Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [125]
The good father awaited us, his bald head bared to the bitter sunlight. He did his best, but he could not do much except repeat the formal prayers. Afterward, Sethos, who had not spoken except to acknowledge a distant acquaintance with the dead man, took out a handful of money.
“I beg you will add to your kindness by saying a few Masses for his soul,” he said. Not until we had turned away, followed by the dismal drumbeat of soil landing on the simple coffin, did he add, “If anyone is in need of them, it’s Martinelli.”
I did not respond. I was thinking of certain other graves in that cemetery—reminders of several of our earlier encounters with crime. Poor young Alan Armadale and Lucinda Bellingham. I had been unable to save them, but I had avenged them. (With a certain amount of assistance, in the latter case, from Ramses.) There was another such burial, and when Sethos would have headed for the entrance I took his arm and led him back, to the far end of the cemetery. A feral dog, sprawled across the untended grave, rose as we approached and backed off, snarling. It was a female, heavy with young.
“Fitting,” said Sethos. “Why did you bring me here, Amelia?”
“You have never visited her grave?”
The arm I held was rigid. “Once. I wanted to convince myself she was really dead. I suppose it was you who erected the headstone. Only her name? Couldn’t you think of a fitting epitaph?”
“There is one.” I knelt and pushed the dusty weeds away from the base of the stone. Under her name were the carved words, “May she rest in Peace.”
“Oh, God.” He pulled me roughly to my feet and and put his arms round me. “You are unbelievable, Amelia. She tried to kill you and murdered one of your dearest friends. How can you forgive that?”
It was a brother’s embrace, not that of a lover, but I detached myself as gently and quickly as I could. Bertha would not have made the distinction, and although I do not share the ancient Egyptian belief that the soul lingers near the mortal remains, I preferred not to take the chance.
“Our Christian duty requires us to forgive those who have injured us,” I said. “It is easier to do that, I admit, when the individual in question is deceased.”
He let out a choked laugh and passed his hand over his mouth. “Does Maryam know her mother lies here?”
“I have no idea. Will you tell her?”
“No. I don’t know. Damnation, Amelia, don’t you ever weary of prodding people’s consciences? I can forgive Bertha for what she did to me—I assure you, you don’t know the half of it—but not for what she did to you and to Maryam. May we go now, or have you more to say?”
“Not to you.” I took his arm and we turned our backs on the desolate grave. “I believe I will have a few words with Maryam.”
He kicked at a clump of weeds. “Do you believe she is responsible for the accidents that have plagued you?”
“The possibility had of course occurred to me after the affair of the Veiled Hathor,” I said, fudging the truth just a little. Maryam had not been on my original list. “She was one of a number of females who might have believed herself badly treated by Ramses—”
“Good Lord.” Sethos came to an abrupt halt. “You never told me. Must I call Ramses out for seducing my daughter?”
“You can hardly suppose Ramses would take advantage of a fourteen-year-old girl,” I exclaimed indignantly. “She made the advances to him. I should not have to tell you that he behaved impeccably.”
“No, he’s a gentleman,” Sethos agreed, with a cynical twist of the lips. “Well, that is most interesting, but it isn’t as strong a motive as seeking revenge for her mother’s death.”
“I have already discussed that with her, and I believe I am safe in asserting that she has reached—or is on the way to reaching—a proper understanding. Moreover, it would have been impossible for a girl that age to carry out such a complex scheme. She certainly could not have been Hathor, since the most recent appearance of that lady occurred when Maryam was with Ramses, and Mrs. Fitzroyce told me she was here in Luxor when Hathor made her first appearance.”
The carriage we had