Crocodile On The Sandbank by Elizabeth Peters

Author:Elizabeth Peters
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi

Crocodile On The Sandbank

7

I REMEMBER standing on the ledge, oblivious to the slow beauty of sunrise on the cliffs, as the impact of Walter's statement sank into my mind. None of us tried to argue with him; to believe that Mohammed had tricked both watchers, being unaware of surveillance, was really beyond the bounds of credibility.

Suddenly Emerson rose from his chair and ran off along the ledge. I knew where he was going. How I knew I cannot explain, but I did know; and I also knew what he would find. I followed nun more slowly, my steps slowed by dread of the discovery. When I came up to him he was standing by the wooden shelter that had covered the painted pavement. The painting was no longer there. Only a broad expanse

of broken shards covered the sand. The destruction had been vicious; some sections had been ground

into powder.

So my work had gone for naught and the sacrifice of my skinned fingers had been in vain. This was not my first thought, however. The senseless, wanton loss of beauty miraculously preserved hurt like a physical blow.

Without conscious premeditation my hand reached out to Emerson's; his fingers closed bruisingly over mine and we stood for a moment with hands locked. After a moment Emerson seemed to realize what

he was doing, and flung my hand away. The cut on his forehead was still oozing blood, but I knew his drawn, haggard expression was not caused by physical pain. I did not even resent his gesture.

“A vindictive apparition, our Mummy,” I said.

“All part and parcel of the ridiculous story Mohammed is promulgating,” Emerson said. “The priest of Amon wreaking his vengeance on Khuenaten's city. Peabody, has it occurred to you that this plot is too complex for a man of Mohammed's limited intelligence?”

“Perhaps you underestimate his intelligence”

“I think not. His motive is equally obscure to me. Why should he go to so much trouble for a petty revenge? Our presence brings income to the village— money these people badly need, however small it may seem to us.”

“But if Walter is correct in claiming that Mohammed never left the village— ”

“I cannot accept that. Who else could the Mummy be?”

“Then you think we must search for some power behind Mohammed. Who could that be?”

“That is equally difficult to understand. Unless some wealthy amateur excavator covets the site— ”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous!” I exclaimed. “Next you will be accusing M. Maspero of planning this, in order to discredit you.”

This injudicious remark ended the discussion. Emerson shot me a hateful look and started back toward camp.

Our spirits were at very low ebb that morning; if it had not been for Emerson's stubbornness, I think we would have taken our leave of Amarna. Only Evelyn's intervention prevented a full-scale battle at breakfast, and it was she who insisted that we all get some sleep before discussing the matter again. All our tempers were strained by fatigue, she said; we could not think clearly. This was, of course, Evelyn's tact; her temper was never strained, and I am rational under all circumstances.

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