Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [56]
“Photographs first,” Emerson grunted. “That second skeleton is all jumbled about.”
“We might leave it in situ,” I suggested. “Until Nefret gets back. And perhaps it might be advisable to wait for her before we investigate the other burial shafts.”
Emerson’s eyes narrowed. “And wait for Ramses before we clear the chapel? Curse it, Peabody, I can read your mind like an open book. What alternative were you about to propose? If it is one of the queens’ pyramids—”
“You promised me I could have one of them.”
Emerson removed his pith helmet, flung it onto the ground, wiped his sweating forehead with his sleeve, and took a deep breath—preparatory, I presumed, to a long, loud lecture. His broad breast swelled.
“Buttons, Emerson,” I reminded him. “Some of them are about to pop off, and I do get tired of sewing them on.”
“What? Oh.” Emerson looked down. “Peabody, you have a positive genius for getting me off the track.”
“I beg your pardon, my dear. Do go on.”
“Hmph. I was about to say that there is nothing in those damned pyramids, that they are in a dangerous state of collapse, and that they are not mine to dispose of. We are here on sufferance as it is.”
“That is just an excuse. They are part of Herr Junker’s concession, and you have never hesitated to break the terms of a concession when you felt like it. Who is going to prevent you?”
“Prevent you, you meant. He stands before you, Peabody.”
“It was only a suggestion,” I said, for I had learned that the best way of handling Emerson when he gets his back up is to wait awhile and come at him from another direction at another time. “We will, of course, finish with the mastaba.” And then I made the fatal mistake of adding, “We’ve been hauling the fill all the way out to the edge of the escarpment. Perhaps we could find a dump site closer at hand. The one to the southwest, for instance. Junker and Reisner have both used it.”
Emerson said, “Hmmmm,” and stroked his chin.
I did not see him again until late afternoon. William had finished clearing the burial chamber, and wanted to know what he should do next. He had become fairly comfortable with me, but he would not have dared pick up a potsherd without Emerson’s permission.
Not until after I had scanned the farther terrain and shouted his name several times did I behold the familiar form striding toward me. He was bareheaded, as usual, and covered with dust from the top of his black hair to his boots. The pockets of his shirt and trousers bulged. His hands looked like those of a laborer, the nails torn and the fingers scraped raw.
“For pity’s sake, Emerson, what have you been up to now?” I demanded.
“Digging,” said Emerson. “That is the occupation of an archaeologist, my dear. I found—”
“Where are your gloves?”
“Cursed if I know. Stop fussing, Peabody. I decided to investigate the dump you were talking about. Do you know that none of our predecessors bothered sifting the fill? That heap of rubble is full of objects they overlooked. I found several interesting things.”
He began unloading his pockets. At first glance the fragmentary scraps of stone looked like rubbish, but Emerson’s eye cannot be faulted. A closer look assured me that one bit was a miniature foot that must have been part of a statuette.
“Very nice,” I said. “But hardly worth the effort.”
“That statement,” said Emerson, giving me a stern look, “violates every principle of archaeology I have endeavored to teach you. No scrap is too small, no effort too great.”
“The stela fragment Sennia found was planted, Emerson.”
Emerson flinched. He hates it when I appear to read his thoughts. “That was Gargery’s theory. What does he know about excavation? I rather enjoyed it, you know. It has been a long time since I got my hands dirty.”
“Nonsense, you are always getting them dirty—and scraped and bruised and cut. You might at least have worn your gloves.”
“What gloves?”
A hideous foreboding filled me. “Emerson,