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
Crocodile on the Sandbank (5 page)
Mademoiselle
Peabody" — and
another string of beads was pressed into my
hand.
"Oh, but— " I began, with an uneasy glance at the black-bearded person,
who was shaking like an engine about to burst.
"Do me the honor," Maspero insisted. "Unless you fear the foolish tales
of curses and avenging Egyptian ghosts— "
"Certainly not," I said firmly.
"But what of the curses of M. Emerson?" Maspero asked, his eyes
twinkling. "
Regardez
— he is
about to say unkind things to me again."
"Never fear," Emerson snarled. "I am leaving. I can only stand so many
minutes in this horror house of yours. In God's name,
man, why don't you classify your pots?"
He rushed off, pulling his slighter companion with him. The young
fellow turned his head; his gaze went straight to Evelyn and remained
fixed on her face until he had been removed from the room.
"He has almost the Gallic temperament," said Maspero admiringly. "One
observes the magnificence of
his rages with respect."
"I cannot agree with you," I said. "Who is the fellow?"
"One of your
fellow countryman, dear lady, who has interested himself in the
antiquities of this country. He has done admirable work excavating, but
I fear he does not admire the rest of us. You heard his abuse of my
poor museum. He abuses my excavation methods with the same ardor. But,
indeed, there is no archaeologist in Egypt who has been spared his
criticism."
"I don't care to speak of him," I said, with a sniff. "We
think your museum is fascinating, M. Maspero," Evelyn added tactfully.
"I could spend days here."
We spent several hours more inspecting the exhibits. I would not have
said so for the world, but I felt a certain sympathy for the odious
Emerson's criticisms. The exhibits were not arranged as methodically as
they might have been, and there was dust everywhere.
Evelyn said she was too tired to go down to the boat that day, so we
took a carriage back to the hotel. She was pensive and silent during
the drive; as we neared Cairo, I said slyly,
"Mr. Emerson's young brother does not have the family temper, I
believe. Did you happen to hear his name?"
"Walter," said Evelyn, and
blushed betrayingly.
"Ah." I pretended not to notice the blush. "I
found him very pleasant. Perhaps we will meet them again
at the hotel."
"Oh, no, they do not stay at Shepheard's. Walt—Mr. Walter Emerson
explained to me that their money all goes for excavation. His brother
is not supported by any institution or
museum; he has only a small yearly income and, as Walter says, if he
had the wealth of the Indies he would consider it insufficient for his
purposes."
"You seem to have covered quite a lot of ground in a very short time,"
I said, watching Evelyn out of the corner of my eye. "It is a pity we
can't continue the acquaintance with the younger Mr. Emerson, and avoid
his insane brother."
"I daresay we shall not meet again," Evelyn said softly.
I had my own opinion on that score.
In the afternoon, after a rest, we went to shop for medical supplies.
The guidebooks advise travelers to carry a considerable quantity of
medicines and drugs, since there are no doctors south of Cairo. I had
copied the list of suggested remedies from my guide, and was determined
to do the thing properly. If I had not been a woman, I might have
studied medicine; I have a natural aptitude for the subject, possessing
steady hands and far less squeamishness about blood and wounds than
many males of my acquaintance. I planned to buy a few small surgical
knives also; I fancied I could amputate a limb— or at least a toe or
finger— rather neatly if called upon to do so.
Our dragoman, Michael, accompanied us. I thought he seemed quieter than
usual, but I was occupied with my list: blue pills, calomel, rhubarb,
Dover's powder, James's powder, carbolic acid, laudanum, quinine,
sulfuric acid, ipecacuanha.... It was Evelyn who asked Michael what the
trouble was. He hesitated, looking at us in turn.
"It is my child, who is ill," he said finally. "She is only a
girl-child, of course."
The faltering of his voice and his troubled countenance betrayed a
paternal emotion that contradicted the words, so I modified what had
begun as an indignant comment into an offer of assistance. Michael
protested, but it was clear that he would welcome our help. He led us
to his home.
