The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [74]
“And when have I shrunk from the prospect of peril?” I demanded. “When have you sunk to the contemptible practice of attempting to shield me?”
“Quite often, actually,” Emerson replied. “Not that I often succeed; but really, Peabody, your inclination to rush headlong where angels fear to tread—”
“Hold on,” Vandergelt interrupted. He had removed his hat and was methodically wiping the sticky dust from his face. He seemed unaware of the fact that this substance, which, when mixed with perspiration, took on the consistency of liquid cement, was running down into his goatee and dripping off the end.
“Don’t get into one of your arguments,” he went on. “I don’t have the patience to wait till you finish fighting. What the hades is down there, Professor?”
“The end of the passageway,” Emerson answered. “And a well or shaft. I couldn’t cross it. There were a few scraps of rotten wood, the remains of a bridge or covering—”
“Brought by thieves?” Vandergelt asked, his blue eyes alert.
“Possibly. They would have come prepared for such pitfalls, which were common in tombs of the period. However, if they did find a door at the far end, there is no sign of it now—only a blank wall surface painted with a figure of Anubis.”
“Humph.” Vandergelt stroked his goatee. This action produced a stream of mud that ran down the front of his once-neat coat. “Either the door is hidden behind the plaster and paint, or the wall is a blind alley and the burial chamber lies elsewhere—perhaps at the bottom of the shaft.”
“Correct. As you see, we have quite a few more hours’ work ahead of us. We must test every foot of the floor and ceiling carefully. The closer we get to the burial chamber, the greater the chance of encountering a trap.”
“Then let us get to work,” I cried excitedly.
“Precisely what I have been suggesting,” Emerson replied.
His tone was decidedly sarcastic, but I decided to overlook it, for there was some excuse for his behavior. My brain teemed with golden visions. For the moment archaelogical fever supplanted detective fever. I was actually at work, sifting the first portion of rubble, before I remembered I had not told Emerson of Arthur’s confession.
I assured myself that there was no need for haste. Emerson would undoubtedly insist on finishing the day’s work before returning to the house, and Arthur had agreed to take no action until we had had a chance to confer. I decided to wait until the noon break before confiding in Emerson.
Jealous persons might claim, in the light of later events, that this was an error of judgment on my part. I cannot see it this way. Only another Cassandra, gifted or cursed with the ability to foresee the future, could have predicted what transpired; and if I had had a premonition, I could not possibly have convinced Emerson to act on it.
Proof positive of this assertion is given by his reaction when I did tell him about my conversation with Arthur. We had gone to eat our frugal meal and rest for a while under the canvas canopy that had been erected to shelter me from the sun’s rays while I worked. Mary was below, attempting to trace the most recently uncovered paintings. The only time she could work was while the men were resting, for the clouds of dust their feet stirred up made vision, much less breathing, virtually impossible. Needless to say, Karl was in attendance upon her. Vandergelt had wolfed down his food and returned at once to the tomb, which exerted a powerful fascination over him. Emerson would have followed had I not restrained him.
“I must tell you of my conversation with Arthur last night,” I said.
Emerson was grumbling and trying to free his sleeve from my grasp. This statement had the effect of catching his attention.
“Curse it, Amelia, I ordered you not to leave our room. I ought to have known Abdullah wasn’t man enough to stop you. Just wait till I get my hands on