Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [122]
“Abdullah,” she repeated. “Little Dolly’s great-grandfather? Selim’s father, and the grandfather of David . . . You all loved him very much, didn’t you?”
Her composure worried me. It was unnatural. “Yes, we did.”
“They were present—Selim and David?”
“Why, yes. So were . . . See here, Maryam, if you suspect Selim or David of striking the fatal blow—”
“That was not what I meant.”
“Good Gad,” I exclaimed in horror, as her meaning dawned on me. “Are you suggesting that one of them—one of us—blames you for your mother’s actions and wants revenge? That one of them—one of us—hired an assassin to attack you? Nonsense, child. Aside from the fact that none of us would perpetrate such an act, your true identity was unknown to us until after the event. Get it out of your head this instant.”
The curtains flapped violently. Maryam let out a little scream and I let out a muffled swear word as a portly form climbed laboriously through the window. Once Horus had been able to leap through it. Age and weight had taken their toll; now he had to scale the wall. Poised awkwardly on the sill, he looked round the room, spat, and vanished into the night.
“He was looking for Sennia,” I explained. “I hope you are not frightened of cats.”
“I like them very much. I never had one.”
“Don’t waste your time trying to make friends with Horus. He detests all of us except Sennia and Nefret. He won’t bother you again tonight. Can you sleep now?”
“Yes.” Impulsively she put her hand on mine. “Thank you. You have cleansed my mind of some very ugly thoughts.”
It was a pretty gesture and a pretty little speech. “You do believe me, then?” I asked. “It is a sad story, but we must not judge others or feel guilt for their actions. Each of us has enough on our consciences without taking on the guilt of others.”
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
* * *
Emerson’s hopes of resuming his full work schedule were doomed from the start. Only he, as his wife acerbically remarked, would have trotted blithely off to Deir el Medina when so many duties, domestic and investigative, took precedence. Immediately after breakfast she intended to help Evelyn and Walter pack for their removal to the Castle, and arrange for Maryam to move into their rooms. Lia was ordered (it was couched as a request, but no one doubted it was an order) to go through her wardrobe to see if she could find something for Maryam to wear. A long monologue, to which Ramses listened with only half an ear, explained her reasons—something about relative sizes and the absence of practical garments in the girl’s wardrobe. At the last minute Nefret received an urgent summons to the clinic; the word of its opening had spread and her services were increasingly in demand.
Emerson listened openmouthed to this ruthless depletion of his work force. “Curse it,” he exclaimed. “The fill is piling up, Peabody. How long is it going to take you to pack a few clothes?”
“You know nothing about it, Emerson, so kindly refrain from putting your oar in.” Obviously pleased with this bit of slang, she added, in a more amiable voice, “I will be along later, perhaps. You can have Ramses and David, if you like.”
“Good of you,” muttered Emerson. “Let’s go, boys, half the morning is gone.”
It was just after 7 a.m.
Despite Emerson’s complaints they had managed to make some progress in deciphering the plans of the various shrines north of the village and the Ptolemaic temple. Some were better preserved than others, but all had been damaged by time and amateur diggers, and it required skill and experience to untangle the original plan. Bertie, the best draftsman of the group, had been faithful in his attendance. He arrived soon after they did, apologizing for his tardiness, and produced the latest of the plans he had been working on for over a week.
“Ha,” said Emerson, studying it. “Yes, that seems to be acceptable, so far as it goes. I want to identify the deity to whom this structure was dedicated.” He