Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [42]
“I see. You had better sit down, Miss Minton, and finish your tea. Pacing in that agitated fashion will only tire you.”
She flung herself down onto the sofa. “I don’t want any more confounded tea. Are you going to answer me or not?”
“After you have satisfied my curiosity on one final point. What made you suspect that Ramses might have been your rescuer? I presume that was why you embraced him?”
Her tight lips relaxed. “I quite enjoyed it, even with his wife looking daggers at me. Your son, Mrs. Emerson, has a certain reputation in certain circles. It was the sort of thing he might have done, and there was something about my rescuer—his voice, his gestures—oh, I can’t explain it, but it was oddly familiar, somehow. Ramses is very like his father, but as soon as I was—er—close to him, I knew he wasn’t the man. Now it’s your turn. I’ve been honest with you; please tell me the truth. He knew you, and knew you well; it is impossible that you should not know him.”
I had postponed answering her in order to give myself time to think what to say. How much could I—should I—disclose? Part of the story must be told; a flat denial of facts that she knew to be true would only sharpen her curiosity, and I feared my face had given me away not once but several times as I read that bizarre narrative. I was only too familiar with Miss Minton’s persistence. And in this case, I felt certain, she was driven by a stronger motive than journalistic curiosity.
I said slowly, “I knew him.”
“Knew . . . Do you mean . . . ?”
I suspected she had developed a sentimental attachment to her unknown hero; it had echoed in every word of her story; but when I saw the color drain from her face I realized the attachment was deeper than I had supposed. Sympathy for the pain of a fellow woman loosened my tongue.
“I am sorry. It had nothing to do with you; he died saving my life, and that of—of others.”
“I knew he was not a thief,” she whispered.
“Oh, but he was. One of the best. For years he controlled the illegal antiquities game in Egypt—tomb robbing, forgery, illicit digging. He had built up a criminal network that covered all of Egypt and parts of the Middle East. I never knew his name; his men referred to him as ‘the Master.’ He also used the sobriquet of Sethos. Nor did I ever see his face when it was not disguised. The general description matches his, however, and the statements you reported were completely in character. He had a strange sense of humor.”
“He was in love with you, wasn’t he?”
“That is irrelevant and immaterial and none of your business, Miss Minton.”
“That was why he kissed me. Because I look like you.”
“I assure you, Miss Minton, that Sethos undoubtedly kissed quite a number of women who did not resemble me in the slightest.” She bit her lip and bowed her head. It was the only sign of weakness she had exhibited; admiration for her self-control made me speak with a candor I had not intended. “It doesn’t do to romanticize a man, you know. None of them is perfect. Sethos had some admirable characteristics, but he broke every commandment except the seventh, and that was only because he was not in a position to do so.”
I left her sitting bolt upright with her hands folded in her lap and her face composed; but I knew that as soon as the door closed behind me, she would weep. I could hardly blame her for romanticizing that strange encounter. It had been romantic—blatantly, deliberately, and outrageously. Sethos was . . . had been . . . a consummate actor; he had slipped into the role of dashing hero as easily as he would have drawn on a pair of gloves.
It had been odd, though, her sense of recognition. Not until the previous winter had we discovered that the Master Criminal, the man who had harassed and tormented us for so many years, was Emerson’s half-brother. That part of the truth Miss Minton would never know; there was no reason why she should. There was