Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (40 page)

The stairway went down into the rock at a steep angle. It had been completely filled with rock and rubble. By the following afternoon the men had cleared this away, exposing the upper portion of a doorway blocked with heavy stone slabs. Stamped into the mortar were the unbroken seals of the royal necropolis. Note that word, oh, reader – that word so simple and yet so fraught with meaning. Unbroken seals implied that the tomb had not been opened since the day when it was solemnly closed by the priests of the funerary cult.

Lord Baskerville, as his intimates were to testify, was a man of singularly phlegmatic temperament, even for a British nobleman. The only sign of excitement he displayed was a muttered, ‘By Jove’, as he stroked his wispy beard. Others were not so blasé. The news reached the press and was duly published.

In accordance with the terms of his firman, Lord Baskerville notified the Department of Antiquities of his find; when he descended the dusty steps a second time he was accompanied by a distinguished group of archaeologists and officials. A fence had been hastily erected to hold back the crowd of sightseers, journalists, and natives, the latter picturesque in their long flapping robes and white turbans. Among the latter group one face stood out – that of Mohammed Abd er Rasul, one of the discoverers of the cache of royal mummies, who had betrayed the find (and his brothers) to the authorities and had been rewarded by a position in the Antiquities Department. Onlookers remarked on the profound chagrin of his expression and the gloomy looks of other members of the family. For once, the foreigners had stolen a march on them and deprived them of a potential source of income.

Though he had recovered from the illness that had brought him to Egypt and was (as his physician was later to report) in perfect health, Lord Baskerville’s physique was not impressive. A photograph taken of him on that eventful day portrays a tall, stoop-shouldered man whose hair appears to have slid down off his head and adhered somewhat erratically to his cheeks and chin. Of manual dexterity he had none; and those who knew him well moved unobtrusively to the rear as he placed a chisel in position against the stone barricade and raised his hammer. The British consul did not know him well. The first chip of rock hit this unlucky gentleman full on the nose. Apologies and first aid followed. Now surrounded by a wide empty space, Lord Baskerville prepared to strike again. Scarcely had he raised the hammer when, from among the crowd of watching Egyptians, came a long ululating howl.

The import of the cry was understood by all who heard it. In such fashion do the followers of Mohammed mourn their dead.

There was a moment’s pause. Then the voice rose again. It cried (I translate, of course): ‘Desecration! Desecration! May the curse of the gods fall on him who disturbs the king’s eternal rest!’

Startled by this remark, Lord Baskerville missed the chisel and hit himself on the thumb. Such misadventures do not improve the temper. Lord Baskerville may be excused for losing his. In a savage voice he instructed Armadale, standing behind him, to capture the prophet of doom and give him a good thrashing. Armadale was willing; but as he approached the milling crowd the orator wisely ceased his cries and thereby became anonymous, for his friends all denied any knowledge of his identity.

It was a trivial incident, soon forgotten by everyone except Lord Baskerville, whose thumb was badly bruised. At least the injury gave him an excuse to surrender his tools to someone who was able to use them more effectively. Mr Alan Armadale, a young, vigorous man, seized the implements. A few skilful blows opened an aperture wide enough to admit a light. Armadale then respectfully stepped back, allowing his patron the honour of the first look.

It was a day of misadventures for poor Lord Baskerville. Seizing a candle, he eagerly thrust his arm through the gaping hole. His fist encountered a hard surface with such force that he dropped the candle and withdrew a hand from which a considerable amount of skin had been scraped.

Investigation showed that the space beyond the door was completely filled with rubble. This was not surprising, since the Egyptians commonly used such devices to discourage tomb robbers; but the effect was distinctly anticlimactic, and the audience dispersed with disappointed murmurs, leaving Lord Baskerville to nurse his barked knuckles and contemplate a long, tedious job. If this tomb followed the plans of those already known, a passageway of unknown length would have to be cleared before the burial chamber was reached. Some tombs had entrance passages over a hundred feet long.

Yet the fact that the corridor was blocked made the discovery appear even more promising than before. The
Times
gave the story a full column, on page three. The next dispatch to come from Luxor, however, rated front-page headlines.

