The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [20]
Emerson responded, though he kept tugging at his collar as if it were choking him. “To all intents and purposes, ancient Cush is an unknown civilization, Evelyn. The only qualified scholar who visited the site was Lepsius, and he could do little more than record what was there in 1844. That is the most important task awaiting us—to make accurate records of the monuments and inscriptions, before time and treasure hunters destroy them completely.”
“Especially the inscriptions,” Walter said eagerly. “The script is derived from Egyptian hieroglyphs, but the language has not been translated. When I think of the rate at which the records are vanishing, never to be recovered, I am tempted to come with you. You and Amelia cannot possibly—”
At this Evelyn let out a cry of alarm and clutched at Walter’s arm as if he were about to depart instantly for Africa. Emerson reassured her in his usual tactful fashion. “Walter has grown soft and flabby, Evelyn. He wouldn’t last a day in Nubia. A strict course of physical training, that is what you need, Walter. If you work hard at it this winter, I may allow you to accompany us next season.”
In such animated and pleasant domestic intercourse the next hour passed. Both men had asked permission to smoke their pipes, permission which was, of course, granted; Evelyn was too kind to refuse anyone she loved and I would never dream of attempting to prevent Emerson from doing anything he liked in his own drawing room. (Though I have been forced, upon occasion, to request that he postpone a particular activity until a more appropriate degree of privacy could be attained.)
At last I went to the window to admit a breath of fresh air. The clouds had cleared away and moonlight spread its silvery softness across the lawn. As I stood admiring the beauty of the night (for I am particularly fond of nature), a sharp cracking sound broke the dreaming peace. It was followed in rapid succession by a second and a third.
I turned. My eyes met those of Emerson.
“Poachers,” said Walter lazily. “It’s a good thing young Ramses is asleep. He’d be out that door—”
Emerson, moving with pantherlike quickness, was already out that door. I followed, delaying only long enough for a quick explanation. “Not poachers, Walter. Those shots came from a pistol. Stay here with Evelyn.”
Hitching up my crimson flounces I sped in pursuit of my husband. He had not gone far; I found him on the front lawn, gazing out into the darkness. “I see nothing amiss,” he remarked. “From what direction did the sounds come?”
We were unable to agree on that question. After a rather brisk discussion—in the course of which Emerson firmly negated my suggestion that we separate in order to search a wider area more quickly—we set out in the direction I had suggested, toward the rose garden and the little wilderness behind it. Though we investigated the area carefully, we found nothing out of the way, and I was about to accede to Emerson’s demand that we wait until morning before pursuing the search when the sound of a wheeled vehicle came to our ears.
“That way,” I cried, pointing.
“It is only a farmer’s wagon going to market,” Emerson said.
“At this hour?” I started across the lawn toward the belt of trees that bounds our property on the north. The grass was so wet it was impossible for me to attain my usual running speed in fragile evening shoes, and Emerson soon forged ahead, ignoring my demands that he wait for me. When I caught him up, he had passed through the gate in the brick wall—which constitutes a side entrance to the estate—and was standing still, staring down at something on the ground.
Turning, he put out his arm and held me back. “Stop, Peabody. That’s one of my favorite frocks; I would hate to see it ruined.”
“What—” I began. But there was no need to finish the question. We were on