Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (50 page)

D
ESPITE
our disturbed night we were awake before daylight. It was a glorious morning. To breathe the air was like drinking chilled white wine. When the sun lifted in majesty over the horizon the western cliffs blushed rosy red in welcome. Larks rose singing to greet the dawn, and all objects shone with a lustre that made them appear newly washed – a most deceptive appearance, I might add, since cleanliness is not a conspicuous characteristic of the inhabitants of Upper Egypt or their belongings.

By sunrise we were riding across the plain, through fields of waving barley and ripening vegetables. It was necessary to carry a certain amount of gear with us, so we took this route rather than the shorter, more difficult path over the cliffs. Following us in a ragged but cheerful procession were our loyal men from Aziyeh. I felt quite like a general of a small army; when my rising spirits demanded an outlet I turned in my saddle and raised my arm with a shout of ‘Huzzah!’ to which our troop responded with a cheer and Emerson with a snarl of ‘Don’t make an ass of yourself, Amelia.’

Abdullah marched at the head of his men, his vigorous stride and keen brown face belying his years. We encountered the usual morning crowd – women in long brown gulabeeyahs carrying naked children, donkeys almost hidden under their loads of brushwood, haughty camels and their drivers, peasants with rakes and hoes setting out for the fields. Abdullah, who has a fine voice, struck up a song. The men joined in the chorus, and I heard a note of defiance in the way they sang. The watchers muttered and nudged one another. Though no one offered a hostile gesture, I was glad when we left the cultivated land and entered the narrow opening in the cliffs. The towering rocks that guard the entrance had been shaped by wind and water into weird suggestions of watchful statues, though the very idea of water in that now desolate place seems fantastic. The pale limestone walls and chalky ground are as lifeless as the icy wastes of the north.

As we entered the Valley proper we saw that a large crowd had assembled near our tomb. My eye was caught by one man, conspicuous by his unusual height and heavy farageeyeh, the outer robe worn chiefly by men of the learned professions. His arms folded, his wiry black beard jutting out, he stood alone; the others, jostling and shoving one another, had left a respectful space around him. His green turban proclaimed him a descendant of the Prophet, his stern face and fixed, deep-set eyes gave the impression of a forceful and commanding personality.

‘That is the local holy man,’ Karl said. ‘I feel I must warn you, Professor, that he has been hostile to – ’

‘Unnecessary,’ Emerson replied. ‘Be silent and keep out of the way.’

Dismounting, he turned to face the imam. For a moment the two confronted one another in silence. I confess I had seldom seen two more impressive men. They seemed to transcend individuality and become symbols of two ways of life: the past and the future, the old superstition and the new rationalism.

But I digress.

Solemnly the imam raised his hand. His bearded lips parted.

Before he could utter a word, Emerson said loudly, ‘
Sabâhkum bilkheir,
Holy One. Have you come to bless the work?
Marhaba
– welcome.’

Emerson maintains, justly or unjustly, that all religious leaders are showmen at heart. This man reacted to being ‘upstaged’ as any skilled actor would, conquering the anger that flared in his eyes and replying, with scarcely a pause, ‘I bring no blessing but a warning. Will you risk the curse of the Almighty? Will you profane the dead?’

‘I come to save the dead, not profane their tombs,’ Emerson replied. ‘For centuries the men of Gurneh have strewn the sands with their pitiful bones. As for curses, I do not fear efreets and demons, for the God we both worship has promised us protection against evil. I invoke His blessing on our work of rescue!
Allâhu akbar; lâ ilâha ilâha llâh!’
Sweeping off his hat, he turned toward Mecca and raised his hands to each side of his face in the gesture prescribed for the recitation of the
takbir
.

I could hardly repress a shout of ‘bravo!’ A murmur of surprise and approval rippled through the watchers. Emerson held his theatrical pose just long enough. Clapping his hat back on his head before his surprised adversary could think of a fitting reply, he said briskly, ‘Now then, Holy One, you will excuse me if I get to work.’

Without further ado he started down the steps. The imam, recognising defeat with the dignity his office demanded, turned on his heel and walked away, followed by part of the audience. The rest squatted down on their haunches and prepared to watch us work – hoping, no doubt, for a catastrophe of some kind.

