He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [114]
“He could be one of the busy little spies in our midst, then—perhaps even the man in charge. That isn’t a happy prospect.” David sounded worried. “He has contacts all over the Middle East, especially in the criminal underground of Cairo, and if he is as expert at disguise as you—”
“He’s even better. He could be almost anyone.” Ramses added, in a studiously neutral voice, “Except Mrs. Fortescue.”
“You’re certain?” The undercurrent of laughter was absent from David’s voice when he went on. “She could be one of his confederates. He had several women in his organization.”
Ramses knew David was thinking of one woman in particular—the diabolical creature who had been responsible for his grandfather’s death. She was out of the picture, at any rate, struck down by a dozen vengeful hands.
“Possibly,” he said.
“What about that bizarre Frenchman who follows her about? Could he be Sethos?”
Ramses shook his head. “Too obvious. Have you ever seen anyone who looked more like a villain? He’d be more likely to take on the identity of a well-known person—Clayton, or Woolley, or . . . Not Lawrence, he’s not tall enough.”
They skirted the edge of the Red Blind district. A pair of men in uniform reeled toward them, arms entwined, voices raised in song. It was long past tattoo, and the lads were in for it when they returned to the barracks, but some of them were willing to endure punishment for the pleasures of the brothels and grog shops. Ramses and David stepped out of the way and as the men staggered past they heard a maudlin, off-key reference to someone’s dear old mother. David switched to Arabic.
“Why don’t you ask the Professor whom he suspects?”
“I could do that,” Ramses admitted.
“It is time you began treating your parents like responsible adults,” David said severely.
Ramses smiled. “As always, you speak words of wisdom. We must part here, my brother. The bridge is ahead.”
“You will let me know—”
“Aywa. Of course. Take care. Maas salameh.”
:
When we reached the house we learned from Fatima, who had waited up for us, that Nefret had returned an hour before. She had refused the food Fatima wanted to serve, saying she was too tired to eat, and had gone straight to her room. My heart went out to the child, for I knew she must be concerned about one of her patients. I stopped outside her door but saw no light through the keyhole and heard no sound, so I went on.
I myself was suffering from a slight alimentary indisposition. I put it down to nerves, and too much rich food, and having rid myself of the latter along the roadside, I accepted a refreshing cup of tea from Fatima before retiring. Needless to say, I did not sleep until I heard a soft tap on the door—the signal Ramses had grudgingly agreed to give on his return. I had promised I would not detain him, so I suppressed my natural impulses and turned onto my side, where I encountered a pair of large, warm hands. Emerson had been wakeful too. In silence he drew me into his embrace and held me until I fell asleep.
Somewhat to my surprise, for she was not usually an early riser, I found Nefret already at the breakfast table when I went down. One look at her face told me my surmise had been correct. Her cheeks lacked their usual pretty color and there were dark shadows under her eyes. I knew better than to offer commiseration or comfort; when I commented on her promptness she informed me somewhat curtly that she was going back to the hospital. One of her patients was in dire straits and she wanted to be there.
Only one thing could have taken my mind off what was to transpire that night, and we did not find it. The burial chamber at the bottom of the deep shaft had been looted in antiquity. All that remained were a few bones and broken scraps of the funerary equipment.
We left Ramses to catalog and collect these disappointing fragments, and climbed the rough ladders back to the surface. I remarked to Emerson, below me, “There is another burial shaft. Perhaps it will lead to something more interesting.