The Hippopotamus Pool (32 page)

"They strongly suggest to me the sort of idiotic verbal games males and females play when they are establishing a—er—romantic relationship."

"Possibly," I said magnanimously. "But it is our duty to ascertain the truth and warn poor Sir Edward if he has been taken in."

"He wouldn't thank you for it," muttered Emerson. "Oh, damnation. I don't know why I waste time arguing with you, Peabody, you will go your own way whatever I say. Ply Miss Marmaduke with tea and sympathy and pry into her innermost feelings. I would attempt to prevent you if I thought there were the slightest possibility that she is anything but a sentimental, rather stupid woman who would faint dead away if she ever encountered a criminal or a spy."

He was mistaken, of course. He had not heard the woman's voice— confident, amused, murmurously seductive—the voice of an experienced woman of the world.

We had settled on the Valley of the Kings for our excursion next day. Emerson had agreed to join us, though he complained about cursed tourists and missing a day of work.

"At least Ramadan is almost over," I said consolingly. "One cannot expect the men to work at their best when they fast all day."

"And gorge themselves all night," Emerson grumbled. "Then we must endure three days of overindulgence and distraction, while they celebrate the end of Ramadan. Religion is a confounded nuisance!"

Of course he insisted on stopping by the tomb first. The rest of us rode directly to the Castle, where we were to breakfast with Cyrus before beginning our excursion. The party was the same as that of the night before, since Cyrus had affably included everyone in his invitation. He took us on a tour of the establishment while we waited for Emerson to join us. The tour ended in the library; watching Mr. Amherst remove an enormous folio volume from its shelf so that Nefret could examine it, I drew Cyrus aside.

"Are you certain Mr. Amherst is who he says he is, Cyrus?"

"My dear Mrs. Amelia! You must get over this habit of thinking everyone you meet is in disguise."

"He seems very interested in Nefret."

"What young fellow would not be? He is just showing off, Mrs. Amelia, heaving that volume of Lepsius around the way another lad might lift weights, to impress a pretty young lady. Ah, but here is your husband. Let's go to breakfast."

The food was excellent, as Cyrus's cuisine always was. Basking in our commendations, he reiterated his invitation. "There's plenty of room here, folks. What about you, Miss Marmaduke? And Sir Edward?"

"Kindly allow me to make the arrangements for my staff, Vandergelt," Emerson growled.

"No need to put out good money for a hotel," Cyrus insisted. "And it would save them making that trip across the river twice a day. Willy and I rattle around in this big old place, and I'm not much company for an energetic young chap. Isn't that right, Willy?"

Amherst smiled politely. "Your company, Mr. Vandergelt, could never be dull. It is entirely up to you, sir, of course."

"Wrong," said Emerson. "It is also up to me. Oh, the devil. Do as you like. Everyone always does."

I expected Gertrude would jump at the offer. Not only would proximity make it easier for her to spy on us, but the accommodations, which she had seen earlier, were as elegant as any female could desire. She demurred, however, and when Sir Edward also expressed his reluctance to take advantage of Cyrus I thought I knew why. Both would accept, or neither would. They wanted to confer privately before deciding.

"Think it over, then," Cyrus said good-humoredly. "The offer stands; just let me know."

We were soon on our way, following a path through the wadi. I had of course visited the Valley innumerable times, but it never fails to cast its spell upon me. As we rode on, the gorge gradually narrowed between walls of bare rock, golden yellow in the sunlight and utterly devoid of life— only the vultures lazily gliding overhead and an occasional serpentine slither among the rocky slopes—and, of course, flies. They appeared to bother Gertrude most. She looked ridiculous, bouncing up and down in her saddle and flailing at the air with her whisk. Again I asked myself: Could this silly woman be an adventuress or a spy?

The answer, of course, was: Yes, she could. A talent for acting and for disguise is essential to both professions.

