The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [39]
“There may be signs,” Emerson insisted. “Watermarks, fresh stone chips, possibly even scraps of the burial equipment. Do you see anything, Ramses?”
“No, sir.” Ramses bent and picked up a piece of worked stone, covered with a thick patina. He tossed it away. “Paleolithic.”
We made our way slowly along the uneven floor of the wadi, scanning the rocky walls on either side. There was a good deal more debris, in the form of pottery shards and scraps of stone. I came to a halt next to a gaping hole and let out a cry of excitement. “Emerson! A pit tomb, is it not? And here—” I reached for an object half hidden in dusty chips—something that was surely metallic, for a glint of sunlight had shone off it. “Here is—oh.”
It was a crumpled cigarette tin.
“Carter,” said Emerson, making the name sound like an expletive.
“How do you know?”
“None of the local men can afford European cigarettes,” Emerson said. “It’s the brand he smokes, isn’t it?”
As we went on, the ground underfoot became even more uneven; it appeared as if someone had conducted a random but extensive excavation. Emerson growled. “Either Carter has lost all remnants of archaeological conscience, or the locals have been digging, looking for tombs.”
“The latter, surely,” said Ramses. “Carter had every right to be here, Father; he has done nothing wrong.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, who could not deny this, but who, in his heart of hearts, regarded the entire country of Egypt as his personal property, archaeologically speaking.
We had almost reached the end of the canyon when I became aware of a faint, unpleasant smell. I looked up, expecting to see floating overhead the winged predators that feed on carrion; but the sky was empty of all but light.
Jumana was the first to see the signs for which we had been searching. She ran on ahead, quick and sure-footed over the uneven ground, and came to a stop. “See!”
The object she held up was a small gold bead.
“Ha,” said Emerson. “Well done, Jumana. Yes, just as I expected. The tomb must have been partially filled with rock fallen from the walls and ceiling. The villains were careful not to remove any more of it than they had to, but they were bound to lose a few items. By Gad, that looks like a bone.”
It fell to pieces in a shower of dust when he picked it up. “Water-rotted,” Emerson muttered, and began rooting around in the debris.
“The tomb must be up there,” Ramses said, shading his eyes with his hand. “Directly above, in that rift.”
Emerson got to his feet. Only then did something odd seem to strike him. He threw his shoulders back, raised his head, and sniffed. “Have the local lads been up to their old tricks—throwing the carcass of a dead animal into the shaft to deter other explorers? You remember the Abd er Rassuls, and the Royal Cache.”
“Why would they bother to do that, if there is nothing left in the tomb?” I asked. I pinched my nose with my fingers.
“Precisely,” said Emerson, looking pleased. “I will just have a look.”
We were at the far end of the valley, facing a steep cliff that I judged to be over a hundred feet high. Some thirty feet above us I made out a cleft running deep into the rock.
“Emerson,” I said, choosing my words with care, “it is a sheer drop from the cleft down to the base of the cliff. If you are bent on breaking your arm or your leg or your neck or all three, find a place closer to home so we won’t have to carry you such a distance.”
Emerson grinned at me. “You do enjoy your little touches of sarcasm, Peabody. I can make it.”
“No, sir, I don’t believe you can,” Ramses said, quietly but firmly. “I wouldn’t care to try it either. I’ll go round and up, with the rope, and lower myself from the top as the thieves did.”
I let out a sigh of relief. Ramses seldom contradicted his father, but when he did, Emerson heeded his advice—a compliment he paid few people, including me.
“Oh,” he said, stroking his chin. “Hmph. Very well, my boy. Be careful.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will go too,” Daoud volunteered. “To hold the rope.”
He slung a coil of rope over his shoulder and the two of