Crocodile on the Sandbank (25 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
At some point I must have closed my eyes, although I was not aware of
doing so. I kept them closed
after he raised his head. Thus I did not
see him go. He was, I think, somewhat stupefied himself, or he would
have waited for me to begin the divertissement he had suggested. The
first intimation of his departure I received was a shot that struck the
entrance above my
head and sprayed my upturned face with little stinging pellets of stone.
I rolled over, snatched up a handful of pebbles, and pitched them down
the path. They made considerable racket, but to my straining ears,
Emerson's progress along the path made even more noise. I began
throwing out everything I could lay my hands on. Boxes, books, bottles
and Emerson's boots went tumbling down, followed by tins of peas and
peaches, the mirror, and someone's shaving mug. What Lucas thought of
this performance I cannot imagine; he must have concluded that we had
lost our wits. Such a cacophony of different sounds was never heard.
The mirror made a particularly effective crash.
The action accomplished what we had hoped. Lucas was nervous; he let
off a perfect fusillade of shots. None of them came anywhere near the
mouth of the tomb, so I concluded he was shooting at the mirror, the
tins, and the boots. A period of silence ensued. I had meant to count
the shots, and had forgotten to do so. It would not have been much use
in any case, since I had not the slightest idea of how many bullets the
gun held. I could only hope that the cessation of shooting meant that
he had emptied the weapon and was now reloading, or refilling, or
whatever the term is; and that Emerson had succeeded
in descending the
cliff unharmed.
He had! Shouts, thuds, the sounds of a furious struggle told me that so
far our plan had miraculously succeeded. I leaped to my feet and ran to
join the fray, hoping to get in a blow or two on my own account. I had
an urge to pound something, preferably Lucas, with my clenched fists.
As I neared the scene of battle I found Emerson engaged, or so it
appeared, with two adversaries. The agitation of long white skirts
identified one of them as the missing Abdullah.
In the struggle Emerson was flung to the ground. Stepping back, Lucas
lifted the rifle to his shoulder
and aimed at Emerson's defenseless
breast.
I was several yards away, too far to do anything except shout, which of
course I did. The sensation was nightmarish; I felt as
if I were on a treadmill that ran backward as fast as I ran forward, so
that I made
no progress at all. I screamed again and ran faster,
knowing I would be too late -----
And then Abdullah sprang forward and wrenched the weapon from Lucas's
hands. The villain's finger
had been on the trigger; the bullet
exploded harmlessly into the air.
I did not pause to speculate on Abdullah's change of heart; I drew
straight at Lucas. I shudder to think what damage I might have
inflicted if Emerson had not anticipated me. Rising, he seized the
wretch by the throat and shook him till he hung limp.
"Calm yourself," he gasped, fending me off with his elbow. "We can't
murder the rascal until he has told us what we want to know." Then,
turning to his erstwhile foreman, he said, "You will have to decide
whose side you are on, Abdullah; vacillation is bad for the character.
I am willing to forget your recent indescretions in return for
cooperation."
"But I did not know," Abdullah muttered, holding the rifle as if it
were burning his fingers. "He say, he want only his woman; she is his.
What is a woman, to make such trouble for us?"
"A true Moslem philosophy," said Emerson drily. "As you see, Abdullah,
he lied. He was ready to kill— and you, I think, would have been among
the victims. He could not leave witnesses against him. Now..."
He was still holding Lucas, whose face had turned an unbecoming shade
of lavender. He gave him an extra shake for good measure.
"Now, your lordship, speak up. Where have they gone? I beg, don't tell
me you don't know; for the expectation of that information is the only
thing that keeps me from throttling you here and now."
His tone was almost genial; his lips were curved in a slight smile. But
Lucas was not deceived.
"Very well," he muttered. "The royal tomb. I told him to take her
there— "
"If you are lying..." Emerson squeezed.
Lucas gurgled horribly. When he had gotten his breath back, he gasped,
"No, no, it is the truth! And now you will let me go? I can do you no
more harm ----- "
"You insult my intelligence," Emerson said, and flung him down on the
ground. With one foot planted
in the middle of Lucas's back, he turned
to me. "You must sacrifice another petticoat, Peabody. Only
be quick;
we have lost too much time already."
We left Lucas bound hand and foot where he had fallen— not with my
petticoat, for of course I was
not wearing one. Using Abdullah's knife,
which he politely offered me, I ripped up the full skirts of my
dressing gown, slit them fore and aft, and bound them to my nether
limbs. It was wonderful what a feeling of freedom this brought! I swore
I would have trousers made as soon as possible.
Abdullah remained to guard Lucas. Emerson seemed to have regained all
his former confidence in his foreman; he explained that Abdullah had
not
been fighting him, but had been trying to separate the two Englishmen.
I suppose the Egyptian's attitude was understandable, considering his
sex and his nationality.
If it had not been for the gnawing anxiety that drove us, I would have
found the moonlight hike a thrilling experience. With what ease did I
glide across the sand in my makeshift trousers! How lovely the contrast
of shadow and silver light among the tumbled rocks of the wadi! There
was food for meditation, too, in the events of the evening; our
brilliant triumph just when disaster seemed imminent was a subject for
modest congratulation. Hope began to raise a cautious head. Surely, if
the mummified villain had carried Evelyn so far, her immediate demise
was not meditated. We might yet be in time to save her.
The pace Emerson set left me no breath for conversation; and I do not
mink I would have spoken if it had. Let my reader not suppose that I
had forgotten the effrontery— the bold action— in short, the kiss.
I
could not decide whether to bury the
subject forever in icy silence, or to annihilate Emerson— at a more
appropriate time, naturally— with a well-chosen, scathing comment. I
occupied myself, when I was not picturing Evelyn in a variety of
unpleasant positions, by composing scathing comments.
