The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [32]
Our assurance that there was no dead body cheered him quite a lot. “Then the police will not have to be called,” he said, wiping his perspiring brow.
“Not yet,” I replied.
“Not yet? But Mrs. Emerson, if there is no body—”
“That is the difficulty, you see,” I explained. “Mrs. Petherick’s living body is not here either. She seems to have disappeared.”
“Forgive me, Mother, but that conclusion is a trifle premature,” said my son. “There may be a perfectly innocent explanation for her absence. We must question the other guests, and Mrs. Petherick’s son and daughter, and her maidservant.”
“She did not bring an attendant with her,” Mr. Salt said. “One of the hotel maids waited on her when she required assistance. But I am sure there is, as you say, a perfectly innocent explanation!”
“You have no objection to our conducting an inquiry?” I asked.
“I would be infinitely obliged if you would, Mrs. Emerson.”
Mrs. Petherick was not in the dining salon or the other public rooms. The concierge had not seen her, nor had she left her key at the desk. The keys had large, heavy bronze tags attached, so it was unlikely she would take hers with her, even supposing she had suddenly changed her mind and gone out without leaving a message for us. Adrian and Harriet Petherick were not in the hotel. They had left their keys, but no one knew where they had gone. The hotel maid was so unnerved at being questioned she could only dither and deny knowledge of any kind. We decided to postpone further investigation. Questioning all the hotel guests would take hours, and was likely to produce as much imaginative fiction as fact. Had I not known this from my previous acquaintance with criminal investigations, it would have been brought home to me when we attempted to make our way across the lobby. As soon as we emerged from the lift we were surrounded by a curious crowd, all asking questions, some claiming to have vital information. I was forced to employ my parasol in order to pass through, and one importunate fellow, who had announced himself as a journalist, followed us all the way to the dock.
We took our places in the boat. It was a beautiful night, as most nights in Luxor are; moonlight rippled along the water and the stars were bright. I glanced at my watch. “Late again. Fatima will be wroth.”
“And Maaman will be weeping into the soup,” Nefret said. “Well, Mother, what do you make of this?”
“There are only two possible explanations,” I said, settling myself more comfortably on the cushioned bench. “Either Mrs. Petherick left of her own accord or she was carried away against her will.”
“How could anyone carry her off without being seen?” Ramses demanded. “Abdul isn’t the brightest lad in Egypt, but even he would have noticed a man encumbered with a struggling, screaming woman—or even an unconscious woman, who was, to put it tactfully, a well-rounded armful.”
“You noticed that, did you?” Nefret murmured. “Perhaps he lied.”
“Not to me. Oh, hell,” Ramses said, running his fingers through his windblown hair. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. If he had been threatened or extravagantly bribed he wouldn’t have been able to greet me so unselfconsciously, or look me in the eye. He’s terrified of Father. Anyhow, he’s an honest man, in his fashion. No, Mother. The lady has pulled another stunt. She had plenty of time to get out and away before I reached her room.”
“Leaving everything she owned?”
“Packing a suitcase would have spoiled the effect,” Ramses said.
“But then honest Abdul must have lied when he said she had not come out of her room.”
“Not necessarily. He wasn’t smack in front of her door the whole time;