The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (6 page)

"I was with M. Daressy in '91," Sayce replied guardedly.
"When he found the remains of Akhenaton?" Emerson's lips stretched into the expression one may see
on the face of a dog just before it sinks its teeth into one's hand. "I read about that incredible discovery and was surprised that it was not given greater prominence. Did you actually see the mummy? Daressy mentions only scraps of mummy wrappings."
"There was a body, or the remains of one," Sayce said warily He had seen that smile on Emerson's face before.
"You examined it, of course."
Sayce flushed. "It was in wretched condition. Burned, torn to bits— "
"Very distasteful," Emerson agreed gravely. "What became of it?"
"It is in the museum, I suppose."
"No, it is not. I have examined the Journal d'Entm. There is no mention of it."
"I hope, Professor, you are not implying that my eyesight or my memory are deficient. I saw that mummy!"
"I am sure you did. I saw it myself, seven years earlier" Emerson looked at me. He was enjoying himself so much I had not the heart to reproach him. I decided a little friendly teasing would not do the reverend any harm. "We didn't bother looking for the cursed thing, did we, Peabody, after it was stolen from us? The villagers must have dumped it near the royal tomb after taking it apart looking for amulets. No loss,
it was only another tedious late mummy, that of some poor commoner."
Newberry was trying to hide his smile. We had not included the extraneous mummy in our publication report, since it had nothing to do with the history of the site, but many of our friends knew of our strange encounter with it. Carter, less tactful, exclaimed, "Good heavens! I had forgotten about your peripatetic mummy, Professor. Do you think it was the one Daressy found?"
"I am certain of it," Emerson replied calmly. "None of the fools who examined it— excuse me, Sayce, I
do not include you, of course— had the sense to see that it was of the wrong period. No doubt someone pointed this out to Daressy later, and he simply disposed of the embarrassing evidence and kept quiet."
"I am still of the opinion— " Sayce began angrily.
"Well, well." Emerson waved his opinion away. "Amarna does offer temptations. The Royal Tomb has never been properly investigated, and there are certainly other tombs in that remote wadi."
He took a bite of fish. Mr. Vincey, who had been listening in modest silence, now spoke. "I too have heard rumors of other tombs, but such rumors are common in Egypt. Have you any evidence?"
His voice was mild and the question was certainly reasonable, I could not understand why Emerson shot him such a hard look. "I don't deal in rumors, Vincey, as you should know. I knew of the Royal Tomb
at least a decade before its 'official' discovery."
It was a testimonial to Emerson's reputation that no one expressed doubt of this statement, but Newberry exclaimed, with unusual heat, "You might have had the courtesy to inform your friends, Emerson. Petrie and I spent hours looking for the confounded place in the winter of '91, and I got myself in hot water when I wrote that letter to
The Academy
accusing Grebaut of falsely claiming credit for discovering the tomb."
"What's a little hot water, when the cause is just?" demanded Emerson, who might be said to have spent most of his life up to his neck in boiling liquid. "Grebaut is the most incompetent, stupid, tactless nincompoop who ever called himself an archaeologist. Except for Wallis Budge, of course. I do not announce discoveries until I am in a position to deal with them myself. The depredations of the natives are hard enough on the antiquities, the depredations of archaeologists are even worse. Heaven only
knows what meaningful objects were kicked aside by Daressy and Sayce when they— "
Sayce began to sputter, and Mr. Reisner said quickly, "Then you won't be returning to the Sudan? That region fascinates me. There is so much to be done there."
"It tempts me," Emerson admitted. "But Meroitic culture is not my field. Curse it, I can't be everywhere!"
I had hoped to avoid mentioning the Sudan, for I knew what would follow. Archaeologists are no more immune to idle curiosity than the next man. A general stiffening of attention ran round the table, but before anyone could frame a question we were distracted by the arrival of a short, stout individual who swept up to our table with the regal manner of a viceroy— which, in a professional sense, he was.
"M. Maspero!" I exclaimed. "How delightful! I did not know you were in Cairo."
