Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [39]
Matters proceeded smoothly. As I have said, Abdullah was as capable as most trained archaeologists, and when I looked up from my own task I could see the men digging with such vigor that a fine cloud of sand enclosed them. A line of children ran to and fro, between the diggers and the distant dump site, emptying their baskets and returning to have them filled again.
We stopped for a rest and a light repast at nine-thirty, and were about to resume work when one of the men called out and pointed. Someone was approaching. The newcomer was a European, by his dress, and he was on foot, coming across the desert from the north.
Emerson said, “Curse it.” He hates visitors interrupting his work. “Deal with the fellow, Peabody,” he growled, snatching up his transit. “I have vowed that this season I will not suffer the constant intrusions of idle tourists.”
“He doesn’t look like a tourist,” I said. “His gait is rather unsteady, Emerson, don’t you think? I wonder if he can be intoxicated.”
“Humph,” said Emerson. “As a matter of fact, he looks familiar. Who is it, Peabody?”
The countenance, whose features became ever more recognizable with increased proximity, was indeed one I had seen before, but I was unable to produce a name to go with the face. He was a pleasant-looking young chap, of medium height and wiry frame. The only unusual thing about him was his complexion, which was of an odd grayish-green.
He greeted us by name, and added hesitantly, “We met last year in Cairo. Quibell is my name.”
“Of course,” I said. “Won’t you join us, Mr. Quibell? I can only offer you hard-boiled eggs and chilly toast—”
“No, thank you.” Quibell shuddered and the greenish tinge of his cheeks intensified. “You must forgive me if I come at once to the reason for my disturbing you—”
“That would be a kindness,” said Emerson. “I thought you were with Petrie this year.”
“I am.”
“But Petrie is at Thebes.”
“He began at Sakkara, and left a few of us to finish the task of recording the private tombs,” Quibell explained. “When I heard you were at Dahshoor, I took the liberty of coming to ask a favor. I know Mrs. Emerson’s reputation as a physician—”
“Ha,” said Emerson.
“I beg your pardon, Professor?”
“Nothing,” said Emerson.
“Oh. I thought you said . . . Well, not to put too fine a face upon it, we are all rather under the weather just now, and I thought perhaps I might beg some medicine from Mrs. Emerson. What I need, I believe, is a quantity of ipacanana.”
“Ipecacuanha,” I corrected.
“Oh. Yes—quite. Thank you, Mrs. Emerson.”
“What is the nature of your complaint?” Emerson asked. A suspicion of the truth had occurred to him; the dawning delight on his face really did him no credit.
“That is evident, Emerson,” I said. “Mr. Quibell’s disinclination to take food and the peculiar shade of his complexion indicate a disturbance of the digestive tract.”
“Food poisoning,” said Emerson, choking with amusement. “It is food poisoning, isn’t it, Quibell? Petrie’s people always come down with food poisoning. He opens a tin, and eats half of the contents, and leaves it standing around in some unsanitary tomb, and then expects his staff members to finish the stuff . . . Ha, ha, ha!”
“Really, Emerson,” I exclaimed indignantly. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Here is poor Mr. Quibell, pea-green with indigestion—”
“Peas,” Emerson gasped. “Yes, I understand Petrie is particularly fond of tinned peas. Very good, Peabody.”
Quibell came loyally to his chief’s defense. “It isn’t Professor Petrie’s fault. You know he operates with limited funds and he never has the slightest trouble himself—”
“No, the man has the digestion of a camel,” Emerson agreed, struggling to control himself. “I do beg your pardon, Quibell; my laughter was in extremely bad taste. But Petrie’s eccentricities are a source of great amusement to a simple, straightforward chap