Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [168]
From Manuscript H
As they got ready for their visit to the Winter Palace, Ramses’s nerves began to twitch. The interview with Sethos promised to be awkward, if not actually explosive, and he was worried about Margaret. Smith’s presence added another disturbing element. He wondered if his mother had him on her list, and what she had written under “What to do about it.”
She was the coolest of them all, inspecting them to make certain they were tidy enough to meet her standards, and giving Emerson’s dusty coat an extra brushing. Ramses half-expected her to demand he hold out his hands as she had done when he was a child. When they were in the dinghy and under way, she whipped out her list and Emerson, who had been scowling and rubbing his chin, snarled, “Did you overlook something, Amelia? ‘Reform Sethos,’ for example? I see you have your parasol, but—”
“Sssh.” She indicated the boatman. “Leave it to me, Emerson.”
“Curse it,” said Emerson. “Ramses, I presume you know what he looks like. At the moment, I mean.”
“He was wearing Ramses’s clothes,” Nefret said. “The brown-and-gray tweed he bought in London last summer. Ramses also supplied him with a mustache and a sunburn. In return, he supplied us with the name under which he intended to register.” She put her hand over Emerson’s clenched fist. “Father, promise you won’t start shouting at him. And Mother, you won’t be rude to Margaret, will you?”
Both of them looked at her in shocked surprise. “I am never rude,” said his mother stiffly. “I never shout,” his father shouted.
For once Emerson did not linger in front of the hotel exchanging witticisms with dragomen, beggars, and vendors. He marched straight to the reception desk, where he was greeted effusively by the assistant manager. “Welcome back to Luxor, Professor and Mrs. Emerson. We heard of your arrival and were hoping you would honor us with a visit. Are you lunching? I will have a table prepared.”
“Yes, very good,” said Emerson. “You have a guest who registered yesterday, a Mr.—er—”
“The Honorable Edmund Whitbread,” Ramses supplied.
“Oh, Honorable, of course,” Emerson muttered. “What’s his room number?”
“The gentleman left us this morning. He was on his way to Assuan, I believe. Oh, dear. I am very sorry, Professor, you appear a trifle—er—put out. Had he expected you to call?”
“Evidently,” said Emerson in a choked voice.
“He said he would be back in a few days, he asked us to keep his room for him . . .”
“Key,” said Emerson, holding out his hand.
It was strictly against the rules, but the fellow didn’t even hesitate before he produced the key. How does he do it? Ramses wondered enviously. He doesn’t threaten, he doesn’t even raise his voice.
Emerson maintained a simmering silence as they proceeded to the lift. His wife was the first one who had the courage to break it. “Bad luck,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault, Ramses.”
Ramses realized, to his surprise, that he had no intention of apologizing. Perhaps letting Sethos go had not been a wise move, but he didn’t regret it. “It was the news of your arrival that made him bolt,” he said. “What do you expect to find in his room, Father? D’you suppose he’s had the common decency to return my best suit, or leave us a note of apology?”
“One never knows,” his father said with a grudging smile. “We’ll have a look later. First we will collect the lady—assuming she hasn’t taken herself off too—and have lunch. I’m hungry.”
Ramses knocked and announced himself, but Margaret refused to open the door until Nefret had spoken to her. The room was in disorder—the bed unmade, the furniture shifted around—and Margaret was equally disheveled. Her clothes looked as if she had slept in them.
“Thank heaven!” she exclaimed,