Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [175]
Justin pushed her chair back and rose, followed more slowly by Maryam. Nefret had been taught to stand up when an older woman entered the room. She remained seated.
“A criminal organization of women,” she said. “At least you’re not another of Bertha’s get.”
The old woman, whose name was almost certainly not Fitzroyce, passed a caressing hand over Justin’s bright curls. Then the same withered hand administered a sharp slap across Nefret’s face, the sort of slap a governess might give an impertinent pupil.
“Your manners are not so pretty as your face. Stand up in the presence of your elders.”
With a slight shrug, Nefret obeyed. The old woman went to the head of the table and seated herself. “Thank you for waiting, my dear,” she said to Justin. “François, you may open the wine now.”
“What took you so long?” Justin asked.
A cork popped and foam bubbled up over the bottle. “Clumsy oaf,” the old lady snapped. “Pour it and don’t spill any more. Where was I? Paying a little call on the Professor. It was hard to tear myself away.”
“Is he all right?” Nefret asked. Champagne slopped into her glass.
“No, he isn’t all right. He has a vile temper and the strength of an ox, and I’m taking no chances on his getting away. Now join me in a toast to our success.” She raised her glass.
“You can hardly expect me to drink to that,” Nefret said.
She expected a reprimand, if not another slap, but the old woman only smiled. Her collection of wrinkles looked like a map of Cairo, with its curving lanes and intersecting alleys. They were the result, Nefret thought, of weight loss in a woman who had once been stout and strong. She was by no means feeble, though. Her hand was all bones and sinew.
“I could have François pinch your nose and pour it down your throat,” her hostess said. “But that would spoil the effect. Maryam—Justin . . .”
Ceremoniously they raised their glasses and drank.
The first course was soup of some kind. It was tepid and overflavored with onion. Even the cook must be one of the gang, Nefret thought. The wine was excellent, a pale hock, and Nefret allowed herself a sip. The sounds of activity outside were more muted now.
“What was it I didn’t drink to?” she asked. “And who the hell are you? Bertha’s avenger?”
“Do you suppose I would go to so much trouble for the sake of revenge?” The old woman leaned forward, withered hands planted on the table. “Sentimentality is a weakness of the young. I had no objection to Justin arranging her cunning little accidents and epiphanies. She only succeeded in killing one of the men who had murdered Bertha, but some of the others were seriously inconvenienced and she enjoyed your fear and confusion. I stopped caring about such things a long time ago.”
“If it’s money you want,” Nefret began.
“I want it and I intend to get it. This is an expensive operation,” she went on, in a voice as practical as a banker’s. “It took every penny I had saved and all the money Maryam inherited from her doting old husband. I believe it will prove a worthwhile investment.”
The waiters removed the soup plates and replaced them with fish, white-eyed and dry as a mummy. Nefret was glad she had forced herself to finish the soup. She didn’t think she could deal with that dead fish, and she definitely needed to keep her wits about her. She said, in the same matter-of-fact voice as the old woman’s, “Perhaps we can come to an agreement. I can match—”
“Perhaps you could, though I doubt it.” “Mrs. Fitzroyce” glared at the fish. “Disgusting. Take it away. Money isn’t all I want. I am not, it appears, as impervious to emotion as I had believed. Three of you were primarily responsible for the death of the woman I loved like a daughter and admired as my leader. Not the poor fool who struck the actual blow; the ones who had tormented and foiled her. The satisfaction I felt when I beheld one of them in my power at last, helpless and suffering as she had suffered, took me by surprise. It would give me even greater pleasure to lay