The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [116]
At this point in my cogitations Mr. Vandergelt and Mr. O’Connell arrived, having met at the quay. I was glad to abandon my futile outlines; for I had decided I had been right all along.
Mr. Vandergelt’s first question concerned the state of our operations on the tomb.
“You haven’t broken through that wall yet, have you?” he demanded. “I’ll never forgive you, Mrs. Amelia, if you didn’t wait for me.”
“I think you are just in time,” I retorted, hastily hiding my notebook under a pile of chips. “I was about to go down myself to see how matters are progressing.”
We met Mary on her way out. She was in an indescribable state of dampness and dirt, but her eyes shone triumphantly as she displayed a splendid drawing, the result of her uncomfortable labors. It was not, I thought, quite equal to Evelyn’s efforts; but perhaps I am prejudiced. Certainly it was a fine piece of work, and I knew Emerson would be pleased with it.
Crooning in an exaggerated Irish brogue, Mr. O’Connell carried Mary off to rest, and Vandergelt and I descended the steps.
Already the newly constructed wooden structure was in place over the shaft, and the men were preparing to make a hole in the wall.
“Ah, there you are,” Emerson remarked unnecessarily. “I was just about to go and fetch you.”
“Like fun you were,” said Vandergelt. “Never mind, Professor; if I were in your shoes I wouldn’t want to wait either. What’s the plan?”
I will spare the reader further technical details; they can be found in Emerson’s superb report, which is to appear this fall in the Zeitchrift fur Aegyptische Sprache. Suffice it to say that the hole was drilled and Emerson looked through it. Waiting with bated breath, Vandergelt and I heard him groan.
“What is it?” I cried. “A dead end? An empty sarcophagus? Tell us the worst, Emerson.”
Silently Emerson made way for us. Vandergelt and I each put one eye to the opening.
Another corridor stretched down into darkness. It was half filled with debris—not the deliberate limestone fill of the first corridor, but fragments of a collapsed ceiling and wall, mingled with scraps of gilded wood and brown linen—the remains of mummy wrappings.
Withdrawing the candle from the hole, I held it up, and in its light we three contemplated one another’s disappointed faces.
“That is surely not the burial chamber,” Vandergelt exclaimed.
Emerson shook his untidy head, now gray with dust. “No. It appears that the tomb was used for later burials, and that the ceiling has collapsed. It is going to be a long, tedious job clearing that mess out and sifting the debris.”
“Well, then, let’s get to it,” Vandergelt exclaimed, mopping his streaming brow.
Emerson’s lips curved in a reluctant smile as he studied the American. Fifteen minutes in the heat of the corridor had changed Vandergelt from a dapper, handsome man of the world to a specimen that would have been denied entrance to the cheapest London hotel. His goatee dripped, his face was white with dust, and his suit sagged. But his face shone with enthusiasm.
“Quite right,” Emerson said. “Let us get at it.”
Vandergelt took off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
IV
The sun had passed the zenith and begun its westward journey before Emerson halted the work. I remained up above, having a comfortable woman-to-woman chat with Mary. She proved to be remarkably resistant to my efforts to ascertain which of her suitors she preferred. She kept insisting that since she did not intend to marry, her preference did not matter; but I think I was on the verge of winning her confidence when we were interrupted by the approach