The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [92]
When we had climbed to the ledge in front of the tomb, Emerson was there, glowering at the iron gate that barred entry. “We will certainly need this key,” he said to Cyrus. “Make sure I have it tomorrow morning.”
By the time Emerson announced we were finished for the day, I was as much in the dark about his intentions as was Cyrus. He had scrambled around the foot of the cliffs to the north and south of the royal tomb for over an hour, poking into holes like a ferret after a rat.
“Where are we going?” Cyrus asked, as we trudged wearily back along the rock-strewn path. “See here, Emerson, there’s no earthly reason why we can’t spend the night on the dahabeeyah.”
“I never said there was,” said Emerson, with an air of innocent astonishment that left Cyrus gnashing his teeth.
When we reached the gangplank I saw that Anubis was waiting for us. Where he had been or how he had spent his time I could not imagine, but when we approached he rose, stretched, yawned, and accompanied us onto the boat.
“We will meet in the saloon in half an hour,” said Emerson, heading for his room. The cat followed him. I heard him say “Nice kitty,” as he stumbled over it.
I had barely time to bathe and change in the time he had arbitrarily allotted, but I managed it, hastily selecting a garment that required no prolonged process of hooking up, and no assistance with regard to buttons. (I cannot imagine how women lacking husbands or personal maids ever manage to get dressed. Gowns that fasten up the back are impossible except for a contortionist.)
Emerson was already there, brooding over a heap of papers and plans spread across the table. His eyebrows lifted when he saw my pink flounces and ruffles (the garment to which I have referred was a tea gown), but he made no comment, and only grunted when I ordered the steward to serve tea.
I was pouring when Cyrus came in, followed closely by the two young men. Apparently they felt there was safety in numbers. Poor Charlie was as red as an English brick, and Rene’s mouth repeated the downward droop of his mustache.
Emerson sat tapping his fingers on the table and looking pointedly patient while I dispensed the genial beverage. Then he said, “If the cursed social amenities are concluded to your satisfaction, MISS Peabody, I would like to get on with it.”
“Nothing has prevented you from doing so,” I said mildly. “Take this to Professor Emerson, René, will you please?”
“I don’t want any damned tea,” said Emerson, taking the cup. “I thought you were all burning to know where we are going to excavate.”
“You told us,” Cyrus said, while Emerson sipped his tea. “The stelae—”
“No, no, they won’t occupy us for the entire season,” Emerson interrupted. “You American dilettantes are always after royal tombs. What do you say to the tomb of Nefertiti?”
CHAPTER 9
“Martyrdom is often the result of excessive gullibility.”
EMERSON enjoys making dramatic announcements. I fear the results of this one disappointed him. Instead of expressions of rapturous enthusiasm or scornful disbelief (he is quite happy with either), he got only a skeptical grunt from Cyrus. The two young men were afraid to commit themselves by speaking at all, and I raised my eyebrows and remarked, “She was buried in the royal tomb, with her husband and child.”
Emerson had finished his tea. He held out his cup to be refilled and girded himself for the kind of battle he much enjoys and in which (I must confess) he generally triumphs.
“Fragments of his sarcophagus have been found, none that might have been hers. If Nefertiti died before her husband—”
“No one knows when she died,” I said. “If she survived into the reign of Tutankhamon, she may have gone with him to Thebes and been buried—”
“Yes, yes,” Emerson said impatiently. “All that is idle speculation. But it was you who informed me that in recent years objects bearing her name have appeared on the antiquities market, and that there are rumors of fellahin carrying a golden