The Mummy Case (16 page)

"No, Amelia. I agreed to excavate this site and I will excavate it, with a thoroughness and attention to detail that will set new standards for archaeological methodology. Never let it be said that an Emerson shirked his duty."

And off he marched, his shoulders squared and his eyes lifted to the horizon. He looked so splendid I didn't have the heart
to point out the disadvantages of this posture; when one is striding bravely into the future one cannot watch one's footing. Sure enough, he stumbled into Ramses' pile of potsherds and went sprawling.

Ramses, who had been about to go after him, prudently retired behind my trousers. After a malignant glance in our direction Emerson got up and limped away.

"What is Papa going to do?" Ramses inquired.

"He is going to hire the workers. See, they are coming now."

A group of men had gathered around the table where Emerson now seated himself, with John at his side. We had decided to put John in charge of the work records, listing the names of the men as they were taken on, and keeping track of the hours they worked, plus additional money earned for important finds. Applicants continued to trickle in from the direction of the village. They were a somber group in their dark robes and blue turbans. Only the children lent some merriment to the scene. We would hire a number of the latter, both boys and girls, to carry away the baskets of sand the men filled as they dug.

Ramses studied the group and decided, correctly, that it promised to be a dull procedure. "I will help you, Mama," he announced.

"That is kind of you, Ramses. Wouldn't you rather finish your own excavation?"

Ramses gave the potsherds a disparaging glance. "I have finished it, to my own satisfaction. I was desirous of carrying out a sample dig, for, after all, I have had no experience at excavation, t'ough I am naturally conversant wit' de basic principles. However, it is apparent dat de site is devoid of interest. I believe I will turn my attention now—"

"For pity's sake, Ramses, don't lecture! I cannot imagine whence you derive your unfortunate habit of loquacity. There is no need to go on and on when someone asks you a simple question. Brevity, my boy, is not only the soul of wit, it is the essence of literary and verbal efficiency. Model yourself on my example, I beg, and from now on—"

I was interrupted, not by Ramses, who was listening intently, but by Bastet. She let out a long plaintive howl and bit me on the ankle. Fortunately my thick boots prevented her teeth from penetrating the skin.

In the pages of this private journal I will admit I made a mistake. I should not have interrupted Ramses when he spoke of his future plans.

I was fully occupied all that morning with domestic arrangements. Not until after the men resumed work after the midday break did I have time to look them over.

The first trench had been started. We had fifty men at work with picks and shovels, and as many children carrying away the detritus. The scene was familiar to me from previous seasons, and despite the fact that I expected nothing of interest to turn up, my spirits lifted at the well-loved scene—the picks of the men rising and falling rhythmically, the children scampering off with the loaded baskets, singing as they worked. I walked along the line, hoping someone would stop me to announce a find—a coffin or a cache of jewelry or a tomb. Not until I reached the end of the trench did I make the discovery.

One frequently hears, from English and European tourists, that all Egyptians look alike. This is nonsense, of course; Emerson calls it prejudice, and he is probably correct. I will admit, however, that the omnipresent, shapeless robes and turbans create an impression of uniformity. The facial hair to which our workers were addicted also added to the impression that they were all closely related to one another. Despite these handicaps, it was not five minutes before I had seen one particular face that made an electrifying impression on me.

I sped back to Emerson. "He is here," I exclaimed. "In section A-twenty-four. Come at once, Emerson."

Emerson, with a singularly sour expression on his face, was inspecting the first find of the day—a crude pottery lamp. He glowered. "Who is here, Amelia?"

I paused a moment for effect. "The man who was talking to Abd el Atti."

Emerson flung the lamp onto the ground. "What the devil are you talking about? What man?"

"You must remember. I described him to you. He spoke the gold sellers' argot, and when he saw me, he—"

"Are you out of your senses?" Emerson bellowed.

I seized his arm. "Come quickly, Emerson."

As we went, I explained. "He was a very ill-favored fellow, Emerson. I will never forget his face. Only ask yourself why he should turn up here, unless he is following us with some nefarious purpose in mind."

"Where is this villain?" Emerson inquired, with deceptive mildness.

"There." I pointed.

"You, there," Emerson called.

The man straightened. His eyes widened in simulated surprise. "You speak to me, effendi?"

"Yes, to you. What is your name?"

"Hamid, effendi."

"Ah, yes, I remember. You are not a local man."

"I come from Manawat, effendi, as I told you. We heard there was work here."

The answer came readily. The fellow's eyes never left Emerson's face. I considered this highly suspicious.

"Proceed discreetly, Emerson," I said in a low voice. "If accused, he may strike at you with his pick."

"Bah," said Emerson. "When were you last in Cairo, Hamid?"

"Cairo? I have never been there, effendi."

"Do you know Abd el Atti, the dealer in antiquities?"

"No, effendi."

Emerson gestured him to return to his work and drew me aside. "There, you see? You are imagining things again, Amelia."

"Of course he will deny everything, Emerson. You did not carry out a proper interrogation. But never mind; I didn't suppose we would wring a confession from the villain. I only wanted to draw your attention to him."

"Do me a favor," Emerson said. "Don't draw my attention to
anyone, or anything, unless it has been dead at least a thousand years. This work is tedious enough. I do not need further aggravation." And off he marched, grumbling.

To be honest, I was beginning to regret I had acted so precipitately. I might have known Emerson would question my identification, and now I had let my suspect know I was suspicious of him. It would have been better to let him believe his disguise (of an indigo turban) had not been penetrated.

The damage was done. Perhaps, knowing my eyes were upon him, Hamid might be moved to rash action, such as a direct attack on one of us. Cheered by this reasoning, I returned to my work.

