The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [173]
Emerson went directly to Luxor next morning – accompanied, I hardly need say, by the rest of us. To his extreme annoyance, he discovered that the vulture had flown. The house was deserted, and further inquiries produced the information that a man of Riccetti’s description had taken the train to Cairo early that morning. It was the quickest means of transportation available, and his willingness to sacrifice comfort for speed indicated that he had, somewhat belatedly, realized that his recent indiscretions might get him into serious trouble. We dispatched messages to the authorities in Cairo, telling them to intercept and arrest the villain, and then I persuaded Emerson to return to the West Bank.
‘May as well,’ he agreed, brightening. ‘Riccetti got away from me, curse him, but if I can lay my hands on Abd el Hamed . . .’
My poor Emerson was due to be disappointed again. When we reached Gurneh the village was abuzz with the news. Abd el Hamed had been found in an irrigation ditch by two farmers setting out for their fields. He had not been identified immediately, since several parts of him were missing.
‘Now, Emerson, calm yourself,’ I said. ‘You are always telling me you resent having your work interrupted by these little criminal encounters; this one is ended, so why don’t you stop swearing and get back to the tomb?’
It was not ended, however. There was one more loose end to tie up, and I determined to deal with it later that day while Emerson was busy in the burial chamber. If he had known of my intentions he would have forbidden me to go or insisted on going with me – and in the (unlikely) event that my theory proved to be incorrect, he would never let me hear the end of it.
The only person who observed my departure was Sir Edward. In fact, he had the impertinence to ask where I was going. I informed him I had a little errand to do in Gurneh and that I would return shortly. When he persisted, declaring he would accompany me, I was forced to be blunt. ‘I am tying up a loose end, Sir Edward. It is a private matter, and I prefer to go alone.’
I did not suppose I would be unobserved. When I opened the carved door, Layla was waiting for me, silver on her brow and slim brown wrists. The bracelets jingled softly as she raised her cigarette to her lips.
‘Marhaba, Sitt Hakim,’ she said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘It is kind of you to visit me. Have you come to offer sympathy on the death of my husband?’
‘No; I thought congratulations might be more in order.’ She laughed, and I went on, ‘I wondered why you married him.’
‘And now you know?’
‘I think so. I did not come to see you. Where is she?’
‘She?’ Her eyes widened in pretended surprise.
‘You know whom I mean. Will you call her or shall I go looking for her?’
The curtains at the back of the room opened and a woman appeared. She was clad in the same severe, uniform-like dress she had worn at the hotel when attending upon the ‘widow’ – and when she had helped Gertrude abduct Nefret. ‘What do you want of me, Mrs Emerson?’
‘Not you,’ I said.
She advanced towards me. She was indeed a large woman, several inches taller than I, broad-shouldered and stout as a man. ‘There is no one else here. Will you go, or must I –’
‘No, Matilda.’ The voice was the one I had expected. It came from the room beyond the curtain. ‘Bring her here.’
With a shrug that sent muscles rippling down her arms, the ‘nurse’ held the curtain back for me.
The room was shadowy, the shutters tightly shut. She stood in a doorway opposite the one by which I had entered. She wore the long black garment of an Egyptian woman, uncannily similar in colour and design to the widow’s weeds she had worn in Cairo and in Luxor, but now the thin veil that had hidden her fair hair and blurred her features was gone. I knew those features well, though I had not seen them for almost a year – at Amarna, on the day Sethos met his end.
‘Good afternoon, Bertha,’ I said.
The nurse had followed