Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [18]
“Never fear,” Emerson snarled. “I am leaving. I can only stand so many minutes in this horror house of yours. In God’s name, man, why don’t you classify your pots?”
He rushed off, pulling his slighter companion with him. The young fellow turned his head; his gaze went straight to Evelyn and remained fixed on her face until he had been removed from the room.
“He has almost the Gallic temperament,” said Maspero admiringly. “One observes the magnificence of his rages with respect.”
“I cannot agree with you,” I said. “Who is the fellow?”
“One of your fellow countryman, dear lady, who has interested himself in the antiquities of this country. He has done admirable work excavating, but I fear he does not admire the rest of us. You heard his abuse of my poor museum. He abuses my excavation methods with the same ardor. But, indeed, there is no archaeologist in Egypt who has been spared his criticism.”
“I don’t care to speak of him,” I said, with a sniff.
“We think your museum is fascinating, M. Maspero,” Evelyn added tactfully. “I could spend days here.”
We spent several hours more inspecting the exhibits. I would not have said so for the world, but I felt a certain sympathy for the odious Emerson’s criticisms. The exhibits were not arranged as methodically as they might have been, and there was dust everywhere.
Evelyn said she was too tired to go down to the boat that day, so we took a carriage back to the hotel. She was pensive and silent during the drive; as we neared Cairo, I said slyly,
“Mr. Emerson’s young brother does not have the family temper, I believe. Did you happen to hear his name?”
“Walter,” said Evelyn, and blushed betrayingly.
“Ah.” I pretended not to notice the blush. “I found him very pleasant. Perhaps we will meet them again at the hotel.”
“Oh, no, they do not stay at Shepheard’s. Walt—Mr. Walter Emerson explained to me that their money all goes for excavation. His brother is not supported by any institution or museum; he has only a small yearly income and, as Walter says, if he had the wealth of the Indies he would consider it insufficient for his purposes.”
“You seem to have covered quite a lot of ground in a very short time,” I said, watching Evelyn out of the corner of my eye. “It is a pity we can’t continue the acquaintance with the younger Mr. Emerson, and avoid his insane brother.”
“I daresay we shall not meet again,” Evelyn said softly.
I had my own opinion on that score.
In the afternoon, after a rest, we went to shop for medical supplies. The guidebooks advise travelers to carry a considerable quantity of medicines and drugs, since there are no doctors south of Cairo. I had copied the list of suggested remedies from my guide, and was determined to do the thing properly. If I had not been a woman, I might have studied medicine; I have a natural aptitude for the subject, possessing steady hands and far less squeamishness about blood and wounds than many males of my acquaintance. I planned to buy a few small surgical knives also; I fancied I could amputate a limb—or at least a toe or finger—rather neatly if called upon to do so.
Our dragoman, Michael, accompanied us. I thought he seemed quieter than usual, but I was occupied with my list: blue pills, calomel, rhubarb, Dover’s powder, James’s powder, carbolic acid, laudanum, quinine, sulfuric acid, ipecacuanha…. It was Evelyn who asked Michael what the trouble was. He hesitated, looking at us in turn.
“It is my child, who is ill,” he said finally. “She is only a girl-child, of course.”
The faltering of his voice and his troubled countenance betrayed a paternal emotion that contradicted the words, so I modified what had begun as an indignant comment into an offer of assistance. Michael protested, but it was clear that he would welcome our help. He led us to his home.
It was a narrow old house with the intricately carved wooden balconies that are typical of Old Cairo. It seemed to me appallingly dirty, but compared with the squalor and filth we had seen elsewhere, it could have