Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [88]
The honorable Algernon Bracegirdle-Boisdragon, more commonly known as Mr. Smith, advanced toward the barred door, his thin lips stretching into a smile.
“Do forgive my intrusion, Mrs. Emerson. I came by earlier, but your butler informed me you were not at home and refused to allow me to wait for you.”
Here was a man whom even Gargery could not stare down. His own eyes were sharp as gimlets; they did not change expression when he smiled, nor did his narrow face broaden.
“What has happened?” I cried. “Is Sethos . . . Is he . . .”
“My dear Mrs. Emerson! Forgive me for alarming you. I assure you, our friend is alive and in no immediate danger. However, his—er—present situation is somewhat complex, and I thought it better to explain in person. Ah, Professor. How good it is to see you again.”
Emerson came to my side. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Is Sethos . . . Is he . . .”
“He is alive, Emerson,” I said.
“Oh. Well then, what the devil do you mean by worrying Mrs. Emerson? She is pale and trembling. You had better have a whiskey, my dear.”
“I assure you, Emerson, my nerves are in perfect order. But perhaps you—”
“No, why? There is nothing wrong with my nerves,” said Emerson, passing his hand over his brow, where the perspiration had popped out in little beads.
“May I come in and explain?” asked Mr. Smith, peering through the bars.
“You may as well,” Emerson said. He unfastened the door.
“Dear me,” said Mr. Smith pensively. “I seem to have put my foot in it. And I had hoped to spare you! The truth is—” He broke off with a twist of his thin lips as the door to the house opened. Nefret was in the lead, followed by Evelyn and Lia. She stopped dead when she saw Smith.
“You know my daughter-in-law,” I said. “This is Mrs. Walter Emerson, and her daughter, Mrs. Todros. Evelyn and Lia, may I present Mr.—er—Smith. He has come to bring us news of our kinsman. Never mind the courtesies, Mr. Smith, tell us. I would not like to accuse you of deliberately prolonging our suspense.”
“I assure you, that was not my intention,” said Mr. Smith. “In a nutshell, then, your kinsman is in hospital. His injuries are not life-threatening—”
“Injuries!” I exclaimed. “What’s he been up to?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know,” said Smith, through his teeth, “that he was in Jerusalem. He was not supposed to have been in Jerusalem. I received a written message from him a few days ago, hand-delivered by a turbaned ruffian, informing me that he had run into a spot of difficulty, as he termed it, but would be out of hospital and on his way here before long. That is all the information I have; but knowing you, Mrs. Emerson, I felt certain you would be in Cairo invading my office if you didn’t get an immediate reply to your telegram.”
“Thank you,” I said, pleased by the compliment, even if it had not been intended as such.
“But how dreadful,” said Evelyn, her eyes soft with sympathy. “What sort of hospital can there be in Jerusalem?”
“It is run by a French sisterhood,” Smith replied. “He is receiving excellent care, I assure you.”
Not at all discomposed at being the focus of several inimical stares, he settled himself comfortably in a chair, prepared, as it seemed, to remain. Aha, I thought. Delivering the news had not been his sole motive for coming.
“Will you stay for tea, Mr. Smith?” I inquired.
“Thank you, Mrs. Emerson, I would enjoy that.”
We exchanged equally false smiles. “I will see what is keeping the others,” I said, going to the door.
Emerson followed me. “Peabody!” His attempt at a whisper made my ears ring. “Have you lost your mind? The bastard wouldn’t be so agreeable if he did not want something from us. If he thinks he can recruit Ramses for another job—”
“Sssh.” I drew him farther into the house. “The war is over, Emerson.”
“But Sethos is still meddling, God knows with what. If my brother,” said Emerson, rolling his r’s fiercely, “has got himself into another mess from which he expects