Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [13]
Emerson could contain himself no longer. “Hasty!” he cried. “Is it true that he has used the old quarry as his dump site? Well, he is a bloo—er—blooming idiot, then, for there are undoubtedly tombs in the quarry which he has buried under tons of dirt.”
Mr. Carter thought it advisable to change the subject, a decision with which I heartily concurred. “Congratulations on obtaining the firman for Dahshoor,” he said. “It was the talk of the archaeological community when de Morgan gave it up to you. Petrie has speculated endlessly as to how you accomplished it; he tried several times to get Dahshoor, but was not successful.”
I carefully avoided looking at Ramses. Emerson stroked his chin and smiled complacently. “All that was required was the application of a little tact, my boy. Petrie is an admirable fellow in some ways, but he lacks tact. He is at Sakkara this year?”
“His assistant, Quibell, is there, copying tomb inscriptions,” Carter said. He smiled at me. “There are several young ladies on his staff this year. You will have to share your laurels with others of your delightful sex, Mrs. Emerson. The ladies are coming into their own at last.”
“Bravo,” I cried heartily. “Or, to be more precise, brava!”
“Quite so,” said Carter. “Petrie himself has gone on to Karnak, where the others will join him later. I saw him before I left; and I am sure he would have sent his regards had he known I would have the pleasure of encountering you.”
This polite statement was so patently false, it failed to convince even the speaker. He hurried on, “And Mr. Cyrus Vandergelt—he is another of our neighbors. He often speaks of you, Professor, and of Mrs. Emerson.”
“I am sure he does.” Emerson shot me a suspicious glance. Mr. Vandergelt’s roughhewn but sincere American gallantry toward members of the opposite sex (opposite to his, I mean) had always annoyed Emerson. He suspects every man who pays me a compliment of having romantic designs upon me. I cannot disabuse him of this notion, which has, I admit, its engaging qualities.
“Perhaps you ought to consider working for Mr. Vandergelt, Howard,” I suggested. “He is a generous patron.”
“He did approach me,” Carter admitted. “But I don’t know that I would like to work for a wealthy dilettante, however keen his interest in Egyptology. These fellows only want to find treasure and lost tombs.”
Carter refused our invitation to join us in climbing the pyramid, claiming he had work to do before retiring. So we bade him good night, and, leaving the pleasant gardens of Mena House behind, we started up the slope toward the pyramids.
Words fail me when I attempt to describe the grandeur of the scene. The swollen orb of the full moon hung in the sky, resembling the disks of beaten gold that had crowned the queens of this antique land. Her radiance flooded the landscape, silvering the mighty pyramids and casting eerie shadows over the enigmatic features of the Sphinx, so that he seemed to smile cynically at the insignificant human creatures crawling around his base. The sand lay white as fallen snow, broken only by ebon shadows that betokened the presence of a vandalized tomb or sunken shrine.
Unfortunately this magnificent spectacle was marred by the presence of the vociferous insect Man. Flaring torches and crawling human bodies spotted the pale sides of the Great Pyramid, and the night echoed with the shouts of travelers who ought to have remained reverently silent in the presence of such wonders. The voice of one visitor blessed with a mighty set of vocal cords rang out above the rest: “Hey, Mabel, looka me!”
Mabel’s response, if any, was lost in the night, but there came a peal of scornful laughter from near at hand.