Lord Henry Baskerville was dead. He had retired in perfect health (except for his thumb and his knuckles). He was found next morning stiff and stark in his bed. On his face was a look of ghastly horror. On his high brow, inscribed in what appeared to be dried blood, was a crudely drawn uraeus serpent, the symbol of the divine pharaoh.

The ‘blood’ turned out to be red paint. Even so, the news was sensational, and it became even more sensational after a medical examination failed to discover the cause of Lord Baskerville’s death.

Cases of seemingly healthy persons who succumb to the sudden failure of a vital organ are certainly not unknown, nor, contrary to writers of thrillers, are they always due to the administration of mysterious poisons. If Lord Baskerville had died in his bed at Baskerville Hall, the physicians would have stroked their beards and concealed their ignorance in meaningless medical mumbo-jumbo. Even under these circumstances the story would have died a natural death (as Lord Baskerville was presumed to have done) had not an enterprising reporter from one of our less reputable newspapers remembered the unknown prophet’s curse. The story in the
Times
was what one might expect of that dignified journal, but the other newspapers were less restrained. Their columns bristled with references to avenging spirits, cryptic antique curses, and unholy rites. But this sensation paled into insignificance two days later, when it was discovered that Mr Alan Armadale, Lord Baskerville’s assistant, had disappeared – vanished, as the
Daily Yell
put it, off the face of the earth!

By this time I was snatching the newspapers from Emerson each evening when he came home. Naturally I did not believe for an instant in the absurd tales of curses or supernatural doom, and when the news of young Armadale’s disappearance became known I felt sure I had the answer to the mystery.

‘Armadale is the murderer,’ I exclaimed to Emerson, who was on his hands and knees playing horsie with Ramses.

Emerson let out a grunt as his son’s heels dug into his ribs. When he got his breath back he said irritably, ‘What do you mean, talking about “the murderer” in that self-assured way? No murder was committed. Baskerville died of a heart condition or some such thing; he was always a feeble sort of fellow. Armadale is probably forgetting his troubles in a tavern. He has lost his position and will not easily find another patron so late in the season.’

I made no reply to this ridiculous suggestion. Time, I knew, would prove me right, and until it did I saw no sense in wasting my breath arguing with Emerson, who is the stubbornest of men.

During the following week one of the gentlemen who had been present at the official opening of the tomb came down with a bad attack of fever, and a workman fell off a pylon at Karnak, breaking his neck. ‘The Curse is still operating,’ exclaimed the
Daily Yell.
‘Who will be next?’

After the demise of the man who tumbled off the pylon (where he had been chiselling out a section of carving to sell to the illicit antiquities dealers), his fellows refused to go near the tomb. Work had come to a standstill after Lord Baskerville’s death; now there seemed no prospect of renewing it. So matters stood on that cold, rainy evening after my disastrous tea party. For the past few days the Baskerville story had more or less subsided, despite the efforts of the
Daily Yell
to keep it alive by attributing every hangnail and stubbed toe in Luxor to the operation of the curse. No trace of the unfortunate (or guilty) Armadale had been found; Lord Henry Baskerville had been laid to rest among his forebears; and the tomb remained locked and barred.

I confess the tomb was my chief concern. Locks and bars were all very well, but neither would avail for long against the master thieves of Gurneh. The discovery of the sepulchre had been a blow to the professional pride of these gentlemen, who fancied themselves far more adept at locating the treasures of their ancestors than the foreign excavators; and indeed, over the centuries they had proved to be exceedingly skilful at their dubious trade, whether by practice or by heredity I would hesitate to say. Now that the tomb had been located they would soon be at work.

So, while Emerson argued zoology with Ramses, and the sleety rain hissed against the windows, I opened the newspaper. Since the beginning of
l’affaire Baskerville,
Emerson had been buying the
Yell
as well as the
Times,
remarking that the contrast in journalistic styles was a fascinating study in human nature. This was only an excuse; the
Yell
was much more entertaining to read. I therefore turned at once to this newspaper, noting that, to judge by certain creases and folds, I was not the first to peruse that particular article. It bore the title ‘Lady Baskerville vows the work must go on.’

The journalist – ‘Our Correspondent in Luxor’ – wrote with considerable feeling and many adjectives about the lady’s ‘delicate lips, curved like a Cupid’s bow, which quivered with emotion as she spoke’ and ‘her tinted face which bore stamped upon it a deep acquaintance with grief.’

