The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [127]
“Furder training would seem to be indicated,” said Ramses. “I had only begun dis aspect of de program, since I had no reason to anticipate dat an emergency would—”
“We have a good three-mile walk ahead of us,” Emerson interrupted. “Let us be off.”
“Are you up to it, Emerson? We are closer to Menyat Dahshoor, perhaps we ought to arouse de Morgan and request his assistance. He could supply us with donkeys and men.”
“Be honest, Peabody—you are no more keen than I to go crawling to de Morgan for help.”
“But, my dear, you must be tired.”
Emerson thumped himself on the chest. “I have never felt better. The air is like wine, particularly after the noisome substitute for air we have been breathing. But you, my dear Peabody—perhaps you ought to go to Dahshoor. You are shivering.”
“I will not leave you, Emerson. Where you go, I go.”
“I expected you would say that,” Emerson replied, his sandy mask cracking in a fond smile. “Excelsior, then. Ramses, put down the cat and Papa will carry you.”
The assorted bruises and aches that had stiffened as we stood talking were soon forgotten. Brisk walking warmed us and the pleasures of familial intimacy were never more keenly felt. Had I not been anxious to come to grips with the villains who had attempted to exterminate us, I might have wished that stroll to be prolonged.
Our plans were soon made. They were simple: to collect our loyal men and procure a fresh supply of firearms (my pistol, being choked with mud, was unusable) before proceeding to the village to arrest the Master Criminal.
“We must catch him unawares,” I said. “He is desperate and may be armed.”
“He?” Emerson said. “Miss Charity is not your choice for the role?”
I had had time to revise my first hasty impression, so I replied, “We never saw the face of the elusive figure, Emerson. Any young person, male or female, could have worn Charity’s dress, and that unfashionable bonnet concealed the person’s features as effectively as a mask could do. Nor does the message I received incriminate her, for I have never seen her handwriting. Anyone could have written that note.”
“Not anyone, Peabody.”
“Correct, Emerson. If the note was a forgery, as I believe, it could only have been penned by Brother Ezekiel or Brother David.”
“Which have you settled on?” Emerson asked.
We were now so close to concluding the case that further equivocation seemed futile. “Brother Ezekiel, of course,” I said.
“I disagree. Brother David.”
“You only choose him because you dislike his manners.”
“People who live in glass houses, Peabody. You have a weakness for pretty young men with smooth tongues. Whereas Brother Ezekiel—”
“All the clues point to him, Emerson.”
“Quite the contrary, Peabody. They point to Brother David.”
“Would you care to explicate, Emerson?”
“Not just at present, Peabody. There are one or two minor questions to be resolved. What about you?”
“I am also undecided about a few exceedingly unimportant details, Emerson.”
So the discussion ended. Ramses’ attempt to offer his views was rejected by mutual consent, and we went on in silence. It was fortunate that we did. Sounds carry some distance in the desert, and we were close to the house when Emerson, who had been casting increasingly anxious glances about, came to a sudden stop.
“Ramses,” he said softly, “did you leave a light in your room?”
“No, Papa.”
“Nor did we. Look.”
Two squares of yellow broke the darkness of the house. Emerson took my arm and pulled me to the ground. Ramses slipped from his shoulders and crouched beside us.
“John may have discovered Ramses’ absence and be looking for him,” I suggested.
“In utter silence? And where is Abdullah? I have an uneasy feeling about this, Peabody.”
“I think I see Abdullah—there, to the left of the door. He seems to be asleep.”
I half rose, for a better look. Emerson held me down.
Around the corner of the wall, from the direction of the ruined church, came a dark and ghostly shape. Flitting from shadow