Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [155]
“He may have news about Asad’s murder,” I suggested.
“Bah,” said Emerson.
And with this I was inclined to agree.
The remainder of the day was spent in rearranging everyone’s luggage. Fatima had packed all her cooking utensils, Sennia all her toys, and Emerson every book in his study, despite the fact, as I was careful to point out to him, that Cyrus had one of the best Egyptological libraries in the country. Just before we left for the station, while I was counting heads and bundles, Emerson slipped out. He was back almost at once. I gave him a look of inquiry, to which he responded with a shrug and a nod. He had freed Mohammed. I hoped we would not live to regret it, but reminded myself of one of my favorite aphorisms: “What’s done is done.”
It required all my considerable energy and talents of organization to get our extensive entourage and their boxes onto the train. Sennia was so excited her feet seemed hardly to touch the ground. Even Kadija could not keep hold of her, so Daoud lifted her onto his broad shoulders. William met us at the station. He had only one sadly battered suitcase.
The train was late in leaving; it usually was. As a rule I sleep well on trains, but Emerson’s grumbles about the narrowness of the berths, and an occasional howl from Horus, in the next compartment with Sennia and Basima, kept me from repose. I finally gave it up at sunrise and wakened Emerson, who had, in his provoking fashion, succumbed to sweet slumber at about the time I realized I was wide-awake and would remain so. He did not like it, but we were all up and dressed when the train finally pulled into the station, only three hours late.
I was gratified to see a large crowd assembled, though I had expected no less. The return of the Father of Curses to the scene of his many triumphs was an event, an occasion, a homecoming. They were all there—Yusuf and his family, Katherine in a particularly becoming green frock, Cyrus, who swept his fine Panama hat from his head when he saw us at the window.
“I don’t see Ramses and Nefret,” I said to Emerson.
Emerson took a tighter grip on Sennia, who was bouncing up and down and waving both arms. “Don’t begin fretting and fussing, Peabody. They will be here. Hallo, Yusuf! (How fat he’s become!) Salaam aleikhum, Omar (you old villain). Feisal—Ali—”
Sennia’s shriek hurt my eardrums. “Ramses! Here I am, Ramses! Aunt Nefret!”
Then I saw them making their way toward the door of our carriage, Ramses bareheaded as usual, Nefret holding his arm. Emerson caught Sennia, who had squirmed away from him and was making for the door. “You had better carry her, Daoud, or she’ll be trampled underfoot. Good Gad, what a crush! Let me help you down, Peabody.”
But when I put my foot on the step I was seized, firmly and respectfully, and drawn into a hearty embrace—the heartiest and most heartfelt I had ever received from that particular individual. I looked up into the smiling, sun-browned face of my son. “It’s good to see you, Mother,” he said, and kissed me on both cheeks.
A good deal of hugging and kissing went on, accompanied by the wringing of hands and slaps on the back that represent exchanges of masculine regard. Bertie had not accompanied the others; his mother had felt he should not tire himself. Cyrus’s boundless goodwill extended even to William, whom he had not expected, and who hung back until his former employer seized his hand and welcomed him.
Naturally I was pleased by the warmth of Ramses’s greeting. I wondered what he was up to now.
It was not until much later in the day that I found out. Emerson and I had agreed we would consult Ramses and Nefret before deciding how much to tell the Vandergelts, but one cannot dismiss one’s host and hostess immediately upon one’s arrival. We had to eat a hearty breakfast, congratulate Bertie on his improved looks, and listen to Cyrus’s animated schemes for excavating. Emerson joined in with almost as much enthusiasm, and while they discussed the relative merits of Drah