Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [77]
“For God’s sake, Mother, she was only fourteen. It was a youthful fancy, nothing more.”
I did not need to remind him of what she had done; the picture was probably as clear in his mind as it was in mine: Alone with him in his room, her dress pulled down to bare a youthful but unquestionably mature shape. What had preceded that moment I had no need to ask. She had been the aggressor, and he had immediately summoned me.
“All the same, she may have considered herself a woman scorned,” I said. “Fourteen is a difficult age, given to melodrama and long-held resentment.”
“Not for four years!” Ramses wiped perspiration off his forehead with his sleeve.
“Was there anyone else who might hold a grudge?”
Instead of protesting, he shrugged helplessly. “How the devil should I know what a woman considers . . . Oh, all right, Mother, since you insist. There was Dolly Bellingham. The fact that I murdered her father might reasonably prejudice her against me.”
“You acted in defense of yourself and of me,” I said. “I considered her, of course—”
“Of course,” Ramses muttered.
“But she was a thoroughly selfish little creature who cared nothing for her father. And easily distracted, would you not say?”
“Definitely.” An unwilling smile curled Ramses’s mouth. “She has probably been through a dozen men since.”
“I wouldn’t have put it quite that way, but I agree. Anyone else?”
“No. There’s Father, looking for me. May I be excused?”
I let him go, since I didn’t suppose I would get any more out of him—at that time. No doubt he was right about Maryam’s passing infatuation; but she had another, more compelling, reason for hating the entire lot of us. I wondered if Ramses had forgotten that her mother had met a violent end at the hands of one of our men—we had never ascertained which. Bertha had been in the process of attempting to kill me at the time, but Maryam might not see it that way. I remembered Sethos’s words: “If she blames me for her mother’s death, how do you suppose she feels about you?”
I gave myself a little shake and told myself to be sensible. I did not know how the girl felt about a number of things, and neither did her father.
I meant to add her to my list, though.
I managed to get Emerson away from the site and forced into a proper suit by mid-afternoon. Everyone had decided to come along. We were to dine at the Winter Palace after completing our various errands. Daoud had offered to take us across in his new boat. He had bought it for one of his sons and set him up in business, ferrying tourists back and forth from Luxor to the tombs and temples of the West Bank. Sabir was, his proud father informed us, one of the most successful of such entrepreneurs, which was not surprising, since his boat was the most attractive—brightly painted, immaculately clean, and fitted out with rugs on the floor and colorful cushions on the seats along both sides.
We pulled up to the dock amid a group of similar vessels, and Daoud announced he intended to visit relatives and would wait to take us back. I attempted to dissuade him, explaining that we might be late, but he was determined, and as the other boatmen gathered round I realized that he was looking forward to a good gossip with his friends. After disembarking we separated. David and Walter went off to look for antiquities and renew their acquaintances with various dealers; Evelyn and Lia decided to stroll about and perhaps visit a few shops. I declined their invitation to join them.
“I suppose you want to go to the police with me,” said Emerson resignedly.
“Why, no, my dear, I will leave that to you. Ramses, are you going with your father?”
Ramses nodded. “I believe we also ought to inform the police about the carelessness of the hunters. We will meet you at the hotel later.”
They started off down the dusty road side by side. “That’s got them out