The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [74]
I was about to explain this to Abdullah when we were interrupted by a hail from Emerson. “Peabody! Oh, Peeebody! Come here, will you?”
“I will talk with you later,” I said to Abdullah. “Don’t yield to fear, my friend; you know the Father of Curses is a match for any evil spirit.”
“Hmmm,” said Abdullah.
We had moved the scene of our operations again that afternoon. As Emerson put it (rather unfortunately, in my opinion) we had enough moldy Christian bones to last us. What we were doing, in archaeological terms, was making a series of trial trenches across the area in order to establish the general nature of the remains. Critical persons, unacquainted with the methods of the profession, have described this as poking around in the hope of finding something interesting, but of course that is not the case.
I found Emerson standing atop a ridge of rock staring down at something below. John was with him. “Ah, Peabody,” said my husband. “Just have a look at this, will you?”
Taking the hand he offered, I stepped up onto the ridge. At first glance there was nothing to justify his interest. Half buried in the sand, half exposed by the picks of the workers, was a wrapped mummy. The intricacy of the bandaging indicated that it was another Ptolemaic or Roman mummy, of which we already had a sufficiency.
“Oh dear,” I said sympathetically. “Another cursed Roman cemetery.”
“I do not think so. We are still on the edge of the Christian cemetery; two other burials of that nature have turned up.”
John cleared his throat. “Sir. I have been wanting to speak to you about that. These ’ere pore Christians—”
“Not now, John,” Emerson said irritably.
“But, sir, it ain’t right to dig them up as if they was ’eathens. If we was in England—”
“We are not in England,” Emerson replied. “Well, Peabody?”
“It is curious,” I agreed. “One would expect such a carefully wrapped mummy to possess a coffin or a sarcophagus.”
“Precisely, my dear Peabody.”
“Was that how it was found?”
“You see it,” Emerson replied, “just as the men found it—a scant two feet below the surface.”
“These intrusions do sometimes occur, Emerson. Do you want me to take a photograph?”
Emerson stroked his chin and then replied, “I think not, Peabody. I will make a note of its location and we will see what turns up as the work progresses.”
“Sir,” John said. “These ’ere Christians—”
“Hold your tongue, John, and hand me that brush.”
“It is almost time for tea, Emerson,” I said. “Will you come?”
“Bah,” said Emerson.
Taking this for acquiescence, I made my way back to the house. Ramses was not in his room. The lion cub ran to greet me when I opened the door, and as I tickled it under its chin I noticed it had eaten Ramses’ house slippers and reduced his nightshirt to shreds. Restoring it to the cage, over its piteous objections, I returned to the parlor and put the kettle on.
We took tea alfresco, as the Italians say, arranging tables and chairs in a space cleared for that purpose before the house. The bits of sand that occasionally sprinkled tea and bread were a small inconvenience to pay for the fresh air and splendid view.
When Emerson joined me he was grumbling as usual. “How often have I told you, Amelia, that this ritual is absurd? Afternoon tea is all very well at home, but to interrupt one’s work when in the field…” He seized the cup I handed him, drained it in a gulp, and returned it to me. “Petrie does not stop for tea. I won’t do it, I tell you. This is the last time.”
He said the same thing every day. I refilled his cup and said what I said every day, namely that an interval of refreshment increased efficiency, and that it was necessary to replenish the moisture lost from