It was a narrow old house with the intricately carved wooden balconies
that are typical of Old Cairo. It seemed to me appallingly dirty, but
compared with the squalor and filth we had
seen elsewhere, it could have been worse. The sickroom where the child
lay was dreadful. The wooden shutters were closely barred, lest evil
spirits enter to harm the child further, and the stench was frightful.
I could scarcely see the small sufferer, for the only illumination came
from a clay lamp filled with smoking fat, with a wick of twisted cloth.
My first move, therefore, was to go to the windows and throw them open.
A wavering shriek of protest arose from the women huddled on the floor.
There were six of them, clad
in dusty black and doing nothing that I
could see except add to the contamination of the air and keep the child
awake by their endless wailing. I evicted them. The child's mother I
allowed to remain. She was a rather pretty little thing, with great
black eyes, and was herself, I suspected, not more than fifteen years
of age.
Careless of her dainty gingham skirts, Evelyn was already seated on the
floor by the pallet where the child lay. Gently she brushed the tangled
black curls from its face and dislodged a cluster of flies swarming
around its eyes. The mother made a gesture of protest, but subsided
after a frightened glance at me. Evelyn and I had already had cause to
be horrified at the way these people allow insects to infest the eyes
of the children; I had seen pitiful infants so beset by flies that they
looked as if they were wearing black goggles. If they attempted to
brush the stinging, filthy creatures away, the mothers slapped their
hands. One sees tiny children who have already lost the sight of one or
both eyes through this dreadful custom; and, of course, infant
mortality is extremely high. One authority claims that three children
out of five the young.
I looked at Michael's agonized face, and at the flushed face of the
small sufferer, and I decided this was one child that would not succumb
if I could help it. How fortunate that we had just come from purchasing
medical supplies!
The cause of the child's illness was not hard to discover.
She had fallen and cut herself, as children will; infection had entered
the wound, which naturally had not been washed or cleaned. One small
arm was puffed and swollen. When I cut into the swelling, after
disinfecting the knife as best I could, the infected matter spurted out
in an evil-smelling flood. I cleaned and dressed the wound, then
lectured the distracted parents on the necessity of keeping it clean.
Evelyn was a tower of strength. It was not until we got back to the
hotel that she was quietly and thoroughly sick. I dismissed Michael for
the remainder of the day, telling him to go home and keep his horde of
female relatives out of the child's room.
By evening Evelyn was feeling better, and I insisted that we dress and
dine downstairs, instead of having a bowl of soup in our room, as she
wished to do. Although she never complained, I knew she was often
depressed on her own account. We had as yet heard no word of the Earl's
fate, but Evelyn expected news of his death daily, and it fretted her
tender heart to think of him dying alone. For my part, I felt the old
reprobate was meeting the end he richly deserved.
In her soft-rose evening dress, with its wide lace cuffs and ruffled
undershirt, Evelyn looked quite charming; the wistful droop of her
mouth only added to her appealing appearance. I put on my crimson
satin, feeling we needed something bright and cheerful, although I
still felt self-conscious in the dress. We made a fine show. Several of
our gentlemen acquaintances followed us into the lounge after dinner,
and attempted to win a smile from Evelyn. Suddenly I saw a rosy flush
spread over her face. I suspected the cause even before I followed her
gaze to the doorway. There stood young Walter Emerson, looking very
handsome in evening dress. He had eyes only for Evelyn, and crossed the
room so quickly that he nearly stumbled over a low table.
He had brought his brother with him. I had to stifle a laugh at the
sight of the irascible Emerson, he wore a look of such gloom. His
evening clothes looked as if they had been pulled out of a traveling
bag and put on without the benefit of pressing; his collar seemed to be
too tight. He had lost all his
swagger and shambled along behind Walter like a great black bear,
darting suspicious glances at the elegantly garbed travelers around him.
After greeting me hastily, Walter turned to Evelyn and they were soon
deep in conversation. The other gentlemen, being ignored, faded away;
and I was left face-to-face with Emerson. He stood looking down at me
with an expression of sullen dejection.
"I am to make my apologies," he growled.
"I accept them," I said, and
indicated the place next to me on the sofa. "Do sit down, Mr. Emerson.
