The Hippopotamus Pool (30 page)

The shriek, hideously amplified by echoes, that burst out of the opening made him stagger back with an answering cry of poignant terror. Only for an instant did he give way; grasping the rope, he gave it an emphatic tug. Ramses continued to howl and Emerson continued to haul on the rope with all his might until Ramses's feet came into view. Dropping the rope, Emerson grasped the feet and pulled the boy out into his arms.

Ramses's eyes were tightly closed, which was not surprising, since dust covered his lids and blood from numerous cuts and abrasions streaked his nose and forehead. I got the top off my canteen and dashed the contents into Ramses's face.

"Thank you," said Ramses.

Evelyn, pale as a ghost, took out her handkerchief and wiped his face. "What was it? Where are you hurt?"

"I am not hurt," said Ramses. "Except for cuts and bruises which resulted from father's precipitate removal of my person from the tunnel. Please, Mother! There are ladies present."

I had ripped open his torn shirt, sending buttons flying with as much precipitation as Emerson was wont to do. The bandage was still in place and unstained. By blood, at any rate.

"He appears to be relatively undamaged," I said.

"Snakebite," Emerson said hoarsely.

"Don't be absurd, Emerson. What would a cobra be doing in the depths of a tomb?"

"Then what did he scream for?" The color returned to Emerson's face. "I never heard him make sounds like that."

"The initial outcry," said Ramses, with obvious chagrin, "was prompted by shock and surprise. I went on shouting because I was trying to get you to stop dragging me along with such painful precipitation. You can put me down, Father, I assure you I am quite capable of standing unsupported, and it is very humiliating to be held like—"

"Why did you scream?" Emerson's teeth were clenched and so were the arms that held Ramses.

"Not from fear, I assure you." Ramses glanced at Nefret. "I encountered nothing to provoke alarm. In fact, it is fairly easy going after the first few feet. The steps are steep and broken, but the lower portion is clear of debris—and of cobras. It must have been the modern thieves who removed the lid of the mummy case in order to look for amulets and jewelry .. .

Mother! Stop her, Father, there is no physical danger, but the sight is ... Oh, curse it!"

I got to the ramp a split second before Nefret, and was in the tunnel before Emerson could prevent me. I knew my son's expository style well enough to be sure that he would go rambling on, deliberately prolonging the suspense, until he drove me to undignified verbal or physical remonstrations. I had to see for myself.

A hand caught hold of my foot, but I pulled away. (I am just as skilled as Ramses in wriggling through narrow spaces, though I get less credit for it.)

The air deep in the depths of Egyptian tombs does not strike pleasantly upon the nostrils, but as I proceeded I began to be aware of a sickly odor quite unlike any I had encountered before. As Ramses had indicated, the debris covered only the topmost steps, and my heart quickened when the small flame of my candle showed the unmistakable shape of a mummiform coffin below. The air was close, the candle burned low. I was quite close to the object before I realized it was not the sort of coffin I had hoped to see. There was no glitter of gold or glow of inset stones, nor any sign of an inscription. Dust dulled only a plain white surface of painted wood.

Not a royal coffin, then. Disappointed but still curious, I rose to my knees. The lid had been removed and flung aside. The occupant of the coffin lay exposed.

Exposed indeed. The body was unclothed, without so much as a scrap of bandage covering it. It was—unfortunately—in an excellent state of preservation. The head was flung back, the mouth hideously distorted in a petrified scream of agony and despair. I turned away, clapping my hands over my mouth to hold back the nausea rising in my throat. The foul, sickening stench that rose from the coffin was bad enough. Even worse was the realization that had struck me when I saw the ropes that bound the clawed hands and rigid feet. The man had been buried alive.

        CHAPTER TEN

Men May Be
Violently
Attracted by Attributes That  Are Not Immediately Apparent

Though I have never been particularly fond of mummies, I have in the course of my professional career learned to deal with the nasty things efficiently and unemotionally. I retreated from that one in considerable haste. The hour was late when we returned to the
Amelia,
but I admitted the need for discussion and restorative libations. It was impossible to go tamely to bed after such an experience.

We had all shared it, except for Evelyn, who claimed our descriptions were quite enough for her. Emerson, who
is
attracted to mummies, would have crawled over burning coals to reach this one. With the help of Abdullah he managed to widen the space enough for him to squeeze through, and he was there so long, I regretted not having attached a rope to
him.
Not until I crawled partway into the tunnel and threatened to remove him bodily did he consent to return. Emerson is not especially sensitive to atmosphere, and it was that as much as the hideous aspect of the mummy that had affected me—the dim light and shifting shadows, the foul stench—and the fact that the plain white coffin with its dreadful inhabitant had guarded the burial chamber of a queen. Hasty as had been my retreat, I had observed the doorway behind the coffin—a doorway blocked with massive stones.

Contemplating contemptuously the glass of warm milk I had caused to be served to him, Ramses remarked, "The reason for the refusal of the cats to enter the tomb is now explained. Their sense of smell, so much keener than ours, must have caught a whiff of that vile odor."