"Only passing through, dear lady. I cannot stay, but upon hearing of your arrival I could not deny myself the pleasure of welcoming you back to the scene of your many triumphs." Ogling me in his amiable Gallic fashion, he continued, "You have the secret of eternal youth, chere madame, indeed you are younger and lovelier than you were that day of our first meeting in the halls of the museum. Little did I know what a momentous day it was! You may not think, gentlemen, that I resemble the little god of love, but I had the honor that day to play Cupid, for it was I who introduced madame to the gentleman who was to win her heart and hand."
With a grandiloquent flourish of his hand he indicated Emerson, who responded to the amused smiles of the others with a stony stare. He had been extremely critical of Maspero when the latter was Director of the Department of Antiquities, but he had detested the latter's successors even more. Now he said grudgingly, "You had better come back to the job, Maspero. The cursed Department has fallen apart since you left. Grebaut was a disaster, and de Morgan— "
"Ah, well, we will talk of that another time," said Maspero, who had
learned from painful experience that it was necessary to cut Emerson short when he began talking about the failings of the Department of Antiquities. "I am in haste, I must go on to another appointment. So you must tell me at once, madame, what all Cairo aches to know. How fares the interesting young lady who owes you so much? Of all your triumphant adventures, this was surely the most magnificent!"
"She is in excellent health and spirits," I said. "How kind of you to inquire, monsieur."
"No, no, you cannot stop there, with conventional courtesy. You are too modest, madame, I will not allow it. We must hear the whole story. How you learned of her plight, what brilliant deductive methods you applied in order to locate her, the perils you faced on the dangerous journey."
Emerson's expression had petrified to such an extent his face might have been carved of granite. The others leaned forward, lips parted and eyes aglow. They would be able to "dine out" on this story for
the rest of the season, since no one had heard it firsthand.
I had not looked forward to telling the tale to our professional colleagues. Unlike the general public, they had the expert knowledge to find the flaws in our little fiction. However, I had known the moment must come and I had prepared for it with my usual thoroughness.
"You do me too much credit, monsieur. I had no idea such a person as Miss Forth existed. As you must have heard, we went in search of her cousin, who had become lost in the desert after he set out to look for his uncle and aunt. Like many other rash travelers, they had vanished when the Mahdi overran the Sudan." I paused to take a sip of wine and select my words carefully. Then I resumed, "Since the region has been pacified, there have been rumors that some of these people in fact survived."
"It was some such idle rumor that sent Mr. Forthright into the desert?"
Maspero shook his head. "Rash and foolish."
"It was Divine Guidance that inspired him," Sayce said reverently. "And led you to the rescue of this innocent child."
I could have kicked the kindly old man. A remark like this was bound to break through Emerson's silence, for he particularly dislikes giving God the credit for his own achievements. Unfortunately I could not kick Emerson, since he was seated across the table from me.
"Divine Guidance inspired him to lose himself in the desert," said my husband. "Having better sense,
we did not rely on— "
Since I could not administer a warning kick on the shin, I had to find another way of stopping him. I knocked over my wineglass. The heavy damask tablecloth absorbed most of the liquid, but a few drops spattered my brand-new frock.
"What did you rely on?" Carter asked eagerly.
"If it was not Divine Guidance, it was pure luck," I said, frowning at Emerson. "We had the usual adventures. You know the sort of thing, gentlemen— sandstorms, thirst, Bedouin attack. Nothing to speak of. From displaced persons we met along the way we heard of the missionaries— they belong to some strange Protestant sect, like the Brothers of the New Jerusalem— you remember them, Reverend
— and finally reached the remote village where they had miraculously survived fourteen years
of war and misery. Mr. and Mrs Forth had passed on, but their child lived. We were fortunate enough
to be able to restore her to her heritage."
The waiter had supplied a fresh glass of wine. I took a hearty swig, feeling I deserved it.
"So you found no trace of poor Mr. Forthright?" Newbeny shook his head sadly. "A pity. I fear his
bones are whitening in some remote spot"
I certainly hoped they were. The young villain had done his best to murder us.
