Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [70]
“Well,” I said judiciously, “allow me to say, Enid, that you displayed a tenacity and inventiveness that do you credit. I take it that the coat to your bicycling dress was among the objects you hid?”
“Yes. The notion of disguising myself as a lady archaeologist was still in my mind; when, from concealment, I saw you talking with the professor, I tried to adjust my dress to match yours. You were not wearing your coat, so I removed mine. I had decided to attempt to deceive you as well—”
“You need not apologize, my dear. I would have done the same. I had better retrieve your belongings for you. Can you describe the place where you hid them?”
She did so, with such accuracy that I felt sure I could find the place. “I meant to get them last night,” she went on. “But when I looked out the flap of the tent, the desert was so cold and eerie . . . And I heard strange noises, Amelia—soft cries and moans—”
“Jackals, Enid. Jackals. However,” I added thoughtfully, “you must promise me you will not leave your tent at night, whatever you may hear.”
When I left her, I took with me the skirt of her bicycling costume, explaining that I would have it cleaned and brushed. Emerson was still doggedly drawing plans. There was a great spatter of ink on the wall, so I deduced he had encountered a stumbling block and had got over it, as he often did, by hurling his pen across the room.
I said encouragingly, “Persevere, Emerson; persevere, my dear.” Then I went up the stairs to the roof.
Behind the shelter of the screen I changed into Enid’s divided skirt, and removed my belt. It cost me a pang to leave it and its useful tools behind, and to abandon my parasol; but I knew I could never be mistaken for another while I had them. After I had put on tinted spectacles and fastened a pith helmet on my head, I had done all I could to complete the resemblance. Rather than pass through the parlor and prompt questions from Emerson, I descended from the roof by means of the holes and crevices in the wall.
Though the sun was sinking, the village yet drowsed in the somnolence of the afternoon nap. I crossed my arms casually across my chest—the dimensions of that region being the most obvious difference between Enid’s figure and mine—and emulated her slower, swaying walk.
I had not gone a hundred yards from the compound before I felt eyes upon me. Nothing moved on the broken expanse of the desert slope ahead; no living creature could be seen, save the eternal vultures swinging in slow graceful circles down the sky. Yet I knew I was being observed—knew it with the certain instinct described so well by Mr. Haggard and other writers of fiction. It is a sense developed by those who are often the object of pursuit by enemies; and certainly no one had been pursued more often than I.
I went on at a steady pace, but the hairs at the back of my neck were bristling. (Emerson would probably have claimed the sensation was produced by perspiration, and I admit that the pith helmet was cursed hot. However, Emerson would have been mistaken.) The sensation of steady, watching eyes increased until I could bear the suspense no longer. I spun round.
The cat Bastet sat down and returned my look with one of amiable interest.
“What are you doing here?” I inquired.
Naturally she did not reply. I continued, “Return to the house at once, if you please.” She continued to stare at me, so I repeated the request in Arabic, whereupon the cat rose in a leisurely fashion, applied her hind foot to her ear, and walked away.
The prickling at the back of my neck did not lessen as I went forward. Though I raked