The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [79]
“Humph,” said Emerson.
“We know,” I went on, “that the royal personages of—”
“Enough,” Emerson said rudely. “I know more about the subject than you do, so don’t lecture me. Please hurry and change. I have a great deal to do, and I want to get at it.”
Ordinarily Emerson is as free of professional jealousy as any man can be, but occasionally he reacts badly when my wits prove to be sharper than his. So I let him sulk, and as I dressed I tried to remember what I knew of the pharaoh Tutankhamon.
Not much was known of him. He had married one of Akhenaton’s daughters, but had not followed the heretical religious view of his father-in-law after he returned to Thebes. Though it would be an unparalleled thrill to discover any royal tomb, I could not help but wish we had found someone other than this ephemeral and short-reigned king. One of the great Amenhoteps or Thutmosids would have been much more exciting.
We found the others awaiting us in the drawing room. I really believe Emerson had forgotten about Madame Berengeria in the delight of his discovery. A stricken expression crossed his face when he beheld the lady’s ample form, decked in its usual bizarre costume. But the others paid us little heed; even Madame was listening openmouthed to Vandergelt’s dramatic description of the thief’s remains. (He did not mention the gold.)
“Poor fellow,” Mary said gently. “To think of him lying there all these thousands of years, mourned by wife and mother and children, forgotten by the world.”
“He was a thief and criminal who deserved his fate,” said Lady Baskerville.
“His accursed soul writhes in the fiery pits of Amenti,” remarked Madame Berengeria in sepulchral tones. “Eternal punishment… doom and destruction…. Er, since you insist, Mr. Vandergelt, I believe I will take another drop of sherry.”
Vandergelt rose obediently. Mary’s lips tightened but she said nothing; no doubt she had long since learned that any attempt to control her mother only resulted in a strident argument. So far as I was concerned, the sooner the lady drank herself into a stupor, the better.
Lady Baskerville’s black eyes flashed contemptuously as she gazed at the other woman. Rising, as if she were too restless to sit still, she strolled to the window. It was her favorite position; the whitewashed walls set off the grace of her black-clad figure. “So you believe we are nearing our goal, Professor?” she asked.
“Possibly. I want to get back to the Valley at first light tomorrow. From now on, our photographer’s aid will be essential. Milverton, I want… But where the devil is he?”
How well I remember the premonitory chill that froze the blood in my veins at that moment. Emerson may scoff; but I knew instantly that something dreadful had happened. I ought to have observed at once that the young man was not with the others. My only excuse is that my archaeological fever was still in the ascendency.
“He is in his room, I suppose,” Lady Baskerville said casually. “I thought this afternoon that he looked feverish and suggested that he rest.”
Across the width of the room Emerson’s eyes sought mine. In his grave countenance I read a concern that matched my own. Some wave of mental vibration must have touched Lady Baskerville. She paled visibly and exclaimed, “Radcliffe, why do you look so strange? What is wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Emerson replied. “I will just look in on the young man and remind him we are waiting. The rest of you stay here.”
I knew the order did not apply to me. However, Emerson’s longer legs gave him an advantage; he was the first to reach the door