The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [178]
then.”
The others followed, leaving me alone with Geoffrey and Nefret. “Make him rest awhile,” I said.
“Yes, Aunt Amelia.” She spoke no more. Seeing her closed lips and remote expression I felt a pang, not of self-reproach but of loss. Would we ever be again what once we had been to one another?
As the day wore on my vigilance began to relax. There had been no sign of Jack. Perhaps, I thought hopefully, he had taken flight. When I expressed this possibility to Emerson, he only grunted. His full attention was bent on his work.
I am convinced Emerson has a sixth sense for archaeology, as I do for crime. He had read the signs few other excavators would have observed; when the catastrophe occurred, he was the only one of us who was prepared.
The men had removed four of the blocking stones, exposing another layer beneath. It was hard, slow work, and the ropes Emerson had insisted they fasten around their bodies kept getting tangled; a certain amount of cursing and complaining accompanied their activities. Finally a fifth stone was ready to be raised. The men in the pit were hauled up, and then the stone began to rise. It was halfway to the surface when the rope broke or the knots gave way—I could not see which, I only saw the thing fall. One corner of it struck the bottom, and the impact caused the whole understructure to give way, with a crash that echoed like a blast of dynamite. A cloud of sand and dust billowed up from the shaft, and Emerson threw himself across the body of one of the ropemen, who had slipped and was sliding inexorably toward the opening of the pit.
Everyone came running. When the dust settled Emerson sat up, counted heads, and let out a sigh of relief. “No harm done,” he announced, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, which did not improve matters greatly, since hand and face were equally dirty. A groan from the man he had saved drew his attention; he lifted the fellow up, inspected him, dusted him off, and handed him over to two of his friends. “No harm done,” he repeated.
“That takes care of clearing the shaft,” said Ramses, peering down into the depths.
“Get away from there, Ramses,” I ordered. “You too, Geoffrey. Gracious, the depth must now be a good sixty feet.”
“Hmmm, yes,” said Emerson. “Just as well. Hauling the stones up by way of the stairs will take longer, but it won’t be so dangerous. I’m afraid another of your windlasses has gone, Selim.”
“So long as it was not a man, Father of Curses.”
“Well said.” Emerson clapped him on the back. “Let’s have a look down there.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” I asked.
“Why wait? There are several hours of daylight
left.”
He had covered less than half the distance between the mouth of the shaft and the entrance to the descending stairs when he came to a stop—for an excellent reason. Jack Reynolds had not been lurking in the vicinity. He had been here all along, out of sight at the bottom of the rough-cut steps. Now he emerged, dusty and red-faced and wild-eyed, with a rifle raised to his shoulder. It was aimed at Emerson.
FOURTEEN
A sahib’s born, not made. The code that governs our class is clear: uncompromising honesty, unflinching courage, respect for women and other helpless creatures, and that delicate sense of honor only the AngloSaxon races can fully understand.
Don’t do it, Emerson!” I shrieked—for I had seen the tensing of that splendid frame, and knew it betokened imminent attack. “See if you cannot reason with him!”
Emerson said something I could not hear—it was undoubtedly a swear word—but he obeyed Jack’s gesture and backed slowly away as the younger man advanced toward him. Finally Jack stopped. “That will do, Professor. Close enough so we needn’t shout at one another. Throat’s dry. I finished the water a while back.”
His voice rasped with thirst, but he sounded fairly rational. Taking heart, I said, “I have a canteen, Jack. If you will allow me—”
“No, thank you, ma’am. Not until after I have settled my account with Ramses.”
“Ramses?” I