The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [107]
I decided to let him off this time, but there was another question I wanted to ask. I had feared he might use his damaged hand as an excuse for letting his beard grow; men seem to favor the cursed things. He had remained clean-shaven, however, and as I straightened his cravat and tucked his collar in I asked how he managed it.
“I have been using a safety razor for several years now, Mother,” was the reply. “I am surprised you did not know.”
“I am not in the habit of searching your personal belongings, Ramses,” I said.
“Of course not, Mother. I didn’t mean to imply—”
Emerson interrupted with the remark he always made on such occasions—“If we must do this, let’s get it over with.”
The electric current, which was notoriously erratic, appeared to be functioning that evening. The windows of the Castle shone hospitably through the darkness, and Cyrus was waiting to greet us. There was only time for his question—“Anything new?”—and my brief reply in the negative before the arrival of other guests recalled him to his duties as host.
Familiar faces and forms filled the great drawing room; familiar voices were raised in laughter and conversation. Yet as I stood a little to one side, sipping my wine, I found myself studying those faces with a new interest. Was there among them a new, unknown enemy—or an old one?
There were always a good many strangers in Luxor during the season. Some of them I knew slightly. Emerson was engaged in conversation with one, a certain Lord . . . for the moment the name escaped me, but I remembered that he had recently come to Egypt for his health and had become interested in excavating. He was tall enough, but since he was a married man I assumed his wife would notice a substitution. Unless she was also . . .
Nonsense, I told myself. Sethos could not be among those present. I had known him in London; I would know him in Luxor, in any disguise he could assume.
As for unknown enemies—well, that offered infinite possibilities. Most of the dealers in illegal antiquities were Egyptians or Turks, but as painful experience had taught me, Europeans also engaged in that ugly trade, and they were likely to be more dangerous and unscrupulous than their native counterparts. Since Sethos’s retirement a number of people had attempted to take over all or part of his organization. The stout German baron, the elegant young Frenchman who was gazing soulfully at Nefret, the red-faced English squire—any one of them could be a criminal.
A touch on my arm roused me from my thoughts, and I turned to see Katherine beside me. She was wearing a gown she had had made up in London, incorporating panels of Turkish embroidery and green silk, and the parure of emeralds that had been Cyrus’s wedding gift.
“No corsets,” she whispered with a conspiratorial smile. “Come and sit down for a moment, I have been on my feet for hours.”
We withdrew into a retired corner, and Katherine said, “I want to talk with you about my new project, Amelia. I spoke with Miss Buchanan at the American School for Girls a few days ago. It made me feel quite ashamed of my nationality. The Americans have done so much more than we English to improve the lot of Egyptian women—schools and hospitals all over the country—”
“As well as churches,” I said. “I would be the last to deny the great good these dedicated persons have done, but they are missionaries and their primary aim is to convert the heathen.”
“Wasn’t it Henry the Fourth who remarked that ‘Paris is worth a mass’ when his claim to the throne of France was made dependent on his conversion to Catholicism? Perhaps education is worth a prayer.” I smiled wryly in acknowledgment, and