‘Bah,’ I said, after several paragraphs of this. ‘What drivel. I must say, Emerson, Lady Baskerville sounds like a perfect idiot. Listen to this. “I can think of no more fitting monument to my lost darling than the pursuit of that great cause for which he gave his life.” Lost darling, indeed!’

Emerson did not reply. Squatting on the floor, with Ramses between his knees, he was turning the pages of a large illustrated volume on zoology, trying to convince the boy that his bone did not match that of a zebra – for Ramses had retreated from giraffes to that slightly less exotic beast. Unfortunately a zebra is rather like a horse, and the example Emerson found bore a striking resemblance to the bone Ramses was flourishing. The child let out a malevolent chuckle and remarked, ‘I was wight, you see. It is a zebwa.’

‘Have another cake,’ said his father.

‘Armadale is still missing,’ I continued. ‘I told you he was the murderer.’

‘Bah,’ said Emerson. ‘He will turn up eventually. There has been no murder.’

‘You can hardly believe he has been drunk for a fortnight,’ I said.

‘I have known men to remain drunk for considerably longer periods,’ said Emerson.

‘If Armadale had met with an accident he, or his remains, would have been found by now. The Theban area has been combed – ’

‘It is impossible to search the western mountains thoroughly,’ Emerson snapped. ‘You know what they are like – jagged cliffs cut by hundreds of gullies and ravines.’

‘Then you believe he is out there somewhere?’

‘I do. It would be a tragic coincidence, certainly, if he met with a fatal accident so soon after Lord Baskerville’s death; the newspapers would certainly set up a renewed howl about curses. But such coincidences do happen, especially if a man is distracted by – ’

‘He is probably in Algeria by now,’ I said.

‘Algeria! Why there, for heaven’s sake?’

‘The Foreign Legion. They say it is full of murderers and criminals attempting to escape justice.’

Emerson got to his feet. I was pleased to observe that his eyes had lost their melancholy look and were blazing with temper. I noted, as well, that four years of relative inactivity had not robbed his form of its strength and vigour. He had removed his coat and starched collar preparatory to playing with the boy, and his dishevelled appearance irresistibly recalled the unkempt individual who had first captured my heart. I decided that if we went straight upstairs there might be time, before we changed for dinner –

‘It is time for bed, Ramses, Nurse will be waiting,’ I said. ‘You may take the last cake with you.’

Ramses gave me a long, considering look. He then turned to his father, who said cravenly, ‘Run along, my boy. Papa will read you an extra chapter from his
History of Egypt
when you are tucked in your cot.’

‘Vewy well,’ said Ramses. He nodded at me in a manner reminiscent of the regal condescension of his namesake. ‘You will come and say good night, Mama?’

‘I always do,’ I said.

When he had left the room, taking not only the last cake but the book on zoology, Emerson began pacing up and down.

‘I suppose you want another cup of tea,’ I said.

When I really supposed was that since I had suggested the tea, he would say he did not want it. Like all men, Emerson is very susceptible to the cruder forms of manipulation. Instead he said gruffly, ‘I want a whisky and soda.’

Emerson seldom imbibes. Trying to conceal my concern, I enquired, ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Not something. Everything. You know, Amelia.’

‘Were your students unusually dense today?’

‘Not at all. It would be impossible for them to be duller than they normally are. I suppose it is all this talk in the newspapers about Luxor that makes me restless.’

‘I understand.’

‘Of course you do. You suffer from the same malaise – suffer even more than I, who am at least allowed to hover on the fringes of the profession we both love. I am like a child pressing its nose against the window of the toy shop, but you are not even permitted to walk by the place.’

This flight of fancy was so pathetic, and so unlike Emerson’s usual style of speaking, that it was with difficulty that I prevented myself from flinging my arms about him. However, he did not want sympathy. He wanted an alleviation of his boredom, and that I could not provide. In some bitterness of spirit I said, ‘And I have failed to obtain even a poor substitute for your beloved excavations. After today, Lady Harold will take the greatest pleasure in thwarting any request we might make. It is my fault; I lost my temper.’