The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [67]
My feet had not quite touched the ledge when I had to let go of Selim’s hand, for his head and shoulders as well as his arm were over the edge. There was a nasty moment when one boot slipped; the scrape of metal on stone was echoed by a muted cry from Selim.
‘Do be quiet, Selim,’ I hissed. ‘I am on the ledge, it is all right.’
‘Oh, Allah! Sitt Hakim –’
‘Sssh!’
It was not so much that I feared discovery – though if Emerson was in the clutches of a gang of desperate tomb robbers, surprise might be my best weapon when I burst in upon them – but the need to listen. I could see nothing below but blackness. I could hear sounds, though. The pit was not bottomless, but it must be very deep; the noises were faint and impossible to classify. The moans of a fatally injured man? The fall of a corpse – Emerson’s corpse? My hands were so unsteady I had to strike three matches before I could light another candle.
A rope had been tied round a protruding rock spur; it vanished into the darkness, as Emerson had done. Kneeling, I felt for it. The strands were limp; no weight pulled them taut. Living or dead, fallen or triumphantly arrived at his goal, Emerson was not holding on to the rope. Grasping it, I lowered myself into the darkness.
I covered the first few feet more quickly than I had intended, but finally I got my knees wrapped round the cursed flimsy thing and was able to proceed more deliberately. It was a long descent – over ninety feet, as we discovered later. The sounds I had heard were no longer audible. Oh, heaven, I thought; will I be too late?
The darkness was intense. I might have missed the tomb entrance if the rope had not ended just below it. This came as a considerable surprise, and for an unpleasant moment or two I hung suspended only by my hands. Then the toe of my boot found a crack and my eyes made out a faint glow of light. Faint in fact, but bright as a beacon to eyes accustomed to utter blackness.
The tomb entrance had been cut in the side of the gully. It was approximately six feet square, but it was filled with rubble except for a narrow tunnel dug by the thieves. The light came from the far end of the tunnel. With the aid of the holes in the rock face – which, I began to believe, were not natural but man-made – I got into the tunnel. Crawling as fast as possible, I was only vaguely aware of the sharp stone scrapes that scored my hands and knees.
I emerged somewhat suddenly into a small, dimly lit chamber. Before I could observe details I was grasped, pulled to my feet and caught in a tight hold that pinned my arms to my sides.
Though archaeological fever burned hot in my brain, at that moment I had eyes for no other object than Emerson. He lived! He was upright and unharmed! He was also extremely angry, and with reason. A robed and turbaned figure whose face was concealed by a scarf held a pistol pressed to his head.
‘Confound it, Peabody,’ he began. ‘I told you –’
The man drew back his arm and struck. It was only a glancing blow, but I cried out in alarm. ‘Control yourself, Emerson! Don’t risk another blow to the head.’
Emerson was too furious to heed this excellent advice. ‘Take your hands off her, you – you –’
He stopped as the person who held me promptly obeyed – not Emerson’s command, but a nod from the fellow who held the gun. I was no threat to them; my own pistol was in my pocket, nor would I have dared to use it when the other weapon was pressed against Emerson’s temple.
The man who had held me was dressed like the first, and there was a third one too, equally anonymous in robe and turban and scarf. Where were the others? Had I been mistaken about their numbers?
Reassured as to Emerson’s safety (for the moment at least), I had leisure to look about me. It was hard to make out details, for the only light came from a lantern