The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [62]
“Ah,” said Emerson. “There would be a reward for the man who told us where the boy is hiding.”
“A large reward?” The fellow thought it over and shrugged again. “Money is of no use to a dead man, Father of Curses.”
“Quite a philosopher, isn’t he?” Emerson remarked in English. He dropped a few more coins into the leathery brown palm and turned away.
The interview had taken place on the street, if it could be called that; in contrast to the ancient workmen’s village, with its gridlike plan, the houses of Sheikh el Gurneh had been fitted into whatever space was available—along the slopes of the hill, around the tombs of the nobles of the Empire. Some of the less important, uninscribed tombs were occupied; the forecourt, where offerings had been made to the honored dead, now served the ignominious role of stables for the beasts of the tomb dwellers. In front of many of these tomb-caves stood cylindrical mud-brick structures like giant mushrooms with their edges turned up. They served the double purpose of granaries and sleeping quarters. The hollow on top is safe from scorpions, and there are even egg-cup-shaped projections along the rim to hold water jars—an interesting and unusual adaptation to local conditions, which I mention for the edification of the Reader.
After he had gone a few feet, Emerson stopped. “Mohammed can’t have got the note directly from Jamil.”
I might have accused him, as he often accuses me, of jumping to conclusions, but in this case I had to agree. “I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted handsomely. “It does seem unlikely that Jamil would show his face openly in the village or risk betrayal by a man he had threatened.”
“But he might have come secretly, by night, to a house where at least one person was likely to welcome him,” Emerson said.
A brief, rather awkward silence followed. Jumana had stuck close by me; she was obviously uncomfortable in the village of her birth. How could she be otherwise, dressed as she was, the object of curious and hostile glances, especially from the older women?
“Is it my father you mean?” she asked.
“Yes,” Emerson admitted. “How does he feel about Jamil?”
“I have not spoken to my father since he told me to leave his house and never come back.”
There was not much anyone could say to that. Her hard, cold voice told me that even an expression of regret would be unwelcome.
“I meant to call on Yusuf before this,” I said. “Shall we go round to see him now?”
Emerson took out his watch, looked at it, groaned, and said, “We are already late.”
“Supposing you go on, then,” I said. “You and Jumana. Nefret and I will inquire after his health and offer our medical skills. Ramses will go with us. No, Emerson, I really believe that is the best course. You would go thundering into the house and bully the old man until he confessed to anything and everything. My methods of interrogation—”
“I know what they are like,” said Emerson, eyeing my parasol, which I had been using as a walking stick. “Oh, very well.”
He stalked off. Jumana shot me a grateful look and trotted after Emerson. The rest of us went on up the hillside toward Yusuf’s house, which was one of the finest in the village, and as we wended a tortuous path round granaries, walls, and rubbish heaps, I could not help thinking what an admirable place this would be for hide-and-go-seek—or for a fugitive who knew every turn of the path and every concealed tomb entrance.
Our arrival was not unheralded; we were trailed by a number of the curious, some of whom ran on ahead to announce we were coming, so that when we reached the courtyard in front of the house the entire household was waiting to greet us. Most of them were women and children; the men, skilled workers like the majority of Abdullah’s kinsmen, had been employed by us or by Cyrus.
Courtesy demanded that we accept refreshments, and it was necessary to go through the formal rituals of greeting before I could get round