I am surprised to see you here. I understood that social life was not
to your taste."
"It was Walter's idea," said Emerson bluntly. He sat down, edging as
far away from me as the limited confines of the sofa would allow. "I
hate such things."
"What things?" I inquired, enjoying myself hugely. It was delightful to
see the arrogant Emerson cowed by society.
"The hotel. The people.
The— the— in short, all this." He waved a contemptuous hand at the
handsome chamber and its finely dressed occupants.
"Where would you
rather be?" I asked.
"Anywhere in Egypt but here. Specifically, at the
site of my excavations."
"In the dust of the desert, away from all the comforts of civilization?
With only ignorant Arabs for company— "
"Ignorant perhaps; but lacking the hypocrisies of civilization. Good
God, how it maddens me to hear the smug comments of English travelers
concerning the 'natives,' as they call them! There are good and bad
among the Egyptians, as there are in any race; but by and large they
are an admirable people, friendly, cheerful, loyal, intelligent—when
taught----- For centuries these people were oppressed by a vicious,
cruel despotism. They are riddled by disease, poverty, and
ignorance, but through no fault of their own." He was recovering his
confidence. His fists clenched on his knees, he glared at me. I rather
liked him for his defense of an
oppressed people, but I could not resist baiting him.
"Then you should approve of what we British are doing in Egypt. By
assuming responsibility for the finances of the country— "
"Bah," said Emerson vigorously. "Do you think we are acting out of
benevolence? Ask the inhabitants of Alexandria how they enjoyed being
shelled by British gunboats, two years ago. We are not so uncivilized
as the Turk, but we have the same purpose— our own self-interest. And
we
are letting those imbecile French mismanage the antiquities department!
Not that our own so-called scholars are any better."
"Are they all wrong?" I inquired. "All but you?"
My irony went unnoticed. Emerson considered the question seriously.
"There is one young fellow— Petrie is his name— who seems to have some
idea of method in archaeology. He is excavating in the Delta this
winter. But he has no influence; and meanwhile every year, every
passing day sees destruction that cannot be remedied. We are destroying
the past! Digging
like children for treasure, wrenching objects out of
the ground without keeping proper records of how
and where they were
found...."
I glanced at Evelyn. I could not hear what she and Walter were
discussing, Emerson's voice was too loud, but she seemed to find the
conversaton enjoyable. I turned my attention back to Emerson, who was
still ranting.
"... scraps of pottery! Something should be done with pottery, you
know. One should study the various types— discover what kinds of
pottery
accompany certain kinds of ornaments, weapons, furnishings...."
"For what purpose?"
"Why, there are a dozen purposes. Pottery, like other objects, changes
and develops with time. We could work out a basic chronological
sequence which would enable us to date not only the pottery, but other
objects found with it. And it is not only pottery that can be useful.
Every object, every small scrap of
the past can teach us something. Most of these objects are now tossed
into rubbish heaps, or carried off by ignorant tourists, lost forever
to science. Maspero saves only the impressive objects, and half of
those are lost or smashed or stolen, in that reputed museum of his."
"I understand," I said. "For example, studies might be made of
anatomical remains. The race to which the ancient Egyptians belonged
might be ascertained, and the racial mixtures. Are they the same stock
today as they were in ancient times? But scholars do not collect bones
and mummies, do they, except to display the latter as curiosities."
Emerson's jaw dropped. "Good God," he said. "A woman with an inquiring
mind? Is it possible?"
I overlooked the insult, having become interested in what he was
saying. I was about to pursue the subject further when there was a
dramatic interruption.
Evelyn was sitting next to the sofa, with Walter leaning on the back of
her chair. She suddenly started to her feet. Turning, I saw that her
face had gone white as linen. She was staring with a fixed look of
horror toward the entrance to the room.
I glanced about. The room was crowded with people, but I saw nothing
that might explain her agitation. Before I could make a more searching
perusal, Evelyn had collapsed onto the floor. When Walter, clumsy with
agitation, managed to reach her and raise her in his arms, she was in a
dead faint, from which she was restored with some difficulty.
She would not answer our questions; she was only capable of reiterating
her desire to return to our rooms.