I was about to follow Emerson when I realised that the dispersal of the crowd had revealed a form thus far concealed in their ranks. Mr O’Connell’s fiery-red hair was hidden by an inordinately large solar topi. He was scribbling busily in a notebook. Feeling my eyes upon him, he looked up and raised his hat.

‘Top of the morning to you, Mrs Emerson. I hope you are not tired after your disturbed night?’

‘How did you know about that?’ I demanded. ‘And what the – that is, what are you doing here?’

‘Why, this is a public place, to be sure. The opening of the tomb is important news. Your husband has already given me a first-rate lead. What an actor he is!’

He had not answered my first question. Obviously he had sources of information within our very household and was not inclined to betray them. As for the second point, he was quite correct; we might prevent him from entering the tomb, but we could not keep him from watching. As I stared angrily at him he coolly produced a folding stool, opened it, and seated himself. Then he poised his pencil over his notebook and regarded me expectantly.

I felt a new sympathy for the imam. Like him, I had been left with nothing to say. So, following his example, I retreated with as much dignity as I could command.

Descending the stairs, I found that Emerson had unlocked the iron gate and was conversing with the guards – not the ill-favoured Habib and his friend, but two of our own men. Being unaware that Emerson had taken this step, I remarked upon it.

‘You must think me a fool if you believe I would neglect such an elementary precaution,’ Emerson replied. ‘I am not at all sure that such measures will suffice, however. Once we have the passage cleared, it may be necessary for one of us to spend the night here. When Milverton is healthy enough to satisfy you, there will be three of us – ’

‘Four,’ I corrected, taking a firm hold of my parasol.

There was a certain amount of grumbling from the men when they realised they would have to carry away the baskets of debris. This menial chore was usually delegated to children, but Emerson had determined not to ask for any help from the villagers. Once they saw that the work was proceeding without incident, they would come to us. At least we had counted on that; but events like our ‘ghost’ of the night before would not help matters. If only we could catch the elusive Armadale!

When the men saw that Karl, Emerson, and I pitched in with the work they stopped complaining. Indeed, Abdullah was horrified when I raised the first basket of rock in my arms and prepared to carry it off.

‘Obviously you have forgotten my habits, Abdullah,’ I said. ‘You have seen me do ruder labour than this.’

The old man smiled. ‘I have not forgotten your temper, at least, Sitt Hakim. It would take a braver man than Abdullah to prevent you from acting as you choose.’

‘There is no such man,’ I retorted. I was pleased with this remark, for it conveyed a delicate compliment as well as being a simple statement of fact. I then asked my husband where he wished to form the refuse dump, since my basket would have the honour of being the first to be deposited there.

Emerson looked up over the rim of the staircase and stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘There,’ he said, pointing to a spot to the southwest, near the entrance to Ramses the Sixth’s tomb. ‘There can be nothing of interest in that area; the ruins are only the remains of ancient workmen’s huts.’

As I trudged back and forth with my basket I was, at first, a trifle self-conscious under Mr O’Connell’s steady regard and unfailing smile, for I knew he was drawing a verbal portrait of me for the benefit of his readers. Gradually, however, I forgot him in the pressure of work. The pile of debris mounted with what seemed painful slowness. Since I did not enter the tomb, but received my loaded basket from the man who had filled it, I had no way of measuring the progress being made, and I found it devilish discouraging, as Emerson might have said.

I also developed a considerable respect for the humble basket children. How they could run merrily back and forth, singing and making jokes, I did not know; I was dripping with perspiration and conscious of unfamiliar aches in various portions of my anatomy. The tourists gathered as the morning went on, and in addition to the fence around the tomb itself, it became necessary to string ropes along the path between the entrance and the rubbish dump. The more impertinent tourists ignored these, and I was constantly having to shove gaping idiots aside. Half blinded by sun, dust, and perspiration, I paid no more attention to these forms than was necessary to propel them out of my way, so that when I encountered a very elaborate pale-grey walking gown trimmed with black lace, in the exact centre of the path, I gave it a little nudge with my elbow in passing. A shriek, echoed by a masculine exclamation, made me pause. Wiping my sleeve across my brow to clear my vision, I recognised Lady Baskerville. No doubt it was her corsets that prevented her from bending at the waist; her entire body was tilted backward, as stiff as a tree trunk, her heels resting on the ground and her shoulders supported by Mr Vandergelt. She glowered at me from under the flower-trimmed bonnet, which had fallen over her brow.

