“She says that the pale man with a scar was living in a very fine tent behind these huts. He paid her to cook for him. Her husband told her that the man was dead, which makes her sad.”

“Ask her to show us his tent,” I said as I took out several coins and offered them to her.

She beckoned us to follow her, and we did. The canvas tent was held upright at either end by two poles, the sides secured by ropes threaded through metal grommets and staked. I estimated the interior to be the size of my sewing room. Daoud untied the twine that held the front flaps together.

I stepped forward, but then halted. “Does she know if the pale man had any visitors?”

Daoud repeated my question in Arabic. The woman’s lips puckered as she looked down at her toes. Eventually, and with obvious reticence, she nodded.

“Can she describe the visitor?” I asked.

The woman shrugged, and then trotted away in the direction of what I presumed was the hut inhabited by her and her husband. “Well, then,” I said as I bestirred my inimitable courage to enter the tent, “shall we have a look inside?”

Daoud yanked back the tent flap and peered into the poorly lit space. “Back away, Sitt Hakim. I will deal with this intruder.”

I was too familiar with his method of dealing with people whom he deemed to be suspect. “No, I will handle this myself.” I stepped into the tent and found myself exchanging leery looks with an unfamiliar woman in her early thirties. She was sitting cross-legged on a cot, dressed in khaki trousers and a blouse stained with perspiration. Her dull blond hair was in need of shampoo. Her forehead, cheeks, and chin were sunburned and already blistering. “Who are you?” I said, astounded.

“Who are you?” she responded with a German accent. “You are the Schuldige . . . the trespasser. This tent belongs to Eric von Raubritter.”

“He is not in a position to object to my presence. I am Amelia Emerson, currently involved in the excavation at Amarna.”

“Liezel Hasenkamp, a colleague. I came here to make certain that he was enjoying his holiday. Now I have learned of his death. Most tragic, ja? He was a good and kind man. I am so sorry.” Her face was puckered as she looked away. “He and I were . . . very close.”