The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [67]
Her attempt at bravado did not quite come off. There had been a decided quaver in the voice that pronounced those brave words. Of all the faces whose relative pallor shone in the shadows, hers was the palest.
Hands on hips, lightly balanced on the edge of the abyss from which he had warned the rest of us, Emerson studied the girl. “Indeed? Come and have a look, then.”
Taking her by the arm, he pulled her forward till she stood beside him. One look into that seemingly bottomless chasm put an end to her bravado. She let out a breathless little squeak and clutched at Emerson. His one-handed, seemingly casual grip could have held a much heavier weight than hers; steady as a rock, he passed her back to her brother, who had sprung forward with a cry of alarm as she swayed.
“That is just the sort of thing I mean,” said Emerson in tones of mild vexation. “Too many people milling about in a confined space. A stumble or slip, a dizzy spell, and over you’d go, taking, as it well might be, others with you. The bridge isn’t fixed, a careless step could easily dislodge it. Escort your sister back to the surface, Mr. Reynolds. She is not fit for this sort of thing.”
“Indeed I am!” Now secure in her brother’s grasp, Maude had recovered. “It has never happened before. Truly!”
Emerson had held on to his temper longer than I would have expected. He now lost it. His roar of “Damnation!” was sufficient to express his feelings; the Reynoldses beat a hasty retreat, and Ramses—who had, astonishingly, not spoken a word—joined his father on the edge of the shaft.
“Poor girl,” I said to Nefret. “One can only admire her courage. She was trying to overcome a fear of deep dark places, one must suppose.”
“She was trying to impress a certain person,” said Nefret. “Or perhaps she planned to swoon gracefully into his arms.”
“How uncharitable, my dear.”
“I have spent more time with Miss Maude than you,” said Nefret grimly. “More time than I would have liked. I assure you, Aunt Amelia, she has not the least interest in archaeology or in pyramids.”
Emerson and I passed the remainder of the morning inside the pyramid. It was quite delightful. A detailed description would be out of place here, but readers of superior intellectual capacity will no doubt wish to refer to Emerson’s and my book published by the Oxford University Press. The substructure was fairly extensive and in a delightful state of dilapidation, for the ceiling had given way in several places, so that we had to crawl through narrow spaces that scored our bodies—particularly that of Emerson, whose frame is considerably larger than mine. The horizontal gallery into which the opening in the side of the shaft led continued for some distance and descended another shorter flight of stairs before emerging into a small room which might have been the burial chamber. The candles we carried had only a limited beam. One walked in a small bubble of light enclosed by blackness. The constriction of vision constricts the mind as well; one sees not the whole but a series of small separate segments. The air was hot and stifling. The brain does not function well under those conditions.
According to the plan Signor Barsanti had published, a second passageway led to a long corridor paralleling the north side of the pyramid. He had indicated there were niches cut into the wall of this passage. The very regularity of his plan aroused suspicion; had he really measured each niche so accurately? Were they really so regular in size? What was their function?
To determine the answers to those questions was one of our missions that morning. Selim preceded me, holding the light, and Emerson followed, paying out a steel measuring tape. Notebook in hand, I jotted down the numbers Emerson called out to me. We followed the intersecting corridor to its end and then retraced our steps and followed it to its other end, making notes all the while.
“The niches