The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [118]
“According to Ramses, that is a folktale. Even cats require a small amount of light in order to see, and this darkness is almost palpable. Wait, Emerson, don’t go splashing about; I will strike a light.”
“All this banging on the posterior has weakened my poor darling’s wits,” Emerson muttered to himself. “Peabody, you cannot—”
The tiny flame of the match reflected in twin images in his wide eyes. “Hold the box,” I instructed. “I need both hands for the candle. There. That is better, is it not?”
Standing in muddy water up to his hips, a purpling bruise disfiguring his brow and another, presumably, rising on the back of his head, Emerson nevertheless managed a broad and cheerful smile. “Never again will I sneer at your beltful of tools, Peabody.”
“I am happy to find that the manufacturer’s claim of the waterproof quality of the tin box was not exaggerated. We must not take chances with our precious matches; close the box carefully, if you please, and put it in your shirt pocket.”
Emerson did so. Then at last we had leisure to look about us.
Our poor little candle flame was almost overcome by the vast gloom of the chamber. It illuminated only our drawn faces and dank, dripping locks. At the farthest edge of the bright circle a dim-looming object could be made out, rising like an island from the watery surface. Toward this we made our way.
“It is the royal sarcophagus,” said Emerson unnecessarily. “And it is open. Curse it; we are not the first to find the pharaoh’s final resting place, Peabody.”
“The lid must be on the—oh dear—yes, it is. I have just stubbed my toe on it.”
The red granite sides of the sarcophagus were as high as Emerson’s head. Seizing me by the waist, he lifted me so I could perch on the ledgelike rim; it was fully a foot thick and made a commodious if uncomfortable seat.
“Let me have the candle,” he said. “I will make a circuit of the walls.”
He splashed through the water to the nearer side of the chamber. The walls shone in the candlelight as smoothly as if they had been cut from a single block of stone. My heart sank at the sight of the unbroken surface, but I summoned up a firm voice as I called to Emerson, “Hold the candle higher, my dear; I fell some considerable distance before striking the water.”
“No doubt it seemed farther than it was,” Emerson replied, but he complied with the suggestion. He had gone around two of the walls and was midway down the third before a darker shadow was visible high above the glow of the light. Emerson held the candle above his head.
He stood still as a statue, which in the dim light he rather resembled. His wet garments molded his muscular body and the candlelight brought the muscles and tendons of his upraised arm into shaded outline. The sight was one that will remain printed on my brain—the solemn grandeur of his pose, the funereal gloom of the surroundings—and the knowledge that the opening of the shaft which was our only hope of escape was far out of reach. Emerson is six feet tall; I am five feet and a bit. The hole was a good sixteen feet from the floor.
Emerson knew the truth as well as I. It was several moments before he lowered his arm and returned to my side. “I make it sixteen feet,” he said calmly.
“It is nearer seventeen, surely.”
“Five feet one inch and six feet—add the length of your arms—”
“And subtract the distance from the top of my head to my shoulders….” In spite of the gravity of the situation I burst out laughing, the calculations sounded so absurd.
Emerson joined in, the echoes of his hearty mirth rebounding ghostily around the chamber. “We may as well try it, Peabody.”
We had neglected to deduct the distance from the top of his head to his shoulders. When I stood upon the latter, my fingertips were a good three feet below the lip of the opening. I reported this to Emerson. “Humph,” he said thoughtfully. “Supposing you stood on top of my head?”
“That would only give us another twelve or thirteen inches, Emerson. Not nearly enough.”
His hands closed over my ankles. “I will lift you