THE events I am about to relate began on a December afternoon, when I had invited Lady Carrington and certain of her friends to tea.
Do not, gentle reader, be misled by this introductory statement. It is accurate (as my statements always are); but if you expect the tale that follows to be one of pastoral domesticity, enlivened only by gossip about the county gentry, you will be sadly mistaken. Bucolic peace is not my ambience, and the giving of tea parties is by no means my favourite amusement. In fact, I would prefer to be pursued across the desert by a band of savage Dervishes brandishing spears and howling for my blood. I would rather be chased up a tree by a mad dog, or face a mummy risen from its grave. I would rather be threatened by knives, pistols, poisonous snakes, and the curse of a long-dead king.
Lest I be accused of exaggeration, let me point out that I have had all those experiences, save one. However, Emerson once remarked that if I should encounter a band of Dervishes, five minutes of my nagging would unquestionably inspire even the mildest of them to massacre me.
Emerson considers this sort of remark humorous. Five years of marriage have taught me that even if one is unamused by the (presumed) wit of one’s spouse, one does not say so. Some concessions to temperament are necessary if the marital state is to flourish. And I must confess that in most respects the state agrees with me. Emerson is a remarkable person, considering that he is a man. Which is not saying a great deal.
The state of wedlock has its disadvantages, however, and an accumulation of these, together with certain other factors, added to my restlessness on the afternoon of the tea party. The weather was dreadful – dreary and drizzling, with occasional intervals of sleety snow. I had not been able to go out for my customary five-mile walk; the dogs had been out, and had returned coated with mud, which they promptly transferred to the drawing-room rug; and Ramses…
But I will come to the subject of Ramses at the proper time.
Though we had lived in Kent for five years, I had never entertained my neighbours to tea. None of them has the faintest idea of decent conversation. They cannot tell a Kamares pot from a piece of prehistoric painted ware, and they have no idea who Seti the First was. On this occasion, however, I was forced into an exercise of civility which I would ordinarily abhor. Emerson had designs on a barrow on the property of Sir Harold Carrington, and – as he elegantly expressed it – it was necessary for us to ‘butter up’ Sir Harold before asking permission to excavate.
It was Emerson’s own fault that Sir Harold required buttering. I share my husband’s views on the idiocy of fox hunting, and I do not blame him for personally escorting the fox off the field when it was about to be trapped, or run to earth, or whatever the phrase may be. I blame Emerson for pulling Sir Harold out of his saddle and thrashing him with his own riding crop. A brief, forceful lecture, together with the removal of the fox, would have got the point across. The thrashing was superfluous.
Initially Sir Harold had threatened to take Emerson to court. He was prevented by some notion that this would be unsportsmanlike. (Seemingly no such stigma applied to the pursuit of a single fox by a troop of men on horseback and a pack of dogs.) He was restrained from physically attacking Emerson by Emerson’s size and reputation (not undeserved) for bellicosity. Therefore he had contented himself with cutting Emerson dead whenever they chanced to meet. Emerson never noticed when he was being cut dead, so matters had progressed peacefully enough until my husband got the notion of excavating Sir Harold’s barrow.
It was quite a nice barrow, as barrows go – a hundred feet long and some thirty wide. These monuments are the tombs of ancient Viking warriors, and Emerson hoped to discover the burial regalia of a chieftain, with perhaps evidences of barbaric sacrifice. Since I am above all things a fair-minded person, I will candidly confess that it was, in part, my own eagerness to rip into the barrow that prompted me to be civil to Lady Carrington. But I was also moved by concern for Emerson.
He was bored. Oh, he tried to hide it! As I have said, and will continue to say, Emerson has his faults, but unfair recrimination is not one of them. He did not blame me for the tragedy that had ruined his life.
When I first met him, he was carrying on archaeological excavations in Egypt. Some unimaginative people might not consider this occupation pleasurable. Disease, extreme heat, inadequate or nonexistent sanitary conditions, and a quite excessive amount of sand do mar to some extent the joys of discovering the treasures of a vanished civilization. However, Emerson adored the life, and so did I, after we joined forces, maritally, professionally, and financially. Even after our son was born we managed to get in one long season at Sakkara. We returned to England that spring with every intention of going out again the following autumn. Then our doom came upon us, as the Lady of Shalott might have said (indeed, I believe she actually did say so) in the form of our son, ‘Ramses’ Walter Peabody Emerson.
I promised that I would return to the subject of Ramses. He cannot be dismissed in a few lines.
The child had been barely three months old when we left him for the winter with my dear friend Evelyn, who had married Emerson’s younger brother Walter. From her grandfather, the irascible old Duke of Chalfont, Evelyn had inherited Chalfont Castle, and a great deal of money. Her husband – one of the few men whose company I can tolerate for more than an hour at a time – was a distinguished Egyptologist in his own right. Unlike Emerson, who prefers excavation, Walter is a philologist, specialising in the decipherment of the varied forms of the ancient Egyptian language. He had happily settled down with his beautiful wife at her family home, spending his days reading crabbed, crumbling texts and his evenings playing with his ever increasing family.
Evelyn, who is the dearest girl, was delighted to take Ramses for the winter. Nature had just interfered with her hopes of becoming a mother for the fourth time, so a new baby was quite to her taste. At three months Ramses was personable enough, with a mop of dark hair, wide blue eyes, and a nose which even then showed signs of developing from an infantile button into a feature of character. He slept a great deal. (As Emerson said later, he was probably saving his strength.)
I left the child more reluctantly than I had expected would be the case, but after all he had not been around long enough to make much of an impression, and I was particularly looking forward to the dig at Sakkara. It was a most productive season, and I will candidly admit that the thought of my abandoned child seldom passed through my mind. Yet as we prepared to return to England the following spring, I found myself rather looking forward to seeing him again, and I fancied Emerson felt the same; we went straight to Chalfont Castle from Dover, without stopping over in London.
How well I remember that day! April in England, the most delightful of seasons! For once it was not raining. The hoary old castle, splashed with the fresh new green of Virginia creeper and ivy, sat in its beautifully tended grounds like a gracious dowager basking in the sunlight. As our carriage came to a stop the doors opened and Evelyn ran out, her arms extended. Walter was close behind; he wrung his brother’s hand and then crushed me in a fraternal embrace. After the first greetings had been exchanged, Evelyn said, ‘But of course, you will want to see young Walter.’
‘If it is not inconvenient,’ I said.
Evelyn laughed and squeezed my hand. ‘Amelia, don’t pretend with me. I know you too well. You are dying to see your baby.’
Chalfont Castle is a large establishment. Though extensively modernised, its walls are ancient and fully six feet thick. Sound does not readily travel through such a medium, but as we proceeded along the upper corridor of the south wing, I began to hear a strange noise, a kind of roaring. Muted as it was, it conveyed a quality of ferocity that made me ask, ‘Evelyn, have you taken to keeping a menagerie?’
‘One might call it that,’ Evelyn said, her voice choked with laughter.
The sound increased in volume as we went on. We stopped before a closed door. Evelyn opened it; the sound burst forth in all its fury. I actually fell back a pace, stepping heavily on the instep of my husband, who was immediately behind me.
The room was a day nursery, fitted up with all the comfort wealth and tender love can provide. Long windows flooded the chamber with light; a bright fire, guarded by a fender and screen, mitigated the cold of the old stone walls. These had been covered by panelling hung with pretty pictures and draped with bright fabric. On the floor was a thick carpet strewn with toys of all kinds. Before the fire, rocking placidly, sat the very picture of a sweet old nanny, her cap and apron snowy white, her rosy face calm, her hands busy with her knitting. Around the walls, in various postures of defence, were three children. Though they had grown considerably, I recognised these as the offspring of Evelyn and Walter. Sitting bolt upright in the centre of the floor was a baby.
It was impossible to make out his features. All one could see was a great wide cavern of a mouth, framed in black hair. However, I had no doubt as to his identity.
‘There he is,’ Evelyn shouted, over the bellowing of this infantile volcano. ‘Only see how he has grown!’
Emerson gasped. ‘What the devil is the matter with him?’’
Hearing – how, I cannot imagine – a new voice, the infant stopped shrieking. The cessation of sound was so abrupt it left the ears ringing.
‘Nothing,’ Evelyn said calmly. ‘He is cutting teeth, and is sometimes a little cross.’
‘Cross?’ Emerson repeated incredulously.
I stepped into the room, followed by the others. The child stared at us. It sat foursquare on its bottom, its legs extended before it, and I was struck at once by its shape, which was virtually rectangular. Most babies, I had observed, tend to be spherical. This one had wide shoulders and a straight spine, no visible neck, and a face whose angularity not even baby fat could disguise. The eyes were not the pale ambiguous blue of a normal infant’s, but a dark, intense sapphire; they met mine with an almost adult calculation.
Emerson had begun circling cautiously to the left, rather as one approaches a growling dog. The child’s eyes swivelled suddenly in his direction. Emerson stopped. His face took on an imbecilic simper. He squatted. ‘Baby,’ he crooned. ‘Wawa. Papa’s widdle Wawa. Come to nice papa.’
‘For God’s sake, Emerson!’ I exclaimed.
The baby’s intense blue eyes turned to me. ‘I am your mother, Walter,’ I said, speaking slowly and distinctly. ‘Your mama. I don’t suppose you can say Mama.’
Without warning the child toppled forward. Emerson let out a cry of alarm, but his concern was unnecessary; the infant deftly got its four limbs under it and began crawling at an incredible speed, straight to me. It came to a stop at my feet, rocked back onto its haunches, and lifted its arms.
‘Mama,’ it said. Its ample mouth split into a smile that produced dimples in both cheeks and displayed three small white teeth. ‘Mama. Up. Up, up, up, up!’
Its voice rose in volume; the final UP made the windows rattle. I stooped hastily and seized the creature. It was surprisingly heavy. It flung its arms around my neck and buried its face against my shoulder. ‘Mama,’ it said, in a muffled voice.
For some reason, probably because the child’s grip was so tight, I was unable to speak for a few moments.
‘He is very precocious,’ Evelyn said, as proudly as if the child had been her own. ‘Most children don’t speak properly until they are a year old, but this young man already has quite a vocabulary. I have shown him your photographs every day and told him whom they represented.’
Emerson stood by me staring, with a singularly hangdog look. The infant released its stranglehold, glanced at its father, and – with what I can only regard, in the light of later experience, as cold-blooded calculation – tore itself from my arms and launched itself through the air toward my husband.
‘Papa,’ it said.
Emerson caught it. For a moment they regarded one another with virtually identical foolish grins. Then he flung it into the air. It shrieked with delight, so he tossed it up again. Evelyn remonstrated as, in the exuberance of its father’s greeting, the child’s head grazed the ceiling. I said nothing. I knew, with a strange sense of foreboding, that a war had begun – a lifelong battle, in which I was doomed to be the loser.
It was Emerson who gave the baby its nickname. He said that in its belligerent appearance and imperious disposition it strongly resembled the Egyptian pharaoh, the second of that name, who had scattered enormous statues of himself all along the Nile. I had to admit the resemblance. Certainly the child was not at all like its namesake, Emerson’s brother, who is a gentle, soft-spoken man.
Though Evelyn and Walter both pressed us to stay with them, we decided to take a house of our own for the summer. It was apparent that the younger Emersons’ children went in terror of their cousin. They were no match for the tempestuous temper and violent demonstrations of affection to which Ramses was prone. As we discovered, he was extremely intelligent. His physical abilities matched his mental powers. He could crawl at an astonishing speed at eight months. When, at ten months, he decided to learn to walk he was unsteady on his feet for a few days; and at one time he had bruises on the end of his nose, his forehead, and his chin, for Ramses did nothing by halves – he fell and rose to fall again. He soon mastered the skill, however, and after that he was never still except when someone was holding him. By this time he was talking quite fluently, except for an annoying tendency to lisp, which I attributed to the unusual size of his front teeth, an inheritance from his father. He inherited from the same source a quality which I hesitate to characterise, there being no word in the English language strong enough to do it justice. ‘Bullheaded’ is short of the mark by quite a distance.
Emerson was, from the first, quite besotted with the creature. He took it for long walks and read to it by the hour, not only from Peter Rabbit and other childhood tales, but from excavation reports and his own History of Ancient Egypt, which he was composing. To see Ramses, at fourteen months, wrinkling his brows over a sentence like ‘The theology of the Egyptians was a compound of fetishism, totemism and syncretism’ was a sight as terrifying as it was comical. Even more terrifying was the occasional thoughtful nod the child would give.
After a time I stopped thinking of Ramses as ‘it’. His masculinity was only too apparent. As the summer drew to a close I went, one day, to the estate agents and told them we would keep the house for another year. Shortly thereafter Emerson informed me that he had accepted a position as lecturer at the University of London.
There was never any need to discuss the subject. It was evident that we could not take a young child into the unhealthy climate of an archaeological camp; and it was equally obvious that Emerson could not bear to be parted from the boy. My own feelings? They are quite irrelevant. The decision was the only sensible solution, and I am always sensible.
So, four years later, we were still vegetating in Kent. We had decided to buy the house. It was a pleasant old place, Georgian in style, with ample grounds nicely planted – except for the areas where the dogs and Ramses excavated. I had no trouble keeping ahead of the dogs, but it was a running battle to plant things faster than Ramses dug them up. I believe many children enjoy digging in the mud, but Ramses’ preoccupation with holes in the ground became absolutely ridiculous. It was all Emerson’s fault. Mistaking a love of dirt for a budding talent for excavation, he encouraged the child.
Emerson never admitted that he missed the old life. He had made a successful career lecturing and writing; but now and then I would detect a wistful note in his voice as he read from the Times or the Illustrated London News about new discoveries in the Middle East. To such had we fallen – reading the ILN over tea, and bickering about trivia with county neighbours – we, who had camped in a cave in the Egyptian hills and restored the capital city of a pharaoh!
On that fateful afternoon – whose significance I was not to appreciate until much later – I prepared myself for the sacrifice. I wore my best grey silk. It was a gown Emerson detested because he said it made me look like a respectable English matron – one of the worst insults in his vocabulary. I decided that if Emerson disapproved, Lady Carrington would probably consider the gown suitable. I even allowed Smythe, my maid, to arrange my hair. The ridiculous woman was always trying to fuss over my personal appearance. I seldom allowed her to do more than was absolutely necessary, having neither the time nor the patience for prolonged primping. On this occasion Smythe took full advantage. If I had not had a newspaper to read while she pulled and tugged at my hair and ran pins into my head, I would have screamed with boredom.
Finally she said sharply, ‘With all respect, madam, I cannot do this properly while you are waving that paper about. Will it please you to put it down?’
It did not please me. But time was getting on, and the newspaper story I had been reading – of which more in due course – only made me more discontented with the prospect before me. I therefore abandoned the Times and meekly submitted to Smythe’s torture.
When she had finished the two of us stared at my reflection in the mirror with countenances that displayed our feelings – Smythe’s beaming with triumph, mine the gloomy mask of one who had learned to accept the inevitable gracefully.
My stays were too tight and my new shoes pinched. I creaked downstairs to inspect the drawing room.
The room was so neat and tidy it made me feel quite depressed. The newspapers and books and periodicals that normally covered most of the flat surfaces had been cleared away. Emerson’s prehistoric pots had been removed from the mantel and the what-not. A gleaming silver tea service had replaced Ramses’ toys on the tea cart. A bright fire on the hearth helped to dispel the gloom of the grey skies without, but it did very little for the inner gloom that filled me. I do not allow myself to repine about what cannot be helped; but I remembered earlier Decembers, under the cloudless blue skies and brilliant sun of Egypt.
