The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [135]
It was a sober group that gathered round the picnic baskets. One would have supposed, seeing our gloomy faces, that we had found a looted, empty chamber instead of a discovery that would reverberate down the corridors of Egyptological history. The magnitude of the find and the enormous responsibility of it weighed on us all – most of all on Emerson, who sat with his face in his hands and his head bowed. After I had dispensed tea and sandwiches to the others, I touched his shoulder.
‘Cheese or cucumber, Emerson?’
He lowered his hands. His face was haggard. ‘I can’t do it, Peabody.’
‘I know, my dear,’ I said sympathetically. ‘I did not suppose you could.’
‘It is taking a risk.’ He grasped my hands and squeezed them. Had the moment been less fraught with emotion I would have screamed. ‘The longer we delay in removing the objects, especially the mummy, the greater the chance of attack. If you came to harm through my fanatical attachment to professional standards . . .’
His voice broke and he gazed intently into my eyes.
We might have been alone, ‘no one hearing, no one seeing,’ to quote an ancient Egyptian source. My heart swelled. The danger to others was equally great, but it was my danger that made him hesitate, I who came foremost in his thoughts. There had been many touching moments in our marriage, but none as poignant as this. I chose my words with care.
‘Good Gad, Emerson, what a fuss you are making about nothing! If you had violated our professional standards I would have been forced to speak severely to you. Now go and tell Abdullah of the change in plan.’
Emerson threw back his shoulders and drew a long breath. His eyes blazed, his firm lips curved; his face was that of the ardent young scholar who had first won my heart, and my wholehearted allegiance, in the necropolis of Amarna. Giving my hands a final, excruciating squeeze, he released them and jumped to his feet.
‘Right you are, Peabody. Save me a few sandwiches, will you?’
I rubbed my numbed fingers and looked at my companions. The interest with which they had followed the conversation was evident from their expressions. For the most part, approbation and understanding marked those faces, but a shadow darkened Walter’s brow, and Sir Edward was frankly staring.
The latter was the first to speak. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Emerson, but I fear I missed the point of that exchange. Unless it dealt with personal matters which you would rather not discuss . . .’
‘My husband and I are not in the habit of discussing personal matters in public, Sir Edward.’ I softened the seeming reproof with a friendly smile and an explanation. ‘We had determined to clear the tomb as quickly as possible, before robbers could get at it. It would have been a relatively simple job if this tomb had been like most of the others, empty of all save miscellaneous small objects. But now . . . The rubble you saw, Sir Edward, is the remains of the queen’s original grave goods. Some were of wood, which has rotted and fallen apart, spilling the contents into a tangle. Part of the ceiling appears to have collapsed, crushing other objects. If we shovel the lot into baskets, any hope of restoring the original designs will be lost. And this discovery is unique – the first, perhaps the only, royal tomb to contain at least some of its original equipment. It would be a crime against Egyptological scholarship to overlook the slightest clue. The proper procedures will require not days but months, perhaps years.’
‘Yes, I see. I have heard of the Professor’s meticulous standards.’ But his brow was still furrowed.
‘Be candid, Sir Edward,’ I urged. ‘If you do not fully comprehend, ask questions and I will elaborate.’
‘Well, then, ma’am, since you allow me, I will be candid. What is the Professor worried about? I know the local thieves will steal anything they can lay their hands on, but he is not afraid of a motley lot of barefoot Arabs, is he?’
A stir of shared indignation ran through the