Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [30]
The word “scarab” had roused Emerson from his meditations. Instead of expressing outrage at this callous speech, he chuckled. “Don’t try salting this site, Nemo. You would not deceive me.”
“I have better sense than that, Professor.”
“I hope so. Er—speaking of the site, I think I might just take a stroll and refresh my memory of—er—the site. Care to join me, Peabody?”
I was sorely tempted for several reasons, not the least of which was Emerson’s meaningful smile. Before long the silvery globe of the moon would hang low above the Libyan hills, and as our national poet Shakespeare so nicely puts it, “such a night as this” was made for affectionate exchanges. However, I knew I ought not to yield. Ramses would want to go with us, and I had no excuse for refusing such a request, since it was still early; but if Ramses went with us, there would be no point in our going. (If the Reader follows me, which I am sure he or she does, assuming he or she has the slightest trace of romantic sensibility.) Naturally I could not explain my reasoning aloud, so I sought refuge in a (quite valid) excuse.
“How can you suggest such a thing, Emerson, when we still have hours of work ahead of us? There are boxes to be unpacked, your notes to set in order, my medicine chest to arrange—”
“Curse it,” said Emerson. “Oh, very well, I don’t suppose you need me—”
“I could certainly use—”
“In that case, I will just run along. Ramses?”
“Thank you, Papa. I was in hopes you would proffer the invitation and in fact I had determined I would ask permission to accompany you if you did not see fit—”
“I did see fit,” said Emerson. “Come, then.”
Nemo got to his feet. “You needn’t come,” Emerson said amiably. “I can watch after Ramses.”
“I would much rather—” Nemo began.
“I require your assistance,” I said.
“But, Professor—”
“No, no, young man, I don’t need you and Mrs. Emerson does. Duty before pleasure, you know, duty before pleasure.”
Nemo sank down again, glowering. I waited until Emerson and Ramses had left before I spoke. “I believe I would like a whiskey,” I said musingly. “Will you join me, Mr. Nemo?”
Nemo gaped at me. “I beg your pardon, madam?”
“You will find the bottle and the glasses on the table in the parlor. If you will be so good as to fetch them . . .”
He did as I asked, and watched curiously as I filled the glasses. “To Her Majesty,” I said, raising my glass. “God bless her.”
“Uh—er—quite,” said Mr. Nemo, raising his.
The appetite of an opium eater is usually poor. He had eaten very little, and the alcoholic beverage took effect quite rapidly. As I had hoped, the familiar ritual, well loved by all loyal Englishmen (and women) also had a soothing effect. Nemo took a chair instead of squatting. “This is the first whiskey I have had for—for many months,” he said, half to himself.
“I am a great believer in the medicinal effects of good whiskey,” I explained. “Particularly in the treatment of fatigue and minor nervous disorders. Naturally I would never condone an excessive dependence on it, but no reasonable person could possibly object to a civilized and moderate application. As compared, for instance, to opium—”
Nemo slumped forward, his head bowed. “I knew it,” he muttered. “Please spare me the lecture, Mrs. Emerson. You are wasting your time and mine.”
“We have yet to discuss the terms of your employment, Mr. Nemo. You can hardly suppose I would allow you to consume drugs of any kind while on duty. Watching over Ramses requires every ounce of alertness and energy a man can summon up.”
The young man’s tousled head sank lower. “I have neither quality left.”
“Nonsense. You were alert enough the other evening; you can summon energy enough when it is needed. I am not asking you to abandon your disgusting habit altogether, Mr. Nemo, only to refrain from it at such times when you are responsible for Ramses. Is that too much to ask?”
Nemo did not reply,