The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [34]
“I have,” said Abdullah, stroking his beard. “And now I will give you another. Once before, not long ago, you asked me a similar question and I answered it. Remember that question and that answer, Sitt.”
He turned and walked away. I stamped my foot with annoyance. Over the years I had asked many questions; the answers I had got were, to say the least, enigmatic. I had not the least idea which of those questions he meant.
If I had entertained any expectation of going out next day, I abandoned it as soon as I went to the veranda after breakfast and saw the people who were gathered round the temporary guardhouse. Our new guard, Daoud’s son Hassan, stood foursquare in the center of the road, Wasim’s antiquated rifle in his hands; and I believe the sight of the weapon (which I devoutly hoped was not loaded) was the only thing that prevented some of the curiosity seekers from skirting the guardhouse and coming at us from one side or the other.
To be honest—which I always endeavor to be—I became increasingly restless as the morning wore on. I was itching to know what was happening in Luxor: whether Mrs. Petherick had turned up, whether any new information had been learned, and what her children thought of it all. After surveying the scene with a particularly stony expression, Ramses had strictly forbidden me to leave the house—or rather, since he knows me well, he had strongly suggested that I follow his advice on the matter. I agreed (while reserving the right to act otherwise should the situation change) and he went off, declaring that he meant to spend the day working on the hieratic papyri we had found in such numbers. The Egyptian language was Ramses’s specialty and major interest, and he had fallen behind on his translations.
My thoughts strayed to my conversation with Abdullah. He had been as annoyingly mysterious as usual, and there was nothing new in his lecture about my habit of looking for trouble, as he called it. But this was the first time he had had the temerity to hint that I was getting too old for such adventures! He ought to have known that would only spur me on.
Perhaps that was why the old rascal had done it. Not that I needed any such inspiration. Like Abdullah, I would be the master of my own fate. A swift and honorable death, particularly if it were in the service of a loved one, was preferable to slow decay of mind and body.
What the devil had he meant by that last “hint,” as he called it? I tried to recall the many conversations I had had with him. He had often told me that time had no meaning in the afterworld; what had seemed years to me might have been only a few moments to him. We had spoken of many things; try as I might, I could not call to mind any reference to Amarna or Akhenaton.
After Nefret had tended to the patients who had turned up that morning—an infected toe and a case of ophthalmia—she joined me on the veranda, admitting that she was unable to emulate her husband’s lack of curiosity.
“Who are all those people?” she asked, accepting a cup of coffee from Fatima. “Don’t they have anything better to do?”
“Many people lead lives of crushing boredom,” I said. “They are so lacking in imagination and intelligence they don’t even realize how bored they are until something like this happens. That flashily dressed lady and gentleman in the carriage, for instance—I think I remember meeting them last year. Idle, uninformed members of the aristocracy.”
“Who is that fellow in the shooting jacket and broad-brimmed hat?”
“A journalist,” I said with a sniff. “No, I don’t know him, but I can spot the villains a mile away. Goodness, I do believe the fellow is offering Hassan a bribe!”
“He is probably not the first to do so. Hassan knows better.”
“Wasim knows better too, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover he extracted a sizable amount of baksheesh from various people.”
“By promising to deliver messages, which you had instructed him to do anyhow? So that’s why he is now anxious to return to his duties. One would have supposed that having a house collapse