The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [33]
ii
A few hours’ sleep restored me to my usual vigor and spirits. When I awoke the sun was high in the heavens. My first act, even before drinking the tea the safragi brought me, was to open the door to the adjoining room. It was empty. A note, placed prominently on the table, explained that John and Ramses, not wishing to waken us, had gone out to explore the city. “Do not worry, sir and madam,” John had written. “I will watch over Master Ramses.”
Emerson was not reassured by the message. “You see what happens when you go off on your absurd adventures,” he grumbled. “We overslept and now our helpless young son is wandering the streets of this wicked city, unprotected and vulnerable.”
“I too am deeply concerned,” I assured him. “I dare not imagine what Ramses can do to Cairo in the space of a few hours. No doubt we will soon be receiving delegations of outraged citizens, with bills for damages.”
I spoke half in jest. I did expect a confrontation, not with Ramses’ victims, but with the police; for though Emerson resolutely refused to discuss the murder of Abd el Atti, I felt sure our involvement with that affair was not over. And indeed the message came as we were finishing breakfast, which had been brought to our room. The white-robed safragi bowed almost to the floor as he delivered it. Would we, in our infinite condescension, come to the manager’s office, where an agent of the police wished to consult us?
Emerson flung down his napkin. “There, you see? More delay, more vexation. It is all your fault, Amelia. Come along, let’s get this over and done with.”
Mr. Baehler, the manager of Shepheard’s, rose to greet us as we entered his office. He was Swiss—a tall, handsome man with a mane of graying hair and an ingratiating smile.
My answering smile turned to a grimace when I saw the other persons who were present. I had expected to find a police official. I had not expected that the official would have in his custody the small and incredibly filthy person of my son.
Emerson was equally affected. He brushed past Mr. Baehler, ignoring the latter’s outstretched hand, and snatched Ramses up in his arms. “Ramses! My dear boy! What are you doing here? Are you injured?”
Crushed to his father’s bosom, Ramses was incapable of replying. Emerson turned an infuriated look upon the policeman. “How dare you, sir?”
“Control yourself, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “You ought rather to thank this gentleman for escorting the boy home.”
The police officer gave me a grateful look. He was a grizzled, heavyset man, with a complexion of beautiful coffee-brown. His excellent English and tidy uniform displayed the unmistakable British discipline that has transformed Egypt since her Majesty’s government assumed beneficent control over that formerly benighted land.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, touching his cap. “The young master is not hurt, I promise.”
“So I see. I had anticipated, Inspector—is that the proper mode of address?—I had anticipated that you had come to question us concerning the murder last night.”
“But I have, ma’am,” was the respectful reply. “We found the young master at the shop of the dead man.”
I sank into the chair Mr. Baehler held for me. Ramses said breathlessly, “Mama, dere is a matter I would prefer to discuss wit’ you in private—”
“Silence!” I shouted.
“But, Mama, de cat Bastet—”
“Silence, I say!”
Silence ensued. Even Mr. Baehler, whose reputation for equanimity and social pose was unequaled, appeared at a loss. Slowly and deliberately I turned to focus my gaze on John, who stood flattened against the wall between a table and a tall carved chair. It was not possible for a person of John’s size to be inconspicuous. But he was trying his best. When my eye fell upon him he stammered, “Ow, madam, Oi tried me best, indeed Oi did, but Oi didn’t ’ave the least idear where we was until—”
“Watch your vowels,” I said sternly. “You are reverting to the unacceptable verbal customs of the ambience from which Professor Emerson rescued you. Five years of my training ought to have eradicated