The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [11]
I confess the tomb was my chief concern. Locks and bars were all very well, but neither would avail for long against the master thieves of Gurneh. The discovery of the sepulcher had been a blow to the professional pride of these gentlemen, who fancied themselves far more adept at locating the treasures of their ancestors than the foreign excavators; and indeed, over the centuries they had proved to be exceedingly skillful at their dubious trade, whether by practice or by heredity I would hesitate to say. Now that the tomb had been located they would soon be at work.
So, while Emerson argued zoology with Ramses, and the sleety rain hissed against the windows, I opened the newspaper. Since the beginning of l’affaire Baskerville, Emerson had been buying the Yell as well as the Times, remarking that the contrast in journalistic styles was a fascinating study in human nature. This was only an excuse; the Yell was much more entertaining to read. I therefore turned at once to this newspaper, noting that, to judge by certain creases and folds, I was not the first to peruse that particular article. It bore the title “Lady Baskerville vows the work must go on.”
The journalist—“Our Correspondent in Luxor”—wrote with considerable feeling and many adjectives about the lady’s “delicate lips, curved like a Cupid’s bow, which quivered with emotion as she spoke” and “her tinted face which bore stamped upon it a deep acquaintance with grief.”
“Bah,” I said, after several paragraphs of this. “What drivel. I must say, Emerson, Lady Baskerville sounds like a perfect idiot. Listen to this. ‘I can think of no more fitting monument to my lost darling than the pursuit of that great cause for which he gave his life.’ Lost darling, indeed!”
Emerson did not reply. Squatting on the floor, with Ramses between his knees, he was turning the pages of a large illustrated volume on zoology, trying to convince the boy that his bone did not match that of a zebra—for Ramses had retreated from giraffes to that slightly less exotic beast. Unfortunately a zebra is rather like a horse, and the example Emerson found bore a striking resemblance to the bone Ramses was flourishing. The child let out a malevolent chuckle and remarked, “I was wight, you see. It is a zebwa.”
“Have another cake,” said his father.
“Armadale is still missing,” I continued. “I told you he was the murderer.”
“Bah,” said Emerson. “He will turn up eventually. There has been no murder.”
“You can hardly believe he has been drunk for a fortnight,” I said.
“I have known men to remain drunk for considerably longer periods,” said Emerson.
“If Armadale had met with an accident he, or his remains, would have been found by now. The Theban area has been combed—”
“It is impossible to search the western mountains thoroughly,” Emerson snapped. “You know what they are liked —jagged cliffs cut by hundreds of gullies and ravines.”
“Then you believe he is out there somewhere?”
“I do. It would be a tragic coincidence, certainly, if he met with a fatal accident so soon after Sir Henry’s death; the newspapers would certainly set up a renewed howl about curses. But such coincidences do happen, especially if a man is distracted by—”
“He is probably in Algeria by now,” I said.
“Algeria! Why there, for heaven’s sake?”
“The Foreign Legion. They say it is full of murderers and criminals attempting to escape justice.”
Emerson got to his feet. I was pleased to observe that his eyes had lost their melancholy look and were blazing with temper. I