He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [34]
Spying on Nefret without appearing to do so had driven me to expedients that were cursed difficult to arrange, much less explain. I could not insist on accompanying her wherever she went, or demand verification of her movements; and on the one occasion when I attempted to follow her disguised in a robe and veil I had borrowed from Fatima, the inconvenient garb handicapped me to such an extent that Nefret reached the station and hopped onto a departing tram while I was attempting to disentangle my veil from a thornbush.
Considering alternatives, I concluded that the best plan would be to fill our calendar with engagements that involved the entire family. The approach of the Yuletide season, with its attendant festivities, made this procedure feasible, and today’s excursion was one of that sort.
My other motive was one I was reluctant to admit even to myself. After all, what had we to do with spies? Rounding the rascals up was the responsibility of the police and the military. Yet the seed of suspicion Nefret had sowed in my mind had found sustenance there; whenever I stamped upon it with the boot of reason, it sent up another green shoot. If Sethos was in Cairo, we were the only ones who stood a chance of tracking him down—the only ones who were familiar with his methods, who had met him face-to . . . well, to several of his many faces.
Now I wondered if the same notion had occurred to Emerson. Jealousy, unwarranted but intense, as well as professional dislike, burned within him; nothing would give him greater satisfaction than to bring the Master Criminal to justice. Was he at this very moment on the trail of Sethos? Why else would he stoop to amiable converse with a man like Philippides?
I fully intended to ask him, but I did not suppose he would admit the truth. Good Gad, I thought, if I am forced to spy on Emerson as well as on Nefret, I will find myself fully occupied.
When he joined us a few minutes later, his noble brow was furrowed and his white teeth were bared in what was probably not a smile. Instead of greeting us properly, he flung himself into a chair and demanded, “What have you done now, Ramses?”
“Done?” Ramses repeated, raising his eyebrows. “I?”
“I have just been informed,” said Emerson, beckoning the waiter, “by that consummate ass Pettigrew, that you were making seditious remarks while the band played patriotic airs.”
“I was talking about Plato,” said Ramses.
“Good Gad,” said his father, in some bewilderment. “Why?”
Ramses explained—at greater length, in my opinion, than was strictly necessary. Having warmed to his theme, he developed it further. “We will soon be seeing a resurgence of sentimental ballads that present a romanticized version of death and battle. The soldier boy dreaming of his dear old mother, the sweetheart smiling bravely as she sends her lover off to war—”
“Stop it,” Nefret snapped.
“I am sorry,” said Ramses, “if you find my remarks offensive.”
“Deliberately provocative, rather. People are listening.”
“If they take umbrage at a philosophical discussion—”
“Both of you, stop it,” I exclaimed.
Spots of pink marked Nefret’s smooth cheeks, and Ramses’s lips were pressed tightly together. I was forced to agree with Nefret. Ramses had almost given up his old habit of pontificating at length on subjects designed to annoy the hearer (usually his mother); this relapse was, I thought, deliberate.
The terrace of Shepheard’s hotel had been a popular rendezvous for decades. It was even more crowded than usual that afternoon. All the first-class hotels were filled to bursting. The War Office had taken over part of the Savoy; Imperial and British troops were pouring into the city. Yet, except for the greater number of uniforms, Shepheard’s looked much the same as it had always done—white cloths and fine china on the tables, waiters running