Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [117]
Sethos stepped in to relieve us of the problem of what to do with the bones. Declaring himself to be an acquaintance of the dead man, he manfully struggled to conceal his shock and distress at the bad news. “How often have I warned him of the dangers of those long, solitary walks of his,” he murmured, passing a clean white handkerchief over his eyes. “His heart was weak; he must have collapsed and died, out there in the waste, under the cold, uncaring moon, and it would not be long before . . .” He shuddered. “He is at peace now.”
I was tempted to give him a hard poke with my parasol, but he prudently stayed at a distance.
After promising to collect the bones and notify the proper authorities, we left the office. Zabtiyeh Square was an ecumenical area, with a mosque and a Roman Catholic church and two modern hotels as well as the police station. Pretty gardens filled the center; the color and scent of the blossoms were especially refreshing after the sight we had seen.
“This certainly puts a new complexion on things,” I remarked. “Martinelli never left Luxor. He must have been killed the same night he disappeared.”
“You don’t know that it was murder,” Emerson muttered. He knew my conclusion was correct, he just didn’t want to admit it.
“A man of his sort was not in the habit of taking long solitary walks,” I retorted. “Some individual took him out there, by force or by guile, and left him dead. In my opinion that is a strong presumption of murder. As for his weak heart, you invented that, didn’t you?”
My brother-in-law met my gaze with a shrug and a smile. “There was no need to confuse the issue. So far as the authorities are concerned, it was a sad accident. How did he die, Nefret?”
She started slightly when he addressed her, and turned troubled blue eyes toward him. “You don’t miss much.”
“You have a very unguarded, expressive face, my dear. Something about the neck bones, wasn’t it?”
“There was some damage. I couldn’t swear to it under oath, but he might have been strangled. Or,” she added sourly, “he might have had his head bashed in—impossible to tell whether the breaks were post- or pre-mortem—or been fed poison, or stabbed or shot!”
I took her hand and patted it. “Shall we stop at the Savoy for a nice cup of tea?”
“Good Gad, no!” Emerson increased his pace. “I have work to do. Cyrus will have to be informed. I leave that to you, Peabody.”
“If theft was the motive for his murder . . .” I began.
“What other motive could there be?” Emerson demanded. “The fellahin who found the remains would have taken anything of value, but it is much more likely that he was robbed by someone to whom he had been fool enough to display the jewelry while he was swanking round the cafés and bars. The value of the prize was fabulous enough to move even a cautious Luxor thief to murder. The portmanteau he carried is probably at the bottom of the river, filled with stones. That’s how I would have disposed of it,” Emerson concluded. He took me firmly by the arm and hurried me on past the shops that lined the esplanade.
His obvious disinclination to continue the discussion did not prevent me from speculating. His theory (ours, I should say) was probably correct, but then what had become of the princesses’ jewels? Were they still in the house of the thief, in a secret hidey-hole like the one old Abd el Hamed had excavated under the floor of his house? Had they been sold to one of the Luxor dealers? The latter seemed to me unlikely. The jewelry was distinctive, its ownership and origin well known; were it to be offered to a buyer, we would hear of it sooner or later, and Emerson would come down on the unlucky dealer like a thunderbolt. Perhaps our original theory had been the right one: The treasure had been taken to Cairo, though obviously not by Martinelli.
Later that afternoon I sat alone