The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [46]
“I don’t understand why you were in such a hurry to get off,” I said. “Mr. Vandergelt will be arriving in Cairo in a few days’ time; we might have waited and traveled with him.”
“You made that point earlier, Peabody. And I replied that I could see no sense in hanging around Cairo for an indefinite period. Vandergelt is a hopeless gad; he will want to attend dinner parties and make eyes at the ladies. Besides, he will travel south on his cursed dahabeeyah.”
“It was kind of him to offer us his house while we are in Luxor.”
“It costs him nothing.”
“How ungracious you are!”
And so on. Nothing of further interest occurred, even after the porter had made up our berths, for the surroundings were not conducive to a display of conjugal affection and Emerson claimed the cat was watching.
“It is on the floor, Emerson. It can’t possibly see us—or you it.”
“I can feel it watching,” said Emerson.
However, I woke early to see the kiss of the sunrise summoning a rosy flush to the western cliffs, a sight that never fails to raise my spirits. An exchange of affectionate greetings with my husband (who took the precaution of draping a sheet over the sleeping cat before proceeding) completed the cure. We went directly from the station to the quay and hired a boat to take us and our gear across to the west bank.
Only an individual devoid of imagination and completely deficient in artistic appreciation could fail to be moved by the sight that met my eyes as I sat in the prow with the great sails billowing above and the morning breeze ruffling my hair. On the opposite bank an emerald ribbon of fields and foliage bordered the river; beyond lay the desert, the Red Land of the ancient texts, and beyond that pale and sterile stretch rose the cliffs of the High Desert, through which the Nile had cut its path in prehistoric times. Gradually there appeared out of the mists shapes more visible perhaps to the imagination than the sight: magic castles rising from the foam, as the poet has put it—the ruined but majestic walls of the ancient temples.
(Upon further investigation I find the quotation is not entirely accurate. However, my version better captures the impression I was endeavoring to convey.)
Foremost among the temples, at least in my opinion, were the columned collonades of Deir el Bahri, the mortuary temple of the great female pharaoh Hatshepsut. Not far from it was a more modern structure, invisible to my eyes but only too clear in my memory: Baskerville House, the scene of one of our most extraordinary detectival adventures. * It was now a forlorn and abandoned ruin, for the present Lord Baskerville had declined to preserve it; and small wonder, considering the horrible fate his predecessor had met while in residence. He had offered it to Cyrus Vandergelt, but the latter’s memories of the ill-fated house were no more pleasant than his. “I wouldn’t set foot in the consarned place for a million dollars,” was how Cyrus put it in his quaint American idiom.
Cyrus had built a house of his own near the entrance to the Valley of the Kings. Money was no object to him, and I must say that his home was more notable for extravagance than good taste. It stood on a towering eminence overlooking the Valley; as our carriage approached, Emerson studied the turrets and towers and balconies in disgust, and remarked, “It is a positive monument to extravagance and bad taste. I trust you won’t take it as