The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [102]
He paused to light his cigarette, and I said helpfully, “Especially after she had—what is the slang? I cannot keep up with it!—funked it that other time.”
“In the middle of the night, alone?” Emerson demanded.
“I agree it is out of the question,” Ramses said. “But accident is a more socially acceptable verdict than suicide.”
“Suicide?” Emerson repeated in an incredulous voice. “Good Gad, what possible reason could she have for ending her life, a young, healthy, wealthy girl like that?”
“None,” I said. “Morbid mental instability may lead an otherwise healthy individual to commit such an act, but she was not that sort. I will not entertain such a notion for a moment. It was murder. She was dead when she was thrown down the shaft. A fall of that sort would account for a fractured skull or broken neck, or any other kind of fatal injury. Ramses said there was very little blood.”
“It is the only possible answer,” Emerson said, fingering the dent in his chin. “And it explains why she was brought here.”
“Not entirely,” Ramses said. He started and dropped his cigarette. It had burned down to his fingers. “I appreciate your tactful efforts to leave me out of this, but we had better face the facts. She could have been dropped from a height anywhere along the plateau if the murderer’s sole motive was to hide the nature of the injury that killed her. Bringing her to this out-of-the-way place inevitably involves us—me, to be precise. No matter what the verdict, my name will certainly come into it. If it was an accident, she may have been trying to overcome her fear of the place in order to make me think better of her. If it was suicide, some will believe she was driven to despair by rejection, or even by—” He had done his best to be cool and dispassionate, but he could not quite manage this. The dark eyes that were so often half-veiled by lowered lids and long lashes met mine in direct appeal. “It’s not true, Mother,” he said desperately. “You heard what Jack said—you know what he accused me of. I don’t care what he thinks, so long as you believe me.”
His appeal had been to me. It was my understanding he sought. Some mothers would have gone to him, embraced him, murmured affectionate—and useless!—words of comfort. In all candor I must admit that I was strongly moved to do just that. I knew Ramses would not like it, though.
“I believe you, my dear. Even if it were true—I know it is not, but even if it were—any woman who is fool enough to end her life on account of a man has only herself to blame.”
“Oh, Mother!” His rare, unguarded smile illumined his face. “You have an aphorism for any occasion.”
Emerson cleared his throat noisily and picked up his pipe. “Bloody waste of time, all this,” he grumbled. “No one could possibly suspect—”
“Some of them will, though,” Ramses said. “All the old cats in Cairo, of both sexes, are ready to believe the worst of a woman like Maude—young, pleasureoving, undisciplined. Whether the verdict is murder, suicide, or accident, the assumption will be that a man was responsible.”
“Knowing the old cats of Cairo as I do, I fear you are right,” I said with a sigh. “But let us not cross any more bridges until we come to them. We must get home; I told Nefret I would come as soon as I could. Selim, will you and Daoud come back with us? You may be of assistance.”
“Aywa, Sitt Hakim, we will come and do what we can. It is a sad thing.”
“Ramses,” said his father, “how did you know