The Curse of the Pharaohs (36 page)

"It was your own fault," Emerson said at last.

"Oh?"

"If you would stay peacefully at home, like a sensible woman, when you are told to—"

"So you put opium in my coffee. Lady Baskerville put it in yours, and in Mr. O'Connell's, after you had chosen him to accompany you. Really," I said, in some vexation, "the affair is positively farcical. Emerson, your carelessness astonishes me. What if Lady Baskerville had wished to render
me
hors de combat too? Your little contribution, which I presume you obtained from my medical chest, added to hers, would have put an end to my nocturnal activities permanently."

Emerson leaped to his feet. His hat, lifted from his head by the vigor of his movement, floated around for a few seconds and then dropped onto the head of Sat Hathor, the Chantress of Amon. It was a rather amusing sight, but I had no impulse to laugh. Poor Emerson's face had gone white under his deep tan. Careless of the watchers on the lower deck he lifted me up out of my chair and crushed me to him.

"Peabody," he exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with emotion, "I am the stupidest idiot in creation. My blood runs cold when I think... Can you forgive me?"

I forgave him, with gestures instead of words. After a long embrace he released me.

"In fact," he said, "we should call it a draw. You tried to shoot me, I tried to poison you. As I said before, Peabody, we are well matched."

It was impossible to resist him. I began to laugh, and after a moment Emerson's deep-throated chuckle blended with mine.

"What do you say we go down to the cabin?" he inquired. "The mummies will do very well alone for a while."

"Not just yet. Bastet was just waking when we came up; you know she will prowl and howl for some time before she resigns herself."

"I should never have brought that cat," Emerson growled. Then he brightened up. "But just think, Peabody, what a pah-she and Ramses will make. Never a dull moment, eh?"

"It will toughen him up for next season," I agreed.

"Do you really think—"

"I really do. Good heavens, Emerson, Luxor is becoming known as a health resort. The boy will be better off there than in that nasty damp winter climate of England."

"No doubt you are right, Peabody."

"I always am. Where do you think we should excavate next winter?"

Emerson retrieved his hat from the Chantress of Amon and clapped it onto the back of his head. His face had the look I loved to see—baked as brown as a Nubian's by the Egyptian sun, his eyes narrowed speculatively, a half-smile on his lips.

"I fear the Valley is exhausted," he replied, stroking his chin. "There will be no more royal tombs found. But the Western Valley has possibilities. I will tell Vandergelt we ought to work there next season. And yet, Peabody..."

"Yes, my dear Emerson?"

Emerson took a turn around the deck, his hands clasped behind his back. "Do you remember the pectoral we found on the crushed body of the thief?"

"How could I forget it?"

"We read the cartouche as that of Tutankhamon."

"And decided that our tomb must have belonged to him. It is the only possible conclusion, Emerson."

"No doubt, no doubt. But, Peabody, consider the dimensions of the tomb. Would such a short-lived and ephemeral king have time enough and wealth enough to construct such a sepulchre?"

"You discussed that in your
Zeitschrift
article," I reminded him.

"I know. But I cannot help wondering... You don't suppose a gang of thieves would rob two tombs in the same night?"

"Not unless the said tombs were practically side by side," I said, laughing.

"Ha, ha." Emerson echoed my mirth. "Impossible, of course. That part of the Valley cannot contain any other tombs. All the same, Peabody, I have a strange feeling mat I have missed something."

"Impossible, my dear Emerson."

"Quite, my dear Peabody."

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Seventeen