The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [112]
“Mr. Davis just went past,” she whispered.
“Which way? In or out?”
“Out. He must have got past us earlier without being seen. He was looking very pleased with himself, Aunt Amelia.”
“Oh? Well. Perhaps those steps of Ned’s led to something after all. How nice for Mr. Davis.”
Nefret’s conspiratorial smile broadened into a grin. “Yes, isn’t it? Do you mind if I go over there and see?”
“Do as you like, my dear.”
“Don’t you want to come with me?”
“Now that you mention it . . .” I said.
Somehow I was not at all surprised to find Ramses already there. The last time I had set eyes on him he had been in a far corner of the tomb chamber squinting at a cartouche, but he was an expert at eluding people—especially his mother. He and Ned stood partway down the steps, gazing at what lay below.
The full length of the stairs was now exposed, though they had not been completely cleared. At the bottom was a wall of rough stones, unmortared and unevenly cut. It filled the neatly cut rectangular space that was undoubtedly the entrance to a tomb.
“Has the wall been breached?” I demanded.
“One can always count on you, Mother, to go straight to the heart of the matter,” said Ramses, reaching up a hand to help me as I scrambled down. The steps were a bit treacherous, littered with smaller pebbles and quite steep. “It appears it has not been. It’s a rather makeshift construction, though; Ned and I have just been discussing the possibility that it may not be the original blockage. We . . . Nefret, don’t come down, there’s not room for another person.”
“Then you come up. I want to see.”
After she had had her turn, I said, “How splendid, Ned. I suppose Mr. Davis is anxious to have that wall down. Are you going to take photographs this afternoon, or will there be time tomorrow morning?”
“He directed me to have everything prepared for him in the morning.”
It was a somewhat evasive answer. Ramses caught my eye—Ned was carefully not looking at either of us—and said casually, “I was about to tell Ned we would be happy to take a few photographs for him. We have our equipment here, and it wouldn’t take long.”
“That would be good of you,” Ned said, looking relieved. “I haven’t a camera with me, and the light will be fading soon, and—er—”
“Quite,” I said briskly. “Nefret?”
She hurried away. Turning back to Ned, I said, “Have you notified Mr. Weigall? Since this is a new tomb, it becomes the responsibility of the Inspector.”
“He and Mrs. Weigall are having tea with Mr. Davis. I believe he plans to inform him then.”
When Nefret returned, Emerson was with her. I had been afraid he would, but there was nothing I could do about it.
I asked Ned to come back to the house with us and have tea, but he declined, saying he had a great deal of work to do. The truth was, an hour of Emerson’s company was about all he could stand. Emerson was not rude—not by his standards, that is—but his enormous energy and emphatic lectures are hard on the young and timid.
Abdullah had returned with the longed-for telegram, which the clerk assured him had just that minute arrived. “Your messages received,” it read. “Discussions underway. Will wire tonight or tomorrow. Take care.”
“Sent from Cairo,” I said.
“I hope they will make up their minds soon,” Emerson grumbled. “I cannot spare Daoud and Selim.”
We were at the dig at our usual hour next morning, shortly after sunrise. It was not until after 10 A.M. that Mr. Davis and his entourage appeared.
There were dozens of them! The Weigalls, Mrs. Andrews and her nieces, the Smiths, servants carrying cushions, sunshades, and baskets of food and drink, and several elegantly costumed individuals I did not know—distinguished visitors who had been invited to watch Mr. Davis find a tomb. It looked for all the world like a group of Cook’s tourists on a sight-seeing jaunt.
Mr. Davis was attired in his favorite “professional” garb: riding breeches and buttoned gaiters, tweed jacket and waistcoat, and a broad-brimmed felt hat.