The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [156]
‘Nothing,’ Emerson said. ‘You are not to blame. Peabody, what do you say we call on our friend Vandergelt?’
‘I am going with you,’ Evelyn declared. ‘You cannot prevent me, Emerson, I insist.’
‘Certainly,’ Emerson said. ‘We will all go.’
Cyrus had not dressed for dinner. He came hurrying to meet us, still in his dusty work clothes. ‘I was just about to ride on over to see you folks. Any news?’
‘What sort of host are you, Vandergelt, to keep us standing in the hall?’ Emerson inquired. ‘The library, I think; it is the pleasantest room in the house and I would like to see how Miss Marmaduke is getting on with my manuscript.’
He led the way. Cyrus was so taken aback he forgot to offer me his arm. ‘I never heard my old pal sound like that,’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s wrong, Mrs Amelia? Good Lord Almighty, don’t tell me the boy is –’
‘It is not so bad as that,’ I replied. ‘But the situation could not be much worse. We have lost both of them, Cyrus. Nefret has gone too. I don’t suppose Gertrude returned to the Castle this afternoon?’
‘Why, I don’t know. I just got back myself a while ago. Are you trying to tell me she’s been abducted too?’
He ushered me into the library. Mr Amherst rose politely from the chair where he had been sitting, a book in his hand. Emerson stood by the table at which Gertrude had ostensibly been working.
‘Half a dozen pages copied,’ he remarked, indicating the manuscript of his book. ‘One is entitled to wonder how the woman spent her time. Where is her room?’
This time Cyrus led the way. Emerson did not speak at all; it was I who gave our friend – and his assistant, trailing timidly in our wake – a synopsis of what had occurred. Overcoming his alarm and distress with the sturdy American efficiency I would have expected from him, Cyrus snapped out orders.
‘Willy, get the coachman in here. And the housemaid. Heck, may as well collect the whole staff. Vamoose.’
With his own hands he assisted us in searching the room. Nothing was overlooked, not even the pockets of the garments hanging in the wardrobe.
‘Her toilet articles are missing,’ Evelyn said quietly.
‘And one of her travelling bags,’ I added.
‘A good thing you ladies are here,’ Cyrus said. ‘I don’t guess I’d have noticed that. She left most of her clothes.’
‘And her books.’ I tossed Isis Unveiled onto the table. ‘The incense and burner are gone, though. And the ring.’
‘The bare essentials,’ Emerson muttered. ‘And anything that might be of use to us in tracing her. Let us hear what the servants have to say.’
The coachman, quivering with nerves under Emerson’s searching questions, was the only one who could contribute anything useful. The Effendi had ordered him to drive the lady to visit her friends on the dahabeeyah. He had waited for her, as she directed, and waited again for the young Sitt.
‘And then?’ I broke in, unable to bear the suspense any longer. ‘Where did you take them?’
‘To the ferry landing, Sitt Hakim. I asked if I should wait or come back for them, but the lady said no.’
‘Did they say where they were going?’ I knew what the answer would be, but the question had to be asked.
‘They spoke in English, Sitt Hakim.’ Observing our downcast faces, he added, with the obvious hope of being helpful, ‘The young Sitt gave me a paper for the Effendi.’
‘What!’ Emerson shot out of his chair like an arrow from a bow. ‘God curse you for seven eternities in the deepest pit of Gehenna! Why did you not say so? Give it to me!’
With a faint shriek the man shrank back against the wall. ‘I do not have it, Father of Curses. I gave it to –’
He indicated the major-domo, who began gabbling. ‘I put it on the table, sir; it is with your other messages.’
It was there, half buried in a pile of letters and newspapers, which must have arrived that day – a folded piece of paper which had obviously been torn from a small pocket diary. The flush of hope faded from Emerson’s face, leaving it hard and