The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [113]
The contrast between them was ludicrous: Mr. Davis, dapper and neat, if somewhat ridiculous, in those old-fashioned garments; Emerson, trousers and boots white with dust, shirt open to the waist and sleeves rolled to the elbows. I could see he had determined to be cordial if it killed him. Baring his teeth in a friendly grin, he strode forward and offered his hand. Dripping with a pale paste composed of dust and perspiration, covered with bleeding scratches, it was not the sort of object one would wish to grasp, but Mr. Davis could not avoid doing so because Emerson seized his hand before he could back away, and wrung it vigorously. He then congratulated Mr. Davis on “another interesting discovery,” and Weigall, who had watched the performance in mild alarm—for the sight of Emerson being affable understandably aroused his suspicions—said they must be getting on.
“May I come and watch?”
No one would have had the audacity to make a request like that except Nefret. She had not shirked her duties that morning; but she was one of those fortunate young women who looks even prettier when her face glows with exertion and her loosened hair coils in shining tendrils around temples and cheeks. As she spoke she turned the full battery of eyes, smile, curls, and slim brown hands on Mr. Davis. As Ramses remarked later, the poor old chap didn’t stand a chance.
They went off arm in arm. “Emerson,” I said, taking pity on my afflicted spouse, “why don’t you go with them?”
“I was not asked,” said Emerson. “It was a conspicuous omission. I do not thrust myself in where I am not wanted.”
“Nefret will let us know what is happening,” I said.
Indeed, it was not long before Nefret came running back. “Bring the plates, David,” she gasped, picking up the camera.
“What is going on?” I demanded.
“They have taken down the wall. There is another behind it, plastered and bearing the official necropolis seals. I—”
“What?” The word burst from Emerson like an explosion.
“I persuaded Mr. Davis to wait until I could take a few photographs,” Nefret explained breathlessly.
Sir Edward cleared his throat. “I would be more than happy to assist, Miss Forth.”
She spared him a quick warm smile. “I don’t doubt you could do the job better, Sir Edward, but Mr. Davis doesn’t like people interfering. He only gave in to me because I begged and wheedled.”
Emerson’s subsequent remarks cannot in decency be reproduced. I caught hold of him and dug in my heels. “No, Emerson, you cannot go there, not while you are in this state of mind. You know we agreed that tact is our best . . . Ramses, don’t let him get away!”
“I daren’t wait, Mr. Davis was hopping with excitement.” Nefret hurried off, followed by David.
“Bah!” Emerson exclaimed. “All right, Ramses, unhand me. I am perfectly composed.”
Of course he was not. I do not know whether I can convey to the Reader the import of Nefret’s statement. The outer blockage of rough stones was obviously secondary; the inner wall, stamped with the seals of the necropolis priests, must be the original. That meant that the tomb had been entered at least once in antiquity, presumably by thieves, but it would not have been blocked a second time unless something of value was still there.
“Take heart, Emerson,” I said. “Now that a new tomb has been located, the Department of Antiquities will take charge. Mr. Weigall won’t allow Mr. Davis to do anything foolish.”
“Ha,” said Emerson. “If it were Carter . . . Oh, the devil with it. I am going back to work.”
After he had disappeared into his tomb I said casually to Ramses, “It is almost time for luncheon. I will just go and tell Nefret.”
“How thoughtful you are, Mother,” Ramses said. “I will just come with you.”
Most of the members of Davis’s party had scattered and were sitting in the shade mopping their perspiring faces and looking bored. Some of the men hovered near the steps. Mr. Smith gave me a cheery wave, so I went to him.
“Will you be painting in the tomb, then?” I inquired, edging closer to