The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [114]
“Perhaps he is an invalid,” said one more charitable listener. “God be merciful to him.”
By handing out additional baksheesh they got a carriage to themselves, but it was a long, tedious journey. “Quaint” mud-brick villages and humble minarets, groves of palm trees, and water buffalo splashing in the shallows had long since ceased to hold any novelty for them. The trip was enlivened only by their questioning of the porters at various stops. No one had seen the brother and sister at Qena, Akhmim, or Assiut. At Minya a peddler of fruit said he had sold oranges to a lady with dark hair and a voice as deep as a man’s. He endorsed the first porter’s assessment of women who held the purse strings. “Aywa, there was a gentleman with her, but he did not come to the window, he let her do the bargaining and hand over the money.”
“They didn’t leave the train, though?” David asked.
“No. Ah, blessings be upon you for your generosity, effendi!”
The train started up again. “That’s the last stop before Cairo,” David said, closing the window to keep the dust out. It already formed a thin layer on every flat surface. “The train does stop at other stations on demand. They might have got off at any number of places.”
“Not in the middle of the night.” Ramses lit another cigarette. He was smoking more than usual, an admission of worry he didn’t bother concealing from David. “And there are no acceptable hotels in the smaller cities. She’d probably be aware of that.”
“Not that I’m complaining, but this is beginning to look like a wild-goose chase. They must have got by the police in Cairo somehow.”
“There’s one more stop,” Ramses said.
“Damn, that’s right. Bedrashein. It’s so close to Cairo one doesn’t think of it as a separate place. You think that’s it?”
“They’d have arrived around midday, and tourists get off there to visit Sakkara and Memphis.”
“Safety in numbers,” David said, looking chagrined.
“And several alternate routes. They could hire a carriage to take them to Cairo or to the Mena House, from which one can catch the tram.”
“Wake me when we get there,” David said, and rested his head against the back of the seat.
Ramses had brought a book; in his family it was considered as much a travel necessity as shaving gear and a change of socks. He was unable to concentrate, though. Harriet Petherick’s face kept intruding between his eyes and the printed page. Not the face of the unpracticed seductress, but that of the girl who had met his eyes without flinching and whose features softened when she smiled.
He kept seeing the bruises, too—on her forearms, where hands might have gripped her. An exaggerated sense of delicacy had prevented him from mentioning them until he realized it was more likely they had been made by her brother than by a passionate lover. Harriet wasn’t the sort of woman who entertained men in her room.
The train didn’t reach Bedrashein until after midnight. He and David were among the few who got off at that hour, and they were able to hire a carriage without difficulty. The drivers were responsive but not helpful. Many persons had got off the midday train the day before. All foreigners looked alike, after all.
“Where to?” David asked, as they got into their carriage.
“The Mena House, I suppose. We may as well stay there tonight. I hope we can get a room. It’s the height of the season.”
The famous hotel, at the base of the pyramid plateau, was full, but Ramses and his family were well known there. They were given a suite kept reserved for distinguished guests, with a broad terrace overlooking the pyramids and a bath chamber big as a drawing room, with ornate gold fittings. When they inquired after their friends, who had arrived the day before, the clerk assured them that no one named Petherick had registered, and that he could recall no lady of Harriet’s description. Adrian’s description might have fit any of a number of men.
“They must have taken a carriage to Cairo from Bedrashein,” David said, yawning widely as he took out his pajamas. “It won’t be easy finding