The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [36]
“Not of him,” Jumana murmured. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of, Sitt Hakim.”
“I didn’t say you had. Come along.”
We had agreed in advance that Emerson and I would have a private chat with Jumana, so I was somewhat surprised to find the children with him in the sitting room.
“We only waited to say good night,” Nefret said, coming to give me a kiss.
“I hope the house is satisfactory,” I said, addressing Ramses, who had not yet given me his opinion. “And that you have everything you need for tonight.”
“So long as there is a bed,” said my son, and broke off with a grunt as Nefret elbowed him in the ribs.
“I want to leave at daybreak,” Emerson said self-consciously.
“Yes, sir,” said Ramses.
“Breakfast here at six,” I said.
“Yes, Mother,” said Nefret.
Jumana’s wide eyes followed them as they went off, arm in arm, their heads close together. Or was it Ramses she watched with such wistful attention? She was of an age where girls fancy themselves in love with unsuitable persons, and Ramses had every quality she could want in a prospective husband (aside from the inconvenient fact that he was already married). If Jamil knew or suspected her attachment it would explain why he had selected Ramses as the object of his ire.
“By the by,” said I to Emerson, “you didn’t tell Cyrus about the artifacts I bought in Cairo. I had expected you would want to show them off.”
“Quite the contrary,” said Emerson to me. “He’d go haring off to Cairo looking for more of the cursed things. He should be thinking of his excavations.”
He fell silent, concentrating on his pipe. Now that the moment had come, he was regretting having offered to question Jumana; he was afraid she would cry. Emerson is a hopeless coward with women.
He did not know this one. Before either of us could speak, Jumana sat up straight and raised her chin defiantly. “I was very silly,” she declared. “Jamil can’t do anything . . . can he?”
“No,” said Emerson. “Except, perhaps, to you.”
“He wouldn’t hurt me.”
I was pleased to see she had recovered her nerve—timid women are a confounded nuisance—but her confidence was somewhat alarming.
“He won’t get the chance,” I said. “Listen to me, Jumana. You were right to warn Ramses about Jamil, but you are wrong if you believe he is harmless. I want your word that you will go nowhere alone and that if Jamil attempts to communicate with you, you will inform us immediately.”
“What will you do to him if you find him?”
For once, Emerson was too quick for me. “Lock him up. You must see that we cannot allow him to hang about threatening people and . . . Why are you glaring at me, Peabody?”
“I am not glaring, Emerson,” I said, forcing my features into a smile. “It is just that I believe I can explain our intentions more accurately than you. Jumana, if Jamil would come to us and express repentance, we will do all we can to help him.”
“You would?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. She still loved the wretched boy and probably believed she could redeem him. This is a common delusion of women.
After all, I had not been specific. In my opinion the best way to help Jamil would be to put him in a cell—a nice, clean, comfortable cell, naturally—and let him consider the advantages of an honest life.
I had expected Emerson would want to go straight to the site next morning. I had no objection to his doing so; there was a great deal to do round the house, and Emerson was more of a hindrance than a help, always grumbling and complaining. However, when we sat down to breakfast I saw that he and Ramses were dressed for rough terrain, in old tweeds and stout boots. It did not require much thought to deduce where they meant to go. I ought to have known! My hypocritical husband’s lecture to Cyrus had been meant to deter the latter from doing precisely what Emerson intended to do that day. The southwest wadis are remote and difficult of access.
I attempted to catch Emerson’s eyes but failed; he was looking at the sugar bowl, the coffeepot, the salt cellar—anything but me. “Emerson,” I said loudly,