With such thoughts to distract me, the journey was accomplished in less
time than I had expected, but it was a tiring, uncomfortable walk— or
run— and I was breathless by the time we reached that part of the
narrow
canyon in which the royal tomb was located.
Emerson spoke then for the first time. It was only a curt order for
silence and caution. We crept up to the entrance on all fours. The
precaution was not necessary. Expecting Lucas's triumph, the foolish
Mummy had not kept guard at the entrance. When I peered into the
opening I saw a tiny pinprick of light, far down in the black depths.
Now that we were almost at our goal, feverish impatience replaced the
exhilaration that had carried me to the spot. I was on fire to rush in.
I feared, not only for Evelyn, but for Walter, either he had lost
himself in the desert, or he had met some disastrous fate, for if he
had succeeded in wresting Evelyn from her necromantic admirer we would
have met him returning. Emerson's anxiety was as great as mine, but he
held me back with an arm of iron when I would have rushed impetuously
into the tomb. He did not speak; he merely shook his head and
pantomimed a slow, exaggeratedly careful stride. So, like stage
conspirators, we edged around the fallen rocks still remaining from the
avalanche, and set off down the long, steep corridor.
It was impossible to move in utter silence, the path was too encumbered
underfoot. Fortunately mere were other dungs in the tomb that made
noise. I say 'fortunately,' but I am a liar; I would rather have taken
the chance of being overheard than walk through a curtain of bats. The
tomb was full of them,
and night had roused them to then- nocturnal
life.
The light grew stronger as we advanced, and before long I could hear a
voice rambling on in a soliloquy or monologue, which was a great help
in covering the small sounds we inadvertently made. The voice
was a
man's, and the tones were oddly familiar; but it was not Walter's
voice. As we advanced I began
to distinguish words; the words, and the
smug, self-satisfied tones filled me with amazement. Who could it be
who was chatting so unconcernedly in a tomb in the Egyptian desert?
Emerson was in the lead; he stopped me, at the entrance to the side
chamber from which the light proceeded. We crouched there, listening;
and gradually realization dawned. What a fool I had been. The plot now
seemed so obvious I felt a child ought to have detected it.
"... and so you see, my heart, that cousin Luigi and I are a pair of
clever fellows, eh? You say 'luck,' that I won your heart; but no, it
was no luck, it was my charm, my handsome face— and that the fool old
grandfather not let you see men, any men. When we run away, then Luigi
comes to the old grandfather. If grandfather not be good fellow and
make Luigi rich, then Luigi make new will himself! Luigi can write like
anyone; he writes many fine checks at the university before they catch
him and tell him, go home. Luigi is smart fellow, almost as smart as
me. When the old grandfather make new will, hide it in box and send
away, then Luigi come to me with new plan. I search your room in Cairo,
dressed up like old Egyptian fellow; but the box is not there. We must
make another plan. Was I not fine mummy? I am fine actor; I make you
all much afraid. And it is I who tell Luigi of this young fool— I was
Arab in museum that day, when you meet Master Walter; you look at him
as you look once at me, and I know...."
An indignant exclamation from Evelyn interrupted this long-drawn-out
piece of braggadocio. The relief
of hearing her voice, weak as it was,
almost made me collapse.
"If he had not been wounded, and drugged as well, you would never have
overcome him," she cried. "What have you done to him? He lies so
still.... Please let me see how he is
injured. Unless— oh, heaven!— he is not— he cannot be— "
Emerson's shoulder, pressed against mine, jerked convulsively, but he
did not move.
"No, no," Evelyn's tormentor replied, in a horrid parody of sympathy.
"The brave young hero is not
dead. But why you sorry? Soon you both be
dead. You die together, like Aida and Radames in the beautiful opera of
Signer Verdi. I thank my genius compatriot for this idea— so romantic.
Together, in
the tomb, in the arms of each other." His voice changed;
he sounded like a sulky boy as he added, "Luigi say, kill you. Me, to
kill? Always the bad job for me; Luigi too much gentleman to make hands
dirty. So, I leave you here. I am gentleman too; I do not kill woman.
At least I not do it often. Not woman who once I held in my— "
This was too much for Emerson, who was quivering like a boiler about to
blow up. With a roar, he erupted into the lighted chamber. I need not
say that I was close on his heels.
The first thing I saw was Evelyn's pallid face, streaked with dust and
tears, her eyes fairly bulging out of her head as she saw me. The first
sound I heard was her cry of "Amelia!" as she collapsed in a swoon of
relief and joy.
The poor child was huddled on the littered floor, her hands bound
behind her, her pretty hair all tangled and dusty. I lifted her up, and
watched complacently as Emerson finished choking Alberto. Yes; the
Mummy, the confederate of Lucas-Luigi, the abductor of Evelyn, was none
other than her erstwhile lover, whose relationship to her scheming
cousin had been made plain by his own boasts. I think that of the two
he was the worst; I didn't feel the slightest inclination to interfere
as his face turned purple and
his flailing hands dropped limply.
Emerson dropped him with a thud and turned to his brother. Walter was
lying in the opposite corner, bound hand and foot; he was unconscious,
and a darkening bruise on his brow showed how the villain had struck
him down. Evelyn came back to consciousness in time to hear Emerson
proclaim, in ringing
tones, "He is alive! He is not seriously injured!" Whereupon she
fainted again, and I had quite a time bringing her around.
The journey back was long and arduous, but it did not seem so to us;
our hearts were overflowing with happiness increased by the knowledge
that we had left Alberto bound and gagged in the tomb where he had
intended to entomb Evelyn and Walter. The last thing I remember seeing
as we left was the mummy costume lying limp and harmless on the floor.
It seemed absurd when I looked at it closely that it could have
frightened anyone. The head mask was made in a separate piece, the
joint being covered by strips
of bandaging. And the suit itself
buttoned neatly up the front.
years full of thrilling events,
both personal and historic. Emerson's
fears for the gallant Gordon were, alas, justified; he was horribly
murdered in January, before the expeditionary force arrived. But the
cause for which he died was not
lost; the mad Mahdi himself died the
same year, and our forces are beating back the insurgents. My
friend
Maspero has left the Antiquities Department, which is now under the
charge of M. Grebaut,
whom Emerson detests even more than he did
Maspero. As for Emerson himself ...
