Lion in the Valley (13 page)

Halting
atop a ridge, Emerson shielded his eyes with his hand and gazed upon the scene.
The breeze ruffled his dark hair and pressed the flannel of his shirt against
his muscular breast. A thrill of (primarily) aesthetic pleasure ran through me
as I watched him.

"Well,
Peabody, what is it to be?" he asked.

"I
am sure you have already decided," I replied. "We have debated the
matter endlessly, without agreeing, and I know you will go right ahead with
your plan no matter what I say."

"Peabody,
I have explained on a number of occasions my reasons for postponing any
investigation of the small subsidiary pyramid. I suppose, given your particular
enthusiasm, even a little pyramid is better than no pyramid at all, but I
believe we ought to search for private tombs and for the temple."

Before
I could reply, a high, penetrating voice said, "If I were allowed to cast
my vote on this matter, I would suggest we begin with the causeway. That line
across the desert, which is easily discernible from this slight elevation,
surely marks its original course, and were we to follow it to its
ultimate—"

Emerson
and I spoke at once. Emerson said, "Yes, yes, my boy." I said,
"Ramses, be quiet."

Mr.
Nemo laughed. "Is that how it's done?"

Pleased
to see him more cheerful, I inquired, "And what is your opinion, Mr.
Nemo?"

Nemo
scratched his side. The gesture roused the direct suspicions; I vowed to myself
that as soon as we returned to the house that evening, I would deal with him as
I dealt with the donkeys. He needed more suitable attire as well.

"You
cannot expect a sensible answer from me, Mrs. Emerson," he said. "I
know nothing of archaeology; like all ignoramuses, I would like to see you dig
up jewels and gold. The best chance of finding such things, I believe, would be
in the nearby private tombs."

I
gave Emerson a significant glance, or, at least, I tried to. He was not looking
at me. "You are too modest, Mr. Nemo," I said. "Your remark
betrays a greater knowledge of archaeology than you would claim."

"Oh,
I got all that from Master Ramses here," said Nemo calmly. "As we
walked he gave me a lecture on the principles of excavation. Well, Professor
and Mrs. Emerson—what is your decision? And what can a mere tyro do to assist?
I can wield a pick or shovel with the best of them."

Emerson
fingered the cleft in his chin, as is his habit when deep in thought. Finally
he said decisively, "Ramses, you and Abdullah can begin on the causeway.
Stop at once if you come upon stone or brickwork. I must do a preliminary
survey before we remove any object from its place, but as you have several tons
of sand to shift, I should be able to finish before you achieve that end."

Ramses
frowned. "There is no need for Abdullah to share the supervisory role,
Papa, since I am entirely capable of managing by myself, and he might be better
employed—"

"Be
quiet, Ramses," I said. "Yes, yes, my boy," Emerson said. He
added, "Nemo, go along with Ramses. He will tell you what to do."

"I
don't doubt that he will," said Nemo.

We
scattered to our appointed tasks. Mine was to assist Emerson with the
surveying. To be sure, de Morgan had surveyed the site already, but Emerson had
no confidence whatever in the abilities of the Director of the Antiquities
Service. "These Frenchmen can't even count properly, Peabody. No wonder,
with that ridiculous metric system of theirs."

Matters
proceeded smoothly. As I have said, Abdullah was as capable as most trained
archaeologists, and when I looked up from my own task I could see the men
digging with such vigor that a fine cloud of sand enclosed them. A line of
children ran to and fro, between the diggers and the distant dump site,
emptying their baskets and returning to have them filled again.

We
stopped for a rest and a light repast at nine-thirty, and were about to resume
work when one of the men called out and pointed. Someone was approaching. The
newcomer was a European, by his dress, and he was on foot, coming across the
desert from the north.

Emerson
said, "Curse it." He hates visitors interrupting his work. "Deal
with the fellow, Peabody," he growled, snatching up his transit. "I
have vowed that this season I will not suffer the constant intrusions of idle
tourists."

"He
doesn't look like a tourist," I said. "His gait is rather unsteady,
Emerson, don't you think? I wonder if he can be intoxicated."

