Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [48]
When we left the princess’s rooms I noticed that John again hung back while Mary followed me. Had there been a lovers’ tiff? I waited for her and gave her a friendly smile. I had, of course, no ulterior motive.
‘Almost through,’ I said encouragingly.
‘Oh, I don’t mind.’ Her voice wavered a little, though. ‘It’s been very interesting.’
We started up the ramp. It seemed a lot steeper than it had when we descended. The last suite of rooms, the ones Feisal had said might have been meant for the queen’s burial, was located about halfway up the incline. Indicating the entrance where the others were waiting, I asked, ‘Are you going to skip the final treat, or shall we participate?’
Mary glanced behind her. John was some distance away, taking his time. Couldn’t the poor little wimp come to any decision without consulting him? What had he been doing down there alone? Perhaps there had been a quarrel and he was sulking, trying to make Mary feel guilty about hurting his sensitive feelings.
‘I meant to ask you before,’ I said casually. ‘About Jen. How is she?’
‘Much better. In fact – ’
She stopped with a gulp. All of a sudden there he was, behind her, looming. ‘You startled me, darling!’ she exclaimed.
‘In fact,’ John said, ‘she’s recovered enough to return home.’
‘You mean she’s left Egypt?’ I stared at him.
‘This morning. She doesn’t trust Egyptian doctors or hospitals.’
‘Then she won’t be rejoining the tour?’
‘No, she won’t.’
I looked from his self-satisfied smile to Mary’s downcast face. Was that what the quarrel had been about?
‘You sound pleased,’ I said.
‘Oh, I am. She was a bloody nuisance,’ John said callously. ‘Now hurry along, girls. One would suppose, from the way you’re dawdling, that you are enjoying this.’
By the time we had finished examining a few more rough unfinished rock-cut rooms and listened to Feisal describe their possible function, everyone, even Louisa, was ready to call it a day. ‘I do not feel her presence,’ she intoned. ‘The beautiful one was never interred here.’
‘She’s probably right about that,’ muttered Larry. ‘But for the wrong reasons. Since when did she become an expert on Nefertiti?’
‘I think she’s making her the heroine of her new book,’ I said.
‘Then why was she carrying on about missing Meydum?’ Larry demanded. ‘That pyramid predates Nefertiti by over a thousand years.’
‘Historical novelists don’t worry about little details like that,’ I explained, with certain guilty memories of my own heroine’s activities. Having Rosanna hide in a broom closet to elude Genghis Khan had not been kosher, but it had entertained Schmidt, which was my primary purpose for continuing the saga.
Hot, thirsty, and coated with dust, we made a beeline for the ice chest and stood swilling down cold drinks. The late-afternoon heat was intense, but it felt refreshing after the confined airlessness of the tomb. Even in the shade I seemed to feel my skin drying and shrinking over my bones. It was the climate of Egypt, not the well-meaning but often destructive process of burial, that produced such excellent mummies.
Blenkiron wanted to see a few more tombs on the way back to the boat, but he gave in with smiling good grace when the others emphatically outvoted him. Mary let out a muted wail when he suggested stopping at the southern tombs. Schmidt, ever gallant, hurried to her and offered her his arm.
He’d held up well, but I was worried about him. The open-heart surgery he had undergone a few years earlier had, he claimed, made a new man of him. The new man looked to me just as unhealthy as the old one. His face was flushed with heat and exercise, but his smile was as broad and his moustache as defiant as ever. He was obviously having a wonderful time.
I let them and the others go on ahead. I hadn’t had a chance to talk with John; huddling with him in an otherwise unoccupied tomb chamber might have inspired rude speculation. Maybe he was just as anxious for a private conversation. Maybe that was why he appeared to be avoiding Mary.
That