The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [68]
Piled-up chips and deep shadows concealed most of the painted surfaces. The feeble glow of the lantern illuminated, and that dimly, only one portion of a single scene – the head and upper body of a woman, and the hands she had raised to shoulder height. Part of a hieroglyphic inscription named her; I could make out the curved shape of a cartouche, but not the individual signs. I knew her, though, as surely as if I had encountered an old friend. The wing of the same vulture crown depicted on her statue framed a familiar profile.
I started impulsively forwards. Emerson’s growl and the raised hand of one of the men reminded me that archaeological investigation might not be entirely appropriate at that time. After an exchange of glances and nods, the same individual whose gesture had stopped me spoke in a husky, obviously disguised whisper. ‘You will not be harmed if you do not resist. Put your hands behind you.’
He addressed Emerson, who glared at him.
‘I believe, Emerson, that we ought to do as he asks,’ I said. ‘The alternative would be much worse and I do not see how even you can prevent them from doing whatever they choose.’
The logic of this was irresistible, but I cannot remember when I have seen Emerson so aggravated. He kept up a rumbling undercurrent of curses while they tied our hands and feet. Emerson stubbornly insisted on remaining upright, but one of the men lowered me, gently enough, into a sitting position. Having completed the job they departed, crawling one by one into the tunnel. They left the lamp. I was grateful for that.
‘I hope Selim had sense enough to run for help,’ I said anxiously. Emerson’s face turned purple as he strained at his bonds. Between grunts of effort he remarked, ‘I don’t suppose . . . he could hear us . . . if we called out.’
‘Probably not. But he will find us eventually, he saw me descend. Do stop struggling, Emerson, you will only tire yourself.’
‘I want to get out of this damned place,’ Emerson said sulkily. ‘Didn’t you bring your knife, Peabody?’
‘Yes, my dear, I did, and I am endeavouring at this very moment to reach it. Calm yourself.’
After a moment Emerson said, in quite a different voice, ‘They can’t have removed the mummy or mummy case, Peabody. That doorway must lead to the burial chamber, but the opening is only eighteen inches square.’
‘I noticed that. And the paintings – oh, Emerson, it is Tetisheri’s tomb! I would recognize her anywhere. How exciting this is! Ah – I have the knife. I will just hop over to you and . . . Goodness gracious, it is difficult to keep one’s footing in all this disgusting debris. I believe it was a bone I just stepped on.’
Emerson’s head snapped round towards the entrance tunnel. Turning, he thrust his bound hands hard against mine, and after some fumbling got the blade of the knife between his wrists. ‘Hurry and get these cursed ropes off, Peabody. They are coming back.’
VI
Another Shirt Ruined!
THE newcomer’s approach was slow and deliberate. By the time his head appeared at the opening of the tunnel, Emerson was waiting.
My husband presented a horrifying picture, his face distorted in a snarl, his raised fists streaming blood – for, clumsy with haste, he had in the process of freeing himself inflicted several nasty cuts on his wrists – and I was not at all surprised when Selim yelped and retreated, like