of rattling
pebbles turned all our heads around.
Emerson stood in the door of his tomb. He was fully dressed and looked
comparatively respectable, except for his face; it was as gray as the
shadows in the darkening western cliffs;
and one of his hands was tightly clenched on the stone jamb.
Men are never of any use in an emergency. I was the only one who moved;
and I reached Emerson just in time to catch him by the shoulders and
prevent his head from striking against the rock as he fell. It was
hard, prickly rock; I could feel a thousand sharp points through my
skirts as I sat down, rather more suddenly than I had planned, for
Emerson was a considerable weight. I was forced to hold him tightly
against me with both arms, or he would have tumbled off the ledge.
"There is absolutely no limit to this man's arrogant stupidity," I
exclaimed, as Walter came rushing to us. "Fetch Michael and help your
brother back to bed, Walter. And for pity's sake," I added angrily, as
Emerson's unconscious head rolled against my breast and bristly black
hairs scratched me through the fabric of my bodice, "for pity's sake,
get rid of this beard!"
5
EMERSON WAS luckier than he deserved. His injudicious act did not bringon a relapse, but it was obvious that he would be too
weak to assume command for some days. Clearly something had to be done;
equally clearly, I was the one to do it.
I brought Emerson out of his faint, forced another dose of quinine down
him, and left Abdullah sitting
on his legs to keep him down. His curses
floated out across the valley as I left him.
Without, the sky had darkened. A glittering web of stars covered the
indigo-blue vault; the afterglow transformed the cliffs into glowing
ghost shapes, the shadows of rock. Side by side Evelyn and Walter
sat
looking out across the valley.
I had intended to discuss my plans with them; but one look told me they
wouldn't care. I did not need to see their faces, their very outlines
were eloquent.
I had decided mere was no purpose in removing Emerson to a more
civilized milieu. By the time we reached Cairo he should be on the road
to recovery— unless the removal from his beloved antiquities induced a
stroke from sheer rage, which was more than likely. I had told Michael
we would remain
where we were for approximately a week, by which time
Emerson should be out of danger. Michael assured me that the boat crew
would be delighted to rest for a week, so long as
they were paid. He was distressed that I refused to stay on the boat,
traveling back and forth to the excavations daily. I saw no need for
this, it would simply be a waste of time.
For the next two days everything went smoothly. At least I thought it
did. Later I discovered that there had been ominous signs, if anyone of
intelligence had been watching for them. Unfortunately I was not.
I was
totally preoccupied with my— that is, with Emerson's pavement.
His notion of tapioca and water was good, but I improved on it, adding
a teaspoonful of starch and two
of bismuth to each quart of water. He
had been correct about the impossibility of using an ordinary brush to
apply the mixture. I had used my right hand, my left hand— and was
almost ready to remove shoes and stockings in order to use my toes—
when
Evelyn intervened.
She had been copying the painting, and was doing splendidly. I was
amazed at her skill; she caught not only the shapes and colors, but the
vital, indefinable spirit underlying the mind of the ancient artist.
Even Emerson was moved to admiring grunts when she showed him her first
day's work. She spent the second morning at the task, and then went up
for a rest, leaving me at work. Having covered the edges of the
painting, I had set some of the workers to building walkways across the
pavement; the supports rested on blank spaces where pillars had once
stood, so there was no defacement of the painting, but I had to watch
the men closely. They thought the process utterly ridiculous, and would
have dragged planks across the fragile surface if I had not supervised
them every moment.
They had finished the job and I was lying flat across the walk working
on a new section when Evelyn's voice reached me. Glancing up, I was
surprised to see that the sun was declining. My last useful finger was
beginning to bleed, so I decided to stop; bloodstains would have been
impossible to remove from the painting. I crawled back along the boards.
When I reached the edge, Evelyn grasped me by the shoulders and tried
to shake me.
"Amelia, this must stop! Look at your hands! Look at your complexion!
And your dress, and your hair, and— "
"It does seem to be rather hard on one's wardrobe," I admitted, gazing
down at my crumpled, dusty, tapioca-spotted gown. "What is wrong with
my complexion, and my hair, and— "
Making exasperated noises, Evelyn escorted me back to the tomb, and put
a mirror in my hands.
I looked like a Red Indian witch. Although the wooden shelter had
protected me from the direct rays of the sun, even reflected sunlight
has power in this climate. My hair hung in dusty elf-locks around my
red face.
