The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [149]
“We already know that, darling,” Geoffrey said. “The vases in the mastaba we found last year have the name of a King Khaba.”
“Whoever he was,” Nefret said dismissively. “He’s not mentioned in any of the king lists. Anyhow, you can’t attribute a pyramid to a particular king by means of objects found in a nearby tomb.”
“Sometimes it’s the only indication, sweetheart,” Geoffrey said mildly. “Third and Fourth Dynasty pyramids aren’t inscribed. This one is probably even earlier. Mr. Reisner believes—”
“But you only excavated one mastaba. There are others on the north side.”
Geoffrey sat up and clasped his arms around his bent knees. A few weeks working with Emerson had toughened the lad; his bare forearms were evenly tanned and his wet shirt molded well-shaped shoulders. “Your point is well taken, dearest. So long as there aren’t any more accidents like the one that came close to injuring Ramses. When I think that it might have been you down there, my blood runs cold.”
Nefret’s lips tightened. Geoffrey’s concern was natural for a bridegroom, but he would have to learn that she would not tolerate being treated like a fragile blossom. I could see a quarrel building, so I intervened.
“I assure you, Geoffrey, that Emerson does not take unnecessary risks or allow his people to do so. That was an unfortunate accident. I still cannot account for it.”
Emerson brushed this distraction aside. “I would like to settle the question of the ownership once and for all,” he admitted. “And perhaps get some clue as to why there are no signs of a burial in the pyramid. They must have buried the rascal somewhere, you know; if not in the pyramid, where? And why not in the pyramid?”
“Well, sir …” Geoffrey began.
Emerson bent a hard blue gaze upon him and he closed his mouth. The rest of us had known the questions were purely rhetorical. Emerson was about to lecture. He does not care to be interrupted when he is lecturing.
“The other so-called pyramid here at Zawaiet el ’Aryan was also empty. Admittedly it was never finished; there’s no sign of a cursed superstructure. There was a burial chamber, though, with a sarcophagus in place at the bottom of a pit that had been painstakingly filled with huge stone blocks. The lid of the sarcophagus was still in place, and there wasn’t a scrap inside it. Which leaves us with the same question: Where did they put the bas—er—the king’s mummy?”
“What is your theory, my dear?” I inquired, knowing that he was going to tell us anyhow.
“I haven’t got a theory,” said Emerson aggravatingly. “But I will tell you one thing, Peabody: I am not finished with the pyramid yet.”
“Oh, Emerson,” I exclaimed, clasping my hands to my breast. “You believe that the burial chamber may be a blind—that there are passages and chambers as yet undiscovered?”
“Control yourself, Peabody,” said my affectionate husband. “You are always hoping for unknown passages and chambers; it comes of reading sensational fiction. Such devices are singularly lacking in real life.” He turned to Geoffrey, who started nervously. “You weren’t one of the ones who entered the place last year?”
“I had a look. We all did. I was in charge of the cemetery, though. It was Mr. Reisner and Jack who investigated the pyramid.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “We’ll go on with the excavation of the private tombs. I also want a closer look at the outside of the structure. I cannot believe there was not a casing of some sort, though you say you found no traces of such a thing. There is a slight overhang on the face of the seventh layer …”
The young men listened with a convincing appearance of interest as Emerson continued to expound on construction techniques. Lia’s blue eyes were fixed on David with that look of tenderness one likes to observe on the face of a young bride. Nefret was not looking at anyone. Head bent, brow frowning, she stared at the toes of her scuffed little boots. I wondered if she was thinking of those other little boots and the girl who had worn them. Though Emerson would never have admitted it, since he does not like to be considered sentimental,