The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (4 page)

Now Nefret herself had proposed the scheme, and she stuck to her decision with a quiet determination that was impossible to combat. Emerson did his best to persuade her to change her mind, especially after Ramses, to the astonishment of everyone but myself, concluded that he would also remain in England
that winter.
"I don't know why you persist in arguing with him," I said to Emerson, who was storming up and down the library as is his habit when perturbed. "You know that when Ramses makes up his mind, he never changes it. Besides, the scheme has a number of things to recommend it."
Emerson stopped pacing and glared at me. "I see none."
"We have often discussed the one-sidedness of Ramses's education.
In some ways he is as ignorant as Nefret. Oh, I grant you, no one mummifies mice or mixes explosives better than Ramses, but those skills have limited utility. As for the social graces— "
Emerson let out a growling noise. Any mention of the social graces has that effect on him. "I told you,"
I went on, "about how the girls taunted Nefret."
My husband's handsome countenance reddened. Thwarted choler was responsible, he had been unable,
in this case, to apply his favorite redress for injustice. One cannot punch young ladies on the jaw or
thrash a respectable middle-aged headmistress. He looked rather forlorn as he stood there, his fists clenched and his shoulders squared, like a great bull tormented by the pricks and stabs of the picadors. Forlorn, yet majestic, for, as I have had occasion to remark, Emerson's impressive muscular development and noble features can never appear less than magnificant. Rising, I went to him and put my hand on his arm.
"Would it be so terrible, Emerson? Just the two of us, alone, as we used to be? Is my companionship so displeasing to you?"
The muscles of his arm relaxed. "Don't talk nonsense, Peabody," he muttered, and, as I had hoped he would, he took me into his embrace.
So it was arranged. Needless to say, Evelyn and Walter entered into the scheme with delight. I hastened to make the necessary arrangements for our departure before Emerson could change his mind.
He moped a bit, before and after we left, and I must confess I felt an unexpected sensation of loss when the steamer pulled away from the dock and I waved farewell to those who stood below. I had not realized Ramses had grown so much. He looked sturdy and dependable as he stood there— next to Nefret, of course. Evelyn was on Nefret's other side, her arm around the girl, Walter held his wife's arm and flapped his handkerchief vigorously. They made a pretty family group.
Since we had been able to get off early in the season, we had determined to take the boat from London
to Port Sa'id instead of following the quicker but less convenient route by train to Marseille or Brindisi before boarding a steamer. I hoped the sea voyage would reconcile Emerson and put him in a proper frame of mind. The moon obliged me, spreading ripples of silvery light across the water as we strolled the deck hand in hand, gliding through the porthole of our cabin to inspire the tenderest demonstrations of connubial affection And I must say it was a pleasant change to indulge in those demonstrations without wondering whether we had forgotten to lock Ramses in bis cabin.
Emerson did not respond as quickly as I had hoped, being given to occasional fits of frowning abstraction, but I felt certain his gloomy mood would lift as soon as we set foot on the soil of Egypt. That moment was now only hours away, already I fancied I could see the dim outline of the coast, and I moved my hand closer to the strong brown hand that lay near it on the rail.
"We are almost there," I said brightly.
"Hmph," said Emerson, frowning.
He did not take my hand. "What the devil is the matter with you?" I inquired. "Are you still sulking
about Ramses?"
"I never sulk," Emerson grumbled. "What a word! Tact is not one of your strong points, Peabody, but
I must confess I had expected you to demonstrate the emphathy of understanding you claim to feel for me and my thoughts. The truth is, I have a, strange foreboding— "
"Oh, Emerson, how splendid!" I cried, unable to contain my delight. "I knew that one day you, too— "
"The word was ill-chosen," Emerson said, glowering. "Your forebodings, Amelia, are solely the products of your rampageous imagination. My— er— uneasiness stems from rational causes."
"As do all such hints of approaching disaster, including mine. I hope you do not suppose I am superstitious! I? No, premonitions and forebodings are the result of clues unnoticed by the waking mind, but recorded and interpreted by that ulnsleeping portion of the brain which— "
"Amelia." I was thrilled to observe thait Emerson's blue eyes had taken on the sapphirine glitter indicative of rising temper. The dimple (which he prefers to call a "cleft") in his well-shaped chin quivered ominously. "Amelia, are you interested in hearing my views or expressing your own?"
