The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [127]
To my surprise it was not Ramses who came to the boy’s defence, nor even Nefret – though she bit her lip and directed a less than friendly look at her foster father. The quiet voice was that of Evelyn.
‘I am sure he can be trusted completely, Radcliffe. I have had several long conversations with him. He is a dear lad, who deserves better of life than the misery he has experienced, and he is devoted to all of you.’
Emerson’s voice softened, as it always does when he speaks to his sister-in-law. ‘Evelyn, your good heart does you credit and I understand why at this particular time . . . er, hmph. Bear in mind that the boy has spent most of his life under the tutelage of a master thief and forger. Early impressions –’
‘Don’t patronize me, Radcliffe.’
The reprimand was as startling as a slap in the face. Never had I heard Evelyn speak to anyone, much less Emerson, in that tone.
Emerson was the first to recover, and it is to his credit that he responded as he did. (Though I would have expected nothing less of him.) He laughed aloud and slapped his knee.
‘Well done! I apologize, Evelyn, but I assure you I am not discriminating against David. Good Gad, Vandergelt is one of my oldest friends, and I trust him completely – but I don’t mean to let him in on this either. I wish we could rid ourselves of that confounded Marmaduke woman.’
‘Ah,’ I exclaimed. ‘So you have come round to my belief that she is an adventuress and a spy!’
‘No, Amelia, I have not. I believe she is a woolly-minded romantic from whom O’Connell could winkle the truth with a few florid compliments.’
‘You have the right of it,’ I admitted. ‘Do not concern yourself, my dear, I will think of a way to –’
‘I shudder at the thought,’ said Emerson with considerable feeling. ‘Leave it to me, Peabody. Does she know how to operate one of those typewriting machines?’
‘Yes, I believe she does.’
‘Then I will put her to work transcribing the manuscript of my History. That should keep her busy, and away from the tomb.’
‘It certainly should,’ I agreed. ‘How long is the manuscript – six-hundred-odd pages? And your handwriting, my dear . . . An excellent idea.’
‘So it is settled, then. We begin tomorrow.’
‘It will only take another day or two to finish with the scraps of painted plaster we retrieved from the entrance corridor,’ Walter said. ‘The majority of them are unfortunately too small to be of use, but I have found a portion of a cartouche that I believe will interest you a great deal, Radcliffe.’
‘It will have to wait, Walter. I need every pair of hands, especially yours.’ Walter looked pleased, and Emerson, in his bluff way, went on to spoil the compliment by adding, ‘You appear not to have forgotten entirely everything you knew about excavation techniques.’
I yawned, and Emerson, always so considerate of me, said in a friendly manner, ‘Tired, are you, Peabody? Yes, it is time we were all in bed.’
‘You will want to be up at dawn, I suppose,’ I said. ‘One thing, Emerson – what about storage? The saloon is already full of trays and baskets of scraps, and I absolutely refuse to share my quarters with that atrocious mummy.’
‘We’ll have to have it out, I suppose,’ Emerson admitted. ‘I had thought of storing it temporarily in the antechamber, but the stench of the thing is so vile it would poison the air. There are dozens of abandoned tombs nearby; we’ll use some of them. And a separate one for our odorous friend.’
I was the last to leave the deck. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I saw movement – only the darkest shadow of a shape – at the far end of the rail. It was as if something had hung there, like a giant bat, and then had noiselessly descended.
As I believe I have said, the upper deck was formed by the ceilings of the cabins below. The room under that particular section of the railing was the one occupied by Ramses and David.
I was not the only one to be up before daybreak next morning. Walter was in the saloon, shuffling his plaster scraps around in the light of a lamp. He looked