Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [191]
“Wait for me,” Cyrus shouted.
“No, you can’t help with this. If you want action, go after Mother and Father. Somewhere along the cliff south of Deir el Bahri. Take a weapon.”
As he turned the mare toward the gate he saw Cyrus run back into the house.
“Are we going to ride furiously off into the sunset, or have you any bright ideas about where to look for them?” Sethos inquired.
“Goddamn you,” Ramses said.
“I expect He already has. Half an hour or less . . . they must have been intercepted before they left the Valley. Plenty of cover near the entrance. There may be signs of a struggle.”
What there was was a dead horse and the motionless body of Margaret Minton and a puddle of blood that shone wetly in the sunlight.
The place was only ten feet from the road, a miniature wadi walled in by boulders. There was no sign of Nefret or her horse. Sethos was out of his saddle before Ramses could move. Kneeling beside the body, he said, “Margaret,” in a whisper with almost no breath behind it. He didn’t touch her.
There was no room in Ramses’s mind for sympathy. He went to them and pushed his uncle roughly out of the way.
“She’s not dead. Get the canteen off my saddle.”
She stirred when he bathed her bruised face and then she tried to sit up.
“Easy,” Ramses said, bracing her shoulders. Her eyes opened. They passed uninterestedly over him and Sethos, and focused in a concentrated glare.
“Nefret. He took her. I tried . . . He killed my horse.”
“Who?”
She rubbed her eyes. “The boy—Jamil. He called her, begging for help, and she went to him—you know Nefret—there was another man, hiding behind the rocks—ugly scarred face . . .”
He cut her short. How the business had been managed was unimportant now. “Any idea where they might have taken her?”
“No. I’m sorry, Ramses, I tried—”
“It’s all right.” He couldn’t reproach her, she had done her best. Fortunately there was another scapegoat close at hand. Sethos was still on his knees, motionless as a statue. “A hell of a lot of help you are,” Ramses said. “Get her back to the Castle.”
Sethos edged closer. “What are you going to do?”
“I can only think of one place. If she’s not there . . .” He pushed Margaret at Sethos. He had to catch hold of her or let her fall, but it would have been hard to say who was supporting whom. Shock and loss of blood had drained the color from Sethos’s unshaven face. Margaret glared at him.
“Go with Ramses. He needs—”
“No, he doesn’t,” Sethos said. He looked up at Ramses. The gray-green eyes were sunken but clear. “I’d only be in his way. Kuentz didn’t blow up the German House. I did. You can guess why. Good luck.”
The War Office had nothing on Sethos when it came to dribbling out information only as it was needed. That bit of news strengthened Ramses’s hopes. Kuentz had been using the German House as his base for antiquities dealing, and perhaps for other purposes. He couldn’t have many hideaways left.
Anyhow, secrecy was no longer an issue. With Nefret in his hands he could clear the tomb in broad daylight while they looked on, helpless to interfere.
How had they got her away? She’d have fought them tooth and nail. Maybe the blood wasn’t hers. Dead, she would be of no use to Kuentz. Mubashir wouldn’t dare kill her. He could do other things, though. Remembering the distorted face he had glimpsed in the moonlight, Ramses felt his throat contract. He couldn’t swallow, his mouth was too dry.
At least he knew he was on the right track. Forcing himself to stop long enough to question a woman working in the fields, he heard of a rider carrying something before him on the saddle. He had been heading for the river.
The run-down hotel appeared to be uninhabited. A few scrawny chickens scattered, flapping their wings and squawking, as he rode into the courtyard. The place had a disheveled sort of charm—picturesque, as Baedeker might say—with vines sprawling over the baked mud walls and partially veiling the famous bathtub. Apparently the chickens were the only creatures that hadn’t had sense enough to run from a man with a knife and a prisoner.