"You are being unduly fanciful, Ramses," I said. "A cat's notion of what constitutes a vile odor is certainly not the same as ours. But we have the mummy to thank, I suspect, for the fact that the thieves did not enter the burial chamber."

"I wonder," Walter exclaimed. "Radcliffe, do you remember the story we heard some years ago in Gurneh? About the lost tomb into which three men had vanished and never come out?"

"Folktales," Emerson said impatiently.

"This had occurred within recent memory," Walter insisted. "The fellow who told us of it claimed to be the brother of one of the men who had disappeared."

"A typical folktale, no doubt," Ramses said thoughtfully. "But it would be interesting, would it not, if some of the bones crushed underfoot in the antechamber turned out to be of modern date?"

"Balderdash," Emerson said. "The first sight of the atrocious thing might have sent them into screaming retreat, but tomb robbers are accustomed to grisly sights."

"I have never seen one as grisly as that," I murmured.

Emerson considerately splashed more whiskey into my glass. "I have, though. It came from the royal cache at Deir el Bahri."

"Emerson, this poor fellow was buried alive!"

"For once, Peabody, your melodramatic interpretation is probably correct. This mummy shows the same characteristics as the other, which I was allowed to examine some years ago. In fact, the visible parallels are so exact that I can guess what we will find when I finish the examination I was not allowed to make this evening."

I ignored this provocative remark, and the glance that accompanied it. He was only teasing.

"Yes, I remember the Deir el Bahri specimen," Walter exclaimed. "Its hands and feet had also been bound."

"Instead of being wrapped with bandages, it had been sewn into a sheepskin," Emerson said. "The internal organs were still in place and there was no evidence that the process of mummification had occurred. The same seems to be true of our mummy. I found the sheepskin, pushed back from the exposed body, and I could see no signs of the incision through which the viscera were usually removed. The expression of intense agony is like that of the other example, and it certainly suggests that both individuals died ... unpleasantly."

"His crime must have been heinous, to warrant such a fate," Nefret said.

I wondered if I would ever become accustomed to it—the contrast between her delicate English fairness and the placidity on that fair face when she spoke of matters the mere thought of which would have made an English maiden shudder or swoon.

"A good point," said Emerson. "Not only was the method of execution— for such it must have been—particularly cruel, but the man was stripped of his name and identity and wrapped in the skin of an animal which was considered ritually impure. Yet the body was not destroyed; it was entombed with the royal dead—as, apparently, was this individual. I confess an explanation eludes me."

"There's a mystery for you, Amelia," said Walter. "I don't believe you've had a murder this season; why not employ those detectival talents of yours on this poor chap?"

"I doubt that even the talents of Ramses's favorite fictional detectives could solve a case such as this," I replied in the same jesting tone. "So long ago as that—"

"Ha," said Emerson. "I believe I once heard you say that no mystery is insoluble. It is simply a question of how much time and energy one is willing to expend, you said."

"I was engaging in a little braggadocio," I admitted. "However .. ."

"Oh, you have a theory, have you?"

"Not yet. How could I, when the evidence is incomplete?" Emerson's smile broadened. The challenge in those mocking blue eyes was impossible to resist; I went on, "What I intended to say, before you interrupted me, was that at this stage one cannot state that a solution may not be arrived at. One or two ideas have occurred to me."

Observing that Ramses, who was never at a loss for ideas, was about to launch into a speech, Emerson said quickly, "The hour is late. Off to bed, eh? Not a word of this to anyone, mind you. If O'Connell gets wind of it he will drag out the old nonsense about curses, and I don't trust Miss Marmaduke to resist his confounded charm."

"So you find Mr. O'Connell charming, do you?" I inquired, as we left the saloon.

"Not at all," said Emerson coldly. "I was referring to his effect on susceptible females, which I have had occasion to observe."

Emerson's temper was sorely tried over the following days, for the
Mirror
arrived on schedule and the
Times
soon followed, and Cook's added us totheir itinerary ("steamers twice weekly during the height of the season"). Emerson's face when he first beheld the troop of donkey-mounted tourists thundering down on us was a remarkable sight. The timider souls retreated at his first bellow, but some were remarkably persistent and did not go away until he charged them brandishing a plank.

Not only were we besieged by journalists and tourists, but the archaeological onslaught Emerson had predicted also occurred. The first to arrive was Cyrus Vandergelt, our wealthy American friend. Quibell and Newberry "dropped in," Howard Carter spent as much time with us as he could spare from his other duties, and we were even honored by a brief visit from M. Maspero, despite Emerson's efforts to head him off.

The only ones of our friends who did not turn up were the Reverend Sayce, who, I was sorry to hear, was suffering from an attack of rheumatics (Emerson was not sorry to hear it), and Mr. Petrie. The Petries were at Abydos that year, which made their failure to come even more surprising. Howard attributed it to Petrie's compulsive work habits. Emerson attributed it to spite and jealousy.