"But did I not hear some story of a map?" Mr. Vincey asked.
My wineglass almost went over again. I managed to get hold of it. It was Maspero who came to the rescue. Laughing heartily, he said, "Willie Forth's famous maps! We have all heard of them, have we not?"
"Even I," Carter said, smiling. "And I did not know the gentleman. He is something of a legend in Egypt, though."
"One of the lunatic fringe always to be found in archaeology," Newberry said disapprovingly. "So his fantasies led him, not to the city of gold he hoped for, but to a village of miserable mud huts and an
early death."
Maspero took his leave. For the rest of the evening the discussion focused on purely archaeological matters.
After we had returned to our rooms Emerson wrenched off his stiff collar. "Thank heaven that is over.
I won't do it again, Amelia. This suit is as archaic as armor and almost as uncomfortable."
The wine had left visible spots on my skirt. I replied gently, "You won't have to wear evening kit to a fancy dress ball, my dear. I was thinking of something along Elizabethan lines. Those close-fitting hose would set off the handsome shape of your lower limbs."
Emerson had removed his coat. For a moment I thought he would throw it at me. Eyes blazing, he said in a muted roar, "We are not going to a fancy dress ball, Amelia. I would as soon attend my own hanging." "It is in four days' time We can find something in the bazaar, I daresay. Please help me with my buttons, Emerson. These spots may come out if I sponge them at once."
However, I was unable to tackle the spots that evening. By the time the buttons were undone I had other things on my mind.
Some time later, as a pleasant drowsiness wrapped around my weary frame, I reflected with pardonable complacency upon the events of the evening. Over the course of the succeeding months, as the story passed from speaker to listener, it would be altered and embroidered beyond recognition, but at least the original fiction had been accepted by those whose opinions counted most. How ironic, I thought, that it was Willoughby Forth's reputation for eccentricity that was primarily responsible for saving his daughter from vulgar gossip and the Lost Oasis from discovery and exploitation.
I was about to remark on this to Emerson when his regular breathing assured me he had fallen into slumber Turning on my side, I rested my head against his shoulder and emulated his example.

*  *  *

I have a methodical mind. Emerson does not. It required prolonged discussion to convince him we ought to sit down with a map of Egypt and make a neat list of prospective sites, instead of rushing around at random. The more I thought about it, the more his plan appealed to me. Although I had enjoyed our vagabond existence, never knowing from one year to the next where we would be the following season, and although no one accepts with greater equanimity the difficulties of setting up a new camp in a new location yearly, often in places where water and shelter were inadequate, insects and disease proliferated, and the chance of snatching a few moments alone with Emerson was slight, especially with Ramses always underfoot . . . Well, perhaps I had not enjoyed it as much as I thought I had! Certainly the idea
of a permanent habitation had considerable attraction. I found myself picturing how it would be: spacious, comfortable living quarters, a photographic studio, an office for the keeping of records . . . perhaps even
a writing machine and a person to operate it. I had mentally selected the pattern of the draperies for the sitting room by the time Emerson, brooding over the map, spoke for the first time.
"I don't believe we want to go south of Luxor, do we? Unless there is some site between there and Assuan that you yearn for."
"None that comes to mind. The Theban area offers a number of interesting possibilities, however."
We had decided to breakfast in our room, for the sake of greater privacy and also because Emerson did not want to get dressed to go downstairs. His shirt was open at the throat and his sleeves had been pushed up to the elbows, the sight of him lounging at ease, long legs stretched out, a pipe in one hand and a pen in the other, almost distracted me from the matter at hand. Unaware of my affectionate regard, he shoved the map at me. "Have a look, Peabody. I have marked my choices, add or subtract as you like."
"I think I had better subtract," I said, looking at the emphatic crosses that marked the map. "We must narrow the possibilities down to half a dozen or less. Beni Hassan, for instance, would not be my first choice."
