The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [109]
“Yes, yes,” said Emerson, handing over a few coins. “Let me have that, Ramses.”
Nefret let out an indignant exclamation.
“I suggest,” said Ramses, closing his fingers tightly over the packet, “that we wait until we get home. It is too dark to see clearly, and too public.”
The sense of this could not be gainsaid, but we were all on fire with curiosity by the time we reached the house, and without a moment’s delay we hurried into the sitting room. Fatima had lit the lamps and was waiting to see if we wanted anything.
Ramses put the packet down on the table in the glow of a nearby lamp. The cheap coarse paper had been folded tightly into multiple layers. It was very dirty, but I thought I saw traces of writing.
“I recommend it be handled with care,” Ramses said. “Father?”
I felt certain he would not have left it to Emerson if he had had the use of both hands. For once I did not volunteer. The folded paper filled me with a strange revulsion. I did not believe it contained anything dangerous, but I did not want to touch it.
With the same delicacy of touch he displayed when handling fragile antiquities, Emerson unfolded the paper, placed it on the table and smoothed it out. There was writing on it—only a few words, in crudely formed Arabic letters.
“ ‘Sunrise,’ ” Emerson read. “ ‘The Mosque of Sheikh el . . . Graib,’ is it?”
“Guibri, I think,” Ramses said, bending over the paper. “There are two more words. ‘Help me.’ ”
For a moment no one spoke. The lamplight shone on the strong hands of Emerson, flat on the table, the crumpled paper between them, and on the intent faces bent over the message. Nefret let out a long breath.
“Thank heaven. I hoped she would trust me! Now I can—”
“There were a dozen women there,” Ramses said flatly. “Which one are you talking about?”
“She was wearing . . . Oh, never mind, you wouldn’t have noticed. It was the way she looked at me.”
“Hmph,” said Ramses.
“Er—yes,” said Emerson. “Does it matter which one it is? One of them, it seems, is asking for our help—and, it may be, offering hers. I will go, of course.”
“My help,” Nefret said. “It was I to whom she directed the message.”
“Damn it,” said Ramses. “Excuse me, Mother. Stop and think, all of you. This message cannot have come from one of those women. None of them knows how to write!”
“You don’t know that,” Nefret said.
“It is a reasonable assumption, however,” Emerson agreed. He stroked his chin. “A public letter writer?”
“She wouldn’t risk it,” Ramses insisted. “Anyhow, it’s too crudely written.”
“It reminds me,” David began.
He was not given the opportunity to finish. Emerson declared that someone must keep the assignation. Nefret insisted it must be she. The table shuddered; Horus, returning from one of his nightly strolls, had leaped onto it and was trying to get Nefret’s attention. Failing in this, he sniffed curiously at the note.
“Get it away from him, Nefret,” I ordered.
It was too late. Horus hissed and spat and shredded the paper with his claws.
“I hope,” said Emerson, “that you won’t take this as one of your confounded omens, Peabody.”
It would have been difficult to interpret Horus’s actions as symptomatic of anything in particular. I needed no such portent to make me regard the forthcoming expedition with extreme trepidation. We had agreed it must take place; if the appeal was genuine it could not be ignored. Ramses insisted it must be a trick, but even he admitted the place and time of the assignation were those such a woman might have chosen. The mosque in question was not far from the house they had visited, and early morning, while the others were resting, offered the best opportunity for her to slip away.
What with one thing and another I did not enjoy a quiet night’s repose. I do not believe Emerson slept at all. When he shook me awake it was still dark outside, and sunrise was several hours away when we assembled in the sitting