Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [127]
I put my empty glass on the table and stood up. Emerson remained seated. “. . . like an avalanche,” he muttered, staring into space. “Get out of the way . . . only chance . . . nine people and the cat . . .”
I sat down again and put my hand over his clenched fists. “We must find the man who is behind this, Emerson. Family honor demands it.”
“Family what?” Emerson’s eyes came back into focus.
“The impostor is using your—” Not even in the privacy of our own home did we use that word. I started again. “He is using Sethos’s name and besmirching his reputation.”
“His reputation isn’t exactly lily-white, my dear. However . . .” His noble brow furrowed. “It’s beginning to add up,” he said, as if to himself.
“Precisely, Emerson. I am glad you see it my way.”
“I rather doubt it, Peabody. But we will go to Luxor. Just tell me one thing.” He took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him. “Please tell me your decision was not affected by that damned dream about Abdullah, when instead of speaking to you he waved you to follow him.”
“Why, Emerson,” I said. “How could you possibly think that?”
• • •
Twelve
• • •
From Manuscript H
When Ramses and Nefret arrived at the station, the train had just pulled in. They had to push through a throng of people, all waving their arms and shouting with excitement. Ramses was not surprised that the whole town had turned out; Cyrus was well known and well liked and his wife’s numerous charitable activities had made her equally popular. It would have been cynical to suspect that they had a selfish motive—the hope that Vandergelt Effendi had returned to resume the excavations that had given employment to so many men of Luxor.
No such thought occurred to Cyrus; he was visibly moved as he stood in the open door of the car, clasping the hands thrust out to him and returning the cries of greeting and welcome. Finally Ramses put an end to the demonstration, which was threatening to pour into the compartment, and by dint of shouts and some shoving, cleared a path along the platform to the waiting carriages. Cyrus helped his wife down the steps and handed her over to Ramses before embracing Nefret. She kissed him back with hearty good-will, and then hurried to offer an arm to Bertie. He didn’t need it; Daoud lifted him clean off his feet and lowered him gently to the platform.
“I will carry him to the carriage,” Daoud announced, holding the young man in a fond grip.
“No—please—I’d rather walk. Really. Tell him,” Bertie insisted.
He was laughing and a trifle flushed. Katherine—and probably Daoud—had muffled him in coats and mufflers and capes, but the bones in his face and in the thin hand that reached for that of Ramses were painfully prominent. Ramses distracted Daoud with a request that he see to the luggage, and put an unobtrusive arm round Bertie’s shoulders. “Let’s get you to the carriage. It’s not far.”
“Yes, right. It’s just the excitement, you know. I’m glad to be here. Been looking forward to it. I hated to leave that little witch Sennia, though. I must warn you, Ramses—I’m in love. Do you think I’m too old for her?”
The brief walk to the carriage left him breathless, and he was talking too fast, putting up a valiant pretense at normalcy.
“We’re all too old for Sennia,” Ramses said lightly. “She wears me out, and even Father requires an extra whiskey after a day with her. Can you stick it for a few more minutes? Yusuf considers himself the official representative of the family and wants to welcome you personally. I’ll see that he keeps it short.”
After a whispered conference, Yusuf agreed not to make a speech, which would have been lost on Bertie anyhow, since he had only a few words of Arabic. Several brothers and cousins had to be introduced, however, along with his pride and joy, Jamil.
Yusuf launched into an encomium on Jamil’s intelligence and beauty and all-round virtue, while Jamil postured and smirked. If Vandergelt