As I stood morosely contemplating the destruction of our cheerful domestic clutter, and recalling better days, I heard the sound of wheels on the gravel of the drive. The first guest had arrived. Gathering the robes of my martyrdom about me, I made ready to receive her.
There is no point in describing the tea party. It is not a memory I enjoy recalling and, thank heaven, subsequent events made Lady Carrington’s attitude quite unimportant. She is not the most stupid person I have ever met; that distinction must go to her husband; but she combines malice and stupidity to a degree I had not encountered until that time.
Remarks such as, ‘My dear, what a charming frock! I remember admiring that style when it first came out, two years ago,’ were wasted on me, for I am unmoved by insult. What did move me, to considerable vexation, was Lady Carrington’s assumption that my invitation to tea signified apology and capitulation. This assumption was apparent in every condescending word she said and in every expression that passed across her fat, coarse, common face.
But I perceive, with surprise, that I am becoming angry all over again. How foolish, and what a waste of time! Let me say no more – except to admit that I derived an unworthy satisfaction in beholding Lady Carrington’s ill-concealed envy of the neatness of the room, the excellence of the food, and the smart efficiency with which butler, footman, and parlourmaid served us. Rose, my parlourmaid, is always efficient, but on this occasion she outdid herself. Her apron was so starched it could have stood by itself, her cap ribbons fairly snapped as she moved. I recalled having heard that Lady Carrington had a hard time keeping servants because of her parsimony and vicious tongue. Rose’s younger sister had been employed by her… briefly.
Except for that minor triumph, for which I can claim no credit, the meeting was an unmitigated bore. The other ladies whom I had invited, in order to conceal my true motives, were all followers of Lady Carrington; they did nothing but titter and nod at her idiotic remarks. An hour passed with stupefying slowness. It was clear that my mission was doomed to failure; Lady Carrington would do nothing to accommodate me. I was beginning to wonder what would happen if I simply rose and left the room, when an interruption occurred to save me from that expedient.
I had – I fondly believed – convinced Ramses to remain quietly in the nursery that afternoon. I had accomplished this by bribery and corruption, promising him a visit to the sweetshop in the village on the following day. Ramses could consume enormous quantities of sweets without the slightest inconvenience to his appetite or digestive apparatus. Unfortunately his desire for sweets was not as strong as his lust for learning – or mud, as the case may be. As I watched Lady Carrington devour the last of the frosted cakes I heard stifled outcries from the hall. They were followed by a crash – my favourite Ming vase, as I later learned. Then the drawing-room doors burst open and a dripping, muddy, miniature scarecrow rushed in.
It cannot be said that the child’s feet left muddy prints. No; an unbroken stream of liquid filth marked his path, pouring from his person, his garments, and the unspeakable object he was flourishing. He slid to a stop before me and deposited this object in my lap. The stench that arose from it made its origin only too clear. Ramses had been rooting in the compost heap again.
I am actually rather fond of my son. Without displaying the fatuous adoration characteristic of his father, I may say that I have a certain affection for the boy. At that moment I wanted to take the little monster by the collar and shake him until his face turned blue.
Constrained, by the presence of the ladies, from this natural maternal impulse, I said quietly, ‘Ramses, take the bone from Mama’s good frock and return it to the compost heap.’
Ramses put his head on one side and studied his bone with a thoughtful frown. ‘I fink,’ he said, ‘it is a femuw. A femuw of a winocowus.’
‘There are no rhinoceroses in England,’ I pointed out.
‘A a-stinct winocowus,’ said Ramses.
A peculiar wheezing sound from the direction of the doorway made me look in that direction in time to see Wilkins clap his hands to his mouth and turn suddenly away. Wilkins is a most dignified man, a butler among butlers, but I had once or twice observed that there were traces of a sense of humour beneath his stately exterior. On this occasion I was forced to share his amusement.
‘The word is not ill chosen,’ I said, pinching my nostrils together with my fingers, and wondering how I could remove the boy without further damage to my drawing room. Summoning a footman to take him away was out of the question; he was an agile child, and his coating of mud made him as slippery as a frog. In his efforts to elude pursuit he would leave tracks across the carpet, the furniture, the walls, the ladies’ frocks….
‘A splendid bone,’ I said, without even trying to resist the temptation. ‘You must wash it before you show it to Papa. But first, perhaps Lady Carrington would like to see it.’
With a sweeping gesture, I indicated the lady.
If she had not been so stupid, she might have thought of a way of diverting Ramses. If she had not been so fat, she might have moved out of the way. As it was, all she could do was billow and shriek and sputter. Her efforts to dislodge the nasty thing (it was very nasty, I must admit) were in vain; it lodged in a fold of her voluminous skirt and stayed there.
Ramses was highly affronted at this unappreciative reception of his treasure.
‘You will dwop it and bweak it,’ he exclaimed. ‘Give it back to me.’
In his efforts to retrieve the bone he dragged it across several more square yards of Lady Carrington’s enormous lap. Clutching it to his small bosom, he gave her a look of hurt reproach before trotting out of the room.
I will draw a veil over the events that followed. I derive an unworthy satisfaction from the memory, even now; it is not proper to encourage such thoughts.
I stood by the window watching the carriages splash away and humming quietly to myself while Rose dealt with the tea-things and the trail of mud left by Ramses.
‘You had better bring fresh tea, Rose,’ I said. ‘Professor Emerson will be here shortly.’
‘Yes, madam. I hope, madam, that all was satisfactory.’
‘Oh, yes indeed. It could not have been more satisfactory.’
‘I am glad to hear it, madam.’
‘I am sure you are. Now, Rose, you are not to give Master Ramses any extra treats.’
‘Certainly not, madam.’ Rose looked shocked.
I meant to change my frock before Emerson got home, but he was early that evening. As usual, he carried an armful of books and papers, which he flung helter-skelter onto the sofa. Turning to the fire, he rubbed his hands briskly together.
‘Frightful climate,’ he grumbled. ‘Wretched day. Why are you wearing that hideous dress?’
Emerson has never learned to wipe his feet at the door. I looked at the prints his boots had left on the freshly cleaned floor. Then I looked at him, and the reproaches I had meant to utter died on my lips.
He had not changed physically in the years since we were wed. His hair was as thick and black and unruly as ever, his shoulders as broad, his body as straight. When I had first met him, he had worn a beard. He was now clean-shaven, at my request, and this was a considerable concession on his part, for Emerson particularly dislikes the deep cleft, or dimple, in his prominent chin. I myself approve of this little flaw; it is the only whimsical touch in an otherwise forbiddingly rugged physiognomy.
On that day his looks, manners, and speech were as usual. Yet there was something in his eyes…. I had seen the look before; it was more noticeable now. So I said nothing about his muddy feet.
‘I entertained Lady Carrington this afternoon,’ I said in answer to his question. ‘Hence the dress. Have you had a pleasant day?’
‘No.’
‘Neither have I.’
‘Serves you right,’ said my husband. ‘I told you not to do it. Where the devil is Rose? I want my tea.’
Rose duly appeared, with the tea tray. I meditated, sadly, on the tragedy of Emerson, querulously demanding tea and complaining about the weather, like any ordinary Englishman. As soon as the door had closed behind the parlourmaid, Emerson came to me and took me in his arms.
After an interval he held me out at arm’s length and looked at me questioningly. His nose wrinkled.
I was about to explain the smell when he said, in a low, hoarse voice, ‘You are particularly attractive tonight, Peabody, in spite of that frightful frock. Don’t you want to change? I will go up with you, and – ’
‘What is the matter with you?’ I demanded, as he… Never mind what he did, it prevented him from speaking and made it rather difficult for me to speak evenly. ‘I certainly don’t feel attractive, and I smell like mouldy bone. Ramses has been excavating in the compost heap again.’
‘Mmmm,’ said Emerson. ‘My darling Peabody…’
Peabody is my maiden name. When Emerson and I first met, we did not hit it off. He took to calling me Peabody, as he would have addressed another man, as a sign of annoyance. It had now become a sign of something else, recalling those first wonderful days of our acquaintance when we had bickered and sneered at one another.
Yielding with pleasure to his embraces, I nevertheless felt sad, for I knew why he was so demonstrative. The smell of Ramses’ bone had taken him back to our romantic courtship, in the unsanitary tombs of El Amarna.
I left off feeling sad before long and was about to accede to his request that we adjourn to our room, but we had delayed too long. The evening routine was set and established; we were always given a decent interval alone after Emerson arrived, then Ramses was permitted to come in to greet his papa and take tea with us. On that evening the child was anxious to show off his bone, so perhaps he came early, It certainly seemed too early to me, and even Emerson, his arm still around my waist, greeted the boy with less than his usual enthusiasm.
A pretty domestic scene ensued. Emerson took his son, and the bone, onto his knee, and I seated myself behind the teapot. After dispensing a cup of the genial beverage to my husband and a handful of cakes to my son, I reached for the newspapers, while Emerson and Ramses argued about the bone. It was a femur – Ramses was uncannily accurate about such things – but Emerson claimed that the bone had once belonged to a horse. Ramses differed. Rhinoceroses having been eliminated, he suggested a dragon or a giraffe.
The newspaper story for which I searched was no longer on the front page, though it had occupied this position for some time. I think I can do no better than relate what I then knew of the case, as if I were beginning a work of fiction; for indeed, if the story had not appeared in the respectable pages of the Times, I would have thought it one of the ingenious inventions of Herr Ebers or Mr Rider Haggard – to whose romances, I must confess, I was addicted. Therefore, be patient, dear reader, if we begin with a sober narrative of facts. They are necessary to your understanding of later developments; and I promise you we will have sensations enough in due course.
Lord Henry Baskerville (of the Norfolk Baskervilles, not the Devonshire branch of the family), having suffered a severe illness, had been advised by his physician to spend a winter in the salubrious climate of Egypt. Neither the excellent man of medicine nor his wealthy patient could have anticipated the far-reaching consequences of this advice; for Lord Baskerville’s first glimpse of the majestic features of the Sphinx inspired in his bosom a passionate interest in Egyptian antiquities, which was to rule him for the remainder of his life.
After excavating at Abydos and Denderah, Lord Baskerville finally obtained a firman to excavate in what is perhaps the most romantic of all Egyptian archaeological sites – the Valley of the Kings at Thebes. Here the god-kings of imperial Egypt were laid to rest with the pomp and majesty befitting their high estate. Their mummies enclosed in golden coffins and adorned with jewel-encrusted amulets, they hoped in the secrecy of their rock-cut tombs, deep in the bowels of the Theban hills, to escape the dreadful fate that had befallen their ancestors. For by the time of the Empire the pyramids of earlier rulers already gaped open and desolate, the royal bodies destroyed and their treasures dispersed. Alas for human vanity! The mighty pharaohs of the later period were no more immune to the depredations of tomb robbers than their ancestors had been. Every royal tomb found in the Valley had been despoiled. Treasures, jewels, and kingly mummies had vanished. It was assumed that the ancient tomb robbers had destroyed what they could not steal, until that astonishing day in July of 1881, when a group of modern thieves led Emil Brugsch, of the Cairo Museum, to a remote valley in the Theban mountains. The thieves, men from the village of Gurneh, had discovered what archaeologists had missed – the last resting place of Egypt’s mightiest kings, queens, and royal children, hidden away in the days of the nation’s decline by a group of loyal priests.
Not all the kings of the Empire were found in the thieves’ cache, nor had all their tombs been identified. Lord Baskerville believed that the barren cliffs of the Valley still hid kingly tombs – even, perhaps, a tomb that had never been robbed. One frustration followed another, but he never abandoned his quest. Determined to dedicate his life to it, he built a house on the West Bank, half winter home, half working quarters for his archaeological staff. To this lovely spot he brought his bride, a beautiful young woman who had nursed him through a bout of pneumonia brought on by his return to England’s damp spring climate.
The story of this romantic courtship and marriage, with its Cinderella aspect – for the new Lady Baskerville was a young lady of no fortune and insignificant family – had been prominently featured in the newspapers at the time. This event occurred before my own interest in Egypt developed, but naturally I had heard of Lord Baskerville; his name was known to every Egyptologist. Emerson had nothing good to say about him, but then Emerson did not approve of any other archaeologists, amateur or professional. In accusing Lord Baskerville of being an amateur he did the gentleman less than justice, for his lordship never attempted to direct the excavations; he always employed a professional scholar for that work.
In September of this year Lord Baskerville had gone to Luxor as usual, accompanied by Lady Baskerville and Mr Alan Armadale, the archaeologist in charge. Their purpose during this season was to begin work on an area in the centre of the Valley, near the tombs of Ramses II and Merenptah, which had been cleared by Lepsius in 1844. Lord Baskerville thought that the rubbish dumps thrown up by that expedition had perhaps covered the hidden entrances to other tombs. It was his intention to clear the ground down to bedrock to make sure nothing had been overlooked. And indeed, scarcely had the men been at work for three days when their spades uncovered the first of a series of steps cut into the rock.
(Are you yawning, gentle reader? If you are, it is because you know nothing of archaeology. Rock-cut steps in the Valley of the Kings could signify only one thing – the entrance to a tomb.)
The stairway went down into the rock at a steep angle. It had been completely filled with rock and rubble. By the following afternoon the men had cleared this away, exposing the upper portion of a doorway blocked with heavy stone slabs. Stamped into the mortar were the unbroken seals of the royal necropolis. Note that word, oh, reader – that word so simple and yet so fraught with meaning. Unbroken seals implied that the tomb had not been opened since the day when it was solemnly closed by the priests of the funerary cult.
Lord Baskerville, as his intimates were to testify, was a man of singularly phlegmatic temperament, even for a British nobleman. The only sign of excitement he displayed was a muttered, ‘By Jove’, as he stroked his wispy beard. Others were not so blasé. The news reached the press and was duly published.
In accordance with the terms of his firman, Lord Baskerville notified the Department of Antiquities of his find; when he descended the dusty steps a second time he was accompanied by a distinguished group of archaeologists and officials. A fence had been hastily erected to hold back the crowd of sightseers, journalists, and natives, the latter picturesque in their long flapping robes and white turbans. Among the latter group one face stood out – that of Mohammed Abd er Rasul, one of the discoverers of the cache of royal mummies, who had betrayed the find (and his brothers) to the authorities and had been rewarded by a position in the Antiquities Department. Onlookers remarked on the profound chagrin of his expression and the gloomy looks of other members of the family. For once, the foreigners had stolen a march on them and deprived them of a potential source of income.
Though he had recovered from the illness that had brought him to Egypt and was (as his physician was later to report) in perfect health, Lord Baskerville’s physique was not impressive. A photograph taken of him on that eventful day portrays a tall, stoop-shouldered man whose hair appears to have slid down off his head and adhered somewhat erratically to his cheeks and chin. Of manual dexterity he had none; and those who knew him well moved unobtrusively to the rear as he placed a chisel in position against the stone barricade and raised his hammer. The British consul did not know him well. The first chip of rock hit this unlucky gentleman full on the nose. Apologies and first aid followed. Now surrounded by a wide empty space, Lord Baskerville prepared to strike again. Scarcely had he raised the hammer when, from among the crowd of watching Egyptians, came a long ululating howl.
The import of the cry was understood by all who heard it. In such fashion do the followers of Mohammed mourn their dead.
There was a moment’s pause. Then the voice rose again. It cried (I translate, of course): ‘Desecration! Desecration! May the curse of the gods fall on him who disturbs the king’s eternal rest!’
