Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [86]
He answered with another question. “Did he ever leave it? He may have been in touch with his old confederates all along. Random digging wouldn’t have located that jewel cache so easily. Someone must have known where it was—the same thief, perhaps, who found and marketed those carved plaques that Carter bought for Lord Carnarvon a few years ago. They showed Amenhotep the Third and his queen, and may well have come from the tomb.”
“And when they appeared on the market, Sethos got wind of it and passed the word to leave the tomb alone? I have to admit, your idea is looking more and more plausible. That was a well-planned operation in the West Valley—a lookout posted, an orderly retreat—more his style than that of the locals.”
“It’s possible,” Ramses said cautiously.
“What are we going to do about it?”
“Flush him out.”
“I expected you’d say that. Should we tell Mother and Father what we suspect?”
“Father already suspects, I think. Discretion is not his strong point; he’s let a few things slip. He wouldn’t say anything to Mother, and you know what a confounded romantic she is; she’s convinced that Sethos died nobly serving his country, and saving her life.” Nefret was silent. After a moment Ramses added, “And mine, and yours. Do you suppose I’ve forgotten what I owe him?”
“Then couldn’t we just pretend we don’t know?”
“You’re a bit of a romantic yourself.” He smiled at her and her heart quickened. “I have several reasons for wanting a private chat with him.”
“How do you propose to go about it? Start a rumor that we’ve found some unique antiquity and left it sitting here in the saloon, unguarded and unprotected?”
The sun had set and the afterglow lingered on the western cliffs. Ramses pushed his cup away and lit a cigarette. “He won’t touch anything we’ve got or come anywhere near us. But there’s one thing that might bring him out into the open. What did you do with that portrait of Mother?”
They took the painting to Luxor next day. By the time they reached the river, half the population of the west bank had had a look at it. Several times they had to stop while a curious crowd gathered round to admire and comment. “By the life of the Prophet, it is the Sitt Hakim herself! Her very look, her smile, her parasol!”
They used the English word. The parasol was so famous it rated a special designation. Some of the older, more superstitious residents of Gurneh thought it had magical powers. It had certainly come into contact with enough heads and shins.
“Where are you taking her?” one of the men asked respectfully.
Nefret explained. The picture was so fine they had decided to have another, more elegant frame made for it. Abdul Hadi in Luxor was known for his wood carving; he had promised he would finish the job by the following evening.
“Who is going to believe that?” Nefret asked, after they had detached themselves from the art critics. “Abdul Hadi is the slowest craftsman in Egypt.”
“Well, I’m damned if I am going to spend more than one night in the back room of Hadi’s shop.”
Because Ramses did not underestimate his quarry’s intelligence, they went back to the Amelia and remained on board until after dark. When they left the boat it was through the window of their room. The crewman had the dinghy in position; he helped Nefret down into it—Ramses could hear her cursing her cumbersome robe and veil—and as soon as Ramses had joined them he pushed off.
“I do miss Luxor,” Nefret said, moving closer to him. “It’s so quiet and the stars are as bright as candles. Aren’t you going to put your arm round me? I’m feeling very friendly.”
“With Isam watching us?”
“I don’t care who sees.”
“All right.”
It had not been a sufficiently enthusiastic response, and he could tell she was annoyed, but even if he had been in the habit of public displays of affection, he couldn’t get his mind off what was about to—what might—happen. They could be dead wrong about everything. In a way, he hoped they were.
Abdul Hadi had left a back window open for