The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [131]
She raised wet eyes to meet those of Ramses. “He didn’t kill her. I did.”
“Not another mysterious disappearance!” Emerson raised eyes, fists, and voice to heaven. “Not another visit from the damned black afrit!”
Bertie had obviously dressed in some haste. He wore no hat, his shirt was only half buttoned, and his boots were laced askew.
“No,” he gasped, breathless with agitation. “She’s gone to the West Valley. She left a letter.”
He fished the crumpled paper from his trouser pocket and handed it to me. Jumana’s neat formal script set out her reasons for taking action, and I had to admit they made perfect sense. She had concluded that the West Valley was the most likely place for Lidman to have holed up. He knew the area and he had had plenty of opportunity to squirrel away supplies from the overflowing baskets Cyrus’s chef always provided. Her reason for going alone—that she would be better able to creep up on him than a crew of clumsy-footed men—also made sense—to someone who was indifferent to her safety.
“Cyrus sent me to bring you,” Bertie went on. “He’s gone on ahead.”
“Alone?” Emerson shouted. “Good Gad, he’s as defenseless as Jumana. We must go after them at once.”
“Now, now, Emerson, be calm,” I implored. “In my opinion—”
“Excuse me, Mrs. E.,” Bertie said, “but opinions don’t enter into this. Most likely Lidman is not there, but we can’t take the chance.”
He scarcely ever interrupted me, or anyone else, for that matter. Recognizing this as a sign of extreme perturbation, I nodded and said graciously, “You are correct, Bertie. I did not mean to suggest that we should refrain from taking action, only that—”
Emerson was already out the door, with Bertie treading on his heels.
“I had better go with them,” I said to Sethos, who was reading Jumana’s note. “And you?”
“Back to the confounded railroad station.” Sethos handed me the note. “We can’t risk missing him there, but I think the girl has made a convincing argument. She’s a clever little creature, isn’t she?”
“Too clever. I only hope it will not be the death of her one day.”
I paused only long enough to collect my accoutrements, waving aside Fatima’s attempts to make me wait while she packed a basket. When I reached the stable Jamad had finished saddling a horse for Emerson and another of our Arabians for Bertie. I had known it would take Jamad a while, he was not a hasty man. It took a while longer to put saddle and bridle onto my horse. I made them wait for me.
“They are at least an hour ahead of us,” I pointed out. “Haste will accomplish nothing.”
Despite this reasonable remark Emerson and Bertie soon forged ahead of me. I went on as fast as I dared, but I did not catch them up until I got to the West Valley. There, near the tomb of Amenhotep III, I found my husband and Bertie talking with Cyrus.
“Not a sign of her,” Cyrus reported. “I’ve been up and down the Valley, calling her name.”
“Not even her horse,” I said, for there were only four of the animals, including mine.
“She came on foot.” Cyrus tugged agitatedly at his goatee. “By one of the paths over the hills, maybe. She could have fallen and hurt herself badly. Wouldn’t she have answered me if she could?”
“She is as nimble as a goat, and knows every foot of the cliffs,” I said, trying to reassure myself as well as Cyrus. Accidents can happen even to the most expert. “Let us go about this in logical fashion. We will proceed slowly along the Valley to the tomb of Ay, where you have been working.”
The sun had risen, bathing the barren ground in light except for the shadows below the eastern cliffs. No sign of life rewarded our anxious eyes; no voice responded to Emerson’s stentorian calls. When we reached the tomb of Ay we dismounted and left the horses; they had all been trained to stand.
“Either she is out of earshot or she has chosen not to answer,” said Emerson. He was in command, of himself and of us, as Emerson always is in cases of emergency. His next order admitted