Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [61]
I had not told Evelyn of this, and I did not intend to. Emerson understood my reference, and nodded. He was looking very grim; the bloodstained bandages around his brow and hands added to the warlike atmosphere of our council meeting.
“Yes, I recall. I think that was an empty threat, however; not even Mohammed would dare … Well, this has been a useless night. I will have something to say to young Walter when he wanders in; Mohammed diddled him and Abdullah very neatly.”
“Should we not go out and look for them?” Evelyn asked anxiously. “Some accident may have befallen them.”
“Not to both of them; that was why I sent two men, so that one might assist the other in case of misadventure. No, my two incapable friends are probably still hovering around the village waiting for Mohammed to come out. They may see him when he returns; but unless he has his disguise actually on his body, there is no use in apprehending him. No, Miss Evelyn, don’t try to make me change my mind. Walter is perfectly safe, and we should only wander aimlessly in the dark if we went to search for him.”
So far had the strangeness of our situation broken down formality that he actually addressed Evelyn by her first name. But then, I reflected in some surprise, we had all been informal, shockingly so. Several times, in the stress of emotion, I had so forgotten myself as to address Walter by his given name. I felt a genuine warmth toward the lad; it seemed as if I had known him a long time. Emerson, of course, could be called by no other name. His impertinence toward me did not allow me to address him respectfully, and I had no inclination to call him by his first name.
There was no sleep for us the rest of the night, although Emerson persuaded Evelyn to lie down on his cot. We had a long wait; the first streaks of dawn were red in the sky when the wanderers returned; and their astonishment, when they heard what had transpired, was equal to ours when we heard their report. Both were willing to swear that no one had left the village that night. Walter himself had watched the mayor’s house, from an uncomfortable perch in a tree nearby. There was no possible way in which Mohammed could have been the Mummy.
7
I REMEMBER standing on the ledge, oblivious to the slow beauty of sunrise on the cliffs, as the impact of Walter’s statement sank into my mind. None of us tried to argue with him; to believe that Mohammed had tricked both watchers, being unaware of surveillance, was really beyond the bounds of credibility.
Suddenly Emerson rose from his chair and ran off along the ledge. I knew where he was going. How I knew I cannot explain, but I did know; and I also knew what he would find. I followed him more slowly, my steps slowed by dread of the discovery. When I came up to him he was standing by the wooden shelter that had covered the painted pavement. The painting was no longer there. Only a broad expanse of broken shards covered the sand. The destruction had been vicious; some sections had been ground into powder.
So my work had gone for naught and the sacrifice of my skinned fingers had been in vain. This was not my first thought, however. The senseless, wanton loss of beauty miraculously preserved hurt like a physical blow.
Without conscious premeditation my hand reached out to Emerson’s; his fingers closed bruisingly over mine and we stood for a moment with hands locked. After a moment Emerson seemed to realize what he was doing, and flung my hand away. The cut on his forehead was still oozing blood, but I knew his drawn, haggard expression was not caused by physical pain. I did not even resent his gesture.
“A vindictive apparition, our Mummy,” I said.
“All part and parcel of the ridiculous story Mohammed is promulgating,” Emerson said. “The priest of Amon wreaking his vengeance on Khuenaten’s city. Peabody, has it occurred to you that this plot is too complex for a man of Mohammed’s limited intelligence?