The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [118]
“You can’t go on like this all day, Ramses. We’ve only covered a few of the larger hotels. Are you planning to stop over in Cairo tonight?”
Ramses ducked under a tray of bread carried at shoulder height by a baker making a delivery. “I plan to keep looking until we find them. But if you’re hungry—”
“I’m ravenous. So should you be.”
“Shepheard’s, then.”
It was one place where they could always be sure of getting a table. Emerson had, from the earliest days, made a profound impression, and the whole family profited by the terror in which he was held by the management. David set a deliberately leisurely pace as they skirted the Ezbekieh Gardens; it was his way of telling Ramses to slow down. Ramses knew he was right. Unless they were lucky, their search was going to take some time. David didn’t share his sense of urgency. He would have had a hard time explaining it without referring to premonitions, or to the working of the unconscious mind, neither of which David really believed in.
“We may be in Cairo for a few days,” he said. “Do you want to look up any of your political acquaintances?”
“Getting involved with politics is the last thing I need. The situation is, as they say, volatile.”
“Once the Declaration of Independence is published, things ought to settle down.”
David made a rude noise. “The contents of that precious document have already been leaked. It isn’t independence if Britain reserves the right to protect her own interests—nice ambiguous phrase, isn’t it?—and leaves the question of the Sudan unsettled.”
“Sorry I brought it up.”
David lowered his voice to its normal pitch. “Sorry I got so worked up. You know how I feel. But I promised Lia I’d stay out of politics, and Lord knows we’ve enough to worry about without that.”
They got not only a table on the terrace but a room for the night. According to the desk clerk, there was no reservation in the name of Petherick. “We have been booked solid for months,” he explained. “It is only because of our long acquaintance with your family that we are able to accommodate you. Er—you will mention that favor to Professor Emerson?”
Their table was one of the best, near the balustrade, with a good view of the gardens and the busy street below. After they had ordered—and enjoyed some general gossip with the waiters—Ramses scanned the other diners.
“The usual lot,” David said. “Tourists and local gentry. You aren’t hoping to run across the Pethericks, are you?”
“One never knows. Damn, there’s Sylvia Bennett. The worst gossip in Cairo. I refuse to have her prying into our affairs.”
“Pretend you don’t see her.”
“It would take more than that to put Sylvia off.”
He ignored her coy, beckoning finger, but as he had predicted, she came to them. Sylvia always kept up with the latest fashions; her hair was bobbed, her lips brightly painted, her skirts short. She doesn’t have the legs for it, Ramses thought uncharitably, as he rose to greet her.
After the usual gushing queries about Nefret and the other members of the family—“those dear, sweet, adorable little children”—Sylvia plunged into the subject that really interested her. She wanted to know all about the Pethericks, the Countess Magda, the black afrit, and the statuette. Ramses fended the questions off as best he could; he was damned if he would give Sylvia the satisfaction of being better informed than her equally inquisitive friends.
“We’re here on business,” he said. “Nothing to do with the death of Mrs. Petherick. It’s in the hands of the police. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, Sylvia. Give my regards to your husband.”
Pouting, Sylvia took herself off. She had acknowledged David with the barest of nods.
“What a dreadful woman,” David said, resuming his seat. “At least she doesn’t seem to have heard of the Pethericks’ leaving Luxor. I didn