The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [54]
We had reached our tent. I got out the extra blankets and made a sort of nest for Ramses beside our sleeping mats, but when I would have settled him on them, he resisted. “One more thing, Mama. When you saw me searching the ground—”
“I suppose you were playing detective. A very silly habit of yours, Ramses; you are only a little boy, after all. You should have left that to Mama and Papa.”
“It occurred to me that if the assailant had left any clue, he might return and remove it before morning,” said Ramses.
“Criminals are not so careless as to leave incriminating evidence lying about, Ramses. You have been reading too many romances.”
“No doubt that is generally the case, Mama. But this criminal did leave evidence. I presume it was torn from his head in the struggle.”
From the folds of his voluminous white nightgown he produced an object that he offered for my inspection. It was a cap, of a type with which I was very familiar, though this example was a good deal cleaner than most of the ones I had seen on the heads of Egyptians. It was not a popular item of dress in Nubia, where most men preferred a turban.
“Hmph,” said Emerson, inspecting it. “The pattern resembles some I have seen in Luxor. Could Forthright’s assailant have been his own servant? He’s an insolent sort of fellow.”
“Reggie would surely have recognized him,” I said, shaking my head. “None of our men wear such a thing, but a clever malefactor might assume an object of attire as a disguise, or…”
Here I stopped, and gazed with a wild surmise upon my son, who returned my stare with an expression so limpid-eyed and innocent it was practically tantamount to a confession. The art of disguise was one of Ramses’s hobbies. He was somewhat restricted in the practice of it, since his size limited him to imitating only the juvenile portion of the population, but I had a nasty feeling that as his height increased, so would his expertise.
“Ramses,” I began; but before I could proceed, Ramses produced another strange object.
“I also found this near the scene of the crime, Mama. To my mind it is even more provocative than the cap.”
Emerson let out a muffled exclamation and snatched the thing from the boy’s hand. At first glance I could see nothing to explain the concentrated attention with which he regarded it. It was a shaft of what appeared to be reed, only a few inches long; the jagged end suggested it had been broken off a longer object. The other extremity ended in a bit of wood, to which was attached a blunt, rounded stone shaped like a miniature club. At the point where the wood joined the reed, a band of pierced decoration ornamented the shaft and, one presumed, helped to hold the two together.
“What on earth?” I exclaimed.
Emerson shook his head, not in denial but in dazed disbelief. “It is an arrow, or part of one.”
“There is no point,” I objected.
“This is the point, or pile, as it is called in archery.” Emerson’s fingernail flicked the rounded stone. “It is attached to this piece of wood, which is in turn tanged to the shaft. Footed, in other words. The point is blunt because it was designed to stun, not to kill.”
“I see.” I leaned over to examine the object more closely, noting the delicacy of the decoration. “It reminds me of something but I can’t remember where I saw it.”
“No? Then I will refresh your memory.” Emerson’s eyes remained fixed on the broken arrow. “The hunting scenes in the Theban tombs—that is where you saw such an arrow. This is identical with the weapons used by the nobles of ancient Egypt when they hunted fowl in the marshes. Identical, Peabody. Except that it cannot be more than a few years old.”
CHAPTER 6
The Ghost of a Bowman of Cush
LONG after I had sought my couch Emerson sat silent in the lamplight, turning the broken shaft over and over in his hands with the absorbed fascination of a connoisseur inspecting the rarest of gems. He had thrown off his robe; shadows molded the broad