Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (20 page)

‘I don’t know that such an encounter will ever take place, Lord Ellesmere,’ Walter said. ‘There is no reason why you should concern yourself with our problems. If you will escort the ladies into safety, we – ’

Lucas leaned forward; impetuously he placed a hand on the other young man’s arm.

‘But, my dear fellow, you would not deprive me of a part in this adventure? I don’t claim any noble intentions; I’m sure you can manage quite well without me. My motives are purely selfish, and therefore you must give way to me!’

Watching his beaming face, hearing his jovial tones, I could understand why Mr Dickens’ Scrooge found his jolly nephew so irritating. I was also struck by the contrast between the two young men. They were almost of an age, I thought. Walter’s slim height looked boyish next to Lucas’ breadth of chest and shoulders. His tumbled dark hair and thin cheeks made him appear even younger. Lucas was dressed with his usual elegance; his pith helmet shone like snow in the sun, his light suit was tailored like a uniform and fitted him like a glove. Walter’s shirt was open at the throat, displaying reddened, peeling skin. His boots were shabby and dusty, his hands calloused from hard labour.

At that, he looked relatively respectable next to his brother, whose bandaged brow and hand added to his look of a battered warrior just come off the battlefield. Emerson was contemplating Lucas with an expression that made me think we might become allies in this, if in nothing else. When he spoke, it was in the rasping growl that was more dangerous than his shouts.

‘You should appeal to me, my lord, for permission to join our group. I confess I cannot think of any means of preventing you from pitching a tent anywhere you choose.’

From Emerson this was positively a gracious speech. Lucas seemed to realize it; he turned his considerable charm on Emerson, who continued to study him with all the enthusiasm of a gruff old mastiff watching the gambols of a puppy. When Lucas expressed interest in the antiquities of the area, he unbent a trifle and offered to show Lucas some of the tombs.

‘We have uncovered very little of the city,’ he explained. ‘The ruins that remain are not interesting to a layman. The carvings in the tombs have a certain appeal, however.’

‘I regret that I have not had time to examine them more closely,’ I interrupted. ‘I meant to ask you, Emerson, whether there might not be more tombs to be discovered. What of the king’s own tomb, for instance? He of all people must have had a sepulchre here.’

‘That is one of the projects I had hoped to undertake this season,’ Emerson replied. ‘The royal tomb has never been properly cleared out, although these villainous villagers removed anything of saleable value some time ago. There was not much; the reliefs in the tomb were never finished, and I question whether Khuenaten was ever buried there, although fragments of a sarcophagus may still be seen in the burial chamber. Hmmm. Yes, Peabody, I would like to have another look at it. Suppose we go this afternoon.’

‘The royal tomb is not to my taste today,’ Lucas said, stretching out his booted feet lazily. ‘It is quite a distance, I am told, and the path is rugged.’

‘It would mar the finish of your boots,’ Emerson agreed gravely. ‘You seem to know something about Amarna, Lord Ellesmere. The royal tomb is not on the ordinary traveller’s list of sights.’

‘Oh, I have become an interested student of all things Egyptian. Already I have made a splendid collection of antiquities, and I hope to acquire more along the way. I intend to set up an Egyptian gallery at Ellesmere Castle.’

Emerson had been keeping himself under tight rein – for what reason I could not imagine – but this was too much for him.

‘Another amateur collection, ignorantly displayed and isolated from scholars,’ he burst out. ‘Of course you are collecting your antiquities from the dealers, my lord – which means that they have been wantonly pilfered from the original places, with no records kept – ’

‘I seem to have struck inadvertently at a tender spot,’ Lucas said, smiling at Evelyn.

She did not return the smile; instead she said seriously, ‘Mr Emerson’s feelings are more than justified, Lucas. It is vital that excavations should be carried out only by trained archaeologists. Some objects are fragile and can be damaged by unskilled hands. More important, the provenance of an object can sometimes tell us a great deal – where it was found, with what other objects, and so on. If visitors would not buy from dealers and peasants, they would stop their illicit digging.’

‘Dear me, you are becoming quite an enthusiast yourself,’ Lucas exclaimed. ‘That is what I shall need for my Egyptian gallery – an expert who will tend and classify my collection. Then perhaps Mr Emerson will not despise me.’