Ordinarily I would have enjoyed on,e of those animated discussions that so often enliven the course of our rtnarital relationship, but I wanted nothing to mar the bliss of this moment.
"I beg your pardon, my dear Emersoin. pray express your forebodings without reserve."
"Hmph," said Emerson. For a morrnent he was silent—testing my promise, or gathering his thoughts— and I occupied myself in gazing upon him with the admiration that ssight always induces. The wind blew his dark locks away from his intellectual brow (for he had declined, as usual, to wear a hat) and molded tlhe linen of his shirt to his broad breast (for he had refused to put on his coat until we were ready to disembark). His profile (for he had ttnrned from me, to gaze out across the blue waters) might have servedl as the model for Praxiteles or Michelangelo— the boldly sculpturecd arch of the nose, the firm chin and jaw, the strong yet sensitive cuirve of the lips. The lips parted. (Finally!) He spoke.
"We stopped at Gibraltar and Mallta."
"Yes, Emerson, we did." By biting cdown on my lip I managed to say no more.
"We found letters and newspaper from home awaiting us at both places."
"I know that, Emerson. They came overland by train, more quickly than we ..." A premonition of
my own made my voice falter. "Pray continue."
Emerson turned slowly, resting one arm on the rail. "Did you read the newspapers, Peabody?"
"Some of them."
"The
Daily Yell?
"
I do not lie unless it is absolutely necessary. "Was the
Yell
among the newspapers, Emerson?"
"It is an interesting question, Peabody." Emerson's voice had dropped to the growling purr that presages an explosion. "I thought you might know the answer, for I did not until this morning, when I happened to observe one of the other passengers reading that contemptible rag. When I inquired where he had got it—for the date was that of the seventeenth, three days after we left London—he informed me that several copies had been taken aboard at Malta."
"Indeed?"
"You missed one, Peabody. What did you do with the rest, toss them overboard?"
The corners of his lips quivered, not with fury but with amusement. I was somewhat disappointed— for Emerson's outbursts of rage are always inspiring— but I could not help responding in kind.
"Certainly not. That would have constituted a wanton destruction of the property of others. They are under our mattress."
"Ah. I might have noticed the crackle of paper had I not been distracted by other things."
"I did my best to distract you."
Emerson burst out laughing. "You succeeded, my dear. You always do. I don't know why you were so determined to prevent me from seeing the story, I cannot accuse you this time of babbling to that fiend
of a journalist. He only returned to England ten days before we left, and as soon as I learned of his imminent arrival I made certain you had no opportunity to see him."
"Oh, you did, did you?"
"Kevin O'Connell"— Emerson's tone, as he pronounced the name, turned it into an expletive— "Kevin O'Connell is an unscrupulous wretch, for whom you have an unaccountable affection. He worms information out of you, Amelia. You know he does. How often in the past has he caused us trouble?"
As often as he has come nobly to our assistance," I replied. "He would never do anything deliberately
to harm us, Emerson."
"Well ... I admit the story was not as damaging as I might have expected."
It would have been a good deal more damaging if I had not warned Kevin off. Emerson does not believe in telephones. He refuses to have them installed at Amarna House. However, we were in London for two days before we left, and I managed to put through a trunk call from the hotel. I too had seen the notice
of Kevin's impending return, and my premonitions are as well-founded as Emerson's.
"I suppose he picked up his information while he was in the Sudan," Emerson mused. "He was the only one to use it, there was nothing in the
Times
or the
Mirror.
"
"Their correspondents were concerned only with the military situation, I suppose. Kevin, however— "
"Takes a proprietary interest in our affairs," Emerson finished. "Curse it! I suppose it was unreasonable
to hope O'Connell would not question the officers at Sanam Abu Dom about us, but one would have thought military persons would not spread gossip and idle rumors."
"They knew we had gone out into the desert after Reggie Forthright, whose expedition was ostensibly designed to locate his missing uncle and aunt," I reminded him. "We could hardly conceal that fact, even if Reginald himself had not expressed his intentions to every officer at the camp. And when we returned, Nefret was bound to inspire curiosity and speculation. But the story we concocted was far more believable than the truth. Everyone who knew of poor Mr. Perth's quest for the Lost Oasis considered him a madman or a dreamer."
"O'Connell didn't mention it," Emerson admitted grudgingly. He had not mentioned it because I had threatened him with a number of unpleasant things if he did.
