The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [149]
“But how did he manage it?” I demanded. “He had less than twelve hours to come up with a plan and carry it out. He must have known the identity of Sahin’s prisoner, for surely he would not have taken such a risk for a stranger. How did he find out it was you?”
“That question hadn’t occurred to me.” Ramses sat up straighter. “And it may be significant. Could that have been why Sahin didn’t pop me into his little cell straightaway? Damn it, yes! He put me on display—beardless and bareheaded, easily recognizable—and when they did take me downstairs they paraded me through most of the house first. If Sethos was staying in the same house . . .” His brief animation faded. “It still doesn’t answer the most important questions.”
“Yes, yes,” Emerson said gruffly. “We’ll talk about it later. Take him away, Nefret.”
Ramses got slowly to his feet. “Take me where?”
“To my little private cubicle,” Nefret said, drawing his arm over her shoulders.
“Are there any peepholes in the walls?”
“Probably. Does it matter?”
“That depends.” He smiled down into her upturned face and brushed her cheek with his fingertips.
“I don’t suppose it does matter,” I admitted. “By this time everyone in town will know we have dealings with British officers, and that we may not be what we seem. I do strongly urge, however, that you rest instead of—er—”
“Of course, Mother.” Nefret turned her head and gave me a bewitching smile.
“That was an extremely impertinent and unsolicited bit of advice,” Emerson said, after they had left the room. “She’ll look after him. And—er—cheer him up. The boy is too hard on himself.”
“He always has been,” I said, taking no notice of the criticism. “It wasn’t his fault, it was the fault of the confounded War Office. Shall I begin packing?”
“No, my dear. What’s your hurry?”
“I would have supposed,” I said, with a certain amount of sarcasm, “that you would want to go in pursuit of the conscienceless villain who sent your son to risk torture and death.”
“All in due course, Peabody. We went to considerable trouble to get this close to Gaza, and I’m damned if I am going to leave before I’ve learned what we came here to learn.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“We could wait for him to come to us. That is your favorite method of investigation, I believe.”
“You mean Sethos, I suppose.”
“Sethos or anyone else who decides we are a threat to his plans.” He settled himself on the divan and beckoned to me. “Come and sit by me, my love. We’ve had little enough privacy these past few days.”
I acceded at once, but as his strong arm wrapped round me and drew me close to his side, I felt obliged to remind him of the peepholes. Emerson only chuckled. “It is time I paid a few attentions to my elder wife. Give me a kiss.”
“In English?” I exclaimed.
“Kisses are a universal language,” said Emerson.
I was so touched by this poetic sentiment, I suffered the prickles of the beard without objection. When I had got my breath back, I said suspiciously, “You are in a very cheerful mood, I must say. What are you concealing from me?”
“I have no intention of concealing anything from you, my dear. I didn’t want to keep Ramses from his bed—er—his rest any longer; but he made an interesting point. If Sethos was staying in the same house . . . He must have been, mustn’t he? Not only did he know Ramses’s identity, but he had access to the girl. Now listen closely, Peabody . . .”
“Yes, my dear.” I rubbed my stinging cheek.
“He wouldn’t have approached her as Ismail Pasha. It would have been an unnecessary risk. He disguised himself as someone else . . . and I know who.”
“Well, so do I.”
“Confound it,” Emerson shouted, removing his arm and fixing me with an evil glare. “You’re doing it again! You always claim you—”
“But, my dear, it is obvious.”
“Oh? Then you tell me. Or shall we play our old game, each of us writing the answer and sealing it in an envelope?”
We had played this little game often, and I will admit,