The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [80]
They took the horses that morning, approaching the site from the north, instead of going on foot along the mountain path. It was a long walk from Deir el Medina back to the Valley of the Kings. Selim was on the lookout for them. A fine horseman himself, he greeted their mounts with almost as much courtesy as he greeted them. With the head of Nefret’s mare Moonlight resting heavily and affectionately on his shoulder, he said, “Emerson, I think I know what is wrong with the motorcar. If we take off the other back wheel—”
“No time for that now,” Emerson said with a sigh. “Everything going all right here?”
“Yes, Emerson. I have followed your instructions to the letter. Daoud has been sifting the fill.”
“He doesn’t miss much,” Emerson agreed. “You said you had found something.”
“It is there.” Selim led them to an area west of the Ptolemaic temple. They had excavated part of it several years earlier, but it was a complex site, with the foundations of earlier temples intermingled and overlapping. An untrained eye would have seen only tumbled stones and hollows and hillocks.
“Here,” Selim said, pointing. “Someone has been digging.”
“Damnation.” Emerson leaned over the hole. “When?”
“Last night. It was not there yesterday.”
“Bastards,” said Emerson.
“If you are referring to our friends the local looters, they’ve been prying around this site for years,” Ramses said.
“Why now?” Emerson demanded.
“I wondered too,” said Selim, arms folded. “But I think the fools believe our possession of a golden statue has something to do with our work here.”
“Bloody idiots,” Emerson grunted. “Haven’t they heard the true story?”
“They have heard it but they do not believe it. Some people believe what they want to believe.”
“It’s understandable,” David said. “Didn’t the original rumors report an entire hoard of gold and jewels? The poor devils are under the impression that you’ve found a cache, or even a tomb. You can talk yourself blue in the face but you won’t convince them they’re wrong.”
“Try to convince them,” Emerson said to Selim. “You and Daoud. Otherwise the whole area will be torn to pieces.”
“We will do our best, Emerson, but David is in the right. Shall I have one of the men stay here at night?”
“Hmmm.” Emerson stroked his chin. “Yes. And fill in this hole.”
He spent an hour going over the notes Selim had taken, while the latter watched him nervously. His nod of approval and curt word of commendation brought a relieved smile to Selim’s face.
“I have taken photographs at every stage, Emerson,” he said.
“Good,” Emerson repeated. “I’ll send Bertie over tomorrow or next day to make plans.”
Leaving Selim to get on with the job, they started back along the long road to the Valley. It struck Ramses that his father had seemed a trifle subdued that morning—he hadn’t even cursed the vandals as eloquently as usual. “Is something bothering you, Father?” he asked.
Emerson gave him a blank look. “I thought you were going back to the house to get on with your translations.”
“Mikhail isn’t coming until after midday. I thought, since Mother isn’t with you today—”
“Oh. Good of you, my boy. I neglected to thank you for your sterling performance at the exorcism.”
“I enjoyed it,” Ramses admitted. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes. Er…yes—curse it!” Emerson burst out. “It was a joke, you know. Never meant anyone to take it seriously. Now the poor woman is dead, and I feel…well, I feel as if I had made a mockery of her and her fears.”
“No one else thinks that, Father.”
“I am not concerned about the opinions of others.” It was a characteristic response, but Ramses knew he didn’t mean it the way it sounded. His father left the lectures on morality to his wife, but he had his own standards and