The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [44]
But I digress.
Solemnly the imam raised his hand. His bearded lips parted.
Before he could utter a word, Emerson said loudly, ”Sabâhkum bilkheir, Holy One. Have you come to bless the work? Marhaba—welcome.”
Emerson maintains, justly or unjustly, that all religious leaders are showmen at heart. This man reacted to being “upstaged” as any skilled actor would, conquering the anger that flared in his eyes and replying, with scarcely a pause, “I bring no blessing but a warning. Will you risk the curse of the Almighty? Will you profane the dead?”
“I come to save the dead, not profane their tombs,” Emerson replied. “For centuries the men of Gurneh have strewn the sands with their pitiful bones. As for curses, I do not fear efreets and demons, for the God we both worship has promised us protection against evil. I invoke His blessing on our work of rescue! Allâhu akbar; là ilâha illa’llâh!” Sweeping off his hat, he turned toward Mecca and raised his hands to each side of his face in the gesture prescribed for the recitation of the takbir.
I could hardly repress a shout of “bravo!” A murmur of surprise and approval rippled through the watchers. Emerson held his theatrical pose just long enough. Clapping his hat back on his head before his surprised adversary could think of a fitting reply, he said briskly, “Now then, Holy One, you will excuse me if I get to work.”
Without further ado he started down the steps. The imam, recognizing defeat with the dignity his office demanded, turned on his heel and walked away, followed by part of the audience. The rest squatted down on their haunches and prepared to watch us work—hoping, no doubt, for a catastrophe of some kind.
I was about to follow Emerson when I realized that the dispersal of the crowd had revealed a form thus far concealed in their ranks. Mr. O’Connell’s fiery-red hair was hidden by an inordinately large solar kepi. He was scribbling busily in a notebook. Feeling my eyes upon him, he looked up and raised his hat.
“Top of the morning to you, Mrs. Emerson. I hope you are not tired after your disturbed night?”
“How did you know about that?” I demanded. “And what the—that is, what are you doing here?”
“Why, this is a public place, to be sure. The opening of the tomb is important news. Your husband has already given me a first-rate lead. What an actor he is!”
He had not answered my first question. Obviously he had sources of information within our very household and was not inclined to betray them. As for the second point, he ws quite correct; we might prevent him from entering the tomb, but we could not keep him from watching. As I stared angrily at him he coolly produced a folding stool, opened it, and seated himself. Then he poised his pencil over his notebook and regarded me expectantly.
I felt a new sympathy for the imam. Like him, I had been left with nothing to say. So, following his example, I retreated with as much dignity as I could command.
Descending the stairs, I found that Emerson had unlocked the iron gate and was conversing with the guards—not the ill-favored Habib and his friend, but two of our own men. Being unaware that Emerson had taken this step, I remarked upon it.
“You must think me a fool if you believe I would neglect such an elementary precaution,” Emerson replied. “I am not at all sure that such measures will suffice, however. Once we have the passage cleared, it may be necessary for one of us to spend the night here. When Milverton is healthy enough to satisfy you, there will be three of us—”
“Four,” I corrected, taking a firm hold of my parasol.
There was a certain amount of grumbling from the men when they realized they would have to carry away the baskets of debris. This menial chore was usually delegated to children, but Emerson had determined not to ask for any help from the villagers. Once they saw that the work was proceeding without incident, they would come to us. At least we had counted on that; but events