The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [150]
“Why, my dear, I think we are past that childish sort of competition. I will be happy to tell you. He disguised himself as Sahin Pasha.”
Emerson let out a whoop of laughter. He sobered almost at once, however, and began stroking his beard. “Really, Peabody, that is deuced ingenious. But . . . No, it is impossible. What led you to that remarkable deduction?”
“Your turn next,” I said playfully. “Whom did you suspect?”
“I need my pipe,” Emerson muttered. “What did you do with it?”
I hadn’t done anything with it. Muttering to himself, Emerson rummaged through his voluminous garments until he located the thing and his tobacco pouch. I helped him to light the pipe, keeping a wary eye out for sparks in his beard.
“Well,” said Emerson, settling back onto the divan and puffing away with enjoyment. “Where were we?”
“You were about to tell me whom you suspected of being Sethos.”
The comfort of his beloved pipe had given Emerson new courage. “The servant,” he said decidedly.
“The fellow who brought the tea? It was drugged, Emerson.”
“Well, of course. It would have been a dead giveaway for him to ignore his master’s orders. People don’t look at servants,” Emerson went on. “And Sahin had borrowed the house and, one must suppose, the staff from someone else.”
“It isn’t like Sethos to choose such an inconspicuous role.”
“No, he much prefers to make a spectacle of himself. It would be a coup much to his taste to take over the role of someone as well known as Sahin.”
He looked so chagrined that I felt obliged to offer his vanity a little encouragement. Husbands appreciate these gestures.
“There are some things I don’t understand, though,” I said. “How could Sethos deceive Sahin’s men and his household and even his daughter?”
“Oh, that,” said Emerson, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Sethos has fooled more observant individuals than a handful of dull-witted guards. The girl may have seen very little of her father; I don’t suppose Sahin was the sort of papa who plays games with his children.”
“Well, perhaps I am wrong,” I said handsomely. “Without knowing more about the household than we do, it is impossible to know for certain how he managed it.”
“I don’t know how he managed it,” Emerson admitted. “Or what is behind all this maneuvering. But I have a feeling—yes, my dear, call it a premonition if you like—I have a feeling we will hear from my eccentric—er—acquaintance before too long. And since it appears that far too many people know our identities already, we may as well leave off pretending to be respectable Moslems. What do you say I borrow a bottle of whiskey from one of our chaps?”
“I have considered the advantages and disadvantages of abandoning our masquerade, and in my opinion the advantages outweigh the disadvantages. The people we were trying to keep in the dark already know the truth, and the presence of the famous Father of Curses can only inspire respect from others. However, there is no need for you to borrow anything.” I reached behind the cushions and drew out the parcel I had kept in my personal charge during that long, wearisome journey. It was a large and rather lumpy parcel, as I knew to my sorrow, since I had sat on it most of the way.
“Good Gad!” said Emerson, as I extracted the bottle, which I had wrapped in certain articles of clothing.
“We will have to use plain water or drink it neat, like Cyrus. The gasogene was too large, and fragile besides.”
Emerson’s smile faded. “What else have you got in there?” he asked suspiciously.
“Trousers, shirts, and boots for me and Nefret—you saw them the other day—my knife, and hers—my belt of tools—and—”
“No!” Emerson exclaimed, his eyes bulging.
“You cannot suppose I would venture into danger without it.” I had spread the articles out on the divan. I added my parasol.
Emerson’s lips writhed, but the light of forlorn hope lingered in his eyes. “Please.