Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [21]
The parcels were stacked in a corner. Atop the pile sat the cat Bastet, straight and alert, as if on guard. In fact, she was useful to us in that capacity, since the hotel servants were decidedly in awe of her. Her resemblance to the hunting cats depicted in ancient tomb paintings and her doglike devotion to her young master had convinced the superstitious fellows that she was not an ordinary feline.
She and Ramses greeted one another affectionately, but when he offered her the scraps of chicken he had brought, she refused the treat, politely but decidedly.
“Curious,” said Ramses. “Very curious.”
I was forced to agree. Ordinarily the cat Bastet was passionately fond of chicken. “Could there be something wrong with the food?” I asked uneasily. “Poisoned, or drugged?”
“If there had been anything wrong with it, we would all be writhing in agony or comatose by now,” snarled Emerson. “I have had enough melodrama tonight; I can endure no more. Ramses, go to bed. Amelia—”
“Yes, Ramses should retire at once, since we must make an early departure. In view of what happened this evening, Ramses, you had better leave your door open.”
Emerson turned a reproachful look on me. “My dear Peabody,” he began.
“I see no help for it, Emerson.”
“Bah,” said Emerson. “Yes, very well. You should sleep soundly tonight, Ramses, after your adventures. Very soundly. If you should waken and hear—er—hear anything at all, pay no attention.”
“Anything, Papa?”
“Anything, my boy. Er—Papa will attend to it, whatever it is.”
“Yes, Papa. But if I were to hear you or Mama cry out for help—”
This innocent question made Emerson blush like a schoolboy. I was amused but not inclined to intervene; as the Scripture so eloquently puts it, he had dug a pit into the midst whereof he had fallen; and it was up to him to climb out of it.
“Papa will explain,” I said. “I must just step out for a moment. There is a matter I must attend to.”
The flush on Emerson’s bronzed cheeks turned from the scarlet of embarrassment to the crimson of rising suspicion. “What matter?” he demanded.
“I will be back shortly.”
“Peabody, I absolutely forbid . . .” My expression warned Emerson of the error of this approach. “I request that you refrain from interfering in matters that are none of your concern. The hour is late. You cannot wake people up in the middle of the night to lecture them about their personal affairs.”
“I had intended to speak to Miss Debenham on the morrow, Emerson. It was your decision to leave Cairo at once—made, I might add, without the courtesy of consulting me—that forced this expedient upon me.”
I slipped out before he could reply.
The safragi outside Miss Debenham’s suite informed me that she had not yet returned, so I went downstairs to search for her in the lobby and on the terrace. It was not so late as I had supposed; our evening had been so fraught with interesting incidents that it seemed to have lasted longer than was actually the case. The terrace was crowded with guests sipping refreshments and watching the jugglers and snake charmers performing on the street, but Miss Debenham was not among them. I thought I saw a flutter of saffron cloth among the entertainers, but when I looked over the rail, there was no sign of the renegade Englishman. I concluded that my eyes had deceived me. Saffron turbans, though uncommon, were not unique to that individual.
It was with a sense of deep frustration that I finally decided to abandon my quest for the time being. There was no way of knowing when the pair would return, or if indeed they would return that night. Kalenischeff had once told me in the course of that rude encounter I mentioned earlier, that he had a pied-à-terre in Cairo. He might have taken the girl there.
This thought made me all the more determined to warn Miss Debenham of the moral and spiritual dangers that threatened her. I was equally determined to have a quiet talk with Kalenischeff. I felt certain that the proper mixture of persuasion and intimidation would convince him to confide in me, and the events