Tomb of the Golden Bird by Elizabeth Peters

topmost steps, since there had been no sign of it as yet, and detritus lay deep over the area—almost thirteen feet down to bedrock in some places. Howard kept on until growing darkness made careful work impossible. Emerson would have gone on beyond that time, had I not tactfully reminded him that the decision was not his to make. He was extremely restless that night, mumbling and throwing himself from side to side until I threatened to expel him from our chamber. If I had not protested, Emerson would have headed for the Valley at dawn next morning; when interrogated, he had to admit that by his calculations it would take another day of hard work to clear the entire cutting. "We ought at least pretend to be casual visitors," I informed him. "Howard will not take it amiss if we drop by on our way home from the West Valley, but if you push him too far—" "Curse it," Emerson shouted. "See here, Peabody—" "Mother is right," Ramses said. "What?" Emerson stared at him. "Oh. Well. If you think so." I wished Ramses had not interfered. We had had the beginning of a nice little argument developing. Our morning's work in the West Valley was a waste of time, though. Neither Emerson nor Cyrus could concentrate, and the former was, for once, the first to suggest that we stop for the day. Exhibiting the delicacy which was so characteristic of him, Cyrus refused Emerson's invitation to call on Howard. He did not, as he might have done, point out that it wasn't Emerson's tomb. "I feel kind of funny about hanging around," he explained. "Why?" Emerson asked, in honest bafflement. "Well, Carter didn't ask me." "He didn't ask us, either," I said. "But that will not deter my husband. Come to dinner this evening, Cyrus, and we will tell you what went on." Nefret had decided to spend the morning at her clinic, so it was just the three of us, Emerson, Ramses, and I, who wended our way to the East Valley. Emerson had underestimated the zeal of Howard's crew. We arrived on the scene in time to see that the rubbish above the steps had been removed. Howard gave us only an abstracted greeting before urging his men to proceed. There was no thought of stopping now, and no possibility of leaving. One by one the descending stairs were exposed as the cutting deepened. The sun was low in the west when the level of the twelfth step was reached, and there before us was the top of a doorway blocked with plastered stones. Howard sat down suddenly on the ground and wiped his forehead with his sleeve, too overwrought to take out his handkerchief. "I can't stand the suspense." He groaned. "Is the blocking intact? Are there seals on the plaster?" This was as good as an invitation to Emerson, who probably would not have waited for one anyhow. Howard tottered after him as he descended the steps. "I can't see," Howard muttered. "It's too dark down here. The exposed section seems to be solid—" "Keep your hands off the plaster," said Emerson curtly. "Peabody, toss down a candle." I handed Ramses my torch. He had courteously refrained from comment or suggestion, feeling, I suppose, that his father was doing enough of both, but I knew the dear lad was as eager as we to inspect the doorway. With a smile at me, he descended in his turn. The rest of us crowded round the opening, breathlessly awaiting a report. It came at last, in the form of a groan from Howard. My heart sank; and then Ramses's even voice called up, "Plastered stone blocks. There are several seals stamped in the plaster—the seals of the necropolis, the jackal and the nine kneeling captives." "No cartouche?" I asked. "Not here. But the lower part of the doorway is still hidden by rubble." "I must see," Howard cried. "I must see what is behind that door." "It will take several more hours to finish clearing the rubble from the stairwell," Ramses said coolly. "And it's getting dark." "I must see," Howard repeated. "I must!" "Some of the plaster at the top has fallen away," said Emerson. It was the first time