"Nefret's was not the only name to appear in Kevin's story," I said. "As I suggested . . as I expected of a journalist of his ability, Kevin took for his theme the miracle of survival. Nefret's story was only one of many, no one reading the article could possibly suspect that she was reared, not by kindly American missionaries, but by the pagan survivors of a lost civilization. Even if the Lost Oasis was not mentioned, the suggestion that she had been reared among naked savages—for that is how our enlightened fellow countrymen regard the members of all cultures except their own—would subject her to ridicule and rude speculation by society."
"That's what concerns you, is it? Nefret's acceptance into society?"
"She has had trouble enough with narrow-minded fools as it is." The clouds on Emerson's noble brow cleared. "Your kindly concern for the child does you credit, my dear. I think it is all a lot of nonsense, but no doubt the impertinent opinions of the vulgar affect a young girl more than they would ME. In any case we can't explain her origins without giving away the secret we have sworn to keep. All in all, I find I am glad the children are safe at home in England."
"So am I," I said truthfully.

*  *  *

The first person I saw as the steamer nosed into the dock at Port Sa'id was our faithful foreman Abdullah, his snowy-white turban rising a good six inches over the heads of the crowd that surrounded him.
"Curse it," I exclaimed involuntarily. I had hoped for a few more hours of Emerson's undivided attention. Fortunately he did not hear me, raising his hands to his mouth, he let out a ululating call that made the nearby passengers jump, and brought a broad grin to Abdullah's face. He had been our reis for years and was far too old and dignified to express his excitement in violent physical demonstrations, but his younger relatives were not, their turbans bobbed as they jumped up and down and shouted their welcome.
"How splendid of Abdullah to come all this way," Emerson said, beaming.
"And Selim," I said, spotting other familiar faces. "And Ali, and Daoud, and Feisal and— "
"They will be of great help getting our gear to the train," Emerson said. "I can't think why I didn't suggest they meet us here. But it is like Abdullah to anticipate our slightest desire."
The train from Port Sa'id to Cairo takes less than six hours. There was plenty of room in our compartment for Abdullah and his eldest son Feisal, since the other European passengers refused to
share it with a "bunch of dirty natives," as one pompous idiot put it. I heard him expostulating with the conductor. He got nowhere. The conductor knew Emerson.
So we settled down and had a refreshing gossip. Abdullah was distressed to learn that Ramses was not with us. At least he put on a good show of distress, but I thought I detected a certain gleam in his black eyes. His feelings were clear to me— did I not share them? His devotion to Emerson combined the reverence of an acolyte with the strong friendship of a man and a brother. He had not been with us the year before, now he could look forward to an entire season of his idol's undivided attention. He would have disposed of ME as well had that been possible, I thought, without resentment. I felt the same about him. Not to mention Ali, Daoud, and Feisal.
We parted in Cairo, but only temporarily, before long we would visit the men at their village of Aziyeh,
to recruit our crew for the winter's excavations. Emerson was in such a good humor that he submitted gracefully to being embraced by all the men in turn, for some time he was virtually invisible in a cloud
of waving sleeves and flapping robes. The other European travelers stared impertinently.
We had booked rooms at Shepheard's, of course. Our old friend Mr. Baehler was now the owner, so we had no difficulty on that score, though Shepheard's is becoming so popular that rooms are hard to obtain. That year everyone was celebrating the victory in the Sudan. On September 2, Kitchener's troops had occupied Omdurman and Khartoum, ending the rebellion and cleansing the British flag of the stain of dishonor that had blemished it since the gallant Gordon fell to the hordes of the mad Mahdi. (If my
reader is not familiar with this event, I refer him or her to any standard history.)
Emerson's amiable mood disintegrated as soon as we entered the hotel. Shepheard's is always crowded during the winter season and this year the crush was greater than usual. Sun-bronzed young officers, newly arrived from the battle zone, flaunted their bandages and gold braid before the admiring eyes of
the ladies who fluttered around them. One face, adorned with a particularly impressive set of military mustaches, looked familiar, but before I could approach the officer— who was surrounded by a crowd
of civilians, questioning him about Khartoum— Emerson took me by the arm and dragged me away. Not until we had reached our rooms— the ones we always had, overlooking Ezbekieh Gardens— did he speak.
"The place is more confoundedly overcrowded and fashionable every year," he grumbled, tossing his hat onto the floor and sending his coat to follow it. "This is the last time, Amelia. I mean it. Next year we will accept the invitation of Sheikh Mohammed to stay with him."
