He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [10]
Perhaps he had left them off in order to impress the handsome woman with him. Mrs. Fortescue had been in Cairo less than a month, but she was already something of a belle, if a widow could be called that. Gossip spread like wildfire in Anglo-Egyptian society; it was said that her husband had perished gallantly at the head of his regiment during one of the grisly August campaigns that had strewn the fields of France with dead. Meeting Ramses’s speculative, shamelessly curious gaze, she allowed her discreetly carmined lips to curve in a faint smile.
As if to emphasize their disapproval of Ramses, the Pettigrews were extremely gracious to another group of diners. All three were in uniform; two were Egyptian Army, the other was a junior official of the Finance Ministry and a member of the hastily organized local militia known derisively as Pharaoh’s Foot. They met daily to parade solemnly up and down on the grounds of the Club, carrying fly whisks and sticks because there were not enough rifles for them. The situation looked promising. Ramses sat back and eavesdropped unabashedly.
Once the Pettigrews had finished dissecting his history and character, their voices rose to normal pitch—quite piercing, in the case of Mrs. Pettigrew. She talked about everything under the sun, including the private sins of most members of the foreign community. Inevitably the conversation turned to the war. The younger woman expressed concern over the possibility of a Turkish attack, and Mrs. Pettigrew boomed out a hearty reassurance.
“Nonsense, my dear! Not a chance of it! Everyone knows what wretched cowards the Arabs are—except, of course, when they are led by white officers—”
“Such as General von Kressenstein,” said Ramses, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard over her strident tones. “One of Germany’s finest military strategists. He is, I believe, adviser to the Syrian Army?”
Pettigrew snorted and Hamilton gave him a hard look, but neither spoke. The response came from the adjoining table. Simmons, the Finance fire-eater, flushed angrily and snapped,
“They’ll never get an army across the Sinai. It’s a desert, you know; there’s no water.”
His smirk vanished when Ramses said, humbly but clearly, “Except in the old Roman wells and cisterns. The rains were unusually heavy last season. The wells are overflowing. Do you suppose the Turks don’t know that?”
“If they didn’t, people like you would tell them.” Simmons stood up and stuck out his chin—what there was of it. “Why they allow rotten traitors in this Club—”
“I was just trying to be helpful,” Ramses protested. “The lady was asking about the Turks.”
One of his friends caught the irate member of Pharaoh’s Foot by the arm. “One mustn’t bore the ladies with military talk, Simmons. What do you say we go to the bar?”
Simmons had already had a few brandies. He glowered at Ramses as his friends led him away; Ramses waited a few minutes before following. He bowed politely to each of the four at the next table, and was magnificently ignored by three of them. Mrs. Fortescue’s response was discreet but unmistakable—a flash of dark eyes and a faint smile.
The hall was crowded. After ordering a whiskey Ramses retired to a corner near a potted palm and located his quarry. Simmons was such easy prey, it was a shame to take advantage of him, but he did appear to be suitably worked up; he was gesticulating and ranting to a small group that included his friends and a third officer who was even better known to Ramses.
Whenever he saw his cousin Percy, he was reminded of a story he had read, about a man who had struck an infernal bargain that allowed him to retain his youthful good looks despite a life of vice and crime. Instead, those sins marked the face of the portrait he kept concealed in his library, until it became that of a monster. Percy was average in every way—medium height and build, hair and mustache medium brown, features pleasant if unremarkable. Only a biased observer would have said that his