I sit, writing this, on the ledge above the familiar and beloved plain
of Amarna; and when I lift my eyes from the page I see the busy groups
of workmen scattered about like black ants on the pale sand, as
they
bring the ruins of Khuenaten's city back to the light of day. My
self-appointed Critic has left me in order to supervise the clearing of
what appears to have been a sculptor's workshop; several splendid
busts have already been found. Emerson pushes himself unnecessarily,
for Abdullah is an excellent foreman, reliable and skilled. As Emerson
says, there is nothing like a spot of blackmail to make a man perform
to the best of his ability. Abdullah never refers to the events of that
winter two years ago.
They are surprisingly clear and present to my mind, as if they had
happened only yesterday. I never
had such a good time in all my life.
Oh, certainly, at the time there were moments of extreme discomfort;
but the adventure, the danger, the exhilaration of doubt and peril are
in retrospect something I rather regret having lost.
We had to interrupt the excavations for a few weeks. To Emerson's deep
disgust, it was necessary to carry our captives to Cairo and explain to
the authorities there what had happened. I had suggested leaving
Alberto in the tomb; it seemed a fitting punishment. But I was
dissuaded by Evelyn's horrified protests.
So, at sunrise, we returned to the dahabeeyah, and Emerson made a fine
speech to the assembled crew, who squatted on the deck staring at him
with round black eyes while he explained that the Mummy had been a
hoax, the curse imaginary, and that an ordinary human being had been
behind the whole thing.
He produced his downcast, shivering captive at
the appropriate moment, and I think the sight of an Englishman, one of
the Master Race, in bonds and held up to scorn as a common criminal did
as much as anything to win their wholehearted allegiance. Lucas's crew
gave us no difficulty; their loyalty had been won with money, and as
soon as the source of funds dried up, their devotion withered. An
expedition set out immediately for the camp and brought back a very
thirsty Alberto, together with our luggage and equipment. I myself
supervised the removal of poor Michael, on a litter. We set sail at
once for Cairo.
It was an enjoyable trip. With the great sail furled and lowered onto
blocks on the deck, we let the current bear us downstream. There were
occasional misadventures— grounding on sandbars, an encounter with
another dahabeeyah that lost
the latter its bowsprit and won us the collective curses of the
exuberant American passengers; but these are only the normal accidents
of Nile travel. In every other way matters could not have been more
satisfactory. Michael began to make a good recovery, which relieved my
worst fears. The crew outdid itself to please us. The cook produced
magnificent meals, we were waited upon like princes, and Reis Hassan
obeyed my slightest command. The full moon shone down upon us, the
river rolled sweetly by.... And Emerson said not a word.
I had waited for him to make some reference, if not an apology, for his
outrageous behavior in— for his daring to— for, in short, the kiss. Not
only did he remain silent, but he avoided me with a consistency that
was little short of marvelous. In such close quarters we ought to have
been much together, but whenever I entered the saloon it seemed that
Emerson was just leaving, and when I strolled on the deck, admiring the
silvery ripples of moonlight on the water, Emerson vanished below.
Walter was of no use. He spent all his time with Evelyn. They did not
talk, they just sat holding hands and staring stupidly into one
another's eyes. Walter was a sensible chap. Evelyn's fortune would not
keep him from happiness. Was it possible that Emerson .... ?
After two days I decided I could wait no longer. I hope I number
patience among my virtues, but shilly-shallying, when nothing is to be
gained by delay, is not a virtue. So I cornered Emerson on deck
one
night, literally backing him into a corner. He stood pressed up against
the rail that enclosed the upper deck as I advanced upon him, and from
the look on his face you would have thought I were a crocodile intent
on devouring him, boots, bones, and all.
We had dined formally; I was wearing my crimson gown and I had taken
some pains with my hair. I thought, when I looked at myself in the
mirror that evening, that I did look well; perhaps Evelyn's flattery
had not all been false. As I approached Emerson I was pleasantly aware
of the rustle of my full
skirts and the movement of the ruffles at my throat.
"No," I said, as Emerson made a sideways movement, like a crab."Don't
try to run away, Emerson, it won't do you a particle of good, for I
mean to have my say if I have to shout it after you as we run
about the
boat. Sit or stand, don't mind me. I shall stand. I think better on my
feet."
Emerson squared his shoulders.
"I shall stand. I feel safer on my feet. Proceed, then, Peabody; I
know better than to interfere with you when you are in this mood."
"I mean to make you a business proposition," I said. "It is simply
this. I have some means; I am not rich, like Evelyn, but I have more
than I need, and no dependents. I had meant to leave my money to the
British Museum. Now it seems to me that I may as well employ it for an
equally useful purpose while I live, and enjoy myself in the bargain,
thus killing two birds with one stone. Miss Amelia B. Edwards has
formed a society for the exploration of Egyptian antiquities; I shall
do the same. I wish to hire you as my archaeological expert. There is
only one condition ----- "
I had to stop for breath. This was more difficult than I had
anticipated.
"Yes?" said Emerson in a strange voice. "What condition?"
I drew a deep breath.
"I insist upon being allowed to participate in the excavations. After
all, why should men have all the fun?"
"Fun?" Emerson repeated. "To be burned by the sun, rubbed raw by sand,
live on rations no self-respecting beggar would eat; to be bitten by
snakes and mashed by falling rocks? Your definition of pleasure,
Peabody, is extremely peculiar."
