The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [75]
We parted in the friendliest manner. Eyes twinkling, Mohassib sent his respectful regards to Emerson, whose opinion of him he knew quite well. At the door, I stopped and turned, as if a new idea had struck me. In fact, the question I asked was the one I had had in mind all along.
“Has Jamil been here?”
Caught off-guard, believing the interview to be over, Mohassib burst into a fit of violent coughing. I knew the paroxysm was only a device to give him time to think, so I pressed on.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean. Jamil, Yusuf’s youngest son. Did he try to sell you artifacts from the princesses’ tomb?”
Mohassib shook his head vigorously. “No,” he gasped. “No, Sitt Hakim. I thought he had left Luxor.”
“I hope you are telling the truth, Mohassib. Two of the other men who robbed the tomb are dead, under suspicious circumstances, and Jamil holds a grudge against everyone involved in that business.”
Mohassib abruptly stopped coughing. “Are you saying that Jamil killed them?”
“I only repeat the latest gossip, old friend,” I replied. “Since you had nothing to do with the disposal of the artifacts, there is no reason for you to be alarmed, is there?”
Mohassib grunted. He thought for a minute, and then he said, “Jamil brought me nothing from the tomb of the princesses. That is true, Sitt Hakim.”
His lips closed so tightly they almost disappeared in the beard and mustache. Knowing that was all I was going to get out of the wily old fellow, I repeated my assurances of goodwill, and we left the house.
“Do you think he was telling the truth?” Nefret asked, waving aside a carriage that had stopped.
“About Jamil? The literal truth, yes. He did not deny he had seen the boy. My warning—for so it was meant, and so Mohassib took it—caught him by surprise, but it did not, as I had hoped, startle him into an indiscretion or worry him much. He is safe in his house, behind those stout walls, and well guarded. Ah, well, it was worth a try.” We strolled on, acknowledging the greetings of passersby, and I continued, “What I found interesting was his opinion of Mr. Albion. We keep running into them, don’t we? Do you think they are following us because they are up to no good?”
Nefret laughed and slipped her arm through mine. “Don’t sound so hopeful, Mother. They are an oddly matched couple, though.”
“What do you think of young Mr. Albion?”
She answered with another question. “Did Ramses tell you what he said at Cyrus’s soiree—about Jumana?”
“No.”
She repeated the young man’s remark. I shook my head. “Disgusting, but not surprising. I trust Ramses put the young man in his place?”
“Ramses almost put him on the carpet,” Nefret said. “You know that look of his—white around the mouth, and eyes almost closed? I made a leap for him and grabbed his arm, in time to stop him; but he uttered a few well-chosen words. Let’s take a felucca, shall we? It’s such a nice day.”
“It has been a very pleasant day, my dear. I hope the others have had as nice a time as we.”
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
That’s got rid of her,” said Emerson in a satisfied voice, watching his wife and daughter-in-law walk away from the house. He and Ramses had been skulking—there was no other word for it—in a secluded corner of the garden. “We can get our gear together now.”
He had sent Jumana on to Deir el Medina, telling her to warn the others that they might be late. Selim and Daoud were there; they could explain the site as well as he.
Since Emerson did not believe anyone could do anything as well as he, Ramses knew his father was up to something. He didn’t need to ask what it was. As they loaded themselves with knapsacks and several heavy coils of rope, he said only, “We’re going on foot? It’s a long way to the Cemetery of the Monkeys.”
“A brisk hour’s walk,” Emerson declared. “No point in taking the horses, we’d have to leave them somewhere along the way, and I don’t want the poor brutes standing round in the sun.”
“You mean you don’t want to go near Deir el Medina for fear Cyrus will spot us and ask where we’re going. Father, what’s