The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [68]
Thank God for that, Ramses thought. Katchenovsky was putting on a good show of interest, though, and when Emerson paused to relight his pipe, he said diffidently, “I did read something about it, Professor. As I recall, the tomb was completely cleared. May I ask why you are reexamining it?”
Emerson told him, in considerable detail. “If Petherick’s statuette was there in 1907, there may be some scrap of evidence left. It is imperative that we discover where and when it was found.”
“Why is that, sir?” Katchenovsky asked.
“Because,” said Emerson, surprised at such ignorance but ready to relieve it, “if it did not originate in KV55, we must look for another source. The thieves who took the statuette may have found equally valuable artifacts.”
His wife overheard question and answer. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Now who is letting his imagination run away with him? We are reexcavating the tomb, Mr. Katchenovsky, because it was not done properly the first time. That is sufficient reason. Enough about that. Ramses, my dear, have you heard anything more from the Pethericks?”
“No, Mother. I have to inform you, though, that Daoud has told everyone on the West Bank that an exorcism is planned. Barton and the rest of the Met crew want to be invited.”
“Oh dear,” his mother murmured. “Emerson, you must deny the story and give Daoud a talking-to.”
“What, no exorcism?” Nefret asked. “I was looking forward to it.”
“Hmmm,” said Emerson.
At breakfast next morning Emerson announced that they would spend a few hours in the West Valley, “helping” Cyrus. He took it for granted that Ramses would come along. His wife opened her mouth to object, but Ramses said quickly, “That’s quite all right. I’ve arranged with Mikhail to work on the papyri during the afternoon, so I can certainly spare Father a few hours in the morning.”
“Oh,” said Emerson. “Yes. Thank you, my boy.”
Cyrus’s crew was hard at work when they reached the site, carrying out baskets of rubble from the stairs and corridor. “Have you been inside?” Emerson asked, peering into the open rectangle of the door.
“Had a quick look yesterday,” Cyrus admitted. “It’s not as bad as some I’ve seen; no collapsed walls or ceilings, a fairly thin layer of debris. The paintings in the burial chamber are in poor condition. They need to be copied and photographed. When can I have David?”
“After I’ve finished with him,” Emerson said ominously. He stopped one of the men and examined the contents of his basket. “Rain debris. Washed down. You are sifting it thoroughly, of course.”
“Of course,” Cyrus said. “Want to go in?”
Ramses had never been in the tomb before, though it had gaped open since the early nineteenth century. He gave his mother a hand during the descent of the rock-cut stairs, which were crumbling and uneven. A sloping passageway led down to a second, longer flight of stairs and to a second corridor, also sloping down. Dust rose from under their feet and dimmed the light of their torches. The air was close and hot.
A chamber, its walls bare like those of the corridors, opened directly into the presumed burial chamber, and the figures painted on the walls seemed to leap out at them: a row of sacred baboons, which had given the West Valley its Arabic name—the Valley of the Monkeys; scenes of sacrifice and worship; a long hieroglyphic inscription from the Book of the Dead; and a badly battered scene