"Peculiar or not, it is my idea of pleasure. Why, why else do you lead
this life if you don't enjoy it? Don't talk of duty to me; you men
always have some high-sounding excuse for indulging yourselves. You go
gallivanting over the earth, climbing mountains, looking for the
sources of the Nile; and expect
women to sit dully at home embroidering. I embroider very badly. I
think I would excavate rather well. If you like,
I will list my
qualifications — "
"No," said Emerson, in a strangled voice. "I am only too well aware of
your qualifications."
And he caught me in an embrace that bruised my ribs.
"Stop it," I said, pushing at him. "That was not at all what I had in
mind. Stop it, Emerson, you are confusing me. I don't want — "
"Don't you?" said Emerson, taking my chin in his hand and turning my
face toward his.
"Yes!" I cried, and flung my arms around his neck.
A good while later, Emerson remarked,
"You realize, Peabody, that I accept your offer of marriage because it
is the only practical way of getting at your money? You couldn't join
me in an excavation unless we were married; every European in Egypt,
from Baring to Maspero, would be outraged, and Mme. Maspero would
force her husband to cancel my concession."
"I fully understand that," I said. "Now if you will stop squeezing me
quite so hard ----- I cannot breathe."
"Breathing is unnecessary," said Emerson.
After another interval, it was my turn to comment.
"And you," I said, "understand that I accept your proposal of marriage
because it is the only way in
which I can gain my ends. It is so
unfair — another example of how women are discriminated against. What a
pity I was not born a hundred years from now! Then I would not have to
marry a loud, arrogant, rude man in order to be allowed to excavate."
Emerson squeezed my ribs again and I had to stop for lack of breath.
"I have found the perfect way of silencing you," he said.
But then the laughter fled from his face and his eyes took on an
expression that made me feel very odd— as if my interior organs had
dissolved into a shapeless, sticky mass.
"Peabody, you may as well hear the truth. I am mad about you! Since the
day you walked into my tomb and started ordering us all about, I have
known you were the only woman for me. Why do you suppose
I have sulked
and avoided you since we left Amarna? I was contemplating a life
without you— a bleak, gray existence, without your voice scolding me
and
your big bright eyes scowling at me, and your magnificent figure— has
no
one told you about your figure, Peabody?— striding up and down prying
into all sorts of places where you had no business to be ----- I knew I
couldn't endure it! If you hadn't spoken tonight, I should have
borrowed Alberto's mummy costume and carried you off into the desert!
There, I have said it. You have stripped away my defenses. Are you
satisfied with your victory?"
I did not reply in words, but I think my answer was satisfactory. When
Emerson had regained his breath he let out a great hearty laugh.
"Archaeology is a fascinating pursuit, but, after all, one cannot work
day and night ----- Peabody, my darling Peabody — what a perfectly
splendid time we are going to have!"
Emerson was right — as he usually is. We have had a splendid time. We
mean to work at Gizeh next year. There is a good deal to be done here
yet, but for certain practical reasons we prefer to be nearer Cairo. I
understand that Petrie wants to work here, and he is one of the few
excavators to whom Emerson would consider yielding. Not that the two of
them get along; when we met Mr. Petrie in London last year, he and
Emerson started out mutually abusing the Antiquities Department and
ended up abusing one another over pottery fragments. Petrie is a
nice-looking young fellow, but he really has no idea of what to do with
pottery.
The practical reasons that demand we work near Cairo are the same
reasons that keep me here, in my chair, instead of being down below
supervising the workers as I usually do. Emerson is being overly
cautious; I feel perfectly well.
They say that for a woman of my age to have her first child is not
always easy, and Emerson is in a perfect jitter of apprehension about
the whole thing, but I have no qualms whatever. I do not intend that
anything shall go amiss. I planned it carefully, not wanting to
interrupt the winter excavation season.
I can fit the child in quite
nicely between seasons, and be back in Cairo ready for work in November.
We are now awaiting news from Evelyn of the birth of her second child,
which is due at any moment. She is already the mother of a fair-baked
male child, quite a charming infant, with a propensity for
rooting in
mud puddles which I am sure he inherited from his archaeological
relatives. I am his godmother, so perhaps I am biased about his beauty,
intelligence, and charm. But I think I am not.
Walter is not with us this season; he is studying hieroglyphics in
England, and promises to be one of the finest scholars of our time. His
library at Ellesmere Castle is filled with books and manuscripts, and
when we join the younger Emersons there for the summer and early fall
each year, he and Emerson spend hours arguing over translations.
Lucas? His present whereabouts are unknown to us. Without the money to
support his title he could not live respectably in England. I wanted to
prosecute the rascal as he deserved; but Baring dissuaded me.
He was
very helpful to us when we reached Cairo with our boatload of
criminals; and he was present
on the momentous occasion when Evelyn
opened her boxes and found, among the diaries and books,
an envelope
containing her grandfather's last, holograph will. This was the final
proof of Lucas's villainy;
but, as Baring pointed out, a trial would
bring unwished for notoriety on all of us, particularly Evelyn,
and
Lucas was no longer a danger. He lives precariously, I believe,
somewhere on the Continent, and
if he does not soon drink himself to
death, some outraged husband or father will certainly shoot him.
I see Alberto whenever we pass through Cairo. I make a point of doing
so. As I warned him once, Egyptian prisons are particularly
uncomfortable, and the life does not seem to agree
with him at all.
Michael has just rung the bell for lunch, and I see Emerson coming
toward me. I have a bone to pick with him; I do not believe he is
correct in his identification of one of the sculptured busts as the
head of the heretic pharaoh. It seems to me to be a representation of
young Tutankhamen, Khuenaten's son-in-law.
I must add one more thing. Often I find myself remembering that
blustery day in Rome, when I went to the rescue of a young English girl
who had fainted in the Forum. Little did I realize how strangely our
destinies would be intertwined; that that act of simple charity would
reward me beyond my wildest dreams, winning for me a friend and sister,
a life of busy, fascinating work, and ....
