Crocodile on the Sandbank (15 page)
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
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
callused 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 visitors; 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 tide 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
honor 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 jogging 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."
"Whereto?"
"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 mere, 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. Toward 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.
We retraced our steps to the top of the second flight of stairs, where
three small rooms were located off the main corridor. Here crumbling
reliefs showed the death and burial of a princess, one of Khuenaten's
daughters. She had died young, and had been laid to rest in her
father's tomb. The little body, stretched out stiffly on its bed,
looked very pathetic, and the grief of the parents, holding one
another's hands for comfort, was strangely moving. Almost one could
hear a thin moan of anguish echoing down the deserted corridors-----
And then there was a moan— or at least, a faint sound of some kind. The
reader can only faintly imagine the horrific effect of such a sound— of
sound of any sort— in those dark, musty rooms that had never been
inhabited except by the dead. Before my scalp had time to prickle, the
fainter sound was followed by another, less ghostly, but even more
alarming. It was a loud crash of falling rock. Whatever the sound lost
by reason of distance was regained by the rolling echoes. I started and
dropped my candle.
Using language no lady could possibly remember, much less reproduce,
Emerson scrabbled around in the debris that littered the floor until he
found the candle. He relighted it from his own. Then he looked directly
at me and spoke in the quiet voice he employed in moments of emergency.
"You are no fool, Peabody, if you are a woman. You know what that sound
may mean. Are you prepared? You will not swoon, or scream, or become
hysterical?"
I gave him a look of withering scorn, and in silence started out of the
room.
With Emerson breathing heavily behind me, I made my way along the
corridor. I did not expect that we would meet with any obstruction
there. The walls and floors were carved from the living stone of the
mountains. No; the difficulty would be at the entrance, and long before
we reached that spot I knew that my surmise was unhappily correct. From
the foot of the final stair I saw that the light which should have been
apparent at the entrance was— not apparent.
We made our way up the stairs, not without difficulty, for rocks
littered the steps, and stood at last before the entrance. The narrow
opening was closed by stones— some as small as pebbles, some as large
as
boulders.
I blew out my candle. It was obvious that we had better conserve what
little light we had. I was stooping to pluck at the rocks when Emerson
turned to stick his candle onto a ledge in a pool of its own grease.
"Take care," he said curtly. "You may start another landslide that will
sweep both of us down the stairs."
We dug for a long time; not as long as it seemed, perhaps, but the
first candle was almost burned out when there came a sound from
without. It was, to say the least, a welcome event. At first the words
were indistinguishable. Then I realized that the person was speaking
Arabic. I recognized the voice and, in the stress of the moment,
understood what was being said. The voice was Abdullah's. He demanded
to know if we were within.
"Of course we are within," shouted Emerson angrily. "Oh, son of a
blind, bowlegged mule, where else should we be?"
A howl, which I took to be one of delight, followed this question. The
howl was followed by a shout in quite another voice: "Hold on, Miss
Amelia! Lucas is on the job!"
All at once Emerson threw his arms against me and pushed me against the
wall, pressing his body close to mine. Although I am now alone as I
write, my Critic having gone off on an errand, I hesitate to express
the thoughts that flashed through my mind at that moment. I knew
Emerson was no weakling, but I had not fully realized his strength
until I felt the rigid muscles of his breast against mine and felt my
bones give under the strength of his grasp. I thought ... I
expected----- Well, why not admit it? I thought he was
embracing me— relief at our unexpected rescue having weakened his mind.
Luckily these absurd notions had no time to burgeon in my brain. A
horrible rattling crash followed, as the barricade gave way, and great
rocks bounded down the stairs and banged against the walls. I felt
Emerson flinch and knew he had been struck by at least one rock, from
whose impact his quick action had saved me; for my body was shielded by
his and his big hand pressed my face into the shelter of his shoulder.
I was quite out of breath when he released me, and gulped air for
several seconds before I realized it was the clean, hot air of the
outer world I breathed, and that sunlight was streaming into the vault.
The sunlight was too bright for my dazzled eyes, accustomed to
darkness. I could just make out the silhouettes of the heads and
shoulders of two men above the heap of rock that still lay on the
threshold.
Emerson leaned back against the wall, his left arm hanging at an odd
angle. As Abdullah and Lucas came scrambling in over the rocks, Emerson
turned his head toward his foreman. Rivulets of perspiration were
streaming down his face, turning the dust that covered it into a muddy
mask.
"You d------ fool," he said.
"You are hurt," said Abdullah intelligently.
"Words fail me," said Emerson.
But of course they did not; he went on, though he spoke in gasps. "An
experienced foreman... knows better... shoving like a battering
ram----- "
"I tried to tell him to go slowly," Lucas broke in. "Unfortunately my
Arabic is nonexistent."
He looked so guilty, and Abdullah so particularly enigmatic, that I
realized who was probably responsible for the accident. There was no
point in pressing the matter, however.
"He was anxious to get us out," I said. "Let us eschew recriminations
and act. Is your arm broken?"
"Dislocated," said Emerson, between his teeth. "I must get back...
Walter knows how...."
"You cannot walk so far," I said.
This was patently true, and anyone but Emerson would have admitted the
fact at once. His knees were buckling, and only the wall at his back
kept him upright.
"I can do... what I must," he replied.
"No doubt; but there is no need. I saw our local surgeon perform this
operation once, on a farmer whose shoulder had been put out of place.
