The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [66]
When he stopped, we were just below the top of the hill, with a steep slope below and a wilderness of broken ridges, canyons and clefts behind and ahead. We sat down in the shadow of a heap of stones and I passed round my canteen. Selim’s eyes glittered. I knew his quick breathing was not due to exertion. It had been my suggestion that he accompany us and leave the older, more placid Daoud to watch over the children. Ramses could twist poor Selim around his little finger – and so could I. I smiled at him and raised a finger to my lips. He nodded vigorously.
Before long Emerson began to fidget. I had known he would. Waiting is not something he does well. I moved closer to him and kept him quiet for a while, but it was fortunate we had not much longer to wait. The moon had set and the hillside was in shadow. One of the approaching men must have stumbled or stubbed his toe. His involuntary cry of pain was loud enough to carry some distance.
Emerson started to rise. ‘Damna –!’
I clapped both hands over his mouth. After a moment he subsided and I felt it was safe to remove my grip.
‘Sssh! Listen,’ I breathed.
The murmur of voices and the sounds of movement went on for some time, and eventually my straining eyes made out, not isolated forms, but a shifting section of darkness. How many of them were there? More than one or two, certainly. They seemed to be arguing. Gradually their voices rose, and one harsh whisper pierced the silence of the night.
‘I tell you, he lied! What will the Master do to us if he learns –’
Another outburst of hissing argument drowned his voice. It died into silence; a temporary agreement must have been reached. The succeeding sounds were those of surreptitious movement. Pebbles rolled and rattled; something grated on rock.
Emerson could bear it no longer; he rose to one knee. I took firm hold of his turban and pressed my mouth against his ear.
‘Emerson, wait until they have all entered the tomb. Then we can creep away –’
‘And allow them to rob MY tomb?’ His furious whisper echoed like the distant voice of an outraged deity. He twisted his head, leaving his turban in my hands, and surged to his feet. Pulling the robe over his head, he tossed it at me. ‘You and Selim go and fetch Carter.’
‘Emerson! At least take my –’ But by the time I had freed myself from the tangled folds of his robe he was out of reach. Pistol in hand, I followed as fast as I dared. Selim, gasping with excitement, was hot on my heels.
I found Emerson; he was standing on a ledge some ten feet below the path. It was so small the toes of his boots protruded over an empty space as dark and narrow as the gullet of a crocodile.
‘Ah, there you are, Peabody,’ he remarked. ‘Hang on a minute, I will be right back.’
And without further ado he knelt, grasped the rock ledge with both hands, and swung himself down into the cleft.
Silence and caution were no longer necessary. Emerson would either fall into the tomb or past it, on his way to the bottom of the ravine, unequivocally informing those within of his presence.
Though every muscle and every nerve ached with the need for action, I forced myself to be calm. It was an exercise to which I had become accustomed after living with Emerson for so many years. Stripping off my own robe I tossed it aside. Then I lay down on the ground and lit a candle.
The slope was not precipitous; under ordinary circumstances I would not have hesitated to tackle it, using my trusty parasol as a stick. Under present circumstances, when a slip might precipitate me into a bottomless chasm, I decided not to take the chance. Regretfully laying parasol and candle aside, I instructed Selim to lie flat on the edge of the drop and give me his