Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [116]
“This is an honor I had not expected, Sitt Hakim,” he said.
Taking this as the subtle rebuke that was intended, I replied in my best Arabic, “I could not resist the opportunity of meeting one whose praises I have heard sung.”
“With you be peace and God’s mercy and blessing,” Emerson added. The formalities having been concluded, so far as he was concerned, he went on, “You have met my son. This is my daughter-in-law—a genuine Sitt Hakim—and—er—”
“A friend,” said Sethos, bowing. “Sabah el-kheir, effendi.”
Ayyad’s eyes rested on him for a moment and then returned to Nefret. “I thank you for coming. I have ordered the objects to be brought here. The mortuary is not pleasant for a lady.”
Nefret might have reminded him that her acquaintance with unpleasant cadavers was almost certainly greater than his, but she recognized the courtesy and acknowledged it with a smile.
The room was fairly large and crowded with shabby furniture—a red plush settee, several chairs of European style (the cushions worn and faded), a large desk, and two battered wooden cabinets. Under the windows on the east wall was a long table, covered with cotton sheeting. Without ceremony Ayyad whisked it off.
In Egypt one inevitably thinks of mummies. However, a body left unburied has little chance to dry out before predators get to it—vultures, wild dogs, jackals, and, after them, a varied collection of insects. There was nothing left of this one but pale bones, splintered and gnawed and disarticulated. As Nefret bent over the unsavory ensemble, her face absorbed, Ayyad said, “They were widely scattered, and some we did not find, though we searched far.”
She heard the defensive note in his voice and gave him the compliment he wanted. “You’ve laid them out in the right order,” she said, without looking up. “I’m impressed that you found so many. The small bones of hands and feet are missing; that’s not unusual, in such cases. Some of the ribs . . .” As she spoke, she took a tape measure from the pocket of her skirt. “Without the feet I can only estimate his height.”
“How estimate?” Ayyad asked, edging closer.
“There are tables of proportions. I can show you someday, if you like.”
“You say ‘his.’ How do you know that?”
“But you knew that.” She gave him a comradely smile, as one professional to another. “From the clothing. Scraps of European-style trousers and coat and waistcoat, we were told.”
“Yes, they are in that box. But there are other ways—from the bones themselves?”
She gave him a little lecture, to which he listened attentively, his head close to hers. “The skull also indicates a male,” she finished. “You see these ridges of bone over the eye sockets? In most women they are not so prominent, and the angle of the jaw is more rounded.”
“Age?” Ayyad rapped.
“Not a boy, not an old man. That’s just an educated guess. Based primarily on the teeth. The four back molars have erupted and show signs of moderate wear. I can’t tell you much more. The damned jackals haven’t left me enough to work on.”
She had spoken English, and he had replied in the same language, so absorbed that he spoke to her as directly as he would have addressed a man. I sympathize with the desire of any person to improve his understanding, but time was getting on, and Emerson was beginning to fidget.
“Enough to determine his identity,” I said, forestalling another question from Ayyad. “It is Martinelli. Look at his teeth.”
Stained brown and yellowish green, the chipped lower incisors bared by the fleshless lips, they grinned up at us.
THE SCRAPS OF THE CLOTHING confirmed my identification. The faded shepherd’s plaid was the same pattern as that of the trousers Martinelli had worn the night he disappeared.