The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [140]
‘Fair enough, Walter. What do you suggest?’
‘There is only one way of dealing with a hound like Riccetti,’ Walter said, with a snap of his teeth.
‘Well, I would not be averse to employing – er – morally dubious methods. The trouble is, Walter, I don’t know how to find him.’
‘You met with him at the Luxor.’
‘He is not a guest.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I asked, two days ago, when we dined at the hotel with Cyrus,’ I said calmly. ‘It took only a moment.’
‘One of the other hotels, then.’
‘The Luxor is the best. I would not have supposed a man so fond of luxury as Riccetti would settle for less. We could inquire, though.’
‘I will do so tomorrow,’ Walter said.
The very idea made my blood run cold. Walter, poor innocent Walter, alone in Luxor, pursuing inquiries the success of which might lead to his being captured or killed?
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘Your expertise will be needed at the tomb, Walter. Emerson cannot spare you. I will – uh – I will send one of the men.’
I hesitated because at that very moment a particularly clever idea had occurred to me. I wanted to think it over before I proposed it, since I have learned that particularly clever ideas do not always stand up under close scrutiny.
I found the opportunity later, while I gave my hair its hundred strokes, to scrutinize it. I had brought Nefret to sleep in my room that night; she had given no indication of being nervous, but I was nervous – just a little – about her. I had given her permission to read for a while, and I could see her reflection in the mirror, her face absorbed, as she turned the pages. (The book, I remember, was Wuthering Heights. Some might not have considered it soothing bedtime reading, but a girl who could coolly discuss the decomposition of a corpse was probably not, I thought, of a nervous nature.)
After due deliberation I decided my idea was a good one. The only problem would be persuading Emerson to accept it.
I was in error. There was another problem, which did not occur to me until it was too late. The sheer brilliance of the inspiration concentrated my attention so that I failed to anticipate what might ensue from one casual sentence. It was certainly an error; it came close to being a fatal error.
When we reached the tomb next morning, Emerson was building a fence and cursing a great deal, because he hates spending time that could be employed in excavation. The task was necessary. Early as was the hour, a crowd of onlookers had already assembled. The word had got out. We never discovered how; the speed by which gossip spreads in small close-knit societies seems at times to verge on magic. I had often observed it in my own household. The servants always knew everything, occasionally before I knew it myself.
When I say Emerson was building the fence I mean that, unlike other supervisors who claim the credit for the actions of others, he was actually driving in stakes. Handing the hammer to Ibrahim, he hastened to greet me.
‘All’s well, Peabody?’
‘Yes, my dear. And here?’
‘Not so much as a thrown stone. Very annoying,’ he added with a scowl.
The light of the rising sun reflected off his sable locks and outlined his splendid form. Though his ablutions had taken place in a bucket of Nile water and he had not had more than a few hours’ sleep, he looked fresh as a youth half his age. I knew what was in his mind; he yearned to come to grips with our foes and hoped that the news of our discovery would draw them here, away from those he loved.
‘Have you eaten, Emerson?’ I asked.
‘Eaten? What?’
‘I thought not. I brought breakfast for you; come and partake of it. You cannot begin work until Sir Edward gets here. I have a little scheme I want to propose.’
That captured his attention. ‘What scheme? Now, see here, Peabody –’
‘We did not have time to discuss all the permutations last night.’ I slipped my arm through his and led him towards the shelter,