The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [214]
“Just one more thing,” Bertie said, in his quiet voice. “Sebastian, take off your glasses and put up your hands.”
“Hopelessly, incorrigibly well-bred,” said Emerson, shaking his head, as Bertie knocked Sebastian flat.
Cyrus’s fantasia was remembered for years as the finest, most extravagant entertainment Luxor had ever seen. The courtyard and the Castle were thrown open; tourists, convalescent officers, Egyptian workmen, and the permanent residents of Luxor mingled in amity, eating and drinking, dancing and singing. It was such a crush I soon gave up trying to do my social duty and was enjoying the sight of Selim and Nefret trying to waltz to the beat of an Egyptian drum, when someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to see Marjorie Fisher, a longtime friend who lived in Luxor.
“It’s been ages, Amelia,” she said. “What have you been up to?”
“Just the usual,” I replied. “And what have you been up to?”
She laughed. “The usual. Lunches, teas, visitors . . . That reminds me, I ran into someone recently who asked to be remembered to you. A sweet little thing with freckles on her nose. Her name is Molly Throgmorton.”
I swallowed the wrong way. “Molly what?”
“She has been recently married,” Marjorie said. “Her husband was with her—a very pleasant but rather coarse American, who looked to be at least fifty years her senior—but she was wearing a diamond the size of a lima bean, my dear, so he must be extremely rich. She said you knew her by her maiden name, but I’m afraid I have forgotten it. Do you know who I mean?”
“Yes. I know who you mean. Where is she—where are they staying?”
“They left Luxor on Tuesday. Is something wrong, Amelia?”
“No. It’s just that I am . . . sorry to have missed her. I don’t suppose she happened to mention where they were going?”
Marjorie shook her head. “She said she hoped to see you another time. Her exact words were ‘Tell her she hasn’t seen the last of me.’ Rather an odd way of expressing it, but I suppose she meant it as a touch of humor.”
“No doubt,” I said.
“I am going to break all the rules of decorum and ask Selim to dance with me,” Marjorie announced with a smile. “He waltzes beautifully! Come to tea on Friday, Amelia?”
“Thank you. That would be nice.”
The festivities were still in progress when we took our departure, leaving Jumana to “cavort with the young people,” as Emerson put it. The sounds of revelry faded into silence as the carriage traversed the winding road, and the still, starry night of Egypt enclosed us.
“Vandergelt informed me that the Albions left Luxor yesterday,” Emerson remarked. He added pensively, “I must say that the general quality of criminals has sadly deteriorated. Not that I mind—especially at the present time. How are you feeling, my dear?”
He put his arm round Nefret and she leaned against his shoulder. “A little tired, perhaps. But it was a wonderful evening.”
“Life,” Emerson declared, in such a happy frame of mind he actually committed an aphorism, “life could not be better. Eh, Peabody?”
“Indeed, Emerson.”
Not for worlds would I have cast a shadow on his good humor. Nor was there cause to do so; my fancies were no more than that, idle thoughts of a wandering mind. Yet the words kept going round and round in my head, like a broken gramophone record.
“If she blames me for her mother’s death, how do you suppose she feels about you?” . . . “Tell her she hasn’t seen the last of me . . .”
“The young serpent also has poisoned fangs.”
* * *
Egyptian Diary: The Amelia Peabody Expedition
Over the 2000 Christmas holiday, Bill and Nancy Petty, of Museum Tours, led The Amelia Peabody Expedition in Egypt. I had dealt with them in the past, to my great satisfaction. Despite the unrest in the Middle East, which caused a few cautious souls to cancel, fifty people joined the tour — most of them Egypt buffs and fans of Amelia’s. I decided to go out a few weeks early, with a couple of friends, Dennis and Joel, before I joined the Expedition. Here are a few semi-coherent