Startled by this remark, Lord Baskerville missed the chisel and hit himself on the thumb. Such misadventures do not improve the temper. Lord Baskerville may be excused for losing his. In a savage voice he instructed Armadale, standing behind him, to capture the prophet of doom and give him a good thrashing. Armadale was willing; but as he approached the milling crowd the orator wisely ceased his cries and thereby became anonymous, for his friends all denied any knowledge of his identity.
It was a trivial incident, soon forgotten by everyone except Lord Baskerville, whose thumb was badly bruised. At least the injury gave him an excuse to surrender his tools to someone who was able to use them more effectively. Mr Alan Armadale, a young, vigorous man, seized the implements. A few skilful blows opened an aperture wide enough to admit a light. Armadale then respectfully stepped back, allowing his patron the honour of the first look.
It was a day of misadventures for poor Lord Baskerville. Seizing a candle, he eagerly thrust his arm through the gaping hole. His fist encountered a hard surface with such force that he dropped the candle and withdrew a hand from which a considerable amount of skin had been scraped.
Investigation showed that the space beyond the door was completely filled with rubble. This was not surprising, since the Egyptians commonly used such devices to discourage tomb robbers; but the effect was distinctly anticlimactic, and the audience dispersed with disappointed murmurs, leaving Lord Baskerville to nurse his barked knuckles and contemplate a long, tedious job. If this tomb followed the plans of those already known, a passageway of unknown length would have to be cleared before the burial chamber was reached. Some tombs had entrance passages over a hundred feet long.
Yet the fact that the corridor was blocked made the discovery appear even more promising than before. The Times gave the story a full column, on page three. The next dispatch to come from Luxor, however, rated front-page headlines.
Lord Henry Baskerville was dead. He had retired in perfect health (except for his thumb and his knuckles). He was found next morning stiff and stark in his bed. On his face was a look of ghastly horror. On his high brow, inscribed in what appeared to be dried blood, was a crudely drawn uraeus serpent, the symbol of the divine pharaoh.
The ‘blood’ turned out to be red paint. Even so, the news was sensational, and it became even more sensational after a medical examination failed to discover the cause of Lord Baskerville’s death.
Cases of seemingly healthy persons who succumb to the sudden failure of a vital organ are certainly not unknown, nor, contrary to writers of thrillers, are they always due to the administration of mysterious poisons. If Lord Baskerville had died in his bed at Baskerville Hall, the physicians would have stroked their beards and concealed their ignorance in meaningless medical mumbo-jumbo. Even under these circumstances the story would have died a natural death (as Lord Baskerville was presumed to have done) had not an enterprising reporter from one of our less reputable newspapers remembered the unknown prophet’s curse. The story in the Times was what one might expect of that dignified journal, but the other newspapers were less restrained. Their columns bristled with references to avenging spirits, cryptic antique curses, and unholy rites. But this sensation paled into insignificance two days later, when it was discovered that Mr Alan Armadale, Lord Baskerville’s assistant, had disappeared – vanished, as the Daily Yell put it, off the face of the earth!
By this time I was snatching the newspapers from Emerson each evening when he came home. Naturally I did not believe for an instant in the absurd tales of curses or supernatural doom, and when the news of young Armadale’s disappearance became known I felt sure I had the answer to the mystery.
‘Armadale is the murderer,’ I exclaimed to Emerson, who was on his hands and knees playing horsie with Ramses.
Emerson let out a grunt as his son’s heels dug into his ribs. When he got his breath back he said irritably, ‘What do you mean, talking about “the murderer” in that self-assured way? No murder was committed. Baskerville died of a heart condition or some such thing; he was always a feeble sort of fellow. Armadale is probably forgetting his troubles in a tavern. He has lost his position and will not easily find another patron so late in the season.’
I made no reply to this ridiculous suggestion. Time, I knew, would prove me right, and until it did I saw no sense in wasting my breath arguing with Emerson, who is the stubbornest of men.
During the following week one of the gentlemen who had been present at the official opening of the tomb came down with a bad attack of fever, and a workman fell off a pylon at Karnak, breaking his neck. ‘The Curse is still operating,’ exclaimed the Daily Yell. ‘Who will be next?’
After the demise of the man who tumbled off the pylon (where he had been chiselling out a section of carving to sell to the illicit antiquities dealers), his fellows refused to go near the tomb. Work had come to a standstill after Lord Baskerville’s death; now there seemed no prospect of renewing it. So matters stood on that cold, rainy evening after my disastrous tea party. For the past few days the Baskerville story had more or less subsided, despite the efforts of the Daily Yell to keep it alive by attributing every hangnail and stubbed toe in Luxor to the operation of the curse. No trace of the unfortunate (or guilty) Armadale had been found; Lord Henry Baskerville had been laid to rest among his forebears; and the tomb remained locked and barred.
I confess the tomb was my chief concern. Locks and bars were all very well, but neither would avail for long against the master thieves of Gurneh. The discovery of the sepulchre had been a blow to the professional pride of these gentlemen, who fancied themselves far more adept at locating the treasures of their ancestors than the foreign excavators; and indeed, over the centuries they had proved to be exceedingly skilful at their dubious trade, whether by practice or by heredity I would hesitate to say. Now that the tomb had been located they would soon be at work.
So, while Emerson argued zoology with Ramses, and the sleety rain hissed against the windows, I opened the newspaper. Since the beginning of l’affaire Baskerville, Emerson had been buying the Yell as well as the Times, remarking that the contrast in journalistic styles was a fascinating study in human nature. This was only an excuse; the Yell was much more entertaining to read. I therefore turned at once to this newspaper, noting that, to judge by certain creases and folds, I was not the first to peruse that particular article. It bore the title ‘Lady Baskerville vows the work must go on.’
The journalist – ‘Our Correspondent in Luxor’ – wrote with considerable feeling and many adjectives about the lady’s ‘delicate lips, curved like a Cupid’s bow, which quivered with emotion as she spoke’ and ‘her tinted face which bore stamped upon it a deep acquaintance with grief.’
‘Bah,’ I said, after several paragraphs of this. ‘What drivel. I must say, Emerson, Lady Baskerville sounds like a perfect idiot. Listen to this. “I can think of no more fitting monument to my lost darling than the pursuit of that great cause for which he gave his life.” Lost darling, indeed!’
Emerson did not reply. Squatting on the floor, with Ramses between his knees, he was turning the pages of a large illustrated volume on zoology, trying to convince the boy that his bone did not match that of a zebra – for Ramses had retreated from giraffes to that slightly less exotic beast. Unfortunately a zebra is rather like a horse, and the example Emerson found bore a striking resemblance to the bone Ramses was flourishing. The child let out a malevolent chuckle and remarked, ‘I was wight, you see. It is a zebwa.’
‘Have another cake,’ said his father.
‘Armadale is still missing,’ I continued. ‘I told you he was the murderer.’
‘Bah,’ said Emerson. ‘He will turn up eventually. There has been no murder.’
‘You can hardly believe he has been drunk for a fortnight,’ I said.
‘I have known men to remain drunk for considerably longer periods,’ said Emerson.
‘If Armadale had met with an accident he, or his remains, would have been found by now. The Theban area has been combed – ’
‘It is impossible to search the western mountains thoroughly,’ Emerson snapped. ‘You know what they are like – jagged cliffs cut by hundreds of gullies and ravines.’
‘Then you believe he is out there somewhere?’
‘I do. It would be a tragic coincidence, certainly, if he met with a fatal accident so soon after Lord Baskerville’s death; the newspapers would certainly set up a renewed howl about curses. But such coincidences do happen, especially if a man is distracted by – ’
‘He is probably in Algeria by now,’ I said.
‘Algeria! Why there, for heaven’s sake?’
‘The Foreign Legion. They say it is full of murderers and criminals attempting to escape justice.’
Emerson got to his feet. I was pleased to observe that his eyes had lost their melancholy look and were blazing with temper. I noted, as well, that four years of relative inactivity had not robbed his form of its strength and vigour. He had removed his coat and starched collar preparatory to playing with the boy, and his dishevelled appearance irresistibly recalled the unkempt individual who had first captured my heart. I decided that if we went straight upstairs there might be time, before we changed for dinner –
‘It is time for bed, Ramses, Nurse will be waiting,’ I said. ‘You may take the last cake with you.’
Ramses gave me a long, considering look. He then turned to his father, who said cravenly, ‘Run along, my boy. Papa will read you an extra chapter from his History of Egypt when you are tucked in your cot.’
‘Vewy well,’ said Ramses. He nodded at me in a manner reminiscent of the regal condescension of his namesake. ‘You will come and say good night, Mama?’
‘I always do,’ I said.
When he had left the room, taking not only the last cake but the book on zoology, Emerson began pacing up and down.
‘I suppose you want another cup of tea,’ I said.
When I really supposed was that since I had suggested the tea, he would say he did not want it. Like all men, Emerson is very susceptible to the cruder forms of manipulation. Instead he said gruffly, ‘I want a whisky and soda.’
Emerson seldom imbibes. Trying to conceal my concern, I enquired, ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Not something. Everything. You know, Amelia.’
‘Were your students unusually dense today?’
‘Not at all. It would be impossible for them to be duller than they normally are. I suppose it is all this talk in the newspapers about Luxor that makes me restless.’
‘I understand.’
‘Of course you do. You suffer from the same malaise – suffer even more than I, who am at least allowed to hover on the fringes of the profession we both love. I am like a child pressing its nose against the window of the toy shop, but you are not even permitted to walk by the place.’
This flight of fancy was so pathetic, and so unlike Emerson’s usual style of speaking, that it was with difficulty that I prevented myself from flinging my arms about him. However, he did not want sympathy. He wanted an alleviation of his boredom, and that I could not provide. In some bitterness of spirit I said, ‘And I have failed to obtain even a poor substitute for your beloved excavations. After today, Lady Harold will take the greatest pleasure in thwarting any request we might make. It is my fault; I lost my temper.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Peabody,’ Emerson growled. ‘No one could make an impression on the solid stupidity of that woman and her husband. I told you not to attempt it.’
This touching and magnanimous speech brought tears to my eyes. Seeing my emotion, Emerson added, ‘You had better join me in a little spirituous consolation. As a general rule I do not approve of drowning one’s sorrows, but today has been a trial for both of us.’
As I took the glass he handed me I thought how shocked Lady Carrington would have been at this further evidence of unwomanly habits. The fact is, I abominate sherry, and I like whisky and soda.
Emerson raised his glass. The corners of his mouth lifted in a valiant and sardonic smile. ‘Cheers, Peabody. We’ll weather this, as we have weathered other troubles.’
‘Certainly. Cheers, my dear Emerson.’
Solemnly, almost ritually, we drank.
‘Another year or two,’ I said, ‘and we might consider taking Ramses out with us. He is appallingly healthy; sometimes I feel that to match our son against the fleas and mosquitoes and fevers of Egypt is to place the country under an unfair disadvantage.’
This attempt at humour did not win a smile from my husband. He shook his head. ‘We cannot risk it.’
‘Well, but the boy must go away to school eventually,’ I argued.
‘I don’t see why. He is getting a better education from us than he could hope to obtain in one of those pestilential purgatories called preparatory schools. You know how I feel about them.’
‘There must be a few decent schools in the country.’
‘Bah.’ Emerson swallowed the remainder of his whisky. ‘Enough of this depressing subject. What do you say we go upstairs and – ’
He stretched out his hand to me. I was about to take it when the door opened and Wilkins made his appearance. Emerson reacts very poorly to being interrupted when he is in a romantic mood. He turned to the butler and shouted, ‘Curse it, Wilkins, how dare you barge in here? What is it you want?’
None of our servants is at all intimidated by Emerson. Those who survive the first few weeks of his bellowing and temper tantrums learn that he is the kindest of men. Wilkins said calmly, ‘I beg your pardon, sir. A lady is here to see you and Mrs Emerson.’
‘A lady?’ As is his habit when perplexed, Emerson fingered the dent in his chin. ‘Who the devil can that be?’’
A wild thought flashed through my mind. Had Lady Carrington returned, on vengeance bent? Was she even now in the hall carrying a basket of rotten eggs or a bowl of mud? But that was absurd, she would not have the imagination to think of such a thing.
‘Where is the lady?’ I inquired.
‘Waiting in the hall, madam. I attempted to show her into the small parlour, but – ’
Wilkins’ slight shrug and raised eyebrow finished the story. The lady had refused to be shown into the parlour. This suggested that she was in some urgency, and it also removed my hope of slipping upstairs to change.
‘Show her in, then, Wilkins, if you please,’ I said.
The lady’s urgency was even greater than I had supposed. Wilkins had barely time to step back out of the way before she entered; she was advancing toward us when he made the belated announcement: ‘Lady Baskerville’.
THE words fell on my ears with almost supernatural force. To see this unexpected visitor, when I had just been thinking and talking about her (and in no kindly terms) made me feel as if the figure now before us was no real woman, but the vision of a distracted mind.
And I must confess that most people would have considered her a vision indeed, a vision of Beauty posing for a portrait of Grief. From the crown of her head to her tiny slippers she was garbed in unrelieved black. How she had passed through the filthy weather without so much as a mud stain I could not imagine, but her shimmering satin skirts and filmy veils were spotless. A profusion of jet beads, sullenly gleaming, covered her bodice and trailed down the folds of her full skirt. The veils fell almost to her feet. The one designed to cover her face had been thrown back so that her pale, oval countenance was framed by the filmy puffs and folds. Her eyes were black; the brows lifted in a high curve that gave her a look of perpetual and innocent surprise. There was no colour in her cheeks, but her mouth was a full rich scarlet. The effect of this was startling in the extreme, one could not help thinking of the damnably lovely lamias and vampires of legend.
Also, one could not help thinking of one’s mud-stained, unbecoming gown, and wonder whether the aroma of whisky covered the smell of mouldy bone, or the reverse. Even I, who am not easily daunted, felt a pang of self-consciousness. I realised that I was trying to hide my glass, which was still half full, under a sofa cushion.
Though the pause of surprise – for Emerson, like myself, was gaping – seemed to last forever, I believe it was only a second or two before I regained my self-possession. Rising to my feet, I greeted our visitor, dismissed Wilkins, offered a chair and a cup of tea. The lady accepted the chair and refused the tea. I then expressed my condolences on her recent bereavement, adding that Lord Baskerville’s death was a great loss to our profession.
This statement jarred Emerson out of his stupor, as I had thought it might, but for once he showed a modicum of tact, instead of making a rude remark about Lord Baskerville’s inadequacies as an Egyptologist. Emerson saw no reason why anything, up to and including death, should excuse a man from poor scholarship.
However, he was not so tactful as to agree with my compliment or add one of his own. ‘Er – humph,’ he said. ‘Most unfortunate. Sorry to hear of it. What the deuce do you suppose has become of Armadale?’
‘Emerson,’ I exclaimed. ‘This is not the time – ’
‘Pray don’t apologise.’ The lady lifted a delicate white hand, adorned with a huge mourning ring made of braided hair – that of the late Lord Baskerville, I presumed. She turned a charming smile on my husband. ‘I know Radcliffe’s good heart too well to be deceived by his gruff manner.’
Radcliffe indeed! I particularly dislike my husband’s first name. I was under the impression that he did also. Instead of expressing disapproval he simpered like a schoolboy.
‘I was unaware that you two were previously acquainted,’ I said, finally managing to dispose of my glass of whisky behind a bowl of potpourri.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Lady Baskerville, while Emerson continued to grin foolishly at her. ‘We have not met for several years; but in the early days, when we were all young and ardent – ardent about Egypt, I mean – we were well acquainted. I was hardly more than a bride – too young, I fear, but my dear Henry quite swept me off my feet.’
She dabbed at her eyes with a black-bordered kerchief.
