Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [51]
It was with some chagrin that I found myself in the presence of Major Ramsay, the least intelligent and most unsympathetic of Sir Eldon’s subordinates. On the occasion of our last meeting, at a social gathering at the Consulate, I had taken the opportunity of correcting some of his ill-informed opinions on the subject of women, their rightful position in society, and the unjust laws that prevented them from assuming that position. I would never accuse a British officer of rudeness, but Major Ramsay’s responses had come as close to that condition as a British officer could come; and toward the end of the discussion Emerson had said something about punching someone in the jaw. It was only one of Emerson’s little jokes, but Major Ramsay had no sense of humor. I was sorry to see, from the unsmiling curtness of his greeting, that he still harbored a grudge.
I explained the reason for my visit. Ramsay looked at me severely. “I had assumed you came in order to correct or amend the statement you originally made to the officer in charge of the investigation, Mrs. Emerson. Surely you know I cannot discuss the conduct of a police inquiry with a member of the general public.”
I settled myself more comfortably in the hard chair and placed my parasol across my lap. “Oh, yes, Major Ramsay, that is an admirable rule so far as it goes, but it does not apply to me. Professor Emerson and I can hardly be called members of the public, much less the general public.”
“You—” Ramsay began.
“I am certain that by now you have reached the same conclusion that was immediately apparent to me; namely, that Miss Debenham is innocent. Have you any other suspects?”
Ramsay bit his lip. His long, melancholy countenance was incapable of expressing subtle alterations in the intellectual process (assuming he had an intellectual process), but it was not difficult for me to follow his thoughts. He disliked telling me anything substantive, but hoped that by doing so he could gain information.
The latter motive triumphed over the former. Pursing his lips, as if he had tasted something sour, he said, “We are looking for a man to assist us with our inquiries. An Egyptian—a beggar, in fact. Perhaps you noticed him outside Shepheard’s.”
An unpleasant premonition crept over me. Naturally I did not display any sign of perturbation, for my countenance only expresses my intellectual process when I allow it to do so.
“A beggar,” I repeated, smiling ironically. “I noticed several dozen of them.”
“Taller than the average, sturdily built; wearing a pale-blue robe and a saffron turban.”
“I can’t say I recall such an individual. Why do you suspect him?”
“I didn’t say we suspected him, only that we wish to question him.”
And that, dear Reader, was all I was able to learn. Ramsay absolutely refused to elaborate or add to his statement.
Once outside the building, I found myself in a rare state of indecision. I was tempted to call on Sir Evelyn Baring, the Consul General, and request his cooperation, which I surely would have received, since we were old friends. But the afternoon was wearing on, and I had wasted too much time with the imbecile Ramsay. I would have enjoyed a delightful ride home under the desert moon, but I knew Emerson would fly into a rage if I did not return by sunset. Emerson is completely fearless where his own safety is concerned, but the mere thought of danger to me reduces the dear fellow to a positive jelly.
As I stood debating with myself, I heard a voice pronounce my name in questioning accents. Turning, I found myself face to face with a stranger. “Face to cravat” would be more accurate, for the man was eight or ten inches taller than I. Stepping back in order to see his face, I beheld a lean, hawk-nosed countenance atop a wiry body dressed rather oddly, for that climate, in a caped tweed