The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [43]
They passed the Coptic Church—another of the juxtapositions moralists appreciated—and walked toward the Ezbekieh and the Sharia el Kamal. Ramses took out his watch.
“We’re late. They’ll be waiting.”
But they weren’t. As the minutes passed, Nefret began to fidget. “Something is wrong,” she declared.
“They can’t have got into trouble already,” Ramses argued, trying to convince himself as much as her. He knew his mother. “Selim is with them—”
“Aunt Amelia can get into trouble anywhere, anytime.” Her eyes narrowed as a new idea struck her. “You don’t suppose she lied to us, do you? Maybe they didn’t go to Zawaiet el ’Aryan. Maybe they went hunting for the forger!” She pushed her chair back. “We’d better look for them.”
“Where? Be sensible, Nefret. It’s more than likely that Father came across something interesting and lost track of the time. You know how he is when he’s working, and Mother is almost as bad. He won’t let her get into mischief.”
FOUR
An Englishman in the East who shows a yellow streak lets the whole side down and endangers every other Englishman. Our innate moral superiority is our only defense against a a mob of howling savages.
Knowing that Ramses would be with her lessened my anxiety about Nefret’s venture into one of the most noxious regions of the city, though in fact she was probably safer in any part of Cairo than she would have been in London or Paris. There was not a miscreant in Egypt who did not dread the wrath of the Father of Curses, not a villain who did not know Emerson’s wife and daughter were sacrosanct. As Emerson had once put it in his poetic fashion, “Should a hair on her head be ruffled or a fold of her garment disarranged, I will tear out your liver.”
So that was all right. With my mind at ease about Nefret, I rose before dawn so that we could leave for Zawaiet el ’Aryan as soon as the sun was up. The old thrill of archaeological fever ran through me as I assumed my working attire of boots and trousers and multi-pocketed jacket, and buckled on my belt with its fringe of useful accoutrements—brandy in a small flask, water in another, matches and candles, scissors, twine, to mention only a few. Emerson still complained about the—as he expressed it—superfluity of them and the noise they made banging against one another, but I knew he was only teasing. How often had one or another of those useful devices saved us from a terrible fate!
I tucked my little pistol into one pocket, a nice clean white handkerchief into another, and took up my parasol. I was ready!
Emerson had already gone up to breakfast. Ramses was with him, his coffee cup in one hand and a book in the other.
“What is that?” I asked, for I thought I recognized the volume.
“Annales des Service,” said Ramses, without looking up.
“Signor Barsanti’s report on Zawaiet el ’Aryan?”
“One of them.”
“Well?”
“Well what? Oh. There are some points of interest.”
“What points?”
“Finish your breakfast, Peabody,” said Emerson.
“I haven’t begun yet.”
“Then begin. I want to get off. You should read the report for yourself.”
“I would have done had I been given sufficient warning of your intentions.”
Emerson pretended he had not heard. “Where is Nefret?”
Ramses closed the journal and put it aside. “Getting dressed, I suppose. There