‘There, there,’ said Emerson, in the voice he sometimes uses with Ramses. ‘You must not give way. Time will heal your grief.’
This from a man who curled up like a hedgehog when forced into what he called society, and who never in his life had been known to utter a polite cliché! He began sidling toward her. In another moment he would pat her on the shoulder.
‘How true,’ I said. ‘Lady Baskerville, the weather is inclement, and you seem very tired. I hope you will join us for dinner, which will be served shortly.’
‘You are very kind.’ Lady Baskerville removed her handkerchief from her eyes, which appeared to be perfectly dry, and bared her teeth at me. ‘I would not dream of such an intrusion. I am staying with friends in the neighbourhood, who are expecting me back this evening. Indeed, I would not have come so unceremoniously, unexpected and uninvited, if I had not had an urgent matter to put before you. I am here on business.’
‘Indeed,’ I said.
‘Indeed?’ Emerson’s echo held a questioning note; but in fact I had already deduced the nature of the lady’s business. Emerson calls this jumping to conclusions. I call it simple logic.
‘Yes,’ said Lady Baskerville. ‘And I will come to the point at once, rather than keep you any longer from your domestic comforts. I gather, from your question about poor Alan, that you are au courant about the situation in Luxor?’
‘We have followed it with interest,’ Emerson said.
‘We?’ The lady’s glowing black eyes turned to me with an expression of curiosity. ‘Ah, yes, I believe I did hear that Mrs Emerson takes an interest in archaeology. So much the better; I will not bore her if I introduce the subject.’
I retrieved my glass of whisky from behind the potpourri. ‘No, you will not bore me,’ I said.
‘You are too good. To answer your question, then, Radcliffe: no trace has been found of poor Alan. The situation is swathed in darkness and in mystery. When I think of it I am overcome.’
Again the dainty handkerchief came into play. Emerson made clucking noises. I said nothing, but drank my whisky in ladylike silence.
At last Lady Baskerville resumed. ‘I can do nothing about the mystery surrounding Alan’s disappearance; but I am in hopes of accomplishing something else, which may seem unimportant compared with the loss of human life, but which was vital to the interests of my poor lost husband. The tomb, Radcliffe – the tomb!’
Leaning forward, with clasped hands and parted lips, her bosom heaving, she fixed him with her great black eyes; and Emerson stared back, apparently mesmerised.
‘Yes, indeed,’ I said. ‘The tomb. We gather, Lady Baskerville, that work has come to a standstill. You know, of course, that sooner or later it will be robbed, and all your husband’s efforts wasted.’
‘Precisely!’ The lady turned the clasped hands, the lips, the bosom, et cetera, et cetera, on me. ‘How I do admire your logical, almost masculine, mind, Mrs Emerson. That is just what I was trying to express, in my poor silly way.’
‘I thought you were,’ I said. ‘What is it you want my husband to do?’
Thus directed, Lady Baskerville had to get to the point. How long she would have taken if she had been allowed to ramble on, heaven only knows.
‘Why, to take over the direction of the excavation,’ she said. ‘It must be carried on, and without delay. I honestly believe my darling Henry will not rest quietly in the tomb while this work, possibly the culmination of his splendid career, is in peril. It will be a fitting memorial to one of the finest – ’
‘Yes, you said that in your interview in the Yell,’ I interrupted. ‘But why come to us? Is there no scholar in Egypt who could take on the task?’
‘But I came first to you,’ she exclaimed. ‘I know Radcliffe would have been Henry’s first choice, as he is mine.’
She had not fallen into my trap. Nothing would have enraged Emerson so much as the admission that she had approached him only as a last resort. And, of course, she was quite correct; Emerson is the best.
‘Well, Emerson?’ I said. I confess, my heart was beating fast as I awaited his answer. A variety of emotions struggled for mastery within my breast. My feelings about Lady Baskerville have, I trust, been made plain; the notion of my husband spending the remainder of the winter with the lady was not pleasing to me. Yet, having beheld his anguish that very evening, I could not stand in his way if he decided to go.
Emerson stood staring at Lady Baskerville, his own feelings writ plainly across his face. His expression was that of a prisoner who had suddenly been offered a pardon after years of confinement. Then his shoulders sagged.
‘It is impossible,’ he said.
‘But why?’ Lady Baskerville asked. ‘My dear husband’s will specifically provides for the completion of any project that might have been in progress at the time of his demise. The staff – with the exception of Alan – is in Luxor, ready to continue. I confess that the workers have shown a singular reluctance to return to the tomb; they are poor, superstitious things, as you know – ’
‘That would present no problem,’ Emerson said, with a sweeping gesture. ‘No, Lady Baskerville; the difficulty is not in Egypt. It is here. We have a young child. We could not risk taking him to Luxor.’
There was a pause. Lady Baskerville’s arched brows rose still higher, she turned to me with a look that expressed the question she was too well bred to voice aloud. For really, the objection was, on the face of it, utterly trivial. Most men, given an opportunity such as the one she had offered, would coolly have disposed of half a dozen children, and the same number of wives, in order to accept. It was because this idea had, obviously, not even passed through Emerson’s mind that I was nerved to make the noblest gesture of my life.
‘Do not consider that, Emerson,’ I said. I had to pause, to clear my throat; but I went on with a firmness that, if I may say so, did me infinite credit. ‘Ramses and I will do very well here. We will write every day – ’
‘Write!’ Emerson spun around to face me, his blue eyes blazing, his brow deeply furrowed. An unwitting observer might have thought he was enraged. ‘What are you talking about? You know I won’t go without you.’
‘But – ’ I began, my heart overflowing.
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Peabody. It is out of the question.’
If I had not had other sources of deep satisfaction at that moment, the look on Lady Baskerville’s face would have been sufficient cause for rejoicing. Emerson’s response had taken her completely by surprise; and the astonishment with which she regarded me, as she tried to find some trace of the charms that made a man unwilling to be parted from me was indeed delightful to behold.
Recovering, she said hesitantly, ‘If there is any question of a proper establishment for the child – ’
‘No, no,’ said Emerson. ‘That is not the question. I am sorry, Lady Baskerville. What about Petrie?’
‘That dreadful man?’ Lady Baskerville shuddered. ‘Henry could not abide him – so rude, so opinionated, so vulgar.’
‘Naville, then.’
‘Henry had such a poor opinion of his abilities. Besides, I believe he is under obligation to the Egypt Exploration Fund.’
Emerson proposed a few more names. Each was unacceptable. Yet the lady continued to sit, and I wondered what new approach she was contemplating. I wished she would get on with it, or take her leave; I was very hungry, having had no appetite for tea.
Once again my aggravating but useful child rescued me from an unwelcome guest. Our good-night visits to Ramses were an invariable custom. Emerson read to him, and I had my part as well. We were late in coming, and patience is not a conspicuous virtue of Ramses. Having waited, as he thought, long enough, he came in search of us. How he eluded his nurse and the other servants on that particular occasion I do not know, but he had raised evasion to a fine art. The drawing-room doors burst open with such emphasis that one looked for a Herculean form in the doorway. Yet the sight of Ramses in his little white nightgown, his hair curling damply around his beaming face, was not anticlimactic; he looked positively angelic, requiring only wings to resemble one of Raphael’s swarthier cherubs.
He was carrying a large folder, clasping it to his infantile bosom with both arms. It was the manuscript of The History of Egypt. With his usual single-minded determination he gave the visitor only a glance before trotting over to his father.
‘You pwomised to wead to me,’ he said.
‘So I did, so I did.’ Emerson took the folder. ‘I will come soon, Ramses. Go back to Nurse.’
‘No,’ said Ramses calmly.
‘What a little angel,’ exclaimed Lady Baskerville.
I was about to counter this description with another, more accurate, when Ramses said sweetly, ‘And you are a pitty lady.’
Little did the lady know, as she smiled and blushed, that the apparent compliment was no more than a simple statement of fact, implying nothing of Ramses’ feelings of approval or disapproval. In fact, the slight curl of his juvenile lip as he looked at her, and the choice of the word ‘pretty’ rather than ‘beautiful’ (a distinction which Ramses understood perfectly well) made me suspect that, with that fine perception so surprising in a child of his age, which he has inherited from me, he held certain reservations about Lady Baskerville and would, if properly prompted, express them with his customary candour.
Unfortunately, before I could frame an appropriate cue, his father spoke, ordering him again to his nurse, and Ramses, with that chilling calculation that is such an integral part of his character, decided to make use of the visitor for his own purposes. Trotting quickly to her side, he put his finger in his mouth (a habit I broke him of early in his life) and stared at her.
‘Vewy pitty lady. Wamses stay wif you.’
‘Dreadful hypocrite,’ I said. ‘Begone.’
‘He is adorable,’ murmured Lady Baskerville. ‘Dear little one, the pretty lady must go away. She would stay if she could. Give me a kiss before I go.’
She made no attempt to lift him onto her lap, but bent over and offered a smooth white cheek. Ramses, visibly annoyed at his failure to win a reprieve from bed, planted a loud smacking kiss upon it, leaving a damp patch where once pearl powder had smoothly rested.
‘I will go now,’ Ramses announced, radiating offended dignity. ‘You come soon, Papa. You too, Mama. Give me my book.’
Meekly Emerson surrendered his manuscript and Ramses departed. Lady Baskerville rose.
‘I too must go to my proper place,’ she said, with a smile. ‘My heartfelt apologies for disturbing you.’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Emerson. ‘I am only sorry I was unable to be of help.’
‘I too. But I understand now. Having seen your darling child and met your charming wife – ’ Here she grinned at me, and I grinned back – ‘I comprehend why a man with such affable domestic ties would not wish to leave them for the danger and discomfort of Egypt. My dear Radcliffe, how thoroughly domesticated you have become! It is delightful! You are quite the family man! I am happy to see you settled down at last after those adventurous bachelor years. I don’t blame you in the least for refusing. Of course none of us believes in curses, or anything so foolish, but there is certainly something strange going on in Luxor, and only a reckless, bold, free spirit would face such dangers. Good-bye, Radcliffe – Mrs Emerson – such a pleasure to have met you – no, don’t see me out, I beg. I have troubled you enough.’
The change in her manner during this speech was remarkable. The soft murmuring voice became brisk and emphatic. She did not pause for breath, but shot out the sharp sentences like bullets. Emerson’s face reddened; he tried to speak, but was not given the opportunity. The lady glided from the room, her black veils billowing out like storm clouds.
‘Damn!’ said Emerson. He stamped his foot.
‘She was very impertinent,’ I agreed.
‘Impertinent? On the contrary, she tried to state the unpalatable facts as nicely as possible. “Quite the family man! Settled down at last!” Good Gad!’
‘Now you are talking just like a man,’ I began angrily.
‘How surprising! I am not a man, I am a domesticated old fogy, without the courage or the daring – ’
‘You are responding precisely as she hoped you would,’ I exclaimed. ‘Can’t you see that she chose every word with malicious deliberation? The only one she did not employ was – ’
‘Henpecked. True, very true. She was too courteous to say it.’
‘Oh, so you think you are henpecked, do you?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Emerson, with the complete lack of consistency the male sex usually exhibits during an argument. ‘Not that you don’t try – ’
‘And you try to bully me. If I were not such a strong character – ’
The drawing-room doors opened. ‘Dinner is served,’ said Wilkins.
‘Tell Cook to put it back a quarter of an hour,’ I said. ‘We had better tuck Ramses in first, Emerson.’
‘Yes, yes. I will read to him while you change that abominable frock. I refuse to dine with a woman who looks like an English matron and smells like a compost heap. How dare you say that I bully you?’
‘I said you tried. Neither you nor any other man will ever succeed.’
Wilkins stepped back as we approached the door.
‘Thank you, Wilkins,’ I said.
‘Certainly, madam.’
‘As for the charge of henpecking – ’
‘I beg your pardon, madam?’
‘I was speaking to Professor Emerson.’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘Henpecking was the word I used,’ snarled Emerson, allowed me to precede him up the stairs. ‘And henpecking was the word I meant.’
‘Then why don’t you accept the lady’s offer? I could see you were panting to do so. What a charming time you two could have, night after night, under the soft Egyptian moon – ’
‘Oh, don’t talk like a fool, Amelia. The poor woman won’t go back to Luxor; her memories would be too much to bear.’
‘Ha!’ I laughed sharply. ‘The naivety of men constantly astonishes me. Of course she will be back. Especially if you are there.’
‘I have no intention of going.’
‘No one is preventing you.’
We reached the top of the stairs. Emerson turned to the right, to continue up to the nursery. I wheeled left, toward our rooms.
‘You will be up shortly, then?’ he enquired.
‘Ten minutes.’
‘Very well, my dear.’
It required even less than ten minutes to rip the grey gown off and replace it with another. When I reached the night nursery the room was dark except for one lamp, by whose light Emerson sat reading. Ramses, in his crib, contemplated the ceiling with rapt attention. It made a pretty little family scene, until one heard what was being said.
‘… the anatomical details of the wounds, which included a large gash in the frontal bone, a broken malar bone and orbit, and a spear thrust which smashed off the mastoid process and struck the atlas vertebra, allow us to reconstruct the death scene of the king.’
‘Ah, the mummy of Seqenenre,’ I said. ‘Have you got as far as that?’
From the small figure on the cot came a reflective voice. ‘It appeaws to me that he was muwduwed.’
‘What?’ said Emerson, baffled by the last word.
‘Murdered,’ I interpreted. ‘I would have to agree, Ramses; a man whose skull has been smashed by repeated blows did not die a natural death.’
Sarcasm is wasted on Ramses. ‘I mean,’ he insisted, ‘that it was a domestic cwime.’
‘Out of the question,’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘Petrie has also put forth that absurd idea; it is impossible because – ’
‘Enough,’ I said. ‘It is late and Ramses should be asleep. Cook will be furious if we do not go down at once.’
‘Oh, very well.’ Emerson bent over the cot. ‘Good night, my boy.’
‘Good night, Papa. One of the ladies of the hawem did it, I think.’
I seized Emerson by the arm and pushed him toward the door, before he could pursue this interesting suggestion. After carrying out my part of the nightly ritual (a description of which would serve no useful purpose in the present narrative), I followed Emerson out.
‘Really,’ I said, as we went arm in arm along the corridor, ‘I wonder if Ramses is not too precocious. Does he know what a harem is, I wonder? And some people might feel that reading such a catalogue of horrors to a child at bedtime will not be good for his nerves.’
‘Ramses has nerves of steel. Rest assured he will sleep the sleep of the just and by breakfast time he will have his theory fully developed.’
‘Evelyn would be delighted to take him for the winter.’
‘Oh, so we are back to that, are we? What sort of unnatural mother are you, that you can contemplate abandoning your child?’
‘I must choose, it appears, between abandoning my child or my husband.’
‘False, utterly false. No one is going to abandon anyone.’
We took our places at the table. The footman, watched critically by Wilkins, brought on the first course.
‘Excellent soup,’ Emerson said, in a pleased voice. ‘Tell Cook, will you please, Wilkins?’
Wilkins inclined his head.
‘We are going to settle this once and for all,’ Emerson went on. ‘I refuse to have you nagging me for days to come.’
‘I never nag.’
‘No, because I don’t permit it. Get this straight, Amelia: I am not going to Egypt. I have refused Lady Baskerville’s offer, and do not mean to reconsider. Is that plain enough?’
‘You are making a grave mistake,’ I said. ‘I think you should go.’
‘I am well aware of your opinion. You express it often enough. Why can’t you allow me to make up my own mind?’
‘Because you are wrong.’