"Humph,"
said Emerson. "As a matter of fact, he looks familiar. Who is it,
Peabody?"

The
countenance, whose features became ever more recognizable with increased
proximity, was indeed one I had seen before, but I was unable to produce a name
to go with the face. He was a pleasant-looking young chap, of medium height and
wiry frame. The only unusual thing about him was his complexion, which was of
an odd grayish-green.

He
greeted us by name, and added hesitantly, "We met last year in Cairo.
Quibell is my name."

"Of
course," I said. "Won't you join us, Mr. Quibell? I can only offer
you hard-boiled eggs and chilly toast—"

"No,
thank you." Quibell shuddered and the greenish tinge of his cheeks
intensified. "You must forgive me if I come at once to the reason for my
disturbing you—"

"That
would be a kindness," said Emerson. "I thought you were with Petrie
this year."

"I
am."

"But
Petrie is at Thebes."

"He
began at Sakkara, and left a few of us to finish the task of recording the
private tombs," Quibell explained. "When I heard you were at
Dahshoor, I took the liberty of coming to ask a favor. I know Mrs. Emerson's
reputation as a physician—"

"Ha,"
said Emerson.

"I
beg your pardon, Professor?"

"Nothing,"
said Emerson.

"Oh.
I thought you said ... Well, not to put too fine a face upon it, we are all
rather under the weather just now, and I thought perhaps I might beg some
medicine from Mrs. Emerson. What I need, I believe, is a quantity of
ipacanana."

"Ipecacuanha,"
I corrected.

"Oh.
Yes—quite. Thank you, Mrs. Emerson."

"What
is the nature of your complaint?" Emerson asked. A suspicion of the truth
had occurred to him; the dawning delight on his face really did him no credit.

"That
is evident, Emerson," I said. "Mr. Quibell's
disinclination
to take food and the peculiar shade of his complexion indicate a disturbance of
the digestive tract."

"Food
poisoning," said Emerson, choking with amusement. "It is food poisoning,
isn't it, Quibell? Petrie's people always come down with food poisoning. He
opens a tin, and eats half of the contents, and leaves it standing around in
some unsanitary tomb, and then expects his staff members to finish the stuff...
Ha, ha, ha!"

"Really,
Emerson," I exclaimed indignantly. "You ought to be ashamed of
yourself. Here is poor Mr. Quibell, pea-green with indigestion—"

"Peas,"
Emerson gasped. "Yes, I understand Petrie is particularly fond of tinned
peas. Very good, Pea-body."

Quibell
came loyally to his chief's defense. "It isn't Professor Petrie's fault.
You know he operates with limited funds and he never has the slightest trouble
himself—"

"No,
the man has the digestion of a camel," Emerson agreed, struggling to
control himself. "I do beg your pardon, Quibell; my laughter was in
extremely bad taste. But Petrie's eccentricities are a source of great
amusement to a simple, straightforward chap like myself."

Quibell's
wide eyes shifted from Emerson, bareheaded under the baking sun, to me, and
then to Ramses, who was giving the cat Bastet her daily lesson. "Heel, if
you please," he was saying, and the cat promptly fell in behind him.

But,
as I have said, for all his blunt manners, Emerson has the kindest of hearts.
After Selim had fetched the bottle of ipecacuanha, and a few other items I
thought might be useful, Emerson told Quibell to call on us for
anything
he needed, and insisted upon lending him a donkey and an escort for the return
trip. "Petrie thinks nothing of a six-mile walk," he said, slapping
the young man on the back with such friendly emphasis that he tottered.
"Neither do I, of course. Do it all the time. But in your weakened
condition . . . Are you sure you won't rest awhile before returning? Mrs.
Emerson would love to put you to bed and dose you."

"Thank
you, Professor, but I must return at once. I am not the only sufferer, and the
others are awaiting relief."

"Didn't
I hear there was a young lady with Professor Petrie this year?" I
inquired.

