The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [160]
She might as well have been dumb as a post. I could not persuade her to unveil; my fascinating little bottles and jars of lotion interested her not at all. She did tell me her name was Maleneqen, and after insistent questioning about Mentarit she unbent so far as to ask why I wanted to know. I explained that Mentarit had been kind and amiable—that her nursing had saved my life. “We English are grateful to those who help us,” I went on. “We return kindness with kindness, not good with evil deeds.”
There was no visible or audible response to this sententious speech, and very little to my further efforts. When a cheery whistle heralded the approach of Emerson I was glad to dismiss the girl and seek my couch.
Emerson was not long in joining me, but he had quite an argument with Maleneqen before she consented to leave us alone. (She did not consent, in fact; she left the room under Emerson’s arm, kicking and squealing. But she did not come back.)
“Cursed female,” growled Emerson, climbing into bed. “They get progressively more inconvenient. Were you able to learn anything about Mentarit?”
“You first, Emerson.”
“Of course, my dear.” He drew me close and kissed me gently. “I regret I have nothing to report. I persuaded my fellow gamesters to let me open the trapdoor by telling them the simple truth—that I hoped to find some sign that Ramses had come back. There was nothing, Peabody. I managed to leave a note for him, though.”
“I fear it is too late, Emerson. I fear he has gone—into the darkness, lost forever.…”
“Now, now, my love. Ramses has got himself out of worse spots than this—and so have we. We’ll have a look for him ourselves, tomorrow night.”
“Oh, Emerson, is it possible? Have you won the confidence of the guards to that extent?”
“To the extent, at least, of persuading them to join me in a friendly cup of beer. I took a jar along this evening. It was harmless, but tomorrow’s jar will not be—if you still have your supply of laudanum. Now then, did you discover anything of interest from that surly young woman?”
“Her name is Maleneqen, and I had the devil of a time getting that much out of her. She must be one of Nastasen’s allies, Emerson, I gave her every opportunity to confide in me. All she would say about Mentarit is that she has gone.”
“Gone? Where?”
“I don’t know. That was the word she used, and she refused to elaborate. And then—this, I believe, you will find interesting—she said… good heavens!”
That was not what Maleneqen had said and Emerson knew it, for he had felt the same phenomenon that had prompted my exclamation—movement, sly and slinking, across the foot of the bed. Emerson tried to free himself of the bedclothes and only succeeded in entangling both of us. The thing, whatever it was, turned and glided toward the head of the bed. It made absolutely no sound. Only the pull of the linen fabric and the sense of something moving betokened its slow, inexorable approach. With a sudden bound it was upon me, muffling my breath, filling my mouth and nose with…
Fur. Purring hoarsely, the creature fitted itself into the narrow space between us in the fluidly pervasive manner cats have in such situations.
The soft sound that emerged from Emerson might have been a chuckle, but I am inclined to believe it was a short burst of stifled profanity. I myself was strangely moved; once I had got my breath back, I whispered, “I would not want you to think me superstitious, Emerson, but I cannot help feeling there is some strange, occult significance in this visitation. After fleeing from us before, the cat now exhibits an uncharacteristic affection, almost as if it were a manifestation, in some sense I dare not