Evelyn’s eyes fell under his meaningful regard.

‘Emerson will despise you in any case,’ I said. ‘The only steps you can take to redeem yourself are, one, to cease buying antiquities, and two, to present the ones you have to the British Museum. The scholars there will take proper care of them.’

Emerson muttered something which, though indistinct, was clearly uncomplimentary to the British Museum.

Lucas laughed. ‘No, I cannot give up my collection. But perhaps Mr Emerson will read my papyrus for me.’

‘You have a papyrus?’ I inquired interestedly.

‘Yes, quite a good one – brown with age, crumbling, covered with those strange little scratches which were, I am told, developed from the hieroglyphic picture writing. When I unrolled it – ’

An ominous moaning sound emerged from Emerson.

‘You unrolled it,’ he repeated.

‘Only the first section,’ said Lucas cheerfully. ‘It began to break apart then, so I thought…. Why, Mr Emerson, you look quite pale. I gather I have done something reprehensible.’

‘You might as well confess to a murder,’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘There are too many people in the world as it is, but the supply of ancient manuscripts is severely limited.’

Lucas seemed subdued by the reproof.

‘I will give it to you, then, if you feel so strongly. Perhaps it will count as my payment of admission to this charming group,’ he added more cheerfully. ‘I must send back to my dahabeeyah for supplies, if I am to spend the night. Let us just have a look round, shall we? I can hardly wait to see the scenes of the mummy’s appearance, and select a tomb for myself.’

Emerson acquiesced with no more than a mumble. I was at a loss to account for his amiability at first. Then two explanations occurred to me. I was ready to believe either or both, since neither reflected any credit on Emerson.

Money for excavation was hard to come by; a wealthy patron could relieve Emerson’s anxieties in this area. Furthermore, it was as clear as print that Lucas was interested in Evelyn. His eyes seldom left her face, and he made no attempt to conceal his tender concern. Emerson must realize that Walter also loved the girl. He would not be pleased to lose his devoted acolyte; perhaps he meant Walter to marry well, in order to supply more funds for the gaping maw of his research. By encouraging a rival to his brother, he kept that brother under his calloused thumb.

My suspicions were confirmed when Emerson waxed positively jovial as he showed Lucas the camp. As for Lucas, he bubbled with enthusiasm and admiration. Nothing could be more charming! He could not imagine anything more delightful than camping out in an ancient tomb! The scenery was magnificent, the air was like wine, and – in short, you would have thought our meticulous lordship was rhapsodizing over a modern luxury hotel and a vista of wooded grandeur. He plied Emerson with questions; shook his head over the perfidy of Mohammed and the superstitions of the villagers; insisted on pressing the hand of the faithful Abdullah, who looked askance at this demonstration. The only thing he expressed doubt about was Michael.

‘Are you certain you can trust him?’ he asked in a low voice, as we walked past the cook tent where Michael was preparing a simple lunch. The devoted fellow had taken over menial duties that would ordinarily have been below his dignity, since the villagers had abandoned us. We had decided not to involve any of our servants from the boat; there was no telling how they would react to the story, much less the sight, of the mummy.

‘I trust him implicitly,’ Evelyn replied firmly. ‘Amelia saved the life of his child; he would die for her, I think.’

‘Then there is no more to be said,’ said Lucas. But he did say more – a good deal more. Michael was, after all, a native. Was he not just as superstitious as the villagers? Could he be trusted to risk, not only his life, but his immortal soul, as he believed, with a demon of the night?

‘I have considered that,’ Emerson replied shortly. ‘You need not concern yourself about it, your lordship.’

His tone brooked no argument. Even Lucas recognized this, and he abandoned the subject.

Of the tombs in our immediate vicinity only a few were habitable; some were blocked by rock falls or heaps of debris. They were similar in plan, having a large hall with columns beyond the entrance corridor, from which another corridor led on to more rooms, including the burial chamber.

Evelyn and I occupied a tomb that had once belonged to a royal craftsman who bore the engaging title Washer of Hands of his Majesty. The title delighted me because it was a reminder of the constancy of human nature; I could not help recalling our own Tudor and Stuart monarchs, who were served by high noblemen who considered it an honour to be the official holders of the royal trousers.

