Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [57]
Ramses slowed Risha and fell back to ride beside me. “Are you all right, Mother?”
I spat out a mouthful of hair. “Surely Howard posted guards.”
Ramses shrugged. His meaning was clear, at least to his mother, who was accustomed to his taciturnity. Offered a share of the treasure, few men could have remained faithful to their duty—especially men whose wage was a few piastres a day.
When the Valley was closed to tourists the barrier at the entrance was up. It now stood ajar, and the donkey park, which ought to have been empty, held several horses and donkeys. Emerson’s theory was confirmed. With a vehement oath, he dashed through the opening.
The moon was a silver sliver but the bright stars of Egypt shed a ghostly radiance. I had removed my heeled evening slippers, so that my progress was silent (and cursed painful). Ramses, on my right, walked as silently as a cat, and Sethos, politely holding my left arm, made little more noise. Why we bothered to move quietly I do not know, for the running feet of Emerson, well in advance, crashed like the hooves of a charging bull. A louder crash followed, mingled with the inarticulate roars of Emerson and a higher-pitched scream.
My scream was louder. I had stepped on a sharp stone. Hopping and lurching, I pulled away from Ramses. “Hurry! Your father is in trouble.”
“Go on,” Sethos said calmly. “I’ve got her.” His arm encircled my waist and guided me forward.
Rounding a spur of rock, we beheld a horrifying scene. The tomb of Tutankhamon lay before us, on the right side of the path. From its entrance came a dim glow. A squirming, shifting shape occupied the space in front of the steps. It resolved itself into the mighty form of Emerson, rising like Hercules from the fray and holding a slighter, still squirming form at arm’s length.
“Sorry, Peabody, for taking so long,” said my husband apologetically. “Bastard had a knife. I trust you were not worried?”
“Ramses!” I shouted. “Where are you?”
“Here, Mother.” He emerged from the black shadows next to the tomb, with another wriggling miscreant in his grip. “I fear Deib has got away. He’s a nimble chap.”
“Ah,” I said, relieved to see husband and son unscathed. “The ibn Simsahs.”
“They were hiding in the rocks above the tomb,” said Emerson, giving his captive a shake that made his head snap back.
“Where are the guards?” I asked.
“Never mind that,” said Emerson. “What I want to know is—”
The glow from the mouth of the tomb strengthened, heralding the arrival of Howard Carter, torch in hand. Its wavering beam framed the former combatants in a theatrical glow: Emerson, disheveled and scowling; his captive even more disheveled, robe torn and turban askew. I recognized the scarred face of Farhat, the oldest and most unprincipled of the ibn Simsahs. He had realized who his captor was and he had stopped struggling.
Howard’s face was a mask of bewilderment. “What the devil is going on here?” he demanded.
“Bluster will get you nowhere, Carter,” Emerson growled. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I have every right to be here,” Howard said, drawing himself up.
“That remains to be seen,” said Emerson. “I suppose the other coconspirators are in the tomb chamber? Tell them to get up here. It’s safe enough now. You damn fool, Carter, didn’t it occur to you that you were risking not only your professional reputation but your patron’s safety? These lads were lying in wait, and they are not known for patience.”
Lord Carnarvon and Lady Evelyn came up in time to hear the end of this speech. They were followed by the other co-conspirator, Pecky Callender. “See here, Emerson…” he panted.
“No, you see here.” Emerson rounded on him. “See Farhat ibn Simsah, to be precise. For all you know, there could be a hopeful thief behind every rock in the Valley. You ought not have come here without a dozen guards. But then there would have been witnesses to your illegal entry, wouldn’t there?”
Lord Carnarvon had got his breath back. He drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at Emerson,