The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [108]
So bright was the flame of detective fever that that statement, which would ordinarily be adorned by several exclamation marks, is presented as a simple fact. I was not entirely unmoved, never believe that; the sight of the dark hole gaping in the ground roused a brief spurt of enthusiasm and only Emerson’s strong arm, plucking me back, prevented me from entering at once.
After a brief examination he emerged covered with dust and gasping for breath. “It is in wretched condition, Peabody. Some of the stones lining the passageways have collapsed. They will have to be shored up before any of us goes farther in.”
His eyes moved over the group of workmen, all of whom were as excited as he. One man bounced up and down on his toes, waving his arms. Mohammed was short and fat, with small, pudgy hands; but those hands had a delicacy of touch unequaled by any others in the group. He was a carpenter by trade, when he was not employed by us—the best possible man for the task that awaited us—and he knew it.
Emerson grinned companionably at him. “Be careful, Mohammed. There are some planks remaining from the construction of the donkey shed, I believe; start with those. I will go to the village and find more.”
“You could send one of the men,” I remarked, as we walked away, leaving Abdullah shouting orders.
“So I could,” said Emerson agreeably.
“I will go with you.”
“I rather thought you might, Peabody.”
“And afterwards, a call on M. de Morgan?”
“We are as one, Peabody. A final roundup of our suspects, eh?”
“Suspects, Emerson? You said you knew the answer.”
“Ah, but this is a complex matter, Peabody—a criminal conspiracy, no less. Several people may be involved.”
“Quite true, Emerson.”
Emerson grinned and gave me an affectionate pat on the back. “I also intend to have a word with the missionaries. I promised John I would…. Just a moment, Peabody. Where is Ramses?”
He was, as Emerson had feared, in the thick of the group clustered around the entrance to the pyramid. Emerson took him aside. “You heard me warn Mohammed to be careful?”
“Yes, Papa. I was only—”
Emerson took him by the collar. “Mohammed is our most skilled carpenter,” he said, emphasizing each word with a gentle shake. “The task will be dangerous, even for him. You are not under any circumstances to attempt to assist him or go one step into that or any other passageway. Is that clear, my boy?”
“Yes, Papa.”
Emerson released his grip. “Will you come with us, Ramses?”
“No, Papa, I think not. I will just go and do a little digging. I will take Selim, of course.”
“Don’t go far.”
“Oh, no, Papa.”
I had not been in the village for several days. Outwardly it looked normal enough—the group of women gathered around the well filling the huge jars they carried with such apparent ease atop their heads, the men lounging in the shade, the stray dogs sprawled in the dust of the path. But the greetings were strangely subdued, and none of the children accosted us with their perennial and pitiful demands for baksheesh.
Emerson went straight to the house of the priest. At first it appeared we would be refused entrance. The guard—one of the “deacons,” as Emerson called them—insisted the priest was still praying. Then the door opened.
“You fail in courtesy to guests, my son,” said the deep voice of the priest. “Bid them enter and honor my house.”
When we had seated ourselves on the divan the priest asked how he could serve us. Emerson explained our need of wooden planks, and the priest nodded. “They shall be found. I hope your walls have not fallen down—your roof given way—your peace disturbed, in that ill-omened place?”
“It is the pyramid that has fallen down,” Emerson replied. “We have had troubles at the monastery, to be sure, but they were not caused by demons; they were the work of evil men.”
The priest shook his head sympathetically. I almost expected him to click his tongue.
“You did not know of these things?” Emerson persisted. “The breaking into my house, the attack on my son?”
“It is unfortunate,