When the path forked we followed the left-hand branch through a natural gateway of rock and saw the Valley before us. As Emerson had predicted, the place swarmed with tourists.

Only a few of the royal tombs were considered by Baedeker to be worthy of starred entries, and it was around these that the tourists had gathered. Disdaining the vulgar mobs, we were led by Cyrus to the place he had selected for this season's work. None of the men was working that day, but the evidence of their labor was visible in holes and piles of sand.

"I figure there's got to be a tomb here someplace," Cyrus declared.

Miss Marmaduke studied the barren ground and piles of rubble withobvious bewilderment, and Emerson said with a snort, "You would be better employed, Vandergelt, in conducting a proper excavation of one of the tombs that has never been completely explored—number 5, for instance. Burton's incomplete plan has several interesting features."

"The doggone place is full of debris," Cyrus objected. "It would take months to dig it out. Anyhow, it's not a royal tomb."

"Typical," Emerson muttered. "That is all you care about, you and the others—royal tombs."

Whereupon he stalked off, leaving us to remain or follow as we chose. "Where are you going, Emerson?" I asked, trotting after him.

Courteous as always (when I reminded him), he slowed his pace. "I want to have a look at one of the tombs Loret found last year."

"Amenhotep II? It will be crowded with tourists, Emerson; you know how the vulgar are attracted by mummies."

"No," said Emerson.

The tomb he sought had been dug into the side of the Valley. Like most of the others, it was open and unguarded, and I reflected, as we started down the stairs, that Howard had his work cut out for him if he hoped to protect the tombs.

We had of course brought our own candles. At that time none of the tombs were lighted by electricity, and the steps were steep and broken. Gertrude, gallantly assisted by Cyrus, let out little squeaks of alarm as she stumbled down them.

The stairs ended in a square, unadorned room. A second stone-cut staircase led down into the chamber that had been the king's final resting place. A red sandstone sarcophagus, adorned with images of protective gods and goddesses, gaped empty.

"Hmph," said Emerson uninformatively. He went to the right-hand wall and began examining it.

I did not need him to inform me why he had come there. The tomb had belonged to Thutmose I, the father of Queen Hatshepsut, but it was not that connection that interested Emerson. This was the earliest royal tomb in the Valley—later by several generations than our tomb, but closer in time to it than any other. It was much smaller than the long, elaborate sepulchers of later periods, and I saw what was in Emerson's mind. Since our tomb was earlier even than this one, it might be as simple. If so, the blocked doorway at the base of the stairs we had seen could lead directly into the burial chamber.

The others had gathered round the sarcophagus. Gertrude stood at the head, her head bowed and her hands clasped. I noted that the goddess portrayed on that part of the sarcophagus was Nephthys—no more veiledthan Isis, since both ladies are usually depicted wearing an extremely skimpy, skintight garment.

After examining the sarcophagus and translating the inscriptions (though no one had asked him to), Ramses joined his father at the wall.

"It was decorated with painted stucco," he remarked dogmatically.

"Hmph," said Emerson, walking sideways and holding his candle close to the surface.

"Water-damaged," said Ramses to Nefret, who had come to see what they were doing. "The chamber has often been flooded. That is the difficulty with these tombs located at the foot of the cliffs; one would have supposed—"

"Hmph," said Nefret, following Emerson.

"Haven't you seen enough?" Cyrus demanded impatiently. "There's nothing interesting here."

I had to tap Gertrude on the shoulder before she roused from her reverie— or meditation, or prayer, or whatever it was. She turned to me with a particularly foolish look. "It is wonderful," she breathed. "To see Her here, in this setting; the air is permeated with Her presence, with the intensity of belief."

"If by Her, you refer to Isis," I remarked, "you have picked the wrong goddess. That is Nephthys. Isis is on the foot of the sarcophagus."

Gertrude was not put out. "She manifests herself in many forms. All are She. She is all."

"Oh, really? Come, Gertrude, or we will be left behind."