Evelyn was right. With the right person, under the right
circumstances — it is perfectly splendid!
doing so. I kept them closed
after he raised his head. Thus I did not
see him go. He was, I think, somewhat stupefied himself, or he would
have waited for me to begin the divertissement he had suggested. The
first intimation of his departure I received was a shot that struck the
entrance above my
head and sprayed my upturned face with little stinging pellets of stone.
I rolled over, snatched up a handful of pebbles, and pitched them down
the path. They made considerable racket, but to my straining ears,
Emerson's progress along the path made even more noise. I began
throwing out everything I could lay my hands on. Boxes, books, bottles
and Emerson's boots went tumbling down, followed by tins of peas and
peaches, the mirror, and someone's shaving mug. What Lucas thought of
this performance I cannot imagine; he must have concluded that we had
lost our wits. Such a cacophony of different sounds was never heard.
The mirror made a particularly effective crash.
The action accomplished what we had hoped. Lucas was nervous; he let
off a perfect fusillade of shots. None of them came anywhere near the
mouth of the tomb, so I concluded he was shooting at the mirror, the
tins, and the boots. A period of silence ensued. I had meant to count
the shots, and had forgotten to do so. It would not have been much use
in any case, since I had not the slightest idea of how many bullets the
gun held. I could only hope that the cessation of shooting meant that
he had emptied the weapon and was now reloading, or refilling, or
whatever the term is; and that Emerson had succeeded
in descending the
cliff unharmed.
He had! Shouts, thuds, the sounds of a furious struggle told me that so
far our plan had miraculously succeeded. I leaped to my feet and ran to
join the fray, hoping to get in a blow or two on my own account. I had
an urge to pound something, preferably Lucas, with my clenched fists.
As I neared the scene of battle I found Emerson engaged, or so it
appeared, with two adversaries. The agitation of long white skirts
identified one of them as the missing Abdullah.
In the struggle Emerson was flung to the ground. Stepping back, Lucas
lifted the rifle to his shoulder
and aimed at Emerson's defenseless
breast.
I was several yards away, too far to do anything except shout, which of
course I did. The sensation was nightmarish; I felt as
if I were on a treadmill that ran backward as fast as I ran forward, so
that I made
no progress at all. I screamed again and ran faster,
knowing I would be too late -----
And then Abdullah sprang forward and wrenched the weapon from Lucas's
hands. The villain's finger
had been on the trigger; the bullet
exploded harmlessly into the air.
I did not pause to speculate on Abdullah's change of heart; I drew
straight at Lucas. I shudder to think what damage I might have
inflicted if Emerson had not anticipated me. Rising, he seized the
wretch by the throat and shook him till he hung limp.
"Calm yourself," he gasped, fending me off with his elbow. "We can't
murder the rascal until he has told us what we want to know." Then,
turning to his erstwhile foreman, he said, "You will have to decide
whose side you are on, Abdullah; vacillation is bad for the character.
I am willing to forget your recent indescretions in return for
cooperation."
"But I did not know," Abdullah muttered, holding the rifle as if it
were burning his fingers. "He say, he want only his woman; she is his.
What is a woman, to make such trouble for us?"
"A true Moslem philosophy," said Emerson drily. "As you see, Abdullah,
he lied. He was ready to kill— and you, I think, would have been among
the victims. He could not leave witnesses against him. Now..."
He was still holding Lucas, whose face had turned an unbecoming shade
of lavender. He gave him an extra shake for good measure.
"Now, your lordship, speak up. Where have they gone? I beg, don't tell
me you don't know; for the expectation of that information is the only
thing that keeps me from throttling you here and now."
His tone was almost genial; his lips were curved in a slight smile. But
Lucas was not deceived.
"Very well," he muttered. "The royal tomb. I told him to take her
there— "
"If you are lying..." Emerson squeezed.
Lucas gurgled horribly. When he had gotten his breath back, he gasped,
"No, no, it is the truth! And now you will let me go? I can do you no
more harm ----- "
"You insult my intelligence," Emerson said, and flung him down on the
ground. With one foot planted
in the middle of Lucas's back, he turned
to me. "You must sacrifice another petticoat, Peabody. Only
be quick;
we have lost too much time already."
We left Lucas bound hand and foot where he had fallen— not with my
petticoat, for of course I was
not wearing one. Using Abdullah's knife,
which he politely offered me, I ripped up the full skirts of my
dressing gown, slit them fore and aft, and bound them to my nether
limbs. It was wonderful what a feeling of freedom this brought! I swore
I would have trousers made as soon as possible.
Abdullah remained to guard Lucas. Emerson seemed to have regained all
his former confidence in his foreman; he explained that Abdullah had
not
been fighting him, but had been trying to separate the two Englishmen.
I suppose the Egyptian's attitude was understandable, considering his
sex and his nationality.
If it had not been for the gnawing anxiety that drove us, I would have
found the moonlight hike a thrilling experience. With what ease did I
glide across the sand in my makeshift trousers! How lovely the contrast
of shadow and silver light among the tumbled rocks of the wadi! There
was food for meditation, too, in the events of the evening; our
brilliant triumph just when disaster seemed imminent was a subject for
modest congratulation. Hope began to raise a cautious head. Surely, if
the mummified villain had carried Evelyn so far, her immediate demise
was not meditated. We might yet be in time to save her.
The pace Emerson set left me no breath for conversation; and I do not
mink I would have spoken if it had. Let my reader not suppose that I
had forgotten the effrontery— the bold action— in short, the kiss.
I
could not decide whether to bury the
subject forever in icy silence, or to annihilate Emerson— at a more
appropriate time, naturally— with a well-chosen, scathing comment. I
occupied myself, when I was not picturing Evelyn in a variety of
unpleasant positions, by composing scathing comments.
With such thoughts to distract me, the journey was accomplished in less
time than I had expected, but it was a tiring, uncomfortable walk— or
run— and I was breathless by the time we reached that part of the
narrow
canyon in which the royal tomb was located.
