Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [62]
When we set out for the dig a short time later, Nemo mingled with the men. We had taken on an additional dozen or so diggers and a like number of basket children, who were to work with me. We separated our forces, Emerson leading his crew to the Bent Pyramid, and I proceeding toward the smaller one.
This structure was some sixty yards south of its larger neighbor and was obviously part of the same complex. The precise function of the subsidiary pyramids was still being debated. There were three of them attached to the Great Pyramid at Giza, and others at other sites. For my part, I felt certain they had been built for the principal consorts of the kings who were buried in the larger pyramids. If I could find a mark or inscription mentioning a royal lady’s name, I could prove my thesis.
I studied the charming little ruin, trying to decide where to begin. I could not determine its height, for not only was the drifting sand piled high around its base, but the removal of the casing stones which had once covered its surface like frosting on a cake had allowed it to slump like an overweight lady after she has removed her corsets. The first thing was to remove the sand and clear the four sides down to ground level.
Enid trailed after me like a dog who is afraid to lose his master. As I proceeded, I explained to her what I was doing and why. “I have decided to begin with the north face, since it is more likely that the funerary chapel would be on the side closest to the principal monument. That hollow to the west will be our dump site. We don’t want to cover up any other tombs, and I see no evidence of such a thing there. Here, on this plan, which has been mapped and surveyed, I am indicating the area we will be excavating. It is marked out in squares of ten feet by ten. . . . Miss Marshall, you are not paying attention. You will give yourself away sooner or later if you don’t learn to make noises like an Egyptologist.”
“Why not sooner, then? This is hopeless, Mrs. Emerson. Perhaps the best thing for me to do is to turn myself in. What good am I doing here?”
“Faint heart never won . . . anything, my dear,” I said, amending the quotation as the situation demanded. “I am surprised to see you give up so soon.”
“But it is hopeless!”
“Not at all. Kalenischeff—did I mention this?—was a member of the Master Criminal’s gang. He was murdered, if not by that man’s hand, by his orders. All we have to do—”
“Is find this man—who, by your own admission, is a master of disguise and whose identity is unknown even to you—and force him to confess! You have your own duties, Mrs. Emerson—your husband, your child, your work—”
“My dear Miss Marshall, you underestimate me if you think I cannot carry on two or more activities simultaneously. It is true that I am looking forward to solving the mystery of this little pyramid, but that does not mean I cannot at the same time put my mind to solving a mystery of another kind. I have several schemes in mind—”
“What?”
It was the second time someone had asked me that question, and I had to admit it was a good question. “The less you know, the safer you will be,” I said. “Trust me.”
“But, Mrs. Emerson—”
“You had better call me Amelia. Formality is absurd under these circumstances.”
“My name is Enid. It is my real name,” she added, with a rueful smile. “When I chose my nom de guerre, I took the chance of retaining my true first name. It is hard to respond, with instinctive ease, to one that is unfamiliar.”
“Good thinking. You see, you have a talent for deception that is worth cultivating. But please don’t employ it when you tell me about your cousin.”
Enid started violently. “Who?”
“Your kinsman. Ronald—I forget his other name. Is he the sort of person who could help us in our investigation?”
“Ronald! I beg your pardon; I never