The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [61]
“Let’s just have a quick look,” said Emerson.
“Not I,” said his wife decidedly.
Emerson looked pointedly at his brother. Sethos pressed one hand to his chest and coughed loudly. After a look at the mess, Cyrus shook his head. The others were game, though Ramses had a feeling that Lidman would have declined had he been given a choice. One by one they climbed down into the pit. Bertie lowered Jumana into Emerson’s raised hands and then followed her.
Emerson was the first to peer over the fallen rubble in the doorway. “Did anybody bring a torch?” he inquired.
Nobody had. At Emerson’s request, his wife produced a candle and matches from her handy pockets and handed them down. In its dim light they saw what they had expected to see: a flight of stone steps, littered with fallen stones. As Ramses knew, there were twenty steps, ending in a sloping corridor that led to the burial chamber, but the candlelight reached only as far as the middle of the stairs.
The stench of decaying organic material was overpowering. Lidman pressed a handkerchief to his face and made choking noises.
“You’ll have to learn not to be so squeamish if you want to work with us,” Emerson said genially. “Give me a hand, Ramses. I think I can squeeze through.”
“No, sir,” Ramses said firmly. “The fill is too unstable, and you don’t know what’s down there. Snakes, for example.”
“Quite right,” his mother called. “That goes for you too, Ramses. Emerson, do not attempt to persuade him. It is against all your principles of excavation to go blundering in where proper excavators fear—”
“Curse it,” Emerson said loudly. But the reminder succeeded where appeals to common sense failed. Grudgingly he turned away from the enticing opening.
It took two of them to hoist Lidman up to the rim of the pit, with Bertie hauling from above. The German collapsed onto the ground, but he summoned a game smile. “Out of condition,” he wheezed.
“Soon get you back in shape,” said Emerson, who had required no one’s assistance. Ramses wondered whether he would be in the same physical condition when he was his father’s age. Probably not. Emerson was unique.
“We start tomorrow morning at six,” Emerson went on, cleaning his hands by wiping them on his trousers. “You too, Vandergelt. Er—that is, I presume that is your intention?”
The belated courtesy was the result of a sharp jab in the ribs from his wife. Cyrus, who was well accustomed to Emerson’s manners, or lack thereof, grinned and nodded. “Soon as I can get my crew together. What’s your hurry?”
“I am always in a hurry,” said Emerson.
It was true, but Ramses suspected his father had an even stronger motive for pushing ahead. Howard Carter was due in a few weeks. What Emerson meant to do before that was anybody’s guess, but Ramses wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that it would constitute a violation of the Carnarvon-Carter concession.
They were at the tomb next morning shortly after 6 A.M. No one had spoken to Ramses about getting on with his translations. He’d have come anyhow. He was as curious as the rest of them about what was inside Tomb 55.
At that hour the Valley was “uncontaminated by bloody tourists,” to quote Emerson. They had brought a wooden ladder, which made access to the entrance easier. Clearing away the modern trash was a dirty job. After watching for a while, Emerson said, “This is going to take some time. I’ll leave it to you, Hassan. Ramses, shall we ride over to the West Valley and see if Cyrus requires assistance?”
Hassan, a fastidious man, pursed his lips and rolled his eyes but said nothing. Nefret said, “I’ll come along too, if you don’t mind.”
It took