‘Good morning, Mrs Emerson,’ said Mr Vandergelt. ‘I sure hope you’ll excuse me for not removing my hat.’

‘Certainly. Good morning, Lady Baskerville; I did not see you. Excuse
me
while I empty this basket.’

When I returned Lady Baskerville was standing upright, adjusting her hat and her temper. The sight of me, unkempt, dusty and damp, restored her equanimity. She gave me a pitying smile.

‘My dear Mrs Emerson, I never expected to see you engaged in menial labour.’

‘It is necessary,’ I replied briefly. ‘We could do with a few more workers.’ I inspected her from head to toe and saw her face go rigid with indignation before I added, ‘I hope Mr Milverton is better?’

‘You saw him yourself earlier, I am told,’ Lady Baskerville replied, following after me, for of course I did not pause in my work any longer than was absolutely necessary.

‘Yes, I told him to stay indoors today.’

I was about to continue when a shout from the tomb made me drop my basket and break into a trot. The watching crowd also realised the significance of that cry; they pressed so close around the entrance that I had to shove through them to reach the steps, and only Emerson’s outraged gestures kept several of them from following me down.

The men were working close enough to the entrance to render artificial lighting unnecessary, but at first my eyes were dazzled by the abrupt transition from bright sunlight to gloom. Then I saw what had caused the excitement. On one wall, now cleared to a depth of several feet, was part of a painting. Greater than life size, it showed the upper portion of the body of a male figure, one hand lifted in benediction. The colours shone as brightly as they had on that far-off day when the artist had applied them: the red-brown of the skin, the corals and greens and lapis blues of the beaded collar, the gold of the tall plumes crowning the black head.

‘Amon,’ I exclaimed, recognising the insignia of that god. ‘Emerson, how splendid!’

‘The workmanship is as fine as the tomb of Seti the First,’ Emerson said. ‘We will have to go slowly to avoid damaging the paint.’

Vandergelt had followed us down the stairs. ‘You are going to remove all the debris? Why not tunnel through it, to reach the burial chamber sooner?’

‘Because I am not interested in providing a journalistic sensation, or making it easier for the Gurnawis to rob the tomb.’

‘You’ve got me there,’ Vandergelt said, with a smile. ‘Much as I’d like to stay, Professor, I reckon I had better get Lady Baskerville back home.’

We kept at it until early in the evening. By the time we stopped, several yards of the tunnel lay open, and two splendid paintings had been brought to light, one on either wall. They formed part of a procession of gods. Not only Amon but Osiris and Mut and Isis had made their appearance. There were inscriptions, which Karl was eagerly copying, but to our disappointment the name of the tomb owner had not appeared.

After locking the iron grille and the door of the little shed that had been built to hold our equipment, we started back to Baskerville House. Darkness stretched long blue velvet arms toward us as we proceeding eastward; but behind us, toward the west, the last sullen streaks of sunset scarred the sky, like bleeding wounds.

Emerson may – and does – sneer at unnecessary luxuries; but I noticed that he did not scruple to avail himself of the comforts of the pleasant little bathroom next to our bedchamber. I heard the servants refilling the great earthenware jars as I completed my own ablutions; and very enjoyable the cool water was, I must say, after a day in the sun and dust. Emerson followed me; and I smiled to myself as his voice rose in song. It had to do, I believe, with a young man on a trapeze.

A late tea was set out when we went to the elegant drawing room. The windows opened onto the vine-shaded loggia, and the scent of jasmine pervaded the chamber.

We were the first to come, but scarcely had I taken my seat behind the tea tray when Karl and Mr Milverton made their appearance, and a moment later we were joined by Mr Vandergelt, who strolled in through the French doors with the familiarity of an old friend.

‘I was invited,’ he assured me, as he bowed over my hand. ‘But I’m bound to admit I’d have butted in anyhow, I am so anxious to hear what you found today. Where is Lady Baskerville?’