Yet I found it difficult to concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing. My gaze kept returning to the northern horizon, where the Dahshoor pyramids rose like mocking reminders of a forbidden paradise. Gazing upon them I knew how Eve must have felt when she looked back at the flowers and lush foliage of Eden, from which she was forever barred. (Another example of masculine duplicity, I might add. Adam was under no compulsion to eat of the fruit, and his attempt to shift the blame onto his trusting spouse was, to say the least, unmanly.)

Because of this distraction I was the first to see the approaching rider. Mounted on a spirited Arab stallion, he presented a handsome spectacle as he galloped across the waste. He drew up before me with a tug on the reins that made the horse rear, and removed his hat. The full effect of this performance was spoiled, for me, by the sight of the object de Morgan held before him on his saddle. The object was my son, sandy, sunburned, and sardonic. His look of bland innocence as he gazed down at me would have driven most mothers to mayhem.

Tenderly de Morgan lowered Ramses into my arms. I dropped him immediately and dusted off my hands. "Where did you find him?" I inquired.

"Midway between this place and my own excavations. In the middle of nowhere, to be precise. When I inquired of him where he thought he was going, he replied he had decided to
pay me a visit. C'est un en/ant
formidable'.
Truly the son of my dear
collegue
—a splinter off the old English block of wood, n'est pas?"

Emerson came trotting up in time to hear the final compliment. The look he gave de Morgan would have withered a more sensitive man. De Morgan only smiled and twirled his mustaches. Then he began to congratulate Emerson on the intelligence, daring, and excellent French of his son.

"Humph, yes, no doubt," Emerson said. "Ramses, what the devil—that is to say, you must not wander off in this careless fashion."

"I was not wandering," Ramses protested. "I was aware at all times of my precise location. I confess I had underestimated de distance between dis place and Dahshoor. What I require, Papa, is a horse. Like dat one."

De Morgan laughed. "You would find it hard to control a steed like Mazeppa," he said, stroking the stallion's neck. "But a mount of some kind—yes, yes, that is reasonable."

"I beg you will not support my son in his ridiculous demands, monsieur," I said, giving Ramses a hard stare. "Ramses, where is Selim?"

"He accompanied me, of course," said Ramses. "But M. de Morgan would not let him come on de horse wit' us."

De Morgan continued to plead Ramses' case, probably because he saw how much his partisanship annoyed Emerson. "What harm can come to the lad, after all? He has only to follow the line of the cultivation. A little horse, madame—Professor— a pony, perhaps. The boy is welcome to visit me at any time. I do not doubt we will have more interesting—we will have interesting things to show him."

Emerson made a sound like a bull about to charge, but controlled himself. "Have you found the burial chamber yet?"

"We have only just begun our search," said de Morgan haughtily. "But since the burial chambers are generally located directly under the exact center of the pyramid square, it is only a matter of time."

"Not that it will matter," Emerson grunted. "Like all the others, it will have been robbed and you will find nothing."

"Who knows, mon cher? I have a feeling—here—" De Morgan thumped the breast of his well-tailored jacket—"that we will find great things this season. And you—what luck have you had?"

"Like you, we have only begun," I said, before Emerson could explode. "Will you come to the house, monsieur, and join us in a cup of tea?"

De Morgan declined, explaining that he had a dinner engagement. "As you know, Dahshoor is a popular stop for tourists. The dahabeeyah of the Countess of Westmoreland is there presently, and I am dining with her tonight."

This boast failed to wound Emerson; he was not at all impressed by titles, and considered dining out a painful chore, to be avoided whenever possible. But the Frenchman's other digs had hit the mark, and his final speech was designed to twist the knife in the wound. He wished us luck, told us to visit his excavations at any time, and repeated his invitation to Ramses. "You will come and learn how to conduct an excavation, n'est pas, mon petit?"

Ramses gazed worshipfully at the handsome figure on the great stallion. "T'ank you, monsieur, I would like dat."

With a bow to me and a mocking smile at Emerson, de Morgan wheeled the horse and rode off into the sunset. It was the wrong direction entirely, and I had to agree with Emerson when he muttered, "These cursed Frenchmen—anything for a grand gesture!"

In the end Ramses got his way. After considering the matter, I decided it would be advisable for us to have some form of transport at hand, for the site was isolated and extensive. So we hired several donkeys, on a long-term lease, so to speak, and had the men build a shed for them near the ruins of the church. My first act upon coming into possession of the donkeys was, as usual, to strip off their filthy saddlecloths and wash them. It was not an easy task, since water had to be carried from the village, and the donkeys did not at all like being washed.

I will say for Ramses that he tried to be of use. However, he was more hindrance then help, falling over the water jars, getting more liquid on his own person than on the donkeys, and narrowly avoiding losing a finger to one irritated equine whose teeth he was trying to brush. The moment the animals were ready for locomotion he demanded the use of one.

"Certainly, my boy," his naive father replied.

"Where do you mean to go?" his more suspicious mother demanded.

"To Dahshoor, to visit M. de Morgan," said Ramses.

Emerson's face fell. He had been deeply wounded by Ramses'
admiration for the dashing Frenchman. "I would rather you did not call on M. de Morgan, Ramses. Not alone, at any rate. Papa will take you with him another time."

Instead of debating the matter, Ramses clasped his hands and raised imploring eyes to his father's troubled face. "Den, Papa, may I make a widdle excavation of my own? Just a widdle one, Papa?"

I cannot fully express in words the dark suspicion that filled my mind at this patent demonstration of duplicity. It had been months since Ramses had mispronounced the letter J. His father had been absurdly charmed by this speech defect; indeed, I am convinced that it originated with Emerson's addressing the infant Ramses in "baby-talk," as it is called. Before I could express my misgivings, Emerson beamed fondly at the innocent face turned up to his and said, "My dear boy, certainly you may. What a splendid idea! It will be excellent experience for you."