There is no need to repeat the remainder of the discussion. It continued throughout the meal, with Emerson appealing from time to time to Wilkins, or to John, the footman, to support a point he was trying to make. This made John, who had been with us only a few weeks, very nervous at first. Gradually, however, he became interested in the discussion and added comments of his own, ignoring the winks and frowns of Wilkins, who had long since learned how to deal with Emerson’s unconventional manners. To spare the butler’s feelings I said we would have coffee in the drawing room, and John was dismissed, though not before he had said earnestly, ‘You had better stay here, sir; them natives is strange people, and I’m sure, sir, we would all miss you if you was to go.’
Dismissing John did not dismiss the subject, for I stuck to it with my usual determination, despite Emerson’s efforts to introduce other topics of conversation. He finally flung his coffee cup into the fireplace with a shout of rage and stormed out of the drawing room. I followed.
When I reached our bedchamber, Emerson was undressing. Coat, tie, and collar were draped inappropriately over various articles of furniture, and buttons flew around the room like projectiles as he removed his shirt.
‘You had better purchase another dozen shirts the next time you are in Regent Street,’ I said, ducking as a button whizzed past my face. ‘You will need them if you are going abroad.’
Emerson whirled. For so burly and broad-chested a man he is surprisingly quick in his movements. In one stride he bridged the space between us. Taking me by the shoulders, he …
But here I must pause for a brief comment. Not an apologia – no, indeed! I have always felt that the present-day sanctimonious primness concerning the affection between the sexes, even between husband and wife – an affection sanctified by the Church and legalised by the Nation – is totally absurd. Why should a respectable, interesting activity be passed over by novelists who pretend to portray ‘real life’? Even more despicable, to my mind, are the circumlocutions practised by writers on this subject. Not for me the slippery suavity of French or the multi-syllabled pretentiousness of Latin. The good old Anglo-Saxon tongue, the speech of our ancestors, is good enough for me. Let the hypocrites among you, readers, skip the following paragraphs. Despite my reticence on the subject the more discerning will have realised that my feelings for my husband, and his for me, are of the warmest nature. I see no reason to be ashamed of this.
To return to the main stream of the argument, then:
Taking me by the shoulders, Emerson gave me a hearty shake.
‘By Gad,’ he shouted. ‘I will be master in my own house! Must I teach you again who makes decisions here?’
‘I thought we made them together, after discussing problems calmly and courteously.’
Emerson’s shaking had loosened my hair, which is thick and coarse and does not yield easily to restraint. Still holding me by one shoulder, he passed the fingers of his other hand into the heavy knot at the back of my neck. Combs and hairpins went flying. The hair tumbled down over my shoulders.
I do not recall precisely what he said next. The comment was brief. He kissed me. I was determined not to kiss him back; but Emerson kisses very well. It was some time before I was able to speak. My suggestion that I call my maid to help me out of my frock was not well received. Emerson offered his services. I pointed out that his method of removing a garment often rendered that garment unserviceable thereafter. This comment was greeted with a wordless snort of derision and a vigorous attack upon the hooks and eyes.
After all, much as I commend frankness in such matters there are areas in which an individual is entitled to privacy. I find myself forced to resort to a typographical euphemism.
By midnight the sleet had stopped falling, and a brisk east wind shook the icy branches of the trees outside our window. They creaked and cracked like spirits of darkness, protesting attack. My cheek rested against my husband’s breast; I could hear the steady rhythmic beat of his heart.
‘When do we leave?’ I enquired softly.
Emerson yawned. ‘There is a boat on Saturday.’
‘Good night, Emerson.’
‘Good night, my darling Peabody.’
READER, do you believe in magic – in the flying carpets of the old Eastern romances? Of course you don’t; but suspend your disbelief for a moment and allow the magic of the printed word to transport you across thousands of miles of space and many hours of time to a scene so different from wet, cold, dismal England that it might be on another planet. Picture yourself sitting with me on the terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo. The sky is a brilliant porcelain blue. The sun casts its benevolent rays impartially on rich merchants and ragged beggars, on turbaned imams and tailored European tourists – on all the infinitely varied persons who compose the bustling crowds that traverse the broad thoroughfare before us. A bridal procession passes, preceded by musicians raising cacophonous celebration with flutes and drums. The bride is hidden from curious eyes by a rose silk canopy carried by four of her male relations. Poor girl, she goes from one owner to another, like a bale of merchandise; but at that moment even my indignant contemplation of that most iniquitous of Turkish customs is mellowed by my joy in being where I am. I am filled with the deepest satisfaction. In a few moments Emerson will join me and we will set out for the Museum.
Only one ripple mars the smooth surface of my content. Is it concern for my little son, so far from his mother’s tender care? No, dear reader, it is not. The thought that several thousands of miles separate me from Ramses inspires a sense of profound peace such as I have not known for years. I wonder that it never before occurred to me to take a holiday from Ramses.
I knew he would receive from his doting aunt care as tender and devoted as he could expect at home. Walter, who had followed Ramses’ developing interest in archeology with profound amusement, had promised to give him lessons in hieroglyphs. I did feel a trifle guilty about Evelyn’s children, who were, as Emerson put it, ‘in for a long, hard winter.’ But after all, the experience would probably be good for their characters.
It had, of course, proved impossible to leave as soon as Emerson optimistically expected. For one thing, the holidays were almost upon us, and it would have been impossible to leave Ramses only a few days before Christmas. So we spent the festal season with Walter and Evelyn, and by the time we took our departure, on Boxing Day, even Emerson’s grief at parting from his son was mitigated by the effects of a week of juvenile excitement and overindulgence. All the children except Ramses had been sick at least once, and Ramses had set the Christmas tree on fire, frightened the nursery maid into fits by displaying his collection of engravings of mummies (some in an advanced state of decrepitude), and…But it would require an entire volume to describe all Ramses’ activities. On the morning of our departure his infantile features presented a horrific appearance, for he had been badly scratched by little Amelia’s kitten while trying to show the animal how to stir the plum pudding with its paw. As the kitchen echoed to the outraged shrieks of the cook and the growls of the cat, he had explained that, since every other member of the household was entitled to stir the pudding for luck in the coming year, he had felt it only fair that the pets should share in the ceremony.
With such memories, is it any wonder that I contemplated a few months away from Ramses with placid satisfaction?
We took the fastest possible route: train to Marseilles, steamer to Alexandria, and train to Cairo. By the time we reached our destination my husband had shed ten years, and as we made our way through the chaos of the Cairo train station he was the old Emerson, shouting orders and expletives in fluent Arabic. His bull-like voice made heads turn and eyes open wide, and we were soon surrounded by old acquaintances, grinning and calling out greetings. White and green turbans bobbed up and down like animated cabbages, and brown hands reached out to grasp our hands. The most touching welcome came from a wizened old beggar, who flung himself on the ground and wrapped his arms around Emerson’s dirty boot, crying, ‘Oh, Father of Curses, you have returned! Now I can die in peace!’
‘Bah,’ said Emerson, trying not to smile. Gently disengaging his foot, he dropped a handful of coins onto the old man’s turban.
I had cabled Shepheard’s to book rooms as soon as we decided to accept Lady Baskerville’s offer, for the hotel is always crowded during the winter season. A magnificent new structure had replaced the rambling old building we had stayed in so often. Italianite in style, it was an imposing edifice with its own generating plant – the first hotel in the East to have electric lights. Emerson grumbled at all the unnecessary luxury. I myself have no objection to comfort so long as it does not interfere with more important activities.
We found messages awaiting us from friends who had heard of Emerson’s appointment. There was also a note from Lady Baskerville, who had preceded us by a few days, welcoming us back to Egypt and urging us to proceed as soon as possible to Luxor. Conspicuous by its absence was any word from the Director of Antiquities. I was not surprised. Monsieur Grebaut and Emerson had never admired one another. It would be necessary for us to see him, and Grebaut was making certain we would have to sue humbly for an audience, like any ordinary tourists.
Emerson’s comments were profane. When he had calmed down a little, I remarked, ‘All the same, we had better call on him at once. He can, if he wishes, make difficulties for us.’
This sensible suggestion brought on another spell of ranting, in the course of which Emerson predicted Grebaut’s future residence in a warm and uncomfortable corner of the universe, and declared that he himself would rather join the rascal in that place than make the slightest concession to rude officiousness. I therefore abandoned the subject for the time being and agreed to Emerson’s proposal that we go first to Aziyeh, a village near Cairo from which he had in the past recruited his workmen. If we could take with us to Luxor a skeleton crew of men who were not infected with the local superstitions, we could begin work at once and hope to recruit other workers after success had proved their fears to be vain.
This concession put Emerson in a better mood, so that I was able to persuade him to dine downstairs instead of going to a native eating place in the bazaar. Emerson prefers such places, and so do I; but as I pointed out, we had been a long time away and our resistance to the local diseases had probably decreased. We dared not risk illness, for the slightest malaise would be interpreted as further evidence of the pharaoh’s curse.
Emerson was forced to agree with my reasoning. Grumbling and swearing, he got into his boiled shirt and black evening suit. I tied his tie for him and stood back to observe him with pardonable pride. I knew better than to tell him he looked handsome, but indeed he did; his sturdy, upright frame and square shoulders, his thick black hair and his blue eyes blazing with temper formed a splendid picture of an English gentleman.
I had another reason for wishing to dine at the hotel. Shepheard’s is the social centre for the European colony, and I hoped to meet acquaintances who could bring us up to date on the news of the Luxor expedition.
Nor was I disappointed. When we entered the gilded dining hall the first person I saw was Mr Wilbour, whom the Arabs call Abd er Dign because of his magnificent beard. White as the finest cotton, it sweeps down to the centre of his waistcoat and frames a face both benevolent and highly intelligent. Wilbour had wintered in Egypt for many years. Rude gossip whispered of a political peccadillo in his native New York City, which made it expedient for him to avoid his homeland; but we knew him as an enthusiastic student of Egyptology and a patron of young archaeologists. Seeing us, he came at once to greet us and ask us to join his party, which included several other old friends.
I took care to seat myself between Emerson and the Reverend Mr Sayce; there had been an acrimonious exchange of letters the previous winter on the subject of certain cuneiform tablets. The precaution proved useless. Leaning across me, his elbow planted firmly on the table, Emerson called loudly, ‘You know, Sayce, that the people at Berlin have confirmed my date for the tablets from Amarna? I told you you were off by eight hundred years.’
The Reverend’s gentle countenance hardened; and Wilbour quickly intervened. ‘There was a rather amusing story about that, Emerson; did you hear how Budge managed to trick Grebaut out of those tablets?’
Emerson disliked Mr Budge of the British Museum almost as much as he did Grebaut, but that evening, with the Director’s discourtesy fresh in his mind, he was pleased to hear of anything to Grebaut’s discredit. Distracted from his attack on the Reverend, he replied that we had heard rumours of the event but would be glad of a first-hand account.
‘It was really a most reprehensible affair in every way,’ Wilbour said, shaking his head. ‘Grebaut had already warned Budge that he would be arrested if he continued to purchase and export antiquities illegally. Quite unperturbed, Budge went straight to Luxor and bought not only eighty of the famous tablets but a number of other fine objects. The police promptly moved in, but Grebaut had neglected to provide them with a warrant, so they could only surround the house and wait for our popular Director of Antiquities to arrive with the requisite authority. In the meantime they saw no harm in accepting a fine meal of rice and lamb from the manager of the Luxor Hotel – next to which establishment Budge’s house happened to be located. While the honest gendarmes gorged themselves, the hotel gardeners dug a tunnel into the basement of Budge’s house and removed the antiquities. By a strange coincidence Grebaut’s boat had run aground twenty miles north of Luxor, and he was still there when Budge set out for Cairo with his purchases, leaving the police to guard his empty house.’
‘Shocking,’ I said.
‘Budge is a scoundrel,’ Emerson said. ‘And Grebaut is an idiot.’
‘Have you seen our dear Director yet?’ Sayce enquired.
Emerson made rumbling noises. Sayce smiled. ‘I quite agree with you. All the same, you will have to see him. The situation is bad enough without incurring Grebaut’s enmity. Are you not afraid of the curse of the pharaohs?’
‘Bah,’ said Emerson.
‘Quite! All the same, my dear chap, you won’t find it easy to hire workers.’
‘We have our methods,’ I said, kicking Emerson in the shin to prevent him from explaining those methods. Not that there was anything underhanded in what we planned; no, indeed. I would never be a party to stealing skilled workmen from other archaeologists. If our men from Aziyeh preferred to come with us, that was their choice. I simply saw no point in discussing the possibility before we had made our arrangements. I think Mr Wilbour suspected something, however; there was an amused gleam in his eyes as he looked at me, but he said nothing, only stroked his beard in a contemplative fashion.
‘So what is happening in Luxor?’ I asked. ‘I take it the curse is still alive and well?’
‘Good heavens, yes,’ Mr Insinger, the Dutch archaeologist, answered. ‘Marvels and portents abound. Hassan ibn Daoud’s pet goat gave birth to a two-headed kid, and ancient Egyptian ghosts haunt the Gurneh hills.’
He laughed as he spoke, but Mr Sayce shook his head sadly.
‘Such are the superstitions of paganism. Poor ignorant people!’
Emerson could not let such a statement pass. ‘I can show you equal ignorance in any modern English village,’ he snapped. ‘And you can hardly call the creed of Mohammed paganism, Sayce; it worships the same God and the same prophets you do.’
Before the Reverend, flushing angrily, could reply, I said quickly, ‘It is a pity Mr Armadale is still missing. His disappearance only adds fuel to the fire.’
‘It would scarcely improve matters if he were found, I fear,’ Mr Wilbour said. ‘Another death, following that of Lord Baskerville – ’
‘You believe he is dead, then?’ Emerson asked, giving me a sly look.
‘He must have perished or he would have turned up by now,’ Wilbour replied. ‘No doubt he met with a fatal accident while wandering the hills in a state of distraction. It is a pity; he was a fine archaeologist.’
‘At any rate, their fears may keep the Gurnawis from trying to break into the tomb,’ I said.
‘You know better than that, my dear Mrs Emerson,’ said Insinger. ‘At any rate, with you and Mr Emerson on the job, we need not worry about the tomb.’
Nothing of further consequence was said that evening, only speculations as to what marvels the tomb might contain. We therefore bade our friends good night as soon as the meal was concluded.
The hour was still early, and the lobby was crowded with people. As we approached the staircase someone darted out from among the throng and caught my arm.
‘Mr and Mrs Emerson, I presume? Sure, and I’ve been looking forward to a chat with you. Perhaps you will do me the honour of joining me for coffee or a glass of brandy.’
So confident was the tone, so assured the manner, that I had to look twice before I realised that the man was a total stranger. His boyish figure and candid smile made him appear, at first, far too young to be smoking the cigar that protruded at a jaunty angle from his lips. Bright-red hair and a liberal sprinkling of freckles across a decidedly snub nose completed the picture of brash young Ireland, for his accent had been unmistakably of that nation. Seeing me stare at his cigar, he immediately flung it into a nearby container.
‘Your pardon, ma’am. In the pleasure of seeing you I forgot my manners.’
‘Who the devil are you?’ Emerson demanded.
The young man’s smile broadened. ‘Kevin O’Connell, of the Daily Yell, at your service. Mrs Emerson, how do you feel about seeing your husband brave the pharaoh’s curse? Did you attempt to dissuade him, or do you – ’
I caught my husband’s arm with both hands and managed to deflect the blow he had aimed at Mr O’Connell’s prominent chin.
‘For pity’s sake, Emerson – he is half your size!’
