The Ape Who Guards the Balance (32 page)

Indeed, it was not long before Nefret came running back. “Bring the plates, David,” she gasped, picking up the camera.

“What is going on?” I demanded.

“They have taken down the wall. There is another behind it, plastered and bearing the official necropolis seals. I—”

“What?” The word burst from Emerson like an explosion.

“I persuaded Mr. Davis to wait until I could take a few photographs,” Nefret explained breathlessly.

Sir Edward cleared his throat. “I would be more than happy to assist, Miss Forth.”

She spared him a quick warm smile. “I don’t doubt you could do the job better, Sir Edward, but Mr. Davis doesn’t like people interfering. He only gave in to me because I begged and wheedled.”

Emerson’s subsequent remarks cannot in decency be reproduced. I caught hold of him and dug in my heels. “No, Emerson, you cannot go there, not while you are in this state of mind. You know we agreed that tact is our best . . . Ramses, don’t let him get away!”

“I daren’t wait, Mr. Davis was hopping with excitement.” Nefret hurried off, followed by David.

“Bah!” Emerson exclaimed. “All right, Ramses, unhand me. I am perfectly composed.”

Of course he was not. I do not know whether I can convey to the Reader the import of Nefret’s statement. The outer blockage of rough stones was obviously secondary; the inner wall, stamped with the seals of the necropolis priests, must be the original. That meant that the tomb had been entered at least once in antiquity, presumably by thieves, but it would not have been blocked a second time unless something of value was still there.

“Take heart, Emerson,” I said. “Now that a new tomb has been located, the Department of Antiquities will take charge. Mr. Weigall won’t allow Mr. Davis to do anything foolish.”

“Ha,” said Emerson. “If it were Carter . . . Oh, the devil with it. I am going back to work.”

After he had disappeared into his tomb I said casually to Ramses, “It is almost time for luncheon. I will just go and tell Nefret.”

“How thoughtful you are, Mother,” Ramses said. “I will just come with you.”

Most of the members of Davis’s party had scattered and were sitting in the shade mopping their perspiring faces and looking bored. Some of the men hovered near the steps. Mr. Smith gave me a cheery wave, so I went to him.

“Will you be painting in the tomb, then?” I inquired, edging closer to the opening.

Davis and Weigall were down below, getting in the way of the men who were removing the stones from the demolished wall and carrying them up to a dump nearby. The sections of plaster bearing the necropolis seals had been hacked off and tossed into a basket. I could see no more from where I stood.

“That depends on Mr. Davis,” Smith replied amiably, mopping his wet forehead with his sleeve. “And on whether there is anything worth painting. They’ve just got the wall down, and I don’t know what lies beyond. Exciting, isn’t it?”

Nefret, who had been chatting with Mrs. Andrews, joined us in time to hear his last question. “It certainly is!” she exclaimed. Raising her voice to a piercing soprano scream, she called out, “Mr. Davis, may I see? I am so excited! ”

“Later, child, later.” Davis came creaking up the stairs, looking very tired and hot but very pleased. He was not a young man; one had to give him credit for enthusiasm, at least. He patted Nefret on the head. “We are stopping for lunch now. Come back in a few hours if you like. And,” he added with a smug smile, “do bring Professor Emerson with you.”

Mr. Davis’s luncheons, which were served in a nearby tomb, were notoriously long and luxurious. We finished our own modest repast in short order, so we were back on the spot well ahead of him. Bareheaded in the boiling sun, Emerson seated himself on a boulder and lit his pipe. Ramses and David went off to talk with Davis’s reis, who was sitting in the shade with the other men, awaiting, with the stolid resignation of their class, the return of their employer. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but there was quite a lot of laughter, and David kept blushing.

When Mr. Davis returned, accompanied by the entourage, he greeted us with unusual warmth. “I thought you’d want to have a look,” he remarked. “I’ve done it again, you see. Found myself another tomb.”

Emerson bit down hard on the stem of his pipe. “Hmph,” he said. “Yes. Anything I can do, of course.”

“Not necessary,” Davis assured him. “We have everything under control.”

I heard something crack and hoped it was only the stem of Emerson’s pipe, and not one of his teeth.

