The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [46]
“There are a good many disaffected persons in the area,” said Emerson. “Myself among them. No doubt you have explained your presence to the satisfaction of Mrs. Emerson; she is a kind-hearted individual with a peculiar weakness for romantic young idiots. You will find me harder to win over, Mr. Forthright.”
“I don’t blame you for being annoyed, Professor,” Forthright said. “As soon as I arrived at Sanam Abu Dom, I found that Mr. Budge’s version of my mission had spread throughout the camp. It really is too bad! I had not imagined a man of his reputation would be so ill-natured. But perhaps he was only misinformed.”
“He was not misinformed,” Emerson growled.
“Well, you may be sure I immediately set the matter straight. On my honor, Professor, he or his informant completely misinterpreted my remarks and my motives. I have no intention of persuading you to risk your life for a hopeless cause. I simply wanted to be on the spot in case… You had said, you know, that if any further information came to light…” The explanation which had begun so glibly faltered into silence. Then Mr. Forthright said simply, “If there is a risk to be taken, I am the one to take it. You have heard nothing—learned nothing?”
“No,” said Emerson.
“I see.” The young man sighed. “My grandfather has become very frail. It is hope alone that keeps him alive, I believe.”
I began, “Mr. Forthright—”
“I beg, Mrs. Emerson, that you will do me the honor to call me Reginald—or Reggie, if you prefer. That is what my friends call me, and I hope I may number you among them.”
“You may indeed,” I said warmly. “Emerson, Reggie has undergone considerable discomfort, not to say peril, in order to pursue this quest, or convince himself that it is hopeless. And all for the sake of his poor old grandfather. Proof of his son’s death would be exceedingly painful to Lord Black-tower, but it would be less painful than the agonizing uncertainty that has tormented him. Hope deferred can fester and grow—”
“Yes, yes,” Emerson said. “So how do you intend to pursue this quest, Mr. Forthright?”
Darkness was complete. A shining net of stars spanned the deep vault of heaven, and in the west a silvery glow outlined the ragged crest of the hills. It flooded the landscape in pallid light as the half-grown moon lifted slowly into view. From the cookfire a voice rose in poignant melody.
“How beautiful this is,” Reggie said softly. “To have experienced such a moment makes the journey worthwhile. Travel broadens the mind, it is said; it has certainly broadened mine. I understand now what drew my uncle to these wild, yet magical regions.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “It is one thing to sit comfortably in the cool of the evening with a glass of whiskey in one’s hand and a servant preparing dinner. You wouldn’t find it quite so magical if you were lost in the desert with an empty canteen and the sun broiling you like a chicken on a spit and your tongue as dry as a scrap of leather. You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Forthright.”
“Oh.” The young man started. “I beg your pardon, Professor. There are refugees arriving daily, I am told, from the areas which have been held by the Dervishes. The officers of the Intelligence Department who question them have promised me they will ask about captives held in remote places.”
“That seems harmless enough,” Emerson muttered.
“And while I wait for news, I will take up the study and practice of archaeology,” Reggie went on gaily. “Can you use another pair of hands, Professor? I have some knowledge of surveying, but I will wield a spade like the humblest native if that is what you want.”
This handsome offer was welcomed by Emerson with less enthusiasm than it merited, but after voicing the expected (by me) reservations concerning lack of experience and absence of a long-term commitment, he unbent so far as to produce his plan of the site. The ensuing explanation soon took on the length of a lecture, which was interrupted only by the appearance of the cook summoning us to the evening meal.