Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [33]
“We heard,” said Cyrus. “Looking good, is it?”
“It’s too early to say,” Howard replied cautiously.
“We brought a luncheon basket,” Nefret said. “Won’t you stop and rest for a bit?”
Her sympathetic smile brought home to Howard how disheveled he looked, his tie at an angle and his garments covered with dust. It also prevented him from protesting our presence, but in fact there was nothing he could do about it.
The tomb of Ramses VI was the nearest shelter, but it was popular with tourists. Emerson soon took care of that difficulty. “The tomb is temporarily closed,” he informed the guard on duty. “Get them out of there, Mahmud, and don’t let anyone else in until we have left.”
Cyrus had also brought refreshments, so we had a nice little private luncheon. Speculation was rife. Was it a finished tomb, or only the beginning of one? Was it royal, or the smaller sepulchre of a nobleman? Was the entrance still sealed, or had it been breached in ancient times? We all knew that the former possibility was too much to hope for, but hope, dear Reader, does not rest on logic. Only Ramses remained his usual silent self.
By the end of the workday we were still uncertain as to what we—Howard, I should say—had found. Lest the Reader wonder why, allow me to remind him or her of how such tombs were constructed. Steps were cut down into the bedrock at the base of the cliff, within a descending stairwell, and when the desired depth was reached, a squared-off doorway gave entrance to the corridors and chambers of the sepulchre itself. This doorway must be well below the level of the topmost steps, since there had been no sign of it as yet, and detritus lay deep over the area—almost thirteen feet down to bedrock in some places. Howard kept on until growing darkness made careful work impossible. Emerson would have gone on beyond that time, had I not tactfully reminded him that the decision was not his to make. He was extremely restless that night, mumbling and throwing himself from side to side until I threatened to expel him from our chamber.
If I had not protested, Emerson would have headed for the Valley at dawn next morning; when interrogated, he had to admit that by his calculations it would take another day of hard work to clear the entire cutting.
“We ought at least pretend to be casual visitors,” I informed him. “Howard will not take it amiss if we drop by on our way home from the West Valley, but if you push him too far—”
“Curse it,” Emerson shouted. “See here, Peabody—”
“Mother is right,” Ramses said.
“What?” Emerson stared at him. “Oh. Well. If you think so.”
I wished Ramses had not interfered. We had had the beginning of a nice little argument developing.
Our morning’s work in the West Valley was a waste of time, though. Neither Emerson nor Cyrus could concentrate, and the former was, for once, the first to suggest that we stop for the day. Exhibiting the delicacy which was so characteristic of him, Cyrus refused Emerson’s invitation to call on Howard. He did not, as he might have done, point out that it wasn’t Emerson’s tomb.
“I feel kind of funny about hanging around,” he explained.
“Why?” Emerson asked, in honest bafflement.
“Well, Carter didn’t ask me.”
“He didn’t ask us, either,” I said. “But that will not deter my husband. Come to dinner this evening, Cyrus, and we will tell you what went on.”
Nefret had decided to spend the morning at her clinic, so it was just the three of us, Emerson, Ramses, and I, who wended our way to the East Valley.
Emerson had underestimated the zeal of Howard’s crew. We arrived on the scene in time to see that the rubbish above the