This admonition, as I expected, had the effect that an appeal to reason, social decorum, or Christian meekness would not have had. Emerson’s arm relaxed and his cheeks turned red – though, I fear, with rising anger rather than shame. Seizing my hand, he proceeded at a brisk pace up the stairs. Mr O’Connell trotted after us, spouting questions.
‘Would you care to venture an opinion as to what has become of Mr Armadale? Mrs Emerson, will you take an active part in the excavation? Mr Emerson, were you previously acquainted with Lady Baskerville? Was it, perhaps, old friendship that prompted you to accept such a perilous position?’
It is impossible to describe the tone of voice in which he uttered the word ‘friendship’, or the indelicate overtone with which he invested that harmless word. I felt my own face grow warm with annoyance. Emerson let out a muted roar. His foot lashed out, and with a startled yelp Mr O’Connell fell backward and rolled down the stairs.
As we reached the turn of the stair I glanced back and saw, to my relief, that Mr O’Connell had taken no serious injury. He had already regained his feet and, surrounded by a staring crowd, was engaged in brushing off the seat of his trousers. Meeting my eye, he had the effrontery to wink at me.
Emerson had his coat, tie, and half the buttons of his shirt off before I closed the door of our room.
‘Hang it up,’ I said, as he was about to toss his coat onto a chair. ‘I declare, Emerson, that is the third shirt you have ruined since we left. Can you never learn – ’
But I never finished the admonition. Obeying my order, Emerson had flung open the doors of the wardrobe. There was a flash of light and a thud; Emerson leaped back, one arm held at an unnatural angle. A bright line of red leaped up across his shirt sleeve. Crimson drops rained onto the floor, spattering the handle of the dagger that stood upright between Emerson’s feet. Its haft still quivered with the force of its fall.
Emerson’s hand clamped down on his forearm. The rush of blood slowed and stopped. A pain in the region of my chest reminded me that I was holding my breath. I let it out.
‘That shirt was ruined in any case,’ I said. ‘Do, pray, hold your arm out so that you do not drip onto your good trousers.’
I make it a rule always to remain calm. Nevertheless, it was with considerable speed that I crossed the room, snatching a towel from the washstand as I passed it. I had brought medical supplies with me, as is my custom; in a few moments I had cleaned and bandaged the wound which, fortunately, was not deep. I did not even mention a physician. I was confident that Emerson shared my own feelings on that matter. The news of an accident to the newly appointed director of the Luxor expedition could have disastrous consequences.
When I had finished I leaned back against the divan; and I confess I was unable to repress a sigh. Emerson looked at me seriously. Then a slight smile curved the corners of his mouth.
‘You are a trifle pale, Peabody. I trust we are not going to have a display of female vapours?’
‘I fail to see any humour in the situation.’
‘I am surprised at you. For my part, I am struck by the ludicrous ineptitude of the whole business. As nearly as I can make out, the knife was simply placed on the top shelf of the wardrobe, which rests somewhat insecurely on wooden pegs. The vigour of my movement in opening the door caused the weapon to topple out; it was pure accident that it struck me instead of falling harmlessly to the floor. Nor could the unknown have been sure that I would be the one to….’ As realisation dawned, anger replaced the amusement on his face, and he cried out, ‘Good Gad, Peabody, you might have been seriously injured if you had been the one to open that wardrobe!’
‘I thought you had concluded that no serious injury was contemplated,’ I reminded him. ‘No masculine vapours, Emerson, if you please. It was meant as a warning, nothing more.’
‘Or as an additional demonstration of the effectiveness of the pharaoh’s curse. That seems more likely. No one who knows us would expect that we would be deterred from our plans by such a childish trick. Yet unless the incident becomes public knowledge it will be wasted effort.’
Our eyes met. I nodded. ‘You are thinking of Mr O’Connell. Would he really go to such lengths in order to get a story?’
‘These fellows will stop at nothing,’ Emerson said with gloomy conviction.
He was certainly in a position to know, for during his active career he had featured prominently in sensational newspaper stories. As one reporter had explained to me, ‘He makes such splendid copy, Mrs Emerson – always shouting and striking people.’
There was some truth in this statement, and Emerson’s performance that evening would undoubtedly make equally splendid copy. I could almost see the headlines: ‘Attack on our reporter by famous archaeologist! Frenzied Emerson reacts violently to question about his intimacy with dead man’s widow!’
No wonder Mr O’Connell had looked so pleased after being kicked down the stairs. He would consider a few bruises a small price to pay for a good story. I remembered his name now. He had been the first to break the story about the curse – or rather, to invent it.
There was no question about Mr O’Connell’s scruples, or lack thereof. Certainly he would have had no difficulty in gaining access to our room. The locks were flimsy, and the servants were amenable to bribery. But was he capable of planning a trick that might have ended in injury, however slight? I found that hard to believe. Brash, rude, and unscrupulous he might be, but I am an excellent judge of character, and I had seen no trace of viciousness in his freckled countenance.
We examined the knife but learned nothing from it; it was a common type, of the sort that can be bought in any bazaar. There was no point in questioning the servants. As Emerson said, the less publicity, the better. So we retired to our bed, with its canopy of fine white mosquito netting. In the ensuing hour I was reassured as to the negligibility of Emerson’s wound. It did not seem to inconvenience him in the slightest.
We set out for Aziyeh early next morning. Though we had sent no message ahead, the news of our coming had spread, by that mysterious unseen means of communication common to primitive people, so that when our hired carriage stopped in the dusty village square, most of the population was assembled to greet us. Towering over the other heads was a snowy turban surmounting a familiar bearded face. Abdullah had been our reis, or foreman, in the past. His beard was now almost as white as his turban, but his giant frame looked as strong as ever, and a smile of welcome struggled with his instinctive patriarchal dignity as he pushed forward to shake our hands.
We retired to the house of the sheikh, where half the male population crowded into the small parlour. There we sat drinking sweet black tea and exchanging compliments, while the temperature steadily rose. Long periods of courteous silence were broken by repeated comments of ‘May God preserve you’ and ‘You have honoured us.’ This ceremony can take several hours, but Emerson’s audience knew him well, and they exchanged amused glances when, after a mere twenty minutes, he broached the reason for our visit.
‘I go to Luxor to carry on the work of the lord who died. Who will come with me?’
The question was followed by soft exclamations and well-feigned looks of surprise. That the surprise was false I had no doubt. Abdullah’s was not the only familiar face in the room; many of our other men were there as well. The workers Emerson had trained were always in demand, and I did not doubt that these people had left other positions in order to come to us. Obviously they had anticipated the request and had, in all probability, already decided what they would do.
However, it is not the nature of Egyptians to agree to anything without a good deal of debate and discussion. After an interval Abdullah rose to his feet, his turban brushing the low ceiling.
‘Emerson’s friendship for us is known,’ he said. ‘But why does he not employ the men of Luxor who worked for the dead lord?’
‘I prefer to work with my friends,’ Emerson replied. ‘Men I can trust in danger and difficulty.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Abdullah stroked his beard. ‘Emerson speaks of danger. It is known that he never lies. Will he tell us what danger he means?’
‘Scorpions, snakes, landslides,’ Emerson shot back. ‘The same dangers we men have always faced together.’
‘And the dead who will not die, but walk abroad under the moon?’
This was a much more direct question than I had anticipated. Emerson, too, was caught off guard. He did not answer immediately. Every man in the room sat with his eyes fixed unwinkingly on my husband.
At last he said quietly, ‘You of all men, Abdullah, know that there is no such thing. Have you forgotten the mummy that was no mummy, but only an evil man?’
‘I remember well, Emerson, but who is to say that such things cannot exist? They say that the lord who is dead disturbed the sleep of the pharaoh. They say – ’
‘They are fools who say so,’ Emerson interrupted. ‘Has not God promised the faithful protection against evil spirits? I go to carry on the work. I look for men to come with me, not fools and cowards.’
The issue had never really been in doubt. When we left the village we had our crew, but thanks to Abdullah’s piously expressed doubts we had to agree to a wage considerably higher than was customary. Superstition has its practical uses.
On the following morning I sat, as I have described, on the terrace of Shepheard’s and reviewed the events of the past two days. You will now comprehend, reader, why a single small cloud cast a faint shadow on the brightness of my pleasure. The cut on Emerson’s arm was healing nicely, but the doubts that incident had raised were not so easily cured. I had taken it for granted that the death of Lord Baskerville and the disappearance of his assistant were parts of a single, isolated tragedy, and that the so-called curse was no more than the invention of an enterprising journalist. The strange case of the knife in the wardrobe raised another and more alarming possibility.
It is foolish to brood about matters one cannot control, so I dismissed the problem for the moment and enjoyed the constantly changing panorama unrolling before me until Emerson finally joined me. I had sent a messenger to Monsieur Grebaut earlier, informing him that we planned to call on him that morning. We were going to be late, thanks to Emerson’s procrastination, but when I saw his scowl and his tight-set lips I realised I was fortunate to persuade him to go at all.
Since we were last in Egypt the Museum had been moved from its overcrowded quarters at Boulaq to the Palace of Gizeh. The result was an improvement in the amount of space only; the crumbling, overly ornate decorations of the palace were poorly suited for purposes of display, and the antiquities were in wretched condition. This increased Emerson’s bad temper; he was red with annoyance by the time we reached the office, and when a supercilious secretary informed us that we must come back another day, since the Director was too busy to see us, he pushed the young man rudely aside and hurled himself at the door of the inner office.
I was not surprised when it failed to yield, for I had heard a sound like that of a key being turned in a lock. Locks do not hinder Emerson when he wishes to proceed; a second, more vigorous assault burst the door open. With a consoling smile at the cowering secretary I followed my impetuous husband into Grebaut’s sanctum.
The room was crowded to the bursting point with open boxes containing antiquities, all awaiting examination and classification. Pots of baked clay, scraps of wood from furniture and coffins, alabaster jars, ushabtis, and dozens of other items overflowed the packing cases onto tables and desk.
Emerson let out a cry of outrage. ‘It is worse than it was in Maspero’s day! Curse the rascal, where is he? I want to give him a piece of my mind!’
When antiquities are visible, Emerson is blind to all else. He did not observe the toes of a pair of rather large boots protruding from under a drapery that covered one side of the room.
‘He appears to have stepped out,’ I replied, watching the boots. ‘I wonder if there is a door behind those draperies.’
The polished toes shrank until only a bare inch remained visible. I assumed Grebaut was pressed up against a wall or a closed window and could retreat no further. He is a rather stout man.
‘I have no intention of searching for the wretch,’ Emerson announced loudly. ‘I will leave him a note.’ He began to scrabble in the litter atop the Director’s desk. Grebaut’s papers and correspondence went flying.
‘Calm yourself, Emerson,’ I said. ‘Monsieur Grebaut won’t thank you for making a mess of his desk.’
‘I could not make it worse than it is.’ Emerson tossed away papers with both hands. ‘Just let me come face to face with that imbecile! He is totally incompetent. I intend to demand his resignation.’
‘I am thankful he is not here,’ I said, glancing casually at the drapery. ‘You have such a temper, Emerson; you are really not accountable for your actions at times like this, and I would hate for you to injure the poor man.’
‘I would like to injure him. I would like to break both his arms. A man who would allow such neglect – ’
‘Why don’t you leave a message with the secretary?’ I suggested. ‘He must have pen and paper on his desk. You will never find it there.’
With a final gesture that sent the remaining papers sailing around the room, Emerson stamped out. The secretary had fled. Emerson seized his pen and began scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper. I stood in the open doorway, one eye on Emerson, one eye on the boots; and I said loudly, ‘You might suggest, Emerson, that Monsieur Grebaut send the firman giving you charge of the expedition to our hotel. That will save you another trip.’
‘Good idea,’ Emerson grunted. ‘If I have to come again I will murder that moron.’
Gently I closed the door of Grebaut’s office.
We took our departure. Three hours later a messenger delivered the firman to our room.
ON my first trip to Egypt I had travelled by dahabeeyah. The elegance and charm of that mode of travel can only be dimly imagined by those who have not experienced it. My boat had been equipped with every comfort, including a grand piano in the salon and an outdoor sitting room on the upper deck. How many blissful hours did I spend there, under the billowing sails, drinking tea and listening to the songs of the sailors while the magnificent panorama of Egyptian life glided by on either side – villages and temples, palm trees, camels, and holy hermits perched precariously on pillars. How fond were my memories of that journey, which had culminated in my betrothal to my spouse! How gladly would I have repeated that glorious experience!
Alas, on this occasion we could not spare the time. The railroad had been extended as far south as Assiût, and since it was by far the fastest means of travel, we endured eleven hours of heat, jolting, and dust. From Assiût we took a steamer for the remaining distance. Though less uncomfortable than the train, it was a far cry from my dear dahabeeyah.
On the day we were to dock at Luxor I was on deck at dawn, hanging over the rail and gaping like any ignorant Cook’s tourist. The Luxor temple had been cleared of the shacks and huts that had so long marred its beauty; its columns and pylons glowed rosy pink in the morning light as the steamer glided in to the dock.
Here the peaceful visions of the past were replaced by noisy modern bustle, as porters and guides converged on the disembarking passengers. The dragomen of the Luxor hotels shouted out the advantages of their various hostelries and attempted to drag bewildered tourists into the waiting carriages. No one bothered us.
Emerson went off to collect our luggage and locate our workmen, who had travelled in the same boat. Leaning on my parasol, I gazed complacently at the scene and took deep breaths of the soft air. Then a hand touched my arm, and I turned to meet the intense gaze of a stout young man wearing gold-rimmed spectacles and the most enormous pair of moustaches I had ever seen. The ends of them curled up and around like the horns of a mountain goat.
Heels together, body stiff, he bent himself at the waist and said, ‘Frau Professor Emerson? Karl von Bork, the epigrapher of the ill-fated Baskerville expedition. To Luxor I give you greeting. By Lady Baskerville was I sent. Where is the Professor? Long have I to the honour of meeting him looked forward. The brother of the so distinguished Walter Emerson – ’
This rapid spate of conversation was all the more remarkable because the young man’s face remained utterly expressionless throughout. Only his lips and the gigantic moustache above them moved. As I was to learn, Karl von Bork spoke seldom, but once he began to talk, it was virtually impossible to stop him except by the means I adopted on that occasion.
‘How do you do,’ I said loudly, drowning out his last words. ‘I am pleased to meet you. My husband is just… Where is he? Ah, Emerson; allow me to present Herr von Bork.’
Emerson grasped the young man’s hand. ‘The epigrapher? Good. I trust you have a boat ready – one of sufficient size. I have brought twenty men with me from Cairo.’
Von Bork bowed again. ‘An excellent idea, Herr Professor. A stroke of genius! But I had expected nothing less from the brother of the distinguished – ’
I interrupted this speech, as I had interrupted the first; and we found that when Herr von Bork was not talking he was efficient enough to please even my demanding husband. The felucca he had hired was commodious enough to hold us all. Our men gathered in the bow, looking loftily at the boatmen and making comments about the stupidity of Luxor men. The great sails swelled, the prow dipped and swung about; we turned our backs on the ancient temples and modern houses of Luxor and moved out onto the broad bosom of the Nile.
I could not help but be keenly sensitive to the implications of this westward journey, the same one made by generations of Thebans when, the troubles of life behind them, they set sail on the road to heaven. The rugged western cliffs, gilded by the morning sun, had for thousands of years been honeycombed by tombs of noble, pharaoh, and humble peasant. The ruined remains of once-great mortuary temples began to take shape as we drew near the shore: the curving white colonnades of Deir el Bahri, the frowning walls of the Ramesseum, and, towering above the plain, those colossal statues that alone remained of Amenhotep the Third’s magnificent temple. Even more evocative were the wonders we could not see – the hidden, rock-cut sepulchres of the dead. As I looked, my heart swelled within me, and the last four years in England seemed but a horrid dream.
