Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [104]
I had been guilty of a certain degree of hubris when I implied to Nefret that I had everything under control. I had not exactly lied to her—I never lie unless it is absolutely necessary—I had only applied the reassurance I thought she needed. However, things had happened so fast that it was hard to keep track of them. The infuriating Mr. Smith’s visit had added additional complications.
It was time to make one of my little lists.
As soon as dinner was over I excused myself, claiming I had work to do—which was the truth. Seating myself at my desk, I began by ruling my paper into neat sections and then headed one column “Annoying and Mysterious Events,” the next, “Theories,” and the third, “Steps to Be Taken.”
“The Veiled Hathor of Cairo” was the first event to be considered. Three possible explanations occurred to me: first, that she was someone out of Ramses’s past; second, that she hoped to be someone in his future; third, that her motive was something other than personal attraction. I could not think what on earth that motive could be. The only course of action open to me was a thoughtful consideration of the women who had been involved with my son at some time or other. Asking Ramses would have been the logical next step, but I knew that wouldn’t get me anywhere. I drew another sheet of paper to me and began another list.
After I had finished, I studied it in some surprise. I hadn’t realized there had been so many. Nor, I felt sure, was the list complete. However, several of the names merited investigation.
A hairpin dropped onto the desk and a lock of hair fell over my eyes. I brushed it back with a muttered “Confound it,” and shoved several other loose pins back into place. When I am deep in thought I have a habit of pressing my hands to my head. This has a deleterious effect upon one’s coiffure, but it does seem to assist in ratiocination.
The Affair at the Temple of Hathor came next to mind. Had it been the same woman? It is the duty of a good detective to consider all possibilities, but it seemed hardly likely that there were two resentful females in league. At any rate, Maryam could not have been the second Hathor.
The incident had, at least, supplied two physical clues. Nefret had given me the crumpled white garment found at the temple. I took it and the torn scrap of linen from the drawer and spread the robe out across the desk, determined to subject it to a closer analysis than I had been able to give it before.
It was of plain white cotton and simple pattern—two rectangles sewed up the sides and across the top, leaving spaces for arms and head. It had been sewn by hand, rather clumsily. There were several rents, one of them near the hem, where Nefret’s arrow had penetrated the fabric, the others along the seams where the stitches had parted, possibly as the result of a hasty removal of the garment. There was absolutely nothing distinctive about it. I felt certain it had not been purchased in the suk, but had been constructed by the wearer.
The scrap of cloth snagged on the wall had not come from the robe. The fabric was completely different—finely woven linen, pleated and sheer. It must have been torn from the garment she wore under the robe, when she scrambled over the wall—a diaphanous, seductive garment like the one Ramses had seen in Cairo.
Agile though she must be, and familiar with the terrain, luck had played a large part in her successful escape. If Justin and his entourage had not thrown her plans into disarray . . . An unpleasant prickling sensation ran down my spine as a new theory trickled into my mind. She must have known of the children’s intention of visiting the temple that night. Yet she had risked capture and exposure, for she had been alone and there had been four of them, all young and quick and just as familiar with the terrain.
Unless she stopped them before they got close enough to seize her . . . Had there been a weapon concealed