The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [127]
Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. I laughed merrily. “Naturally they wouldn’t. You, however, know that those scraps are valuable to the scholarly world.”
“Sure,” Winlock said. “We’ll keep an eye out for the fellow.”
“Funny, his taking something like that,” said George Barton. “I mean, the guy isn’t a philologist, is he?”
“One never knows what strange quirks may affect the human brain,” I explained. “Well, gentlemen, we must be off. I hope to see you all again soon.”
“I wouldn’t want to miss another exorcism,” Winlock said with a smile.
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “Come along, Peabody, we have wasted enough time.”
The distance between Deir el Bahri and the workmen’s village is only a mile as the crow flies. On foot, over rough terrain, it seemed more like twenty. We followed the line of the cliffs, scrambling over heaps of fallen stone and exploring the innumerable small wadis that pierced the rocky ramparts. As we went on, under a baking sun, the futility of our search became more apparent—to me, at any rate. We could not possibly penetrate into every crevice and hole; all we could hope for was a sign that someone had recently passed that way. There was ample evidence of human and animal presence, from scraps of cloth to gnawed bones, but nothing one could specifically connect with a fleeing German.
By the time we reached Deir el Medina I was hot, dusty, and thirsty, and Emerson was out of sorts. The sight of Jamad, patiently waiting with the horses and the water bottles, was as welcome as a green oasis in the desert. Emerson was all for mounting and riding back immediately, but by feigning exhaustion (which was not entirely feigned) I made him agree to rest and refresh himself, while I did the same.
After a single sip of water he was on his feet again, prowling round the ruins of the ancient temples. “The anonymous digger has not been back,” he reported.
“And no sign of Mr. Lidman,” I added. “Do sit down, Emerson. I doubt he would have come this far.”
I had informed Nefret and Selim of the change in our strategy (or is it tactics?). We were all to meet at the Castle, so Emerson and I went directly there. I apologized to Katherine for our untidiness; she was gracious enough to reply that the search for Lidman took precedence, and showed me to one of the guest chambers, where I was able to freshen up before we enjoyed a late luncheon.
Cyrus’s group had had no more luck than we. Jumana was unusually silent; she was taking her failure too much to heart, which I pointed out to her.
“You cannot find something that isn’t there, Jumana. I am beginning to believe that Mr. Lidman managed to cross the river without being observed. It is much easier to hide among hordes of people than in a wilderness.”
“At least we now have a photograph,” Katherine said, trying to look on the bright side.
“Not a very good one,” Nefret murmured. “It shows him in profile, with his hat shading his face. But it was the best we could come up with.”
“Surely that is another suspicious thing,” Selim said. “That he would avoid having his picture taken.”
“You mean he’s been planning this ever since he came to work for me?” Cyrus demanded. “Maybe so, Selim, but we were photographing the tomb, not people. So what do we do now?”
I was unable to repress a sigh. Emerson focused on me, for the first time in an hour, and frowned. “Tired, are you, my dear? I am afraid I wore you out this morning.”
“Not at all,” I said briskly. “But I confess I am at a loss as to how to proceed. Perhaps we should wait to hear from Daoud and Seth—Anthony. Tomorrow may bring fresh inspiration.”
I declined Katherine’s invitation to return to dine, for to be truthful I was a trifle weary. After promising we would inform them immediately of any new information, we returned to the house and I managed time for a nice long soak in my tin bath before facing tea with the children. The little dears were even more boisterous than usual, sensing, as children do, the distraction of their elders. Even the advent of Sethos, looking as disgruntled