Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [34]
“What do you want?”
“I told you. A private conversation.”
“You won’t get it here,” I pointed out. “I will have tea with you on Friday next.”
“Will you? Or is that just a way of putting me off?” She removed her hat, a stylish Panama with a rolled brim and red ribbon, and pushed a loosened black lock back into place. “So long as I am here, I would like to have a look at your excavation. I’ve become very interested in Egyptology, you know.”
I considered various means of removing her by force. None seemed practicable. “I fear that is impossible,” I said frostily. “My husband does not allow sightseers to interrupt his work. Go look at the pyramids.”
She had chosen her time well. I had been about to stop work and summon the others to luncheon. As we stood with eyes locked, like two dogs trying to stare one another down, Nefret emerged from the tomb chamber. “Aren’t you ready for lunch, Mother?” she called. “Come and join us.”
She had taken Miss Minton for a tourist. Emerson, who was the next to appear, did not fall into that error. He had, as was his invariable and uncouth habit, removed his shirt as soon as the temperature began to rise; seeing Miss Minton he started, swore, and dashed back into the tomb.
“Dear me,” said Miss Minton, laughing. “Was that a hint that he doesn’t want to see me?”
“We are very busy,” I began.
“What a magnificent-looking man he is.”
“As I was saying—”
Emerson forestalled my feeble attempt to dismiss the lady, reemerging with his shirt on. Tucking it in as he walked, he came toward us.
“Miss Minton, isn’t it?”
“I’m so flattered you remember me, Professor.” She gave him her hand. Emerson let it go as soon as he decently could, but the blunt manners he exhibits toward other men are softened by his hopeless sentimentality about women. He finds it very difficult to be rude to them.
“Are you joining us for luncheon?” he asked.
“No, no, I wouldn’t dream of intruding,” said Miss Minton. She glanced at me. “But if it wouldn’t be too much trouble . . . A glass of water, perhaps, before I go on my way? The air is so dry here.”
It was a request one could hardly refuse. Forcing a smile, I led the way to the shelter.
We had taken Sennia with us that day, as it was a school holiday. She and Gargery were investigating the picnic basket Fatima had prepared while Nefret looked on and Ramses discussed with Sennia the relative merits of tomato versus cheese sandwiches.
“What a charming domestic group!” Miss Minton exclaimed, her keen dark eyes taking in every detail, from Sennia’s dusty black curls to Nefret’s working costume of trousers and boots and sweat-stained shirt. “Please, let us not be formal; I am certain I can identify everyone except—”
“Miss Minton,” I said, with malice aforethought. “You remember our butler, Gargery.”
I failed to embarrass her. The corners of her rather wide mouth turned up. “I remember him very well. He gave me a memorable tongue-lashing one afternoon when he found me loitering near the library, a room outside the sphere of my regular duties. How are you, Gargery?”
“Quite well, miss—madam—er—miss. Thank you.”
“And this must be the young Mrs. Emerson,” said Miss Minton, offering her hand to Nefret. “I have heard so much about you.”
“I have heard a great deal about you too, Miss Minton.”
“You don’t know me,” said Sennia. “My name is Sennia. Are you a friend of ours?”
Miss Minton gave her a sickeningly sweet smile. I could see she had had very little to do with children. “Why, yes, my dear. I have known your—er—family for a long time.”
Miss Minton then turned a stare like a searchlight on Ramses, who had risen to his feet. He was decently covered, at least, but the casual clothing he wore on the dig set off his frame to best advantage.
“You know my son, of course,” I said.
“I remember him very well, but I would not have recognized him. What a difference a few years can make!”
“More than a few years, I think,” said Ramses. “Are you in Egypt on a journalistic assignment, Miss Minton, or for pleasure?”
“A little of both.”
I filled a glass