Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [73]
They were empty now, except for the sarcophagus and the poor, battered bones of the boy himself. Eighteen years old, childless, possibly murdered . . . Schmidt pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. He’s disgustingly sentimental.
We retraced our steps – twenty-five paces, I’d counted them – along the passage and up the stairs – sixteen of them, I’d counted them too. But it hadn’t bothered me. Not with lights all along the way and Schmidt snuffling sentimentally beside me. After we had emerged into daylight the custodian swung the doors shut and locked them, to the audible annoyance of several loose tourists hanging around in the hope of getting in. The tomb must be officially closed. In this, as in other ways, our group had been favoured.
Schmidt started fussing at me again when we reached the next of the tombs on our list, that of Amenhotep II. It was one of the ones the guidebook had described as ‘deep,’ and Schmidt kept insisting I ought not attempt it. He was talking loudly, as usual, and if there was anyone in the group who hadn’t known about my phobia, they knew now.
‘Don’t be silly, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Down, down, down we went, and if you think I wasn’t counting you are dead wrong. The stairs led down, all the corridors sloped down, and just when I thought we had reached the bottom there was another flight of stairs – leading down, in case you are wondering – and another downward-sloping passage. The square pillars in the last room were painted and inscribed. That’s about all I remember. I was too busy keeping an expession of insouciant calm on my face.
Other sources of discomfort aside, it was hot and close and very dusty down in the depths. By the time we started back up, Schmidt’s face was bright red and I didn’t like the way he was panting. Slowing my steps to match his, stopping frequently to rest, I forgot my own qualms in concern for him. I knew he’d never admit weakness and I could have kicked Feisal when he said solicitously, ‘Perhaps, Herr Doktor, you had better go to the rest house and have a cool drink instead of attempting the next tomb. That of Horemheb is the deepest in the Valley; the air is not good and the heat – ’
Schmidt almost choked in his attempt to stop wheezing. Before he could protest I said, ‘I don’t care what you do, Schmidt, but I’m copping out. Where’s the rest house?’
Everybody voted for the rest house, so we returned to the entrance and got onto one of the cars of the tram. The sun was now high enough to bleach all the colour from the cliffs, turning them a pale tan. Not that there was much colour to begin with – only the clear blue sky overhead and the garish garb of some of the tourists.
Schmidt was on his second lemonade – he wanted beer, but I wouldn’t let him have it – when Larry, with whom I had been discussing tomb reliefs, broke off in mid-sentence. With a murmured ‘Excuse me,’ he rose and headed for the door.
Schroeder, hat in hand, bald head shining with sweat, awaited him. I thought it was a little odd that the man hadn’t joined us, and I wasn’t the only one to wonder. Everyone stopped talking and stared. Everyone except John. After a quick glance at Schroeder he leaned back and lowered his eyes. He hadn’t spoken since we sat down.
After a few minutes Schroeder left and Larry returned, shaking his head and smiling. ‘He takes his duties too seriously, as I keep telling him. Some unimportant detail about tonight’s reception.’
‘How long has he been with you?’ I asked guilelessly.
‘Let’s see . . .’ He turned to the omnipresent Ed. ‘How long has it been? A couple of years?’
‘’Bout that.’ Ed returned to his beer. He was not much of a conversationalist.
If Ed could remember when Schroeder signed on, he had been with Larry even longer than two years. I reminded myself that I was no longer interested in details like that.
Schmidt polished off another lemonade and two candy bars, and announced he was ready to resume the tour. I was trying to think of a way of taking him out of it when Larry said, ‘It’s too nice a day