The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [179]
Though we had tried to keep secret the precise day on which we would open the sarcophagus, a crowd of onlookers had assembled, and our men had their hands full restraining importunate journalists and curiosity-seekers.
As it was, the party admitted into the tomb was larger than Emerson would have liked. He had erected temporary walls along the pathway in the burial chamber, but he kept up a muttered undercurrent of expletives as our distinguished visitors – M. Maspero, the British Consul General (our old friend Lord Cromer, formerly Sir Evelyn Baring), Howard Carter in his capacity of Inspector, and a representative of the Khedive proceeded along the narrow passage. Cyrus was there, and – to the visible surprise of Maspero and the indignation of the Pasha – so were Abdullah and his grandson. I had agreed with Emerson that they had a right to be present.
The previous day Emerson and Abdullah had set up the necessary block-and-tackle arrangement, with heavy wooden tripods at either end of the sarcophagus, and had used levers and wedges to raise the top just far enough to allow the ropes to pass under it. As the great quartzite lid slowly rose, every eye was fixed upon it and every breath came quick and shallow. At last the gap was wide enough, and Emerson looked inside.
He stepped down from the stone on which he had stood. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I regret to say that Queen Tetisheri is not receiving today.’
The sarcophagus was empty. Not a scrap of wood, not a broken bone remained.
Because of the crowds we had to retreat to the Amelia in order to entertain our visitors. Toasts were proposed and drunk, but Maspero’s congratulations were mingled with polite commiseration. Emerson only shrugged. ‘A minor disappointment, monsieur,’ he said equably. ‘The paintings are masterpieces, the contents of the tomb remarkable. One could not reasonably hope for as much.’
After the distinguished visitors had taken their departure I turned to Emerson. ‘You knew she wasn’t there! You would not have taken it so coolly if you had not anticipated this.’
‘I was prepared for her absence, yes,’ Emerson said calmly. ‘You see, my dear, I have always believed that the bald little old lady from the Deir el Bahri cache is Tetisheri. She bears a striking resemblance to other members of the family who were also in the cache – those protruding front teeth are quite distinctive. Don’t ask me to account for how she got there, though, or why her empty sarcophagus was so carefully closed. It is and will probably always remain a mystery.’
‘Oh, come,’ Walter exclaimed. ‘You must have a theory or two.’
Emerson had already removed his coat and cravat. Leaning back in his chair, he took out his pipe. ‘What about a whiskey all round?’ he inquired genially. ‘We have a great deal to celebrate, my dears. A mummy more or less does not detract.
‘In fact, my brilliant deductions as to the location of the tomb were wide of the mark. This was not Tetisheri’s original tomb; it was a reburial, made by Hatshepsut for her revered ancestress after the original tomb had been robbed or threatened – the latter, I think, since much of the funerary equipment survived.
‘By that time the kings of the new Theban Empire had realized that conspicuous monuments like pyramids invited the attention of tomb robbers. Hatshepsut’s father was the first to build his tomb in the Valley of the Kings – no one knowing, no one seeing, as the king’s architect boasted. Hatshepsut concealed her own tomb so successfully that it has not been found. The location she selected for Tetisheri was equally obscure. She had the tomb decorated in the conventional style, and, with a modesty unusual in an