The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [88]
‘Salaam aleikhum, Ahmet il Kamleh,’ I said. ‘Do you know me? I am Sitt Emerson, sometimes called Sitt Hakim; my lord (unfortunately, the Arabic word for “husband” carries this connotation) is Emerson Effendi, Father of Curses.’
He knew me. A dim spark of intelligence woke in his eyes; he stumbled to his feet and made a deep, if wobbly, obeisance. ‘Peace be with you, honoured Sitt.’
‘U’aleikhum es-sâlam,’ I replied. ‘Warahmet Allâh wabarakâtu. Though it does not seem likely, Ahmet, that you can expect mercy, even from the All-Merciful. What does the Holy Book, the Koran, say about the sin of murder?’
His eyes shifted. ‘I did not kill the effendi, Sitt. I was not there. My friends will say so.’
It was a singularly unconvincing declaration of innocence. Nevertheless, I believed it. ‘But you know something you have not told, Ahmet. If you keep silence, you will be hanged for the murder. Save yourself. Confide in me.’
He did not move or speak; but I caught a flickering sideways glance in the direction of the constable.
‘He does not understand Arabic,’ I said.
‘That,’ said Ahmet cynically, ‘is what they say – that they do not understand. But they set spies among us, Sitt Hakim. Some of them speak our tongue.’ He spat, suddenly and shockingly.
‘Then I will send him away.’
The constable objected, as one might have expected, but I soon overcame his scruples. ‘Do you suppose this miserable wreck of a man would dare threaten me, Constable? Aside from the fact that I am fully armed’ – I flourished my parasol, to the visible alarm of both the constable and Ahmet – ‘he knows my husband, Emerson Effendi; he knows the fearful vengeance that would fall on his head and the heads of all his family should a single hair of mine be ruffled.’
This threat was not lost upon Ahmet. His voluble and tremulous protestations (addressed, some of them, to the single barred window, as if he suspected Emerson might be hovering without, like a disembodied spirit) convinced the constable.
Once he had gone, I waved Ahmet to a chair. ‘Sit and be at ease, my friend. I mean you no harm; I have come to help you. Only answer my questions and you will be restored to your friends and your family.’
This happy prospect obviously did not appeal to Ahmet. An expression of deep gloom spread over his unprepossessing features. ‘What is it you want to know, Sitt?’
I cleared my throat and leaned forward. ‘There is a certain woman – her name is Ayesha – who is sometimes to be found in the opium den on Sadwell Street. I want – I want to know . . .’
I caught myself in the nick of time. Had I, Amelia Peabody Emerson, been about to ask this wretched little creature whether my husband, the dreaded and dignified Father of Curses, was in the habit of visiting a low woman of the streets? In point of fact, I had. How degrading, and how despicable!
I had struck some kind of nerve, though not, thank Heaven, the one I feared. Ahmet eyed me warily. ‘Ayesha,’ he repeated. ‘It is not an uncommon name, Sitt; for Ayesha bint Abi Bekr was the honoured wife of the Prophet, in whose arms he died –’
‘I know that. And you know the woman I mean, Ahmet. Don’t try to deny it. Who is she? She does not have the look of an eater of opium. Why does she go to that place?’
Ahmet shrugged. ‘She is the owner, Sitt.’
‘Of the opium establishment?’
‘Of the building, Sitt.’
‘Good gracious.’ I pondered this bit of news. Incredible as it might sound, there was no reason why Ahmet should lie about it. ‘She is a wealthy woman, then – or at least, a woman who has money. Why does she dress in rags and sit with the wretched smokers of opium?’
Another shrug. ‘How should I know, Sitt? The ways of a woman are beyond understanding.’
‘Venture an opinion, my friend,’ I said, placing my parasol on the table between us.
But Ahmet insisted he never allowed himself to hold opinions. Considering the condition of his opium-soaked brain, one might have been inclined