The Curse of the Pharaohs

Book 2: Amelia Peabody

by Elizabeth Peters

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Called back to Egypt to complete the excavation conducted by the recently-murdered Lord Baskerville, Amelia and Emerson encounter a tomb the locals believe to be cursed.

Release date: February 10, 2010

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 304

Sample

THE events I am about to relate began on a December afternoon, when I had invited Lady Harold 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 favorite 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 neighbors 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, 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 gotten the point across. The thrashing was superfluous.


Initially Sir Harold had threatened to take Emerson to law. 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 antique
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 Harold. 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, specializing 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 modernized, 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 paneling 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 defense, were three children. Though
they had grown considerably, I recognized these as the offspring of Evelyn and Walter. Sitting bolt upright in the center
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 swiveled 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 characterize,
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, totem-ism 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 neighbors—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 gray 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 Harold 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 gray 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 Harold’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 Harold’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 Harold’s ill-concealed envy of the neatness
of the room, the excellence of the food, and the smart efficiency with which butler, footman, and parlormaid served us. Rose,
my parlormaid, 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 Harold 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 Harold; 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
Harold 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 Harold devour the last
of the frosted cakes I heard stifled outcries from the hall. They were followed by a crash—my favorite 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 humor 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 Harold 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 Harold’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 Harold 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 parlormaid, 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