Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [47]
Nice and safe, I thought to myself. The Gurneh thieves were a wily lot, but none of them was given to violence.
We stood on the dock waving good-bye as the men poled the Amelia away from the bank. The great sail caught the wind and swelled. The strength of the northerly winds and the skill of Reis Hassan would carry her upstream, against the current. The steam engine we had installed, at hideous expense and against my wishes, reduced the travel time to little more than a week, but they were in no hurry, and if they followed my advice they would only use the confounded noisy odorous machine when the wind failed.
Emerson’s arm stole round my waist. “Curse it, Peabody,” he said, in a voice gruff with emotion.
“Yes, my dear. It has been too long. Shall we plan a voyage of our own, later in the season?”
“Why not? We should be able to get the other business settled before too long.”
“What other business?”
Emerson drew my arm through his and we started back toward the house. “Why, the little matter of the weeping assassin. Not a bad title for a thriller,” he added musingly.
I turned my head and looked up at him. The morning breeze ruffled his hair and the morning light cast his strong features in sharp outline.
“Come now, don’t pretend you hadn’t thought of it,” he said. “You always claim you anticipate my intentions and deductions.”
“I had, of course. I was waiting until Ramses was out of the way before I raised the question with you. He won’t like our interfering, you know.”
“If things work out as I hope, he won’t know about it. He’s too softhearted by half,” said Ramses’s father. “Not that I mean any harm to the poor devil. I only want to question him and help him, if he is in need of help.”
“I would like to help him back into prison,” I said. “You are as softhearted as Ramses. How either of you can be so tolerant about a murderous attack—”
“I don’t think you quite understand the—er—motivation, Peabody.”
“Explain it to me, then.”
Emerson drew me behind the shelter of a wall, out of the wind, and took out his pipe. He made quite a long business of filling and lighting it. After puffing meditatively, he said, “No, my dear, I would rather not. There are some subjects a gentleman does not discuss with a lady, and you are still delightfully naive about—er—”
“Oh, good Gad!” I cried. “Do you mean that wretched boy is—has—was—”
“Not so naive as that, I see,” Emerson remarked as if to himself. “I believe so, yes. That assumption goes a long way to explaining Asad’s emotional behavior.”
“But—but—”
“My dear girl, don’t look so stricken. It is perfectly natural—for some individuals—and perfectly harmless—for most of them. Ramses couldn’t help it, if a young man—er—took a fancy to him, any more than he can prevent females from doing the same. He handled the matter very well, I thought. I only hope Asad hasn’t cut his throat in a fit of remorse.”
“Would he do such a thing?”
“He might. That is one of the reasons why I am anxious to locate him. And before you condemn him for that rather pathetic attack,” Emerson added, “bear in mind that in matters of the heart the female can be deadlier than the male.”
I certainly could not deny that. I was turning over in my mind various examples, from my personal experience, as we proceeded on our way. Emerson took my hand and hurried me along. He was, as always, anxious to get to the dig.
“Not so fast, if you please,” I said. “We haven’t decided how we are to go about locating this elusive youth. If he had wanted our help he would have sought it by this time.”
“It will be difficult,” Emerson admitted. “But there are certain steps we might take . . .”
We took the first that same night.
Mr. Bassam was delighted to see us. Some form of green vegetable figured prominently in the menu for that evening, and a strong smell of onions filled the room.
“Whatever you have,” said Emerson, cutting short Bassam’s traditional offers of varied food substances, none of which was on