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Without turning his head he said in a slightly louder voice: “Do not come round the corner for a minute, nurse. In case he turns his head. Now it is all right. You have my handkerchief? Many thanks. You are most amiable.”
He didn’t say anything at all about my having been listening—and how he knew I was listening I can’t think. He’d never once looked in that direction. I was rather relieved he didn’t say anything. I mean, I felt all right with myself about it, but it might have been a little awkward explaining to him. So it was a good thing he didn’t seem to want explanations.
“Do you think he did hate her, M. Poirot?” I asked.
Nodding his head slowly with a curious expression on his face, Poirot answered.
“Yes—I think he did.”
Then he got up briskly and began to walk to where the men were working on the top of the mound. I followed him. We couldn’t see anyone but Arabs at first, but we finally found Mr. Emmott lying face downwards blowing dust off a skeleton that had just been uncovered.
He gave his pleasant, grave smile when he saw us.
“Have you come to see round?” he asked. “I’ll be free in a minute.”
He sat up, took his knife and began daintily cutting the earth away from round the bones, stopping every now and then to use either a bellows or his own breath. A very insanitary proceeding the latter, I thought.
“You’ll get all sorts of nasty germs in your mouth, Mr. Emmott,” I protes
ted.
“Nasty germs are my daily diet, nurse,” he said gravely. “Germs can’t do anything to an archaeologist—they just get naturally discouraged trying.”
He scraped a little more away round the thigh bone. Then he spoke to the foreman at his side, directing him exactly what he wanted done.
“There,” he said, rising to his feet. “That’s ready for Reiter to photograph after lunch. Rather nice stuff she had in with her.”
He showed us a little verdigris copper bowl and some pins. And a lot of gold and blue things that had been her necklace of beads.
The bones and all the objects were brushed and cleaned with a knife and kept in position ready to be photographed.
“Who is she?” asked Poirot.
“First millennium. A lady of some consequence perhaps. Skull looks rather odd—I must get Mercado to look at it. It suggests death by foul play.”
“A Mrs. Leidner of two thousand odd years ago?” said Poirot.
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Emmott.
Bill Coleman was doing something with a pick to a wall face.
David Emmott called something to him which I didn’t catch and then started showing M. Poirot round.
When the short explanatory tour was over, Emmott looked at his watch.
“We knock off in ten minutes,” he said. “Shall we walk back to the house?”
“That will suit me excellently,” said Poirot.
We walked slowly along the well-worn path.
“I expect you are all glad to get back to work again,” said Poirot.
Emmott replied gravely: “Yes, it’s much the best thing. It’s not been any too easy loafing about the house and making conversation.”
“Knowing all the time that one of you was a murderer.”
Emmott did not answer. He made no gesture of dissent. I knew now that he had had a suspicion of the truth from the very first when he had questioned the houseboys.
