The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [41]
Nefret tilted her head back and looked up into his eyes. “Since you put it that way . . .”
Emerson let out a gusty breath. “Very good. We’ll have to have him out, though, if we want to examine the tomb.”
“Common decency requires that we have him out,” I said. “And give him a proper burial. I suppose he met with an accident while looking for another tomb to rob.”
“It was no accident. He’d been arranged, propped up in a sitting position against the side of the passage, and held upright by . . .” Ramses hesitated for a moment before he went on. “. . . By a metal spike driven through his throat and into a crack in the rock.”
4
We retreated some distance down the wadi before opening the baskets of food. There was not a breath of air stirring and very little shade; we all removed as many garments as propriety allowed. I looked enviously from Ramses and Emerson, shirtless as well as coatless, to Selim and Daoud, who appeared perfectly comfortable in their enveloping but loose garments.
I knew I was going to have another argument with Emerson about how to proceed. He was bound and determined to get into the confounded tomb.
“We have not the proper equipment for dealing with a decomposing corpse,” I declared, peeling an orange. “And how would we get it back? You aren’t proposing we take it in turn to carry it over those hills, I hope?”
Emerson is the most stubborn individual of my acquaintance, but even he was temporarily silenced. He bit into a chicken leg and masticated vigorously. His blue eyes took on a dreamy, pensive look, and his noble brow was untroubled; but I knew he was only biding his time till he could think of a way of getting round the logic of my statement.
“Decidedly unpleasant, if not actually impossible,” said Ramses, who knew his father as well as I did. “I propose we go to Gurneh and try to locate his friends or his family. Someone may have reported him missing.”
“To the police?” Emerson snorted. “Not likely, with that lot.”
“They will admit the truth to us, or to Selim,” Ramses argued. “We will have to come back in any case. Mother is right about that.”
“Oh, very well.” Emerson finished his chicken leg and jumped up. “I will just have a quick look before—”
“No, you will not! You see what comes of your schemes, Emerson. We ought to have made inquiries before ever we came here. If you would listen to me—”
“Bah,” said Emerson.
Selim had tried several times to get a word in. Now he said, “I think I know who the man might be, Father of Curses. If you had asked me—”
“Not you too, Selim,” Emerson shouted. “I will not be criticized by my wife and my reis. One of you at a time, but not simultaneously.”
However, the combined arguments of Ramses, Selim, and myself carried the day. Emerson is stubborn, but he is not completely unreasonable—and he counted on getting into the wretched tomb another time.
Emerson chose another path this time, straight down to the end of the wadi and through another, narrower canyon, descending all the while. It was certainly easier than the way we had come, but it was necessary to watch where one stepped for fear of twisting an ankle, and Emerson set such a rapid pace that conversation was impossible. Neither of these considerations prevented me from ratiocination.
There was no doubt in my mind that the unfortunate individual whose remains Ramses had found had been murdered. Was it only a coincidence that Jamil was still in the vicinity, resentful of the men who had, as he claimed, robbed him of his fair share? Remembering the lazy, surly youth I had known, I found it hard to believe that Jamil was a killer. Someone was certainly guilty of something, however, and it behooved us to take all possible precautions.
The last of the foothills dwindled and I saw before me the Theban plain, stretching out across desert and cultivation to the river. I made Emerson stop