The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [145]
Our pleasant teatime on the verandah lacked its usual air of affability that evening. Emerson was brooding over the iniquities of Davis and Weigall, and David was brooding over his broken heart. He even looked thinner than he had the previous day, which was impossible. I wondered if Abdullah had raised the subject of Mustafa Karim’s suitable daughter, and decided not to ask.
“Mother, who was that woman with whom you were talking at Karnak yesterday morning?”
It was Ramses who spoke. The question was unexpected but welcome. At that point in time the topic of murder was less difficult than certain others.
“She claimed to be an innocent tourist,” I said. “But her behavior was highly suspicious. If your father had not interfered—”
“She would have lured you behind a pillar, chloroformed you, and had you carried off by her waiting henchmen?” said Emerson. “Peabody, there are times when I despair of you.”
“You had not met her before?” Ramses asked.
“I saw her at Cyrus’s reception, but did not speak to her then. You did, David.”
“What?” David started. “I beg your pardon?”
I repeated what I had said. “You were talking with her daughter, or so I suppose the young woman to have been. Fair-haired, rather plump? Mrs. Ferncliffe came and drew her away.”
“Oh, yes.” David was not at all interested, but he made an effort to be courteous. “I didn’t realize the older lady was her mother. She didn’t speak to me.”
Perched on the ledge with his hands clasping his raised knees, Ramses said, “I’ve been thinking about something you said, Mother—you and Uncle Walter. Perhaps your idea of a murder cult is not so far-fetched as it sounded. Not that it is likely such a thing actually exists, but the suggestion of it, and those horribly mutilated bodies, have cast a spell of superstitious terror over the local people. They are obviously afraid to talk to us. Is it possible that our adversaries are using fear to compensate for a weakness in physical strength? How many of them are there?”
“Good thinking,” Nefret exclaimed.
“Not really,” said Ramses. “We have encountered only a few members of what may be a large organization. However, we’ve never seen more than three or four of them at a time, have we? There were only three men at Layla’s house. She said more were expected, but that doesn’t necessarily imply a large number.”
“There were at least four in Cairo,” Nefret said thoughtfully. “Two who came in through the window, two in the house across the street.”
“There were three of them in the house,” David said. His hand went unconsciously to his throat. “And the woman.”
Three simple words, pronounced without emphasis or hidden meaning—yet their effect on Nefret was remarkable. Her breath caught in a sharp gasp.
“The woman,” she repeated. “Amazing, isn’t it, how we have overlooked the female participants? Yet there have been several of them, and the roles they played were not negligible. A woman who called herself Mrs. Markham infiltrated the WSPU and assisted Sethos in the robbery of Mr. Romer’s antiquities. A woman tried to cut David’s throat that night in Cairo. Another woman, Layla, was obviously an important member of the group. Some or all of the women in that abominable house in Luxor are also involved.”
“Nefret,” I exclaimed. “What are you saying?”
She cut me off with a peremptory gesture. Her eyes were shining with excitement. “I had an inkling of the truth a few days ago, when I tried to question you about Sethos, and you refused to discuss the matter. You said that the attempted abduction in London lacked Sethos’s characteristic touch. You were right. He would not have planned such a crude, brutal attack or allowed his subordinates to handle you so roughly.
“Yet the clues that led us to suspect Sethos cannot be dismissed, expecially the clue of the typewriter. If it was not Sethos who sent that message, it was someone close to