O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [115]
“Terribly sorry, Miss, er, Russell.” His face contorted as if he were stifling another spasm of coughing. “Dust, you know. Awfully dusty country.” Allenby was having a difficult time controlling his mouth, so I thought jt only kind to turn to Holmes and proffer my dainty, lace-wrapped hand.
“This is Lieutenant-Colonel William Gillette,” our hostess hastened to say. “He is new here himself. Miss Mary Russell,” she said, sounding very uncertain of the meaning of all these odd undercurrents that were suddenly stirring the placid waters of her dinner party. Holmes bowed briefly over my hand.
“Delighted, I’m sure,” he murmured.
“Colonel.” I tipped my head a fraction.
“Pray don’t let me interrupt your conversation,” he said drily.
“Oh, no, please join us.”
“Perhaps later. I am told you have an interest in archaeology.”
“I do,” I said obediently. “An absolute passion for the subject.”
“Perhaps we may discuss it after dinner?”
“I shall look forward to the pleasure.”
“Thank you. Charming frock.” His eyes skimmed over me, perfectly in character. I felt the young men around me stir, though none of them could possibly object to the impertinence of a man wearing the uniform of a superior officer, and he knew it. I, however, was a girl buoyed by a roomful of admiring and admirable men, and I did not have to take it from him.
“What, this old thing?” I said with heavy emphasis, and quite deliberately ran my hand down my rib cage to my hip. “It’s scarcely decent.” His eyes went dark and he turned away abruptly. I tucked my hands through two nearby elbows and sparkled at my admirers. “Shall we have another little drink before dinner, boys?”
There were signs of a hasty rearrangement of places at the dinner table, and I found myself thoroughly closed in by men older than my junior officers. I toyed with the idea of continuing my flirtation, but only for a minute; it would have been cruel to my hostess. So, I allowed the high neck of my dress to be demure rather than provocative, and subsided into polite conversation.
To my right was an elderly and slightly deaf legal gentleman who slurped his soup and seemed quite unaware of the conventions of dinner talk, because he never did turn from the colleague on his right to speak with me. This left the gentleman on my other side with a double burden. Fortunately, the man across the table from me noticed my predicament, and made an effort to include me in his talk with his neighbours.
I had noticed the man earlier in the courtyard. He seemed to be a member of the family, although of very different ethnic inheritance, being Levantine in appearance. He was in his middle fifties, I thought, slightly younger than Holmes, calm and even tempered, the sort of man who listens carefully and whose remarks are invariably intelligent, even wise. He and his companion, the legal secretary Norman Bentwich (whose Camel Corps had been responsible for bringing the Nile waters of prophecy to Jerusalem) were talking about the projected building of a grand hotel in the New City, and with Holmes’ hint about archaeology in mind—his sole clue as to my direction of enquiry—I asked about the problems of disturbing archaeological sites in the preparation of building sites.
The man, understandably enough, seemed mildly taken aback at my question. “You are interested in building, or in archaeology, Miss—?”
“Russell. Oh, archaeology, definitely. I think had I been a man I should have liked nothing better than to spend my life grubbing about underground, excavating the lives of our ancestors and discovering tombs and tunnels and things.”
I had hooked him with my first cast. He reached out to shift a candlestick to one side so as to see me more clearly. “Not buried treasure, Miss Russell? That