Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [25]
Except for the predominance of khaki, the dining salon of Shepheard’s was much the same. Fine wines and rich food, snowy damask and sparkling crystal, dark-skinned servants darting to and fro, male civilians in the stark black and white of evening kit, females flaunting jewels and satin. The display struck a particularly offensive note for me that evening. No one admires a stiff upper lip more than I, but these people were not displaying courage under fire. They were in no danger here. Boys were dying in the mud of France while they sipped their wine and enjoyed the servile attentions of the individuals whose country they had occupied.
Having enjoyed this interlude of moral superiority, I decided I might as well take pleasure in the moment, as is my habit. Some of the old familiar faces were there—Janet Helman dressed with her usual elegance and good taste, Mrs. Gorst and her daughter Sylvia, who waved at me with her left hand to make sure I saw the diamond-and-ruby ring on her third finger. Even the plainest girl had no difficulty getting engaged these days, with so many young officers passing through Cairo. A man who expects to be facing death in the near future is not overly fastidious.
I said as much to Emerson, who gave me one of those superior masculine looks that reprimanded me for malicious gossip even as his well-shaped lips parted in a grin. He had never liked Sylvia, who had been one of Ramses’s most tireless pursuers until his marriage, and who could have taken a prize for gossip.
I did not really expect to see any of our archaeological acquaintances, so you may conceive of my surprise and pleasure when I beheld a familiar form standing in the doorway of the dining salon.
Howard Carter’s face was fuller and his mustache bushier, but otherwise he had not changed much since we had first met him. At that moment he resembled a statue of stupefaction, his eyes wide and his mouth ajar. Not until the headwaiter glided up and addressed him did he give himself a little shake. He questioned the waiter, who nodded and led Howard to our table.
“Why, Howard,” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. I heard this afternoon that you were in town, and hoped I might run into you here, since I knew Shepheard’s is one of your favorite spots.”
He accepted my invitation to join us, but he kept glancing over his shoulder. “Are you in trouble with the law?” I inquired jestingly.
“I have just had a most unnerving experience, ma’am. Thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. You don’t happen to have a double, do you?”
I requested elucidation of this extraordinary question, and Howard indicated a table near the door. “The lady dining with those two staff officers, the one wearing a green dress. She’s the spit and image of you, Mrs. Emerson. I was about to speak to her when I saw you and the Professor and realized I was mistaken.”
Curiosity overcame propriety. I stared shamelessly at the lady. Owing to our relative positions, I could see only the back of her head and her shoulders. The latter were covered by a wide lace bertha, and the head by black hair piled high and held by jeweled combs. There was something very familiar about that dark hair.
I said, “Confound it,” and Emerson chuckled.
“Well, well,” he said. “I believe I can hazard a guess. Miss Minton has turned up again.” Anticipating Howard’s question, he explained. “We encountered the young lady some years ago when she was writing newspaper stories—it was that nonsensical business about the British Museum mummy. I was struck at the time by the resemblance between her and Mrs. Emerson, but it is pure coincidence; Miss Minton is the granddaughter of the late Duke of Devonshire, and no relation to my wife. She has made something of a name for herself since as a journalist specializing in Middle Eastern affairs.”
“Yes, of course,” Howard exclaimed. “I remember now. Isn’t she the one who was captured by one of those Arab emirs a few years ago? Wrote a book about it. Can’t say I’ve