Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [91]
“Emerson and I will escort you to your carriage,” I said.
Smith watched me undo the bolts and hooks. “I trust,” he said in a low voice, “that these precautions have not been taken in expectation of danger? You know you have only to ask us for assistance.”
“The bars and bolts are not to keep enemies out, but to keep the children in.” I captured Davy, who tried to look as if getting out the door had been the last thing on his mind. The wide blue eyes and golden curls and angelic smile would have deceived anyone but an experienced grandmother. I handed him over to Evelyn.
“I heard about the motorcar in Luxor,” said Smith, stopping to inspect it. “It is the talk of the town. As is your little accident last night. It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“Stop fishing, Mr. Smith,” I said, with perfect good humor. “I suggest you send Sethos to us as soon as he can travel. He will recuperate more quickly in our care than in any hospital. You did forward our original message, I presume.”
“Yes, certainly. Who is the missing person?”
“If he has not chosen to confide in you, it would not be proper for me to do so.”
“Damn right,” said Emerson. “One more thing, Smith, and then you can go to Luxor or to the devil. What were you driving at with those hints about rioting in this area? Have you received intelligence pointing to such a possibility?”
“Lord Milner’s Commission is due to arrive in a few weeks,” Smith said. “It will not offer the terms Egypt wants. There will be trouble.”
“There certainly will be if Britain refused to abandon the protectorate,” Emerson muttered, rubbing his chin. “You didn’t answer my question, Smith.”
The driver stood by the door of the carriage, waiting for Smith to get in. “He isn’t going to answer it, Emerson,” I said. “Good-bye, Mr. Smith.”
He paused with his foot on the step and looked ruefully at his ruined trousers. “Did you enjoy that, Mrs. Emerson?”
“You are, I believe, a bachelor, Mr. Smith?”
He ducked his head and climbed nimbly into the vehicle. I heard a stifled sound that might have been a laugh.
“SO THAT IS THE MYSTERIOUS Mr. Smith,” said Walter. “It was good of him to come all this way in order to reassure us.”
“His real name is Bracegirdle-Boisdragon,” said Emerson. “And his real reason for coming had nothing to do with goodness.”
“What did he want, then?” Ramses asked. “You and Mother spoke with him for several minutes; you must have been able to get something out of him.”
“He spent most of the time trying to get something out of us,” I replied. “He did not succeed, but he gave away nothing of interest—except that they anticipate disaffection when Lord Milner’s Commission arrives, which anyone might have deduced.”
“Was that what he meant by his hints about riots here in Luxor?” Walter asked. “If there is a chance of violence, the women and children must be sent to safety.”
“Nonsense,” Evelyn said calmly.
“Utter nonsense,” Emerson agreed. “Selim would know of such rumors well in advance, and none of the men of Luxor would bother us. We had not the slightest trouble last spring.”
“What about you, David?” Walter demanded. “The fellow kept looking at you. You promised me that you had severed your connections with the Nationalists. Your responsibilities to your wife and children—”
“I am well aware of them, sir,” David said. He had always treated his father-in-law deferentially; the interruption and the tightening of his jaw were the only signs of controlled anger. “I gave you my word, and I have never broken it.”
“Then why did that—that Smith person introduce the subject?” Walter demanded. “It sounded like an accusation.”
“Or a warning,” I murmured. Several of us spoke at once, Lia indignantly defending her husband, Evelyn trying to soothe her husband, and Emerson drowning out the softer voices with a bull-like bellow. “You are the one who is making unfounded accusations, Walter. Do not allow that bas—um—that rascal Smith to sow dissension among us.”
“What about a nice