The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [51]
The blank staring eyes and livid face confronted me almost with a look of accusation. I had not found Hassan a prepossessing character; but a wave of pity and indignation washed over me, and I vowed on the spot that his murderer would not go unpunished.
I said as much to Emerson. Intent on the limp form, which he was examining with some care, he remarked acrimoniously, “There you go again, Amelia, jumping to conclusions. What makes you think the man was murdered?”
“What makes you think he was not?”
“I don’t know how the devil he died.” Emerson rose to his feet, slapping absently at the cloud of small insects that swarmed around him. “There is a bump on the back of his head, but it was certainly not enough to kill him. Other than that, there is not a mark on him. But there are plenty of fleas…. Curse it, I am going to be late for work.”
The pace of life in Egypt is slow, and death is commonplace. Ordinarily the authorities would have taken their time in responding to a summons such as ours. But our case was different. If I had required any demonstration of the passionate interest in our affairs that possessed all of Luxor, I would have found it in the speed with which the police appeared on the scene.
Emerson had already left for the Valley, at my suggestion. I had pointed out that it was unnecessary for both of us to waste working hours, for he could add nothing to what I knew of the matter; and since this accorded with his own inclinations, he did not object. I saw no reason to mention my chief reason for wanting him away. I anticipated that the press would soon descend on the house and felt that we were providing enough of a journalistic thrill without any additional contributions from my husband.
Eventually the body of poor Hassan was removed, though not without considerable discussion as to its disposition; for the constable wished to restore it to the family, whereas I insisted on a postmortem. I won my point, naturally, but it was obvious, from the way the men shook their heads and murmured, that they considered such investigation unnecessary. Hassan had been killed by an efreet, the ghost of the pharaoh; why look for further evidence?
CHAPTER
Seven
EAGER as I was to depart at once, I felt obliged to inquire after Lady Baskerville. She was in bed, with her Egyptian maid in attendance. The dark circles under her eyes and the pallor of her cheeks assured me that her complaints of being quite overcome were not entirely fictitious.
“When will this horror end?” she demanded, wringing her hands.
“I am sure I have no idea,” I replied. “Is there anything I can do for you, Lady Baskerville, before I go?”
“No. No, I believe I will try to sleep. I had the most dreadful dreams.”
I took my departure, before she could tell me about her dreams. It was a pleasure to assume my working garb and set out in the fresh morning air.
Yet dark forebodings haunted me during my walk, for I well knew that once word of Hassan’s death got out, even our dedicated workmen might throw down their tools and refuse to enter the accursed tomb. Emerson was not the man to stand meekly aside and let his orders be defied. He would resist—the men would turn on him—attack him…. My affectionate imagination presented me with a ghastly image. I could see my husband’s life blood soaking into the white dust, and the men trampling his fallen body as they fled. By the time I reached the cliff overlooking the Valley, I was running.
One glance told me that the tragedy I had envisioned had not occurred, though it was clear that news of the latest disaster had spread. The crowd of the previous day had multiplied tenfold. Among the watchers I saw three of our men reinforcing the fence around the work area. They had not rebelled; they were loyal. I do not scruple to admit that