He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [51]
I bent over him and brushed the damp curls away from his brow. I had been in error; he was not quite asleep. His heavy lids lifted.
“I was a bloodthirsty little beast, wasn’t I?”
“No,” I said unsteadily. “No! You never harmed a living creature, not even a mouse or a beetle. You put yourself constantly at risk in order to keep them from being hurt, by cats or hunters or cruel owners. That is what you are doing now, isn’t it? Risking yourself to keep people . . .” It was no use, I could not go on. He squeezed my hand and smiled at me.
“Don’t worry, Mother. It’s all right, you know.”
The tears I had held back burst from my eyes, and I wept as I had not wept since the day Abdullah died. Dropping to my knees, I pressed my face into the covers in an attempt to muffle my sobs. He patted me clumsily on my bowed head, and that made me cry harder.
When I had stopped crying I raised my head and saw that he was asleep at last. Shadows softened the prominent features and the strong outline of jaw and chin; with the cat curled up next to him on the pillow he looked like the boy he had been, not so very many years before.
I was sitting by the bed when the key turned in the lock and Emerson slipped in. “All quiet,” he whispered. “No sign of anyone about.”
“Good.”
He crossed the room and stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “Were you crying?”
“A little. Rather a lot, in fact. I don’t know that I can bear this, Emerson. I suppose I ought to be accustomed to it, after living with you all these years, but he courts peril even more recklessly than you did. Why must he take such risks?”
“Would you have him any other way?”
“Yes! I would have him behave sensibly—take care—avoid danger—”
“Be someone other than himself, in short. We cannot change his nature, my dear, even if we would; so let us apply ourselves to thinking how we can help him. What did you put in the brandy?”
“Veronal. Emerson, he cannot get out of bed tomorrow, much less work in the tomb.”
“I know. I am going to find David.”
“David.” I rubbed my aching eyes. “Yes, of course. David is here, isn’t he? That’s how Ramses managed to be in two different places tonight. David was at Shepheard’s and Ramses was . . . I apologize, Emerson, I am a trifle slow. What role has he been playing?”
“Think it through, my dear.” He squeezed my shoulders. “You have been under something of a strain, but I don’t doubt your quick wits will reach the same conclusion mine have reached. I mustn’t stay, if I am to get David back here before morning.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“I think so. I will be as quick as I can. Try to rest a little.”
He tilted my head back and kissed me. As he walked to the door there was a spring in his step I had not seen for weeks, and when he turned and smiled at me I beheld the Emerson I knew and loved, eyes alight, shoulders squared, tall frame vibrant with resolve. My dear Emerson was himself again, intoxicated by danger, spurred on by the need for action!
The night wore on. I sat quietly, resting my head against the back of the chair, but sleep was impossible. It was like Emerson to throw out that amiable challenge, so that I would tax my wits instead of fretting. And of course, once I got my mind to work on the problem, the answer was obvious.
The business in which Ramses was presently engaged had been worked out long in advance, and with the cooperation of someone high in the Government. It would take a man like Kitchener himself to authorize and arrange the deception, sending another man to India in place of David. I had wondered why he had been imprisoned there instead of in Malta, where the other nationalists were interned; now I understood. No one who knew David could be allowed to meet the impostor. There are secret methods of communication into and out of the most tightly guarded prison, and if ever the word got back to Cairo that David was not where he was supposed to be, interested parties might wonder where he really