"Certainly, my dear," I replied, as I did every year. "Shall we go down for tea, or shall I tell the safragi to bring it to us here?"
"I don't want any confounded tea," said Emerson. We had our tea on the little balcony overlooking the gardens. Greatly as I yearned to join the crowd below, which, I did not doubt, contained many friends and acquaintances, and catch up on the news, I did not deem it wise to persuade Emerson back into his coat and hat. I had had a hard enough time getting the latter object of apparel onto his head long enough to enter the hotel.
The white-robed servant glided in and out, noiseless on bare feet, and we took our places at the table. Below us the gardens were bright with roses and hibiscus, carriages and foot passengers passed to and fro along the broad avenue in the never-ending panorama of Egyptian life, as I once termed it. A handsome carriage drew up before the steps of the hotel, from it descended a stately figure in full dress uniform.
Emerson leaned over the edge of the balcony. "Hi, there," he shouted.
"Essalamu 'aleikum, babibi"
"Emerson," I exclaimed. "That is General Kitchener!"
"Is it? I was not addressing him." He gestured vigorously, to my chagrin his wave was answered by a picturesque but extremely ragged individual carrying a tray of cheap souvenirs. Several other equally picturesque persons in the crowd of would be sellers of flowers, fruit, trinkets and souvenirs, attracted by the gesture, looked up and joined in the general shout of welcome. "He has returned, the Father of Curses!
Allah yimessikum bilkheir, effendi! Marbaba, O Sitt Hakim!"
"Hmph," I said, somewhat flattered at being included in this accolade—for Sitt Hakim, "Lady Doctor,"
is my own affectionate nickname among Egyptians. "Do sit down, Emerson, and stop shouting. People are staring."
"It was my intention that they should," Emerson declared. "I want to talk with old Ahmet later, he always knows what is going on."
He was persuaded to resume his seat. As the sun sank lower, the horizon was suffused by the exquisite glow of the dying day, and Emerson's countenance became pensive. "Do you remember, Peabody, the first time Ramses stood on this very balcony with us? We watched the sunset over Cairo together . ."
"As we shall no doubt do again," I said rather sharply. "Now, Emerson, don't think of Ramses. Tell me the news I have been dying to hear. I know your engaging habit of keeping our future plans a secret from me until the last possible moment, you enjoy your little surprises. But the time has come, I think. Where shall we excavate this winter?"
"The decision is not so easy to make," Emerson replied, holding out his cup to be refilled. "I was tempted by Sakkara, so little has been done there, and I am of the opinion that there is a great Eighteenth Dynasty cemetery somewhere in the vicinity of Memphis."
"That is a logical deduction," I agreed. "Especially in view of the fact that Lepsius mentions seeing such tombs in 1843."
"Peabody, if you don't refrain from anticipating my brilliarant deductions I shall divorce you," Emerson said amiably. "Those tombs of Lepsius's are now lost, it would be quite a coup to find them again,
and perhaps others. However, Thebes also has its attraction. Most of the royal mummies of the Empire have now been found, but... By the by, did I tell you I knew of that second cache of mummies, in
the tomb of Amenhotep the Second, fifteen years ago?"
"Yes, my dear, you have mentioned it approximately ten times since we heard of Loret's discovery
of the tomb last March. Why you didn't open the tomb yourself and get the credit—"
"Credit be damned. You know my views, Peabody, once a tomb or a site is uncovered, the scavengers descend. Like most archsiaeologists, that incompetent idiot Loret doesn't supervise his men aodequately. They made off with valuable objects from that tomb undeler his very nose; some have already appeared on the market. Until the Antiquities Department is properly organized— "
"Yes, my dear, I know your views," I said soothingly, for Emerson was capable of lecturing on that subject for hours. "So you are considering the Valley of the Kings? If the royal mummies have all been
found—"
"But the original tombs have not. We are still missinjng those of Hatshepsut, Ahmose, Amenhotep the First and Thutmose the Third, to mention only a few. And I have never been certain that the tomb
we found was really that of Tutankhamen."
"It could have belonged to no one else," I said. "However, I agree with you that there are royal tombs
yet to be found. Our old friend Cyrus Vandergelt will be there again this season, will he not? He has
often asked you to work with him."
