Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [80]
“Let her?” Emerson repeated. “I never let Mrs. Emerson do anything, young man. I occasionally attempt to prevent her from carrying out her more harebrained suggestions, but I have never yet succeeded in doing so.”
“I am narrower through the shoulders than you,” Donald persisted. “Surely I am the one—”
“Balderdash,” Emerson said brusquely. “You have had no experience. Mrs. Emerson has an affinity for pyramids.”
While they were discussing the matter, I removed my coat and lighted a candle. After discovering that Ramses was not in his room (and before leaving the house) I had dashed to the roof to retrieve my belt and my parasol. The latter I had of necessity left below, but the belt and its accouterments had again proved their utility.
“A bientôt, Emerson,” I said, and wriggled head-first into the hole.
There was no reply, but a surreptitious caress upon the portion of my body yet exposed was sufficient evidence of his emotions.
I found myself in a narrow passageway lined with stone. It was high enough for me to stand erect, but in view of the steep angle at which it descended I considered it better to proceed in a crawling position. I had not gone far before I saw something unusual. The darkness ahead was broken by an irregular patch of brightness. The light strengthened as I moved slowly forward, and I found that it streamed through a narrow gap in a huge fall of stone and brick which had blocked the passage. Cautiously I assumed an upright position and applied my eye to the gap.
Seated on a large block of stone, his back against the wall of the passage, was Ramses. He had stuck a candle onto the stone with its own grease, and he was scribbling busily on a notepad. Though I knew he must have heard my involuntary gasp of relief at finding him unharmed, he did not stop writing until he had finished the sentence and ended it with an emphatic jab of his pen. Then he looked up.
“Good evening, Mama. Is Papa with you, or have you come alone?”
No, dear Reader, the break in the narrative at this point is not intended to keep from your ears (or eyes) the words I spoke to my son. I did not dare shout at him for fear of disturbing the delicate balance of the stones around me. In fact, it was Ramses who spoke, describing in wearisome detail the method by which we ought to remove the fallen rubble in order to free him. He was still talking when I left.
My head had scarcely emerged from the entrance hole when it was seized by Emerson. In between raining kisses on my face, more or less at random, he asked questions I could not hear owing to the fact that his hands were covering my ears.
I was pleased but surprised; Emerson’s demonstrations of affection, though extravagant in private, are not often displayed before an audience. And indeed, if he had seen Donald Fraser’s grin, he would have desisted at once.
Having solved the auditory problem, I explained the situation. “I cannot shift the stones, Emerson; they are too heavy for me. I think we will have to take advantage of Mr. Fraser’s offer after all.”
“Is Ramses all right? Is the dear boy injured?” Emerson inquired anxiously.
“He is working on a manuscript which I presume to be his Egyptian grammar,” I replied curtly. “Mr. Fraser, if you will?”
Donald followed me into the passageway. At the sight of the obstruction he let out a soft whistle. In the dim flame of the candle I held, he resembled one of the ancient workmen crouching on hands and knees before the burial chamber in which he had left his royal master hidden (as he vainly hoped) for all eternity.
I said softly, “Study the situation, Mr. Fraser, I pray, before you touch any of the stones. A careless move—”
“I understand,” Donald said.
Then we heard a thin, high voice. “I suggest, Mr. Nemo—or Mr. Fraser, as the case may be—that you endeavor to locate the pivotal point on which the relative mass of the rockfall is balanced; for according to my calculations the total weight of the portion of the pyramid over our heads is approximately eighteen and one-third tons, give or take