The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [161]
The gun lay by her lax hand. She was dressed in a dark blue garment like the riding habits ladies wore, and she looked neat as a pin, from the velvet facings of the bodice to the elegant buttoned boots. The only mess was on the pillow. She had shot herself through the head.
:
“Stop fussing, Peabody, the bullet only grazed me.”
It had cut a long furrow across Emerson’s back and upper arm. I added a final strip of sticking plaster and sat down beside him. He gave me a somewhat self-conscious smile. “Another shirt ruined, eh?”
“It might have been mine if he hadn’t knocked me down,” Ramses said. “How did you know she was about to fire, Father?”
We were sitting on the verandah, with Fatima hovering and clucking and trying to get us to eat. It was the first moment we had been calm enough to conduct a sensible conversation.
When we came out of Mohassib’s house and found Emerson gone, I was extremely put out. The amiable villains sitting on the mastaba indicated the direction in which he had gone, which was not of much help. Ramses had not been with him. As one explained, they believed he had accompanied us into the house, and he certainly had not come out of it.
I knew Ramses had not been with us, so I felt fairly sure that he had followed his father in some guise or other—which was somewhat reassuring. We had no choice but to wait where we were. The villains kindly made room for us on the mastaba and entertained us with speculations as to Emerson’s whereabouts. Since these ranged from suggestions that he had gone to raid the antiquities shop of Ali Murad to sly hints that his destination might have been someplace less respectable, they did not entertain me very much. Sir Edward, cradling the papyrus box as if it were a baby, and watching me with evident concern, finally offered to go and look for him.
“Where would you look?” I demanded somewhat peevishly.
He had no answer to that, of course.
It was David who first saw the returning wanderers, and his low cry of relief turned all our heads in the direction in which he was looking. From dusty boots to uncovered black heads they appeared no more unkempt than was usual for them, but I observed that Ramses was trying not to limp.
By the time we got back to the house our most immediate questions had been asked and answered, and I had seen the rent in Emerson’s coat, which, like his shirt, was beyond repair. He removed the coat at my request, remarking that it was too cursed hot anyhow, but insisted he was not in need of medical attention. I was therefore forced to conduct these operations on the verandah while Emerson sought refreshment in a whiskey and soda.
“You first, Peabody,” he said. “Did you learn anything from Mohassib?”
“Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, Emerson?” I demanded passionately. “You sent me to Mohassib in order to get me out of the way while you kept another appointment. You did not expect I would learn anything. In fact, he did tell me something of considerable importance, but it pales into insignificance compared with your experience. How did you know she was there? And why the devil didn’t you tell me?”
“Now, Peabody—”
“Why did you go there alone? She might have killed you!”
“I wasn’t alone,” Emerson said meekly. “Ramses—”
“As for you, Ramses,” I began.
Emerson cut me off. “Ramses, while you are there at the table, will you get your mother a—”
Ramses had already done so. He handed me the glass.
“Thank you,” I said. “Very well, Emerson, I will listen to your explanation. In detail, if you please.”
“Promise you won’t interrupt?”
“No.”
Emerson grinned. “Keep your mother’s glass filled, Ramses, my boy.”
The clue of the silver ornament had only confirmed Emerson’s suspicion that the House of the Doves was the place to look for Bertha. Where could she find more willing allies than among the unfortunates who had good reason to despise men and to