The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [104]
“Do not yield to emotion yet,” I said, scanning the next lines. “Wait till you hear his reasons for missing us. ‘Nurse is very cruel and will not give me any sweets. Aunt Evelyn would, but she is afraid of Nurse. So I have not been to a sweetshop since you left and I think you were cruel and vishus [I reproduce Ramses’ spelling literally] to leave me. Uncle Walter spanked me yesterday—’ ”
“What?” Emerson sat up. The cat, disturbed by his violent movement, let out a grumble of protest. “The wretch! How dare he lay hands on Ramses! I never thought he had it in him.”
“Neither did I,” I said, pleased. “Pray let me continue, Emerson. ‘Uncle Walter spanked me yesterday only because I tore some pages out of his dikshunary. I needed to use them. He spanks very hard. I will not tear any more pages out of his dikshunary. Afterwards he taught me how to write “I love you, mama and papa,” in hieroglyphs. Here it is. Your son, Ramses.’”
Together Emerson and I contemplated the untidy little row of picture signs. The signs blurred a trifle as I looked at them; but, as always when Ramses was concerned, amusement and irritation tempered sentimentality.
“How typical of Ramses,” I said, smiling. “He misspells dictionary and vicious, but misses not a letter of hieroglyphs.”
“I fear we have bred a monster,” Emerson agreed, with a laugh. He began to tickle the cat under the chin. The animal, annoyed at being awakened, promptly seized his hand and began to bite it.
“What Ramses needs is discipline,” I said.
“Or an adversary worthy of his steel,” Emerson suggested. He pried the cat’s teeth and claws from his hand and studied the animal thoughtfully. “I have just had an inspiration, Amelia.”
I did not ask what it was. I preferred not to know. Instead I turned to the rest of the mail, which included a long, loving letter from Evelyn reassuring me as to Ramses’ health and happiness. Like the good aunt she was, she did not even mention the dictionary incident. Emerson opened his own mail. After a while he handed two items to me for perusal. One was a telegram from Grebaut, canceling Emerson’s permission to excavate and demanding that he re-hire the guards he had dismissed. After I had read it Emerson crumpled it up and tossed it out the window.
The second item was a clipping from a newspaper, sent us by Mr. Wilbour. The story, under the byline of Kevin O’Connell, described in vivid detail not only the kicking of the reporter down the stairs of Shepheard’s Hotel, but also the knife in the wardrobe. Mr. O’Connell’s informant had played him false with the latter incident, however; the knife, “a bejeweled weapon worthy of being worn by a pharaoh,” was said to have been found driven into the center of the bedside table.
“Wait till I get my hands on that young man,” I muttered.
“At least he did not break his word,” Emerson said with surprising tolerance. “This story was written some days ago, before we made our agreement. Do you want to change the name in that envelope, Amelia?”
It took me a moment to understand what he meant. When I did, I replied, “Certainly not. Though this does raise a point I cannot yet explain. What about you?”
“My opinion is unchanged.”
A low growl from the cat warned us that someone was approaching. A moment later there was a knock at the door. I opened it and admitted Daoud.
“The holy woman calls you to come,” he said. “The sick man is awake and speaking.”
“Curse it,” Emerson exclaimed, shaking his fist in the astonished man’s face. “Keep your voice down, Daoud. No one must know of this. Now get back to your post and hold your tongue.”
Daoud obeyed and we proceeded, posthaste, to Arthur’s room.
The Sister was bending over the sick man, as was Mary. Worn by illness as he was, it required both women’s strength to keep him from sitting up.
“He must not move his head!” I exclaimed in alarm.
Emerson went to the bed. His big brown hands, so strong and yet so gentle, took hold of the injured member, immobilizing it. Arthur immediately left off struggling. So intense is the degree of animal