"Not by me," Cyrus declared. "I have an arm for each of you, ladies."

"That would leave you no hand for your candle," I retorted. "Take care of Miss Marmaduke, Cyrus. I will follow behind with ... Evelyn?"

She had already gone on—with whom I had not seen, but not with her husband. "With Walter," I finished. "May I have your arm, my dear?"

Not that I needed it. However, his hangdog look indicated that his fragile masculine ego required a little boost, and I was happy to supply it. We were the last to mount the stairs, leaving darkness to fill the desolate abandoned chamber once again.

At the suggestion of Ramses, who shares his father's interest in mummies (to an exaggerated degree, I might add), we went next to the tomb of Amenhotep II, which had been discovered only the previous year. Like the cache at Deir el Bahri, it had contained the remains of pharaohs and queens transferred from their own tombs for safekeeping. The royal remains had recently been removed to the Cairo Museum, except for the body of the tomb owner himself. It still lay in the open sarcophagus, and naturally it attracted the more ghoulish visitors. It was an unseemly sight—the still dignity of the shrouded form, a withered wreath still on its breast, surrounded by gabbling, sweating, gaping curiosity-seekers. Some humorists made rude jokes, and some dripped candle wax onto the mummy. I was obliged to take Emerson away.

We retreated into the next room, where was to be seen one of the most curious sights in the Valley. In addition to the shrouded and encoffined royal dead, the tomb had contained three other mummies. They lay where they had been found, naked and unnamed. Two had been sadly battered by the ancient tomb robbers and did not look very nice, though the effect was nothing near so ghastly as our unnamed mummy. One, that of a woman, retained even yet a remote beauty. Her long dark hair lay round her head.

Of course we found Ramses already there, bending over the mummies. Nefret was with him, and as we came in we heard Ramses remark, "The mummification technique is certainly that of the Eighteenth Dynasty. Observe the incision."

Which Nefret did, her face close to the unpleasant surface of the mummy. Emerson chuckled. (The most peculiar things put him in a pleasant temper.)

"I am glad to see you both working hard at your studies," he said. "Have you reached any conclusions, Ramses?"

"As to the possible identity of these individuals, you mean?" Ramses thoughtfully fingered his chin. "It has been suggested, I believe, that the older woman is the great Hatshepsut herself."

Nefret let out a little exclamation of interest and knelt to examine the body more closely. "Could the younger individuals be her children?"

"Impossible to determine," said Ramses. "And there is no more reason to suppose that this is Hatshepsut than any other royal woman of the period whose mummy is as yet unknown."

A loud "Pardon, madame!" behind me made me step aside. Two tourists entered, followed by Sir Edward, whose expressive eyebrow lifted at the sight of Ramses and Nefret crouching beside the mummies.

"Amazing young woman," he murmured. "Most gels would run shrieking from such a sight."

"Most gels have been trained to behave like idiots," I replied.

"I am entirely of your opinion, Mrs. Emerson. After the ladies whom I have had the good fortune to meet this season, the ordinary young Englishwoman will seem vapid and childish."

I acknowledged the implied compliment with a smile.

The tourists were, as the Reader has undoubtedly deduced, of the French nation. I deduced, farther, that they were on their bridal trip. (They were young, their clothing was new and of the latest fashion, and she clung to his arm in a manner typical of brides.) The young man's swagger and loud voice and the high-pitched giggles with which she responded to his feeble witticisms were also indicative.

Emerson was already simmering with rage; he had protested loudly to M. Maspero about leaving the mummies unprotected. The rude comments of the young male person did nothing to calm him. When the latter poked at one of the pitiful cadavers with his gold-headed stick, Emerson could contain himself no longer.

"Sacrebleu!" he shouted. "Que le diable vous emporte! Ane maudit!" and other, even more emphatic, expressions of disapproval.

The tourists went quickly away. I caught Emerson's arm and prevented him from pursuing them. Sir Edward began to laugh.