He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [160]
There were three statues in the serdab. The most charming depicted the Prince and his wife in a pose that had become familiar to me from many examples, and one which never failed to please me. They stood close to one another, with her arm round his waist, and the two figures were of almost equal height; the lady was a few inches shorter, just as she may have been in life. She wore a simple straight shift and he a kilt pleated on one side. Their faces had the ineffable calm with which these believers faced eternity. Some of the original paint remained: the white of their garments, the black of the wigs, the yellowish skin of the lady and the darker brown of her husband’s. Women were always depicted as lighter in color than men, presumably because they spent less time under the sun’s rays than their spouses.
There was another, smaller, statue of the Prince, and one of a youth who was identified as his son. By the middle of the afternoon we had them out; not even the largest was anything like the weight of the royal statue.
“Get them back to the house, Selim,” Emerson ordered, passing his sleeve over his perspiring brow.
Nefret announced her intention of going to the hospital for a few hours and started toward Mena House, where we had left the horses. As soon as she was out of earshot, Ramses said, “I’m off too.”
“Where?” I demanded, trying to catch hold of him.
“I have a few errands. Excuse me, Mother, I must hurry. I will be home in time for dinner.”
“Put on your hat!” I called after him. He turned and waved and went on. Without his hat.
When Emerson and I reached Mena House we found Asfur, whom Ramses had ridden that day, still in the stable. “He’s taken the train,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. “That means—”
“I know what it means. Mount Asfur, Peabody, and I’ll lead the other creature. And do keep quiet!”
I realized I ought to have anticipated that Ramses would have to communicate with one or another, or all, of several people. That did not mean I liked it. My nerves had not fully recovered from the anxiety of the previous day and night. Emerson and I jogged on side by side, each occupied with his or her own thoughts; I could tell by his expression that his were no more pleasant than mine. Superstition is not one of my weaknesses, but I was beginning to feel that we labored under a horrible curse of failure. Every thread we had come upon broke when we tried to follow it. Two of the most hopeful had failed within the past twenty-four hours: my unmasking of Sethos, and Emerson’s capture of the German spy. Now Sethos was on the loose with his deadly knowledge, and the failure of the ambush would soon be known to the man who had ordered it. What would he do next? What could we do next?
Emerson and I discussed the matter as we drank our tea and sorted through the post. I had not done so the day before, so there was quite an accumulation of letters and messages.
“Nothing from Mr. Russell,” I reported. “He’d have found some means of informing us if he had caught up with Sethos.”
Emerson said, “Hmph,” and took the envelopes I handed him.
“There is one for you from Walter.”
“So I see.” Emerson ripped the envelope to shreds. “They have had another communication from David,” he reported, scanning the missive.
“I wish we could say the same. Do you think Ramses will speak with him this afternoon?”
“I don’t know.” Emerson plucked irritably at the strips of bandage enclosing his arm. “Curse it, how can I open an envelope with one hand?”
“I will open them for you, my dear.”
“No, you will not. You always read them first.” Emerson tore at another envelope. “Well, well, fancy that. A courteous note from Major Hamilton congratulating me on another narrow escape, as he puts it, and reminding me that he made me the loan of a Webley. I wonder what I did with it.”
“Does he mention his niece?”
“No, why should he? What does Evelyn say?”
He had recognized her neat, delicate handwriting. I knew what he wanted most to hear, so I read the passages that reported little Sennia’s