"At least," he remarked sourly, "we need not fear interruption by the local thieves. They couldn't get near the place without tripping over a journalist or an archaeologist."

There had indeed been a singular lack of interest on the part of our known and unknown enemies. We had heard nothing more from Riccetti; night succeeded peaceful night at the tomb and on the dahabeeyah. This was, in my opinion, an ominous sign, but Emerson absolutely refused to agree with me (or to discuss the matter at all). How true it is that there are none so blind as those who will not see! I must share some small part of the blame. Our work absorbed me. I became complacent and careless. And in due course of time I paid a terrible price for that complacency.

Yet what Egyptologist could resist the allure of that tomb! The painted reliefs were remarkable, the colors scarcely faded, the outlines sure and crisp. Emerson and Walter spent a good deal of time arguing about the historical implications of these scenes and the translations of the hieroglyphic inscriptions, but I will spare the uninformed Reader further details. (The Reader who wishes to be informed will find those details in our forthcoming publication,
The Tomb of Tetisheri at Thebes;
four volumes, and a fifth, folio-size, of color plates.)

Clearing the antechamber took less time than I had expected. The modern thieves had been busy there, shoveling the debris aside in their search for marketable objects, and disturbing the stratigraphy to such an extent that even Emerson admitted there was no hope of reconstructing the original arrangement. Most of the remaining objects were much later in date than the time of Tetisheri, and of poor quality. The tomb robbers had left very littleof them, dismembering the mummies in search of amulets and smashing the flimsy wooden coffins. They had come from the burials of a priestly family of the Twenty-First Dynasty, who had used Tetisheri's antechamber as their family tomb before an avalanche or earthquake concealed the entrance.

We found the work fascinating, but the journalists did not. After an interval during which no mummies, jewels or golden vessels emerged from the tomb, they retired to the Luxor hotels, where they spent most of their time drinking and listening to the fabrications of the local inhabitants. Our archaeological friends also dispersed; they had responsibilities of their own, and as Mr. Quibell remarked, with a rueful smile, it took Emerson even longer than it did Petrie to clear a tomb.

Not even to our archaeological colleagues did Emerson admit we had gone beyond the antechamber. He had closed the opening in the doorway and refused to open it again even at the direct request of the Director of Antiquities.

It was amusing to see how M. Maspero's face brightened when he saw our nice wooden stairs. Like Hamlet, he was somewhat stout and scant of breath. After inspecting the reliefs, he interrupted Emerson's lecture on the artifacts we had found thus far.

"Mon cher colleague, I am confident that you are carrying out your excavations in a manner of the most irreproachable. But what of the queen's mummy?"

Emerson's face took on the expression that often preceded a tactless remark, and I said soothingly, "We have not yet investigated the burial chamber, monsieur. You know my husband's methods."

Maspero nodded and mopped his perspiring brow. With any other excavator he might have insisted on having the passage cleared, but he knew Emerson well. "You will notify me before you enter the burial chamber?" he said wistfully.

"Certainly, monsieur," Emerson replied in his fluent but vilely accented French. "How could you suppose I would do otherwise?"

"Hmmmm," said Maspero, and went puffing down the stairs.

The only visitor who persisted was Cyrus. His offer of assistance having been firmly rejected by Emerson, he began his own excavations in the Valley of the Kings; but since his Luxor home was located near the entrance to the Valley, he was able to "keep after us day and night," as Emerson sourly expressed it. The house, which the local residents referred to as the Castle, was a large, elegant residence equipped with every modern comfort. Cyrus invited us to tea, breakfast, luncheon and dinner, and offered to put any or all of us up.

"Mr. and Mrs. Walter Emerson, at least," he insisted. "They aren't usedto roughing it like us old hands, Mrs. Amelia, and the dahabeeyah must be a mite crowded with six of you."

I refused the invitation, but kept it in mind. The Castle was fully staffed and stout-walled as a fortress. There might come a time ...

We were dining with Cyrus at the Luxor hotel on the evening when the deceptive tranquillity of our existence was broken by the first ominous ripple that indicated the presence of inimical life below the surface. Emerson had grudgingly agreed to dine, moved more by the fact that the following day was Friday, and hence a holiday for the men, than by my insistence that we all needed a change of scene. I thought Evelyn was looking tired, and even Nefret seemed more silent and preoccupied than usual.

With his customary generosity Cyrus had invited our entire staff as well as the young Egyptologist he had hired to supervise his own work. We made quite a large party, and Cyrus's lined face broke into a smile as he surveyed the table from his position at its head.

"Now isn't this just fine?" he demanded of me—seated, of course, at his right. "The more the merrier, that's my motto. And a handsome lot too, if you except my weathered old self."

I was forced to agree. No one adorns a dinner table (or any other ambience) more than my dear Emerson, tanned and fit as always, his well-cut lips curving in a fond smile as he watched Nefret pretending to be polite to Ramses. She had developed quite a talent for sweet sarcasm, which of course passed right over Emerson's head. It did not pass over the head of Ramses, but he had not decided what to do about it.