The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [69]
“Unusual to find that theme in a royal tomb,” Ramses said, indicating the hunting scene.
This unthinking remark prompted a lecture from Emerson on the design and decoration of royal tombs. The trouble with Father, Ramses thought—one of the troubles—was that he really did know a lot about Egyptology, and he talked about the subject with passion and authority. If only he would chose a nice airy lecture hall instead of the depths of a tomb! After approximately twenty minutes his wife mopped her face for the second time and said, “That was very interesting, Emerson, and I am sure we all enjoyed it. Now let us go.”
“Debris is thicker down here,” Emerson said obliviously. “Is that a pelvic bone?”
“Cyrus will excavate this room in due course and with all proper care,” his wife said firmly. “Out, Emerson.”
They retraced their steps, “emerging from the underworld,” like reanimated Egyptians.
“Someone really hated the old fellow, didn’t they?” Nefret said. “His name and his figures deliberately hacked out, along with those of his wife. How do they know it’s his tomb?”
That got Emerson started again. “The desecrators missed one image, which was that of the king’s ka figure, identified, not by the usual cartouches but by an unusual spelling of his Horus name. They were working from a list, which didn’t include that variant. By the way, Vandergelt, I saw something sticking out of the dried mud in the burial chamber that could be a sarcophagus lid. Will you—”
“I will, I will,” Cyrus said with a grin. “What about a drink?”
Even Emerson drank thirstily of the cold tea Cyrus provided. Keeping an eagle eye on the workmen, he said suddenly, “Where’s that fellow Lidman?”
“He didn’t turn up this morning.”
“What?” Emerson scowled blackly.
“I told him to be at the Castle at five-thirty. We waited until six.”
“He may be ill again,” Ramses suggested.
“Then he ought to have sent word,” Emerson grumbled. “You shouldn’t have taken him on, Vandergelt.”
“You recommended him,” Cyrus said mildly. “If we don’t hear from him today I’ll send someone over to the hotel to inquire.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “You’ll let me hear what you find out. Ramses, we had better be getting back.”
They did hear from Cyrus later that afternoon. Lidman’s body had been found washed up on the bank half a mile north of Luxor.
“It’s a miracle he didn’t drown,” Nefret exclaimed.
“It was a near thing,” I replied. “The police consider it an unfortunate accident. According to the barman at the Winter Palace, he had been drinking rather heavily.”
I had, of course, felt obliged to go at once to Luxor after we received Cyrus’s message. I located the fellahin who had found Lidman and pumped the water out of him—thereby saving his life, as they repeatedly pointed out—and rewarded them appropriately. They had taken him to the office of Dr. Westin, so I turned my steps thitherward.
Westin was not the man our dear departed Dr. Willoughby had been. He bore a certain resentment against us, possibly because Nefret’s rate of cures exceeded his. (A most unprofessional attitude, as I had often told him.) A tall, stout man who had compensated for the loss of hair on his head by encouraging an excessive amount of beard, he was at first reluctant to let me see his patient. Naturally I prevailed.
“The poor fellow did not seem to know me at first,” I explained to my listeners. “He had suffered injuries to his head as well as his limbs. How severe they were I was unable to ascertain, since Westin had swathed him in bandages.”
“Perhaps he charges by the yard,” Nefret suggested.
Cyrus, who had dropped in to hear my report, let out a whoop of laughter, and then sobered. “I feel responsible for the fellow, since he was technically in my employ. I’ll tell Westin to send his bill to me. Guess I can pay for a few miles of bandages. What did he say was wrong with Lidman?”
“Severe bruises and contusions,” I replied. “And a possible concussion, resulting in temporary loss of memory.”
“So he doesn’t remember