The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [163]
“Then it is over,” she said. “I can’t seem to take it in. We’ve been on the defensive so long. To have it end so suddenly and so finally . . .”
“High bloody time,” Emerson declared. “Now I can get back to work. We must go to the Valley early. Maspero will want to invade the tomb tomorrow, and I have a few things to say to him.”
I allowed the ensuing discussion to proceed without me, for I was deep in thought. Everyone seemed to believe Bertha’s death had ended our troubles. Even Emerson, who was usually the first to suspect the Master Criminal of every crime in the calendar, had dismissed him from consideration. I was not so certain. Bertha had robbed Sethos of at least one valuable antiquity. She might have taken others as well, and I did not think he was the man to accept this complacently.
Perhaps we had not been the only ones on Bertha’s trail. Had it been fear, not of us, but of her former master that had prompted her to end her life? Had she ended it? Sethos had once boasted to me that he had never harmed a woman, but there is always a first time. His anger against those who had betrayed him could be a terrible thing.
Fatima came to announce that dinner was served. I observed that Ramses was slow to arise and waited for him.
“Did your father break any bones—your bones, that is—when he fell on you?” I inquired.
“No, Mother. I assure you, I am not in need of your medical attentions.”
“I am relieved to hear it. Ramses . . .”
“Yes, Mother?”
I tried to think how best to express it. “Your father is—er—not always the most perceptive of observers when he is in a state of emotional excitability, as I am sure he was at the sight of that unfortunate woman’s body. Did you see anything that might suggest she had not taken her own life?”
Ramses’s eyebrows rose. I had the feeling that he was not so much surprised by the question as by the fact that I had asked it, and the promptness of his reply was another indication that he had already given the matter some thought. “The revolver was under her hand. There was no sign of a struggle. Her garments were neatly arranged and her limbs straight, except for the arm that had held the weapon. There were powder marks on the glove on her right hand.”
“And the blood was . . .”
“Wet,” said Ramses, without emphasis.
“It seems to be a clear-cut case, then.”
“Sethos claimed, I believe, that he had never harmed a woman.”
“I cannot imagine why you should suppose I was thinking of Sethos. He is not in Luxor.”
“Unless he is—”
“Sir Edward? Nonsense.”
“The possibility had occurred to you, though.”
“I knew it had occurred to you,” I corrected. “Do you suppose I could be deceived? I knew Sethos in London, disguised though he was. I would know him in Cairo—in Luxor—wherever he happened to be. Sir Edward is not the Master Criminal!”
The next morning brought a sight one seldom sees in Luxor—lowering gray skies and wind squalls that blew the branches wildly about. We had risen before sunrise, and Emerson is not at his best in the early morning, so it was not until we gathered for breakfast that he took note of the weather. He started up from his chair.
“Rain!” he cried. “The tomb will be flooded.”
I knew it was not our poor little tomb number Five that had roused such alarm, and exasperation for what had become Emerson’s idée fixe made my voice sharper than usual. “Sit down and finish your breakfast, Emerson. It is not raining, only dark and windy.”
After poking his head and shoulders out the window to check on the accuracy of my report, Emerson returned to the table. “It looks like rain.”
“The tomb to which I presume you refer is not your responsibility, my dear. I am sure Ned and Mr. Weigall have taken all necessary precautions.”
Emerson’s expression showed what he thought of that optimistic assessment. “They ought to have had a door in place days ago. Sir Edward, is the photographer