Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [90]
“However,” I remarked to Emerson, “I feel certain that the remains of the queen’s original mortuary temple lie under the later one, since all pyramids had such temples, and that is the location—”
“Peabody,” said my husband. “Do you suppose I require to have the architecture of the pyramid complex explained to me?”
It was a fine, clear day, with only a little wind, and although the hour was still early, there were a good many people on the road, some on foot, some employing various means of transportation. We passed an object that looked like a pile of perambulating green vegetation: a donkey, all but his four patiently plodding legs hidden by the load. A motorcar filled with tourists, their veils flapping, passed us. Emerson waited until the cloud of dust raised by its passage had subsided before he continued his complaint. “You are attempting to distract me from the greater provocation by supplying a lesser. I will not be provoked, Peabody.”
“But you love temples, Emerson.”
“The word is inappropriate in that context!” Emerson shouted. “I do not ‘love’ inanimate objects. I love you and—”
“That is very kind, Emerson, but you need not broadcast your feelings to the entire world.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. His teeth shone white in the handsome brown of his countenance. It might have been a smile . . . “I see what you are up to, Peabody. There may be some interesting problems of stratification if there are, as one may reasonably expect, the remains of different temples of different periods on that spot—”
“And no one is better than you at unraveling such complications.”
“Flattery has no effect on me, my dear,” said Emerson, looking pleased. “You want me to excavate the temple so that you can poke around inside the confounded pyramid.”
“Of course.”
“Well, I suppose we might have a look. At the temple ruins,” Emerson added hastily. “Not the interior. At least not today.”
“Bokra?” The Arabic word for tomorrow is frequently heard in Egypt. It is always tomorrow, not today, that an order can be carried out.
Emerson acknowledged my little witticism with a grimace and an excuse. “The Vandergelts will be here.”
“Life is getting a bit complicated,” I agreed. “I am vexed we have heard nothing from Mr. Russell or the enigmatic Mr. Smith.”
“That isn’t his name. His name is—”
“I know what his name is, Emerson. I prefer Smith. It is shorter and not so silly.”
Emerson opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head, and remarked, “Have it your own way, Peabody. You always do. Your point is well taken, however. If the information we want from the police is not forthcoming, we will have to extract it by guile or force. But not today. And probably not bokra.”
When the little party descended from the train in Cairo, I was glad I had had the foresight to send Daoud to meet them. If the others had not been with him I would never have recognized Bertie. I do not suppose I had encountered him more than half a dozen times over the years, but I had liked what I saw of him. Though he was more interested in sport than in scholarship, he was a cheerful, considerate young chap, utterly devoted to his mother and obviously fond of his stepfather. Of medium height and sturdy frame, he had always been the picture of health, his cheeks ruddy and his hazel eyes clear. Now . . . it was an old man who leaned against Daoud’s supporting arm. Gray streaked his brown hair, his wandering eyes were dull, his cheeks sunken. I heard a muffled oath from Emerson and forced my lips into a smile as I hastened to embrace Katherine and Cyrus.
It did not take me long to decide what should be done, and I proceeded to do it. Leaving Daoud to arrange for the luggage, we got into the motorcar, Katherine and I in the tonneau with Bertie. After I had surrounded him with cushions and covered his knees with a robe, I directed Emerson to proceed. For once I did not have to tell him to