Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [68]
“As to that,” said Emerson, hands on hips, shoulders thrown back, brows thunderous, “how is it that you neglected to warn us that Asad had escaped?”
“Stop shouting, both of you!” I exclaimed, for the constables, awaiting their chief’s orders, were listening with openmouthed interest. “Take the body away,” I continued, addressing those individuals. “At once. Mr. Russell will follow you shortly.”
They did as I directed, of course. As soon as the cortege was out of earshot, I addressed Russell. “There are several points that need to be cleared up. We will discuss them here and now. I apologize for not inviting you to return to the house with us, but I prefer to have as little to do with you as is possible. Nothing personal, you understand.”
I described Ramses’s encounter with Asad and our futile efforts to locate him. Russell and Emerson kept trying to interrupt my orderly exposition, but I was in no mood for displays of masculine illogic. I was hungry and it was past dinnertime. Mahmud would certainly have burned the soup.
“So you see,” I concluded, “that Asad must have had information that was dangerous to some unknown party—presumably the same party who told him of Ramses’s masquerade. The identification is certain to my mind. If you doubt it, you must have on file a description of his physical attributes which will settle the matter. You will of course keep us informed of the progress of your investigation. And,” I added, for I was unable to resist a little touch of sarcasm, “if you hear that any other spies or terrorists have escaped, it would be kind of you to inform us before one of them succeeds in assassinating Ramses. Good night, Mr. Russell. Come, Emerson.”
“Just a moment, Mrs. Emerson. Please.”
“Be quick, Mr. Russell. It is probably too late for the soup, but I have hopes of the roast beef.”
“I . . .” He shook his head vigorously, like a dog after a dip in a pond. “I forget what . . . Oh, yes. Is it true that Ramses has left Cairo?”
“He is in Luxor and will remain there for several weeks. I am glad you reminded me, Mr. Russell,” I went on. “I meant to tell you that this business must be kept quiet. There must be nothing in the newspapers.”
“I can’t control the press, Mrs. Emerson!”
“Yes, you can. You people do it all the time. I do not want to be badgered by journalists and I do not want Ramses to hear of Asad’s death. He might feel obliged to do something about it.”
“I see.” He tugged at his ear. “I’ll do my best. The fellow was Egyptian, so perhaps the press won’t take much of an interest.”
Emerson growled deep in his throat but did not deny this outrageous remark—outrageous because it was true. I was turning away when Russell spoke again.
“After they were arrested, the members of Wardani’s organization were handed over to the military. I was not informed of this man’s escape.”
“Really? How strange.”
“I trust you are not questioning my word, Mrs. Emerson.”
“No,” said Emerson, before I could reply. “It’s typical of the bastards not to trust anyone outside their own little circle. Who the devil was it, I wonder, who was responsible for keeping the information under wraps?”
“I don’t know,” Russell said shortly. “I wish I did. If you had seen fit to report what were unquestionably police matters, I would have been able to ask questions. You and the rest of your family have the most terrifying nonchalance about people trying to kill you!”
“We didn’t want the police getting in our way,” I explained.
“I expected you would say that. May I suggest that cooperation might be to our mutual advantage? I will pass on any information I get if you will do the same. We are on the same side, you know.”
“Against the bloody War Office,” said Emerson, with a chuckle.
“At least we have the same aim,” Russell said, tactfully avoiding a direct answer. “The safety of your son. I think well of him, you know.”
The roast beef was rather dry, but we were too hungry to be critical. We did not discuss the case during dinner, despite some rather pointed questions from Fatima, who