He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [9]
“For pity’s sake, don’t mention him to Emerson!” I exclaimed. “You know how he feels about Sethos. There is no reason whatever to suppose he is in Egypt.”
“Cairo is crawling with spies,” Nefret said. She leaned forward, clasping her hands. She was in dead earnest now. “The authorities claim all enemy aliens have been deported or interned, but the most dangerous of them, the professional foreign agents, will have eluded arrest because they aren’t suspected of being foreigners. Sethos is a master of disguise who has spent many years in Egypt. Wouldn’t a man like that be irresistibly drawn to espionage, his talents for sale to the highest bidder?”
“No,” I said. “Sethos is an Englishman. He would not—”
“You don’t know for certain that he is English. And even if he is, he would not be the first or the last to betray his country.”
“Really, Nefret, I refuse to go on with this ridiculous discussion!”
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“I am not angry! Why should I be—” I broke off. Fatima had come up with the tea tray. I motioned to her to put it on the table.
“There’s no use pretending this is a normal season for us, Aunt Amelia,” Nefret said quietly. “How can it be, with a war going on, and the Canal less than a hundred miles from Cairo? Sometimes I find myself looking at people I’ve known for years, and wondering if they are wearing masks—playing a part of some kind.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” I said firmly. “You are letting war nerves get the better of you. As for Emerson, I assure you he is exactly what he seems. He cannot conceal his feelings from me.”
“Hmmm,” said Nefret. “All the same, I think I will join you this evening, if I may.”
When she proposed the scheme later, Emerson agreed so readily that Nefret was visibly cast down—reasoning, I suppose, that he would not have allowed her to come if he was “up to something.” She decided to come anyhow. Ramses declined. He said he had other plans, but might join us later if we were dining at Shepheard’s.
From Manuscript H
Ramses made a point of arriving early at the Club so that he could not be refused a table. The committee would have loved an excuse to bar him altogether, but he had carefully avoided committing the unforgivable sins, such as cheating at cards.
From his vantage point in an obscure corner he watched the dining room fill up. Half the men were in uniform, the drab khaki of the British Army outshone and outnumbered by the gaudy red and gold of the British-led Egyptian Army. They were all officers; enlisted men weren’t allowed in the Turf Club. Neither were Egyptians of any rank or position.
He had almost finished his meal before the table next to his was occupied by a party of four—two middle-aged officials escorting two ladies. One of the ladies was Mrs. Pettigrew, who had presented him with his latest white feather. She and her husband always reminded him of Tweedledum and Tweedledee; as some married couples do, they had come to resemble one another to an alarming degree. Both were short and stout and red-faced. Ramses rose with a polite bow, and was not at all surprised when Mrs. Pettigrew cut him dead. As soon as they were all seated they put their heads together and began a low-voiced conversation, glancing occasionally in his direction.
Ramses didn’t doubt he was the subject of the conversation. Pettigrew was one of the most pompous asses in the Ministry of Public Works and one of the loudest patriots in Cairo. The other man was Ewan Hamilton, an engineer who had come to Egypt to advise on the Canal defenses. A quiet, inoffensive man by all accounts, his only affectation was the kilt (Hamilton tartan, Ramses assumed) he often wore. That night he was resplendent in formal Scottish dress: a bottle-green velvet jacket with silver buttons, lace at his chin and cuffs. And, Ramses speculated, a skean dhu in his sock? Gray tarnished the once-blazing red of his hair