Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [111]
On a brighter note, we look forward to seeing the Vandergelts. I’ll do my best for Bertie.
Much love to all,
Nefret
From Manuscript H
Margaret Minton did not respond to Nefret’s note inviting her for dinner. They were lingering over a rather late breakfast when their messenger returned with the information that the Sitt had left the hotel early that morning and that the concierge had no idea when she would return. Gossiping, as was customary, he had asked several questions and learned a few more facts: she had taken a picnic basket and hired one of the dragomen, so it seemed likely . . .
“That she had planned a long excursion,” Ramses interrupted impatiently. “Which of the dragomen?”
“Sayid.” Their informant chuckled. “He won out over the others who wanted to go with her by saying he was a trusted friend of yours, Brother of Demons, who had helped you to capture many thieves and murderers.”
“Sayid.” Ramses ran agitated fingers through his hair. “Good God, the fellow has to be a hundred years old, and he’s still the biggest coward in Luxor. If she gets in trouble he’ll be about as much use as Jumana.”
“Less. Why should she get herself in trouble, though?”
“Because she’s a busybody and a journalist and a woman of dangerous self-confidence. And she dined with Kuentz last night.”
“I think you are needlessly concerned. Anyhow, there’s nothing we can do about it.”
The messenger, who was squatting on the floor listening interestedly, volunteered, “They were coming to the west bank.”
Ramses handed over the expected baksheesh and the man left. Jamil and Jumana had arrived by then; as they descended the stairs, Ramses said, “Did you write the parents?”
“Yes.” She glanced at him from under her lashes. “I sent the letter off this morning.”
“What did you tell them?”
“The bare facts.”
“You didn’t mention him, did you?”
“No. But I still disagree.”
Their first step that morning was at the Vandergelts’ house, to make sure all was in readiness for the travelers. The steward—or majordomo, as he preferred to be called—was a Belgian who had been in Cyrus’s service most of his life. Though the Vandergelts had not been in residence often of late, Albert prided himself on keeping the place immaculate and ready for occupancy at a moment’s notice. Nefret assured him they would meet the Vandergelts at the station and bring them home.
“All right, that’s done,” she said, as they headed down the track away from the house. “I suppose now you want to look up Alain.”
“How did you know?”
“I know practically everything about you,” his wife murmured. “And I intend to find out the rest of it before I’m done. There’s Christabel Pankhurst and Dollie Bellingham and Layla and the girl in Chicago and Sylvia Gorst—”
“I never had anything to do with Sylvia—can’t stand the woman—never could.”
“Well, I thought she was probably lying,” Nefret said calmly. “We’ll talk about it later.”
Not if I can help it, Ramses thought. He was fairly sure he couldn’t, though.
Kuentz was at work, supervising a small crew excavating one of the workmen’s houses. He came running toward them and took Nefret’s hands, cradling them in his furry paws. “I heard. Horrible! Dreadful! My poor girl!”
Nefret managed to free her hands. “I’ve almost certainly seen more corpses than you have, Alain. Your concern is needless.”
“But I feel responsible. Did you find the worthless tomb, then?”
“No,” Ramses said. The man even had hair on the palms of his hands.
“Perhaps my directions were not clear enough. Believe me, though, the place is not worth your trouble.”
“We didn’t come about that,” Nefret said. “We were curious about what you told Miss Minton last night.”
“It was a curious conversation,” Kuentz said with a grin. “Come and join me in my humble quarters and I’ll have Mahmud make tea.”
They were humble enough, only a small tent pitched against