Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [170]
Emerson read the enclosed letter and handed it to Ramses. “ ‘Sorry to have missed you. I had business elsewhere. Be good enough, I beg, to present my compliments to the ladies of your family, and to Miss Minton, who, I understand, will be leaving Luxor immediately. Sincere regards . . . ’ It’s signed ‘Whitbread.’ ”
His father’s unnatural calm augured poorly for someone—probably Sethos. “The ladies of your family,” Emerson said, in the same cool voice. “Good of him to include Nefret.”
“It is, rather, considering how she bullied him. Father, he had to be careful what he wrote. The chance of anyone other than you finding the message was remote, but he doesn’t take chances, even remote ones.”
“What annoys me most,” said Emerson reflectively, “is his ability to anticipate our movements. He could have left this at the desk. How did he know I’d search his room?”
“Anyone who was familiar with your habits could anticipate that, sir.”
“Oh? Hmph. It was certainly the safest method of communicating with us. That’s a fairly pointed hint about Miss Minton. Well, well. Let us join the ladies and pass on his compliments. Bring the book along.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ramses. “I had intended to do so.”
They looked into Margaret’s room, where the three women and two safragis had almost completed packing her bags. “We’ll meet you in the lobby,” Emerson said, retreating in haste as his wife fixed him with an inquiring stare.
“You are going to tell her, aren’t you?” Ramses asked, lengthening his stride to keep up with his father. Emerson rang the bell for the lift, waited two seconds, and plunged down the stairs.
“Yes, certainly. It is a waste of time trying to keep things from your mother, she always finds out anyhow, and then she . . . Er—I’ve been meaning to ask . . . not that it’s any of my affair . . . but you and Nefret . . . Er?”
“The same,” Ramses said with a smile.
“Ah. And the two of you—er—getting on well, are you?”
“Yes, sir.” He couldn’t leave it at that; he knew what his father wanted to hear, even if he was unable to ask a direct question. “We are exceedingly happy.”
“Ah.” Emerson’s hand rested briefly on his shoulder. “Good. Let’s see if we can locate that rascal Sayid.”
He charged across the lobby, pausing only long enough to toss the key and its massive brass tag onto the desk. “Hurry, before your mother catches us up.”
“I meant to interview Sayid earlier,” Ramses admitted. “He wasn’t here yesterday.”
The usual assemblage of putative guides and hopeful dragomen had gathered at the foot of the stairs, which was as close as they were allowed to get. They surged forward when the doors opened, and stopped, with a certain amount of shoving and jostling, when they recognized Emerson and Ramses.
“Nor is he present today,” Emerson said, scanning the upturned faces. “Salaam aleikhum, Mahmud—Ali—Abdul Hadi. Where is Sayid?”
An eager chorus replied, not only from the ones he had addressed, but from the entire group. “Not here, Father of Curses—I can serve you as well—what is it the Father of Curses desires?”
“Sayid.” Emerson descended the stairs. “When did you last see him?”
It took them awhile to compare notes, but Ramses was conscious of a sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach even before they reached a consensus. Sayid had not been seen for at least three days.
“He has been murdered,” I remarked, drawing a somewhat wobbly line—occasioned by the motion of the boat—through one of the items on my list.
For once not even Emerson objected