If you will direct me— "
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
callused 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 visitors; 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 tide 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
honor 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 jogging 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."
"Whereto?"
"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 mere, 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. Toward 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.
We retraced our steps to the top of the second flight of stairs, where
three small rooms were located off the main corridor. Here crumbling
reliefs showed the death and burial of a princess, one of Khuenaten's
daughters. She had died young, and had been laid to rest in her
father's tomb. The little body, stretched out stiffly on its bed,
looked very pathetic, and the grief of the parents, holding one
another's hands for comfort, was strangely moving. Almost one could
hear a thin moan of anguish echoing down the deserted corridors-----
And then there was a moan— or at least, a faint sound of some kind. The
reader can only faintly imagine the horrific effect of such a sound— of
sound of any sort— in those dark, musty rooms that had never been
inhabited except by the dead. Before my scalp had time to prickle, the
fainter sound was followed by another, less ghostly, but even more
alarming. It was a loud crash of falling rock. Whatever the sound lost
by reason of distance was regained by the rolling echoes. I started and
dropped my candle.
Using language no lady could possibly remember, much less reproduce,
Emerson scrabbled around in the debris that littered the floor until he
found the candle. He relighted it from his own. Then he looked directly
at me and spoke in the quiet voice he employed in moments of emergency.
"You are no fool, Peabody, if you are a woman. You know what that sound
may mean. Are you prepared? You will not swoon, or scream, or become
hysterical?"
I gave him a look of withering scorn, and in silence started out of the
room.
With Emerson breathing heavily behind me, I made my way along the
corridor. I did not expect that we would meet with any obstruction
there. The walls and floors were carved from the living stone of the
mountains. No; the difficulty would be at the entrance, and long before
we reached that spot I knew that my surmise was unhappily correct. From
the foot of the final stair I saw that the light which should have been
apparent at the entrance was— not apparent.
We made our way up the stairs, not without difficulty, for rocks
littered the steps, and stood at last before the entrance. The narrow
opening was closed by stones— some as small as pebbles, some as large
as
boulders.
I blew out my candle. It was obvious that we had better conserve what
little light we had. I was stooping to pluck at the rocks when Emerson
turned to stick his candle onto a ledge in a pool of its own grease.
"Take care," he said curtly. "You may start another landslide that will
sweep both of us down the stairs."
We dug for a long time; not as long as it seemed, perhaps, but the
first candle was almost burned out when there came a sound from
without. It was, to say the least, a welcome event. At first the words
were indistinguishable. Then I realized that the person was speaking
Arabic. I recognized the voice and, in the stress of the moment,
understood what was being said. The voice was Abdullah's. He demanded
to know if we were within.
"Of course we are within," shouted Emerson angrily. "Oh, son of a
blind, bowlegged mule, where else should we be?"
A howl, which I took to be one of delight, followed this question. The
howl was followed by a shout in quite another voice: "Hold on, Miss
Amelia! Lucas is on the job!"
All at once Emerson threw his arms against me and pushed me against the
wall, pressing his body close to mine. Although I am now alone as I
write, my Critic having gone off on an errand, I hesitate to express
the thoughts that flashed through my mind at that moment. I knew
Emerson was no weakling, but I had not fully realized his strength
until I felt the rigid muscles of his breast against mine and felt my
bones give under the strength of his grasp. I thought ... I
expected----- Well, why not admit it? I thought he was
embracing me— relief at our unexpected rescue having weakened his mind.
Luckily these absurd notions had no time to burgeon in my brain. A
horrible rattling crash followed, as the barricade gave way, and great
rocks bounded down the stairs and banged against the walls. I felt
Emerson flinch and knew he had been struck by at least one rock, from
whose impact his quick action had saved me; for my body was shielded by
his and his big hand pressed my face into the shelter of his shoulder.
I was quite out of breath when he released me, and gulped air for
several seconds before I realized it was the clean, hot air of the
outer world I breathed, and that sunlight was streaming into the vault.
The sunlight was too bright for my dazzled eyes, accustomed to
darkness. I could just make out the silhouettes of the heads and
shoulders of two men above the heap of rock that still lay on the
threshold.
Emerson leaned back against the wall, his left arm hanging at an odd
angle. As Abdullah and Lucas came scrambling in over the rocks, Emerson
turned his head toward his foreman. Rivulets of perspiration were
streaming down his face, turning the dust that covered it into a muddy
mask.
"You d------ fool," he said.
"You are hurt," said Abdullah intelligently.
"Words fail me," said Emerson.
But of course they did not; he went on, though he spoke in gasps. "An
experienced foreman... knows better... shoving like a battering
ram----- "
"I tried to tell him to go slowly," Lucas broke in. "Unfortunately my
Arabic is nonexistent."
He looked so guilty, and Abdullah so particularly enigmatic, that I
realized who was probably responsible for the accident. There was no
point in pressing the matter, however.
"He was anxious to get us out," I said. "Let us eschew recriminations
and act. Is your arm broken?"
"Dislocated," said Emerson, between his teeth. "I must get back...
Walter knows how...."
"You cannot walk so far," I said.
This was patently true, and anyone but Emerson would have admitted the
fact at once. His knees were buckling, and only the wall at his back
kept him upright.
"I can do... what I must," he replied.
"No doubt; but there is no need. I saw our local surgeon perform this
operation once, on a farmer whose shoulder had been put out of place.
If you will direct me— "
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