I let Evelyn freshen me and lead me out to our little balcony. Walter
was waiting for us, and Michael promptly appeared cool drinks. This
evening was an occasion, for Emerson was to join us for the first time.
He had made a remarkable recovery; once he grasped the situation he
applied himself to recuperation with the grim intensity I might have
expected. I had agreed that he might dress and join us for dinner,
provided he wrapped up well against the cool of evening.
He had acrimoniously refused any assistance in dressing. Now he made a
ceremonious appearance, waving Walter aside; and I stared.
I knew the beard was gone, but I had not seen him since the operation.
I had overheard part of the procedure that morning. It was impossible
not
to overhear it; Emerson's
shouts of rage were audible a mile away,
and Walter had to raise
his
voice in order to be heard.
"Excessive hair drains the strength," I had heard him explain, in a
voice choked with laughter. "Hold his arms, Michael; I am afraid I may
inadvertently cut his throat. Radcliffe, you know that fever victims
have their hair cut off— "
"That is an old wives' tale," Emerson retorted furiously.
"And even if it were not, hair on the head and hair on the face are not
the same."
"I really cannot proceed while you struggle so," Walter complained.
"Very well... Miss Peabody will be pleased."
There was a brief silence.
"Peabody will be pleased that I retain my beard?" Emerson inquired.
"Miss Peabody claims that men grow beard in order to hide weak
features. Receding chins, spots on the face..."
"Oh, does she? She implies my chin is weak?"
"She has never seen it," Walter pointed out.
"Hmph."
That was all he said; but since silence followed the grunt, I knew
Walter had won his point.
Seeing, as I now did, the beardless countenance of Emerson, I
understood why he had cultivated whiskers. The lower part of his face
looked a little odd, being so much paler than the rest, but the
features were not displeasing— although the mouth was set in such a
tight line I could not make out its shape. The chin was certainly not
weak; indeed, it was almost too square and protuberant. But it had a
dimple. No man with a dimple in his chin can look completely
forbidding. A dimple, for Emerson, was out of character. No wonder he
wished to hide it!
Emerson's defiant eyes met mine, and the comment I had been about to
make died on my lips.
"Tea or lemonade?" I inquired.
When I handed him his cup, a half-stifled expletive burst from his
lips. Walter followed his gaze.
"My dear Miss Peabody, your poor hands!"
"There must be some better way of going about it," I muttered, trying
to wrap my skirt around the members in question. "I haven't given the
matter much thought as yet."
"Naturally not," Emerson said gruffly. "Women don't think. A little
forethought would prevent most of
the suffering they constantly
complain about."
Walter frowned. It was the first time I had seen the young fellow look
at his brother with anything but affectionate admiration.
"You should be ashamed to speak so, Radcliffe," he said quietly. "Miss
Peabody's hand was swollen and painful for hours after you passed the
crisis of your sickness, you held it so tightly; and I had to carry her
to her bed because her limbs were cramped from kneeling beside you all
night long."
Emerson looked a little uncomfortable, but I think I was even more
embarrassed. Sentimentality always embarrasses me.
"No thanks, please," I said. "I would have done as much for a sick cat."
"At least you must stop working on the pavement," Walter said.
'Tomorrow I will take over the task."
"You can't do the pavement and supervise the workers at the same time,"
I argued, conscious of an inexplicable annoyance.
Emerson, slouching in his chair, cleared his throat.
"Abdullah is an excellent foreman. There is no need for Walter to be on
the spot at all times. Or is there, Walter?"
How he had sensed the truth I do not know, but Walter's uneasy silence
was answer enough.
"Come," Emerson insisted, in a voice of quiet firmness. "I knew this
evening that something was worrying you. What is it? Fruitless
speculation will be worse for me than the truth, Walter; be candid."
"I am willing to be candid, but it isn't easy to be explicit," Walter
said, smiling faintly. "You know how one becomes sensitive to the
feelings of the men. There are so many meaningful signs— the singing of
the work crews, the way in which they move about, the joking and
laughter— or the lack thereof. I don't know how long it has been going
on. I only sensed it today."
"Then it has not been going on long. You are too experienced to be
unaware, preoccupied though you are." Emerson glanced meaningfully at
Evelyn, who sat listening with her hands folded in her lap. "Are
the men hostile? Are they hiding
something they don't want us to know about?"
Walter shook his head; the dark hair tumbled over his high brow, giving
him the look of a worried schoolboy.
"Neither of those, I think. Your illness disturbed them; you know how
superstitious they are, how ready to find evil demons behind every
accident. But I can't really account for the feeling. There is a
general laxity, a slowing down, a— a stillness. As if they knew
something we don't know— and are afraid of it."
