The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [65]
Yussuf Mahmud could not have known who Ali the Rat was, or he would not have approached him. Someone undoubtedly was cognizant of the fact now, however. I concluded that the children must have betrayed themselves in some manner during the struggle and ensuing flight. Yussuf Mahmud had been given one last chance to compensate for his fatal error. He had failed—and he had paid the price.
My solution was the only one possible, but Emerson dismissed it with an emphatic “Balderdash, Peabody!” and did not even allow me to finish my explanation.
Of course I knew why. Though he would not admit it, Emerson was still obsessed with Sethos. This was patently ridiculous. Sethos would never become involved with anything so crude as a murder cult.
Ramses and Nefret had changed rooms, and I knew my son was bitterly disappointed when no further intrusion took place. I was disappointed too, although I had not expected the cult would risk another man. Our interrogations of the antiquities dealers and the men of Gurneh, though time-consuming, were unproductive. No one had seen Yussuf Mahmud; no one admitted to being a member of a murder cult. I had not really expected that anyone would.
The week between Christmas and New Year’s Day continued to be filled with social activities, and we received a number of invitations from what Emerson referred to as “the dahabeeyah dining society”—an increasingly inaccurate term, since the majority of the individuals concerned stayed at the hotels, particularly the elegant new Winter Palace. In social terms they were a glittering group, some titled, all wealthy. In intellectual terms they were deadly bores, and I did not object to Emerson’s insistence that we refuse most of the invitations. However, I insisted that we behave civilly to archaeological friends and old acquaintances.
Among the latter I had to include Mr. Davis, who had arrived in Luxor on board his dahabeeyah. Emerson might and did despise the man, but he had become a prominent figure in Egyptological circles and he had always been civil to me. His cousin, Mrs. Andrews, who always traveled with him, was an amiable individual. (I will not repeat Emerson’s rude speculations concerning the relationship between her and Mr. Davis.)
In point of fact, we did not receive an invitation from Mr. Davis. He and Mrs. Andrews (his cousin, as I kept telling Emerson) were among the most enthusiastic members of the dining society, hobnobbing not only with favored archaeologists but with any tourist who had the slightest pretension to social status or distinction. Apparently we were not in either category. This fact did not disturb me; it relieved my mind, rather, for Emerson could not be counted upon to behave properly when he was in the company of Mr. Davis. It was inevitable that we should meet, however, and when I received an invitation to a particularly elegant affair at the Winter Palace Hotel, hosted by the manager in honor of several members of the British nobility, I did not press Emerson to accompany the rest of us. I knew Davis would be there, because he doted on the nobility.
To my surprise and annoyance, Emerson volunteered. Not only that, but he got himself into his evening clothes without argument and with a minimum of grumbling. A strong sense of foreboding filled me.
Everyone who was anyone in Luxor had been invited. We were late in arriving, but though the room was crowded with people, our entrance drew all eyes to us. Emerson, of course, looked magnificent. I cannot complain about the appearance of the boys.
It had proved impossible to remove all the cat hairs from Nefret’s skirt, but they did not show too much against the satin-striped ivory chiffon. The soft shade set off the golden tan of her skin—a little too much of it, in my opinion. Between leaving the house and arriving at the hotel she must have done something to the neckline, for it looked a good deal lower than it had. At least her elbow-length gloves hid the unladylike scab on her forearm.
Emerson headed straight as a bullet for