The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [78]
As we neared the house, Emerson broke a long silence. “Not a word of this, Vandergelt, even to Lady Baskerville.”
“But—”
“I will inform her in due course and with the proper precautions. Curse it, Vandergelt, most of the servants have relatives in the villages. If they hear that we have found gold—”
“I get you, Professor,” the American replied. “Hey— where are you going?” For Emerson, instead of following the path to the front gate, had started toward the back of the house.
“To our room, of course,” was the reply. “Tell Lady Baskerville we will be with her as soon as we have bathed and changed.”
We left the American scratching his disheveled head. As we climbed in through our window, I reflected complacently on the convenience of this entrance—and, less complacently, on its vulnerability to unauthorized persons.
Emerson lighted the lamps. “Bolt the door, Peabody.”
I did so, and drew the curtains across the window. Meanwhile Emerson cleared the table and placed a clean white handkerchief on its surface. Opening the box, he carefully slid the contents out onto the kerchief.
His wisdom in using wax to fasten the broken pieces together was immediately manifest. Crushed and dispersed as they were, they yet retained traces of the original pattern. Had he plucked them out of the dust one by one, any hope of restoring the object would have been lost.
It was a pectoral, or pendant, in the shape of a winged scarab. The central element was cut from lapis, and this hard stone had survived almost intact. The delicate wings, formed of thin gold set with small pieces of turquoise and carnelian, were so badly battered that their shape could only be surmised by an expert—which, of course, I am. Enclosing the scarab was a framework of gold which had held, among other elements, a pair of cartouches containing the names of a pharaoh. The tiny hieroglyphic signs were not incised in the gold, but inlaid, each small shape being cut out of a chip of precious stone. These were now scattered at random, but my trained eye immediately fell on an “ankh” sign shaped from lapis and a tiny turquoise chick, which represented the sound “u” or “w.”
“Good Gad,” I said. “I am surprised it was not crushed to powder.”
“It was under the thief’s body,” Emerson replied. “His flesh cushioned and protected the jewel. When the flesh decayed the stone settled and the gold was flattened, but not smashed to bits as it would have been had the slab fallen directly onto it.”
It was not difficult for my trained imagination to reconstruct the ancient drama, and its setting: the burial chamber, lighted only by the smoky flame of a cheap clay lamp, the lid of the great stone sarcophagus flung aside, and the carved face of the dead man staring enigmatically at the furtive figures that darted hither and thither, scooping up handfuls of jewelry, stuffing golden statues and bowls into the sacks they had brought for that purpose. Hardened men, these thieves of ancient Gurneh; but they could not have been entirely immune to terror, for one of them had flung the dead king’s amulet over his head so that the scarab rested on his wildly beating heart. Fleeing with his loot, he had been caught by the trap, whose thunderous fall must surely have roused the cemetery guards. The priests, coming to restore the damage, had left the fallen monolith as a warning to future thieves; and indeed, as Emerson had said, no better proof of the disfavor of the gods could have been found.
With a sigh I returned to the present, and to Emerson, who was carefully restoring the object to the box.
“If we could only read the cartouche,” I said. “The ornament must belong to the owner of our tomb.”
“Ah, you missed that, did you?” Emerson grinned maliciously at me.
“Do you mean—”
“Of course I do. You are letting your feminine weakness for gold cloud your wits, Peabody. Use your brain. Unless you would like me to enlighten you—”
“That will not be necessary,” I replied, thinking