The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [110]
The entrance passageway having been cleared down to floor level, we set to work on the antechamber. The photography took quite a long time, since Emerson wanted views from every conceivable angle and various distances. For light he had been using reflectors – large sheets of tin, angled to catch the rays of the sun and direct them onto the area to be photographed. They had proved to be remarkably effective. Sir Edward had developed his plates each evening, and the results were even better than we had hoped.
As the afternoon wore on, my impatience with these necessary but tedious tasks increased. I itched to begin the actual excavation – to expose fully the fascinating depictions of Tetisheri paying homage to the gods of the Underworld, partaking of offerings, seated in royal state with her deceased husband and dutiful grandson – to learn whether the animal under her chair, partially concealed by the rubble, was a cat or a dog or some other pet – to sift through the interesting debris, which contained broken pieces of coffins and bits of their former occupants. Ramses was equally affected; finally, unable to resist, he reached for a brown, brittle object protruding from the mass. A peremptory comment from his watchful father made him jump and pull his hand back.
More and more frequently my eyes were drawn to the rectangular opening in the far wall. Interesting as the clutter in the anteroom appeared to be, it paled before the prospect of what might lie beyond that black hole. When Emerson called a halt to our labours, announcing that we would lay out a grid and begin clearing the room the following day, I could bear it no longer. He was, as always, the last to leave. I lingered.
‘Emerson,’ I whispered. ‘Do you think – tonight?’
He understood. I had known he would. That ardent spirit was as open as mine to the lure of adventure and discovery. He too had shot increasingly frequent glances towards that mysterious opening.
Yet he hesitated, and when he spoke his voice held a note of unusual indecision. ‘I don’t know, Peabody.’
‘Are you suffering from premonitions, my dear?’
‘I never suffer from premonitions!’ One of the bats, hanging from the ceiling like a living frieze, stirred, and Emerson continued in a more moderate tone but with equal heat. ‘Forebodings, premonitions, idle fancies! Keep your premonitions to yourself, Peabody, curse it!’
‘I have none at the moment, Emerson. Only ungovernable curiosity.’
‘I am relieved to hear it.’ Still he hesitated to commit himself. I prepared to deliver the conclusive argument – or rather to voice it aloud, for Emerson was as familiar as I with his son’s annoying habit of trying to steal a march on his parents.
‘If we don’t explore the tunnel, Ramses will – alone and without the proper safety precautions. I am only surprised he hasn’t tried it already.’
‘Curse it,’ said Emerson.
Evelyn was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, with a cup of water and a wet cloth. ‘You look exhausted, Amelia,’ she said anxiously. ‘Quench your thirst and wipe your face.’
I thanked her and availed myself of the water, which was certainly welcome. ‘You must be tired of sitting alone down here,’ I said. ‘It won’t be long, Evelyn, before your talents are required.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind. I enjoy talking with David. He was a little shy at first, but he seems easier with me now. And,’ she added with a smile, ‘the cats have been excellent company. I thought they would be unable to resist the lure of a tomb filled with bats, but they have