I smiled sweetly. “My husband would be the first to agree with you. His workmen have come across a serdab in Thutmose’s studio, and they are preparing to open it soon. You will find it most intriguing.”

His smile was sour, but he said, “I am certain that I will. Good day, Mrs. Emerson.” His copious beard was bristling as he walked into the glare of the sunlight.

I began to make a list of people’s whereabouts, sprinkling it with question marks and exclamation points. Mr. Buddle had been here in Amarna at the time of von Raubritter’s brutal murder, as had Mr. Dullard. Morgenstern had relocated himself to the dig house. Abdul was staying at the campsite, and had voiced unhappiness at von Raubritter’s presumptuous conduct. I could not overlook my trio of ne’er-do-wells: Mahmud, Asmar, and Mustafa. Miss Smith was twittering in her mud hovel. I hesitantly wrote down Sethos’s name. I had no idea if he was still in Cairo, methodically tracking down the location of Harun’s current workshop, or had returned to Amarna in pursuit of Morgenstern.

Alas, not one of them appeared to have an ascertainable motive to murder the young German chemist. In retrospect, when he told Emerson and me that he desired to talk to us, I should have insisted that he accompany us immediately to the dahabeeyah. In his journal, he referred to the letter he had written to Liezel in which he suspected that their experimental drug had been abused. He had not hinted how it had come to Amarna. I drew a tidy row of question marks while I thought. Morgenstern’s purloin of the bust of Nefertiti had taken place before von Raubritter’s arrival, and I doubted that anyone had bothered to enlighten him. My head was beginning to throb. The throbbing intensified as Mr. Buddle drew near me.

“Mrs. Emerson,” he said, tipping his hat, “I have heard what happened last night. In fact, I have heard several versions, but I found all of them appalling. Why would this rider attempt to cause you harm in such a brutish attack?”

“He was one of the assassins who have besieged us since our arrival in Cairo. We have been most fortunate to dissuade them thus far.” I took a deep breath, determined not to allow him to see my shivers as sickening images invaded my mind. “What is most curious, Mr. Buddle, is that the horseman had a card in his pocket—with your name printed on it. When I informed you earlier that another assassin had a similar card, you failed to react. I am amazed that you are still alive, since you are an easy target.”

He took out a handkerchief and blotted his face. “I have told you of my dreary life. My parents ignored me, my siblings never included me in their outings, and my teachers could not remember my name. There is no possibility that I might have offended anyone, not even inadvertently. I am much too boring to garner the attention of an assassin—and as you have opined, I am as vulnerable as a pigeon in the park. The only rational explanation for my name on the cards is that these scoundrels believe I might lead them to an invaluable artifact. Of course, they are deeply misguided.”