The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [169]
I too had been suspicious of the circumstances surrounding Bertha’s presumed demise, but this particular possibility had never occurred to me. How could I have been so dense? I ought to have known, as had Sir Edward, that a woman of her temperament would not surrender to fate so meekly. A little shiver ran through me as I remembered what she had said about “ingenious” methods of killing me. An even stronger shiver rippled along my limbs when I thought of Emerson. He would be easy prey for her now, his guard down, his suspicions directed elsewhere.
“What are we going to do?” I demanded.
Sir Edward tried to shrug. It is not an easy thing to do when hands and arms are tightly bound. “Wait. I doubt she’ll come before morning. Anyhow, she won’t harm you until she’s tried to collect the other members of the family. As you so intelligently surmised, mental torture is her present aim. She undoubtedly has other plans for me. She didn’t have time to finish questioning me earlier, so I expect she’ll want to have another go at it. We can only pray he reaches us first.”
“Ah,” I said. “So Sethos is here, in Luxor.”
“That was what Madame wanted to know.” Sir Edward’s voice was noticeably weaker. He had put on a credible show of nonchalance, but I knew he must be in considerable discomfort.
“Does he know where to look?”
“I certainly hope so,” said Sir Edward with genuine feeling.
Sir Edward said no more. Gradually his head drooped and his shoulders slumped. The shutters creaked and shook. Rainwater had seeped through them to darken the floor under the window. I continued to probe at the recalcitrant lock with fingers that had grown stiff and aching. It might be—it almost certainly was—a futile exercise, but it is not in my nature to wait passively for rescue, even if I had been certain rescue would arrive in time. Emerson would be looking for me too. Where was he now? If he did not know Bertha yet lived, he was in deadly danger.
I had used up most of my hairpins when the shutters creaked—not with the sounds they had made under the intermittent battering of the wind, but with a steady straining groan.
Sir Edward’s bowed head lifted. The shutters opened, admitting a burst of wind-driven rain, and a man who climbed over the sill and closed the shutters before turning to face us.
He was as drenched as if he had just emerged from the river. His flannel shirt and trousers clung to his body and arms. Slowly and carefully he pushed the dripping hair out of his face, and a puddle began to form around his booted feet as he looked quizzically from me to Sir Edward.
“Well, Edward. This is not one of your finer moments.”
•
Fifteen
•
The voice was Sir Edward’s. The admirable frame, defined by the clinging garments, resembled his; the wig was an excellent copy of his fair hair. The only feature that differentiated the two, at least to a casual observer, was the long bushy mustache that concealed the newcomer’s upper lip and altered the conformation of his face.
“No, sir,” Sir Edward mumbled. “It is good to see you.”
“I’ll wager it is.” Taking a penknife from his trouser pocket, Sethos cut the ropes that bound the other man to the chair and steadied him as he slumped forward. “Where is she?”
Sir Edward shook his head. His insouciance had been a gallant attempt to reassure me—and perhaps himself! Now that rescue had arrived, hope renewed weakened his voice and his body. “In Luxor, I suppose. Sir—I am sorry—”
“All right. Hang on a minute.” He crossed to the bed and stood, hands on hips, looking down at me. “Good evening, Mrs. Emerson. May I be so bold . . .”
I stiffened as his hands went to my waist. With a mocking smile he straightened, and let his arms fall to his sides. “Forgive me. I failed to observe you were not wearing your usual