The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [84]
‘Look at this, Peabody.’
I would rather not have had that repellent member so close to me, but as I inspected it I saw what had aroused Emerson’s curiosity. Under the ingrained dirt a network of pale scars could be seen, covering the back of the hand and extending down the warped fingers.
‘It was not rheumatism or arthritis that crippled him,’ I exclaimed. ‘His hands were broken – crushed – by a rockfall or . . .’
‘A booted foot.’ Coolly Emerson pushed the sleeve of Hamed’s robe up to the elbow. The exposed forearm was ropy and wrinkled, but unscarred. He dropped Hamed’s hand and absently wiped his own hand on his trousers. ‘The injuries must have been deliberately inflicted. They are on both hands, and only on his hands. He feigns lameness, but as you must have observed he can move as quickly as a snake when he likes. Who did this to you, Hamed? And when, and why?’
The thin lips twisted in a silent snarl.
‘I believe I can hazard a guess, Emerson,’ I said. ‘They are old injuries – ten years old or more. Hamed has been in the antiquities trade longer than that. We know who controlled the trade in Luxor at that time, and we know how he controlled it.’
‘Well done, Peabody. The only remaining question is Why?’
‘He tried to swindle Riccetti, obviously,’ I said. ‘It is what he would do, and that is how Riccetti would react. Do the details matter now? For heaven’s sake let us go, Emerson.’
‘Hmmm, yes, we may as well. I can’t stand the creature’s stench much longer myself. Come along, Abdullah.’
I looked back at the house. The woman Layla stood in the open doorway, one hand on her hip. She gave me a broad smile and lifted the other hand in farewell.
‘A wealthy widow, I think,’ said Emerson, who had observed this exchange. ‘The house must be her own, and she has character enough to bully Hamed. How much, I wonder, does she know about his activities?’
I took a firm grip on his arm. ‘Not enough to warrant a visit from you.’
‘How do you know how much . . . Oh,’ said Emerson. ‘I grasp the subtle implication, Peabody. Or was it a threat? Unnecessary, I assure you. Where is the confounded cat?’
‘Hunting,’ I said, as Anubis came trotting along with a fat rat in his mouth. He dropped it at the feet of Emerson.
‘Most considerate of you,’ said the latter, picking the rat up by its tail and handing it to Abdullah. ‘Wait till we have gone a way before you discard it, Abdullah, it would be ungracious to appear unappreciative.’
‘Ugh,’ said Abdullah, lips pursed.
Emerson lifted the cat to his shoulder and I said, ‘That fellow – one of the thugs, I believe I may term him – certainly behaved very strangely. How did you manage to reduce him to a state of gibbering terror?’
‘It was not I,’ Emerson replied. ‘It was you. Or, to be more precise, that absurd umbrella of yours. Are you unaware of the fact that it is considered to be a weapon of great magical power?’
‘Surely you jest.’
‘You are become a legend in your own time, Peabody,’ Emerson said solemnly. ‘The tales are told and retold around the village fires, gaining in impressiveness with each repetition. Tales of the great and terrible Sitt Hakim, whose potent parasol can bring strong men to their knees, begging for mercy. You have our loyal men to thank for it,’ he added with a laugh. ‘Especially Daoud; he is the best raconteur of the family.’
‘How ridiculous,’ I exclaimed.
‘But useful.’ Emerson sobered. ‘Don’t rely on your legend, though, my dear. Only the most superstitious and least sophisticated of the locals believe it.’
I turned to look at Abdullah, who was stamping along behind us, muttering to himself. I suppose he was still annoyed because he had not been allowed to mutilate Hamed. Catching my eye, he said, with a self-conscious air, ‘That is true, Sitt. Daoud does not believe the stories, he only tells them because he is a great liar and likes attention.’
Once we were mounted, Emerson sat without moving for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the hills to the north.