The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [83]
He sat the old man down on a rock. Abdullah, knife in hand, growled. ‘He is mine by right, Emerson. The honour of my family –’
‘You can murder him after I have finished questioning him, Abdullah,’ Emerson said. ‘Or not, as I decide. Hamed, I told you I had tired of your attentions. I do not often repeat a warning. Who was the man you sent last night? I want a little chat with him too.’
Hamed’s eyes rolled wildly from Emerson to me to Abdullah. He was not deceived by Emerson’s mild tone. It had become a proverb in the villages of Egypt: ‘The soft voice of the Father of Curses is like the growl of an angry lion.’
‘You will not let him kill me if I speak the truth? I am an old man, old and broken –’
‘Who was it? One of your sons, I presume. Which?’
I was not surprised to find Hamed ready to play Abraham to Emerson’s wrathful Jehovah. ‘Solimen,’ he blurted. ‘But he did no harm. He meant no harm.’
Again Abdullah pushed forwards. ‘No harm? To a young girl, a maiden who has never known a man, who is in the protection of Emerson Effendi and of Abdullah ibn Hassan al Wahhab? I would cut your scrawny throat for that, Hamed, even if you had not tried to put the blame on my grandson.’
Hamed’s squinting eyes widened to an extent I would not have believed possible for those deep-set orbs. The words burst out of him like bullets. ‘What do you say? It is madness, what you say! Emerson Effendi – Sitt Hakim – you do not believe . . . If I desired to die I would leap from the cliffs of El Dira, it would be easier than the death such a deed would bring on my head. Wahyât en-nebi, by the life of the Prophet, I swear –’
‘Hmph,’ said Emerson. ‘Do you know, Hamed, I am almost inclined to believe you. What did he go there for, then?’
His grip loosened. Hamed let out his breath and readjusted the folds of cloth around his throat. I shared Emerson’s opinion, that his terrified denials had been genuine, but the interval gave him time to gather his wits again.
Finally he muttered, ‘For the boy. He is mine, I paid well for him. It is my right to take him back.’
‘And Solimen went to the wrong room?’ Emerson inquired helpfully, elbowing the snarling Abdullah back.
Hamed was shrewder than that. ‘He could not go through your son’s window, there was a man on guard. The maiden woke before he could leave her room, and called out. Solimen is young and a fool, he lost his head, but he meant only to keep her from summoning help.’ He added, with a sly look at Emerson, ‘She is strong and brave as a desert cat, Father of Curses; if she had not fought back, Solimen would not have . . . I give him to you. Do with him as you like, he deserves punishment for his stupidity.’
‘A noble gesture,’ Emerson said dryly. ‘He is probably halfway to the Sudan by now. He would be wise to remain there. Whatever his reasons, he dared lay hands on my daughter. If I find him I will kill him.’
The flat finality of the statement was far more terrifying than a shout of rage. A shudder ran through Hamed.
‘As for you,’ Emerson went on, ‘I cannot murder in cold blood a wretched bag of bones like you, nor allow Abdullah to do so. I will break my own rule and give you a second – and final – warning. If you, or anyone sent by you, bothers me again I will give Abdullah permission to proceed with the activities from which I am presently restraining him. His large circle of friends and relations may wish to participate. You understand me.’
‘Yes, yes!’ The old man scrambled down from his rocky seat and dropped to his knees. ‘You are merciful, Father of Curses; the blessings of Allah be on you.’
One twisted hand reached for the hand of Emerson, who pulled it away with