Emerson spoke then for the first time. It was only a curt order for
silence and caution. We crept up to the entrance on all fours. The
precaution was not necessary. Expecting Lucas's triumph, the foolish
Mummy had not kept guard at the entrance. When I peered into the
opening I saw a tiny pinprick of light, far down in the black depths.
Now that we were almost at our goal, feverish impatience replaced the
exhilaration that had carried me to the spot. I was on fire to rush in.
I feared, not only for Evelyn, but for Walter, either he had lost
himself in the desert, or he had met some disastrous fate, for if he
had succeeded in wresting Evelyn from her necromantic admirer we would
have met him returning. Emerson's anxiety was as great as mine, but he
held me back with an arm of iron when I would have rushed impetuously
into the tomb. He did not speak; he merely shook his head and
pantomimed a slow, exaggeratedly careful stride. So, like stage
conspirators, we edged around the fallen rocks still remaining from the
avalanche, and set off down the long, steep corridor.
It was impossible to move in utter silence, the path was too encumbered
underfoot. Fortunately mere were other dungs in the tomb that made
noise. I say 'fortunately,' but I am a liar; I would rather have taken
the chance of being overheard than walk through a curtain of bats. The
tomb was full of them,
and night had roused them to then- nocturnal
life.
The light grew stronger as we advanced, and before long I could hear a
voice rambling on in a soliloquy or monologue, which was a great help
in covering the small sounds we inadvertently made. The voice
was a
man's, and the tones were oddly familiar; but it was not Walter's
voice. As we advanced I began
to distinguish words; the words, and the
smug, self-satisfied tones filled me with amazement. Who could it be
who was chatting so unconcernedly in a tomb in the Egyptian desert?
Emerson was in the lead; he stopped me, at the entrance to the side
chamber from which the light proceeded. We crouched there, listening;
and gradually realization dawned. What a fool I had been. The plot now
seemed so obvious I felt a child ought to have detected it.
"... and so you see, my heart, that cousin Luigi and I are a pair of
clever fellows, eh? You say 'luck,' that I won your heart; but no, it
was no luck, it was my charm, my handsome face— and that the fool old
grandfather not let you see men, any men. When we run away, then Luigi
comes to the old grandfather. If grandfather not be good fellow and
make Luigi rich, then Luigi make new will himself! Luigi can write like
anyone; he writes many fine checks at the university before they catch
him and tell him, go home. Luigi is smart fellow, almost as smart as
me. When the old grandfather make new will, hide it in box and send
away, then Luigi come to me with new plan. I search your room in Cairo,
dressed up like old Egyptian fellow; but the box is not there. We must
make another plan. Was I not fine mummy? I am fine actor; I make you
all much afraid. And it is I who tell Luigi of this young fool— I was
Arab in museum that day, when you meet Master Walter; you look at him
as you look once at me, and I know...."
An indignant exclamation from Evelyn interrupted this long-drawn-out
piece of braggadocio. The relief
of hearing her voice, weak as it was,
almost made me collapse.
"If he had not been wounded, and drugged as well, you would never have
overcome him," she cried. "What have you done to him? He lies so
still.... Please let me see how he is
injured. Unless— oh, heaven!— he is not— he cannot be— "
Emerson's shoulder, pressed against mine, jerked convulsively, but he
did not move.
"No, no," Evelyn's tormentor replied, in a horrid parody of sympathy.
"The brave young hero is not
dead. But why you sorry? Soon you both be
dead. You die together, like Aida and Radames in the beautiful opera of
Signer Verdi. I thank my genius compatriot for this idea— so romantic.
Together, in
the tomb, in the arms of each other." His voice changed;
he sounded like a sulky boy as he added, "Luigi say, kill you. Me, to
kill? Always the bad job for me; Luigi too much gentleman to make hands
dirty. So, I leave you here. I am gentleman too; I do not kill woman.
At least I not do it often. Not woman who once I held in my— "
This was too much for Emerson, who was quivering like a boiler about to
blow up. With a roar, he erupted into the lighted chamber. I need not
say that I was close on his heels.
The first thing I saw was Evelyn's pallid face, streaked with dust and
tears, her eyes fairly bulging out of her head as she saw me. The first
sound I heard was her cry of "Amelia!" as she collapsed in a swoon of
relief and joy.
The poor child was huddled on the littered floor, her hands bound
behind her, her pretty hair all tangled and dusty. I lifted her up, and
watched complacently as Emerson finished choking Alberto. Yes; the
Mummy, the confederate of Lucas-Luigi, the abductor of Evelyn, was none
other than her erstwhile lover, whose relationship to her scheming
cousin had been made plain by his own boasts. I think that of the two
he was the worst; I didn't feel the slightest inclination to interfere
as his face turned purple and
his flailing hands dropped limply.
Emerson dropped him with a thud and turned to his brother. Walter was
lying in the opposite corner, bound hand and foot; he was unconscious,
and a darkening bruise on his brow showed how the villain had struck
him down. Evelyn came back to consciousness in time to hear Emerson
proclaim, in ringing
tones, "He is alive! He is not seriously injured!" Whereupon she
fainted again, and I had quite a time bringing her around.
The journey back was long and arduous, but it did not seem so to us;
our hearts were overflowing with happiness increased by the knowledge
that we had left Alberto bound and gagged in the tomb where he had
intended to entomb Evelyn and Walter. The last thing I remember seeing
as we left was the mummy costume lying limp and harmless on the floor.
It seemed absurd when I looked at it closely that it could have
frightened anyone. The head mask was made in a separate piece, the
joint being covered by strips
of bandaging. And the suit itself
buttoned neatly up the front.
