The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [116]
Ramses had gone with his father and Reggie, but the cat had declined to accompany them, preferring to curl up on a pile of cushions. I sat down beside it. It opened one golden eye and uttered a peremptory comment. I stroked its head. The feel of the sleek fur was soothing and helped calm my turbulent thoughts.
I had always considered myself a good judge of character, but it appeared that I could not be right about both the characters in question. Either Reggie was a liar or Tarek was a villain of the deepest dye—and also a liar. But were these the only alternatives? Was another explanation possible?
Several occurred to me, in fact. Reggie had been ill, perhaps delirious. He might have imagined the whole thing, or mistaken one prince for the other. Like many ignorant white men he had difficulty distinguishing one “native” from another, and the two men were superficially alike in appearance, especially in semidarkness. (It was a safe assumption that his cell was dark and dank; all of them are.)
Alternatively, Tarek may have deliberately deceived Reggie, for reasons that had yet to be determined.
I felt a great deal more cheerful after I had arrived at these theories.
In honor of our guest I decided to change my trousers for a robe. I had finished my bath and the ladies were drying me off when Emerson poked his head into the room. His scowl changed to a much more attractive expression when he saw what was going on.
“Send them away,” he said.
“But Emerson, they are—”
“I can see what they are doing.” He barked out an order that sent the ladies scuttling off, and picked up a fresh linen towel.
“Upon my word, Peabody,” he remarked, in the course of the activities that followed, “you are becoming quite a sybarite. Will I have to supply you with obsequious slaves after we return to Kent?”
“I have no complaints about the service I am presently receiving,” I replied humorously.
“I should think not,” muttered Emerson. “Why are we always getting into situations like this, Peabody? Why can’t I conduct a simple archaeological excavation?”
“You cannot blame this situation on me, Emerson. And it is not at all like our other investigations.”
“It has some features in common with them,” Emerson argued. “Your unfortunate habit of attracting members of the aristocracy, for instance. Not just British aristocrats this time, but a whole extra set of nobility.”
The concomitant attentions he bestowed as he spoke made it impossible for me to resent the criticism. Good-humoredly I replied, “At least there are no young lovers this time, my dear.”
“I give you that,” said Emerson, giving me something else as well. “It is a distinct improvement, Peabody, for which I am grateful. As I hope you are for this… and this…”
I expressed my appreciation in a proper fashion, but finally was forced to say reluctantly, “My dear, I think I should get dressed now. We have a guest. You found proper quarters for him, I assume?”
“They suited me,” Emerson replied enigmatically. “What did you make of his story?”
I assumed he referred to the startling revelation concerning Tarek, and explained my theories.
“Hmph,” said Emerson, even more enigmatically. “I would not be too forthcoming with Forthright if I were you, Peabody. Don’t mention your midnight visitor or insist upon Tarek’s virtues.”
The enigma was resolved. “You never liked Reggie,” I said, allowing Emerson to wrap me in my robe and fasten my girdle.
“That has nothing to do with the case,” said Emerson. “There are still a number of things he has not explained to my satisfaction.”
As it turned out, there were a number of things we had not explained to Reggie’s satisfaction. When he joined us in the reception