In fact, it was not long before work ended for the day. The ladies of Davis’s party were complaining of the heat, and Weigall was looking rather grave. I overheard him say something about the police. Unable to repress my curiosity any longer, I joined the group, which consisted of Weigall, Davis, Ayrton and Nefret.

“What is going on?” I inquired.

“Have a look if you like,” Davis said amiably. His mustache was limp with sweat and his eyes shone.

Ned politely gave me a hand down the stairs. The entrance gaped open except for a few courses of stone remaining at the base. The descending passage typical of Eighteenth Dynasty tombs sloped down into darkness. It was filled to within three feet of the rock-cut ceiling with loose rubble, and on top of the rubble was the strangest object I had ever seen in an Egyptian tomb. It filled the passage from wall to wall, and the entire surface shone with gold. I leaned forward, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe, for even as I looked a golden flake the size of my thumbnail shivered and dropped from the side of the object onto the stones under it.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“A panel covered with gold leaf, possibly from a shrine.” Ned’s voice was as soft as mine. “There is another gilded object lying on top of it—perhaps a door from the same shrine.”

“And beyond—at the end of the passage?”

“Who knows? More stairs, another chamber—perhaps the burial chamber itself. We will find out tomorrow. Weigall is going to run a wire down, so we will have electric lights.”

Now that he had given me a clue I was able to make out a few more details. There appeared to be reliefs and inscriptions on the panel.

“The gold leaf must have been applied over a layer of gesso, which is already loose. You aren’t going to let that doddering old idiot climb in over it, are you?”

In my indignation I spoke almost as bluntly as Emerson would have done (he would have added several other adjectives).

“There is no question of that,” Ned said. “I’m not entirely certain how we are going to proceed. Perhaps, Mrs. Emerson, you will give us the benefit of your advice.”

Naturally I was happy to give it. Mr. Weigall had been quite right in suggesting that the police be notified and guards set over the tomb. The mere mention of the word “gold” was enough to arouse the interest of every thief in Luxor, and before nightfall every thief in Luxor would know of it. I was not surprised to discover that Mr. Davis was determined to get into the tomb next day, by one means or another. Weigall’s attempts to persuade him to wait until the panel could be stabilized, or at least copied, were halfhearted and soon overcome.

“Ayrton, get the thing out of there before tomorrow morning,” Davis ordered. “Carefully, of course. Don’t want it to be damaged. Come back to dinner, Weigall?”

“Er—no, thank you, sir, I believe I will camp in the Valley tonight. I would be shirking my responsibility if I left the tomb unguarded.”

“Quite right,” Davis agreed. “Tomorrow, then. Have everything ready. I want to see what’s down there.”

He walked away without waiting for an answer, since in his estimation only one was possible. I was reminded of one of my favorite Gilbert and Sullivan operas: “If your Majesty says do a thing, that thing is as good as done. And if it is done, why not say so?”

(I paraphrase, but that is the general idea.)

Ayrton and Weigall exchanged glances. They did not get on well, but for the time being, mutual consternation made them allies. Weigall muttered, “It can’t be done. Not without ruining it.”

Ned squared his shoulders. “I will tell him. Unless you prefer to do so.”

“My position with regard to Mr. Davis is a delicate one,” Weigall replied stiffly.

In my opinon Ned’s position was even more delicate. This was not the time for argument or recrimination, however. The situation was critical. If Emerson had been in charge, not a stone would have been touched and not a person would have entered until the panel had been examined, photographed (if possible), and copied (by David), and every possible effort made to stabilize the fragile gold. This was obviously not going to be done. My duty, as I saw it, was to suggest ways of minimizing the damage.

“Perhaps it would be possible to arrange a kind of bridge over the panel,” I suggested. “Our reis, Abdullah, has had considerable experience with that sort of thing.”

Weigall’s face brightened. “I was just about to propose that,” he said. “I think I know where I can lay my hands on a plank of the right length.”

“I will tell Abdullah,” I said. Weigall did not object, though he must have known I would also tell Emerson.

Emerson behaved better than I had expected—though I ought to have known that he could be depended upon to act sensibly in a crisis. This was a crisis, in archaeological terms; only one of many, alas, and possibly less disastrous than other horrendous errors in methodology the Valley of the Kings had seen. But on this occasion we were there, on the spot. It would have been impossible to remain aloof.

