Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [185]
I heard voices outside—Sennia’s high, birdlike chirps and Bertie’s laughing responses.
“There is only one person who is in danger now,” I said hurriedly. “We must . . . Ah, Bertie. How are you feeling, dear boy?”
Naturally I did not intend to wait until Christmas Eve to apprehend our suspect, nor did I believe it would be practical to follow Kuentz. He might not be our man after all, in which case the real culprit could go about his business unseen and undetected. A much easier method, one I had always favored, was to make him come to us—or, in this case, to Sethos. His attempts to track Sethos down and murder him strongly suggested that either, (a) Sethos did know where the tomb was located, and el-Hakim (I preferred my nom de guerre to the anonymous X the others used) was aware of this; or (b) Sethos did not know, but el-Hakim believed he did. In either case, Kuentz, or whoever he was, would try to dispose of Sethos before he emptied the tomb.
I explained this to Emerson while we were changing after tea.
“Hmmm,” said Emerson. “Aside from the fact that some might consider it callous to stake my—to stake him out like a goat for a tiger—”
“It was his idea.”
“So you say. Hurry and dress, we had better get over there.”
“He is in no danger as yet,” I assured my husband. “The gossip mills in Luxor work quickly but not instantaneously, and no one except the family knows there is a stranger in the house. We will see to it that the word gets out tomorrow afternoon. That will give us time to arrange for protection.”
“I don’t like this,” Emerson muttered, lacing his boots.
“It is an eminently logical, practical plan.”
“All your plans are,” said Emerson. “Until they fall apart.”
I had thought Margaret would insist on accompanying us, but she did not so much as ask. I had some trouble dissuading Cyrus, who was understandably curious about the man who had once taken his place, and even more with Sennia, who declared she was bored and was only prevented from throwing a tantrum by Bertie, who requested another story and a lesson in hieroglyphs. In the end the party consisted of Emerson and me, Ramses and Nefret, just as I had planned.
Emerson set the pace, which was rapid enough to make conversation difficult. At one point, when we were slowed by a heavily loaded camel, I said to Nefret, “Touching, is it not, how concerned Emerson is for his brother? I wonder how they will greet one another.”
“So do I,” said Nefret.
The men of the family were on the veranda, watching for us. “Everyone here?” Emerson asked, counting heads. “Selim, has Yusuf explained to you and Daoud—”
“I explained,” said Jamil, caressing his mustache.
“Where is Jumana?” Nefret asked.
“In her room, reading a book. We do not want women involved in men’s business.”
“It’s a pity he has to be involved,” Nefret said angrily, as we hastened down the corridor. “I don’t trust him to hold his tongue.”
“We will let him loosen it tomorrow,” I said. “By that time—Ah, Kadija. How is our—er—guest?”
“I was about to take him food, Sitt Hakim. You will stay and eat with us? There is plenty.”
“Yes, thank you. After we have talked with him.”
The room—it had once been David’s—was lit by the soft glow of oil lamps. There was only one window, and the shutters opening onto the courtyard were closed and barred. Sethos had been lying down (the sheets were wrinkled), but he was on his feet when we entered, shoulders braced and jaw tight. Kadija had cleaned him up, possibly by force; she would not have tolerated such a filthy person in the house. His black head was bare.
Emerson tried to enter first, but I slipped past him. Clenched fists and a dark scowl are not evidences of brotherly concern. I took Sethos by the shoulders and pushed him back onto the bed. He was unable to offer much resistance.
“Lie down,” I ordered. “You are having another paroxysm, aren’t you?”
Sethos looked at Emerson. “Can’t you stop her?”
“No,” said Emerson. “Never could. Er—are you—um . . .”
“Having another paroxysm,” Sethos admitted.