A
blush spread across Mr. Quibell's cheeks. The addition of pink to the original
green produced a remarkable tint, a sort of mottled puce. "There are three
ladies, in fact," he replied. "My sister and—er—two others. It is
primarily on her—on their account that I came."

Quibell
trotted off, accompanied by one of our men. He really did look ill, and after
he had vanished from sight I said to Emerson, "Perhaps I ought to go to
Sakkara. When I think of the young ladies alone and ill—"

"Don't
be such a busybody, Amelia," said my fond husband.

On
the surface and in actual fact, Mr. Quibell's visit was one of those casual
incidents that often befall people in our situation. Yet it had consequences of
the most dramatic nature, and Quibell himself, the innocent instigator of some
of them, would have been as surprised as any of us at what ensued.

The
aforesaid consequences did not occur until late in the afternoon. We had
finished excavation for the
day. Emerson was more determined than ever
that he and I should camp near the pyramid instead of staying in the house. His
arguments were persuasive, and I had returned with him to the site after tea to
inspect the pit he had found.

In
Upper Egypt, where the river has cut a deep channel through the sandstone of
the plateau, many tombs are dug into the sides of the cliffs. Properly cleansed
and swept, the empty chambers make admirable accommodations. I am speaking, of
course, of the upper chambers of the tombs, those that served as chapels; for
the burial chambers themselves were far back in the cliffs, sometimes at the
bottom of deep shafts. Here in the north, the majority of the tombs were of the
type known as mastabas, after the stone benches whose shape their
superstructures resembled. When the superstructures survived, they could be converted
into quite attractive dwelling places, but as yet we had discovered nothing of
that sort. The pit Emerson had discovered was just that—a nasty hole in the
ground.

However,
I enjoyed wandering hand in hand with Emerson across the barren plain. My amiable
mood was only slightly marred when Emerson kept insisting that all we needed
was a scrap of canvas to stretch over his wretched hole. At the least we
required tents, and tents I was determined to have. If the necessary materials
could not be procured in Menyat Dahshoor, I would simply have to make a trip to
Cairo.

We
had climbed a ridge in order to get a better view, and perhaps to discern in
the shapes of the lengthening shadows some feature of the landscape that had
not been visible under the direct rays of the sun. As always, my eyes were
drawn to the west, where the pyramid slopes had deepened into bronze against
the sunset. Nothing moved on that vast empty plain, and there was no sound
to
be heard except that of our voices, which had, I fear, risen to a considerable
pitch during our discussion about the tents. When we stopped speaking, it was
not because we had come to an agreement, but because we both realized no
agreement would ever be reached. So pervasive was the ensuing silence that it
was startling in the extreme to have it broken by the sound of a human voice.

We
turned as one man (so to speak) and beheld, standing motionless on the level
ground below the ridge, a woman's form. The gray-blue shadow blurred her
features, and for one startled moment I felt as if I were seeing my own
reflection in a dusty mirror. The dark mass of loosened hair was the same shade
as my own; the high boots and full nether garment were like mine; the very
shape of the body, belted tightly around the waist and swelling out above and
below that constriction, was the image of my form.

I
remembered the old legend of the doppelganger, that eerie double whose
appearance portends approaching death, and I confess that a momentary thrill of
terror froze my limbs. Emerson was equally affected. A low "Oh, curse
it" expressed the depth of his emotions and his arm held me close to his
side, as if daring even the Grim Reaper to tear me from him.

The
shadowy shape below swayed and shivered as when one tosses a stone into a pool
of dark water. Slowly it sank forward and lay motionless.

The
spell was broken. It was no spirit I had seen, but a living woman—living, at
least, until that moment. Though how she had come there, and why, were
mysteries almost as great as the ultimate mystery of life and death.

I
scrambled down the slope, with Emerson close behind, and knelt beside the
fallen form. The woman's
costume was certainly similar to mine, but
there was no other resemblance except for the color of her hair. Despite her
deadly pallor, she was obviously some years younger than I—hardly more than a
girl. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles had been pushed aslant by the force of
her fall, and the lashes that shadowed her ashen cheeks were long and curly.