* * *
Two years have passed since the events of which I have written— twoyears full of thrilling events,
both personal and historic. Emerson's
fears for the gallant Gordon were, alas, justified; he was horribly
murdered in January, before the expeditionary force arrived. But the
cause for which he died was not
lost; the mad Mahdi himself died the
same year, and our forces are beating back the insurgents. My
friend
Maspero has left the Antiquities Department, which is now under the
charge of M. Grebaut,
whom Emerson detests even more than he did
Maspero. As for Emerson himself ...
I sit, writing this, on the ledge above the familiar and beloved plain
of Amarna; and when I lift my eyes from the page I see the busy groups
of workmen scattered about like black ants on the pale sand, as
they
bring the ruins of Khuenaten's city back to the light of day. My
self-appointed Critic has left me in order to supervise the clearing of
what appears to have been a sculptor's workshop; several splendid
busts have already been found. Emerson pushes himself unnecessarily,
for Abdullah is an excellent foreman, reliable and skilled. As Emerson
says, there is nothing like a spot of blackmail to make a man perform
to the best of his ability. Abdullah never refers to the events of that
winter two years ago.
They are surprisingly clear and present to my mind, as if they had
happened only yesterday. I never
had such a good time in all my life.
Oh, certainly, at the time there were moments of extreme discomfort;
but the adventure, the danger, the exhilaration of doubt and peril are
in retrospect something I rather regret having lost.
We had to interrupt the excavations for a few weeks. To Emerson's deep
disgust, it was necessary to carry our captives to Cairo and explain to
the authorities there what had happened. I had suggested leaving
Alberto in the tomb; it seemed a fitting punishment. But I was
dissuaded by Evelyn's horrified protests.
So, at sunrise, we returned to the dahabeeyah, and Emerson made a fine
speech to the assembled crew, who squatted on the deck staring at him
with round black eyes while he explained that the Mummy had been a
hoax, the curse imaginary, and that an ordinary human being had been
behind the whole thing.
He produced his downcast, shivering captive at
the appropriate moment, and I think the sight of an Englishman, one of
the Master Race, in bonds and held up to scorn as a common criminal did
as much as anything to win their wholehearted allegiance. Lucas's crew
gave us no difficulty; their loyalty had been won with money, and as
soon as the source of funds dried up, their devotion withered. An
expedition set out immediately for the camp and brought back a very
thirsty Alberto, together with our luggage and equipment. I myself
supervised the removal of poor Michael, on a litter. We set sail at
once for Cairo.
It was an enjoyable trip. With the great sail furled and lowered onto
blocks on the deck, we let the current bear us downstream. There were
occasional misadventures— grounding on sandbars, an encounter with
another dahabeeyah that lost
the latter its bowsprit and won us the collective curses of the
exuberant American passengers; but these are only the normal accidents
of Nile travel. In every other way matters could not have been more
satisfactory. Michael began to make a good recovery, which relieved my
worst fears. The crew outdid itself to please us. The cook produced
magnificent meals, we were waited upon like princes, and Reis Hassan
obeyed my slightest command. The full moon shone down upon us, the
river rolled sweetly by.... And Emerson said not a word.
I had waited for him to make some reference, if not an apology, for his
outrageous behavior in— for his daring to— for, in short, the kiss. Not
only did he remain silent, but he avoided me with a consistency that
was little short of marvelous. In such close quarters we ought to have
been much together, but whenever I entered the saloon it seemed that
Emerson was just leaving, and when I strolled on the deck, admiring the
silvery ripples of moonlight on the water, Emerson vanished below.
Walter was of no use. He spent all his time with Evelyn. They did not
talk, they just sat holding hands and staring stupidly into one
another's eyes. Walter was a sensible chap. Evelyn's fortune would not
keep him from happiness. Was it possible that Emerson .... ?
After two days I decided I could wait no longer. I hope I number
patience among my virtues, but shilly-shallying, when nothing is to be
gained by delay, is not a virtue. So I cornered Emerson on deck
one
night, literally backing him into a corner. He stood pressed up against
the rail that enclosed the upper deck as I advanced upon him, and from
the look on his face you would have thought I were a crocodile intent
on devouring him, boots, bones, and all.
We had dined formally; I was wearing my crimson gown and I had taken
some pains with my hair. I thought, when I looked at myself in the
mirror that evening, that I did look well; perhaps Evelyn's flattery
had not all been false. As I approached Emerson I was pleasantly aware
of the rustle of my full
skirts and the movement of the ruffles at my throat.
"No," I said, as Emerson made a sideways movement, like a crab."Don't
try to run away, Emerson, it won't do you a particle of good, for I
mean to have my say if I have to shout it after you as we run
about the
boat. Sit or stand, don't mind me. I shall stand. I think better on my
feet."
Emerson squared his shoulders.
"I shall stand. I feel safer on my feet. Proceed, then, Peabody; I
know better than to interfere with you when you are in this mood."
"I mean to make you a business proposition," I said. "It is simply
this. I have some means; I am not rich, like Evelyn, but I have more
than I need, and no dependents. I had meant to leave my money to the
British Museum. Now it seems to me that I may as well employ it for an
equally useful purpose while I live, and enjoy myself in the bargain,
thus killing two birds with one stone. Miss Amelia B. Edwards has
formed a society for the exploration of Egyptian antiquities; I shall
do the same. I wish to hire you as my archaeological expert. There is
only one condition ----- "
I had to stop for breath. This was more difficult than I had
anticipated.
"Yes?" said Emerson in a strange voice. "What condition?"
I drew a deep breath.
"I insist upon being allowed to participate in the excavations. After
all, why should men have all the fun?"
"Fun?" Emerson repeated. "To be burned by the sun, rubbed raw by sand,
live on rations no self-respecting beggar would eat; to be bitten by
snakes and mashed by falling rocks? Your definition of pleasure,
Peabody, is extremely peculiar."
