Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [52]
“One might call it that. Fortunately Ramses was not seriously injured.”
If I had not known the fellow to be a professional dissembler, I would have taken his surprise at face value. “Injured? By Asad? When did this happen?”
“It was not serious. Now, Mr.—oh, good Gad, never mind— don’t let us waste time; I have one more question and I want a direct, honest answer. I expect Emerson momentarily. Have you or any of your associates approached Ramses again about the matter we discussed at Lord Salisbury’s?”
He hesitated—weighing the pros and cons, as I had done—but not for long. “I understand why such a suspicion might have entered your mind, Mrs. Emerson. Let me assure you that Asad’s attack on your son must have been motivated by resentment of his earlier activities. To the best of my knowledge there is no present cause—”
Lord Edward was guilty of the discourtesy of interrupting. “I say! Isn’t that . . .”
It was. There is no mistaking the noises with which Emerson brings the motorcar to a stop, particularly when he is in a hurry or in a rage. On this occasion he was both, as he promptly demonstrated. The door crashed back against the wall, and there he stood, like Hercules or some other hero of antique legend, fists clenched and eyes blazing. He must have found my message as soon as he returned from the dig, for he was still wearing his dusty, sweat-stained garments, and of course he had lost his hat. The other men were in uniform or lounge suits, but Emerson was superbly indifferent to the inappropriateness of his attire and at that moment so was I. He outshone every man in the room.
Emerson headed straight for me, brushing aside people who were not quick enough to get out of his way. By the time he reached me I was alone. Lord Edward had not even excused himself, and Mr. Smith had simply melted away. I did not suppose Emerson would swear at me in public, but just to be on the safe side, I spoke first. “Good evening, my dear. Will you join me in a whiskey and soda?”
“Not in this hellhole,” said Emerson. He did not bother to lower his voice. “Come along, Peabody. Er—if you are ready, that is.”
Once we were outside, Emerson expressed his opinion of people who did not have the common courtesy to consult their husbands before dashing off on some harebrained expedition.
“Well, my dear,” I said, “your little scheme of waiting for someone to attack us has not borne fruit. It is no wonder, really, when you consider we haven’t gone anywhere except to the dig and back. We need to get out and about, away from—”
“But why the bloody Turf Club? You know how I feel about the place, and if you are hoping to instigate a violent attack, I can think of more likely areas.”
“It is where many of the officers and most of the officials spend their spare time. I took it for granted that Mr. Asad’s escape must have been known to some of them, and such proved to be the case. You will never guess who I ran into.”
“Yes, I will. I saw the bastard before he scuttled off, like a beetle behind the baseboard. Did you know he would be here?”
“Yes. I learned of his presence in Cairo when I took tea at Shepheard’s with Mrs. Pettigrew, Mrs. Gorst, and Madame Villiers. As I have often told you, Emerson, the sources of information you rudely refer to as gossip—”
“Leave off, Peabody. I am already in a state of extreme exasperation.”
“Very well, my dear. I asked Lord Edward to bring him to the club. His real name is Bracegirdle-Boisdragon, with an Honorable, no less. No wonder he chose a monosyllabic pseudonym! Upon interrogation he admitted he had known of Asad’s escape, professed disinterest in the comings and goings of the ex-rebels, on the grounds that they had been rendered harmless, and asked how I knew of it.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Yes. It occurred to me, you see, that it might have been the War Office that set Asad on Ramses’s trail, in the hope of frightening him back into the service.”
Emerson dropped the pipe he had been about to fill. “Frightening?” he repeated, in a rumble like thunder.
“The