Read Online The Curse of the Pharaohs by Elizabeth Peters - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Peters
Tags: Fiction, Historical, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Crime & mystery, Egypt, Women archaeologists, Peabody, Amelia (Fictitious character), Archaeologists' spouses
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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 bid 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 honor 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 realized 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.
"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 bid 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 honor 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 realized 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.
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