“I am seldom wrong,” I said. “Emerson thinks you are a fool, but I believe otherwise. You are sly, and you revel in misleading people. You found out that a man named Ridgemont was funding the excavation. You presented yourself as his agent, and no one was in a position to question this. You chose to call yourself Octavius Buddle. Your real name is Flitworthy. Why did your mother opt to burden you with such a preposterous name? This is not to say that I would have chosen to call my offspring Judas, Guy, Cromwell, and Absalom.”

“I was christened Rasputin. I cannot remember why I chose to call myself Octavius. I have always thought it has a melodic cadence.” He stood up, gripped my arm, and propelled me to my feet. “Your husband and the other members of your family seem to be distracted. None of them is looking this way. They cannot see the pistol that I am pressing against your rib cage.”

“You are the sorriest excuse for an assassin that I have ever met,” I said as we went behind a formation of boulders. “Your brothers were failures, but they did display a certain amount of panache.”

Buddle gave me a wry look. “Assassination is not as easy as one would think. My brothers were reckless, too fanatical to consider the consequences of their attempts.”

I had a minor epiphany. “When you dressed in a black robe and tried to lure me into the wadi, you should have been more aware of the impending flash flood. I took refuge on a ledge on the cliff. What did you do?”

“I was fortunate to scramble out of the wadi before I was swept away.”

“Would you have killed me?” I asked bluntly.

He lowered the gun. “I do not know what I might have done that day, Mrs. Emerson. You have displayed empathy and kindheartedness. On the other hand, my foremost duty is to uphold the honor of the Godwin family.”

“The Godwin family is sorely lacking in honor.”

“And sadly lacking in numbers.” Buddle stared into the distance, his brow furrowed. “I am the only one left.”

I unhooked the tin cup that forms part of my belt of tools, having been obliged to replace it after my meeting with the Bedouin sheikh. I had done so promptly, since I have always considered it unladylike to swig liquid from a bottle or canteen. I poured whiskey into the cup and pretended to drink.

Buddle watched me with a sardonic smile. “Are you sufficiently fortified, Mrs. Emerson? Then . . .” A gloat spread across his face as he raised the pistol.

I dashed the liquid directly into his eyes. I have been informed that the sensation is not at all agreeable. His behavior bore this out. He staggered back, pressing his hands to his face and crying loudly. I picked up my parasol and brought it down on his head with as much force as I could muster.