The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [40]
Emerson threw up his hands and stamped out, leaving me to explain the processes of decomposition. Nefret listened with interest and asked a number of intelligent questions.
We went ashore early the next morning. Emerson had meant to go alone, I believe, but that hope was doomed from the start. Short of ordering me to stay behind – an order I would have flatly refused to obey, as he well knew – he could not prevent me from accompanying him, and I was determined to go because I suspected he was about to pursue that one essential clue he had not chosen to share with me. Ramses was equally determined, and once Emerson had given in to Ramses he could not refuse Nefret’s request. The only person he succeeded in heading off was Miss Marmaduke, because she was the only one who had to obey his orders. Handing her a sheaf of notes, he asked her to transcribe them.
I had not heard Emerson tell Abdullah of his plans, but he must have found a way of doing so, since Abdullah was waiting for him. I also deduced that Abdullah had not expected me, since he had not washed the donkeys.
Emerson swore a great deal when I insisted on doing so. It was only his engaging habit; Emerson is always kind to animals, and the poor little donkeys were never properly cared for. I had got the process down to a fine art by now. It took less than an hour to wash the little creatures, apply ointment to the sores under the filthy saddlecloths, and replace those saddlecloths with clean ones supplied by me. Ramses assisted with the medication. Nefret held the donkeys’ heads and murmured sympathetically in their ears, and I confess they behaved a good deal better than they usually did when being washed.
Emerson was still complaining when we mounted our steeds. ‘If we had a motorcar . . .’ he began.
‘Now, Emerson, be sensible,’ I interrupted. ‘How would you get one to Luxor? There are no roads.’
Emerson’s reply was inaudible because his donkey, still skittish from its unaccustomed ablutions, had broken into a trot.
Our destination, as I had of course suspected, was the village of Gurneh.
We had enjoyed encounters with the citizens of this insalubrious spot before. Located on a hill near Deir el Bahri, its dwellings mingle with the tombs of the ancient dead. In early times, its dwellings were the tombs, and the occupants resisted, sometimes by force, any effort of the authorities to relocate them. Their attitude was understandable. Why go to the trouble of building a house when there is a nice cool tomb handy? Besides, as Emerson once remarked, a fellow likes to be close to his work. The Gurnawis were the most accomplished tomb robbers in Egypt.
The other flourishing industry of Gurneh was the manufacture of forgeries, which were offered to tourists and, in some notorious cases, gullible archaeologists, as the genuine article. Emerson’s and my dealings with the Gurnawis were complicated by the fact that a number of them were related to Abdullah. It made things a bit awkward for Abdullah too. His loyalty to Emerson (and, I hope I may say, to me) was paramount, but we tried to avoid little embarrassments such as arresting his nephews and cousins.
Leaving our donkeys at the bottom of the slope, we followed Emerson along the upward path, which led past tomb entrances and mud-brick houses and sometimes through their courtyards. Emerson’s destination appeared to be a more pretentious dwelling, larger and in better condition than most of the others. I noticed that Abdullah had fallen behind, and spared breath enough to direct a question at Emerson.
‘Is it one of Abdullah’s family you mean to visit, Emerson?’
Emerson stopped and offered me his hand. ‘A trifle out of condition, are you, Peabody? How are the children?’
‘Climbing like goats, both of them. They stopped to talk with . . . good Gad, what villainous-looking men! Acquaintances of Ramses, I suppose. Answer my question.’
‘What question? Oh. No.’
He went on, pulling me with him.
A walled courtyard fronted the house itself. Our approach had been observed; as soon as we got there, the door