Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [248]
He had not been back to the house since the day he helped Gilles and the rest to move in. That he was here at all was unknown to Lymond. Sooner or later, Jerott well understood, the matter of Marthe was going to be forced on Lymond’s attention, perhaps even by Marthe herself. Meantime, Jerott Blyth was the last person to anticipate it.
An old negress opened the door. She was not well versed in Turkish, or indeed in any other language Jerott tried her with: he reached the conclusion, correctly, that she was exceedingly slow in her wits; and for this virtue indeed had been chosen. But when, alarmingly, the dark young man on her threshold showed no signs at all of retreat and, on the contrary, was inching his way steadily into the house, the negress gave up and, bidding him wait, went off into the back of the house.
He didn’t wait. He had penetrated the first room: as bare as the day they had taken possession, when the door opened and Marthe hurried in. Her long hair, hastily pinned, had allowed some strands to escape and lie in coils against her slim neck, which was dirty. Her gown was not very clean either, but she had pinned a fresh apron on top in his honour.
She had assumed at the same time no alien courtesy. ‘I have a client,’ said Marthe in that cool, familiar voice which brushed through the nerves. ‘I am afraid you must be brief.’
‘My dear lady,’ said Jerott. ‘I shouldn’t dream of detaining you. I have all the time in the world. I shall wait until you have finished.’
He looked round for somewhere to sit, but Marthe, without moving, said in the same contemptuous voice, ‘I am sorry. We are discussing with him the repair of a harpsichord. It will take a very long time; and then I have another engagement.’
‘You are busy, aren’t you?’ said Jerott cheerfully. ‘Uncle too? What a pity. Then I shall just have a talk with Maître Gilles.’
‘I am sorry——’ Marthe began; but Jerott, his black eyebrows lifted, interrupted her. ‘He’s busy dissecting the harpsichord?’
‘He is out,’ said Marthe curtly.
Jerott’s eyes were on the shadows behind her. He looked back at Marthe, grinning. ‘Without Herpestes?’ he said.
It was bluff, but it worked. The girl who was Lymond’s sister turned and, closing the door, returned and sat down, her back straight, on the big tapestried chest which was nearly all the room contained. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘A service,’ said Jerott.
‘Lymond has sent you?’ She spoke the name with scorn. Lymond’s Christian name she had never been heard to employ. ‘He doesn’t know I am here.’
‘Ah. You have found him, then,’ said Marthe. ‘I imagined you would. He prefers limelight to obscurity, like the Prophet whose wives could find a lost needle by the light of his body. But how rash of you to inform me! Should I not rush to the Seraglio with the news?’
‘You might,’ said Jerott. ‘Except that, unlike your brother, I have a feeling that you prefer obscurity to limelight just at present. And also I remember what you did at Mehedia.’
Marthe smiled. ‘Donna Maria Mascarenhas? Don’t rely on that, Mr Blyth. My uncle and I had to get to Aleppo. I am afraid I have no more services to perform for you or your friends.’
Standing quietly at the far side of the room, Jerott watched her, his splendid aquiline face grim. ‘You are a human being,’ he said. ‘You know now what Graham Reid Malett is. Neither he nor Francis will rest until one or the other is killed: that is their own affair and not yours. But before that can happen, the children have to be saved. One of them is already half destroyed and the other in the harem has begun to suffer as well. Gabriel is now in complete power, and has arranged to make the Somerville girl his own.…’
For a moment Marthe was quiet. But when