Peabody" — and
another string of beads was pressed into my
hand.
"Oh, but— " I began, with an uneasy glance at the black-bearded person,
who was shaking like an engine about to burst.
"Do me the honor," Maspero insisted. "Unless you fear the foolish tales
of curses and avenging Egyptian ghosts— "
"Certainly not," I said firmly.
"But what of the curses of M. Emerson?" Maspero asked, his eyes
twinkling. "
Regardez
— he is
about to say unkind things to me again."
"Never fear," Emerson snarled. "I am leaving. I can only stand so many
minutes in this horror house of yours. In God's name,
man, why don't you classify your pots?"
He rushed off, pulling his slighter companion with him. The young
fellow turned his head; his gaze went straight to Evelyn and remained
fixed on her face until he had been removed from the room.
"He has almost the Gallic temperament," said Maspero admiringly. "One
observes the magnificence of
his rages with respect."
"I cannot agree with you," I said. "Who is the fellow?"
"One of your
fellow countryman, dear lady, who has interested himself in the
antiquities of this country. He has done admirable work excavating, but
I fear he does not admire the rest of us. You heard his abuse of my
poor museum. He abuses my excavation methods with the same ardor. But,
indeed, there is no archaeologist in Egypt who has been spared his
criticism."
"I don't care to speak of him," I said, with a sniff. "We
think your museum is fascinating, M. Maspero," Evelyn added tactfully.
"I could spend days here."
We spent several hours more inspecting the exhibits. I would not have
said so for the world, but I felt a certain sympathy for the odious
Emerson's criticisms. The exhibits were not arranged as methodically as
they might have been, and there was dust everywhere.
Evelyn said she was too tired to go down to the boat that day, so we
took a carriage back to the hotel. She was pensive and silent during
the drive; as we neared Cairo, I said slyly,
"Mr. Emerson's young brother does not have the family temper, I
believe. Did you happen to hear his name?"
"Walter," said Evelyn, and
blushed betrayingly.
"Ah." I pretended not to notice the blush. "I
found him very pleasant. Perhaps we will meet them again
at the hotel."
"Oh, no, they do not stay at Shepheard's. Walt—Mr. Walter Emerson
explained to me that their money all goes for excavation. His brother
is not supported by any institution or
museum; he has only a small yearly income and, as Walter says, if he
had the wealth of the Indies he would consider it insufficient for his
purposes."
"You seem to have covered quite a lot of ground in a very short time,"
I said, watching Evelyn out of the corner of my eye. "It is a pity we
can't continue the acquaintance with the younger Mr. Emerson, and avoid
his insane brother."
"I daresay we shall not meet again," Evelyn said softly.
I had my own opinion on that score.
In the afternoon, after a rest, we went to shop for medical supplies.
The guidebooks advise travelers to carry a considerable quantity of
medicines and drugs, since there are no doctors south of Cairo. I had
copied the list of suggested remedies from my guide, and was determined
to do the thing properly. If I had not been a woman, I might have
studied medicine; I have a natural aptitude for the subject, possessing
steady hands and far less squeamishness about blood and wounds than
many males of my acquaintance. I planned to buy a few small surgical
knives also; I fancied I could amputate a limb— or at least a toe or
finger— rather neatly if called upon to do so.
Our dragoman, Michael, accompanied us. I thought he seemed quieter than
usual, but I was occupied with my list: blue pills, calomel, rhubarb,
Dover's powder, James's powder, carbolic acid, laudanum, quinine,
sulfuric acid, ipecacuanha.... It was Evelyn who asked Michael what the
trouble was. He hesitated, looking at us in turn.
"It is my child, who is ill," he said finally. "She is only a
girl-child, of course."
The faltering of his voice and his troubled countenance betrayed a
paternal emotion that contradicted the words, so I modified what had
begun as an indignant comment into an offer of assistance. Michael
protested, but it was clear that he would welcome our help. He led us
to his home.