"Not with, but
for
him," Emerson answered with a sccowl. "I have nothing against Americans, even rich Americans— even rich American dilettantes— but I work for no man. You have too many cursed old
friends, Peabody."
My famous intuition failed on this occasion. No tremor of premonitory horror ran through me. "I hope you don't harbor any doubts as to Mr. Vandergelt's intentions, Emerson."
"You mean, am I jealous? My dear, I abjured that unwonrthy emotion long ago. You convinced me, as I hope I convinced you, that there could never be the slightest cause. Old married people like ourselves, Peabody, have passed through the cataracts of youthful passion into the serene pool of matrimonial affection."
"Hmmm," I said.
"In fact," Emerson went on, "I have been thinking for some time that we need to examine our plans, not for this year, but for the future. Archaeology is changing, Peabody. Petrie is still bouncing around like a rubber ball, tackling a different site each year— "
"We have done the same."
"Yes, but in my opinion this has become increasingly ineffective. Look at Petrie's excavation reports. They are . . ." Emerson almost choked on the admission that his chief rival had any good qualities, but managed to get it out. "They are— er— not bad. Not bad at all. But in a single season's work he cannot do more than scratch at the site, and once the monuments are uncovered they are as good as gone."
"I agree, Emerson. What do you propose?"
"Do you mind if I smoke?" Without waiting for an answer he took out his pipe and tobacco pouch. "What I propose is that we focus on a single site, not for one season, but until we have found everything that is to be found and recorded everything in painstaking detail. We will need a larger staff, of course—experts in the increasingly complex techniques of excavation. Photographers, artists, an epigrapher to copy and collate texts, an anatomist to study bones, students who can supervise the workers and learn excavation procedures. We might even consider building a permanent house to which we can return every year." He let out a great puff of smoke and added, "Then we wouldn't have to stay at this cursed hotel."
For a moment I could think of nothing to say The proposal was so unexpected, the ramifications so complex, I struggled to take them in. "Well," I said, on a long breath. "The proposal is so unexpected I can think of nothing to say."
I fully anticipated Emerson would make some sarcastic remark about my loquacity, but he did not rise to the bait. "Unexpected, perhaps, but I hope not unwelcome. You never complain, my dear, but the tasks you have faced each year would daunt a lesser woman. It is time you had help— companionship— assistance."
"Of the female variety, I suppose you mean? A secretary would certainly be useful— "
"Come, Peabody, I had not expected you to be so narrow-minded. We could certainly use someone to keep the records straight, but why need that individual be female? And why not women students, excavators and scholars?"
"Why not indeed?" He had touched a tender chord, the advancement of my underrated sex has always been of deep importance to me. After all, I reflected, I had never counted on more than one year of solitary happiness. I had not even counted on that. Let me enjoy it now and not think of the depressing future. "Emerson, I have said it before and I will continue to say it: you are the most remarkable of men."
"As you have also said, you would have accepted nothing less." Emerson grinned at me.
"Do you have anyone in mind?"
"Nefret and Ramses, of course."
"Of course."
"The girl has demonstrated both interest and aptitude," Emerson went on. "I am also in hopes of inducing Evelyn and Walter to come out with us, once we have established a permanent base. There is a young woman named Murray at University College, a student of Griffith, who shows great promise . . . That is one of the things I hope to do this season, Peabody, interview potential staff members."
"Then," I said, rising, "I suggest we begin by dining downstairs."
"Why the devil should we? Ali's, in the bazaar, has better food— "
"But some of our colleagues are certain to be dining at Shepheard's. We can consult them about their more promising students."
Emerson studied me suspiciously. "You always have some excuse for forcing me into activities I detest. How do you know there will be any Egyptologists here tonight? You invited them, didn't you? Curse it,
Peabody— "
"I found messages from friends awaiting us, as is always the case. Come along now. It is getting late
and you will want to bathe and change."
"I won't want to, but I suppose I must," Emerson grumbled.
He began undressing as he stamped across the room, tossing collar, shirt and cravat in the general direction of the sofa. They fell on the floor. I was about to expostulate when Emerson came to a sudden stop and gestured emphatically at me to do the same. Head tilted, ears almost visibly pricked, he listened for a moment, and then, with the catlike quickness he could summon when he felt it expedient, he lunged at the door and flung it open. The corridor was dark, but I made out a huddled form crouched or collapsed on the floor. Emerson seized it in a bruising grip and dragged it into the room.