Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [34]
Howard sat down suddenly on the ground and wiped his forehead with his sleeve, too overwrought to take out his handkerchief. “I can’t stand the suspense.” He groaned. “Is the blocking intact? Are there seals on the plaster?”
This was as good as an invitation to Emerson, who probably would not have waited for one anyhow. Howard tottered after him as he descended the steps.
“I can’t see,” Howard mutttered. “It’s too dark down here. The exposed section seems to be solid—”
“Keep your hands off the plaster,” said Emerson curtly. “Peabody, toss down a candle.”
I handed Ramses my torch. He had courteously refrained from comment or suggestion, feeling, I suppose, that his father was doing enough of both, but I knew the dear lad was as eager as we to inspect the doorway. With a smile at me, he descended in his turn. The rest of us crowded round the opening, breathlessly awaiting a report.
It came at last, in the form of a groan from Howard. My heart sank; and then Ramses’s even voice called up, “Plastered stone blocks. There are several seals stamped in the plaster—the seals of the necropolis, the jackal and the nine kneeling captives.”
“No cartouche?” I asked.
“Not here. But the lower part of the doorway is still hidden by rubble.”
“I must see,” Howard cried. “I must see what is behind that door.”
“It will take several more hours to finish clearing the rubble from the stairwell,” Ramses said coolly. “And it’s getting dark.”
“I must see,” Howard repeated. “I must!”
“Some of the plaster at the top has fallen away,” said Emerson. It was the first time he had spoken since Ramses went down with a light, and it was clear to me that he was having some difficulty speaking calmly. “There appears to be a wooden lintel behind it. Peabody, I don’t suppose you have such a thing as a drill on that belt of tools?”
“I regret to say I do not, Emerson. I will make certain to carry one in future.”
“Good Gad,” said Emerson, whether in response to my comment or in general, I cannot say.
With Ramses’s knife and an awl provided by the crew, a small hole was drilled through the beam. The wood was old and dry but very thick, so it took a while. It was like being spectators at a play—sightless spectators, since we were dependent on the reports of the actors instead of our own eyes. The suspense was not lessened thereby. It had not occurred to anyone, even Emerson, to object to Howard’s mutilation of the lintel; only a mind completely lacking in imagination could have resisted the temptation to look beyond that blocked doorway.
Ramses was the first to ascend the stairs. “Well?” I cried.
He gestured toward Howard, who had followed him, with Emerson close on Howard’s heels. “Well, Howard?” I demanded. “What is there?”
“Rubble.” Howard held the torch, which wavered about. “The space beyond the door is entirely filled with stones and chips, from floor to ceiling.”
“But surely that is good news,” I said. “If the passage beyond—it must be a passageway—is closed, the tomb has been all these years undisturbed!”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Howard said flatly. “I—to tell you the truth, Mrs. Emerson, I am so worn down with suspense and excitement, I am incapable of thinking.”
“It has been quite a day,” I said sympathetically. “You ought to go home and rest.”
Emerson said only, “Hmph.”
Howard’s bowed shoulders straightened. “Not before I have filled in the excavation.”
“Filled it in! But surely—”
“In fairness to Lord Carnarvon I must do so. He will want to be present when we take down the door.”
“But that will mean a delay of weeks,” I cried. “How can you bear to wait?”
“In fairness to his lordship, I must,” Howard repeated.
Emerson said, “Hmph.” This grunt was