The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [101]
“I can’t stand much more of this,” Emerson remarked in a conversational tone. “Von Bork, stop blubbering and be a man. We need your assistance.”
Karl wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and snapped to attention. I almost expected him to salute, but he did not.
“Ja, Herr Professor! Entschuldigen Sie, Frau Professor! I am your obedient servant, as always.”
I was able to arrange matters in the most convenient and merciful fashion. Nefret and I arranged the crumpled body in a more seemly posture, for I had detected the first signs of rigor mortis. That meant that death had occurred at some hour in the early morning. It was not possible to be more exact, nor was the knowledge of much assistance. We did not linger over the unpleasant task, and it was not long before the donkey-drawn cart Selim had found set off for Giza with an escort of several of our men. Jack rode behind it; Karl trotted alongside Jack, looking a bit absurd on his little donkey, but full of sympathy and the desire to be of use. He assured me, in his high-flown Germanic fashion, that he would not leave “meinen Freund Jack” until someone relieved him.
Nefret had insisted on going with them. She was medically trained and she was a woman—in both capacities she could be of use, she claimed, and who was I to deny it? I promised I would come as soon as I could.
We returned to the shelter, and Emerson said, “Another day lost, curse it! We won’t get any work out of those fellows today.”
He referred to the local men we had hired; they had gathered in a group some distance away and were smoking and talking in low voices. The glances they kept shooting in our direction supported Emerson’s pessimistic appraisal.
I knew, of course, that Emerson’s offhand manner was only his way of hiding his real feelings, but I felt obliged to utter a gentle remonstrance. “How can you suppose that any of us are capable of going on with our work, Emerson? It would be callous in the extreme.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. His brilliant blue eyes softened as he bent them upon his son. “Er—all right, are you, my boy?”
“Quite, sir. Thank you.”
Ramses stood looking down at the bare ground, where the sand was disturbed and slightly indented. “There was very little blood,” he said in a remote voice.
“Damnation,” Emerson growled. “I was afraid of that.” He raised his voice in a reverberant shout. “Selim! Send the men home and come here, you and Daoud.”
“Please,” I said.
“Please, curse it!” Emerson roared.
Selim joined us, with Daoud close on his heels. Daoud’s heart was as large as his body; Maude had never responded to his gestures of friendship, but Daoud loved all small young creatures of all species, and his honest face was a mask of distress. At Emerson’s gesture they squatted on the rug beside us, in the position they found most comfortable, and Selim said soberly, “The men are worried, Father of Curses. They ask how could this have happened?”
“That is what we would like to know, Selim. It must have happened last night. Her brother is not the most conscientious of guardians, but he would surely have noticed her absence if she had not been at home last evening. What was she doing here alone in the dark?”
“Oh, Emerson, don’t waste time discussing implausible, not to say impossible, theories,” I exclaimed. “There is only one explanation that makes sense.”
Emerson was filling his pipe. He put it down on the table (spilling tobacco all over the surface) and took my hand. “For once, my dear, I will not scold you for jumping to conclusions. I fear you are correct.”
“All the same,” said Ramses, “we had better examine the other possibilities, if only for the purpose of disposing of them. You may be certain they will be raised by others.”
“An accident,” Selim said, without much hope.
“It is possible, you know. The result of a wager or challenge.