The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [1]
She (the Editor) has also read practically every book and article written about the tomb. The (extremely impressive) bibliography will be sent to Readers upon receipt of a SASE. She (the Editor) has come to the conclusion that Mrs. Emerson’s description is the most accurate, and that she was, as she always was, right.
•
BOOK ONE
OPENING THE MOUTH
OF THE DEAD
•
Let my mouth be given to me.
Let my mouth be opened by Ptah with the
instrument of iron with which he opens
the mouths of the gods.
•
One
•
I was inserting an additional pin into my hat when the library door opened and Emerson put his head out.
“There is a matter on which I would like to consult you, Peabody,” he began.
He had obviously been working on his book, for his thick black hair was disheveled, his shirt gaped open, and his sleeves had been rolled above the elbows. Emerson claims that his mental processes are inhibited by the constriction of collars, cuffs and cravats. It may be so. I certainly did not object, for my husband’s muscular frame and sunbronzed skin are displayed to best advantage in such a state of dishabille. On this occasion, however, I was forced to repress the emotion the sight of Emerson always arouses in me, since Gargery, our butler, was present.
“Pray do not detain me, my dear Emerson,” I replied. “I am on my way to chain myself to the railings at Number Ten Downing Street, and I am already late.”
“Chain yourself,” Emerson repeated. “May I ask why?”
“It was my idea,” I explained modestly. “During some earlier demonstrations, the lady suffragists have been picked up and carried away by large policemen, thus effectively ending the demonstration. This will not be easily accomplished if the ladies are firmly fastened to an immovable object such as an iron railing.”
“I see.” Opening the door wider, he emerged. “Would you like me to accompany you, Peabody? I could drive you in the motorcar.”
It would have been difficult to say which suggestion horrified me more—that he should go with me, or that he should drive the motorcar.
Emerson had been wanting for several years to acquire one of the horrid machines, but I had put him off by one pretext or another until that summer. I had taken all the precautions I could, promoting one of the stablemen to the post of chauffeur and making certain he was properly trained; I had insisted that if the children were determined to drive the nasty thing (which they were), they should also take lessons. David and Ramses had become as competent as male individuals of their age could be expected to be, and in my opinion Nefret was even better, though the men in the family denied it.
None of these sensible measures succeeded in fending off the dreaded results. Emerson, of course, refused to be driven by the chauffeur or the younger members of the family. It had not taken long for the word to get round the village and its environs. One glimpse of Emerson crouched over the wheel, his teeth bared in a delighted grin, his blue eyes sparkling behind his goggles, was enough to strike terror into the heart of pedestrian or driver. The hooting of the horn (which Emerson liked very much and employed incessantly) had the same effect as a fire siren; everyone within earshot immediately cleared off the road, into a ditch or a hedgerow, if necessary. He had insisted on bringing the confounded thing with us to London, but thus far we had managed to keep him from operating it in the city.
Many years of happy marriage had taught me that there are certain subjects about which husbands are strangely sensitive. Any challenge to their masculinity should be avoided at all costs. For some reason that eludes me, the ability to drive a motorcar appears to be a symbol of masculinity. I therefore sought another excuse for refusing his offer.
“No, my dear Emerson, it would not be advisable for you to go with me. In the first place, you have a great deal of work to do on the final volume of your History of Ancient Egypt. In the second place, the last time you accompanied me on such an