But I digress.

Lucas was with difficulty dissuaded from moving into the most grandiose of the nearby tombs, that of one Mahu, who had been chief of police of the city. Clearing it out would have taken days. So Lucas’s servants were set to work on another, smaller tomb, and one of them was sent back to the dahabeeyah with a long list of Lucas’s requirements for the next day or two.

After luncheon we separated, Evelyn to rest, Walter to work at recording some pottery fragments which had been found on the last day of digging, and Lucas to explore. He went jagging off on his little donkey, looking sufficiently ridiculous with his long legs trailing. When he was out of sight, Emerson turned to me.

‘Come along, Peabody.’

‘Where to?’

‘You said you wanted to see the royal tomb.’

‘What, now?’

‘Now is as good a time as any.’

I looked up at the broiling sun, now near the zenith; then I shrugged. If Emerson thought to subdue me by such tactics, he would soon find out that I could keep up with any project he proposed. I went to my tomb to assume my rationals. They were dreadfully creased and dusty, and I wished I had purchased several similar costumes.

When I emerged, Emerson was pacing up and down and glaring at his watch.

‘Will Walter come?’ I inquired, deliberately dawdling.

‘Walter had better remain here. There must be someone on guard; I have told Abdullah to go after his lordship, in case the fool breaks a leg trying to climb the cliffs or tumbles off his donkey. Come, come, Peabody; if you don’t hurry I will go alone.’

I went – not because he had ordered me to do so, but because I suspected he wanted a private discussion with me.

However, no such development ensued. The walk was too difficult for leisurely conversation. We turned into a long rocky wadi, or canyon, and followed its course for several miles. It was the most desolate area I had seen yet. The steep, barren walls of the wadi were streaked and cracking; not a single blade of grass or hardy weed found sustenance in the sunbaked soil. The floor of the valley was covered with rocks of all sizes, from enormous boulders to pebbles, which had fallen from the cliffs. The silence was absolute. It was like being in another world; a world in which life was an intrusion.

After about three miles the rock walls closed in and smaller wadis opened up to left and right. We turned to the northeast and picked our way through a narrow valley. As we stumbled along, Emerson began to ask questions, but they were not the questions I had expected. Instead he interrogated me about Lucas. I answered as shortly as I could. The drift of Emerson’s curiosity convinced me that I had been correct in both my assumptions; he was immensely curious about the extent of Lord Ellesmere’s fortune and the degree of his interest in Evelyn. I found it increasingly difficult to avoid his inquiries and finally put an end to them by picking a quarrel. That was never difficult with Emerson. He stalked along in offended silence until we reached the isolated tomb which had been prepared for the heretic king and his family.

In an effort to protect it from thieves seeking the rich treasures buried with the dead, the royal tomb had been situated in a remote part of the cliffs. The attempt at security had failed; the tomb had been robbed again and again. If Khuenaten had ever been buried there, the royal mummy had vanished centuries ago.

I shivered, even in the breathless heat, as I looked up the slope at the high dark hole that marked the entrance to the tomb. An air of brooding desolation hung over the spot. Disappointment and failure haunted it. Towards the end of his life, the royal reformer must have known that his religious revolution would not succeed. After his death his very name had been obliterated. I thought I would not like to come here after dark; it would be too easy to hear, in the jackals’ howls, the lament of a starving, nameless ghost.

Emerson, unaffected by the aura of the place, was already scrambling up toward the entrance. Before it was a little plateau, about fifteen feet off the ground. I followed him, unassisted. He had brought candles; we lighted two of them and went in.

The tombs of Egyptian royalty were not the simple structures their subjects built. This one had long corridors, steep stairs, turns and curves designed to frustrate the cupidity of thieves. These devices had succeeded as well as such devices usually do – that is to say, not at all. The royal tomb had been roughly cleared, probably by the experienced thieves of Haggi Qandil. Otherwise we would not have been able to penetrate its interior at all, and even so, it was a breathless, dusty, uncomfortable trip. We were unable to reach the burial chamber, because a deep pit, like the one in the other tomb I had seen, cut straight across the corridor. There was nothing to bridge it with. Emerson’s suggestion that we run and jump was probably not to be taken seriously.
I
certainly did not take it seriously.