Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [181]
“Ah,” said Jamil eagerly. “I will guard him, Sitt Hakim. With my father’s gun.”
A suitable occupation for a man, I thought. I said firmly, “No gun, Jamil. He is to be well-treated and unharmed.”
“May God bless you, Sitt,” Sethos whined. “You are merciful. You are kind. You are—”
“I leave him in your charge, Kadija,” I went on. “This is the most important thing. No one outside the family must know he is here. The Father of Curses and I will return tonight, to question him.” Studying the boy’s weak, handsome face, I decided I had better reinforce my warning. “Jamil—Yusuf—no one is to leave the house until I give permission, except, of course, for Daoud and Selim. They will take the horses to the dahabeeyah tomorrow morning. Is that clearly understood? If either of you mentions the presence of our—er—prisoner . . .”
I did not finish the threat. The parasol and the invocation of Emerson should suffice.
Sethos slunk off with Kadija and we returned to the carriage. “The skulking and whining were rather overdone,” I said. “I hope he won’t be carried away by the role; it is one of his weaknesses.”
“The role of prisoner,” Margaret murmured. “How did you think of that? It would never have occurred to me.”
“I could hardly have described him as an honored guest, or a new servant, now could I? Besides, I wanted him locked up. I don’t trust him.”
“It was a brilliant idea, Mrs. Emerson,” Margaret said sincerely.
I smiled at her. “You may call me Amelia.” I consulted my lapel watch. “I hope we are not too late for luncheon. It has been a busy morning!”
From Manuscript H
Ramses found it difficult to concentrate on archaeology when his wife and his mother were off somewhere, bent on mischief. He consoled himself with the thought that they couldn’t get in too much trouble on the streets of Luxor. Perhaps his mother meant to perch on a bench somewhere, examining the faces of passersby. She had always claimed she would recognize Sethos anywhere, in any disguise. Perhaps she really intended to shop. Christmas was approaching, and he had never known his mother to be distracted from those festivities by anything as unimportant as a murderer. Perhaps . . .
Bertie had to speak to him twice before he took note of his surroundings. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
“I only wanted to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind. I didn’t want to interrupt Cyrus and the Professor.”
“I doubt you could have,” Ramses said. His father and Cyrus were some distance ahead, with Selim and Jamil in close attendance. Somewhat guiltily he turned his attention to his companion. He ought to have been looking after Bertie. But Jumana was riding close on Bertie’s other side, and Daoud was behind him, and although Bertie was flushed and perspiring he seemed to be all right.
They had taken the road from Medinet Habu into the cliff-enclosed valley. Few tourists came that way; the Cook’s tours allowed only enough time for the major sights: the east bank temples, the Ramesseum and Medinet Habu, the royal tombs, and a few selected tombs of the nobles.
It was likely that Sethos had maintained his role of tourist. He wouldn’t risk—
“Is this where Cyrus wants to dig?” Bertie asked.
“What? Oh, sorry. It’s one possibility. There’ve been over seventy tombs found already, but most are unfinished and undecorated—more like caves, really. They date from the Nineteenth and Twentieth Dynasties, and include tombs of royal princes as well as queens.”
“Are we going to see any of them?” Bertie passed his sleeve over his forehead.
“It looks that way.” His father and Cyrus were talking with an Egyptian who had emerged from a rough shelter. “The most important tombs are closed. The custodian has the keys.”
They inspected three of the tombs, finishing with that of Queen Nefertari Merenmut, where Emerson fulminated about the damage to the exquisitely painted reliefs.
“There’s a worthwhile project for you,” he declared. “You should be spending your money on repairing scenes like these, instead