Read Online The Curse of the Pharaohs by Elizabeth Peters - Free Book Online Page B
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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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 mat 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 bis 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 parlor. 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 honored 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 bis feet, his turban brushing the low ceiling.
"Emerson's friendship for us is
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 mat 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 bis 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 parlor. 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 honored 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 bis feet, his turban brushing the low ceiling.
"Emerson's friendship for us is
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