Emerson groaned feelingly. "The tombs have deteriorated badly since I first saw them. They need to be copied"
"That can be said of almost every site you have marked."
So the discussion proceeded,- after a refreshing hour or so we had reduced the list to three—Meidum, Annarna and western Thebes— and I had agreed to Emerson's suggestion that we inspect the sites before making a final decision.
"It is still early in the season," he reminded me. "And we have not had the leisure to play tourist for several years. I would like to have a look at the tomb Loret found last year. He has left some of the mummies there, bloody fool that he is."
"Language, Emerson," I said automatically. "It would be nice to see the dear old Valley of the Kings again. What do you say we start with Meidum, since we are in the neighborhood?"
"Hardly in the neighborhood. Admit it, Peabody, you favor Meidum because there is a pyramid."
"We must start somewhere. After Meidum we could— "
A knock at the door interrupted me. The safragi entered, carrying a bouquet of flowers. I had already received several floral offerings from our guests of the previous evening, M. Maspero's was the largest and most extravagant. All the vases were in use, so I sent the servant out to find another while I admired the pretty arrangement of roses and mimosa.
"No red roses?" Emerson inquired with a smile. "I don't allow you to accept red roses from gentlemen, Peabody."
In the language of flowers, red roses signify passionate love. It was reassuring to hear him speak jestingly of a subject that had once driven him into a jealous rage. So I told myself, at any rate.
"They are white," I replied rather shortly. "I wonder who . . Ah, here is a card. Mr. Vincey! A gentlemanly gesture, upon my word. I hardly had a chance to speak to him. By the by, Emerson, I have been meaning to ask you— what was the disgraceful business you referred to?"
"The Nimrud treasure. You must have read of it."
"I do remember seeing newspaper accounts, but that was some years ago, before I took a personal interest in archaeology. The cache was a rich one— gold and silver vessels, jewelry and the like, it was sold, as I recall, to the Metropolitan Museum."
"Correct. What the newspapers did not report, because they are well aware of the laws of libel, was that Vincey was suspected of being the agent through whom the museum acquired the collection. He was excavating at Nimrud for Schamburg, the German millionaire"
"You mean he found the gold and did not report the discovery to his patron or the local authorities?
How shocking!"
"Shocking indeed, but not necessarily illegal. The laws regarding the disposition of antiquities and the ownership of buried treasure were even more undefined then than they are today In any case, nothing could be proved. If Vincey did peddle the loot to the Metropolitan, he did it through an intermediary,
and the museum was no more anxious than he to explain the transaction."
I could see that Emerson was beginning to get restless. He tapped out his pipe, shuffled his feet, and reached again for the map. Nevertheless I persisted.
"Then that is why I am not familiar with Mr. Vincey's archaeological career. The mere suspicion of
such dishonesty— "
"Ended that career," Emerson finished. "No one would employ him again. It was a promising career, too. He began in Egyptology— did good work at Kom Ombo and Denderah. There was some talk . . . But
why are we sitting here gossiping like a pair of old ladies? Get dressed and let us go out."
He rose, stretching. The movement displayed his form to best advantage: the breadth of his chest and shoulders, the lean, sinewy shape of the lower portion of his frame. I suspected he had done it to distract me, for Emerson is well aware of my appreciation of the aesthetic qualities of his person. I persisted, however, inquiring, "Were you, by any chance, the one who brought his malfeasance to light?"
"I? Certainly not. In fact, I came to his defense, pointing out that other excavators, including certain officials of the British Museum, were equally unscrupulous in their methods of obtaining antiquities."
"Why, Emerson, what a specious argument! I am surprised at you."
"The treasure was better off at the Metropolitan than in some private collection."
"An even less tenable argument."
Emerson started for the bedroom. It was his little way of indicating he did not care to discuss the subject further. I had, however, one more question.
"Why did you bring up the subject in that rude way? The others were willing to let the past be
forgotten— "
Emerson whirled, his manly countenance aglow with honest indignation. "I, rude? You know nothing about the traditions of masculine conversation, Peabody. That was just a friendly jest."