The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [105]
In the pleasure of professional activity, the companionship of those dearest to us, and the complete absence of attack, assault, or violence, I almost forgot my forebodings; when they recurred to me I began to wonder whether Emerson might not have been right after all. (It had never happened before, but there is always a first time.)
The first ‘distraction,’ as he bitingly termed it, occurred when we returned to the dahabeeyah on the evening of the third day. Mahmud our steward was waiting for us. ‘The parcels from Cairo have come, Sitt.’
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘It must be the boots and clothing you ordered, Walter. Just in time, too, your shoes would not have lasted another day.’
‘The gentleman is in the saloon, Sitt,’ said Mahmud.
‘What gentleman?’
‘The gentleman who brought the parcels.’ Mahmud’s smile faded. ‘He said he was a friend, Sitt. I hope I did not do wrong.’
‘Petrie or Quibell, I expect,’ Emerson grumbled. ‘Or Sayce or Vandergelt or some other inquisitive Egyptologist. Curse it, I knew they would turn up sooner or later, spouting questions and trying to worm their way into MY excavation.’
He started for the saloon, and of course we all followed, curious to know who the visitor might be. I had my own ideas on that subject, and hurried to catch Emerson up. I did not quite succeed, but I was close on his heels when he entered the room. Too close. His roar almost deafened me.
‘O’Connell! Damnation! What the devil are you doing here?’
Seeing me, Kevin, who had retreated behind the table, felt it safe to come forwards. His nationality was writ plain upon his face: eyes blue as the lakes of Ireland, face as freckled as a plover’s egg, hair bright as the rim of the setting sun. ‘Why, Professor, you don’t suppose The Daily Yell would overlook a story like this? And whom should they send but their star reporter, eh? Good day to you, Mrs Emerson, me dear. Blooming as ever, I see.’
I squeezed past Emerson, who stood rigid with indignation in the doorway. If Kevin O’Connell was not the ‘star’ reporter of London’s most sensational newspaper, he certainly could be considered an authority on archaeological subjects and on the activities of the Emerson family. Our past encounters had not all been pleasant, but the brash young journalist had come to my aid often enough to leave me with relatively kindly feelings towards him. Emerson’s feelings were not at all kindly. He had good cause to detest Kevin in particular and journalists in general. Their reports of his activities had made him, if not precisely notorious, only too well known to the reading public. (And it must be admitted that Emerson’s hasty temper and rash pronouncements made for very entertaining copy.)
‘Good evening, Kevin,’ I said. ‘What took you so long? I expected you yesterday.’
‘Bedad, but I’m twenty-four hours ahead of the Mirror,’ Kevin protested. ‘And a good two days in advance of The Times. Ah, but is it more friends I see? Mr and Mrs Walter Emerson! I had hoped to catch you up, but you were too quick for me. Master Ramses – what a fine, great lad you’ve become! And Miss Nefret – sure and it’s a pleasure to the eyes you are.’
Evelyn advanced towards him. ‘Mr O’Connell, isn’t it? I am glad to be able to thank you for the beautiful letter you wrote after – after the loss of our child. Your expressions of sympathy were so gracefully and touchingly expressed.’
Kevin’s face turned a shade of pink that clashed dreadfully