Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [51]
Seeing the futility of communication with Emerson when he was in this state, Walter turned to the cave where the mummy was kept. He was soon out again; his expressive face told me the truth before he spoke.
“The mummy is gone,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Only scraps of the wrappings remain. Why would anyone steal such a poor specimen?”
“These people would steal their grandmothers and sell them if there were a market for decrepit old ladies,” Emerson growled.
I had observed that his fits of rage, though violent, were soon over. Afterward he seemed greatly refreshed by the outburst and would, in fact, deny that he had ever lost his temper. He now spoke to me as if he had never made his outrageous accusations.
“What about breakfast, Peabody?”
I was meditating a suitably crushing retort when Walter spoke again.
“It is really incomprehensible. The men could have made off with the mummy when they first found it. And what has become of the bandages you removed?”
“That, at least, is easily explained,” Emerson answered. “I could not unwrap the bandages. The perfumed resins in which the body was soaked had glued the wrappings into a solid mass. I had to make an incision and open the thorax. As you know, Walter, the body cavities often contain amulets and scraps of—Peabody! Miss Peabody, what is the matter?”
His voice faded into a dim insect buzzing, and the sunlight darkened. A ghastly vision had flashed upon my mind. If the moon had been higher—if I had seen the nocturnal visitor more distinctly—would I have beheld the violated body, gaping wide?
I am happy to say that this was the first and last time I succumbed to superstition. When I opened my eyes I realized that Emerson was supporting me, his alarmed face close to mine. I straightened, and saw a dark flush mantle his cheeks as I pushed his arms away.
“A momentary weakness,” I said. “I think—I think perhaps I will sit down.
Walter quickly offered his arm, and I did not disdain it.
“You are wearing yourself out, Miss Peabody,” he said warmly. “We cannot allow such sacrifices. Today you must rest; I insist upon it.”
“Hmmm,” said Emerson. His eyes expressed neither concern nor appreciation, but rather speculation as they examined my face.
As the day wore on I could not help recalling Evelyn’s remark of the previous evening. I had discounted her mention of nervousness then; now I could not deny that the atmosphere was uneasy. I myself was unable to settle down to anything. After working on the pavement for a time I went to the site where Walter and Abdullah were directing the workers.
There were more than fifty people at work. The men were removing the sand that had covered the foundations of temples and houses, shoveling it into baskets which were then carried away by children, boys and girls both. It was necessary to dump the sand some distance away, lest it cover future excavations. The work was tedious, except when the men reached the floor level, where abandoned objects might be found; yet all the workers, children and adults alike, usually worked cheerfully and willingly. They are very musical people, the Egyptians, although their wailing, yodeling singing sounds odd to European ears; but today no brisk chorus speeded the work. The children who carried the baskets were slow and unsmiling.
I joined Abdullah, the foreman, where he stood on a little rise of sand watching the diggers.
“They do not sing today,” I said. “Why not, Abdullah?”
Not a muscle moved in the dignified brown face; but I sensed an inner struggle.
“They