The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [112]
I decided to wait until evening, after the sunset time for prayer, before paying my visit. If Jamil had been reluctant to show his face near the village before this, he would be even more wary now. He would wait until after dark before meeting his father.
I did not explain my intentions to Emerson until later that day. Bertie and Cyrus, who was still sulking a bit, had set off for home, and Emerson was down in the cellar with the last of the mummies. He did not want to come up, but I insisted.
His initial reaction was skeptical. “There are a good many ifs in your theory, Peabody. It may be a complete waste of time.”
“If we succeed in proving Yusuf innocent of complicity, it will not be a waste of time,” I retorted. “What was it you said about whittling away Jamil’s supports?”
“Oh, bah,” said Emerson. He cast a longing look at his mummies, which Selim was loading onto a cart. “Careful with that, Selim.”
“Emerson, please pay attention.”
“What? Oh. It can’t do any harm, I suppose. Tomorrow.”
“Today. We must strike while the iron is hot.” Eyes fixed on Selim, Emerson tried to pull away from my grasp of his sleeve. “If you won’t go with me, I will go alone,” I added.
As I had expected, this drew his attention back to me. His brows drew together. “No, you will not. What’s this about irons? Another of your confounded aphorisms?”
“A very apt one, my dear. Yusuf must have learned of Jamil’s latest and most serious crime. We must talk with him, and reinforce the gravity of the matter, before the boy has a chance to tell his version, which will be a pack of lies but which a doting father might believe.”
“Hmph.” Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. “Oh, very well. But not until I have seen our find safely back at the house.”
“Selim and Daoud could manage it perfectly well, as you know. However, there is no hurry. It won’t be dark for another hour.”
With a little encouragement from me, the carts were loaded in good time and we set off for home, where the men carried our new acquisitions into the storeroom. The shelves were filling with a variety of objects, none as impressive as the new coffins, but, Ramses assured me, of much greater interest. Emerson studied them with satisfaction.
“Time for tea, eh?”
“No, Emerson, we must go at once. As I told you—”
“You’ve told all of us, so don’t do it again. Come on then.’
“Do you mean us to come, Mother?” Nefret asked.
“Yes. We will employ a combination of intimidation—Emerson and Ramses—and gentle persuasion—you and I and Jumana.”
Emerson snorted in derision—presumably at the idea of me employing gentle persuasion. Jumana gave me an apprehensive look.
“But, Sitt Hakim—”
“No objections, if you please.” I added, in a kindlier tone, “You were of great assistance yesterday. If your father does possess information about Jamil, you may be able to add something. If he does not—well, in my opinion it is high time he got over his annoyance with you. We may not be able to effect a complete reconciliation today, but it will be a beginning. You would like to be reconciled with him, wouldn’t you?”
“He is my father,” the girl said in a low voice. “I did not leave him, it was he who told me to leave.”
“I am sure he has regretted that, Jumana. Words spoken in anger—”
“Damnation, Peabody!” Emerson shouted. “This is no time for more of your meddling in other people’s feelings. Let’s get it over.”
The luminous dusk of Upper Egypt had fallen when we climbed the hill toward Yusuf’s house. The first stars shone in the eastern sky and the afterglow flushed the cliffs; pale gray ghosts of smoke, swaying in the evening breeze, rose from the cooking fires.
We were met at the door by Mahira, whose scowl made her look even more like a medieval witch.
“It is high time