Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [28]
The rebellion was put down by force. Zaghlul Pasha was released and went off to Paris, where the Peace Conference of the Allies was meeting to decide the fate of conquered and occupied territories. Zaghlul’s demands were ignored. The British government insisted that the protectorate must be maintained. As a result, disaffection continued to smolder, isolated acts of violence against foreigners still occurred, and orators like Rashad stirred the populace up. Britain had agreed to send out a high-level commission of inquiry under Lord Milner, the colonial secretary, but few people believed that its report would bring about the changes Egypt demanded.
“There’s another complication,” Ramses said, as we mounted the stairs to the terrace.
“No, why should there be?” demanded Emerson. “Kamil el Wardani may hold a grudge against you and David, but he is out of the picture, Zaghlul Pasha is the accepted leader of the independence movement. Has Rashad changed allegiance?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I declared. “We have enough to worry about without becoming revolutionaries, and we must at all costs prevent David from becoming involved with that lot again. Emerson, I strictly forbid you to climb on soapboxes and orate.”
“They don’t use soapboxes,” Emerson said mildly.
I looked from his smiling, self-satisfied countenance to the hooded eyes of my son, and a strong foreboding—of a sort to which I am only too accustomed—came over me. Sympathy for the rights of the Egyptian people was one thing, and we had always been of that mind. Rioting and instigating riots was something else again.
Our rooms on the third floor of Shepheard’s were a home away from home; for more years than I care to admit we had dwelled there at least once each season. The suite had two bedrooms, one on either side of a well-appointed sitting room, and two baths. Before she and Ramses were wed, Nefret had occupied the second bedchamber, with Ramses in an adjoining (but I assure you, Reader, not connected) room.
Emerson went at once to the balcony of the sitting room, and stood gazing sentimentally out across the roofs and minarets of Cairo. He invited me to join him. I was itching to unpack but I could not refuse; how many times had we stood on that same balcony, on that precise spot, in fact, reveling in our return to the land we loved, and anticipating a busy season of excavation. How long ago it seemed, and yet how recent!
Having allowed Emerson (and myself) a few moments of nostalgia, I brought his mind back to the present.
“If the boat is on time, our loved ones will be here tomorrow evening, Emerson. That gives us only a little over twenty-four hours in which to complete our investigations.”
“What investigations?” Emerson demanded. “If you are thinking of pursuing your favorite sport of badgering the antiquities dealers, dismiss the idea. It would be a waste of time. Martinelli will not dispose of his loot through the usual channels.”
“So you can read his mind, can you?”
“Curse it, Peabody—”
“What is the harm of a visit to the suk? I must do a bit of shopping, in the course of which a few innocent inquiries may produce useful information.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson.
When the children joined us for luncheon, Nefret readily agreed to my suggestion, though, like Emerson, she was of the opinion that we were not likely to learn anything about the stolen jewelry. “I need to buy things for the twins,” she said. “They are growing like weeds and they are very hard on their clothes.”
Ramses and his father exchanged conspiratorial glances. They were trying to come up with excuses for not accompanying us. I didn’t want them along anyhow; Emerson always stood by shuffling his feet and grumbling under his breath, and Ramses always wore an expression of exaggerated patience which was even more trying.
“You