The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [61]
I was tempted to shake her, but forbore, deciding I might as well allow her the privilege of self-expression. When she finally broke off for want of breath, her eyes were swimming with tears. I did not doubt she was utterly sincere, nor did I doubt that at the same time she was enjoying herself immensely.
“Now, now,” said Emerson feebly, “it’s all right. Curse it, don’t cry.”
“How can you forgive me?” she demanded in tragic accents.
“We offered Jamil a second chance. Can we do less for you, who are guilty of nothing except misplaced love and loyalty?”
“Quite right,” I said, before the melodrama could continue. “What is wanted now, Jumana, is for you to behave like—well, like Nefret and me. Tears and self-reproach are tricks some females employ in order to evade responsibility. I do not permit them here. You are—potentially—the equal of any man, and you must—”
“Peabody,” Emerson said. His accents were severe, but there was a twinkle in his handsome blue eyes.
“Yes, quite. I believe I have made my point, Jumana. You did a foolish thing, and I trust you have learned a valuable lesson. The question I asked has not been answered. Have you another appointment with Jamil?”
Ramses answered for her. “I doubt he will keep it now. It was for tonight. The same place, Jumana?”
“Yes. We played in the ruins there, when we were children. But Ramses is right; he will not come now, he will believe I betrayed him. He has found another tomb. It is in the Cemetery of the Monkeys. But—” She was watching Nefret. “But you know. You were listening!”
Her voice held a note of accusation. Ramses, who in my opinion suffers from an overly sensitive conscience, was not moved on this occasion to apologize.
“You should be glad we did,” he said. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Jumana. You told him you would not steal for him, and you tried to persuade him to give himself up, and now you have confessed, of your own accord.”
“So long as you have confessed all,” I added, for Jumana had responded to his praise with a complacent smile. The young are resilient, and a good thing, too, for brooding over past mistakes is a waste of time; but it wouldn’t do to let the girl off too lightly. “We are willing to give you a second chance, Jumana, but if I learn that you have held something back—”
“No. No, I swear!”
“So he’s found another tomb, has he?” Emerson mused. “Talented young rascal.”
I frowned at Emerson, who is too easily distracted by archaeological speculation, and continued my questioning of the girl.
“How did he communicate with you before?”
“I was given a message—just a scrap of paper, with a few words scribbled on it—yesterday, when we were at Gurneh. By Mohammed Hammad.”
Swearing inventively, Emerson agreed we must stop at Gurneh on our way to the site and question Mohammed Hammad. The village was up and about its daily business and we were greeted politely. However, when we called on Mohammed Hammad, we discovered that the bird had flown. His wife—his elderly wife—said he had business in Coptos. His son said he had gone to Cairo. One of his acquaintances was more forthcoming. “He ran away, Father of Curses, when he found out about the death of Abdul Hassan. I would have done the same.” He added with a certain air of regret, “I was not one of those who robbed the tomb.”
“You should thank Allah for that,” Emerson said. “And pay more heed to his laws. You see how he punishes evildoers.”
“There is nothing in the Koran about robbing tombs, Father of Curses.”
Emerson’s forbidding frown was replaced by a look of interest. He does so enjoy arguing theology. Before he could get off onto this sidetrack, I intervened. “Did Mohammed say who it was he feared?” I inquired.
The fellow hesitated, his eyes on Emerson’s hand, which had gone into his pocket. He knew he would get more baksheesh if he came up with a name; he also knew that if he was caught in a lie, he would arouse the wrath of the Father of Curses.
“He did not have to say. One death may be