The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [43]
“Yes, Grandmama,” said David John. “What, if I may ask—”
“Have another biscuit,” I said.
“I believe Carla has eaten them all, Grandmama.”
She hadn’t quite. The last few were saved by the appearance at the door of the dog, who rose on her hind legs and peered hopefully in at us. Carla rushed to greet her, and Nefret said sharply, “Down, Amira! Carla, do not let her in.”
The dog obeyed. Carla did not. We always kept the door bolted. Carla began tugging at the bolt.
Ramses snatched her up, despite her protests. “You heard your mama. How did the dog get loose? I tied her to a post before I left this afternoon.”
She had broken the rope. A frayed end dangled from her collar. Pleased at the attention she was receiving, she opened her mouth and let a long pink tongue loll out. It was quite a disgusting sight.
“Take her away,” I said. “Carla, it is time you and David John got ready for supper and bed.”
“There’s no sense in tying her,” Nefret said. “She won’t run away. She follows the twins everywhere.”
She held out a hand to each child. When they went out the door, the dog fell in behind them, like a military escort.
“It appears,” I remarked, “that your idea of a dog was a good one. Now that the little dears have gone, tell me what happened this afternoon.”
“Wait until Nefret comes back.”
Fatima emerged from the house and began to clear away the tea things. It was a task she left to no one else, since (at her insistence) we always used my second-best tea set, a pretty Limoges pattern of rosebuds and forget-me-nots. Kareem, who had followed her, stood looking on. “Shall I bring the whiskey?” he asked.
“No,” Fatima snapped. “You will drop it. Open the door for me.”
“I cannot imagine why she wants a footman,” I remarked. “She won’t let him do anything.”
“Status, no doubt,” said Ramses indifferently. “I ran into an interesting fellow today—”
Nefret came back, and he broke off.
“Did Mother show you the latest post?” she asked.
I selected one of the missives that overflowed the post basket. “We have been offered five hundred pounds for an article on Mrs. P.’s disappearance and the curse of the golden statue.”
“Not a bad offer,” said Ramses judiciously. “Who’s it from?”
“Kevin O’Connell, of course. The Times only proposed three hundred, and the Daily Mirror’s offer was a paltry two hundred and fifty.”
Ramses laughed, and Nefret, who had been watching him closely, said, “Anything new?”
“I was just telling Mother about the chap I met today. His name’s Mikhail Katchenovsky. His specialties are demotic and hieratic. He published several excellent articles before the War.”
“How nice for you,” I said. “I expect you had an enjoyable chat. Is he working for Mr. Winlock?”
“I don’t believe the arrangement is official. He looked a little down-at-the-heels, to tell the truth.”
“Perhaps he would be interested in a position,” Nefret said.
“Father wouldn’t agree to that,” Ramses said, with a certain air of regret. “He would claim, correctly, that we don’t need another translator.” He finished his tea, and then said, somewhat abruptly, “I ran into Miss Petherick on the way home.”
Nefret said nothing. I nodded encouragingly, and Ramses went on. “She apologized for her behavior the other night, expressed her belief in her brother’s innocence, and asked for our help in clearing him.”
“What did you say?” Nefret inquired.
Ramses shrugged. “I was courteous but noncommittal.”
“Oh?” Nefret’s eyes narrowed. “You feel sorry for him. I can understand why; his experience during the War was enough to break any man’s mind. But that doesn’t mean he is guiltless. And I imagine Miss Petherick can be quite persuasive when she likes.”
“Just what are you accusing me of?” Ramses demanded.
His cheeks were a trifle flushed and so were Nefret’s.