Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [57]
I left him looking like a blooming idiot, as Emerson might have said (though Emerson would probably have employed a more colorful adjective). I have found that people are often struck dumb with amazement at the quickness of my intellect. However, I was confident that he would do as I had asked. By appealing to his gallantry in assisting a lady in distress I had struck at the deepest chords in an Englishman’s nature, and I did not doubt he would rise to the occasion.
Enid wisely waited until she heard my voice before drawing the curtain aside and joining us in the sitting room. Emerson greeted her with hearty good will.
“I am glad to see you on your feet again, Miss Marshall. If you feel any signs of a recurrence, you must tell Mrs. Emerson at once so she can pump you full of ipecacuanha. First thing tomorrow we will begin excavating at the base of the pyramid. Perhaps you can tell me—”
I thought it wise to intervene. “First, Emerson, tell me what progress you made today. Have you discovered any traces of the causeway?”
Emerson scowled. “Nothing but a few bricks. I don’t doubt that the causeway once ran along that line, but the local looters have removed every scrap of stone. It is a waste of time to go on. Instead I will begin at the pyramid and work out from there. I want Miss Marshall to take charge of one group of diggers and—”
Consternation ruffled the serenity of the girl’s brow, and again I came to her rescue. “I think it would be better for her to work with me for a few days, Emerson—to get the hang of our methods, if you will excuse the slang. I propose to have a look at the subsidiary pyramid. It shouldn’t take long to determine whether there is anything left in the burial chamber. If necessary, we can hire a few more men.”
“I don’t know, Peabody,” Emerson began. But I did not hear his objections; for, out of the corner of my eye, I had seen Ramses close his mouth. His mouth was usually open, speaking or attempting to speak; the sudden compression of his lips would have passed unnoticed by a casual observer, but years of experience had taught me not to ignore the slightest change in that impassive though juvenile countenance. I promised myself I would have a word with Master Ramses. He knew something about the small pyramid, possibly from the illicit digging he had done at Dahshoor the year before.
“Well then, that is settled,” Emerson said. “Er—it is getting late, don’t you think?”
“No, not really,” I said absently, for I was still thinking about the duplicity of my son. “Where are the rest of the things I bought today?”
Emerson indicated an untidy heap in the corner of the room. “Well,” I said with a sigh, “we had better sort them out. Some will have to be taken to the tents. I also brought a few small items with me in the saddle bags. Where . . .”
Eventually I found them on the mastaba outside, where Abdullah had dumped them before returning the mare to her owner. Shaking my head, I carried them inside. My poor little nosegay had been crushed by Abdullah’s careless handling. Emerson glanced at it as I put it to one side. “Buying yourself posies, Amelia?”
“No indeed. It was a gift from a gentleman,” I said jestingly. Not that I wanted to arouse Emerson’s jealousy, for such tricks are unworthy of an affectionate spouse. However, a little stirring up never hurts a husband.
Emerson only grunted. “Baehler, I suppose. These Frenchmen—”
“He is not French, Emerson. He is Swiss.”
“It is the same thing.”
“In fact, I am not certain of the identity of the kind giver. The flowers were handed to me by a vendor as I left the hotel. Poor things, they were so pretty.