The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [66]
The rest of Davis’s party was with him: Mrs. Andrews, resplendent in jet-beaded black satin; several young ladies who were introduced as her nieces; and an American couple named Smith, who were staying with the Weigalls. Mr. Smith was a painter who had spent a number of seasons in Egypt and had copied for Davis and other archaeologists—a sprightly, convivial man in his mid-forties.
As soon as she had passed through the receiving line, every young (and not so young) man in the room converged on Nefret, leaving a number of ladies abandoned and forlorn. I saw my ward led onto the dance floor by the gentleman she had accepted, and turned toward Emerson. However, he had wandered off.
“Would you care to dance, Mother?” Ramses asked.
“Hmmm,” I said.
“I will try not to tread on your feet.”
I presumed he was making one of his peculiar jokes. Truth compels me to admit he is a better dancer than his father. No one waltzes more magnificently than Emerson; the only problem is that he insists on waltzing no matter what sort of music is being played.
I gave Ramses my hand, and as he guided me respectfully around the floor, I explained, “My momentary hesitation was not occasioned by concern for my feet, but by concern about your father. Someone ought to be with him. He is going to start an argument with someone; I know the signs.”
“We are taking him in turn,” Ramses replied. “David has the first dance.”
Glancing around the room I saw Emerson near the buffet table, talking with M. Naville. David stood next to them. He looked very handsome in his evening clothes, but he also looked, I thought, a trifle apprehensive.
“My dear boy, David cannot possibly stop your father once he gets to ranting,” I said. “I had better go and—”
“It’s my turn next.” The music stopped, and Ramses offered me his arm to lead me from the floor. He was showing off again, and I wondered which of the young ladies present he was trying to impress with his fine manners.
Before we reached the chairs along the wall we were intercepted. “May I beg the honor of the next dance, Mrs. Emerson?” said Sir Edward Washington, with an elegant bow.
I had not seen him since Christmas Day, but I suspected Nefret had. We circled the floor in silence for a time. Then he said, “I suppose, Mrs. Emerson, that your detectival talents are busy at work on our latest mystery.”
“Which mystery did you have in mind, Sir Edward?” I countered.
“Is there more than one? I was referring to the mangled body pulled from the Nile recently. The murderer cannot have been a crocodile.”
“No,” I admitted.
“I was informed that you allowed Miss Forth to examine the remains.”
“Good heavens, how gossip spreads in this village! I do not allow Miss Forth to do a good many things, Sir Edward. She does them anyhow.”
“A very spirited young lady,” Sir Edward murmured. His eyes moved to Nefret, who was talking with Mr. Davis. Both of them appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely, and it seemed to me her neckline had slipped even lower.
“But what of the murder, Mrs. Emerson?” Sir Edward resumed. “You must have a theory.”
“I always have a theory,” I replied. “But I will not tell you this one, Sir Edward. You would only laugh at me. Emerson has already informed me that it is balderdash.”
“I would never laugh at you, Mrs. Emerson. Please.”
“Well . . .”
Naturally I omitted any reference to those aspects of the case that concerned us personally. “What the man was doing here in Luxor we will never know,” I concluded.
“Was he not a Luxor man, then?”
Curse it, I thought. The slip had been so slight, only a very astute individual would have caught it. I kept forgetting that Sir Edward was a very astute individual. Fortunately the music stopped and I sought an excuse to end the discussion.