The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [38]
“I believe you know Mr. Budge,” General Rundle said, after he had introduced the others.
“Yes, yes, we are old friends,” said Mr. Budge, beaming all over his round, red face and transferring his glass to his left hand in order to give me a damp handshake. “And where have you left the professor, Mrs. Emerson? You are making great discoveries at Nuri, I understand.”
The grin that accompanied the last sentence explained his good humor; having appropriated the best site for himself and having made certain that there was nothing of obvious value at ours, he could afford to gloat. I replied with perfect courtesy, of course.
We took our places at the table. I was, naturally, seated next to General Rundle. He was an amiable man but his conversational efforts did not tax me unduly; I was able to observe that Budge kept shooting glances at me, and something in his look aroused the direst of suspicions. It was as if he knew something I did not know—and if it amused Budge, it was certain not to amuse me. Sure enough, as the last course was being cleared away and a lull fell upon the conversation, Budge addressed me directly.
“I do hope, Mrs. Emerson, that you and young Ramses aren’t planning to go with the professor when he sets off in search of the Lost Oasis.”
“I beg your pardon?” I gasped.
“Do try to dissuade him from such a fruitless and dangerous quest,” Budge said, pursing his lips in the most hypocritical look of concern I have ever seen on a human countenance. “A fine fellow, the professor—in his way—but given to these little fancies—eh?”
“Quite right, ma’am,” the general rumbled. “No such place, you know. Native tales and idle rumors—never thought the professor would be so gullible.”
“I assure you, General,” I assured him, “that ‘gullible’ is not the word for Professor Emerson. May I ask, Mr. Budge, where you heard this piece of idle and inaccurate gossip?”
“I assure you, ma’am, it is not idle gossip. My informant was a certain Major Sir Richard Bassington, who arrived yesterday on the paddle wheeler from Kerma, and he got it direct from the source—Mr. Reginald Forthright, grandson of Lord Blacktower. Major Bassington met him at Wadi Haifa, some days ago. He was looking for transport south— without success—”
“I should hope not,” General Rundle exclaimed. “Don’t want a lot of civilians hanging about. Er—present company excepted, of course. Who is this fellow and what put this particular bee in his bonnet?”
Budge proceeded to explain, at quite unnecessary length. The name of Willoughby Forth made an impression; several of the older officers had heard of him, and General Rundle appeared to know something of his history. “Sad case, very,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Hopeless, though. Quite hopeless. The demmed—excuse me, ma’am—the confounded Dervishes must have got him. Can’t imagine why that old reprobate Blacktower would allow his grandson to go haring off on such a ridiculous jaunt.”
“Forthright seemed very determined,” Budge said smoothly. “He had a message from Professor Emerson, inviting him to join in the expedition. Dear me, Mrs. Emerson, you look quite thunderstruck. I hope I have not been indiscreet.”
Rallying, I said firmly, “I am only surprised at the folly of people who invent such stories, and the greater folly of those who credit them. General, I have greatly enjoyed your hospitality; I won’t detain you and your officers any longer from the labors that await you.”
With a last mocking salutation, Budge strutted off in the company of some of the younger officers, and I took my leave.
The Reader can well imagine the bitterness of spirit that filled me as I hastened on toward the sûk, where Emerson and I had agreed to meet. My husband—my other half—the man who had sworn his eternal