Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [69]
Enid’s abstracted murmur proved that I had lost her attention; and since the books had been only the pretext for my visit, I was quite content to change the subject to one which might appear—as I trusted it would—even more frivolous than that of literature, but which was, in fact, at the root of my scheme.
I began by telling her how much I had admired her gray-green afternoon frock, and asking where she had obtained it. Emerson has been heard to assert that the discussion of fashion will distract any woman from any other subject whatsoever, including her own imminent demise. Without subscribing to this exaggerated assessment, I am bound to admit that there is some truth in it, and this was proved by Enid’s response. We discussed fashion houses and fabrics and the frightful expense of dressmaking; and then I subtly closed in upon my purpose.
“The costume you were wearing the day you arrived quite intrigued me,” I said.
“Oh, but it is the latest mode,” Enid explained. “It is called a bicycling dress. Have you not heard of them? I was sure you had, since your own costume is similar in design—if not in color.”
“Oh yes, quite; I try to keep au courant with the latest styles, although practicality is a greater consideration than beauty here. That was what surprised me—that a young lady of fashion would include such a garment in her travel wardrobe.”
“I am not as frivolous as my recent conduct may have led you to believe,” Enid said with a wry smile. “I took it for granted that boots and short skirts would be useful for exploring ruins and descending into tombs. And indeed they were, though not in the sense I had expected. When I woke from my sleep or swoon that awful morning, my first thought was to get away. I knew what people were saying; I knew what the police would believe if I were found with the dead body of my supposed lover. To make matters worse, we had quarreled the evening before, and several of the hotel employees could have testified to the fact.”
I had intended to inquire into the details of Enid’s flight at another time. Here she was confiding in me voluntarily, without the firm interrogation I had thought might be necessary. The moment was not the one I would have chosen, but I feared I would lose her confidence if I put her off; so I settled myself, with a degree of interest the Reader may well imagine, to hear her story.
She continued in an abstracted tone, as if she were speaking to herself and exorcizing the anxiety of that dreadful experience by reliving it in memory. “I find it hard to believe I could have acted so quickly and coolly. Shock, I am told, does sometimes have that effect. I dressed myself, selecting a costume suited to the physical hardships I expected I would have to endure. It had the additional advantage of being one I had not worn before, so it would not be recognized. I left the room by means of the balcony outside my window, descending a stout vine that had twined up the wall. A few tourists had assembled before the hotel, though it was scarcely daybreak. Hiring a carriage, I asked to be taken to Mena House, for some of the others were going to Giza. By the time I reached the hotel, the reaction had set in; I was sick and trembling and had no idea what to do next. I knew I could not remain undiscovered for long, since an unaccompanied woman would provoke questions and—and worse.
“I was having breakfast in the dining room when a gentleman asked if I was one of the archaeologists working in the area. That gave me the idea, and also reminded me of your letter. I had no one else to turn to, and I determined to make my way to you. It was a council of desperation—”
“Not at all. It was a sensible decision. But how did you remain undiscovered that night and throughout the following day?”
“It was not easy. For, as you know, the archaeological sites are infested with guides, beggars, and the like, who follow one like a cloud of flies. I finally realized that the only persons who pass unnoticed are Arab women of the poorest class. I purchased a robe from one