It was a narrow old house with the intricately carved wooden balconies
that are typical of Old Cairo. It seemed to me appallingly dirty, but
compared with the squalor and filth we had
seen elsewhere, it could have been worse. The sickroom where the child
lay was dreadful. The wooden shutters were closely barred, lest evil
spirits enter to harm the child further, and the stench was frightful.
I could scarcely see the small sufferer, for the only illumination came
from a clay lamp filled with smoking fat, with a wick of twisted cloth.
My first move, therefore, was to go to the windows and throw them open.
A wavering shriek of protest arose from the women huddled on the floor.
There were six of them, clad
in dusty black and doing nothing that I
could see except add to the contamination of the air and keep the child
awake by their endless wailing. I evicted them. The child's mother I
allowed to remain. She was a rather pretty little thing, with great
black eyes, and was herself, I suspected, not more than fifteen years
of age.
Careless of her dainty gingham skirts, Evelyn was already seated on the
floor by the pallet where the child lay. Gently she brushed the tangled
black curls from its face and dislodged a cluster of flies swarming
around its eyes. The mother made a gesture of protest, but subsided
after a frightened glance at me. Evelyn and I had already had cause to
be horrified at the way these people allow insects to infest the eyes
of the children; I had seen pitiful infants so beset by flies that they
looked as if they were wearing black goggles. If they attempted to
brush the stinging, filthy creatures away, the mothers slapped their
hands. One sees tiny children who have already lost the sight of one or
both eyes through this dreadful custom; and, of course, infant
mortality is extremely high. One authority claims that three children
out of five the young.
I looked at Michael's agonized face, and at the flushed face of the
small sufferer, and I decided this was one child that would not succumb
if I could help it. How fortunate that we had just come from purchasing
medical supplies!
The cause of the child's illness was not hard to discover.
She had fallen and cut herself, as children will; infection had entered
the wound, which naturally had not been washed or cleaned. One small
arm was puffed and swollen. When I cut into the swelling, after
disinfecting the knife as best I could, the infected matter spurted out
in an evil-smelling flood. I cleaned and dressed the wound, then
lectured the distracted parents on the necessity of keeping it clean.
Evelyn was a tower of strength. It was not until we got back to the
hotel that she was quietly and thoroughly sick. I dismissed Michael for
the remainder of the day, telling him to go home and keep his horde of
female relatives out of the child's room.
By evening Evelyn was feeling better, and I insisted that we dress and
dine downstairs, instead of having a bowl of soup in our room, as she
wished to do. Although she never complained, I knew she was often
depressed on her own account. We had as yet heard no word of the Earl's
fate, but Evelyn expected news of his death daily, and it fretted her
tender heart to think of him dying alone. For my part, I felt the old
reprobate was meeting the end he richly deserved.
In her soft-rose evening dress, with its wide lace cuffs and ruffled
undershirt, Evelyn looked quite charming; the wistful droop of her
mouth only added to her appealing appearance. I put on my crimson
satin, feeling we needed something bright and cheerful, although I
still felt self-conscious in the dress. We made a fine show. Several of
our gentlemen acquaintances followed us into the lounge after dinner,
and attempted to win a smile from Evelyn. Suddenly I saw a rosy flush
spread over her face. I suspected the cause even before I followed her
gaze to the doorway. There stood young Walter Emerson, looking very
handsome in evening dress. He had eyes only for Evelyn, and crossed the
room so quickly that he nearly stumbled over a low table.
He had brought his brother with him. I had to stifle a laugh at the
sight of the irascible Emerson, he wore a look of such gloom. His
evening clothes looked as if they had been pulled out of a traveling
bag and put on without the benefit of pressing; his collar seemed to be
too tight. He had lost all his
swagger and shambled along behind Walter like a great black bear,
darting suspicious glances at the elegantly garbed travelers around him.
After greeting me hastily, Walter turned to Evelyn and they were soon
deep in conversation. The other gentlemen, being ignored, faded away;
and I was left face-to-face with Emerson. He stood looking down at me
with an expression of sullen dejection.
"I am to make my apologies," he growled.
"I accept them," I said, and
indicated the place next to me on the sofa. "Do sit down, Mr. Emerson.
I am surprised to see you here. I understood that social life was not
to your taste."
