Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [49]
Quibell replied, with proper expressions of gratitude, that, thanks to my assistance, all were recovering. They expected to finish their work at Sakkara within a day or two, after which they would join Petrie at Thebes. Miss Pirie had particularly asked him to express her thanks to me, if he should be fortunate enough to see me before they left. (Again the young man’s blush, as he mentioned the young lady’s name, told me she would not long retain it, if he had his way in the matter.)
I was relieved to hear of their imminent departure, and pleased that I had had the foresight to stop by in order to receive Quibell’s thanks, for otherwise he might have felt obliged to visit us again, and this would certainly have spelled disaster for Enid. I offered, in duty bound, to examine the ladies; Quibell assured me, with touching sincerity, that there was no need. Since I had a long ride ahead, I did not insist.
We parted with the friendliest compliments, and I proceeded northward to Giza, where I left the horse at Mena House and hired a carriage for the trip to Cairo. After completing my shopping, I arrived at Shepheard’s in time for a late luncheon, which I felt was well deserved.
Not that this pause in the day’s occupations was purely for sustenance and recreation—no, indeed. My principal errand in Cairo was yet to be accomplished, and as the first step, I needed to find out what the informed public knew about the murder. Even before ordering my repast, therefore, I told the waiter to ask Mr. Baehler to join me, at his convenience, of course.
The dining room filled rapidly and I amused myself by watching the tourists. They were a variegated group—stout German scholars and smart English officers, shrill American ladies and giggling girls in the custody of sharp-eyed mamas. At a nearby table was a group of young Englishmen, and from the number of “your lordships” and “my lords” that sprinkled their conversation, it was not difficult to deduce that the pale, effeminate-looking young man to whom the others deferred was a sprig of the aristocracy. Their clothing was a bizarre combination of fine English tailoring and local costumery—a striped silk sudeyree, or vest, with riding breeches, or a gold-embroidered aba over a tweed shooting suit. None of them had removed their fantastic headgear—turbans of cashmere and white silk shawls, or tasseled tarbooshes—and several were puffing cigars, though there were ladies present.
I was ashamed to share their nationality, but after they had swaggered out I was able to console myself with the thought that bad manners are not restricted to any one country; not long afterwards an elderly American lady entered the dining room, and her strident voice and loud complaints turned all eyes toward her. She was attended by a plain, timid female, apparently a maid or companion, and by a young man whose arm she held more in the manner of a prison guard than a frail woman requiring assistance. She was tall and heavy-set, and her voluminous black gown and veils were many years out of date. Her antique bonnet was trimmed with tiny jet beads; with each ponderous step a little shower of them fell, rattling like sleet on the floor.
From the celerity with which the headwaiter approached her I decided she must be very rich or very distinguished. He got short shrift for his pains; the old lady rejected the first table she was offered, demanding one nearer the window—which also happened to be nearer to me. She then criticized the cleanliness of the silverware, the temperature of the room, and the clumsiness of her attendants, all in tones that rang like a gong. Catching my eye, she shouted, “Yes, you agree with me, don’t you, ma’am?”
I turned my back and applied myself to my soup, and to the book I had brought with me—the new translation of Herr Erman’s delightful account of Life in Ancient Egypt. Wandering through the barley fields with the happy peasants, I was soon so absorbed that Mr. Baehler had to touch me on the shoulder