The sound of von Bork’s voice roused me from my blissful contemplation of that gigantic cemetery. I hoped the young man would not continue to refer to Emerson as the brother of the distinguished Walter. Emerson has the highest regard for Walter’s abilities, but one could hardly blame him for taking umbrage at being regarded only as an appendage to his brother. Von Bork’s speciality was the study of the ancient language, so it was not surprising that he should venerate Walter’s contributions to that field.
However, von Bork was merely telling Emerson the latest news.
‘I have, at Lady Baskerville’s orders, a heavy steel door at the entrance to the tomb erected. In the Valley reside two guards under the authority of a sub-inspector of the Antiquities Department – ’
‘Useless!’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘Many of the guards are related to the tomb robbers of Gurneh, or are so woefully superstitious that they will not leave their huts after dark. You ought to have guarded the tomb yourself, von Bork.’
‘Sie haben recht, Herr Professor,’ the young German murmured submissively. ‘But difficult it was; only Milverton and myself remain, and he of a fever has been ill. He – ’
‘Mr Milverton is the photographer?’ I asked.
‘Quite correct, Frau Professor. The expedition staff of the finest was; now that you and the Professor have come, only an artist is lacking. Mr Armadale that task performed, and I do not – ’
‘But that is a serious lack,’ Emerson remarked. ‘Where are we to find an artist? If only Evelyn had not abandoned a promising career. She had a nice touch. She might have amounted to something.’
Considering that Evelyn was one of the wealthiest women in England, the devoted mother of three lovely children and the adoring wife of a man who doted on her every movement, I could not see that she had lost a great deal. However, I knew there was no sense in pointing this out to Emerson. I therefore contented myself with remarking, ‘She has promised to come out with us again after the children are in school.’
‘Yes, but when will that be? She keeps on producing the creatures in endless succession and shows no sign of stopping. I am fond of my brother and his wife, but a continual progression of miniature Evelyns and Walters is a bit too much. The human race – ’
When the human race entered the discussion I stopped listening. Emerson is capable of ranting on that subject for hours.
‘If I may suggest,’ von Bork said hesitantly.
I looked at him in surprise. The tentative tone was quite unlike his usual confident voice, and although his countenance remained impassive, his sunburned cheeks had turned a trifle pink.
‘Yes, certainly,’ said Emerson, as surprised as I.
Von Bork cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘There is a young lady – an English lady – in Luxor village who is an accomplished painter. In an emergency she might be persuaded …’
Emerson’s face fell. I sympathised; I shared his opinion of young lady artists of the amateur persuasion.
‘It is early days yet,’ I said tactfully. ‘When we have uncovered something worth copying, we can worry about a painter. But I thank you for the suggestion, Herr von Bork. I believe I will call you Karl. It is easier and more friendly. You do not object, I hope?’
By the time he had finished assuring me that he did not, we were docking on the west bank.
Thanks to Karl’s efficiency and Emerson’s curses, we soon found ourselves mounted on donkeyback and ready to proceed. Leaving Abdullah to arrange for the transport of the men and the baggage, we set out across the fields, now green with crops. The pace of a donkey is leisurely in the extreme, so we were able to converse as we rode along; and as we came near to the place where the fertile black soil left by the annual inundation gives way to the red desert sands, Emerson said abruptly, ‘We will go by way of Gurneh.’
Karl was more relaxed now that he had performed his task of greeting and transporting us without mishap; I observed that when he was calm he was able to keep his verbs straight instead of relapsing into tortuous German sentence structure.
‘It is not the direct path,’ he objected. ‘I had thought you and Mrs Emerson would wish to rest and refresh yourselves after –’
‘I have my reasons for suggesting it,’ Emerson replied.
‘Aber natürlich! Whatever the Professor wishes.’
Our donkeys crossed into the desert, a line so distinct that their front feet pressed the hot sands while their back feet were still on the cultivated land. The village of Gurneh is several hundred yards beyond the cultivation, in the rocky foothills of the mountains. The huts of sun-dried brick blend into the pale-brown rock of the hillside. One might wonder why the residents, who have lived in this place for hundreds of years, do not seek a more comfortable locale. They have solid economic reasons for remaining, for they make their livelihood on that spot. Between the huts and under their very floors lie the ancient tombs whose treasures form the inhabitants’ source of income. In the hills behind the village, a convenient half-hour’s walk away, are the narrow valleys where the kings and queens of the Empire were buried.
We heard the sounds of the village before we could make out its dwellings – the voices of children, the barking of dogs, and the bleating of goats. The cupola of the old village mosque could be seen on the desert slope, and a few palms and sycamores half concealed a row of antique columns. Emerson headed toward these, and before long I realised why he had chosen that route. A precious spring of water was there, with a broken sarcophagus serving as a cattle trough. The village well is always a scene of much activity, with women filling their jars and men watering their beasts. Silence descended upon the group as we approached, and all movement was suspended. The jars remained poised in the arms of the women; the men stopped smoking and gossiping as they stared at our little caravan.
Emerson called out a greeting in sonorous Arabic. He did not pause or wait for a reply. At as stately a pace as a small donkey could command he rode past, with Karl and me following. Not until we had left the well far behind did I hear the sounds of renewed activity.
As our patient beasts plodded across the sand, I allowed Emerson to remain a few feet ahead, a position he much enjoys and seldom obtains. I could see by the arrogant set of his shoulders that he fancied himself in the role of gallant commander, leading his troops; and I saw no reason to point out that no man can possibly look impressive on donkeyback, particularly when his legs are so long he must hold them out at a forty-five-degree angle to keep his feet from dragging on the ground. (Emerson is not unusually tall; the donkeys are unusually small.)
‘For what was this?’ Karl asked in a low voice, as we rode side by side. ‘I understand it not. To ask the Professor I do not dare; but you, his companion and – ’
‘I have not the least objection to explaining,’ I replied. ‘Emerson has flung down the gauntlet to that pack of thieves. In effect he has said: “I am here. I do not fear you. You know who I am; interfere with me at your peril.” It was well done, Karl; one of Emerson’s better performances, if I may say so.’
Unlike Karl, I had not troubled to moderate my voice. Emerson’s shoulders twitched irritably, but he did not turn around. After an interval we rounded a rocky spur and saw before us the curving bay that shelters the ruined temples of Deir el Bahri, near which the house was situated.
Most readers, I imagine, are familiar with the appearance of the now-famous Baskerville Expedition House, since photographs and engravings of it have been featured in numerous periodicals. I had never happened to see the place myself, since it was still under construction on the occasion of our last visit to Luxor, and though I had seen reproductions and plans, my first sight of the place impressed me considerably. Like most Eastern houses it was built around a courtyard, with rooms on all four sides. A wide gate in the centre of one side admitted visitors to the courtyard, onto which the chambers opened. The material was the usual mud brick, neatly plastered and whitewashed, but the size was enormous, and it had suited Lord Baskerville’s fancy to decorate it in ancient Egyptian style. The gate and the windows were capped by wooden lintels painted with Egyptian motifs in bright colours. Along one side a row of columns with gilded lotus capitals supported a pleasant shady loggia, where orange and lemon trees grew in earthenware pots and green vines twined around the columns. A nearby spring provided water for palm and fig trees; and in the brilliant sunlight the white walls and archaic decoration reminded us of what the ancient palaces must have looked like before time reduced them to heaps of mud.
My husband has no appreciation of architecture unless it is three thousand years old. ‘The devil!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a frightful waste of money!’
We had slowed our animals to a walk, the better to appreciate our first view of our new home. My donkey misinterpreted this gesture. It came to a complete standstill. I refused Karl’s offer of a stick – I do not believe in beating animals – and spoke sternly to the donkey. It gave me a startled look and then proceeded. I promised myself that as soon as I had time I would examine the animal and any others hired by Lord Baskerville. These poor beasts were wretchedly treated and often suffered from saddle sores and infections caused by inadequate cleanliness. I never permitted that sort of thing in my other expeditions and did not intend to allow it here.
The wooden gates swung open as we approached, and we rode directly into the courtyard. Pillars supported a cloisterlike walkway, roofed with red tiles, which ran along three sides. All the rooms opened onto this open-sided corridor, and at my request Karl took us on a brief tour of inspection. I could not help but be impressed at the forethought that had gone into the arrangement of the house; if I had not known better, I would have thought a woman had planned it. A number of bedchambers, small but comfortable, had been designed for the use of the staff and for visitors. Larger chambers, as well as a small room which served as a bath, had been reserved for Lord and Lady Baskerville. Karl informed us that his lordship’s room was now ours and I found the arrangements all I could wish. One section of the room had been fitted out as a study, with a long table and a row of bookshelves containing an Egyptological library.
Today such accommodations are not unique, and archaeological staffs are often large; but at that time, when an expedition sometimes consisted of one harassed scholar directing the diggers, keeping his own records and accounts, cooking his own meals and washing his own socks – if he bothered to wear them – Baskerville House was a phenomenon. One entire wing contained a large dining room and a sizable parlour or common room, which opened onto the columned loggia. The furnishings of this latter chamber were a curious blend of the ancient and modern. Woven mattings covered the floor, and filmy white curtains at the long French doors helped to keep out insects. Chairs and couches were of royal-blue plush; the picture frames and mirrors were heavily carved and gilded. There was even a gramophone with a large collection of operatic recordings, the late Sir Henry having been a devotee of that form of music.
As we entered, a man rose from the sofa on which he had been reclining. His pallor, and the unsteadiness of his gait as he advanced to meet us, rendered Karl’s introduction unnecessary; this was the ailing Mr Milverton. I immediately led him back to the sofa and placed my hand on his brow.
‘Your fever is gone,’ I said. ‘But you are still suffering from the debility produced by the illness and should not have left your bed.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Amelia, restrain yourself,’ Emerson grumbled. ‘I had hoped that on this expedition you would not succumb to your delusion that you are a qualified physician.’
I knew the cause of his ill temper. Mr Milverton was an extremely handsome young fellow. The slow smile that spread across his face as he glanced from me to my husband showed even white teeth and well-cut lips. His golden locks fell in becoming disarray over a high white brow. Yet his good looks were entirely masculine and his constitution had not been seriously impaired by his illness; the breadth of his chest and shoulders were those of a young athlete.
‘You are more than kind, Mrs Emerson,’ he said. ‘I assure you, I am quite recovered and have been looking forward to meeting you and your famous husband.’
‘Humph,’ said Emerson, in a slightly more genial tone. ‘Very well; we will begin tomorrow morning – ’
‘Mr Milverton should not risk the noonday sun for several days,’ I said.
‘Again I remind you,’ said Emerson, ‘that you are not a physician.’
‘And I remind you of what happened to you on one occasion when you disregarded my medical advice.’
A singularly evil look spread over Emerson’s features. Deliberately he turned from me to Karl. ‘And where is Lady Baskerville?’ he enquired. ‘A delightful woman!’
‘She is,’ said Karl. ‘And I have for you, Professor, a particular message from that most distinguished lady. She stays at the Luxor Hotel; it would not be proper, you understand, for her to inhabit this place without another lady to companion her, now that her esteemed husband – ’
‘Yes, yes,’ Emerson said impatiently. ‘What is the message?’
‘She wishes you – and Mrs Emerson, of course – to dine with her this evening at the hotel.’
‘Splendid, splendid,’ Emerson exclaimed vivaciously. ‘How I look forward to the meeting!’
Needless to say, I was quite amused at Emerson’s transparent attempt to annoy me by professing admiration for Lady Baskerville. I said calmly, ‘If we are dining at the hotel you had better unpack, Emerson; your evening clothes will be sadly wrinkled. You, Mr Milverton, must go back to bed at once. I will visit you shortly to make sure you have everything you need. First I will inspect the kitchen and speak to the cook. Karl, you had better introduce me to the domestic staff. Have you had difficulty in keeping servants?’
Taking Karl firmly by the arm, I left the room before Emerson could think of a reply.
The kitchen was in a separate building behind the main house, a most sensible arrangement in a hot climate. As we approached, a variety of delicious aromas told me that luncheon was being prepared. Karl explained that most of the house servants were still at their jobs. Apparently they felt there was no danger in serving the foreigners so long as they did not actively participate in the desecration of the tomb.
I was pleased to recognise an old acquaintance in Ahmed the chef, who had once been employed at Shepheard’s. He seemed equally happy to see me. After we had exchanged compliments and enquiries concerning the health of our families I took my leave, happy to find that in this area at least I would not have to exercise constant supervision.
I found Emerson in our room going through his books and papers. The suitcases containing his clothes had not been opened. The young servant whose task it was to unpack them squatted on the floor, talking animatedly with Emerson.
‘Mohammed has been telling me the news,’ Emerson said cheerfully. ‘He is the son of Ahmed the chef – you remember – ’
‘Yes, I have just spoken to Ahmed. Luncheon will be ready shortly.’ As I spoke I extracted the keys from Emerson’s pocket; he continued to sort his papers. I handed the keys to Mohammed, a slender stripling with the luminous eyes and delicate beauty these lads often exhibit; with my assistance he soon completed his task and departed. I observed with pleasure that he had filled the water jar and laid out towels.
‘Alone at last,’ I said humorously, unbuttoning my dress. ‘How refreshing that water looks! I am sadly in need of a wash and change, after last night.’
I hung my dress in the wardrobe and was about to turn when Emerson’s arms came round my waist and pressed me close.
‘Last night was certainly unsatisfactory,’ he murmured (or at least he thought he was murmuring; Emerson’s best attempt at this sound is a growling roar, exceedingly painful to the ear). ‘What with the hardness of the bunks and their extreme narrowness, and the motion of the ship – ’
‘Now, Emerson, there is no time for that now,’ I said, attempting to free myself. ‘We have a great deal to do. Have you made arrangements for our men?’
‘Yes, yes, it is all taken care of. Peabody, have I ever told you how much I admire the shape of your – ’
‘You have.’ I removed his hand from the area in question, though I confess it required some willpower for me to do so. ‘There is no time for that now. I would like to walk across to the Valley this afternoon and have a look at the tomb.’
It is no insult to me to admit that the prospect of archaeological investigation is the one thing that can distract Emerson from what he was doing at that moment.
‘Hmmm, yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It will be hot as the hinges of Hades, you know.’
‘All the better; the Cook’s people will have gone and we will enjoy a little peace and quiet. We must leave immediately after luncheon if we are to dine with Lady Baskerville this evening.’
So it was agreed, and for the first time in many years we assumed our working attire. A thrill permeated my being to its very depths when I beheld my dear Emerson in the garments in which he had first won my heart. (I speak figuratively, of course; those original garments had long since been turned into rags.) His rolled-up sleeves bared his brawny arms, his open collar displayed his strong brown throat. With an effort I conquered my emotion and led the way to the dining room.
Karl was waiting for us. I was not surprised to find him prompt at his meals; his contours indicated that a poor appetite was not one of his difficulties. A look of faint surprise crossed his features when he saw me.
In my early days in Egypt I had been vexed by the convention that restricted women to long, inconveniently trailing skirts. These garments are wholly unsuited to climbing, running, and the active aspects of archaeological excavation. I had progressed from skirts to Rationals, from Rationals to a form of bloomer; in my last season I had taken the bull by the horns and ordered a costume that seemed to me to combine utility with womanly modesty. In a land where snakes and scorpions abound, stout boots are a necessity. Mine reached to the knees and there met my breeches, cut with considerable fullness, and tucked into the boot tops in order to avoid any possibility of accidental disarrangement. Over the breeches I wore a knee-length tunic, open at the sides to allow for the stretching of the lower limbs to their widest extent, in case rapid locomotion, of pursuit or of flight, became desirable. The costume was completed by a broad-brimmed hat and a stout belt equipped with hooks for knife, pistol, and other implements.
