“Do you honestly believe that I have affection for him?” Her laugh was bitter. “He is nothing but a pawn, providing me with an excuse to remain in Amarna. Poor, naive Miss Smith, hopelessly besotted with a disgustingly hairy missionary with the voice of a petulant toddler.”

I needed Queen Nefertiti to come to my rescue, but the odds were poor. “I did not know that you write under a pen name, but I understand that is a common practice among authors. Ermintrude de Vere Smith is a peculiar choice.”

She bristled. “My given name is Ermintrude. It is a combination of Hermiony and Gertrude, my great-grandmothers.”

Enlightenment took its own sweet time but finally settled in my brain. I had already seen the steely side of her nature, as well as her melodramatic display when Absalom succumbed to the tree branch. Only a mother could feel such agony. “Did you name your sons after relatives?”

“Hardly!” she retorted with a sniff.

“Nor did I name my son after a pharaoh. He himself chose his nickname. How many sons did you have, Mrs. Godwin?” The question, offered with a friendly smile, was rhetorical.

She remained by the cart. “Six, but five of them died at the hands of you and your son.”

“Five of them died because of their zealousness and incompetency. Vendettas are not without inherent danger.” I stood up and moved to the far side of the deck. “This conversation is finished. Return to your hut, pack your trunks, and hire some men to convey you and your belongings to Minya. Once you are there, take the train to Cairo and on to Alexandria. Book the next available passage to England and go back to your cottage in the Cotswolds or Cornwall or wherever it is.”

“That is what I intend to do after I have disposed of you, Mrs. Emerson. I shall eagerly wait to read your obituary in the Times. Ramses’s will follow soon thereafter.” She narrowed the gap between us (the upper deck was rather small), her hands curled.

“I am not afraid of you, Miss Smith or whatever name you prefer. Your mind is distorted with fury.” I reminded myself that maniacs can evince incredible strength.

“Murderer!” she screamed as she lunged at me.

I stepped aside and permitted her momentum to propel her over the railing. No more than a second passed before there was a loud splash. I hurried downstairs and went to the deck. Nefret, Fatima, and Mahmoud were already there, jostling for position. I scanned the water for any sign of her, but the surface was unruffled.

“Who—what?” Fatima gasped.

I waited until my heart stopped hammering. “Miss Smith came by unexpectedly. What has happened to her? Why can we not see her? I did not have the opportunity to ask her if she could swim.”

“Before you pushed her?” Nefret asked in a tremulous voice.

“Don’t be absurd! Why has she not struggled to the surface?”