The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [106]
The shafts—tombs, I should say—were not in the main cemetery on the western hill, but on the northern slope, closer to the temple, so we did not have far to go. We found Emerson on his hands and knees—one hand and both knees, that is—peering down into a dark opening while Ramses directed his torch into it. It did not look much like a tomb entrance; the edges were broken and irregular.
“Are you sure this is it?” I inquired. “It doesn’t look like a tomb entrance.”
“Of course I’m sure” was the querulous reply. A chunk of rock broke off from under his hand. “Curse it,” said Emerson, recovering his balance without difficulty. “The whole place is falling in. Nobody has been down there for a while.”
“Which one of the princesses’ tombs is it?” Cyrus asked eagerly.
Emerson got to his feet. “None, as a matter of fact. This is the tomb where they found the reused sarcophagus of Ankhnesneferibre. Another sarcophagus was found nearby.”
“Here,” said Ramses, a little distance away.
We must have looked somewhat absurd clustered round that hole in the ground peering intently at nothing. There was nothing to be seen, not even rubble. The shaft was fairly clear, but so deep, the light of our torches did not reach the bottom.
“Nobody has been down there either,” Ramses said. “Not since—1885, wasn’t it, that the sarcophagus was removed?”
Emerson grunted agreement. “I cannot imagine what prompted this performance, Vandergelt,” he said severely. “You might have done yourself an injury.”
“Idle curiosity,” said Cyrus with a sheepish grin.
“The view is worth the climb,” Bertie said, shading his eyes with his hand.
We were about halfway up the sloping ground that ended at the base of a precipitous cliff. It dropped abruptly to the level; opposite lay another high range of hills, and in the cleft between them we could see the Theban plain, misty green in the morning light, stretching down toward the distant sparkle of the river.
“Quite beautiful,” I agreed. “Now that we have seen it, shall we go? Nefret is expecting us for luncheon, and I want to call on Yusuf sometime today.”
We retraced our steps, down the hill toward the temple. Emerson, who had disdained assistance from Ramses, allowed me to take his arm, under the impression that he was assisting me. “Are you planning to question Yusuf?” he inquired. “I suppose we ought to.”
“I will interrogate him, yes—subtly and indirectly—but my primary motive is to be of help to the poor old fellow. I ought to have gone before.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. It was an expression of doubt or derision, but I did not know whether he was being sarcastic about my motives or my ability to carry out a subtle interrogation. I did not ask.
“I will come with you to see Yusuf,” Selim announced.
“I would rather you did not, Selim. In fact,” I added, inspecting my escort, “I don’t want any of you to come with me. Goodness gracious, the five of you looming over him would frighten the poor old man into a fit.”
“I guess you don’t need Bertie and me,” Cyrus conceded. “We may as well go home and get spiffed up for the party.”
“Nefret will not expect you to dress, Cyrus,” I assured him. “Emerson won’t bother.”
“Selim will,” said Cyrus, directing a grin at the young man. “Can’t let him outshine the rest of us.”
Selim remained grave. “I will only do what is right. The Father of Curses does what is right in his eyes.”
“Well said.” Cyrus gave him a friendly slap on the back. “Don’t let Amelia go by herself, Emerson. Lord only knows what she might get up to.”
“What nonsense!” I exclaimed. “I am only going to examine Yusuf and prescribe—”
“My house is not far from Yusuf’s,” Selim said. “We will sit in the courtyard, Ramses and the Father of Curses and I, and keep watch.”
However, Yusuf was not at home. That elderly harridan his wife informed me that he had gone to the mosque. She did not know when he would be back.
“He cannot be as feeble as I feared,