Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [59]
As soon as it was dark, Walter and Abdullah slipped away. I settled Evelyn, with Michael standing by; he was holding a long cudgel, and although he began to show signs of uneasiness as the mysterious dusk gathered, I felt sure he would use the club if anything threatened Evelyn. I did not expect such a necessity would arise. If the Mummy eluded the watchers at the village, Emerson and I would take care of him.
After assuming a suitable costume, I crept along the ledge to Emerson’s tomb. He was seated at the packing case that served as a desk, writing by the light of a lamp. When I slid stealthily into the chamber, he dropped his pen and stared.
“Is this a masquerade party, Peabody? The Mummy will win first prize in any case; your old gypsy lady will not compete.”
“Obviously dark clothing is necessary if I wish to be unseen,” I replied, in some annoyance. “The black head scarf keeps my hair from flying about, and the dirt is necessary to darken the comparative pallor of my face and hands. I was about to suggest the same precautions for you. And put out the lamp, if you please.”
“I will put out the lamp at the usual time,” Emerson said coldly. “If someone is watching, we do not wish to alarm him by any deviation from our routine. I suggest you squat there in the corner, Peabody, where you will not be visible from the doorway. No one would ever believe, seeing you as you look just now, that I had invited you here, for—er—amorous purposes.”
I did not think it worthwhile to dignify this remark with a reply. Giving him a haughty look, I went to my corner.
The ensuing hours dragged tediously. At first I amused myself by watching Emerson, who continued to write as if I had not been there. He needed a haircut. Despite his illness his hair was healthy-looking—thick and black and a little wavy where it curled over his collar. The movement of the muscles of his back, under his thin shirt, was interesting to a student of anatomy.
After a time this occupation palled. I crawled across to the packing-case table, this maneuver winning an irritable growl from Emerson, and took one of the books that was scattered on its surface. It was a volume on the pyramids of Gizeh, by a certain Mr. Petrie. I remembered hearing Emerson mention this young scholar, if not with approval—for Emerson did not speak of anyone with approval—at least without the invective he directed toward most other archaeologists, so I began to read with considerable interest. I could see why Emerson approved of Mr. Petrie. The meticulous care with which his measurements were carried out, checked, and rechecked was most impressive. He had totally disproved the mystical theories of the people who think the Great Pyramid to be a great prophecy in stone; and his description of the methods used by the ancients in cutting and shaping stones with the most primitive tools was convincing and interesting. So I read on, in the dim light, the silence broken only by the whisper as I turned a page, and by the scratch of Emerson’s pen. I suppose I must have presented a curious figure as I squatted there in my dusty black skirt and cloak, with my dirty face bent over the tome.
Finally Emerson laid down his pen and rose. He yawned and stretched ostentatiously. Then, without so much as a glance in my direction, he blew out the lamp. Darkness obliterated every object. As my eyes gradually adjusted, I made out the open entrance, a square of sky glittering with stars.
Placing the book carefully on the table, I crawled to the doorway. A whisper from Emerson told me of his position; I took up my post on the other side of the door.
An even more boring period of time followed. I had no book with which to beguile my time, and Emerson did not seem inclined for conversation. I believed it was safe to whisper; we could see some distance, and would have seen an intruder long before he could have heard low voices. Nor did I really believe Mohammed would get this far. He had no reason to expect an ambush, and would be trapped by Abdullah and Walter as