The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [75]
“Rockfall,” said Emerson, towing me along the inclined passage. “How the devil it could have happened I don’t know; when I examined the upper part of the shaft the other day, the fill looked to be fairly stable. No one is going down there again until I have made certain there is no danger.”
A shudder ran through me when I remembered that day. Emerson’s head had been within a foot of the lowest level of stones. If one had fallen then …
We made our way back to the surface and retired to my shady shelter, where I dampened a cloth and removed the worst of the dust from my face and hands. Emerson’s ablutions were quicker and more comprehensive: removing his shirt, he poured a jar of water over his head and shoulders and shook himself vigorously.
“That’s better,” he remarked. “Now then, Peabody, I will leave you to write up those notes while they are fresh in your mind.”
“Where are you off to? Don’t go out in the sun without your hat. And your shirt.”
“It is too warm,” said Emerson, retreating in haste.
My admonitions were purely formal. I knew he would pay no attention. Keeping a hat on Emerson’s head is a task beyond even my powers, and I have never been able to break him of his habit of removing articles of clothing while he works. An ordinary man would have suffered from sunstroke, heat prostration, and sunburn, but Emerson is not an ordinary man. After a week in Egypt he is tanned to an even, handsome shade of brown and he never seems in the least inconvenienced by the heat.
As for where he was going, I knew the answer, so after I had finished tidying myself I went after him.
Ramses was not wearing a hat or a shirt either. He and Emerson stood at the edge of a trench looking down. The cutting was approximately two feet wide and four feet deep, and Nefret was at the bottom of it. I could not see what else was there, since her crouching body hid the bottom of the trench. I took some comfort in the fact that she was wearing her pith helmet.
“What a nice neat deep trench,” I said. “Er—should Nefret be down in it?”
“She thought she saw a skull,” Ramses said. “You know how she is about bones. However, your point is well taken, Mother. Nefret, there isn’t room to work down there. Come up and we’ll widen the trench.”
Nefret straightened. She held a brush in one hand, and I now made out a distinctive rounded shape half-buried in the earth at her feet. The trench was deeper than I had thought; the top of her head was an inch or so below the upper surface. She raised her hands. “Right you are.”
Ramses leaned over and took hold of her arms just above the elbows, braced his feet, and swung her up onto solid ground.
Emerson squatted and squinted at the side of the trench. “Cut stone,” he muttered. “How long—”
“A little over three meters. I will of course make precise measurements once we have cleared the entire enclosure. So far we have located three of the four corners and I decided to do a trial trench on this side in order to—”
“You need not explain,” said Emerson, rising. “Just make sure you … Er, hmmm, yes, Peabody. Time for luncheon, eh?”
By the end of the day it was evident that Ramses had come across something rather interesting. The tomb was of considerable size, indicating that it had belonged to a person of some importance. The use of cut stone for the outer walls was another indication of the owner’s status. However, the roofing stones had been supported by internal walls of mud-brick, and by wooden beams, which had collapsed, precipitating the ceiling onto the floor in a jumble of blocks. Mixed in with the fallen stones and drifted sand were a number of hard-stone vessels, some of which had been smashed. In short, the interior of the mastaba was a mess, and Ramses had set about clearing it in the approved style, dividing the area into sections and excavating each from top to bottom before proceeding to the next.
I allowed Emerson one look—since I was rather curious myself—before we started for home.
“I see you have braced