"It was Walter's idea," said Emerson bluntly. He sat down, edging as
far away from me as the limited confines of the sofa would allow. "I
hate such things."
"What things?" I inquired, enjoying myself hugely. It was delightful to
see the arrogant Emerson cowed by society.
"The hotel. The people.
The— the— in short, all this." He waved a contemptuous hand at the
handsome chamber and its finely dressed occupants.
"Where would you
rather be?" I asked.
"Anywhere in Egypt but here. Specifically, at the
site of my excavations."
"In the dust of the desert, away from all the comforts of civilization?
With only ignorant Arabs for company— "
"Ignorant perhaps; but lacking the hypocrisies of civilization. Good
God, how it maddens me to hear the smug comments of English travelers
concerning the 'natives,' as they call them! There are good and bad
among the Egyptians, as there are in any race; but by and large they
are an admirable people, friendly, cheerful, loyal, intelligent—when
taught----- For centuries these people were oppressed by a vicious,
cruel despotism. They are riddled by disease, poverty, and
ignorance, but through no fault of their own." He was recovering his
confidence. His fists clenched on his knees, he glared at me. I rather
liked him for his defense of an
oppressed people, but I could not resist baiting him.
"Then you should approve of what we British are doing in Egypt. By
assuming responsibility for the finances of the country— "
"Bah," said Emerson vigorously. "Do you think we are acting out of
benevolence? Ask the inhabitants of Alexandria how they enjoyed being
shelled by British gunboats, two years ago. We are not so uncivilized
as the Turk, but we have the same purpose— our own self-interest. And
we
are letting those imbecile French mismanage the antiquities department!
Not that our own so-called scholars are any better."
"Are they all wrong?" I inquired. "All but you?"
My irony went unnoticed. Emerson considered the question seriously.
"There is one young fellow— Petrie is his name— who seems to have some
idea of method in archaeology. He is excavating in the Delta this
winter. But he has no influence; and meanwhile every year, every
passing day sees destruction that cannot be remedied. We are destroying
the past! Digging
like children for treasure, wrenching objects out of
the ground without keeping proper records of how
and where they were
found...."
I glanced at Evelyn. I could not hear what she and Walter were
discussing, Emerson's voice was too loud, but she seemed to find the
conversaton enjoyable. I turned my attention back to Emerson, who was
still ranting.
"... scraps of pottery! Something should be done with pottery, you
know. One should study the various types— discover what kinds of
pottery
accompany certain kinds of ornaments, weapons, furnishings...."
"For what purpose?"
"Why, there are a dozen purposes. Pottery, like other objects, changes
and develops with time. We could work out a basic chronological
sequence which would enable us to date not only the pottery, but other
objects found with it. And it is not only pottery that can be useful.
Every object, every small scrap of
the past can teach us something. Most of these objects are now tossed
into rubbish heaps, or carried off by ignorant tourists, lost forever
to science. Maspero saves only the impressive objects, and half of
those are lost or smashed or stolen, in that reputed museum of his."
"I understand," I said. "For example, studies might be made of
anatomical remains. The race to which the ancient Egyptians belonged
might be ascertained, and the racial mixtures. Are they the same stock
today as they were in ancient times? But scholars do not collect bones
and mummies, do they, except to display the latter as curiosities."
Emerson's jaw dropped. "Good God," he said. "A woman with an inquiring
mind? Is it possible?"
I overlooked the insult, having become interested in what he was
saying. I was about to pursue the subject further when there was a
dramatic interruption.
Evelyn was sitting next to the sofa, with Walter leaning on the back of
her chair. She suddenly started to her feet. Turning, I saw that her
face had gone white as linen. She was staring with a fixed look of
horror toward the entrance to the room.
I glanced about. The room was crowded with people, but I saw nothing
that might explain her agitation. Before I could make a more searching
perusal, Evelyn had collapsed onto the floor. When Walter, clumsy with
agitation, managed to reach her and raise her in his arms, she was in a
dead faint, from which she was restored with some difficulty.
She would not answer our questions; she was only capable of reiterating
her desire to return to our rooms.
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