He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [117]
“And did even in ancient times,” I said, smiling. “Go and call him and Emerson to luncheon, then. They are inside the chapel.”
Fatima had also sent a dish of stewed apricots and a sliced watermelon, which had been nicely cooled by evaporation during the trip. We all tucked in with good appetite, including Ramses. The kunafeh was one of his favorite dishes, wheat-flour vermicelli fried in clarified butter and sweetened with honey. Nefret teased him by repeating Fatima’s criticism, and he responded with a rather vulgar Arabic quotation about female pulchritude, which clearly did not apply to her, and Emerson smiled fondly at both of them.
“Matters went well today?” he inquired.
Nefret nodded. “I thought last night I would lose her, but she’s much better this morning.” She spat a watermelon seed neatly into her hand and went on, “You’ll never guess who called on me today.”
“Since we won’t, you may as well tell us,” said Ramses.
The next seed just missed his ear. His black eyes narrowed, and he reached for a slice of melon.
“I strictly forbid you to do that, Ramses,” I exclaimed. “You and Nefret are too old for those games now.”
“Let them enjoy themselves, Peabody,” Emerson said indulgently. “So, Nefret, who was your visitor?”
Her answer wiped the amiable smile from Emerson’s face.
“That degenerate, slimy, contemptible, disgusting, perverted, loathsome—”
“He was very polite,” Nefret interrupted. “Or should I have said ‘she’?”
“The fact that el-Gharbi prefers to wear women’s clothing does not change his sex—uh—gender,” Ramses said. He looked as inscrutable as ever, but I had seen his involuntary start of surprise. “What was he doing at the hospital?”
“Inquiring after one of ‘his’ girls.” Nefret’s voice put quotation marks round the pronoun. “The same one I operated on last night. He said he had sent her to us, and that the man who hurt her had been . . . dealt with.”
Emerson had got his breath back. “That crawling, serpentine trafficker in human flesh, that filthy—”
“Yes, Professor darling, I know the words too. And his taste in jewelry and perfume is quite dreadful!” Observing, from Emerson’s apoplectic countenance, that he was in no mood for humor, she threw her arm round his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “I love your indignation, Professor dear. But I’ve seen worse and dealt with worse since I started the clinic. El-Gharbi’s goodwill can help me to help those women. That is the important thing.”
“Quite right,” I said approvingly.
“Bah,” said Emerson.
Ramses said, “Well done, Nefret.”
The watermelon seed hit him square on the chin.
My mind was not entirely on my rubbish that afternoon. I was racking my brain trying to think of a way of preventing Nefret from accompanying Emerson and Ramses. A number of schemes ran through my mind, only to be dismissed as impracticable. The inspiration that finally dawned was so remarkable I wondered why it had not occurred to me before.
We dined earlier than was our custom, since I wanted to make sure Ramses ate a proper meal before leaving. It would take him an hour to reach Maadi by the roundabout routes he had chosen in order to get into position unobserved and unsuspected. When the rest of us retired to the drawing room for after-dinner coffee, he slipped away, but of course Nefret noticed his absence almost immediately and demanded to know where he was.
“He has gone,” I replied, for I had determined to tell her the truth instead of inventing a story she would not have believed anyhow.
Nefret jumped up from her chair. “Gone? Already? Hell and damnation! You promised—”
“My dear, you will overturn the coffee tray. Sit down and pour, if you please. Thank you, Fatima, we need nothing more.”
Nefret did not sit down, but she waited until Fatima had left the room before she exploded. “How could you, Aunt Amelia? Professor, you let him go alone?”
The bravest of men—I refer, of course, to my spouse—quailed before that furious blue gaze. “Er . . .” he said. “Hmph. Tell her, Amelia.”
Nefret pronounced a