"Peculiar or not, it is my idea of pleasure. Why, why else do you lead
this life if you don't enjoy it? Don't talk of duty to me; you men
always have some high-sounding excuse for indulging yourselves. You go
gallivanting over the earth, climbing mountains, looking for the
sources of the Nile; and expect
women to sit dully at home embroidering. I embroider very badly. I
think I would excavate rather well. If you like,
I will list my
qualifications — "
"No," said Emerson, in a strangled voice. "I am only too well aware of
your qualifications."
And he caught me in an embrace that bruised my ribs.
"Stop it," I said, pushing at him. "That was not at all what I had in
mind. Stop it, Emerson, you are confusing me. I don't want — "
"Don't you?" said Emerson, taking my chin in his hand and turning my
face toward his.
"Yes!" I cried, and flung my arms around his neck.
A good while later, Emerson remarked,
"You realize, Peabody, that I accept your offer of marriage because it
is the only practical way of getting at your money? You couldn't join
me in an excavation unless we were married; every European in Egypt,
from Baring to Maspero, would be outraged, and Mme. Maspero would
force her husband to cancel my concession."
"I fully understand that," I said. "Now if you will stop squeezing me
quite so hard ----- I cannot breathe."
"Breathing is unnecessary," said Emerson.
After another interval, it was my turn to comment.
"And you," I said, "understand that I accept your proposal of marriage
because it is the only way in
which I can gain my ends. It is so
unfair — another example of how women are discriminated against. What a
pity I was not born a hundred years from now! Then I would not have to
marry a loud, arrogant, rude man in order to be allowed to excavate."
Emerson squeezed my ribs again and I had to stop for lack of breath.
"I have found the perfect way of silencing you," he said.
But then the laughter fled from his face and his eyes took on an
expression that made me feel very odd— as if my interior organs had
dissolved into a shapeless, sticky mass.
"Peabody, you may as well hear the truth. I am mad about you! Since the
day you walked into my tomb and started ordering us all about, I have
known you were the only woman for me. Why do you suppose
I have sulked
and avoided you since we left Amarna? I was contemplating a life
without you— a bleak, gray existence, without your voice scolding me
and
your big bright eyes scowling at me, and your magnificent figure— has
no
one told you about your figure, Peabody?— striding up and down prying
into all sorts of places where you had no business to be ----- I knew I
couldn't endure it! If you hadn't spoken tonight, I should have
borrowed Alberto's mummy costume and carried you off into the desert!
There, I have said it. You have stripped away my defenses. Are you
satisfied with your victory?"
I did not reply in words, but I think my answer was satisfactory. When
Emerson had regained his breath he let out a great hearty laugh.
"Archaeology is a fascinating pursuit, but, after all, one cannot work
day and night ----- Peabody, my darling Peabody — what a perfectly
splendid time we are going to have!"
Emerson was right — as he usually is. We have had a splendid time. We
mean to work at Gizeh next year. There is a good deal to be done here
yet, but for certain practical reasons we prefer to be nearer Cairo. I
understand that Petrie wants to work here, and he is one of the few
excavators to whom Emerson would consider yielding. Not that the two of
them get along; when we met Mr. Petrie in London last year, he and
Emerson started out mutually abusing the Antiquities Department and
ended up abusing one another over pottery fragments. Petrie is a
nice-looking young fellow, but he really has no idea of what to do with
pottery.
The practical reasons that demand we work near Cairo are the same
reasons that keep me here, in my chair, instead of being down below
supervising the workers as I usually do. Emerson is being overly
cautious; I feel perfectly well.
They say that for a woman of my age to have her first child is not
always easy, and Emerson is in a perfect jitter of apprehension about
the whole thing, but I have no qualms whatever. I do not intend that
anything shall go amiss. I planned it carefully, not wanting to
interrupt the winter excavation season.
I can fit the child in quite
nicely between seasons, and be back in Cairo ready for work in November.
We are now awaiting news from Evelyn of the birth of her second child,
which is due at any moment. She is already the mother of a fair-baked
male child, quite a charming infant, with a propensity for
rooting in
mud puddles which I am sure he inherited from his archaeological
relatives. I am his godmother, so perhaps I am biased about his beauty,
intelligence, and charm. But I think I am not.
Walter is not with us this season; he is studying hieroglyphics in
England, and promises to be one of the finest scholars of our time. His
library at Ellesmere Castle is filled with books and manuscripts, and
when we join the younger Emersons there for the summer and early fall
each year, he and Emerson spend hours arguing over translations.
Lucas? His present whereabouts are unknown to us. Without the money to
support his title he could not live respectably in England. I wanted to
prosecute the rascal as he deserved; but Baring dissuaded me.
He was
very helpful to us when we reached Cairo with our boatload of
criminals; and he was present
on the momentous occasion when Evelyn
opened her boxes and found, among the diaries and books,
an envelope
containing her grandfather's last, holograph will. This was the final
proof of Lucas's villainy;
but, as Baring pointed out, a trial would
bring unwished for notoriety on all of us, particularly Evelyn,
and
Lucas was no longer a danger. He lives precariously, I believe,
somewhere on the Continent, and
if he does not soon drink himself to
death, some outraged husband or father will certainly shoot him.
I see Alberto whenever we pass through Cairo. I make a point of doing
so. As I warned him once, Egyptian prisons are particularly
uncomfortable, and the life does not seem to agree
with him at all.
Michael has just rung the bell for lunch, and I see Emerson coming
toward me. I have a bone to pick with him; I do not believe he is
correct in his identification of one of the sculptured busts as the
head of the heretic pharaoh. It seems to me to be a representation of
young Tutankhamen, Khuenaten's son-in-law.
I must add one more thing. Often I find myself remembering that
blustery day in Rome, when I went to the rescue of a young English girl
who had fainted in the Forum. Little did I realize how strangely our
destinies would be intertwined; that that act of simple charity would
reward me beyond my wildest dreams, winning for me a friend and sister,
a life of busy, fascinating work, and ....
Evelyn was right. With the right person, under the right
circumstances — it is perfectly splendid!
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