The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [112]
“I too am familiar with modern psychiatric theory,” I said. “In his manic state he could be dangerous.”
“He has been dangerous,” Nefret said wretchedly. “Bursting into someone’s house and threatening people with a gun can’t be considered harmless. If Ramses hadn’t taken the pistol from him I don’t know what he would have done.”
“That isn’t the only indication,” Ramses said. “I didn’t tell you because…well, because it seemed a violation of her privacy. There were bruises on her arms. I saw them when her sleeves fell back. Fresh bruises.”
EIGHT
“I’ve got to find them,” Ramses said.
Not until the next morning did we receive confirmation of our suspicions and fears. The train had been met and the passengers questioned. The Pethericks had not been among them. One of Sethos’s colleagues had, at his request, taken part in the inspection, and Sethos assured us he could not have been deceived by a disguise, however ingenious. It was clear that he took the matter as seriously as Ramses.
“Why you?” Nefret’s blue eyes were hard. “It isn’t your responsibility.”
The statement was true in the narrowest sense; but as she knew only too well, Ramses had that rare quality—a burden, some might call it—of feeling responsibility for the weak and defenseless. Harriet Petherick was a woman who had appealed to him for help. He would have done the same for any man, woman, or child. He had got this quality from me, so I did not attempt to argue with him.
Emerson did. “Nefret is right, you know. What can you do that the police cannot? The girl has lost her head—”
“As women are inclined to do,” I murmured.
“Oh, do be quiet, Peabody! Some women are, and some men, too. She doesn’t know her way around Egypt and it won’t take the police long to locate her and her brother.”
“No doubt that is true,” Ramses said. He had pushed his plate aside and was pacing up and down the dining room. “I am concerned about what may happen before the police find them.”
“‘For each man kills the thing he loves,’” Sethos intoned.
Ramses shot him a quick look, and Emerson said in disgust, “Poetry!”
“Poetry often expresses universal truths,” I said. “To put it in psychological terms, people may feel ambivalent about those they love, particularly if they are suffering from mental excitability.”
“Psychology!” Emerson exclaimed. “I have asked you not to talk psychology at me, Peabody. It is worse than poetry.”
“Whether you like it or not, Father, there is some truth in what Mother says,” Nefret admitted reluctantly. “Harriet is overprotective of her brother—for good reason, admittedly, but it would not be surprising if he unconsciously resented her.”
Emerson clapped his hand to his brow. “Please, Nefret. Not the unconscious. I don’t believe in it.”
Urged by Fatima, Ramses returned to his chair and picked up his fork. “I’m sure the authorities would agree with you, Father. They will be looking for a pair of fugitives, not for a woman who may be in danger from the person who is closest to her. They got off the train somewhere between here and Cairo. I’m going to try to trace them.”
His tone of quiet determination silenced even Emerson.
“There is a local train at eleven,” Ramses went on. “I mean to be on it.”
“And I,” David said, in the same tone.
“Curse it,” Emerson said.
“Nefret and Selim can handle the photography as well as I,” David said.
“Hmph.” Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. Let me do the dear man credit; consideration for his son overruled even his preoccupation with his excavations. He did not really believe Harriet Petherick was in danger, but he was familiar with