He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [171]
I was fortunate enough to find her sitting with the chaperones. I did not give a curse whether those tedious gossips overheard me, but I did not want to have to explain myself to Nefret or face that knowing blue gaze of Cyrus. Katherine responded as I had hoped and expected, even anticipating my request that she look after Nefret and bring her home with them. She did not ask about Ramses.
Oh, yes, I thought, as I hurried to the cloakroom, she and Cyrus suspect something is afoot. After all, this would not be the first time we had been involved in a deadly and secret game. It happened almost every year.
Emerson had already retrieved my evening cloak. He tossed it over my shoulders, grunted, “Take off that damned pointed hat,” and led me out the door. The motorcar was waiting, and so was Ramses, hat in hand. He got into the tonneau. I took my place beside Emerson, and watched him closely as he went through the procedures necessary to start the vehicle moving. There was a grinding noise—there always was when Emerson started it—and off we went.
We were several miles south of the city, on the road to Helwan, when Ramses tapped his father on the shoulder. “Stop here.”
Emerson complied. Even in the dark, and it was very dark, he knows every foot of the terrain of Egypt. “The quarries at Tura?” he asked.
“Nearby.” The door opened and Ramses got out. He was not nearly as odorous as he had been before, but the galabeeyah covered his costume and the turban his hair. “Good night,” he said, and disappeared noiselessly into the darkness.
Emerson got out of the vehicle, leaving the engine running. “Now then, Peabody,” he said, as he began removing the jangly bits of his armor, “would you care to explain that brilliant scheme you mentioned? Did you arrange for Selim to meet you and drive you home, or do you intend to await me here, or—”
“Not at all.” I slid over into the seat he had vacated and took firm hold of the steering wheel. “Show me how to drive this thing.”
I was teasing my dear Emerson. I knew how to operate the confounded machine; at my request, Nefret had taken me out once or twice and shown me how to do it. For some reason she had not been able to continue the lessons, but after all, once the fundamentals were explained, the rest was only a matter of practice. I had a little argument with Emerson; it would have been longer if I had not pointed out he must not delay.
“He is already some distance ahead of you, my dear. It is vitally important that you watch over him tonight.” I handed him the nice clean striped robe I had brought in my evening bag.
“Why tonight? Curse it, Peabody—”
“Just take my word for it, Emerson. Hurry!”
Torn between his concern for his son and his concern for me (and the motorcar), Emerson made the choice I had hoped he would make. Swearing inventively but softly, he ran off along the path Ramses had taken. Pride swelled my bosom. No husband could have offered a greater testimonial of confidence.
As he told me later, he had concluded that I was bound to run the vehicle into a ditch or a tree before I got a hundred feet. There would not be time for me to get up much speed in that distance, and he would find me waiting, bruised and embarrassed but relatively unscathed, when he returned.
Naturally no such thing happened. I did hit a tree or two, but not very hard. Since I was not entirely confident of my ability to turn the car, I had to go all the way to Helwan before I found a space large enough to drive in a nice circle and head back the way I had come. That was when I hit the second tree. It was only a glancing blow.
The distance from Cairo to Helwan is approximately seventeen miles. It took me almost an hour to reach Helwan; steering the thing was more complicated than I had realized, and the clutch, as I believe it is termed, gave me a little trouble initially. Fortunately there was no traffic on the road at that hour. By the time I started back, I had got the hang of it and was beginning to understand why Emerson had insisted on driving