Murder Most Egyptological (A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Book 3) by Robert Colton Page B

steps. Below these was just a small and narrow gully.
       “I thought the Valley of Kings was larger,” said Lucy.
       Sandy gave a chuckle and retorted, “Think of this as the Valley of Kings adjacent . You see, there isn’t just one valley; the tombs really dot all of the Theban Hillside. Thus far, only Kamose’s crypt has been discovered in this area, but there might be more.” 
       Sandy walked before us, setting a very slow pace as we made our way downward. I took two missteps, causing butterflies in my stomach. When we reached the bottom of the valley, I took a deep breath of warm, dry air.  
       The magazine photos that I had studied captured the images of a large rectangular opening cut into the ground, with the earth cleared away, and a fine stone proscenium marked the entrance to the long lost tomb. Tents and tables holding rare and valuable objects were scattered before the tomb, and a throng of natives worked, while archeologists posed beside some grand find.
       Well, we found a dig site very much like this; however, along the narrow way of the small, isolated valley, we came across a church service.
       A dozen or so locals sat in little mismatched folding chairs and looked on toward a wooden pulpit, where Mrs. Smith stood, waving a leather-bound Bible in the air.      
       Dr. Smith sat on a little chair behind his wife; otherwise, I didn’t see any of the expedition members.
      “What is taking place?” I asked Sandy.
      “Mrs. Smith’s church service; as I said, it is Sunday.”
      “All of the workmen are Christian?” asked Lucy, as surprised as I was.
       Sandy gave a guttural laugh. “Hardly. They are all Muslims. They don’t care, really; none of them understand a word of what she is saying, and it’s an hour they don’t have to work.”
       We stood some distance away and listened to much talk of fire and brimstone. Honestly, the god that Mrs. Smith spoke of was as fearsome as the animal-headed gods of Egypt.
       The fiery sermon was concluded with the singing of a hymn. Mrs. Smith sang loudly, her voice echoing in the valley. The workmen warbled the words that they had been taught with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
       Once the peculiar rendition of “Gabriel’s Message” came to an end, Mrs. Smith’s blissful smile turned into a frown. She pointed at the members of her ragged congregation and started warning them of the dangers of sin.
       The typical offenses were well defined: lying, stealing, blasphemes and all, and then she went on a colorful tangent listing unsightly behavior and bad manners as lesser sins. Her husband came to his feet and placed a hand on her round shoulder when she described the practice of using one’s sleeve as a handkerchief as an affront to the Lord.
       Dr. Smith thanked his wife for her stirring service in English and then made a remark in Arabic that surely translated to, She’s done, and you may return to work.
       The men all raised their own little Bibles into the air and waved them, shouting “Al-hamdu lillah!”
       Sandy gave a great laugh, but he did not translate the statement.
       Noticing us, amongst the scattering workman,  Mrs. Smith quickly beckoned me to her. “What did you think of my sermon, Mrs. Stayton?”
       I have told my share of white lies, but I did hate to spin another in conjunction with the Sabbath. “Most unexpected.”
       This fragment of words pleased her. “They may be savages, but there’s no reason they can’t try to better themselves.”
       Dr. Smith stepped very near his wife, and once more, placed a hand firmly on her shoulder. “Wilma, what have I told you about calling the locals savages?”
       The plump woman sighed and said, “It will get us lynched and buried in shallow graves in the wadi.”
       Dr. Smith’s dark eyes bugged out a little, and he retorted, “I have never said that.”
       “Well, it’s what you think,” Wilma responded.