The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [167]
So we finished packing up and started for home. By the time we reached the house, rain was falling heavily. It splashed into the fountain and formed puddles on the tiled floor of the courtyard. Fatima had seen the storm approaching and moved all the overstuffed furniture and cushions under cover.
As soon as Emerson had seen his precious boxes of bones and scraps safely stowed away, he started across the courtyard toward the front door. I had anticipated this, so I was able to intercept him when he reached the takhtabosh, where the doorman had taken shelter from the rain and was sitting on one of the benches.
“And where do you think you are going?” I demanded. “You are soaked to the skin. Change your clothing at once.”
“Why? I will be wet again immediately,” said Emerson.
The door to the street opened, admitting Ramses and David, who had taken the horses to the stable. “What is the matter?” David asked.
I did not blame him for asking; Emerson’s and my relative positions were somewhat combative. “I am attempting to prevent him from rushing off to Mr. Reynolds’s house and accusing him of attempted murder,” I explained, taking a firmer grip on my impulsive husband’s shirtsleeve. “That is where you were going, wasn’t it, Emerson?”
“I want to get to him before he has time to conceal the evidence,” snarled Emerson. “Out of my way, Peabody.”
“It is already too late for that,” said Ramses. “Assuming there was any evidence to conceal.”
“Quite right,” I agreed. “Quiet, calm consideration is what we want now, not impulsive action. Go and change, all of you, and we will meet in the sitting room for a council of war!”
Since it was necessary for me to make certain Emerson did as he was told before I took care of my own needs, I was the last to join the group. The sitting room felt quite cozy with the lamps lighted and the soft murmur of falling rain outside the open windows. Nefret had supplied Lia with a change of clothing and David was wearing one of Ramses’s galabeeyahs, and Geoffrey …
I had completely forgot about him! Guilt made my greeting warmer than the situation actually demanded. In response to my question he explained that he had returned to the house in the afternoon, meaning to rest for a few minutes, and had fallen sound asleep. At this point in his narrative a burst of coughing interrupted his speech.
“That cough is getting worse,” I said. “You had better let me—er—let Nefret—”
“Perhaps he will let you,” said Nefret, smiling at my inadvertent faux pas even as a frown wrinkled the smooth surface of her brow. “He refuses to see a physician or allow me to examine him.”
“It’s only the dust,” Geoffrey protested.
“Have a whiskey and soda,” said Emerson. He has very little patience with illness, his own or anyone else’s. “And then we can get to business. Did Nefret tell you about your friend Reynolds’s latest aberration?”
“Yes, sir,” Geoffrey said in a low voice. “I had thought he was better.”
“It seems to me,” said Ramses, “that you are all ignoring one of the basic principles of British law. We have no proof whatever that Jack Reynolds fired those shots.”
“I was attempting to get that proof when your mother prevented me,” Emerson replied, giving me a whiskey and soda and an inimical look.
Ramses leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees and hands clasped. “That’s all very well, sir, and I agree someone ought to pay Jack a visit; but first we must consider what it is we hope to learn. He had ample time to clean and replace the weapon. If he has an alibi for the critical time, well and good; if he has not, which is more likely, that is still not proof of guilt.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “It won’t do any harm to ask, will it? Have I your permission to call on Reynolds and inquire, with the utmost tact and subtlety, where he was and what he was doing this afternoon at approximately … What time was it?”
Another brief and inconclusive discussion ensued. None of us had been keeping track of the time.