The Mummy Case by Elizabeth Peters Page B

the bed?"
    Bastet declined Ramses' invitation to lunch—an invitation made, I hardly need say, without reference to me—so the three of us went down. I was not deceived by Emerson's apparent calm; the blow had been cruel, the disappointment grievous, and I felt it hardly less than he. Of course it was Emerson's faultfor not doing as I had suggested, but I would not for all the world have reminded him of that. After we had taken our places and the waiters had been dispatched in quest of the sustenance we had ordered, I said, "Perhaps I might have a little chat with M. de Morgan. He is a Frenchman, after all, and young; his reputation for gallantry—"
    "Is only too well deserved," Emerson growled. "You are not to go near him, Amelia. Do you suppose I have forgotten the abominable way he behaved the last time we met?"
    M. de Morgan's abominable behavior had consisted of kissing my hand and paying me a few flowery French compliments. However, I was touched by Emerson's assumption that every man I met had amorous designs on me. It was a delusion of his, but a pleasant delusion.
    "What did he do?" Ramses asked interestedly.
    "Never mind, my boy," Emerson said. "He is a Frenchman, and Frenchmen are all alike. They are not to be trusted with ladies or with antiquities. I don't know a single Frenchman who has the slightest notion of how to conduct an excavation."
    Knowing that Emerson was capable of lecturing on this subject interminably and that Ramses was about to request more specific information about the untrustworthiness of Frenchmen with ladies, I turned the conversation back to the subject that concerned me.
    "Very well, Emerson, if you would prefer I did not talk with him I will not. But what are we going to do? I assume he offered you another site?"
    Emerson's cheeks darkened. "Control yourself," I implored. "Speak slowly and breathe deeply, Emerson. It cannot be as bad as that."
    "It is worse, Peabody. Do you know what site that bas------that wretch had the effrontery to offer me? 'You desire pyramids,' he said, with that French smirk of his, 'I give you pyramids, my dear cabbage. Mazghunah. What do you say to Mazghunah?'"
    He gave the guttural a rolling sound that made the wordresemble an oath in some exotic language. "Mazghunah," I echoed. "Emerson, I confess the name is wholly unfamiliar. Where is it?"
    My admission of ignorance had the desired effect of soothing Emerson's wounded dignity. He seldom gets the chance to lecture me on Egyptology. However, in this case I was not just being tactful. I did not recognize the name, and when Emerson had explained, I knew why it meant nothing to me—and why my poor spouse had been so wroth.
    Mazghunah is only a few kilometers south of Dahshoor, the site we had wanted. Dahshoor, Sakkara, Giza and Mazghunah itself are the ancient cemeteries of Memphis, the once-great capital of ancient Egypt, of which only a few mounds of ruins now remain. All are close to Cairo and all boast pyramid tombs; but the two "pyramids" of Mazghunah exist only as limestone chips on the level desert floor. No one had bothered to investigate them because there was hardly anything left to investigate.
    "There are also late cemeteries," said Emerson with a sneer. "De Morgan made a point of that, as if it were an added inducement instead of a handicap."
    He pronounced the word "late" as if it were an insult, which to Emerson it was. Emerson's interest in Egypt began about 4000 B.C. and stopped 2500 years later. Nothing after 1500 B.C. had the slightest attraction for him, and the late cemeteries were dated to Roman and Ptolemaic times—trash, so far as Emerson was concerned.
    Though my own spirits were low, I sought to cheer my afflicted husband. "There may be papyri," I said brightly. "Remember the papyri Mr. Petrie found at Hawara."
    Too late I realized that the name of Mr. Petrie was not designed to improve Emerson's mood. Scowling, he attacked the fish the waiter had set in front of him, as if his fork