The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [47]
Lady Baskerville let out a gasp of laughter.
“My poor dear Mrs. Emerson: All that effort for a handful of rubbish.”
Mr. Vandergelt stroked his goatee. “I’m not so sure about that, ma’am. They may not look like much, but I’ll be doggoned surprised if they don’t mean something—something not too good. Eh, Professor?”
Emerson nodded grudgingly. He does not like to have his brilliant deductions anticipated. “You are sharp, Vandergelt. Those bits of broken pottery came from a jar that was used to hold scented oil. I very much fear, Lady Baskerville, that we are not the first to disturb the pharaoh’s rest.”
“I don’t understand.” Lady Baskerville turned to Emerson with a pretty little gesture of bewilderment.
“But it is only too clear,” Karl exclaimed. “Such perfumed oil was buried with the dead man for his use in the next world, as were foodstuffs, clothing, furniture, and other necessities. We know this from the tomb reliefs and from the papyrus that—”
“Very well, very well,” Emerson interrupted. “What Karl means, Lady Baskerville, is that such shards could be found in the outer corridor only if a thief had dropped one of the jars as he was carrying it out.”
“Perhaps it was dropped on the way in,” suggested Milverton cheerfully. “My servants are always breaking things.”
“In that case the broken jar would have been swept up,” said Emerson. “No; I am almost certain that the tomb was entered after the burial. A difference in the consistency of the filling material indicates that a tunnel had been dug through it.”
“And re-filled,” said Vandergelt. He shook his finger playfully at Emerson. “Now, Professor, you’re trying to get us all het up. But I’m on to you. The thieves’ tunnel wouldn’t have been filled up, and the necropolis seals re-applied, if the tomb had been empty.”
“Then you believe there are treasures yet to be found?” Lady Baskerville asked.
“If we found nothing more than painted reliefs of the quality we have uncovered thus far, the tomb would be a treasure,” Emerson replied. “But, in fact, Vandergelt is right again.” He gave the American a malignant look. “I do believe there is a chance the thieves never reached the burial chamber.”
Lady Baskerville exclaimed with delight. I turned to Milverton, who was seated beside me, his expression one of poorly concealed amusement.
“Why do you smile, Mr. Milverton?”
“I confess, Mrs. Emerson, that I find all this fuss over a few bits of broken pottery somewhat bewildering.”
“That is a strange thing for an archaeologist to say.”
“But I am no archaeologist, only a photographer, and this is my first venture into Egyptology.” His eyes shifted; they continued to avoid mine as he continued rapidly. “In fact, I had begun to have doubts about my usefulness even before Lord Baskerville’s unfortunate death. Now that he is gone I don’t believe… that is, I feel I can do better….”
“What?” Lady Baskerville had overheard, despite the fact that Milverton’s voice had been scarcely louder than a murmur. “What are you saying, Mr. Milverton? You cannot be thinking of leaving us?”
The wretched young man turned all colors of the rainbow. “I was telling Mrs. Emerson that I don’t believe I can be of use here. My state of health—”
“Nonsense!” Lady Baskerville exclaimed. “Dr. Dubois assured me you are making a splendid recovery, and that you are better off here than alone in a hotel. You mustn’t run away.”
“We need you,” Emerson added. “We are desperately understaffed, Milverton, as you know.”
“But I have no experience—”
“Not in archaeology, perhaps. But what we need are guards and supervisors. Besides, I assure you, your special skills will be required as soon as you are able to come out with us.”
Under my husband’s keen regard the young man squirmed like a schoolboy being quizzed by a stern master. The analogy was irresistible; Milverton was the very model of a young English gentleman of the finest type, and it was difficult to see in his fresh, candid face anything except normal embarrassment.