The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [137]
“Hmph,” said the husband in question. “Touché again, Peabody, and well done.”
“Good night, Emerson.”
“Good night, my dear.”
Sleep, beneficent sleep, that ravels up the tattered sleeve of care.…
“Peabody.”
“Good Gad, Emerson! What is it now?”
“Is this the book Mentarit brought you?”
“If you found it on or under the bed, I suppose it must be,” I said irritably. “I should have hidden it, I admit; I was so surprised I just dropped it.”
“Do you know what book it is?”
“No, how could I? It was dark; I didn’t read the title.”
In silence Emerson offered it to me. The sickly gray light of dawn gave his face a corpselike pallor.
“King Solomon’s Mines,” I read. “By H. Rider Haggard.”
“I should have known,” Emerson said in a hollow voice.
“Known what?”
“Where Tarek got his high-flown style of talking and his sentimental notions. He sounds exactly like one of the confounded natives in those confounded books.” Emerson collapsed with a heartfelt groan. “Forth has a great deal to answer for.”
“You can’t blame him for this,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“This book was not published until after Mr. Forth disappeared. I brought a copy along this year because it is one of my favorite… yes, here is my name. I left it behind when we were forced to lighten our baggage. Tarek must have taken it.”
The light had strengthened. Emerson turned his haggard face toward mine. “Why?” he asked in faltering tones. “Why would he do such a da—such a fool thing?”
“Well, it was clever of him to have used this particular book as his talisman. If it were found, it would be assumed to be one I had brought with me. But I am afraid.…”
“What?”
“I am afraid he took it for the simplest possible reason,” I said. “He wanted to read it. It is quite touching, Emerson, when you think about it. Having been introduced by his teacher to the joy of reading and the beauties of literature, this intelligent and sensitive young man…”
I will not reproduce Emerson’s remark. It did not do him justice.
I had hoped Amenit would sleep late and let us do the same, but she was on duty bright and early. Though I could not read her countenance, nothing in her manner or her movements would have led an observer to suspect that she had been drugged. If anything, she was livelier than ever. However, Reggie did not leave his room until the morning was well advanced and his first words made my heart leap into my throat. “What the deuce do these savages put in their wine? I haven’t felt like this since my undergraduate days.”
“I have heard similar excuses from other young men who drank too much,” I said severely. “I suppose you were celebrating your reunion with your sweetheart, but if you will permit me to say so, that increases rather than mitigates your offense.”
Reggie took his head between his hands and groaned. “Don’t lecture me, Mrs. Amelia, I am already in a delicate condition. But”—his voice dropped to a thrilling whisper—“the arrangements are complete. It will be tonight.”
I looked at Emerson. The slightest sideways movement of his head conveyed his meaning, for the mental bond that unites us is so strong, words are scarcely necessary. “Wait,” was the message he sent me. “Do not protest. Something may yet turn up.”
I certainly hoped it would, for we had not been able to invent a convincing yet innocent excuse for declining to escape. If nothing occurred to us before the actual moment of departure, we would have to resort to sudden illness or incapacity, or (it was my idea, and a rather clever one, I thought) Ramses could hide and refuse to be found. When I had asked him if he could manage it, he gave me a look of kindly contempt and nodded.
Emerson was his normal self that morning, if rather more silent than usual. His only sign of perturbation was to smoke a great