Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [60]
“Yes, yes, Ramses, we all understand that,” Emerson grunted. He was smoking furiously, which would have been a sure sign of distress and anger even if his scowling countenance had not made his feelings clear. “When I get my hands on that boy—”
“Merasen?” Nefret stiffened. “Why do you assume he is guilty? He may have been carried off by the people who killed Ali.”
“It is possible,” Ramses said.
Nefret’s pale cheeks regained some of their color. “You’re against him. You always have been.”
“That will be quite enough, Nefret,” I said firmly. She had been badly shaken by the death of Ali, a merry, laughing lad whom we all liked. “The situation is too grave for recriminations,” I went on. “We now have proof that someone is working actively against us. Who that person may be, we do not yet know. There is one strong point in Merasen’s favor: he was not on the boat when Hassan fell, or was pushed, overboard.”
“That’s right,” Nefret said eagerly.
“However,” I said, “I suggest that we look through our baggage and that of Merasen. I would like to know whether anything is missing—money, personal possessions, papers of any kind.”
“Well done, Mother,” said Ramses.
“How good of you to say so, my dear.”
At first glance Merasen’s precious suitcase and other bundles appeared to have been undisturbed. But when we opened the former we found that most of the clothing was gone, along with the sword and its scabbard. Ramses so forgot himself as to use bad language.
“Goddamn it! I thought I was being so clever when I insisted on his sharing my quarters, but I obviously wasn’t clever enough. He must have squirreled his things away earlier, I’d have waked up if he had come crawling in last night.”
“You did suspect him,” Nefret said.
“A pity no one else did,” said Emerson, in the cool, quiet voice that was more ominous than his bellows. “Not your fault, my boy. Let’s see what else he has taken.”
Emerson had already dispensed part of the money, in return for the hire of the camels and their drivers, and a considerable baksheesh to the obliging Mustapha. The rest, according to his count, was intact, which did not surprise me, since he had kept it close to his person throughout. Our next concern was for the weapons. The heavy boxes, which had been in Selim’s charge, appeared to be untouched; but Emerson wrenched them open.
“All here,” he said. “I meant to hand them round before we left, but I may as well do it now.” He lifted one of the rifles, a great heavy thing longer than my arm, and handed it to Ramses. “Load it. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ramses refused to hunt and preferred not to carry firearms, but after an incident a few years earlier he had taken up target shooting, explaining in his cool fashion, “There are circumstances under which proficiency in this particular skill might come in useful.”
I reached for another of the weapons. Emerson slapped my hand away. “It’s too heavy for you. The recoil would probably break your shoulder, even if you could hold it steady. You too, Nefret.”
Nefret was watching Ramses, who had taken shells from another box and was expertly loading the weapon. “I don’t want it,” she said in a choked voice.
“What about the pistols?” I inquired hopefully. There were seven of them, large, efficient-looking weapons.
“You are the world’s worst shot, Peabody,” said my husband without rancor. “You have never even managed to hit anything with that little pistol of yours—anything you aimed at, that is.”
“I could learn, Emerson.”
“Not with this,” said Emerson.
There were enough weapons to arm all of the men, with several extra. We left Ramses to mount guard over them and went to carry out the next stage of our search. I had a horrible foreboding of what we would find—or rather, not find.
It was Nefret’s copy of the map that had disappeared. At first she refused to accept this, tossing papers all over the floor of the tent in a frantic search.
“Face facts, my dear,