The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [85]
‘Go back to the tomb, Abdullah, and get the men started. I will join you as soon as I can.’
Abdullah began, ‘The boy –’
‘I’ll see to him.’ Emerson did not have to ask which boy he meant. ‘Give me the statue, Abdullah, then go.’
Only his concern for the horse he bestrode, which was not in good condition, prevented Emerson from urging it to a gallop. He was in a perfect quiver of frustration, for he had had hardly a glimpse of the long-desired object of his quest and he ached to start work on it. I shared his yearning, but archaeological fever, with me as with my husband, gave way to more sacred ties; and as we rode side by side, at a fairly sedate pace, we discussed our immediate plans and settled on a course of action.
Our first visit, of course, was to Ramses, whom we found sitting up in bed giving David a lesson in ancient Egyptian.
‘Good Gad, Ramses, you are supposed to be resting,’ I exclaimed, as the other boy retreated to a corner, clutching the notebook and pencil. ‘Where is Nefret?’
‘Making chicken soup,’ said Ramses. ‘I don’t want any cursed chicken soup, Mother, I want eggs and bacon. She would not let me have breakfast, only –’
‘Quite right,’ I interrupted. ‘As you can see, Emerson, your son is in fine fettle. Run along, my dear; I know how you ache to investigate your precious tomb.’
‘As do you.’ Emerson drew me to the door. ‘Thank you, my dear. I won’t forget your noble sacrifice, and I will tell you all about it this evening.’
The urgings of duty (and, of course, maternal affection) did not prevent my thoughts from wandering during the course of that busy day. How alluring were the images that filled my brain – the intriguing rubble littering the chamber, the painted image under its frieze of bats – and that dark, unexplored opening in the wall.
If Emerson goes through that hole without me, I will murder him, I thought.
I had the doctor over from Luxor – I remember with amusement the look of surprise on Emerson’s face when I expressed my intention of doing so – and modestly received his congratulations on my professional procedures. Little else required to be done, he declared. At my request, strongly opposed by Ramses, he put a few stitches into the incision. Leaving Ramses mutinously contemplating a large bowl of chicken soup, I went looking for Gertrude. She was not on the upper deck or in the saloon, so I knocked on her door.
A long pause and a period of rustling, scuttling sounds followed the announcement of my identity. Finally she opened the door.
‘I am so sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs Emerson. I was – I was not properly attired.’
I could only suppose she had been altogether unclothed, since the garment she wore was a loose wrapper. Wrinkling my nose against an overpowering smell of incense, I said, ‘Why are you hiding in your room on such a fine day?’
‘I was studying – trying to study.’ She pushed a wisp of mouse-brown hair back from her cheek. ‘I cannot stop thinking about last night. I bitterly regret –’
‘All the more reason to get out into the sunshine and fresh air,’ I said briskly, for I did not want to hear a repetition of her excuses and apologies. ‘Brooding in your room is not sensible. Take your book out onto the deck and ask Mahmud to bring you a pot of tea.’
‘Yes, that is . . . that is a good idea.’ She glanced helplessly over her shoulder. So did I. She had not been studying; the books on the table were closed and stacked in a neat pile and the topmost book was covered with a light layer of the fine, sandy dust that quickly collects on all flat surfaces in that region. Nor had she been resting on the bed. The coverlet was unwrinkled, the pillows plumped.
Gertrude said, ‘I hope you don’t think, Mrs Emerson, that I am neglecting my duties. I went to see what I could do for Ramses, but Nefret would not let me into his room, and when I asked if she would not like a lesson she said she was busy.’
‘Quite all right, Gertrude.