He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [152]
Reflection and investigation (I believe I need not go into detail) persuaded me that Sethos’s attentions had not gone beyond those long, ardent kisses. They were quite enough, as Emerson would certainly agree when I told him. . . . If I told him.
My immediate concern was escape. The door was locked, of course. I had expected that. The windows were covered with shutters that had been made fast by some mechanism I could not locate. My watch informed me that several hours had passed since I entered the flat. It was getting on for seven o’clock. Upon investigating my handbag, which had been placed beside me on the couch, I discovered that the handcuffs, the rope, the scissors, and the pistol were missing. The bureau had been swept clean; the drawers had been emptied of their contents (whatever those might have been) and the top was bare of toilet articles. There was nothing in the room that could serve as a weapon or a lockpick.
I removed a hairpin from my untidy coiffure and knelt before the lock.
As I had discovered on an earlier occasion, hairpins are not of much use for picking a lock. However, with my ear close to the door I was able to make out sounds from the room beyond—hurrying footsteps, the movement of a heavy object being dragged across the floor, an occasional brusque order in that familiar, detestable voice. Clearly Sethos was completing his preparations for departure. The final command made this definite. “Bring the carriage round and start carrying the luggage down.”
Footsteps approached the door behind which I knelt. Would he open it? Would he wish to bid me another, final farewell—or finish the dastardly deed he had threatened? My heart was pounding as I rose to my feet, prepared to resist to the last of my strength.
All I heard was a long, deep sigh. The footsteps moved away.
I was still standing by the door, my hand pressed to my breast, when a cry from Sethos made me jump. “What the devil—” A door slammed, the servant screamed, and Sethos began to laugh.
“Bit you, did she? Here, let me have her. Now, my dear, there is no need for all this exhausting activity; she is safe and unharmed and if you behave yourself I will allow you to keep one another company while I complete the preparations you so rudely interrupted. If you don’t, I will lock you in a dark cupboard with the mops and brooms and black beetles. Good. I see you are susceptible to reason. Hamza, unlock the door. Amelia, stand back; I know you have your ear pressed to the panel, and I am running short of time.”
It was as well I obeyed. The door flew open and I saw—as I had known I would—my daughter and my dread adversary. One arm pinned her arms to her sides and held her firmly; the other hand covered her mouth. Her hair was coming down and her eyes shone with fury but she had had the sense to stop struggling.
“It would be a waste of breath to scream or swear, Miss Forth,” Sethos said, propelling her into the room. “Do so if it will relieve your feelings, but first give me the knife I feel certain you have concealed about your person. The alternative would be for me to search you, and I will not take that liberty unless you force me to. Amelia would not approve.”
He removed his hand from her mouth, leaving the marks of his fingers imprinted on her cheek. She swallowed, and I said quickly, “Give him the knife, Nefret. This is not the time for heroics or temper.”
Her eyes moved from me to Sethos, who had backed off a step, and then to the manservant. She was calculating the odds, and admitting they were against us. She reached into a side pocket of her skirt. Set into the seam, it was open at the back, giving her access to the knife strapped to her lower limb. Slowly she withdrew it, hesitated, and then passed it into Sethos’s poised, waiting hand.
“How did you know I was here?” I demanded. “And why were you foolish enough to come alone,