The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [16]
My efforts to keep Ramses in the dark about his father’s bout of amnesia had failed, but he did not know about our most recent encounter with our great and terrible adversary, the Master Criminal. It would have been impossible to explain all that had transpired without admitting that an illicit passion for my humble self had prompted certain of Sethos’ activities.
Not that I had anything to be ashamed of. A lady cannot be blamed if a Master Criminal takes a fancy to her. Nevertheless, it was not a subject I particularly wanted to discuss with my son.
At least I devoutly hoped Ramses was unaware of those facts. I did not count on it, because Ramses had ways of finding things out. Our workmen, and other individuals who ought to have known better, believed he was a djinni. whereas, in fact, he was only one of the world’s most efficient snoops. In his younger days he had been only too prone to discussing the information he had acquired by such morally questionable means, but of late he had become more taciturn. I don’t know which was worse. The discussions were often very embarrassing, but wondering what might be going on in Ramses’ mind was a nerve-racking exercise.
The ball was still in progress, the distant strains of music and laughter floated in through the open window. The temperature had dropped rapidly, as it does in Egypt after sunset. A cool breeze lifted the curtains and stirred the filmy chiffon ruffles trimming the loose collar and elbow sleeves of my wrapper.
After slapping me (with the kindest of intentions, as Emerson had indicated), and assuring himself that Emerson did not require his services, the young surgeon had taken his departure. Obviously he regarded my earlier reference to poison as no more than an example of female hysteria, and although under normal circumstances I would have felt obliged to set him straight (in justice to myself and my sex), under these circumstances I allowed the delusion to remain.
The four of us – six, including the cats – had gathered in the sitting room, where we sat sipping restorative cups of tea. I had changed into a loose-fitting, but, I believe I may say, becoming negligee of white silk cut en princesse. Emerson had also changed clothing, not because of damage to his evening attire (most of the blood had come off on me when I clasped him to my bosom), but because he prefers to wear as little as possible. In addition to his evening pumps he had also removed his coat, waistcoat, tie and shirt. The last-named garment had a stiffly starched front and attached collar, and buttoned up the back, so I could not dispute his claim that it was ‘the most confoundedly uncomfortable piece of clothing in existence, except, oh, yes, Peabody, I grant you, except for corsets, but you never wear them anyhow.’ He had replaced the garment with one of his work shirts, open at the neck and rolled up to the elbows. He was smoking his pipe, and stroking the cat that lay across his knees.
Like his female counterpart Bastet, Anubis is a brindled Egyptian cat, larger and wilder than European varieties of felines. He was Emerson’s – or, to be more accurate, since cats cannot be said to belong to anyone, he had condescended to concentrate his attentions on my husband. Bastet, who had been with us longer, favoured Ramses, to such an extent that some superstitious persons considered Bastet to be Ramses’ feline familiar, with magical powers of her own. She certainly was devoted to the boy (though of late she had begun to share her favours with Nefret), and Ramses would go nowhere without her. We had brought Anubis as well, since our servants in Kent refused to be left alone with him. I confess that Anubis made me a trifle uncomfortable too. Larger and darker than Bastet, he had not her benevolent nature. It could not be said that the two were friends. On the occasion of their first meeting, Anubis had attempted to force his attentions on Bastet and she had knocked him head over heels. Their relationship at present