The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [103]
Ramses reached into his pocket and pulled out a fragment of cloth. It was gold tissue, delicate as chiffon. “This was caught on a point of rock. It had been torn from the scarf we gave her.”
As I had predicted, the investigation of Maude Reynolds’s death was a travesty. Why put those concerned through the torment of a postmortem when the cause of death was obvious?
This was the question posed to me by Mr. Gordon, the American Consul, when I went to him to protest the proceedings, or the absence thereof. When I replied that it might be useful to discover whether she had been under the influence of drugs or alcohol at the time, or whether any of the bruises could have been made by human hands, or whether—
He cut me off with a shocked exclamation before I could go on, which was probably just as well, since my next suggestion would have shocked him even more. A complete medical examination would have cleared the poor girl’s name. I did not believe Maude had been enceinte, but half of Cairo society did—the old cats, as Ramses had called them. It would have been useless to point out to them that the old-fashioned attitudes of their youth had changed—and thank God for it, in my opinion! A modern, wealthy young woman was not likely to take her life out of shame, or because there were no other ways out of that particular dilemma.
So Cairo gossiped and whispered—for a week. No scandal lasted much longer, there were always new sources of entertainment. Maude was laid to rest in the Protestant cemetery in Old Cairo. Walled all round, it was a pretty spot, filled with trees and imported shrubs, so that it resembled a village churchyard in England. The funeral was well attended and Jack was a picture of manly fortitude as he cast the first handful of dirt into the grave.
The verdict had been accidental death.
For the living, the pain had just begun. Whether Jack knew what was being said of his sister I could not tell. He would have been helpless to deny it, since not even the worst of the scandalmongers would have dared say it to his face. He had come out of his stupor of grief and was in a dangerous state of mind, sticking close to his house and, I was told, drinking heavily.
His friends, of whom I counted myself one, were relieved to know that Geoffrey had moved into the house and was staying with him. A few days after the burial the young Englishman sent a message to ask if he might see me. I responded at once, inviting him to tea that same afternoon; for I was anxious to be of help.
Upon my return from the dig I bustled about ordering special dainties and trying to make the ambience as pleasant as possible, for I had a feeling he might be in need of comfort. I was correct as usual. I would be the first to admit that the maternal instinct is not one of my most notable characteristics, but I daresay any woman would have been moved by the sight of the young fellow. His refined features were drawn and there was a hint of pallor under his tan. Sinking into a chair, he let his head fall back against the cushions.
“How good you are to have me, Mrs. Emerson. I feel better just being here. You have made the place a home.”
“Its charm is due in large part to you, Geoffrey. I always say there is nothing like a garden to rest the soul. Your plants are flourishing, you see. It was a particularly thoughtful gesture for which I will always be grateful. What do you take in your tea?”
“Nothing, thank you.” He leaned forward to receive the cup from my hand. His eyes moved round the enclosure; I suspected it was not the blooming plants and twining vines that drew his attention.
“Nefret will be here in a moment,” I said.
His cheeks took on a warmer hue. “Not much escapes you, Mrs. Emerson. Though it was not my primary reason for asking to see you, perhaps I should take advantage of these moments alone to assure you that I have no intention of behaving in an underhanded manner with regard