“Face it, Father,” said Ramses, after Emerson had run out of expletives. “You cannot keep Mr. Davis out of the place. Mr. Weigall is the only one who has the authority to prevent him, and it seems he won’t exercise it.”

Even Sir Edward, ordinarily so cool, had been infected by the general consternation. “Have they arranged for a photographer? I will offer my services, if you think they would be accepted.”

“Mr. Davis is sending to Cairo for someone,” Nefret replied. “A Mr. Paul, I believe he said. He can’t be here for another day or two, though.”

By the time we left the Valley the job had been done, thanks primarily to Abdullah. The plank was only ten inches wide, but it was long enough to extend from the tomb entrance to the far wall of the corridor, and Abdullah managed to wedge it in such a way that it did not touch the panel. Mr. Weigall had strung his wire so we had electric light, and the glimmer of it on the incised gold was enough to stir the feeblest imagination. Imagination was all we were allowed, however; Weigall refused to allow anyone to test the bridge. Emerson did not argue with him. His self-control was terrifying, his face set. He was unnaturally silent during the ride back, and went unresisting when I suggested a bath and a change of clothing.

Though I was sadly in need of freshening myself, I went first to the sitting room to look through the messages that had been delivered that day.

“Curse it,” I said to David, the only member of the group who had come with me. “There is nothing from Cairo. We ought to have heard again from Walter by now.”

“I’ll go over to the telegraph office,” David said. “You know how slow they are.”

He looked so serious that I gave him an affectionate pat on the arm. “Now don’t worry, David, I am sure everything is all right. You mustn’t go off alone. I will send one of our fellows.”

By the time I had located Mustafa and given him his instructions it was getting late, so I contented myself with a hasty splash in the washbasin and a rapid change of clothing. Fatima brought the tea tray to the verandah, where Horus was sprawled insolently across the entire length of the settee. I gave him a gentle but emphatic shove, since I had selected that seat for myself, and he jumped onto the floor, swearing and switching his tail. Ramses, who had just emerged from the house, let out an exclamation of surprise.

“How did you do that?”

“Avoid being scratched, you mean? It is a question of mental and moral superiority.”

“Ah,” said Ramses. He took the cup I handed him and settled down on the ledge, lounging comfortably against the square pillar.

A restful silence followed. For once Ramses did not seem inclined toward conversation, and I was happy to sip my tea and enjoy the peace and quiet. How nicely my vines had grown! They hung like draperies of living green, half-veiling the apertures, rustling softly in the evening breeze.

The others soon joined us, and we were deep in an animated discussion of the day’s discoveries when Ramses sat up, parted the curtain of vines next him, and looked out. His soft exclamation drew me to the doorway.

A carriage was approaching—one of the rather rattletrap conveyances for hire at the boat landing. It drew up before the house and stopped. The vehicle swayed and creaked as a large man descended. Though his long robe was crumpled and stained, it was of fine linen fabric, and a pair of dusty but elegant leather sandals encased his feet. He looked strangely familiar. He resembled . . . He was . . .

Daoud! There was barely time for me to assimilate that amazing sight when another equally astonishing vision materialized—a woman, robed in black, whom Daoud tenderly assisted from the carriage. Holding her hand, he led her to me. His broad, honest face shone with pride.

“I have brought her, Sitt,” he announced. “Safe and unharmed, as you told me to do.”

Curling fair hair had escaped the scarf that covered her head, and her face was unveiled.

“Evelyn?” I gasped.

It was not she. It was my niece, my namesake, my little Amelia—white-faced and hollow-eyed, and most astonishing of all—here! I looked again at the carriage. No one else was in it.

“Where are your mother and father?” I demanded. “Good Gad! You didn’t come alone, did you? Lia—Daoud—”

Instead of answering me, the girl held out a trembling hand. Still dazed with disbelief, I took it in mine. She raised sunken blue eyes, and a faint smile touched her white lips. They parted. But before she could speak, Nefret pushed past me and put her strong young arms round the other girl.

“She is exhausted,” Nefret said. “Leave her to me, Aunt Amelia, I’ll take care of her. David, will you help me?”