Emerson's brows drew together. He struck his hand on his knee.
"I must see for myself."
"If you venture out into that sun tomorrow, you will be back in bed by
noon," I said firmly. "Perhaps I can have a look around myself. But I
hate to neglect my pavement, even for a day."
"Peabody, you are not to touch the pavement tomorrow," Emerson said.
"Infection is in the air here;
you will lose a finger or two if you
continue to rub them raw."
I am not accustomed to be spoken to in that tone. Oddly enough, I was
not angered by the order, or by the name. Emerson was looking at me
with a kind of appeal. His mouth had relaxed. It was, as I had
suspected, a well-shaped organ.
"Perhaps you are right," I said.
Evelyn choked on her tea and hastily set the cup down.
"Yes," I continued. "No doubt you are right. Then I will supervise the
workers tomorrow and see what I can ascertain. What are you digging up
at present, Walter?"
The conversation became technical. Evelyn showed us the progress of her
drawing; this time Emerson unbent far enough to mutter, "Not at all
bad," and suggest that Evelyn might copy some of the tomb reliefs when
she had finished the pavement.
"A trained artist would be a godsend on expeditions like this," he
exclaimed, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm. "We cannot save all the
relics; we are like the boy with his finger in the
dike. But if we had copies of them before they are destroyed..."
"I would like to learn something of the hieroglyphic signs," Evelyn
said. "I could copy them more accurately if I knew what they meant. For
example, there seem to be a dozen different kinds of birds,
and I
gather each has a different meaning. When the inscriptions are worn it
is not always possible to see what the original form was; but if one
knew a little of the language ..."
Emerson beetled his eyebrows at her, but it was clear that he was
impressed; before long be was drawing birds on his napkin and Evelyn
was attempting to copy them. I looked at Walter. His ingenuous face was
luminous with pleasure as he watched his admired brother and the girl
he loved. Yes, he loved her; there could be no question of that. She
loved him too. And at the first declaration from him, she would
ruthlessly destroy their happiness because of a convention that seemed
more absurd the more I considered it. Knowing what was in store, my
heart ached at the sight of Walter's face.
We sat late on our little balcony that night, watching the afterglow
fade and the stars blaze out; even Emerson was companionably silent
under the sweet influence of the scene. Perhaps we all had a
premonition of what was to come; perhaps we knew that this was our last
peaceful evening.
I was brushing my hair next morning when I heard the hubbub below.
Within a few minutes Walter came running up the path and shouted for
me. I went out, fearing some disaster; but his expression was one of
excitement rather than alarm.
"The men have made a discovery," he began. "Not in the ruins of the
city— up in the cliffs. A tomb!"
"Is that all? Good Gad, the place is overfumished with tombs as it is."
Walter was genuinely excited, but I noticed that his eyes strayed past
me to where Evelyn stood before the mirror, listening as
she tied a ribbon around her hair.
"But this one has an occupant! All the other tombs were empty when we
found them—robbed and rifled in antiquity. No doubt this new tomb has
also been robbed of the gold and jewels it once contained, but there is
a mummy, a veritable mummy. What is even more important, Miss Peabody,
is that the villagers came to me with the news instead of robbing the
tomb. That shows, does it not, that the fancies I expressed last
evening were only fancies. The men must trust us, or they would not
come to us."
They trust Mr. Emerson because he pays them full value for every
valuable object they find," I said, hastily bundling my hair into its
net. "They have no reason to resort to antiquities dealers under those
conditions."
"What does it matter' Walter was fairly dancing with impatience. "I am
off, I cannot wait to see, but I thought you might like to accompany
me. I fear the trail will be rough..."
"I fear so, too," I said grimly. "I must apply myself to the question
of appropriate costume. My rationals are an improvement on skirts, but
they do not go far enough. Do you think, Evelyn, that we could fashion
some trousers out of a skirt or two?"
The trail was rough, but I managed it. A few of the villagers
accompanied us. As we walked, Walter explained that the tombs we were
inhabiting were known as the Southern Tombs. Another group of ancient
sepulchers lay to the north, and were, logically enough, referred to as
the Northern Tombs. The newly discovered tomb was one of this group.
After several long miles I finally saw a now-familiar square opening in
the cliffs above us, and then another beyond the first. We had reached
the Northern Tombs, and a scramble up a steep slope of detritus soon
brought us to the entrance to the new tomb.
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