The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [146]
While I searched for clues Cyrus was interrogating the guard. I heard most of what was said, for Cyrus’s voice was rather loud and the guard’s voice rose in volume as he defended himself. He stoutly denied that anyone had approached during the night. Yes, he might have dozed off; no one had relieved him, and a man could not do without sleep indefinitely. But his body had blocked the entrance to the shelter and he swore he would have sprung instantly awake if anyone had tried to pass him.
“Never mind, Cyrus,” I called. “The killer did not enter that way. Come here and see.”
The slit in the canvas wall would have escaped my notice had I not been searching for something of the sort. It had been made by a very sharp knife—probably the same one that had penetrated Mohammed’s scrawny chest.
“The killer would not even have to enter,” I said. “Only insert an arm and strike. He must have known exactly where Mohammed’s pallet was placed. And I had left a lamp burning, so that the guard could see inside. It was a waste of time looking for clues here. Let us see if he left footprints outside.”
But of course he had not. The ground was too hard to take prints.
I dismissed Kevin, who was very glad to go. Taking Cyrus’s arm, I held him back and let Kevin draw ahead.
“Now will you take the precaution I suggested?” I hissed. “Charlie must be put under restraint! You were willing to take such measures with Kevin—”
“And still am,” Cyrus said grimly. “Archaeology is not the only profession whose members may be seduced by greed.”
I believe I gasped aloud. “You don’t mean—”
“Who would know better than the man who sent it that you had received an invitation you wouldn’t resist? I thought from the start there was something funny about that; a diehard like O’Connell would be more likely to sneak up on you than ask you to come to him. He practically goaded you into bringing him here, and now you see what has happened—the first night after he arrived.”
“No,” I said. “Surely not Kevin!”
It was not the first time those words had burst from my lips. Kevin could not have heard them, but at that very moment he turned his head and looked back. It might have been my overstrained nerves; it might have been the distorted angle at which I saw him; but on his face was a sly, secretive expression more sinister than any I had seen on that countenance before.
Ineptly assisted by Kevin, I interrogated the others in an attempt to establish alibis. I did not expect useful results, and I got none. Everyone claimed to have slept the sleep of the innocent and weary, and denied they had heard anything unusual. Charles swore René could not have left the tent they shared without awakening him; René swore the same about Charles. That meant nothing. I could—and did—say the same about Bertha. But the dastardly deed could have been accomplished in five minutes or less, and innocent or guilty, we had all been tired enough to sleep soundly.
Emerson watched me with a sour amusement he made no attempt to conceal. At last he said, “Satisfied, MISS Peabody? I could have told you this was a waste of time. Does anyone save myself intend to do any work today?”
Taking this for the order it undoubtedly was, René and Charles followed Emerson’s example, and Emerson. So did the cat.
My spirits were rather low as I prepared my equipment— notepad and pencils, measuring rule and water flask, candles and matches. If the day went on as it had begun, I did not know how I could bear it. Emerson had returned to calling me MISS Peabody. He had not requested my assistance that day. Instead of progressing toward that greater understanding for which I had hoped, we were farther apart than before.
Mohammed’s death, before he could speak, was discouraging too.
If I had needed anything else to lower my spirits, the knowledge of where we were working that day would have done the job. Cyrus was determined to investigate the new tomb. It had not been mentioned by any of the earlier visitors