A similar costume became popular for hunting a year or two later, and although I never received any credit for my innovation, I do not doubt that it was my example that broke the ice.
When he heard of our plans for that afternoon, Karl offered to accompany us, but we declined, wishing to be alone on this first occasion. There is a carriage road, of sorts, leading through a cleft in the cliffs to the Valley where the royal dead of Egypt were entombed; but we took the more direct path, over the high plateau behind Deir el Bahri. Once we left the shady grove and the gardens the sun beat down upon us; but I could not repine, as I remembered the dreary winter weather and tedious routine we had left behind.
A brisk scramble up a rocky, steep incline brought us to the top of the plateau. There we paused for a moment to catch our breath and enjoy the view. Ahead lay a rough waste of barren stone; behind and below, the width of the Nile Valley lay spread out like a master painting. The temple of Queen Hatasu, cleared by Maspero, looked like a child’s model. Beyond the desert the fields bordered the river like an emerald-green ribbon. The air was so clear that we could make out the miniature shapes of the pylons and columns of the eastern temples. To the south rose the great pyramid-shaped peak known as the Goddess of the West, she who guards the ancient sepulchres.
Emerson began to hum. He has a perfectly appalling singing voice and no idea whatever of pitch, but I made no objection, even when words emerged from his drone.
… from Coffee and from
supper rooms, from Poplar to Pall Mall,
The girls on seeing me exclaim, ‘O what a
champagne swell!’
I joined in.
Champagne Charlie is my name, good for any
game
at night, boys, who’ll come and join me in a spree?
Emerson’s hand reached for mine. In perfect harmony of soul (if not voice) we proceeded; and I did not feel that our melodies profaned that solemn spot since they arose from joyful anticipation of a noble work.
At the end of our stroll we found ourselves on the edge of a cliff looking down into a canyon. Rocky walls and barren floor were of the same unrelieved drab brown, bleached by the sunlight to the colour of a pale and unpalatable pudding. A few small patches of shadow, abbreviated by the height of the sun, were the only breaks in the monotony – except for the rectangular black openings that had given the Valley of the Kings its name. They were the doorways of royal tombs.
I was gratified to observe that my hope of relative privacy had been correct. The tourists had departed to their hotels, and the only living objects to be seen were shapeless bundles of rags that covered the sleeping forms of the Egyptian guides and guards whose work lay in the Valley. But no! – with chagrin I revised my first impression when I beheld a moving figure. It was too far away for me to see more than its general outline, which was that of a tall male person in European clothing. It appeared to be engaged in rapt contemplation of the surrounding cliffs.
Though we had never visited the tomb which was the object of our present quest, I have no doubt that Emerson could have drawn an accurate map of its precise location. I know I could have. Our eyes were drawn to it as if by a magnet.
It lay below, on the opposite side of the Valley from where we stood. The steep, almost vertical configuration of the cliffs framed it like a theatrical backdrop. At the foot of the cliff was a long slope of rock and gravel, broken by heaps of rubble from earlier excavations, and by a few modern huts and storage buildings. A triangular cut into the gravel framed the doorway of the tomb of Ramses VI. Below this, and to the left, I saw the stout iron gate to which Karl had referred. Two dusty bundles – the alert guards Grebaut had appointed to guard the tomb – lay near the gate.
Emerson’s hand tightened on mine. ‘Only think,’ he said softly, ‘what wonders that bare rock still hides! The tombs of Thutmose the Great, of Amenhotep the Second and Queen Hatasu…. Even another cache of royal mummies like the one found in 1881. Which of them awaits our labour?’
I shared his sentiments, but his fingers were crushing my hand. I pointed this out. With a deep sigh Emerson returned to practicality. Together we scrambled down the path to the floor of the Valley.
The sleeping guards did not stir even when we stood over them. Emerson prodded one bundle with his toe. It quivered; a malevolent black eye appeared among the rags, and from a concealed mouth a spate of vulgar Arabic curses assailed us. Emerson replied in kind. The bundle sprang to its feet and the rags parted to reveal one of the evillest faces I have ever beheld, seamed by lines and scars. One eye was a milky-white, sightless blank. The other eye glared widely at Emerson.
‘Ah,’ said my husband, in Arabic, ‘it is thou, Habib. I thought the police had locked thee up forever. What madman gave to thee a task proper to an honest man?’
They say the eyes are the mirror of the soul. In this case Habib’s one serviceable orb displayed, for a moment, the intensity of his real feelings. Only for a moment; then he grovelled in a deep obeisance, mumbling greetings, apologies, explanations – and assurances that he had given over his evil ways and merited the trust of the Antiquities Department.
‘Humph,’ said Emerson, unimpressed. ‘Allah knows thy true heart, Habib; I have not his all-seeing eye, but I have my doubts. I am going into the tomb. Get out of the way.’
The other guard had roused himself by this time and was also bowing and babbling. His countenance was not quite as villainous as Habib’s, probably because he was somewhat younger.
‘Alas, great lord, I have no key,’ said Habib.
‘But I have,’ said Emerson, producing it.
The gate had been cemented into place across the doorway. The bars were stout, the padlock massive; yet I knew they would prove no lasting impediment to men who have been known to tunnel through solid rock in order to rob the dead. When the grille swung open we were confronted with the sealed doorway that had frustrated Lord Baskerville on the last day of his life. Nothing had been touched since that hour. The small hole opened by Armadale still gaped, the only break in the wall of stones.
Lighting a candle, Emerson held it to the opening and we both looked in, bumping heads in our eagerness. I had known what to expect, and yet it was dampening to the spirits to behold a heap of rocky rubble that completely concealed whatever lay beyond.
‘So far, so good,’ Emerson remarked. ‘No one has attempted to enter since Baskerville’s death. Frankly, I expected that our friends from Gurneh would have tried to break in long before this.’
‘The fact that they have not makes me suspect that we have a long job ahead of us,’ I said. ‘Perhaps they are waiting for us to clear the passageway so they can get at the burial chamber without having to engage in boring manual labour.’
‘You may be right. Though I hope you are wrong about the extent of clearance necessary; as a rule the rubble fill does not extend beyond the stairwell.’
‘Belzoni mentions climbing over heaps of rubble when he entered Seti’s tomb, in 1844,’ I reminded him.
‘The cases are hardly parallel. That tomb had been robbed and re-used for later burials. The debris Belzoni described …’
We were engaged in a delightfully animated archaeological discussion when there was an interruption. ‘Hello, down there,’ called a loud, cheery voice. ‘May I join you, or will you come up?’
Turning, I beheld a form silhouetted against the bright rectangle of the opening at the head of the stairs. It was that of the tall personage I had noticed earlier, but I could not see it clearly until we had ascended the stairs – for Emerson promptly replied that we would come up. He was not anxious to have any stranger approach his new toy.
The form revealed itself to be that of a very tall, very thin gentleman with a lean, humorous face and hair of that indeterminate shade which may be either fair or grey. His accent had already betrayed his nationality, and as soon as we emerged from the stairway he continued in the exuberant strain typical of the natives of our erstwhile colony. (I flatter myself that I reproduce the peculiarities of the American dialect quite accurately.)
‘Well, now, I declare, this is a real sure-enough pleasure. I don’t need to ask who you are, do I? Let me introduce myself – Cyrus Vandergelt, New York, U.S.A. – at your service, ma’am, and yours, Professor Emerson.’
I recognised the name, as anyone familiar with Egyptology must have done. Mr Vandergelt was the American equivalent of Lord Baskerville – enthusiastic amateur, wealthy patron of archaeology.
‘I knew you were in Luxor,’ Emerson remarked unenthusiastically, taking the hand Mr Vandergelt had thrust at him. ‘But I did not expect to meet you so soon.’
‘You probably wonder what I am doing here at this goldurned hour,’ Vandergelt replied with a chuckle. ‘Well, folks, I am just like you – we are birds of a feather. It would take more than a little heat to keep me from what I mean to do.’
‘And what is that?’ I enquired.
‘Why, to meet you, sure enough. I figured you would get out here just the minute you arrived. And, ma’am, if you will permit me to say so, the sight of you would make any effort worthwhile. I am – I make no bones about it, ma’am, indeed I say it with pride – I am a most assiduous admirer of the ladies and a connoisseur, in the most respectable sense, of female loveliness.’
It was impossible to take offence at his words, they displayed such irrepressible trans-Atlantic good humour and such excellent taste. I allowed my lips to relax into a smile.
‘Bah,’ said Emerson. ‘I know you by reputation, Vandergelt, and I know why you are here. You want to steal my tomb.’
Mr Vandergelt grinned broadly. ‘I sure would if I could. Not just the tomb, but you and Mrs Emerson to dig it out for me. But’ – and here he became quite serious – ’Lady Baskerville has set her heart on doing this as a memorial to the dear departed, and I am not the man to stand in a lady’s way, particularly when her aim is so fraught with touching sentiment. No, sir; Cyrus Vandergelt is not the man to try low tricks. I only want to help. Call on me for any assistance you may require.’
As he spoke, he straightened to his full height – which was well over six feet – and raised his hand as if taking an oath. It was an impressive sight; one almost expected to see the Stars and Bars waving in the breeze and hearing the stirring strains of ‘Oh Beautiful America’.
‘You mean,’ Emerson retorted, ‘that you want to get in on the fun.’
‘Ha, ha,’ said Vandergelt cheerfully. He gave Emerson a slap on the back. ‘I said we were alike, didn’t I? There’s no fooling a sharp lad like you. Sure I do. If you don’t let me play, I’ll drive you crazy thinking of excuses to drop in. No, but seriously, folks, you’re going to need all the help you can get. Those Gurneh crooks are going to be on you like a hornets’ nest, and the local imam is stirring up the congregation in a fancy way. If I can’t do anything else, I can at least help guard the tomb, and the ladies. But look, why are we standing here jawing in the hot sun? I’ve got my carriage down at the other end of the Valley; let me give you a lift home and we can talk some more.’
We declined this offer, and Mr Vandergelt took his leave, remarking, ‘You haven’t seen the last of me, folks. You’re dining with Lady Baskerville tonight? Me, too. I’ll see you then.’
I fully expected a diatribe from Emerson on Mr Vandergelt’s manners and motives, but he was uncharacteristically silent on the subject. After a further examination of what little could be seen we prepared to go; and then I realised Habib was no longer with us. The other guard burst into a garbled explanation, which Emerson cut short.
‘I was about to dismiss him anyway,’ he remarked, addressing me but speaking in Arabic for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. ‘Good riddance.’
The shadows were lengthening when we started the climb up the cliff, and I urged Emerson, who was preceding me, to greater haste. I wanted ample time to prepare for the evening’s encounter. We had almost reached the top when a sound made me glance up. I then seized Emerson by the ankles and pulled him down. The boulder which I had seen teetering on the brink missed him by less than a foot, sending splinters of rock flying in every direction when it struck.
Slowly Emerson rose to his feet. ‘I do wish, Peabody, that you could be a little less abrupt in your methods,’ he remarked, using his sleeve to wipe away the blood that was dripping from his nose. ‘A calm “Watch out, there,” or a tug at my shirt-tail would have proved just as effective, and less painful.’
This was a ridiculous statement, of course; but I was given no time to reply to it, for as soon as Emerson had ascertained, with one quick glance, that I was unharmed, he turned and began to climb with considerable speed, vanishing at last over the rim of the cliff. I followed. When I reached the top he was nowhere in sight, so I sat down on a rock to wait for him, and – to be candid – to compose my nerves, which were somewhat shaken.
The tentative theory I had briefly considered in Cairo was now strengthened. Someone was determined to prevent Emerson from continuing the work Lord Baskerville had begun. Whether the latter’s death had formed part of this plan, or whether the unknown miscreant had made use of a tragic accident in order to further his scheme I could not then make out, but I felt sure we had not seen the last of attempts aimed at my husband. How glad I was that I had yielded to what had seemed a selfish impulse and come with him. The apparent conflict between my duty to my husband and my duty to my child had been no conflict. Ramses was safe and happy; Emerson was in deadly danger, and my place was at his side, guarding him from peril.
As I mused I saw Emerson reappear from behind a heap of boulders some distance from the path. His face was smeared with blood, and his eyes bulged with rage, so that he presented quite a formidable sight.
‘He got away, did he?’ I said.
‘Not a trace. I would not have left you,’ he added apologetically, ‘but that I felt sure the rascal had taken to his heels the moment the rock fell.’
‘Nonsense. The attempt was aimed at you, not at me – although the perpetrator does not seem to care whom he endangers. The knife – ’
‘I don’t believe the two incidents can be related, Amelia. The hands that pushed this rock were surely the filthy hands of Habib.’
This suggestion made a certain amount of sense. ‘But why does he hate you so much?’ I asked. ‘I could see you were on bad terms, but attempted murder….’
‘I was responsible for his being apprehended on the criminal charge I spoke of.’ Emerson accepted the handkerchief I gave him and attempted to clean his face while we walked on.
‘What was his crime? Stealing antiquities?’
‘That, of course. Most of the Gurneh men are involved in the antiquities game. But the case that brought him to justice, through me, was of a different and very distressing nature. Habib once had a daughter. Her name was Aziza. When she was a small child she worked for me as a basket girl. As she matured she turned into an unusually pretty young woman, slight and graceful as a gazelle, with big dark eyes that would melt any man’s heart.’
The tale Emerson proceeded to unfold would indeed have melted the hardest heart – even that of a man. The girl’s beauty made her a valuable property, and her father hoped to sell her to a wealthy landowner. Alas, her beauty attracted other admirers, and her innocence rendered her vulnerable to their wiles. When her shame became known the rich and repulsive buyer rejected her, and her father, enraged at losing his money, determined to destroy a now-valueless object. Such things are done more often than the British authorities like to admit; in the name of ‘family honour’ many a poor woman has met a ghastly fate at the hands of those who should have been her protectors. But in this case the girl managed to escape before the murderer had completed his vile act. Beaten and bleeding, she staggered to the tent of Emerson, who had been kind to her.
‘Both her arms were broken,’ said Emerson, in a soft, cold voice quite unlike his usual tones. ‘She had tried to shield her head from the blows of her father’s club. How she eluded him, or walked so far in her condition, I cannot imagine. She collapsed at my feet. I made her as comfortable as I could and ran to get help. In the few moments I was gone, Habib, who must have been close behind her, entered my tent and crushed her skull with a single blow.
‘I returned in time to see him running away. One glance told me I could do no more for poor Aziza, so I went in pursuit. I gave him a good beating before I turned him over to the police. He got off much more lightly than he deserved, for of course the native courts found his motive entirely reasonable. If I had not threatened the sheikh with various unpleasant things he would probably have set Habib free.’
I pressed his arm sympathetically. I understood why he had not mentioned the story; even now the memory affected him deeply. The softer side of Emerson’s character is not known to many people, but those who are in trouble instinctively sense his real nature and seek him out, as the unhappy girl had done.
After a moment of thoughtful silence he shook himself and said, in his usual careless tone, ‘So take care with Mr Vandergelt, Amelia. He was not exaggerating when he called himself an admirer of the fair sex, and if I learn that you have yielded to his advances I will beat you.’
‘I will take care that you don’t catch me, never fear. But, Emerson, we are going to have a hard time solving this case if we hope to do it by using you as bait. There are too many people in Egypt who would like to kill you.’